The last file she had scanned mentioned a Human Studies Institute run by the foreign affairs ministry. Nike’s ministry on Hearth.
“I was happy to do it,” Kirsten repeated.
16
Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.
Summoned by and left to wait for the Hindmost, Nike wondered how many Citizens, even among those who borrowed names from human mythology, had encountered Euripides. Probably none. The present crisis had renewed Nike’s fascination with humans, enough that he again rued the hubris of his assumed name. He did not feel victorious these days.
Had meeting Nessus’s crew been a mistake? They seemed so normal. The harsh choices to be made about humans felt that much harsher after speaking with the Colonists. Perhaps it was madness to make such decisions. Perhaps it was madness not to.
Dark thoughts only amplified Nike’s isolation in the posh, eerily spacious antechamber. He needed distraction. What, he wondered, was a suitable human name for the most powerful of all Citizens? One by one, Nike considered and discarded every option among the main members of the pantheon.
Perhaps a legendary mortal: Sisyphus. The Hindmost was crafty, and yet spent much of his time on pointless and endless endeavors. Fiddling while Hearth burned, as it were.
The Hindmost, of course, disdained such whimsy as a human pseudonym.
In a flurry of activity, the Hindmost and a small retinue materialized around Nike. All were resplendent in shades of green, none more so than the Hindmost. Nike’s host wore his mane intricately coifed with emeralds and jade. Despite his advanced years, the Hindmost’s roan coat gleamed with good health. “Thank you for coming,” the Hindmost said.
Nike dipped his heads minimally, balancing respect with more assurance than he felt. The Hindmost’s aides looked on disapprovingly. “I am honored to be asked into your home.”
The Hindmost brushed heads briefly with Nike, as though greeting an equal. “We live in interesting times.”
“That is true,” Nike answered cautiously.
With a graceful twist of a neck, the Hindmost dismissed his staff. They vanished quickly. “Come. Let us enjoy the fresh air.”
Nike followed the Hindmost through a virtual wall and weather-resistant force field onto a long, marble-tiled balcony. The house hugged the side of a mountain. The view, of wooded slope and crashing surf and undulating sea, was spectacular. A diffuse glow along the horizon hinted at a distant coastline.
The Hindmost paused while brilliantly colored flutterwings zigzagged past in formation. “I received your recommendation for a course change.”
Nike took a deep breath. “The ministry proposes an alteration in the Fleet’s path. It is a matter of prudence, given that the wild humans seek us. In less than a year, the proposed small course change will interpose a dust cloud between the Fleet and the humans’ home solar system.”
“The recommendation said as much. That maneuver seems to be of marginal utility. The Fleet will remain observable—if they deduce where to look—from other human-settled worlds. And they can seek us from any vantage by using hyperdrive ships.”
It was all Nike could do not to blink in surprise. When was risk reduction not a sufficient argument? “Hindmost, it is the home-system humans, their United Nations, who are most curious, most insistent—”
“The recommendation will have my authorization,” the Hindmost interrupted. “I bring up its limitations to show that the ministry’s advice receives my personal attention.” The interruption wasn’t jarring. It harmonized perfectly with Nike’s woodwind/violin voice.
Long, slow combers washed up the broad pebbled beach, the foaming crests glistening by planet- and starlight. Offshore phosphorescence marked a sea-polyp colony. Clouds far out to sea sparkled with lightning. Despite the churning of Nike’s thoughts—what was this meeting truly about?—he could not help but admire the view.
“This is a restful spot,” the Hindmost said. “A stepping disc away from anywhere and yet private and serene. Few places on Hearth can match it.”
The sea breeze ruffled Nike’s mane and raised a sigh in the woods that surrounded the mansion. He considered: Acceptance of the ministry’s—Nike’s own—recommendation. The gentle reminder who was in charge. The hint of potential rewards.
He was being tempted, as he had so recently tempted Nessus. The lure was of wealth and power, not mating, but this was seduction nonetheless. Work with me, the Hindmost implied, and the rewards will be great.
Nike had rationalized his manipulation of Nessus as vital to the safety of the Concordance. He would not sacrifice the Concordance for personal gain now. “Might we speak, Hindmost, about the coming consensualization?” The reassessment of the public mind and mood for which the Experimentalists were agitating.
The Hindmost swiveled his heads toward Nike. “Surely disturbing the public about a settled issue is unproductive.”
“Respectfully, Hindmost, a revised policy is in everyone’s interest.”
“A policy of permanent emergency? I think not. And what else does your party have to offer? We are already embarked on the escape from the galaxy favored by Experimentalists.”
“Some Experimentalists.” Nike paused as far-off lightning bolts lit the sea. “The reality of the matter is: We flee because flight is in our nature. The explosion of the galactic core is frightening, and so we sought to leave it behind. Yet in my opinion, flight from the galaxy is our worst possible course of action.”
“You would have us stay?”
“We run from a long-ago chain reaction of supernovae explosions—from radiation. To escape that peril, we will move fast and far, so that the wave front, already thousands of light-years deep, will dissipate before it can overtake us.
“Because all sane beings shun the perils of hyperspace, we must accelerate to relativistic speeds in normal space. Therein, Hindmost, is the paradox: As the Fleet flees the radiation from the core explosion, it produces radiation just as deadly—and will encounter it far sooner—with our own ever-growing speed. Interstellar dust and gas will impact our worlds as cosmic rays.”
“Our planetary force fields protect us from the radiation in our path,” rebutted the Hindmost.
“Those same force fields would protect us from the core explosion’s radiation, were we to stay and await it.”
“Indeed.” The Hindmost blinked amusement. “Public beliefs notwithstanding, we can agree radiation is not a threat.”
Had the Hindmost come to his point? “Meaning the threat is something else. The counterproductive results to our past approach toward our neighbors?”
“Guiding alien affairs to our own advantage seemed wisest at the time,” the Hindmost confirmed. “Of course, every intervention introduced its own complication. Too bad. Colonists tending our nature preserves seemed such a good idea.”
An aide approached, clearing his throats. “Your pardon, Hindmost. You asked to be reminded of your next appointment.”
“Thank you.” The Hindmost gestured dismissively. Intervention was such a colorless word, Nike thought, and exploitation of the Colonists was but one instance. Now discovery of the NP4 colony by wild humans appeared to be the most imminent danger to the Concordance. “I see at last why Conservatives so quickly embraced flight from the core explosion. You seek to distance us from our neighbors, not the radiation.”
“You are too judgmental.” The Hindmost craned a neck downhill, sniffing the rich mélange of forest and sea scents. “Surely we agree that the safety of Citizens is ever paramount. That being so, wasn’t a bit of social engineering preferable to genocide?”
Was concealed intercession in the wars between human and Kzinti mere social engineering? Was enslavement of the Colonists? How, Nike wondered, would Nessus react to the Hindmost’s words? For all Nessus’ quirks and idiosyncrasies, the scout was insightful—and increasingly an advocate for the Colonists. And yet . . .
How Nessus proposed to deflect the humans was more social engineering. Wh
at Kirsten proposed, if necessary, to hobble the Gw’oth was yet more social engineering.
In an epiphany, Nike grasped the Conservative vision. Where he would invoke permanent emergency to empower Experimentalists . . . the Hindmost sought permanent equilibrium in the emptiness between the galaxies. Hearth had already cast off its anchor to a sun; now, in the guise of institutionalizing Experimentalist policy, the Hindmost would have the Fleet cast off its anchor to even a galaxy.
There would be no more stars to misbehave. No more star clusters to erupt into a chain reaction of supernovae. No more alien races like those that had proven so difficult to control.
“Hindmost, let us not revisit past policy. For our own reasons, each party agreed that we must take flight. But to embrace the unknowable dangers between the galaxies—isn’t this a risk?” Whom the gods would destroy . . .
“We can neither stay nor go,” the Hindmost said. “Perhaps I have missed something.”
The Hindmost had—but the course of action Nike might someday espouse remained unformed even in his own mind.
A proper discussion could not be managed before the Hindmost’s imminent appointment. Nike settled upon a polite formality. “Surely the Hindmost would not miss anything.”
The Hindmost motioned expansively at the private estate before them. “Consider what we have discussed.” The advice served simultaneously as enticement, warning, and dismissal.
WHOM THE GODS would destroy, they first make mad.
Alone in his apartment, Nike resisted the urge to wrap his heads in a tightly rolled shelter of his own flesh. What madness it was to meddle in the destiny of other races!
Yet meddling was what the Concordance did. How misguided that policy must be, when to escape its consequences even the Conservative Hindmost embraced a headlong plunge into the intergalactic unknown.
The choices before Clandestine Directorate were limited and stark. Preemptive genocide. Or do nothing, and risk the discovery of the Fleet, of humans trapped on NP4, and with it the unknowable—and surely justified—reaction of Human Space. That way lay mutual assured genocide. Or interfere yet again, undertaking more social engineering.
Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.
Feeling an unaccustomed empathy with the scout he saw no choice but to dispatch, Nike recorded a brief message.
“Nessus: Proceed immediately with your proposed intervention against the ARM.”
17
Kirsten leaned forward in her chair, listening attentively to final guidance for Explorer’s upcoming mission. At least she felt her bearing was attentive. A discreet nudge against her left shoe suggested Omar read her posture differently.
Her hands hurt. Glancing down, Kirsten saw they were tightly clenched. Nessus might have understood white knuckles, but he was gone, destination undisclosed, purpose undisclosed. That had left Nike to oversee scouting missions, and the deputy minister lacked Nessus’ in-person experience with Colonists. Best to play safe, though. She willed her hands to relax.
“. . . The great responsibility entrusted to you,” Nike concluded. “Do you have any final questions?”
“We appreciate the honor, Nike. We aspire to merit your trust,” Omar said. Eric nodded agreement. “We thank you and Nessus for the confidence you have placed in us.”
Through her left shoe, Kirsten felt renewed pressure against her foot. “I have no questions, Nike,” she managed, envying Omar’s poise.
She held her tension in check long enough to escape Nike’s office and the foreign-affairs ministry. Stepping discs delivered them to the spaceport at which their ship waited. Their home, NP4, was visible only as a narrow crescent. Whether its appearance in new phase was auspicious, she could not decide.
Either way, it was time.
In the shadows beneath the curved hull of Explorer, Omar took her hand. “You’re sure about this?” he asked.
“I am.” She was sure she wanted to attempt it—while she dared. “We can’t know if we’ll get another opportunity. With Nessus away, Nike apparently felt he needed to brief us. Once Nike feels more comfortable dealing with us, or after Nessus returns, or when Nike assigns another Citizen to oversee us, there may be no more invitations back to Hearth.” No other chance to uncover the facts of our past.
“Then I’m going, too,” Eric blurted.
“Two of us going increases our risk of getting caught.” She looked to Omar for support.
“Sorry, Kirsten. I agree with Eric,” Omar said. “You can’t know what you’ll find.”
Could they afford the time spent debating? “Fine, Eric, on one condition. You agree I’m in charge.”
Eric nodded.
“Omar . . . if anyone gets suspicious, you don’t know where we went. I just wanted to play tourist for a little longer while you finished shipboard preparations.” Before he could comment, she stepped onto the nearest public disc and disappeared.
KIRSTEN EMERGED INTO a safety shelter indistinguishable from the one in Elysium. How long ago that seemed! She set the nano-cloth of her jumpsuit into a random conglomeration of red, purple, and yellow splotches. In theory, it would blend with Hearthian foliage.
Eric materialized behind her. His eyes widened at the unexpected change to her clothing, before, with a nod of understanding, he altered his own shirt and slacks to correspond.
“So far, so good,” she said. “We have the place to ourselves.”
He shrugged. “For the few moments we’ll be here.”
The exterior cameras showed nothing but empty woods, lit by the “daylight” glowing from the mile-high wall of a nearby arcology. She unlatched the door. “This is a Citizen park. There is nothing dangerous out there. You didn’t need to come.”
He edged past her through the doorway and into a small clearing. Bushes and trees, or at least their Hearth equivalents, soughed in the light breeze. “Maybe a third of the plants look familiar from our last hike. I don’t suppose that matters.”
“Probably not.” Kirsten’s attention was on the sky. By a succession of public stepping discs, and so, in theory, untraceable, they had jumped far around the globe. A full NP1 overhead instantly oriented her. “This way.”
A few paces into the woods plunged them into shadowy gloom. Only Eric’s fast grab saved her from a nasty fall as she caught a toe in an unseen root. He took a small flashlight from his pocket.
“Not even the Concordance can banish uneven ground,” he said. “You could fall down a hill or into a gully—and then it’s over.”
He was right. “Thanks,” she said, and meant it. They had miles to go, and they had to cross them quickly.
What would they find when they arrived? Perhaps the Human Studies Institute cited in files she had stolen from Nessus. Perhaps a home for wealthy Citizens. Perhaps nothing. The institute was “located” in the file only by its fifteen-digit stepping-disc address, highlighted in the manner that denoted an access-controlled location. Even if she had known Nessus’ authentication code, the institute’s entry was surely continuously monitored. The stepping discs into Nike’s ministry were certainly well-secured from the uninvited.
It might never occur to a Citizen that someone would walk there.
Of course, walking there required knowledge of the institute’s physical location. That critical detail appeared nowhere in Nessus’ files. The institute went altogether unmentioned in Kirsten’s souvenir books. That left only wishful thinking—and a hologram of the institute in Nessus’ archive. The image showed an isolated hexagonal structure topped by a dome.
The murk grew ever deeper. Dim beams from their flash-lights provided the only meaningful ground-level illumination. The overhead pattering that had begun early into their hike grew louder. Raindrops begin penetrating the canopy of leaves. Dense underbrush made the walking slow, and the uneven ground made it all too easy to veer off course.
Compass notwithstanding, were they even walking in the correct direction?
This expedition had seemed so m
uch easier in the bright and warm comfort of her apartment. In the holo image, four NP worlds in various phases hung over the institute. The date stamp implicit in the image’s file name indicated when the hologram was made. However computationally messy, it had been conceptually simple to derive the institute’s physical location on Hearth. Those coordinates put it on the shore of a lake, deep inside one of Hearth’s few large parks.
They talked of home and hobbies, of friends and family. Eric coughed. “How far do you think we’ve come?”
“Two miles, maybe a bit more.”
“Less than half way. Kirsten, we’re taking too long.”
“I know.” There was nothing they could do about it. At this point, they were committed. “I couldn’t know how rough the terrain would be under the foliage, and I didn’t think to plan for rain. The wet footing is slowing us down.”
“I wasn’t criticizing.” His flashlight beam wobbled as, in a flurry of wet leaves, he slid down a slight incline. “What do you think we’ll find?”
“I don’t know.” She batted aside a low-hanging branch. “I’m almost afraid to know.”
“Humans,” Eric answered. “Is that what we are?”
They crested a hill. Shadows hid the way down. “Maybe. Or maybe humans are another race the Citizens have encountered, who may know something about us. Or they’re the species who attacked our ancestors’ starship. I don’t understand why they wouldn’t just tell—”
Eric caught her arm as her feet slipped out from under her. A bit of wet clay? “Be careful,” he wheezed.
Kirsten looked all around in growing panic. “I dropped my compass.”
Crouching, Eric poked with his flashlight at the low groundcover amid which they stood. Fleshy, fan-shaped sheets filtered its light into dim pastels. “I don’t see it.” He chain-coughed as he stood.
“Are you all right?”
“Funny thing,” he said. “Maybe not.”
She stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“I had a condition when I was a kid. Asthma. Apparently, I still do.” He sat on a boulder, breathing shallowly, as though he were sucking air through a sponge. “Humidity and chemical fumes can trigger it.” A chuckle morphed into a hacking cough. “Stress aggravates it.”