As they walked, old memories kept erupting. Twice Louis stumbled against a wall; once he fell across Nessus’ broad back. He only avoided a tumble by grabbing hold of the mane.
With a shrill, atonal wheeze, Nessus stopped. He stood, legs braced far apart, while Louis regained his balance.
“Hindmost’s Voice,” Louis called out. “Keep hailing Endurance. Tell Alice, ‘Louis remembers now.’”
“I will let you know when they answer.”
“Thank you, Voice,” Baedeker said.
Maybe Louis had become smarter over the years. Maybe he only saw connections now because of the odd juxtapositions of random memories.
He had been naïve.
“Chiron,” Louis began cautiously.
Nessus swiveled one head to look backward. “What about Chiron?”
“He briefed the team for the Ringworld expedition.” Everything suddenly seemed so clear to Louis. “Chiron didn’t appear as a holo out of fear, because we were aliens.”
“No,” Baedeker agreed from behind Louis.
Approaching the tiny rec room Nessus pressed against the wall so Louis could squeeze past. “Chiron came as a holo to hide that he wasn’t a Puppeteer.” His thoughts churning, selecting dishes at random, Louis piled a tray with synthed food. “Puppeteers no longer rule in the Fleet.”
“Sadly so,” Baedeker said.
Still more memories spewed forth: tiny spaceships, water-filled. Not-quite-starfish. Feeling slow and dim-witted in the presence of a truly superior mind.
Ol’t’ro!
Louis said, “Nessus, you hired me to stop Achilles from manipulating the Gw’oth situation. I failed.”
“No one could have succeeded,” Nessus said.
In Louis’s mind the Gw’oth War had just concluded. He had just rescued Nessus from Achilles and prison. Baedeker had just refused to come with them. Just as—in Louis’s mind—the Ringworld and its thirty trillion inhabitants had disappeared only days earlier.
Louis said, “So, the Gw’oth rule Fleet.”
“Yes, to Ol’t’ro,” Baedeker said. “Achilles schemes anew to reclaim the semblance of power as the puppet Hindmost. You must now see, Louis, why I so desperately sought technology from the Ringworld. To free Hearth.”
Desperate enough to abduct not merely Louis, but also Chmeee. A Puppeteer kidnapping a Kzin! Even now, such an action was difficult to fathom. Louis turned to face his friends. “Did you find what you needed?”
“Maybe.” Baedeker waved a neck sinuously, the mannerism somehow inclusive. “Nessus and I must soon find out.”
Louis shook his head. “We will find out.”
* * *
ALICE FINALLY MADE CONTACT. “You think you know me now?”
“I know I do,” Louis said. Her face seemed to cycle between the angry old woman who had slugged him and the dark-haired beauty—even more spirited—who his aching heart insisted he had just left. Could he have forgotten those eyes? Truly? That seemed impossible. “I’m glad that I remember.”
She managed a smile. “It was good while it lasted.”
It was, indeed. “Achilles would have done anything to hurt me. I was a target on New Terra. By staying, I’d have made you a target.”
“So Sigmund explained at the time. Why was I the only one without a vote?”
Apart from being light-years away, on New Terra’s business? Aside from being in and out of medical stasis so that you wouldn’t give birth to our son aboard ship? “It doesn’t matter, Alice. I’m back. I’m here. I remember. I love you as I did the day I left.”
“The day you ran away.”
That hurt. “I’d like to pick things up—”
“Pick up again?” She laughed uproariously. “It’s been more than a century. I’m a crone. You’re a kid.”
“I’m almost as old as you,” Louis retorted.
She just stared at him.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he finally said.
“At least you learned something.” She severed the link.
26
Predators crept forward, their passage through the tall wild grain visible only from above. The herd, upwind, grazed unawares, although from time to time sentry animals raised their heads the better to see, hear, and sniff.
Predator and prey alike reminded Cd’o of Citizens. The animals were smaller, of course, more similar in size to a Gw’o than to a Citizen. The grazers stood upright like Citizens, while the hunters slinked and stalked near to the ground. Cd’o zoomed her view closer still—
“Your Wisdom?” a servant said hesitantly.
The robotic aerostat hovered high above the remote island game preserve; Cd’o’s startled yank on the control stick sent her view into a wobbly spin. Her attention had been worlds away, on Hearth.
“What?” she asked crossly. She lifted a tubacle to see who had interrupted her too-rare respite. She recognized a servant, Kg’o, his integument a self-conscious far-red.
“Excuse me, your Wisdom,” he murmured. “I am to tell you that all have been summoned. An important message has just arrived.”
“From where?”
“The ship Amity, your Wisdom.”
From the Ringworld, then—or, rather, from where the Ringworld had been. From amid the mad chaos of multispecies squabbling. “A meld, then,” Cd’o said.
Uneven stripes rippled across Kg’o. “I know nothing more of the matter, your Wisdom.”
It had not been a question, and she had not meant to embarrass him. Cd’o swam away from the computer, pointing at the still-spinning image. “Do you know what this is?”
“No, your Wisdom.”
“The lone game preserve on five worlds, an island half an ocean away from anywhere. Here the Citizens maintain remnants of their primeval heritage. What do you make of that?”
Thoughtful yellows and greens washed across Kg’o. “That I do not understand Citizens.”
Because suffering predators to exist was not the logic of sentient prey? “Once gone, an ecosystem can never truly be re-created. A transplanted environment, such as we have in our habitat, is never as rich or robust as a natural ecosystem.”
“So Citizens fear losing the potential of even an old, dangerous environment? I believe I see.” Kg’o wriggled and flexed a tubacle nervously, struggling with unfamiliar concepts. “Their cowardice is more complex than I had realized.”
And far more calculating, Cd’o surmised. She jetted off, Kg’o trailing at a respectful distance, to meld.
* * *
IN THE AUSTERE inviolability of their melding chamber, Ol’t’ro considered:
That from the fringes of the vanished Ringworld’s cometary belt, the Concordance vessel Amity reported the synchronized departure of the Kzinti fleets.
That war over the wealth of the Ringworld had been inevitable.
That the artifact’s disappearance had not.
That Baedeker and Nessus, long absent from the affairs of Gw’oth and Citizens, had reappeared—from the Ringworld?—to assert that Kzinti warships were bound for the Fleet of Worlds.
That for a singleton, Baedeker had been a competent scientist. It was unfortunate that he persisted in meddling in their affairs.
That a former unit of theirs, exiled to Amity, confirmed Minerva’s report.
That they remained puzzled why Tf’o had found—and rendered—melding so distasteful that it had become expedient to expel him.
No? I can explain, Cd’o asserted faintly.
They swatted aside the impudence, tamped down the impertinence, and continued their deliberations.
That by its actions near the Ringworld, the Patriarchy had shown itself to be as reckless and dangerous as it had appeared in the historical files of Clandestine Directory.
That humanity had proven itself to be almost as reckless as and even more dangerous than Kzinti.
(And Sigmund? Louis? The New Terrans? posed a remnant unit. Did they not twice save our worlds?)
They ignored that inter
ruption, too.
That Nessus’ pathetically obvious scheme to draw alien interceders to Hearth was, finally, about to succeed. That all that had been required to advance Nessus’ plot was the still-unexplained disappearance of the Ringworld into hyperspace!
That they had not foreseen that possibility, either.
That Nessus was about to discover that to bring armed allies and to evict Ol’t’ro were quite different undertakings.
That a New Terran vessel had also appeared, drawn by the unique event that was the Ringworld departing.
That Endurance had made contact with the ARM humans, and so the long-hidden history of a world of slaves must, inevitably, come out.
That whatever might be motivating the Kzinti warriors to come, the ARM humans had just found more than ample reason to attack the Fleet.
That the historical record implied—Citizens’ feeble efforts at secrecy notwithstanding—Concordance meddling in the affairs of humans and Kzinti and perhaps other species besides.
Pragmatic cowards, Cd’o whispered into the meld, along with fleeting images of predators in a preserve.
That cowardice did not preclude violence, only channeled violence into subtlety.
That by their dominance of the Fleet and their taming of the Citizens, they kept the Concordance from continuing its practiced, selfish aggression.
That their choices now came down to two. They could just leave, the Citizens deserving everything that was rushing toward them. Or they could fight, because every warship destroyed here was a warship that would never endanger Jm’ho, or Kl’mo, or the newer colonies they had yet to know in person.
Imagine the marvels to be beheld on new worlds, Cd’o tempted.
Ol’t’ro again swatted the insolent unit into silence.
That they had almost four five-squared days until the Kzinti could arrive. That they had easily twice as long if—as, supposedly, the New Terrans reported—the Kzinti intended to invade. To land, Kzinti ships would need time to match normal-space velocity with the Fleet.
That for as long as they ruled, the full resources of the Ministry of Science remained their personal instrument.
That they themselves could evacuate this world in a day, should they so choose.
That to preserve their options, they would do well to expand Proteus as fully as possible.
That they could tolerate Achilles’ smug satisfaction with their decision.
That they suffered fools like Horatius and Achilles expressly to preserve their own time for projects of greater interest.
And so—the news from Amity passed on, their decision regarding Proteus delivered—they turned their full attention to fine points of multiverse mathematics.…
* * *
“THIS IS SPACE TRAFFIC CONTROL.”
In Achilles’ tactical display, queues of transponder codes, each code denoting a ship, streamed to and from Hearth. He sang, “This is Poseidon, inbound from Nature Preserve One.”
“Acknowledged,” the controller reported, adding the parameters of a midaltitude staging orbit. “Confirm.”
Achilles waited silently. His hearts pounded, for this course of action was insane. Stepping away from the herd, whether to scout or to guide, was the very definition of insanity.
And for the herd to survive, there must be crazies.
“Poseidon, do you confirm?”
Achilles flipped off his transponder, removing Poseidon from the Space Traffic Control system. Seconds later, his instruments reported radar pings. But Poseidon was in stealth mode; it would produce no echoes.
“Poseidon, are you there?”
Achilles altered course and speed, then altered them again.
New voices came: stronger, firmer, with stern harmonics designed to command instant obedience. Proteus. “This is Hearth Planetary Defense. Poseidon, or whoever you are, we are tracking you with optical sensors. Break away or you will be destroyed. This is your only warning. In ten. Nine. Eight…”
In Achilles’ tactical display, nearby grain ships scattered.
Between seven and six, his console reported a low-intensity laser beam. Target lock, or a lucky hit? He zigged, this time putting the ship into a spin.
Jaws ached to release the flight controls. Legs trembled with the urge to run. Feel the mania, he told himself. Embrace the madness.
His jaws remained clenched on the controls. There would be time later to collapse.
The laser beam stayed locked.
A second laser beam impaled his ship. Now the tactical display showed infrared sources in three tiers streaking toward him. Kinetic-kill drones.
“Four. Three.”
Achilles pulled away from Hearth. With his other mouth he flipped the STC transponder back ON.
“Two.”
“This is Poseidon, Minister Achilles speaking.” The lasers stayed locked on, but the nearest rank of the inward-streaking drones veered off. “This was an unannounced test of planetary defenses.”
“Identity challenge,” the stern voices commanded. They transmitted a random-sounding sequence of numbers.
A console computer generated the corresponding response and Achilles tapped SEND.
“Confirmed,” Proteus sang. “Traffic Control, you may resume.”
“This is Minister Achilles requesting prioritized clearance to Harmonious Field.”
“Very well,” the controller sang tremulously. “You are cleared for immediate landing.”
Achilles landed Poseidon. Moments after the ship grounded, Citizens emerged, quavering, from stepping discs embedded in the tarmac. He stepped from his ship to appear among his greeters. Sashes and coveralls identified them as spaceport workers.
One stepped forward. “Welcome, Minister. We hope your test went satisfactorily.”
“Very well, thank you,” Achilles sang.
They lowered their heads subserviently and waited.
“Very well,” he repeated. Because while Proteus performed as expected, even one ship deviating from routine sufficed to panic you. “If you will excuse me, official matters require my attention.”
A tongueprint and wriggle of lip nodes retrieved a protected address from his transport controller. He stepped from the tarmac directly to the security foyer of the private residence of the Hindmost.
* * *
GUARDS ESCORTED ACHILLES through the residence to Horatius’ private office. Achilles knew the room well—and disdained these bland and minimalist furnishings. Scattered cushions and one massive oval desk did not suffice. Not for a Hindmost’s office.
“Leave us,” Horatius sang.
“Yes, Hindmost,” the senior guard responded. The squad retreated, shutting the door behind them.
“I asked you here to see me, not set off a panic,” Horatius began without preamble. Displeasure did nothing to shorten his would-be portentous pauses.
“Our defenses require realistic testing,” Achilles sang.
“Chiron would likely agree with you.” Horatius settled onto a mound of pillows. “He proposes a significant expansion, to be implemented within the next hundred days.”
Proposes. It was all Achilles could do not to look himself in the eyes. This was the sort of suggestion no Hindmost dare ignore. “Why did you invite me?”
“To oversee the changes to Proteus, as you doubtless realize.” Annoying pause. “Why do you bother to pretend otherwise?”
As a reminder, Horatius, that you need me. That Ol’t’ro needs me. “By your very welcome, this proposal is sound. You sang that with a single ship, I caused a panic. What would have been the response to an entire Kzinti fleet?”
His necks trembling, Horatius managed not to pluck at his unimaginatively braided mane. “We would surrender, of course. Any sane ruler would.”
“Only Ol’t’ro will not allow surrender, will they?”
“That is why you are here,” Horatius admitted.
Remember that. “To expand our defenses will entail significant resources.”
“You will have them,” Horatius sang.
“And there will be more unannounced tests like you saw today, some involving more than one ship. Respectfully”—that chord was a twisted, ironic lie—“can you govern in those circumstances?”
Horatius stood tall, hooves set far apart. “I am Hindmost.”
“So you are.” But you are not up to the task. “But you need not carry that burden.”
The longest pause yet, but this time Achilles chose to interpret the silence as his offer being considered. “I am Hindmost,” Horatius finally sang.
Achilles sensed further nuance in the harmonics. A yearning? A moment of temptation? “War amid the worlds of the Fleet is unprecedented. How can any Conservative preside at such a time?”
“I am Hindmost,” Horatius repeated.
The grace notes of pain in that repetition were unmistakable.
27
Sigmund picked at his dinner, the little he had managed to eat burning in his gut like molten lead. There were only so many ways to convey, “I don’t know,” and “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.” He had used them all.
“It’s not fair, Dad,” Hermes said. His face was weathered and tanned from years of farming. “I spent my childhood wondering if you would make it back home. I grew up watching Mom struggling to put on a brave face for Athena and me. Now my daughter is the one out … somewhere, the one out of contact.”
And she’s my granddaughter. I do understand, son. “I can only tell you that Julia is well, that she’s doing work you can be proud of. I’m sorry, but I can’t say more.”
“You won’t say more,” Amelia chided.
His daughter-in-law normally had a wicked sense of humor. She was a communications engineer and twice as smart as Sigmund—just ask her. Amelia didn’t very much like Sigmund and the feeling was mutual. But she loved Hermes and his son loved her, and together they had raised one heck of a fine bunch of children. Sigmund’s dislike of Amelia did not matter.
Today she was one hundred percent an aggrieved mom, and Sigmund was as close as she could get to the people who had put her child at risk. Had Amelia only known, he was one of them. Her dinner also looked stirred and untasted.