A Rising Thunder

  “That you’d tell me what you personally believe to be the truth…and that you’d distinguish between what can be realistically evaluated and what can’t be,” he said.

  Honor’s eyebrows rose a millimeter or so at the unusual candor—or un-diplomat-like directness, at least—of his response, and he snorted in amusement.

  “Honor, you’re never going to make a good liar,” he told her, “and only a fool—which Empress Elizabeth obviously isn’t—would expect you to be any good at it. I’m quite sure that’s why she wants me to talk to you before she talks to me.”

  “Why is everyone always telling me I’m an incompetent liar?” Honor demanded a bit plaintively. “I admit, I don’t get as much practice as, say, a professional diplomat or a used air car saleswoman, but still—!”

  “It’s nothing personal,” Rabenstrange told her with a reassuring smile, “but no one can be accomplished at everything. It’s just that you’ve been too busy learning how to blow up starships and things like that to master the difficult arts of duplicity and chicanery as well.” He reached out to pat her on the arm. “Don’t take it too hard.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” she promised with an answering smile.

  “Good.”

  “But I’d still be interested to hear your interpretation of why Elizabeth sent you to me, first.”

  “It’s simple really. She wants me to satisfy myself that she and Pritchart have been telling the Emperor the truth before she and I sit down to discuss the details. She wants that settled in my mind so that I can listen to what she’s proposing without worrying about whether or not she’s telling me the truth about her reasons for proposing it.”

  “I see.”

  Honor cocked her head thoughtfully. Elizabeth hadn’t told her exactly why she wanted her to speak to Rabenstrange first. Oh, the Empress had touched on several reasons, including the professional and personal rapport Honor and Rabenstrange had established over the years. Yet Honor had sensed that wasn’t everything Elizabeth had in mind. Now, as she thought back over the way the Empress’ mind-glow had tasted at the time, she decided Rabenstrange had a point.

  “Well, if you’re right about that,” she said, “I suppose we should go ahead and discuss the rest of what Simões—and McBryde—had to say. But first, have a seat.”

  She gestured at the comfortable armchairs, and Rabenstrange nodded. The two of them crossed the day cabin, followed by Major Shiang Schenk and Captain Spencer Hawke. Schenk, whose uniform bore the skeleton shoulder flash of the Totenkopf Hussars, the elite regiment of the Andermani Empire, was technically Rabenstrange’s senior military aide, but that was simply a polite fiction. In fact, the Totenkopfs were responsible for the personal safety of members of the Anderman Dynasty, and Schenk and Hawke had developed a comfortable relationship based on mutual respect and professionalism. Neither of them was entirely happy about the side arm riding at his counterpart’s hip, but they’d been forced to learn to deal with it, since both of them were responsible for protecting people who were required by law to be accompanied by armed bodyguards at all times.

  That restriction could make things awkward enough under most circumstances, but the situation was worse than usual in Rabenstrange’s case, despite his and Honor’s personal friendship. In fact, it would have been the next best thing to impossible if Emperor Gustav hadn’t granted a very specific dispensation in Honor’s case to his across-the-board rule that no one aside from assigned Andermani security personnel was allowed into proximity with any member of the Anderman Dynasty when armed. Partly that was because Andermani security knew about the pulser built into Honor’s artificial hand, which she would have found just a bit difficult to leave behind on social occasions. But it was also a special declaration of trust in her, and she often wondered how hard it had been for Rabenstrange to talk the compulsively suspicious Emperor around.

  Which had a certain bearing on the present conversation, she supposed.

  Rabenstrange seated himself, and she sank into another armchair, facing him. Nimitz, who’d been watching the Andermani’s arrival from his perch, hopped down and sauntered across to the visitor. He looked up for a moment, cocking his head thoughtfully, then launched himself into Rabenstrange’s lap, and the herzog chuckled as the ’cat stood on his four rearmost limbs and extended his right true-hand.

  “It’s good to see you, too, Nimitz,” he said, shaking the offered true-hand. He and the treecat were old acquaintances, and Nimitz settled down on his lap comfortably.

  “You do realize that I realize the two of you are setting out to double-team me, don’t you?” Rabenstrange inquired, looking up to smile at Honor.

  “If there’s any double-teaming going on here, it’s his idea, not mine,” she protested. “On the other hand, you’re probably right. He’s about as shameless at manipulating the two-legs around him as any ’cat I’ve ever seen. Darn good at it, too.”

  “Yes, he is,” Rabenstrange agreed, then nodded as James MacGuiness entered the day cabin. “Ah! The inimitable—and inestimable—Mr. MacGuiness!”

  “Your Grace,” MacGuiness responded, bowing slightly. “I was wondering if I could get you and Her Grace some refreshment?”

  “Actually, if you have any of that truly excellent coffee of yours, I would kill for a cup.” Rabenstrange shook his head. “We do many things well in New Potsdam. Unfortunately, brewing potable coffee isn’t one of them.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” MacGuiness acknowledged, with only the smallest flicker of a smile, then turned to Honor. “And for you, Your Grace?” he inquired innocently.

  “If Herzog von Rabenstrange is prepared to drink your coffee, then I’m happy for you, Mac,” she assured him gravely. “In my own case, however, I believe I’d prefer an Old Tillman.”

  “Of course,” he murmured once more, and departed for his pantry.

  “You’ve really gotten to know me and my menagerie entirely too well for my peace of mind, Chien-lu,” Honor said, and he chuckled.

  “Perhaps I have,” he acknowledged, but then his smile faded. “Perhaps I have,” he repeated in a softer voice, “but I haven’t had the chance yet to tell you how distressed I was to hear about Colonel LaFollet. I know how much he meant to you.”

  “Thank you.” Honor paused to swallow, then cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she repeated, “but I’m scarcely alone in having lost people I cared about.”

  “No, you aren’t. Which rather brings me to the most burning issue, from my cousin’s perspective, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course it does.” Honor nodded. “And on that particular point, I’m afraid I can’t give you the sort of positive assurance I can provide where Simões’ veracity is concerned.”

  “That was our impression in New Potsdam.” Rabenstrange shook his head. “Of course, His Majesty and I had very little time to examine the documentation Empress Elizabeth sent to him before I got bundled aboard that miserable little dispatch boat. I had rather more time to consider it at length on the trip here, however, and it seemed evident that ‘positive assurance’ would be…elusive, under the circumstances. Which puts us in what I believe novelists call ‘a delicate position.’”

  “I’ve been instructed by Empress Elizabeth and President Pritchart to inform you that if you wish to personally interview Dr. Simões, you’ll certainly be free to do so. For that matter, if you wish, you can bring along an intelligence expert of your choice. And we’re also willing to provide a treecat to tell you whether or not Simões is telling you the truth in response to specific questions.” She shrugged. “I realize we’d be providing the treecat, but it’s the closest we can come to providing a lie detector without risking triggering any suicide protocols that might be hidden away down inside him.”

  “A concern which also explains why he hasn’t been interrogated with the assistance of…pharmaceutical enhancement, let’s say,” Rabenstrange observed.

  “Exactly.” Honor sighed. “The problem is he’s the only intelligen
ce asset we’ve got where this Alignment is concerned, Chien-lu. We’re treating him with velvet gloves because we literally can’t afford to lose him.”

  “Understood.”

  MacGuiness returned with a cup of coffee, a chilled stein of beer, and a platter of cheeses, fruit, and celery. Rabenstrange nodded his thanks as he accepted the coffee, and waited until the steward had left the day cabin before he turned back to Honor.

  “I understand the limitations you’re facing,” he said, “and because I do, I don’t think I’ll be taking the Empress and the President up on their generous offer to personally interview Dr. Simões. I would like my intelligence staff to review the recordings of his debriefing sessions, but let’s not do anything we can avoid which might add even more stress to his situation.”

  “I’m sure they’ll appreciate that,” Honor said sincerely, but she also cocked her head inquiringly, and he shrugged.

  “Speaking to him directly isn’t likely to tell me anything I won’t already see from the debriefing recordings. I understand the reason for the offer—to demonstrate that your intelligence people are being as forthcoming as possible—but all a direct interrogation could do would be to give him the opportunity to reconfirm what he’s already told you.”

  Honor nodded slowly, and Rabenstrange sipped coffee thoughtfully, eyes unfocused as he gazed at something only he could see for several moments. Then he gave himself a small shake and looked back at Honor.

  “So, having said that, and bearing in mind the reservation you’ve already noted, do you believe this McBryde’s allegations?”

  “Do I believe them?”

  “Please, Honor!” Rabenstrange shook a chiding finger at her. “You’ve had considerably longer to think about it than I have, you’ve had better access not just to Simões but to Captain Zilwicki and Officer Cachat, and there’s that little matter of what almost happened to you aboard this very ship.” The chiding finger stiffened and pointed at the decksole, and the herzog’s expression turned much more serious. “I know you were close to Lieutenant Mears, so I know how losing him, especially in that fashion, must have hurt. Believe me, losing Colonel Hofschulte and his younger son hurt Prince Huang. For Huang—and for me—that gives you what I think we might both agree to call a special perspective.”

  Honor’s mouth had tightened, but she nodded in understanding. She paused and took a swallow of Old Tillman, then looked back at him.

  “All I can say is that both Captain Zilwicki and Officer Cachat believe that at least the majority of McBryde’s information, and the business about the nanotech assassinations in particular, was the truth to the best of McBryde’s knowledge. That’s also Dr. Simões’ belief, although he himself had no knowledge of the Alignment’s clandestine operations. Having said that, Simões is clearly prejudiced in McBryde’s favor. As nearly as I can tell, and Nimitz agrees with me in this, McBryde was probably Simões’ only friend in the world by the time the two of them decided to defect. I don’t personally believe McBryde was manipulating him as some sort of elaborate disinformation sting, but in all honesty, I can’t completely rule out that possibility.”

  She paused, regarding Rabenstrange steadily, and tasted his slow mental nod, his satisfaction that she was doing her absolute best to be completely honest with him.

  “Obviously, we all wish McBryde had gotten out along with Simões. In some ways, it’s almost more frustrating to have the bits and pieces we have—or appear to have, anyway—without confirmation than it would have been to remain completely ignorant. Nonetheless, everything we’ve been able to check tests out, Simões believed he was telling the truth, and the gross description he gave of how the nanotech is supposed to work is fully consistent with what I personally saw in Lieutenant Mears’ case.”

  “How so?” Rabenstrange asked gently.

  “McBryde was a security agent, not a scientist.” Honor’s tone became almost clinical. “He couldn’t explain the actual mechanisms, and, to be honest, we’re all confident he was holding back details he could have given us as bargaining chips further down the road. And as added incentives for Zilwicki and Cachat to get him and Simões out in the first place, of course.” She shrugged ever so slightly. “I don’t see how any reasonable person could blame him for that, under the circumstances.

  “At any rate, according to his explanation, the Alignment’s developed an extremely sophisticated, virus-based, organic nanotech. Personally, I think that’s evidence of just how crazy they all are, but that might be the Beowulfer in me, and they, at least, are apparently confident of their ability to control it and keep it from mutating. All I can say is that I hope they’re right about that.”

  Rabenstrange nodded soberly, and she continued.

  “McBryde said—I’ve seen the recording he provided to Captain Zilwicki, and I’ll see to it you get a copy, as well—that the nanotech has to be specifically engineered for its target. They have to get their hands on a sample of the target’s genetic material, then build the nannies around that material. If McBryde’s right about that, that’s almost certainly the primary reason no forensic examination has turned up any evidence of it. It breaks down almost instantly after completing its function, and it’s all tagged as a legitimate component of the target’s own body.

  “McBryde either didn’t know or didn’t say exactly how sophisticated the nanotech’s ‘programming’ can be, but our best estimate based on what he did say is that it has to work something like transferred muscle memory.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Transferred muscle memory.” Honor repeated. “ONI consulted my father as one of the Star Empire’s leading neurosurgeons as soon as they started trying to evaluate McBryde’s claims,” she didn’t add that he’d also been called in because of his personal connection with her and the monumentally high security clearances which went with it, but she really didn’t have to, “and I’ve discussed it personally with him. He doesn’t like the implications one bit, but he says it’s at least theoretically possible. In fact, he thinks there are probably some similarities between the way the nanotech works and the way this works.”

  She held up her artificial left hand and flexed its fingers.

  “When I was learning to handle this, I had to relearn all the muscle memory using the new neural connections—connections which were significantly different from the organic ones I’d always had. Apparently, if my dad’s right, what they do is to use a human…call her a ‘host,’ for want of a better word, to ‘train’ the nanotech pretty much the same way I trained my prosthesis and my own brain. Again, assuming he’s right, they can only train it to carry out limited and probably very specific physical actions. That doesn’t mean the physical actions can’t be complex, according to my dad, but that they can probably only put them together in specific combinations, and there’s a data storage limitation—probably a pretty severe one—on what they can actually pack into the nanotech. For example, I’ve viewed the bridge imagery of the day Tim was killed.”

  Her voice roughened suddenly, her mouth tightened, her eyes darkened, and she paused again before she could continue.

  “I’ve viewed the bridge imagery,” her soprano was almost as clinical, as detached, as before when she went on once more, “and aside from drawing Simon’s pulser and opening fire, he never moved from the instant whatever was controlling him took over. He simply stood in one place, held the trigger down, and swept his fire across the bridge. Looking at the security imagery of the Havenite ambassador’s chauffeur shooting Admiral Webster, you see very much the same thing. He draws his weapon, he opens fire—hitting three other people, not just the Admiral—and simply stands there until he’s shot in turn. No attempt to escape, no effort to take cover or evade return fire, nothing. We haven’t had the opportunity to look at any imagery your security people may have of Colonel Hofschulte, so I can’t say how consistent that is in his case, but that’s the pattern we’re apparently seeing.

  “Now, according once again to my d
ad, there has to be another component, some sort of organic AI, you might say. His best guess is that it probably sets up residence in some corner of the target’s brain, but it wouldn’t necessarily have to be located there as long as it has access to the central nervous system. Presumably the AI is issued with a set of triggering criteria that it looks for before activating whatever ‘muscle memory’ may have been installed in the nanotech. Obviously, the criteria can’t be too complex.”

  Rabenstrange nodded again. The ancient cybernetic hope of achieving true sentience in an “artificial intelligence” had never been realized. Enormous strides had been made in crafting “brilliant programs” which could mimic intelligence—hence the continued use of the term “AI,” even though it was technically incorrect—but those programs could react only to parameters the programmer could anticipate. The ability to discriminate triggering criteria in something as complex as normal human interactions was notoriously complicated, unless the programmer had a very specific grasp of the interactions likely to arise or could build in a mechanism the program could use to gain additional information and extrapolate from it. An AI designed to deal with customer service inquiries, for example, or to operate an air taxi, and which had the opportunity to clarify situations and desires by asking questions, could give an incredibly convincing imitation of genuine sentience within its area of competence. Outside that area of competence, however, and without that ability to expand its information base, the situation was completely different. And if Dr. Harrington was right, the AI in this case certainly wouldn’t have the opportunity to ask any “clarifying” questions before it acted!

  “At any rate, if my dad’s right about this, the AI only triggers under very specific circumstances. In fact, they probably err on the side of not triggering when they set up the original programming, even when that means missing possible opportunities, in order to avoid the sorts of accidents which might have started someone wondering what the heck was going on. And the specific actions which can be triggered are only those which have been ‘muscle transferred’ to the target. So, assuming he’s right, this stuff couldn’t force someone to, say, enter a computer code that’s in his memory, not the nanotech’s. And it can’t access his knowledge or make his conscious brain do what it wants—force him to make up a lie in order to penetrate security, for example, or come up with his own plan for some assassination or act of sabotage. Daddy says it would probably be theoretically possible to…pre-record, let’s say, a lie, although he doesn’t know whether it would sound like the target’s voice or the voice of whoever provided the muscle memory to the nanotech. But it’s not like…oh, like hypnosis or adjustment. It couldn’t trick its victim into supplying the proper code word response to a challenge—or even force him to respond in the first place—unless whoever programmed it had the proper challenge ahead of time.”