The Space Opera Megapack

by John W. Campbell

  Vron’s cabin door opened to her palm, but Vron wasn’t there. She had never been in the Arcadian’s quarters before. They were starkly simple—nothing for wings to knock over or get caught on. The only personal touch was a startling one: the entire back wall was one huge mirror. Then she realized, at least partially, the kind of claustrophobia a man born to fly must feel within the confines of a starship.

  As she entered the main area, an angry buzzing arose from off to her right. Startled, she turned to see a glass case full of swarming, insect-like creatures. Definitely not the kind of pets she would want!

  Stepping to the desk, she was about to use the intercom to locate Vron when her eye fell on a pile of printouts. The top sheet showed the same two orbits she had gotten from the computer only minutes before. She leafed through them: Vron had recorded her investigation! Not only that; he had made permanent copies.

  Why? Did he distrust her?

  Or…was Vron the murderer? He, after all, had become Captain through Bill’s death. He had the ability to program the computer to kill. Had he asked for her help to divert suspicion?

  Had Vron expected to be the only survivor of the power failure? What was the Arcadian rate of oxygen consumption? She was about to ask the computer when the door opened and Vron swept in. “Lyria! I got a call that you were injured, and then when I got there—”

  “I’ll bet!” she said angrily. “Don’t bother to lie, Vron. What’ve you been doing—planting more evidence against Ian MacGregor or Edgar Wolfe? You don’t have to kill anyone else—you’ve got the Captaincy.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Are you going to kill me? That would be pretty hard to explain, wouldn’t it? Right here in your own cabin?”

  “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what makes you think I would want to kill you?”

  For the first time, Lyria found herself able to read the Arcadian’s tone of voice: enforced calm over bewildered hurt. It stopped her panicked tirade, and she began to think more calmly—but remained on her feet.

  “You were spying on me.” She gestured at the printouts. “You know I’ve found out Bill was murdered. You anticipated that someone would find it out, so you arranged to divert suspicion with this morning’s power failure. Did you arrange for Wolfe to be late?”

  “He was delayed by Ms. Hardin, from Engineering.”

  “And you expected him to arrive too late to save the rest of us?”

  “Ms. Melladin…had you died, I would have died also. In fact, my rate of oxygen consumption is higher than yours.”

  “But you could have taken MacGregor’s oxygen capsule. Is that what was happening when the lights came on? Did you mean to take it from him?”

  “How would I have known that he had such a capsule?”

  “It’s in his medical records. Besides—you’re a telepath.”

  “Mr. Benrum is a telepath. In an emergency, he would drop his shields. He would be obligated to report any such act on my part.”

  “Oh. I suppose that’s right. Um. Maybe you can fool another telepath, though. Or else you had Wolfe delayed only long enough to turn suspicion against him. He does have the computer knowledge—”

  “Ms. Melladin…are you ready to hear the truth now?”

  “I’m ready to hear your side of the story.”

  “I did not kill Captain Reading. Until you discovered the evidence, I did not know he had been murdered. I activated my console simply to locate you, and your program came up on my screen. I soon realized what you had found—and made permanent copies that cannot be erased through the ship’s system.”

  “You keyed for me and got my program? That shouldn’t happen.”

  “The privacy safeties have obviously been tampered with.”

  Lyria shook her head. “There was no warning that someone was logging in, either. Changing the security programming is a long, delicate job. Someone planned this murder very carefully.”

  “That someone has now jammed the computer circuits,” said Vron. “Forgive me—I assumed that you were emotionally upset, and forgot to set privacy. I thought you jammed the circuits after discovering that I was recording your program. So I started for the board room—but Ms. Hardin called to say you had left there, and been injured.”

  “Hardin? I don’t understand. She saw me leave the board room. Now why—?”

  “She sent me in a different direction so that we would not meet. That gave her time to destroy the evidence before you could show me. When I didn’t find you, I went to the board room and found it sealed for cleaning.”

  Lyria said, “I set it to refuse all such orders before I left. We are dealing with someone with a high level of computer skill.”

  “If the motive were promotion,” said Vron, “Wolfe, MacGregor, and I theoretical-ly had such motive. Only Wolfe or I might be able to override the computer’s defaults. Where does Jennifer Hardin fit in?”

  “I hardly know her,” said Lyria. “She’s an engineer. Her programming skills are good enough to hack into the restricted areas of the ship’s library. Let’s check her record.”

  “The console is jammed,” Vron reminded her.

  “Its software is. Let’s try a hardware solution. Where are your tools?”

  Vron had his hand on a drawer handle when the door slid open and Edgar Wolfe said, “Hold it right there!”

  Lyria turned. Wolfe, MacGregor, and Hardin all held hand weapons trained on Vron and Lyria.

  “We know what you’ve done,” said MacGregor, his voice shaking. “You two killed Captain Reading, and today you tried to kill me, and make it look like Ed did it.”

  Lyria suddenly knew where Hardin fit in. “It wasn’t your idea, was it, Ian?” she said gently.

  “What do you mean? It was your idea. You and that BEM kill off the Captain, then me, stick Ed here with the murder charge, and take over the ship!”

  “Vron and I would have died in the board room today,” said Lyria. “We have to breathe, too.”

  MacGregor groped for an answer. “You know about my lung problem. They’ve used it as an excuse not to promote me for the past five years. I’d have gone first. If Ed hadn’t been delayed, you would have been unconscious by the time we were rescued—but I’d have been dead.”

  “This is a very strange story,” said Vron. “Mr. Wolfe, when did you find out about this supposed conspiracy between Ms. Melladin and me?”

  “Just now. Jenny told me.”

  “Can you truly believe that Ms. Melladin could have arranged Captain Reading’s death?”

  A frown crossed Wolfe’s even features. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but—”

  “I heard you fighting,” said Hardin to Lyria. “He was going to fire you—so you came to Vron, and planned the whole thing so you could go on being Secretary.”

  Lyria said with sarcastic admiration, “You are really good at spinning lies—a new story for every occasion. What did you tell Ian? I can’t believe he wanted to murder Bill. Ian, look at the way she lies. How could you trust her?”

  “Mr. Wolfe,” asked Vron, “who prevented you from getting to the meeting today?”

  “Jenny did.”

  “And she was very insistent about it?”

  “How did you—? Are you reading my mind?”

  “No,” replied Vron. “But think—you were not supposed to arrive in time to rescue us. The alert mechanism blew with the power—how likely is that? No one was supposed to know until we were all dead. If Ms. Melladin and I had planned it, then Ms. Hardin must have been in conspiracy with us.”

  “Your lies are starting to trip you up, Jenny,” said Lyria. “You convinced MacGregor you’d get him the Captaincy—but how long would he have it before you would be working on Ed Wolfe?” She turned to MacGregor. “Ian—she’s young and ambitious. What would she get from your two or three years as Captain before you retired? Did you promise to make her your Secretary? How could you trust her after she got that position through conspiracy and murder?”
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  “Wait a minute!” said Wolfe. “Every-body’s accusing everybody else. I don’t know what to believe. Ian, Jenny, give me your weapons.”

  “Are you crazy?” demanded Hardin.

  “No—I just want all four of you placed under security while I conduct an investigation.”

  “How do we know we can trust you?” she retorted. “You’re next in line for Captain. You were the one who falsified Captain Reading’s shuttle orbit!”

  “Jenny.” Ian MacGregor spoke slowly, painfully. “Jenny, what are you? I trusted you. I didn’t know you were going to do murder and blame innocent people!”

  “Shut up, Ian!”

  “No. I can’t stand any more.” Tears slid down his face. “I’ve been a fool. Jenny came to me weeks ago, telling me I ought to be Captain. A young woman flattering an old man. I enjoyed it. She made me promise to make her my Secretary if I ever got my own Ship.” He choked. “It was a game. All in fun.”

  “And then Captain Reading died,” said Vron.

  “I thought it was an accident!” said MacGregor, his eyes pleading.

  “No!” cried Hardin. There was a click as she adjusted her weapon. Wolfe, beside her, saw the red “kill” setting light and grabbed for her arm.

  She became a wildcat. Struggling with her, Wolfe could not fire his own weapon—and then hers fired, hitting MacGregor’s right arm. He screamed and dropped his weapon as he fell, clutching burnt flesh.

  Lyria ducked after MacGregor’s weapon as it skittered across the floor, planning to stun Hardin—Wolfe too, if necessary. But Hardin would kill if she wasn’t stopped.

  Lyria groped for the weapon. Hardin fired again. Sparks sputtered as the shot burned away part of the wall.

  The tank full of swarming insects set up a loud buzz. Hardin swung to see what it was, and Wolfe caught her gun arm, twisting it behind her back and wrenching the weapon away from her.

  Vron bent over MacGregor. “He’s alive. Call the medics.”

  Though the computer was still jammed, the intercom worked. Lyria called for security and a medical team, then turned back to the four figures by the door. Wolfe was holding Hardin, looking stunned. “I still don’t know who did what.”

  “It’s all here, Ed,” said Lyria, picking up the sheaf of printouts.

  “No!” gasped Hardin.

  “Yes, Ms. Hardin—when you removed the privacy safeties you made it possible for Vron to record the evidence without either of us knowing it. Even if we find the program erased when we unjam the computer, we’ve got the printout, Ed—read it. Then you’ll have the whole story.”

  “She,” Wolfe shook Hardin, “she was going to kill you all today! And then go to work on me, I suppose!”

  “Eventually,” Lyria agreed. “But Ian would have survived today. The oxygen capsule he had with him at the board meeting is what led me to investigate further.”

  She looked at the crumpled form on the floor. MacGregor would probably lose his right arm. His involvement in murder and attempted murder would mean the end of his career. She could almost feel sorry for him, except—

  Lyria fought down tears. The medical and security teams took MacGregor and Hardin away. Wolfe took the sheaf of printouts. “I’ll study these. Uh, you trust me with them? I’m not sure who to trust anymore!”

  Vron said, “We must learn to trust one another again, Mr. Wolfe. If you can unjam a terminal, you might make certified copies, just in case. We will have a hearing at eight hundred hours tomorrow, and send the results to the Board of Directors.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  When everyone else had gone, Lyria started to leave, too. Vron said, “Ms. Melladin—”

  Her control was eroding. “Please,” she whispered, “I must go—” Her tears broke through her control. All her grief over Bill’s death, held under numb disbelief for days, overcame her now. She stumbled toward the door. Vron blocked her way. “Let me go. I don’t want you to see—”

  “That you cared about Bill? I knew that. You must express your sorrow, Lyria, but not out there where the crew can see you. Come, sit down.”

  He led her to the bed, and pulled up his specially constructed chair beside it. Lyria’s sobs came from the bottom of her soul. Vron handed her tissues, and sat down—watching her, she somehow understood, with sympathy rather than curiosity.

  All the burden of her grief poured forth. Bill’s death became a reality, as did the fact that she must live on without him. Such a senseless death—killed by a crazed young woman seeking advancement for herself and entangling a foolish old man in her plot. It was all so stupid!

  When she had worn out the storm of her grief, she did not allow herself the luxury of crying for the sake of crying. With a few hard swallows, she dried her eyes, and returned to the knowledge that she was in Vron’s cabin as she saw suspended over the bed a heavy wooden pole covered with claw marks. She remembered hearing that Arcadians rested by hanging from tree branches—

  Her new Captain was alien indeed, but not unfeeling, she realized as she sat up and dried her eyes. “I’m all right now. May I wash my face before I leave?”

  “Of course.”

  When she came out of the lavatory, Vron was saying into the intercom, “I shall be in cargo hold seventeen. Do not disturb me except in case of emergency.”

  Hold seventeen was immense—and empty right now, Lyria recalled. Although she suspected the answer, she had to ask, “What are you going to do in the cargo hold?”

  “I, too, cared about Bill Reading,” he replied. “He was my friend; I feel sorrow at his death. My outlet for grief is different from yours, Lyria. At this time, I must fly.”

  She managed a watery smile. “And you can fly in zero gee in the cargo hold. Go, then. I’m sorry I kept you.”

  “No…you needed your release. We must understand such things about one another if we are to work together.”

  “Yes,” agreed Lyria. “We can learn, I know. Go, now, and find your release. The Venture will be waiting for you when you return.”

  TULAN, by C.C. MacApp

  While facing the Council of Four his restraint had not slipped; but afterward, shaking with fury, the Admiral of the Fleets of Sennech slammed halfway down the long flight of stone steps before he realized someone was at his elbow. He slowed. “Forgive me, Jezef. They made me so mad I forgot you were waiting.”

  Jezef (adjutant through most of Tulan’s career, and for some years brother-in-law as well) was shorter and less harshly carved than his superior. “So they wouldn’t listen to you. Not even Grefen?”

  “Even Grefen.” That vote had stabbed deepest of all.

  Jezef took it with the detachment that still irritated Tulan. “The end of a hundred years of dreams; and we go back under the yoke. Well, they’ve always been soft masters.”

  They reached the ground cars. Before getting into his own Tulan said coldly, “Since you’re so philosophical about it, you’ll be a good one to bear the sight of men saying good-bye to their families. We’re to take full crews to Coar and surrender them with the ships. Requisition what help you need and get everybody aboard by noon tomorrow.”

  Jezef saluted with a hint of amused irony, and left.

  * * * *

  Whipping through the dark icy streets, Tulan smiled sourly, thinking how Sennech’s scientists had reversed themselves on the theory of hyperspace now that Coar had demonstrated its existence. Maybe the Council was right in mistrusting their current notions. As for himself, he saw only two things to consider: that with Coar swinging behind the sun, the accuracy of her new weapon had gone to pot; and that before she was clear again he could pound her into surrender.

  His swift campaigns had already smashed her flabby fleets and driven the remnants from space, but the Council, faced with the destruction and casualties from just a few days of the weird surprise bombardment, was cowed.

  He’d spent the previous night at home, but wasn’t going back now, having decided to make his farewell by visiphone. It wa
s the thing he dreaded most, or most immediately, so as soon as he reached the flagship he went to his quarters to get it over with.

  Anatu’s eyes—the same eyes as Jezef’s—looked at him out of the screen, filling him with the familiar awkward worship. “You’ve heard?” he asked finally.

  “Yes. You won’t be home before you go?”

  “No; I…” He abandoned the lie he’d prepared. “I just didn’t feel up to it.”

  She accepted that. “I’ll wake the boys.”

  “No! It’s—” Something happened to his throat.

  She watched him for a moment. “You won’t be back from Coar. You’ve got to speak to them.”

  He nodded. This wasn’t going according to plan; he’d intended it to be brief and controlled. Damn it, he told himself, I’m Admiral of the Fleets; I’ve no right to feelings like this. He straightened, and knew he looked right when the two sleepy stares occupied the screen.

  Their hair was stiff and stubborn like his own, so that they wore it cropped in the same military cut. It could have stood a brush right now. They were quiet, knowing enough of what was wrong to be frightened.

  He spoke carefully. “I’m going to Coar to talk to them about stopping the war. I want you to look after things while I’m away. All right?”

  “All right, Dad.” The older one was putting on a brave front for the benefit of the younger and his mother, but the tears showed.

  As Tulan cut the connection he saw that Anatu’s eyes were moist too, and realized with surprise that he’d never before, in all the years, seen her cry. He watched the last faint images fade from the screen.

  * * * *

  Sometime near dawn he gave up trying to sleep, dressed, and began composing orders. Presently Jezef came in with cups of steaming amber liquid. They sipped in silence for a while, then Jezef asked “You’ve heard about Grefen?”

  Tulan felt something knot inside him. He shook his head, dreading what he knew was coming.

  “He killed himself last night,” Jezef said.

  Tulan remembered the agony in the old Minister of War’s eyes when he’d voted for surrender. Grefen had been Admiral in his day; the prototype of integrity and a swift sledgehammer in a fight; and Tulan’s first combat had been under him. A symbol of the Fleet, Tulan reflected; and his death, yes, that too was a symbol—what was there but shame in surrender, for a man or a fleet or a world?