by Vernor Vinge
Delia looked momentarily surprised at this turn of events. She smiled and waved to Mike just as she left. He would like to think he’d seen anger in her face, but she was too good an actress for that. He could only imagine her rage at being kicked out of the meeting. He hoped she’d been counting on attending it.
In minutes, the party was over, the women and children gone. The music from the trees softened, and insect sounds grew louder. Seymour Wentz’s holo remained. His image could almost be mistaken for that of someone sitting at the far end of the picnic table. Thirty seconds passed, and several more electronic visitors appeared. One was on a flat, black-and-white display—someone from very far indeed. Rosas wondered how well his transmission was shielded. Then he recognized the sender, one of the Greens from Norcross. With them, it was probably safe.
Wili drifted in, nodded silently to Mike. The boy had been very quiet since that night in La Jolla.
“All present?” Colonel Kaladze sat down at the head of the table. Images far outnumbered the flesh-and-blood now. Only Mike, Wili, and Kaladze and his sons were truly here. The rest were images in holo tanks. The still night air, the pale glow of bulbs, the aged faces, and Wili—dark, small, yet somehow powerful. The scene struck Rosas like something out of a fantasy: a dark elfin prince, holding his council of war at midnight in faerie-lit forest.
The participants looked at each other for a moment, perhaps feeling the strangeness themselves. Finally, Ivan Nikolayevich said to his father, “Colonel, with all due respect, is it proper that someone so young and unknown as Mr. Wáchendon should sit at this meeting?”
Before the eldest could speak, Rosas interrupted, a further breach of decorum. “I asked that he stay. He shared our trip south, and he knows more about some of the technical problems we face than any of us.” Mike nodded apologetically to Kaladze.
Sy Wentz grinned crookedly at him. “As long as we’re ignoring all the rules of propriety, I want to ask about our communications security.”
Kaladze sounded only faintly irritated by the usurpations. “Rest assured, Sheriff. This part of the woods is in a little valley, blocked from the inland. And I think we have more confusion gear in these trees than there are leaves.” He glanced at a display. “No leaks from this end. If you line-of-sighters take even minimum precautions, we’re safe.” He glanced at the man from Norcross.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m using knife-edges, convergent corridors—all sorts of good stuff. The Peacers could monitor forever and not even realize they were hearing a transmission. Gentlemen, you may not realize how primitive the enemy is. Since the La Jolla kidnappings, we’ve planted some of our bugs in their labs. The great Peace Authority’s electronic expertise is fifty years obsolete. We found researchers ecstatic at achieving component densities of ten million per square millimeter.” There were surprised chuckles from around the table. The Green smiled, baring bad teeth. “In field operations, they are much worse.”
“So all they have are the bombs, the jets, the tanks, the armies, and the bobbles.”
“Correct. We are very much like Stone Age hunters fighting a mammoth: We have the numbers and the brains, and the other side has the physical power. I predict our fate will be similar to the hunters’. We’ll suffer casualties, but the enemy will eventually be defeated.”
“What an encouraging point of view,” Sy put in dryly.
“One thing I would like to know,” said a hardware man from San Louis Obispo. “Who put this bee in their drawers? The last ten years we’ve been careful not to flaunt our best products; we agreed not to bug the Peacers. That’s history now, but I get the feeling that somebody deliberately scared them. The bugs we’ve just planted report they were all upset about high tech stuff they found in their labs earlier this year. . . . Anybody want to fess up?”
He looked around the table; no one replied. But Mike felt a sudden certainty. There was at least one man who might wish to rub the Authority’s nose in the Tinkers’ superiority, one man who always wanted a scrap. Two weeks ago, he would have felt betrayed by the action. Mike smiled sadly to himself; he was not the only person who could risk his friends’ lives for a Cause.
The Green shrugged. “If that’s all there were to it, they’d do something more subtle than take hostages. The Peacers think we’ve discovered something that’s an immediate threat. Their internal communications are full of demands that someone named Paul Hoehler be found. They think he’s in Middle California. That’s why there are so many Peacer units in your area, ‘Kolya.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” said Kaladze. “In fact that’s the real reason I asked for this meeting. Paul wanted it. Paul Hoehler, Paul Naismith—whatever we call him—has been the center of their fears for a long time. Only now, he may be as deadly as they believe. He may have something that can kill the ‘mammoth’ you speak of, Zeke. You see, Paul thinks he can generate bobbles without a nuclear power plant. He wants us to prepare—”
Wili’s voice broke through the ripple of consternation that spread around the table. “No! Don’t say more. You mean Paul will not be here tonight, even as a picture?” He sounded panicked.
Kaladze’s eyebrows rose. “No. He intends to stay thoroughly . . . submerged . . . until he can broadcast his technique. You’re the only person he—”
Wili was on his feet now, almost shaking. “But he has to see. He has to listen. He is maybe the only one who will believe me!”
The old soldier sat back. “Believe you about what?”
Rosas felt a chill crawl up his back. Wili was glaring down the table at him.
“Believe me when I tell you that Miguel Rosas is a traitor!” He looked from one visitor to the next but found no response. “It’s true, I tell you. He knew about La Jolla from the beginning. He told the Peacers about the lab. He got J-J-Jeremy killed in that hole in the cliffs! And now he sits here while you say everything, while you tell him Paul’s plan.”
Wili’s voice rose steadily to become childish and hysterical. Ivan and Sergei, big men in their late forties, started toward him. The Colonel motioned them back, and when Wili had finished, he responded mildly, “What’s your evidence, son?”
“On the boat. You know, the ‘lucky rescue’ Mike is so happy to tell you of?” Wili spat. “Some rescue. It was a Peacer fake.”
“Your proof, young man!” It was Sy Wentz, sticking up for his undersheriff of ten years.
“They thought they had me drugged, dead asleep. But I was some awake. I crawled up the cabin stairs. I saw him talking to that puta de la Paz, that monster Lu. She thanked him for betraying us! They know about Paul; you are right. And these two are up here sniffing around for him. They killed Jeremy. They—”
Wili stopped short, seemed to realize that the rush of words was carrying his cause backward.
Kaladze asked, “Could you really hear all they were saying?”
“N-no. There was the wind, and I was very dizzy. But—”
“That’s enough, boy.” Sy Wentz’s voice boomed across the clearing. “We’ve known Mike since he was younger than you. Me and the Kaladzes shared his upbringing. He grew up here”—not in some Basin ghetto—“and we know where his loyalties are. He’s risked his life more than once for customers. Hell, he even saved Paul’s neck a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Wili.” Kaladze’s voice was mild, quite unlike Sy’s. “We do know Mike. And after this morning, I’m sure Miss Lu is what she appears. I called some friends in San Francisco: Her folks have been heavy-wagon ‘furbishers for years up there. They recognized her picture. She and her brother went to La Jolla, just as she says.”
Has she no limits? thought Rosas.
“Caray. I knew you’d not believe. If Paul was here—” The boy glared at Kaladze’s sons. “Don’t worry. I’ll remain a gentleman.” He turned and walked stiffly out of the clearing.
Rosas struggled to keep his expression one of simple surprise. If the boy had been a bit cooler, or Delia a bit less superhuman, it would
have been the end of Miguel Rosas. At that moment, he came terribly close to confessing what all the boy’s accusations could not prove. But he said nothing. Mike wanted his revenge to precede his own destruction.
21
Nikolai Sergeivich and Sergei Nikolayevich were pale mauve sitting on the driver’s bench ahead of Wili. The late night rain was a steady hushing all around them. For the last four kilometers, the old Russian’s “secret tunnel” had been aboveground: When the cart got too near the walls, Wili could feel wet leaves and coarse netting brush against him. Through his night glasses, the wood glowed faintly warmer than the leaves or the netting, which must be some sort of camouflage. The walls were thickly woven, probably looked like heavy forest from the outside. Now that the roof of the passage was soaked, a retarded drizzle fell upon the four of them. Wili shifted his slicker against the trickle that was most persistent.
Without the night glasses the world was absolutely black. But his other senses had things to tell him about this camouflaged path that was taking them inland, past the watchers the Authority had strung around the farm. His nose told him they were far beyond the groves of banana trees that marked the eastern edge of the farm. On top of the smell of wet wood and roping, he thought he smelled lilacs, and that meant they must be about halfway to Highway 101. He wondered if Kaladze intended to accompany him that far.
Over the creaking of the cart’s wheels, he could hear Miguel Rosas up ahead, leading the horses.
Wili’s lips twisted, a voiceless snarl. No one had believed him. Here he was, a virtual prisoner of the people who should be his allies, and the whole lot of them were being led through the dark by the Jonque traitor! Wili slipped the heavy glasses back on and glared at the mauve blob that was the back of Rosas’ head. Funny how Jonque skin was the same color as his own in the never-never world of the night glasses.
Where would their little trip end? He knew that Kaladze and son thought they were simply going to the end of the tunnel, to let Wili return to Naismith in the mountains. And the fools thought that Rosas would let them get away with it. For twenty minutes he had been almost twitchy, expecting a flash of real light ahead of them, sharp commands backed up by men in Authority green with rifles and stunners, the La Jolla betrayal all over again. But the minutes stretched on and on with nothing but the rain and the creaking of the cart’s high wheels. The tunnel bent around the hills, occasionally descending underground, occasionally passing across timbers built over washouts. Considering how much it rained around Vandenberg, it must have taken a tremendous effort to keep this pathway functioning yet concealed. Too bad the old man was throwing it all away, thought Wili.
“Looks like we’re near the end, sir.” Rosas’ whisper came back softly—ominously?—over the quiet drone of the rain. Wili rose to his knees to look over the Kaladzes’ shoulders: The Jonque was pushing against a door, a door of webbed branches and leaves which nevertheless swung smoothly and silently. Brilliant light glowed through the opening. Wili almost bolted off the cart before his glasses adjusted and he realized that they were still undiscovered.
Wili slipped his glasses off for a second and saw that the night was still as dark as the back of his hand. He almost smiled; to the glasses, there were shades of absolute black. In the tunnel, the glasses had only their body heat to see by. Outside, even under a thick cloud deck, even in the middle of a rainy night, there must be enough ordinary light for them. This gear was far better than the night scope on Jeremy’s rifle.
Rosas led the extra horse into the light. “Come ahead.” Sergei Nikolayevich slapped the reins, and the cart squeezed slowly through the opening.
Rosas stood in a strange, shadowless landscape, but now the colors in his slicker and face didn’t glow, and Wili could see his features clearly. The bulky glasses made his face unreadable. Wili shinnied down and walked to the center of the open space. All around them the trees hung close. Clouds glowed through occasional openings in the branches. Beyond Rosas, he could see an ordinary-looking path. He turned and looked at the doorway. Living shrubs grew from the cover.
The cart pulled forward until the elder Kaladze was even with the boy. Rosas came back to help the old man down, but the Russian shook his head. “We’ll only be here a few minutes,” he whispered.
His son looked up from some instrument in his lap. “We’re the only man-sized animals nearby, Colonel.”
“Good. Nevertheless, we still have much to do tonight back at home.” For a moment, he sounded tired. “Wili, do you know why we three came the way out here with you?”
“No, sir.” The “sir” came naturally when he talked to the Colonel. Next to Naismith himself, Wili had found more to respect in this man than anyone else. Jonque leaders—and the bosses of the Ndelante Ali—all demanded a respectful manner from their stooges, but old Kaladze actually gave his people something in return.
“Well, son, I wanted to convince you that you are important, and that what you must do is even more important. We didn’t mean insult at the meeting last night; we just know that you are wrong about Mike.” He lifted his hand a couple of centimeters, and Wili stifled the fresh pleading that rose to his lips. “I’m not going to try to convince you that you’re wrong. I know you believe all you say. But even with such disagreement, we still need you desperately. You know that Paul Naismith is the key to all of this. He may be able to crack the secret of the bobbles. He may be able to get us out from under the Authority.”
Wili nodded.
“Paul has told us that he needs you, that without your help his success will be delayed. They’re looking for him, Wili. If they get him before he can help us—well, I don’t think we’ll have a chance. They’ll treat us all like the Tinkers in La Jolla. So. We brought Elmir with us.” He gestured at the mare Rosas had been leading. “Mike says you learned how to ride in LA.”
Wili nodded again. That was an exaggeration; he knew how not to fall off. With the Ndelante Ali, getaways had occasionally been on horseback.
“We want you to return to Paul. We think you can make it from here. The path ahead crosses under Old One-oh-one. You shouldn’t see anyone else unless you stray too far south. There’s a trucker camp down that way.”
For the first time Rosas spoke. “He must really need your help, Wili. The only thing that protects him is his hiding place. If you were captured and forced to talk—”
“I won’t talk,” Wili said and tried not to think of things he had seen happen to uncooperative prisoners in Pasadena.
“With the Authority there would be no choice.”
“So? Is that what happened to you, Jonque Senor? Somehow, I don’t think you planned from the beginning to betray us. What was it? I know you have fallen for the Chinese bitch. Is that what it was?” Wili heard his voice steadily rising. “Your price is so low?”
“Enough!” Kaladze’s voice was not loud but its sharpness cut Wili short. The Colonel struggled off the driving bench to the ground, then bent till his face—eyes still obscured by the night glasses—was even with Wili’s. Somehow, Wili could feel those eyes glaring through the dark plastic lenses.
“If anyone is to be bitter, it should be Sergei Nikolayevich and I, should it not? It is I, not you, who lost a grandson to the Authority bobble. If anyone is to be suspicious it should be I, not you. Mike Rosas saved your life. And I don’t mean simply that he got you back here alive. He got you in and out of those secret labs; seconds either way and it would be all of you left trapped inside. And what you got in there was life itself. I saw you when you left for La Jolla: if you were so sick now, you would be too weak to afford the luxury of this anger.”
That stopped Wili. Kaladze was right, though not about Rosas’ innocence. These last eight days had been so busy, so full of fury and frustration, that he hadn’t fully noticed: In previous summers his condition had always improved. But since he started eating that stuff, the pain had begun leaching away—faster than ever before. Since getting back to the farm, he had been eating with more pl
easure than he had at any time in the last five years.
“Okay. I will help. On a condition.”
Nikolai Sergeivich straightened but said nothing. Wili continued, “The game is lost if the Authority finds Naismith. Mike Rosas and the Lu woman maybe know where he is. If you promise—on your honor—to keep them for ten days away from all outside communication, then it will be worth it to me to do as you say.”
Kaladze didn’t answer immediately. It would be such an easy promise to give, to humor him in his “fantasies,” but Wili knew that if the Russian agreed to this, it would be a promise kept. Finally, “What you ask is very difficult, very inconvenient. It would almost mean locking them up.” He glanced at Rosas.
“Sure. I’m willing.” The traitor spoke quickly, almost eagerly, and Wili wondered what angle he was missing.
“Very well, sir, you have my word.” Kaladze extended a thin, strong hand to shake Wili’s. “Now let us be gone, before twilight herself joins our cozy discussions.”
Sergei and Rosas turned the horse and cart around and carefully erased the marks of their presence. The traitor avoided Wili’s look even as he swung the camouflaged door shut.
And Wili was alone with one small mare in darkest night. All around him the rain splattered just audibly. Despite the slicker, a small ribbon of wet was starting down his back.
Wili hadn’t realized how difficult it was to lead a horse in such absolute dark; Rosas had made it look easy. Of course, Rosas didn’t have to contend with odd branches which—if not bent carefully out of the way—would swipe the animal across the face. He almost lost control of poor Elmir the first time that happened. The path wound around the hills, disappeared entirely at places where the constant rains had enlarged last season’s gullies. Only his visualization of Kaladze’s maps saved him then.
It was at least fifteen kilometers to Old 101, a long, wet walk. Still, he was not really tired, and the pain in his muscles was the healthy feeling of exercise. Even at his best, he had never felt quite so bouncy. He patted the thin satchel nestled against his skin and said a short prayer to the One True God for continued good fortune.