The Eleventh Gate

by Nancy Kress

  “Oh? And how might that happen?” Polite sarcasm and patent disbelief. Always a good tactic: belittle the enemy.

  “But we could. Here and now. The two of us.”

  “No.” Such a simple word to change the destiny of the Peregoy worlds—and for the better. Sloan would be such a better steward of Galt than the Libertarian Landrys, who did nothing—nothing!—for their own people. And even if he didn’t gain Galt, he was not going to be tricked into giving Rachel Landry and her dangerous granddaughter Jane a chance to gain, or destroy, New California.

  He added, “I’m more interested in SueLin than in any Landry scheme to ‘end the war.’”

  “They’re…related.” She was gasping for breath now. “Philip…will tell you.”

  He did, a long fantastic tale of coincidental dates, delusional ability to control gates, mystic nonsense. And Rachel believed all this. So the bomb planter wasn’t the only one who was mentally disturbed; had it been another Landry? There must be bad genes in the family.

  When Anderson finished his ridiculous fandango, Sloan merely shook his head.

  Rachel, who’d swallowed a pill, looked stronger now. She said, “So here’s my offer. You send Philip on a Peregoy ship to the new planet. That’s all you have to do. In return, I’ll bring SueLin to Polyglot and give her to you.”

  “But you are no longer CEO of Freedom Enterprises. You just said so. You don’t have any power.”

  “Doesn’t matter. My granddaughters didn’t capture SueLin. I did, with private resources they don’t know about, and no one else knows where I’m holding her. You have nothing to lose, Sloan.”

  This was true. He would get SueLin back to deal with in his own way, without creating a martyr to her subversive cause. Rachel Landry couldn’t know about the disturbing reports Sophia was sending of conscription refusal among the spoiled younger generation who wanted government care without having to actually defend it. Sloan would get back his rebellious granddaughter so he could properly and publicly disinherit her in favor of Luis Martinez. Meanwhile, this half-cracked, would-be mystic would change nothing at the eleventh gate. Sitting there in his underwear, feeding pills to a feeble old woman, Anderson looked more pathetic than anything else. And the whole fandango would buy Sloan time to deal with the Landry fleet and its new weapons. Also to move critical financial operations to Polyglot. Jane Landry wouldn’t dare attack neutral Polyglot.

  He said, “Before I agree, you will give me the technology for changing retinal patterns, along with SueLin.”

  Philip said, with too much dismay to ever be even a passable negotiator, “But if you get her first, you could just refuse to take me to the new gate. Double-cross us.”

  Sloan ignored him, the ignorant puppy. “Ms. Landry?”

  “I’m going to trust you, Sloan, and give you SueLin first. Not, however, the retinal transplant tech. That’s not on the table. But I’m going to inform the Polyglot Council of Nations about the deal we’re striking, and request that they monitor it. I don’t think you’d like it known to Polyglot businesses that you don’t honor contracts.”

  The puppy could learn from her, even if she was feeble and maybe dying. Sloan said, “Then we have a deal. Mr. Anderson, you leave tonight from Polyglot. Although it will take a fairly long time, since you’ll have to go the long way around, through gates to New California, then New Yosemite, then New Utah, then the long space trip to the new gate—in all, over three months. Freedom Enterprises controls the much quicker Prometheus gate.”

  “Yes,” Rachel said, “and I can’t get a Peregoy ship safe passage through it. But a Polyglot ship can use the gate. You have an alliance here, Sloan. Put it to use. Get Philip on a Polyglot ship to Prometheus and I’ll guarantee safe passage for a three-person scout through the Prometheus gate and then on to the new gate. Do it before my granddaughter Jane gets around to taking that gate away from you, too.

  “To all our peril.”

  23

  * * *

  GALT

  One week. That was the time for the Peregoy vessel carrying Philip Anderson to reach the Polyglot-Prometheus gate, pass through to Prometheus, and then begin the four-week trip into deep space to reach the eleventh gate. Five weeks total, and Rachel could think of nothing else. Which was unfortunate because there was a lot else to think of.

  Three days after she left Polyglot, she still felt weak. However, business did not wait for weakness to pass. Rachel worked from her penthouse apartment in the Landry compound. People came and went. She was no longer CEO, but courtesy reports came in from Annelise and—more important—from Rachel’s private intel networks, unknown to Annelise or Jane. Sometimes it was useful to know what was going on that her granddaughters and Freedom Enterprises VIPs might not wish to share. Between bouts of work, Rachel raised her eyes to the window, watching a storm gather over the plains to the west. High anvil clouds—there would be thunder and lightning.

  “House, open the study window.” All at once she wanted to feel the gathering humidity, the electric tingle in the air. It rushed in, warmer than usual, heavy with coming rain. Rachel breathed deeply. How long since she’d stood outside in a thunderstorm, letting it pelt her, laughing at the sky?

  Years. Decades. She was so old.

  The door said, “Terry Mwambe asking for admittance.”

  “Admit.”

  Mwambe, one of the most trusted people in Rachel’s private network, entered the room. If it was useful to know what things were going on, it was even more useful to have people who could do something about those things.

  “Ma’am,” Mwambe said. He was tall, strong, augmented, with very dark skin and hair dyed bright red. Hardly inconspicuous, but that was intentional. Hide in plain sight.

  Rachel said, “SueLin Peregoy?”

  “Delivered and received on the designated orbital. Operation completed as planned.”

  “Thank you.” Sloan had his granddaughter back, and Philip Anderson was launched on his incomprehensible mission. Rachel dismissed Mwambe and turned to something she could understand, the Freedom Enterprises aggregate quarterly audit.

  She scowled. Something here was not right. The audit flagged huge withdrawals from Caitlin’s personal account, which Caitlin had a right to do, supplemented by smaller, discrete transfers from general operating funds, which she did not. The funds had then been paid to a number of companies, none of which made sense. Rachel summoned her.

  While she waited, she lifted her hair off the back of her neck; air from the open window was so hot. Unusual for Galt, which had such a small axial tilt that it was seasonless, a constant paradise. But even paradise had weather fronts. Rachel didn’t close the window. The garden fragrances were worth the heat and humidity.

  Caitlin arrived and hugged her. “Gran! You’re looking much better.”

  “And you’re a sweet liar.”

  Caitlin grinned. It was an old joke between them: Even as a child, Caity had only lied to make other people feel better, never to save herself from punishment. Rachel looked at her granddaughter with pleasure. Caitlin wore a pale long tunic of some synthetic material so light that it floated with every movement, along with a complicated necklace of pale stones. She looked cool and competent, but without Annelise’s rigidity. She also looked defiant in a Caity sort of way, without belligerence.

  Rachel said, “So what are you building at the university that you haven’t told me about?” The funds had gone to contractors, some of whose companies had not existed a few months ago.

  Caitlin said, “It’s not at the university. It’s at the refugee camp.”

  “So I suspected. Tell me, Caitlin, as you should have done before now.”

  “I don’t have to report how I spend my personal monies.”

  “No. But you’ve transferred funds from Freedom Enterprises.”

  “Yes. I was going to tell you about those, as soon as you got stronger. I didn’t realize you’d recovered so quickly.”

  Rachel hadn’t, but she
knew she looked as if she were more healthy than she actually was. Caitlin leaned forward and put her hand on Rachel’s arm. “Gran, I was making conditions tolerable for the refugees. Basic housing, food, medical care. You didn’t see the conditions at those camps.”

  “The refugees should have stayed on Rand. Millions did, helping the plague-containment effort instead of abandoning it. The refugees made their own choices. They were told that the economy here couldn’t absorb them, but they came anyway.”

  “And mostly sold everything to do that. They were protecting their children!”

  No use to argue with Caitlin about kids. She went soft and mushy over them, and why hadn’t she produced any of her own? Rachel knew the answer: Caitlin was a secret romantic. She’d waited—maybe still was waiting—for the right mate, and he had never appeared.

  Rachel said, “When did all this begin?”

  “Months ago. Two women at one of the camps got so desperate that they threw themselves under a maglev to bring attention to conditions in the camp. They killed themselves.”

  “I remember the propaganda holos. I also remember that a refugee camp held two charity workers hostage and then mysteriously let them go. Did you pay a ransom?”

  “No,” Caitlin said. “That would only encourage more kidnapping. I don’t know what happened there.”

  At least Caitlin’s charity hadn’t overrun her common sense.

  Rachel changed tactics. “All right, you established free services at the refugee camps. That doesn’t account for the enormous sums that went into ‘Dyer Foamcast Contracting,’ which doesn’t exist.”

  “No. I had to create a company that would get past Annelise’s accounting programs, at least for a short while. Dyer Contracting is a shell to buy passage on various small cargo vessels that normally carried trade to and from Polyglot. Since Peregoys captured the gate, many ships are idle. They’re glad of the business.”

  “You’re paying to send the refugees back to Rand. With your own money—and mine—on small cargo vessels.”

  “Jane has commandeered everything that can be retrofitted as warships.” Caitlin’s grasp on Rachel’s arm tightened; her voice vibrated with passion. “Gran, these are our people. They can’t just rot here, away from their homes.”

  “Caitlin, these are individuals who made their own choices, bad or not, and it’s not your job to rescue them.” But Rachel knew her voice lacked conviction.

  Caitlin knew it, too. She stroked her grandmother’s hair. “I’m sorry you found out this way, Gran. I was going to tell you.”

  “After the rescue operation was over.”

  “Well—after it was far enough along to finish up successfully.” Caitlin grinned. She had a fine grin.

  Rachel said, “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t know what, Gran?”

  “Anything.” Philip Anderson. “I don’t know anything at all anymore.”

  “You’re tired. Shall I take you home? Do you want me to call for a gurneybot?”

  “Not that tired. I’m just going to take a nap on that sofa.”

  Caitlin could take a hint. She left, kissing her grandmother tenderly. The light material floated around her young body. Young? Yes, thirty-five was still young. Ninety-six was not.

  Rachel lay on the sofa. Beyond the window, the sky at the horizon had whitened to the color of bone, the clouds were piled even higher, but the storm hadn’t broken.

  Not yet, Rachel thought. Not quite yet.

  24

  * * *

  THE ELEVENTH GATE

  Martinez, fortunately, was already on the bridge when his farside scout emerged from the gate, emitting the prearranged Peregoy signal. The scout pilot commed his alert: “Polyglot vessel approaching the gate! Coming from Prometheus gate. Class 6A ship.”

  A small Polyglot vessel? Neutral Polyglot, and coming from Prometheus? The loss of the Prometheus gate to the Landrys still stung. He said, “Approach distance?”

  The scout pilot gave it: thirty hours out. Martinez had two scouts and three unmanned probes on the space side of the eleventh gate. The second scout would already be moving toward New Utah, away from any danger. Was Polyglot now in alliance with the Landrys?

  There was nothing to do but wait. Surprise was his only advantage. Possibly the Landry vessel didn’t know Martinez was here. He could hit the ship as it came through the gate, before it had a chance to assess the Skyhawk’s position and deploy its new long-range weapon, if it had one. Could the new weapon even be fitted onto a small vessel rather than a warship? Martinez didn’t know but was taking no chances. His orders were to allow through the gate nothing but Peregoy vessels emitting the coded signal. He watched the exec’s instruments, trained on the delicate shimmer of the stargate.

  Thirty hours later, a drone emerged and was immediately vaporized—but not before the Skyhawk had detected the Peregoy signal.

  The artillery officer burst out with, “What the hell!”

  Indeed. Had the Landrys cracked the signal? It was changed every day, based on a randomly generated program known to only Martinez and Peregoy headquarters. Had New California been taken by the Landrys? Was this the end of the war, and Peregoy Corporation the loser?

  Or…

  The drone had not been able to send position data back through the gate. Whoever sent it couldn’t know the drone had just been destroyed. Martinez still had the advantage of surprise.

  “Mr. Conway,” he said to the artillery officer, “if anything else comes through the gate, delay firing for two seconds. If it emits the signal, delay until I give the order to fire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A minute passed. Two. A ship emerged from the gate, a Polyglot craft emitting the Peregoy signal.

  “Don’t fire!” a woman’s voice cried on all-frequency broadcast. “This vessel is not armed! We come from Sloan Peregoy!”

  DiCaria looked at Martinez; the exec clearly thought it was a Landry trick. But DiCaria didn’t know everything.

  Martinez snapped, “Give verbal classified code!”

  The voice said, “Wolves hunted at night.”

  Correct. What was Sloan doing? Why send a Polyglot vessel? The only possible reason was to arrive here faster than any ship coming from New Utah; a Polyglot scout might get permission to use the Prometheus gate. But why would the Landrys grant that? Martinez said, “Hold fire. Vessel, use visuals. Identify self and intentions.”

  A wallscreen brightened, showing the bridge of the small ship. A pilot in the uniform of the pathetic Polyglot space fleet. Two Polyglot crew. A man in civilian tunic, whom Martinez had never seen before.

  Before the pilot could reply, the civilian said, “I’m Philip Anderson. I’m here on a…a special mission authorized by Sloan Peregoy. I have a data packet for your eyes only, Captain Martinez. This vessel carries no weapons at all. I don’t know if you have the means to verify that without boarding us.”

  Martinez didn’t. “Send your retinal scan and those of everyone else aboard.”

  “There are only we four.” Each of them leaned into a retinal scanner, which beamed the intel to the Skyhawk. The computer identified the three crew; Polyglot shared spacer information with all Eight worlds. The civilian, Philip Anderson, was not in the database.

  Martinez said, “Why are you arriving on a Polyglot vessel from Prometheus?”

  “It was faster,” Anderson said. “Rachel Landry and Sloan Peregoy agreed to cooperate on sending me here, which is why this ship has the Peregoy signal but comes from Landry-occupied Prometheus. Look, Captain Martinez, I know that sounds suspicious. Why would Rachel Landry and Sloan Peregoy cooperate on anything, and how did they do that? Please allow me to send you Director Peregoy’s data. He says you have the code to break the encryption. He also said to advance the gate code to the next iteration because now it has been compromised.”

  Martinez scowled; that had already been done. He didn’t need this civilian enigma to tell him his business. “Send data now. Hold posit
ion until I order otherwise.”

  “Holding position, sir,” the Polyglot pilot said. She, at least, understood military procedures.

  The data arrived. Martinez read it on his wrister. Read it again.

  His orders came authentically from Sloan Peregoy. What the hell was the old man thinking? But the orders were clear, and Martinez had no choice but to follow them.

  To DiCaria he said, “Dispatch a team to rendezvous with the Polyglot vessel, board, verify absence of weapons, and bring Philip Anderson aboard the Skyhawk. Include Dr. Glynn—she will perform full bioscans and complete body search on Anderson. Only when she’s satisfied can anyone on the team return to the Skyhawk. Anderson is to arrive here with nothing, including clothing. If he refuses, the scout is not to board and will return without him and await further orders.”

  From his face, Martinez knew that DiCaria understood what he wasn’t saying. Even naked and biosearched, Philip Anderson could be a carrier, witting or unwitting, of some new biowarfare pathogen. Martinez was doing what he could to minimize the risk, although risk remained. But Martinez had his orders.

  “Yes, sir,” DiCaria said.

  • • •

  Anderson didn’t refuse. The Polyglot vessel carried no weapons at all. After Anderson boarded the Skyhawk, the small Polyglot ship was allowed to hover by the gate. If it moved too close to the gate, the Skyhawk would shoot it down. If a Landry warship came through, maybe a Polyglot vessel would confuse them. Certainly it had confused Martinez.

  An hour after Anderson arrived on the Skyhawk, when Martinez had learned his story, Anderson left again. A Skyhawk scout carried him, clothed in a bulky s-suit of the kind used for research on inhospitable moons, for his insane trip downstairs. Martinez was not trusting the Polyglot ship to go down to the surface of the planet that Martinez had orders to guard.

  The cloud cover was as dense as Martinez had ever seen it; he would know only what the scout and Anderson showed him. The s-suit held ten hours of air-conversion microbes. Anderson would have to return to the shuttle before that. If he lived so long.