To complicate matters more, the majority of the probabilities, except for the propaganda negatives associated with the use of nuclear warheads, indicated that the actions attributed to Gerswin and his range of aliases supported, or apparently did not harm, the Empire. Virtually all were politically popular.
Eye frowned without moving his head. His instincts told him a different story. Gerswin was not out to harm the Empire, at least not in the short tun, but the man jumpshifted under different stars. If you could call him a man. He also appeared to be one of the handful of known biological immortals. How long Gerswin could retain function or sanity was another question.
Selern took a slow and deep breath, touched the screen, and scripted a compromise.
Should Gerswin himself, under his own identity, dock in Imperial facilities or main systems territory, he would be detained and restrained for a full investigation.
Eye smiled wryly. Gerswin might well escape, but that would provide proof of sorts, and no one had ever escaped the full might of the Empire, even with the equivalent of a small warship.
Besides, he needed to report some action to the Emperor.
XIX
Gerswin studied the readouts on the data screen. The snooper he had left in orbit just beyond the Terminia had relayed the latest.
The EDI twitches indicated that the Terminia was being readied for orbit-out, probably as soon as a shuttle from Haldane arrived.
“Relay indicated approach to target.” The AI’s voice was as impersonally feminine as ever.
“Characteristics of object approaching target?”
“Object indicated as armed shuttle, class three. Characteristics and energy signature match within point nine probability.”
“Stet. As soon as object departs target proximity, deploy full shields.”
“Stet.”
Gerswin took a sip from the open-topped glass of water, then swallowed the remainder of the water before standing up and heading into the fresher section to relieve himself.
The next few hours were going to be interesting, more than interesting, to say the least.
Gerswin had strapped into the accel/decel shell couch and was wondering if the Terminia would ever depart.
“Terminia, clearing orbit.” The transmission was on the orbit control band.
“Happy jumps, Terminia.”
“Shields up,” announced the AI. “Target vector tentatively set at zero seven zero Haldane relative, plus three point nine.”
“Close to within one hundred kays, same heading.”
“Closing to one hundred kays. Estimate reaching closure point in five standard minutes.”
The two-gee surge in acceleration pressed Gerswin back into the shell.
He touched the console and reviewed the numbers again, pursing his lips. The maneuver should work.
At times such as these, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to have added offensive weapons to the Caroljoy. Probably no one would have discovered them, not the way he had operated, but the penalty risks were too high for the benefits.
Privately owned and armed jumpships were one thing the Empire was deadly serious about. So serious that entire Service squadrons had been deployed for years to track a single pirate. Since ship and jump costs were so high to begin with, and since the energy costs of avoiding the Service made any commercial piracy infeasible, and since the I.S.S. hadn’t had that much to do since the mistake known as the Dismorph Conflict, there weren’t any pirates. Not that lasted long.
Gerswin sighed as he waited.
While he had once “borrowed” the Duke of Triandna’s yacht, with the help of the Duchess, that woman who he had known only as Caroljoy on a single warm night until long afterward, he had not considered himself a pirate. After all, he had only been carrying out the Emperor’s promises. Even if the Emperor hadn’t really wanted to supply those arcdozers for the reclamation on Old Earth. Even if the dozers had only been to buy time for the devilkids as they struggled to reestablish a foothold on Old Earth. Even if they were all dead or dying by now. Even if…
He shook his head violently. He needed to finish the business at hand. The sooner he could get it over with the better.
“Change heading to parallel target at distance of one thousand kays.”
“Changing heading.”
Gerswin waited until the readouts indicated the return to a parallel course.
His ringers began the rough computations that he could have left to the ship’s AI.
“In one standard minute, commence maximum acceleration with internal gee force not to exceed five point five gees. Maintain for point five standard hour.”
“Stet. Maximum acceleration possible with internal gee force not to exceed five point five gees. Will maintain for point five standard hour.”
Gerswin waited for the force to press him back into the control shell, almost welcoming the physical pressure as a test with set and understandable limits.
“Commencing acceleration.”
“Stet.”
Test or no test, by the time the half hour ended, Gerswin felt sore all over.
“Stop acceleration. Maintain internal gee field at one standard gravity. Maneuver the ship back at full acceleration along target course line. Suggest forty-five-degree heading change for two minutes, followed by a reverse two-hundred-twenty-five-degree sweep turn.”
“Recommend Kirnard turn.”
“Proceed Kirnard turn,” Gerswin affirmed. Damned AI! That was what he had wanted to begin with.
He wanted to come back in on the reciprocal course with as much velocity as possible. His generators would take at least twice the strain as those of the Terminia, perhaps more, since the other yacht was reputed to be filled with luxuries, and luxuries meant energy diversions.
“Interrogative closure time.”
“Time to CPA estimated at point two five standard hour.”
“EDI lock?”
“Negative on EDI lock. EDI trace available.”
“Time to intercept?”
“Inquiry imprecise.”
Gerswin frowned. Damned AI! He wondered if the AI had a sense of self-preservation.
“Interrogative. Are we confirmed on head-on-head reciprocal courses?”
“That is negative.”
Gerswin sighed.
“Change course to maintain reciprocal courses. I want a head-on-head intercept.”
“Probability of physical contact exceeds point zero zero five.”
“I suspect so. Interrogative time to intercept.”
“Point one five stans.”
Gerswin waited, confirmed the AI verbal reports with the actual data on his own screen.
“Probability of physical contact exceeds point zero one.”
“You may make any course changes necessary to maximize survival and minimize contact after screen contact.”
“Stet. You are relinquishing control to AI?”
“That is negative. Negative. Allowing emergency override after screen contact to avoid physical impact.”
“Stet. Override only after screen contact.”
“Only after defense screen impact,” Gerswin corrected.
“After defense screen impact,” parroted the AI.
Gerswin could feel the sweat seeping out of his palms as he tightened his harness and leaned back in the shell couch.
He checked the fingertip controls, checked and waited.
“Time to contact?”
“Point zero five.”
Gerswin wanted to wipe his forehead.
“Divert all power to defense screens. Minimal gee force.”
“Diverting all power.”
The control-room lights dropped to emergency levels, and the whisper of the recirculators dropped to nothing. Gerswin felt light in the shell as the internal gees dropped to roughly point one as the power from the gravfield generators was poured into the defense screens.
“Target commencing course change.”
�
��Match it. Continue head-on-head intercept.”
“Probability of physical impact approaching point one without course change.”
“Understood. Maintain intercept course until full defense screen impact.”
A drop of sweat lingered in Gerswin’s left eyebrow, tickling, but refusing to drop. He wrinkled his brows, but did not move.
“Screen impact.”
Whhhrrrrrr!
Gerswin was thrown sideways in his harness for an instant.
The lights flickered, then came back up to normal levels.
“Course alteration in progress.”
“Turn it into another Kirnard turn.”
“Stet. Converting to Kirnard turn.”
“Status report.”
“Number two main screen generator is down. All other systems functioning within normal parameters.”
“Interrogative target status.”
“Target has stopped acceleration. Negative screens. Negative EDI track.”
“Interrogative turn status.”
“Completing Kirnard turn.”
“Fly by target. Drop torp probe for confirmation of target status.”
“Stet. Full instrumentation check with torp probe. Note. Torp probe is last probe.”
“Understand last probe. Reload on Aswan.”
Gerswin finally wiped his soaking forehead.
The impact of the Caroljoy’s heavy screens should have blown every screen generator in the Terminia. Milliseconds later, the Caroljoy’s screens would have impacted the Terminia itself, with enough of a concussive impact to fragment everyone and everything within the hull.
That had been the theory. The torp probe would either confirm or deny the results. Too bad the Caroljay’s only operating launch tubes were limited to message torps or their smaller equivalents. But he’d been through that debate with himself before. Probably better that he had no easy way to launch the remaining tacheads and hellburn-ers. Then again, the thirteen remaining nuclear devices would probably outlast both Gerswin and the Caroljoy. After El Lido, and the expression on Rodire’s face, he had no desire to launch mass death again, even in support of the greater life his biologic efforts represented.
As he was coming to appreciate, the best use of force was on a wide and diffuse scale. The Empire found it easy enough to recognize direct threats, but not those without an overt focus, such as the changes in society that his biologic innovations were beginning to bring.
No…the tacheads and hellburners represented the past, and best they remain in the past and unused in the future.
He pulled at his chin as he straightened in the control couch and returned his full attention to the display screens before him.
“Probe away.”
“Stet.”
Gerswin remained flat in the shell, just in case something went wrong.
He could see the end of the road ahead. Before too long, even the slow-moving Empire would begin to put the pieces together, to understand what he was attempting. Soon, all too soon, it would be time to fold his tent before they understood the implications or traced his real purposes back to Old Earth.
“Just what are your real purposes?” he asked himself in a low voice.
“Query not understood.”
That makes two of us.”
He waited for the report from the torp readouts.
“Probe results. Negative screens. Negative EDI traces. Free atmosphere dispersing from target hull. Heat radiation unchecked and dropping.”
Gerswin took a deep breath. End of Baron Megalrie. End of Terminia. Beginning of end for Gerswin’s Imperial activities.
“Stet. Can you recover probe?”
“Negative.”
“Set course to nearest early jump point. Full screens available. One gee.”
“Understand fullest possible screens. One gee course to early jump point. Estimate arrival in one point one.”
“Understood.”
Gerswin unstrapped himself and swung out of the shell. While the system energy monitors would doubtless pick up the energy burst created by the screen collision, no one was going to find the dead hulk of the Terminia, not at the tangent created by the collision. Gerswin shook his head, not wanting to dwell on the yacht’s crew, not wanting to think about the ever-mounting implications, not wanting to think about the decisions lying in wait ahead.
The peaceful years were over, assuming they had ever been. Assuming that such peace had not been a recently acquired personal illusion.
The disappearance of the baron would be linked to Gerswin, as would all the other probabilities for which there was little or no proof.
He sighed.
Commodore MacGregor Corson Gerswin could never appear again in Imperial territory, at least not under his own name. And it wasn’t likely to be long before all of his other identities would also be targeted, assuming that the baron’s efforts had not meant that he was already under indirect Imperial attack.
No, the peaceful years were over, for a long time to come, if not forever.
XX
Despite the silence in the kitchen, Professor Stilchio looked from side to side, cleared his throat, finally touched the light plate and brought the illumination up to full.
He coughed.
In the corner next to the preservator was a shadow, an odd shadow. He tried to look at it, but his eyes did not want to focus.
A certain dizziness settled upon him, and he put his right hand out to the counter to steady himself.
“Professor.” The address came from the shadow he saw and could not see.
The academic cleared his throat again, but said nothing.
“Professor, you might look at the folder on the counter.”
Stilchio refused to look down, hoping the shadow might disappear. Slightly intoxicated on good old wine he might be, but shadows did not talk.
His right hand groped for more support and brushed something that slid on the smooth tiles.
In spite of his resolve, he looked down. By his right hand was an oblong folder.
“That folder contains an excellent short paper on the social implications of mass agriculture and its use in controlling populations and supporting centralized governments.”
“So…what…,” stuttered the professor, still trying to steady himself.
“It strikes us that it would be an excellent piece for the eccentricities section of the Forum.”
“I’m not…not exactly…approached…this way.”
“You have never published a single paper or article that suggested anything wrong with centralized agriculture or of government control of the food supply.”
“Who would help the poor?”
The government. If they are so interested in the poor, let them buy food for the poor. Better yet, let the governments stop blocking new biologic techniques that would let the poor feed themselves.”
“But—”
“Professor, time is short for you.”
Thunk!
Stilchio turned his head to gape at the heavy knife buried in the cabinet door by his head. His hand reached, then drew back as he saw the double-bladed edge, the mark, he feared, of the professional.
“You have been asked to do nothing which is not in keeping with your publicly professed ethics, nor which would in any way personally endanger you. The credentials of the writer are adequate, to say the least, and certified in blood. If this article is not published in the edition being released next week, the following edition will carry your obituary.
“You have a choice. Live up to your publicly quoted beliefs in free expression of ideas or die because you were a hypocrite at heart.”
“The police…”
“Can do nothing, nor will they. Would you care to explain that while you were drinking, you were threatened for hypocrisy? Would anyone really ever believe you?
“Read the paper in the folder. You will discover no incendiary rhetoric, just facts, figures, and a few mild speculations. Tell anyone you were
threatened over such a scholarly paper, particularly by this author, and they might lock you away or relieve you of your duties for senility or mental deterioration.
“Good night, Professor. We look forward to the next edition of the Forum.”
Stilchio stood absolutely still as a black shadow walked up to him and withdrew the knife, effortlessly, from the wood of the cabinet. Then, just as soundlessly, the shadow was gone through the archway and toward the front portal.
Finally, the kitchen was silent, the loudest sound the beating of the graying professor’s heart.
His hands explored the wedge cut in the wood. His eyes glanced at the folder, then back at the cut, then toward the closed portal.
He walked, slow step by slow step, toward the dispenser, where he filled a goblet with ice water, where he stood, sipping at the chill water whose temperature matched the chill in his heart.
With a sigh, he edged back toward the folder on the counter, from which he extracted the short article. Studying the title page for a long moment, he sighed again. Then he turned to the first page of text.
He had hoped that the proposed article would have proved poorly written, propagandistic, or threatening. He doubted it was. He recognized the author, who was, unfortunately, deceased. Deceased, it was rumored, at the hands of the Barcelon government.
Another sigh escaped him as he turned to the second page.
His eyes darted back to the wedge-shaped cut in the cabinet, as if to wish the mark would disappear. It did not.
He looked back at the brown tiles of the floor.
Too old, he was too old to refuse to publish such an article. It was well written. While he disagreed with the conclusions, to publish it would only bring praise from his critics and allow him to claim impartiality. Not to publish it…he shivered, recalling the pleasant tone of the professional who had visited so recently.
Too old—he was too old to be a martyr, not when it would serve no purpose, not when no one would understand why.
He shook his head as he shuffled toward the console in his study.
XXI
The Forever Hero Page 69