Baedeker bobbed heads. After so long together, Sigmund would know the gesture. As Baedeker had learned to read human body language. Sigmund was like a coiled spring.
“New Terra will miss you,” Sigmund said. “I’ll miss you. You’ve been a good friend.”
And friends don’t abandon friends. Certainly not without an explanation. “If the Concordance fights the Pak, Sigmund, we will lose. If we do nothing, the Pak might veer in their course.”
Sigmund nodded. “If you can’t retreat, at least stall. A very Puppet . . . Citizen attitude.”
“But that’s the thing! Maybe we can retreat.”
Sigmund’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything.
“You’re right, our worlds cannot move out of the Pak’s way, not fast enough. Now.” Baedeker resisted the urge to resume twisting and tugging at his mane. “Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Sigmund snapped. “You steal New Terra’s drive?”
“No!” Somehow Baedeker held his ground despite Sigmund’s anger. “No one ever tried using multiple drives on one world. But that is one of the things I’ll be investigating. I approached Nessus because he has influence. He can get me the resources I’ll need: scientists and technicians, equipment, even ships. Because we cannot do such tests on our own worlds.”
“But the Concordance doesn’t have unused drives,” Sigmund said. “Do you?”
Now Baedeker did tear at his mane. The work he envisioned was terrifying. The only thing more terrifying would be not undertaking it. He began to explain. “I studied the planetary drives in the past.”
Because he had been coerced to remotely disable New Terra’s drive. Cast adrift, the former colonists would have had to surrender their newfound independence. Thankfully, he had never learned how, never had to confront whether he would have complied.
But neither had he refused to investigate. Shame had sent him into self-exile on New Terra. His personal shame, and shame for his government. But now Nessus had the ears of the Hindmost, and policy would be saner.
Baedeker forced himself to look into Sigmund’s eyes. “I am close to understanding the underlying principles. If I am right, I may be able to build new drives. Maybe more powerful. Maybe able to work in tandem. And maybe move our worlds out of the way of the Pak.”
“Our worlds?”
“New Terra, too,” Baedeker said. “I have Nike’s promise.”
“And the Gw’oth?”
That question would be argued long and hard, and Baedeker was far from certain where his own feelings lay. “It is being discussed,” was the best he had to offer.
“I wish you luck,” Sigmund said. “On both parts.”
THSSTHFOK SAT LEANING against a cell wall, his eyes closed, chewing mechanically on a tree-of-life root.
His prison had been reconfigured as he lay stunned. Holes had been drilled in the interior walls. Transparent material fused over the openings now revealed cameras on the other side. Crude—and hard to interfere with. Within his cell, every shelf and cabinet had been removed, and with them any pretense of privacy. One of the vanished cabinets held—presumably undetected by his jailors—the remaining parts from his repair kit.
Once the alterations were complete, as Thssthfok lay paralyzed on the deck, Eric had paused halfway out of the hatch. He wore full armor despite Thssthfok’s helplessness. To avoid the smell of tree-of-life root?
Eric said, “Listen very carefully. As soon as this hatch closes, I’m depressurizing this level. Everything but this room. The level will remain airless except when I bring food and remove your waste. I don’t know how you let yourself out, or how you bypassed the hall sensors, but I do know this. Escape again, and you’ll be killing yourself.”
Vacuum all around would have been a deterrent, but the room below Thssthfok’s cell dispensed the humans’ food. That room, at the least, would keep its air. Once the structural modulator made its reappearance, he would exit again, at a time of his choosing, through the deck.
Meanwhile, Thssthfok had information from his last escape to assimilate.
He had glimpsed five worlds in an equilateral pentagon. Five worlds in flight! Four of the globes, gorgeous blue dots, reminded him, achingly, of a long-lost home. Of Pakhome as it had been before the final war. (But unlike Pakhome, these worlds sparkled! Tiny artificial suns, indistinct to the naked eye from this distance, must accompany them.) The final bright dot, eerily glowing, presented puzzles he still labored to articulate.
To seize this ship had been the focus of Thssthfok’s planning. With its faster-than-light drive, he would rejoin his family. Clan Rilchuk scientists would master the technology, fly far from other clans, and establish New Rilchuk in some quiet corner of the outer galaxy.
How modest his goals had been.
The humans and the alien abominations that accompanied them had wondrous technologies: faster-than-light drive, instantaneous transfer, and now a drive to move worlds. And they did not seem ruthless or intelligent enough to protect what they had.
Trade-offs, strategies, and alliances churned in Thssthfok’s thoughts. . . .
THE GUEST SUITE FELT EMPTY without Baedeker.
Sigmund sipped from a snifter of brandy. He couldn’t fault the repertoire of the guest-room synthesizer, only that he didn’t feel much like a guest. And now that Baedeker had gone, Sigmund’s own fate, surely, would soon be revealed. He pictured large numbers of crazed Puppeteers carrying guns.
But only one crazed Puppeteer came, unarmed. “May I come in?” Nessus asked.
Sigmund nodded. The guards waited outside as Nessus entered.
Nessus took a comm unit from a pocket of his sash. Tongue and lip nodules set the device to flashing. He set it on a low table. “We’ll have privacy for a little while. I can’t say how long. Until our seeming silence becomes suspicious.”
What did they have to discuss in private? Sigmund wondered. “Go on.”
“I am sorry, Sigmund. I did my best, but you will not be going home.”
Sigmund had had three lives, each better than the last. He supposed he shouldn’t complain. “What do you expect killing me to accomplish.”
Nessus recoiled. “Kill you? No one said anything about that. You will remain a guest of the Concordance.”
“Because you think the New Terrans won’t act without me. I have news for you, Nessus. You still don’t get humans. New Terra will fight. If we must go down, we’ll take as many Pak as possible with us.”
“Why? Your people will only hasten their own doom.”
Because we’re human tanj it! We don’t hide in our navels. “Because if enough worlds resist, then sooner or later the Pak menace will end. That’s a legacy to die proud of.”
Nessus looked himself in the eyes. Apparently Sigmund didn’t know Nessus as well as he thought, either. Sigmund said, “At our first session with Nike, you were ready to suggest something. I changed the subject. What were you going to propose?”
“You will find this amusing,” Nessus said, sidling toward the synthesizer. He got himself a glass of something orange. Warm carrot juice, if Sigmund correctly remembered Nessus’ vice. “I had an alternate suggestion for staffing a Concordance fleet. Artificial intelligences.”
Sigmund blinked. That was a brilliant idea. It took a fully sentient mind to navigate in hyperspace. So, scour Hearth for a few hundred Puppeteers to fly an AI-enabled fleet toward the Pak. Evacuate the living crews onto a few ships—those could be back into hyperspace before the Pak could even see them. Turn the rest of the ships over to AIs. Only—
“Refresh my memory, Nessus. Why don’t Citizens use AI?”
“Because we fear creating our successors.”
And giving armed warships to those potential successors would be a nonstarter. “Still, I assume you raised the idea directly with Nike.”
“I did.” Nessus drained his beverage with one convulsive gulp. “He would sooner trust a fleet to New Terrans.”
To Sigmund’s ears, that comparis
on sounded like an insult rather than an option. “So what now, Nessus? Holding me won’t stop the New Terrans from acting, only make them loath to coordinate with the Concordance. Nike might as well let me go home.”
Sigmund’s door rattled, accompanied by a torrent of notes. Nessus opened the door, bobbed heads at the guards, and closed the door again.
Why hadn’t Nessus spoken, maybe yelled at the guards to intimidate them? Ah. Had he spoken, someone might have noticed the suppressed bugs not picking up his words.
Cantering back into the room, Nessus said, “The guard asked if I am all right. Sigmund, I must stop suppressing bugs before the security forces become suspicious. And yes, keeping you here may stop New Terra from acting. At least for a time. That is the Hindmost’s judgment.
“Your government will be told that you and I have left together on another scouting mission. Alas, you will not be returning. Though my opinion changes nothing, Sigmund, I disagreed with this decision. I could not change it.
“If only you accept the inevitable, you can be comfortable here.” Nessus waved a neck sinuously at the wall of windows and its spectacular view. “There are far worse prisons than the Hindmost’s residence. Sigmund, I vouched for you. I promised Nike you will behave.”
Here. Incommunicado. Unable to warn Sabrina of a mole within her inner circle. And worst of all, Nike might be correct about Sigmund’s absence delaying any New Terran action.
I don’t think so, Nessus. “You’d better unvouch for me. Because I will escape.”
“Sigmund, please reconsider.” Nessus looked meaningfully at the door. When Sigmund gave no answer, Nessus emitted a mournful trill and reached for his comm unit. The flashing stopped. Nessus reverted to English, to Sigmund’s ears speaking a bit theatrically. “As you refuse to talk to me, I see no reason to stay.”
“Good-bye, Nessus.” And good luck to you and Baedeker.
As Nessus let himself out, Sigmund noted the time on his wrist implant. There was a flurry of music in the hallway.
Within an hour, guards escorted Sigmund to a stepping disc and dumped him into a doorless, windowless, cylindrical room perhaps eight feet across.
36
Sigmund paced his cell, because that’s what prisoners did.
Translucent walls admitted sufficient light to see, not that there was much to see. It wouldn’t take much image enhancement to give outside sensors a clear view inside. Did Puppeteer jailors routinely watch prisoners? Sigmund saw no reason why they would bother.
Then again, there was much about Puppeteers he did not understand.
Except for stepping discs, one in the floor and another in the ceiling, the cell was featureless. The top disc, to which adhered a thin-film molecular filter, must be there to exchange carbon dioxide and excess water vapor for fresh oxygen. The bottom disk, with a thin-film filter of its own, whisked away bodily wastes. Sigmund supposed the floor disc would be set occasionally to receive mode to deliver food.
The disc-plus-filter combinations reminded him of the mechanisms that moved deuterium and tritium to/from Don Quixote’s fuel tanks. Very Puppeteer: reusing a proven design. And very predictable.
With nothing else to do, he glanced often at his wrist implant. The hours passed slowly. He had left the chronometer on ship’s time. It cheered him up, however slightly, to imagine Don Quixote’s shipboard routine. And finally—
It was time! Sigmund wrenched the disc from the floor. The right of which no Puppeteer would be deprived was a modicum of personal safety. Lest the ceiling disc or its air filter fail—unlikely, given the extreme conservatism of Puppeteer engineering, but always possible—there had to be a way for a prisoner to exit a sealed, impregnable cell.
And on that theory, Sigmund had goaded Nessus. He had had to get someplace where he could be assured of finding stepping discs. Any place. Even a maximum-security prison.
From this instant, Sigmund had to act quickly, in case anyone did watch him in real time.
The filter peeled easily from the disc. (Had removing the filter triggered an alarm? Certainly plausible.) Folded, the filter fit into a pocket of his jumpsuit. The Puppeteers would eventually realize what he had done. Until then, he had a locked-room mystery for them.
As Sigmund expected, the disc lacked even a maintenance-mode address keypad. He could not punch in a destination. The safety feature that logic insisted must exist would deliver him into a spare cell or a room full of guards: unacceptable. He pulled out and pocketed the disc’s programmable memory chip, resetting the disc to its factory default mode.
Among Puppeteers, there could be only one default destination.
He restored the disc to its place in the floor and stepped. He emerged into urban cacophony, on some crowded public square. The nearest building—of course—was an office of the Department of Public Safety.
Puppeteers in the hundreds shied away, their bleating louder than God. A circle opened around Sigmund, behind a wall of hind legs: massive, sharp-hoofed, ready to lash out if he got too close. Puppeteers fought—when they had no other option—by turning their backs. That was all right—Sigmund had no intention of staying. Two paces took him to an array of public stepping discs.
He transported at random around the globe, anywhere public discs would take him. Malls. Stores. Arcology lobbies. Puppeteers gaped and blared music wherever he appeared. He heard the same motifs over and over. We are attacked! Or, God you’re ugly! Or, Don’t hurt me! Or—
His next two stops would not be random. He stepped, again via public disc, to the large park Eric had described to Sigmund. The park’s popularity did not matter. That the park was a landmark, easy to spot from above, did.
For his final step, Sigmund needed a transport controller. He grabbed one from the sash pocket of a Puppeteer chosen arbitrarily from the crowd. “Sorry,” Sigmund said.
The Puppeteer shied away, wheezing like a drop-kicked bagpipe, eyes slitted in terror. Mugged by a human! He would be telling this story for the rest of his life.
Sigmund tapped a fifteen-digit disc address and stepped—
Aboard Don Quixote, flying in stealth mode. Its arcing course matched velocities with the popular park on Hearth, twenty-five million miles distant. That put the ship just outside the Fleet’s gravitational singularity.
“Right on time,” Eric said.
“I could say the same,” Sigmund answered. “Good job. Any problems while I was gone?”
Eric looked at his shoes. “It’s a long story.”
Then it would wait. “Let’s jump to hyperspace, before anyone below notices that I’ve gone missing.”
That will give the Hindmost something to think about.
THE LAST HOPE
37
The concept of an inquest was not new to Er’o. The feel was.
The mood aboard Don Quixote was strange, strained, and Er’o struggled to understand the emotional undercurrents. Sigmund had returned from Hearth alone, offering only the briefest of explanations: Baedeker chose to stay. This once, Sigmund’s reticence seemed rooted in something other than distrust. The human seemed genuinely ambivalent about Baedeker’s decision.
Meanwhile, Kirsten and Eric remained in shock at how close they had come to losing the ship. At least shock was how Er’o interpreted their trembling. Bodily quivers were a new phenomenon, for which Ol’t’ro had yet to make a definitive interpretation.
Er’o was the only one in any condition to give answers about Thssthfok’s recent escape.
The flight from Hearth to New Terra would take only two days, much of the second day spent shedding normal-space velocity after they dropped from hyperspace. Sigmund wanted answers before they arrived. “Once again,” Sigmund said. “How did Thssthfok get out?”
Kirsten and Eric studied the relax-room table and said nothing. Sigmund waited, staring, until Kirsten volunteered, “We simply don’t know.”
“I checked the hatch lock. There were no signs of tampering.” Eric grimaced. “Not that we found tamp
ering the first time Thssthfok broke out of the cargo hold. But at least then we found the gadget he used to override the controls.”
Kirsten looked up. “We heard him throw something into the air ducts.”
“And what have you found?” Sigmund probed.
Kirsten resumed staring at the table. “Just the bent grille he tore off. Of course, short of tearing apart the ship, we can’t get at many of the ducts.”
Er’o raised an armored tubacle, wiggling it for attention. “To judge from the size of the grilles, a Gw’o can fit the larger ducts. Say the word, Sigmund, and several of us will look.”
Sigmund shook his head. “You could get stuck in there. We’ll be home soon, and then we’ll send in maintenance bots.”
Er’o sensed no undercurrent of you might see something not meant for you to see. The trust felt good. For apprehending Thssthfok? Or for saving them from an unknowable hyperspace abyss?
“I just had a good idea,” was Er’ o’s reason, impossible to disprove, whenever asked why he had interrupted Jeeves’s countdown. The answer had the virtue of truth (albeit partial): pinning Thssthfok with acceleration had been a good idea. The humans might suspect Er’o had learned about hyperdrive and singularities. They could not ask without hinting at matters they wanted kept secret.
It was like interrogating Thssthfok. No one asked him what he thought of the hyperdrive announcement, either.
“Let’s look at the problem another way,” Sigmund said abruptly. “Something made the hole in the bridge hatch. You found nothing to do that, either. Are we talking about two devices, both missing, or one device that melts holes and unlocks doors?”
Sigmund sounded skeptical about both possibilities. Because of a third scenario, unspoken? Shipboard surveillance had been bypassed. Any of them could have unlocked Thssthfok’s cell. Any of them could have found and hidden Thssthfok’s tool or tools.
Of all the suspects, only the Gw’oth need not fear a search of their living space—at least until New Terra and the arrival of maintenance bots.