The Eleventh Gate

by Nancy Kress

  Oh. Rachel made her face impassive. This could only be one of two things: the retinal transplant program or SueLin Peregoy. No, probably not SueLin; Caitlin had never cultivated an intel network like the other girls, or like Rachel herself.

  “Rachel—” no Gran now “—you’ve been running a secret off-campus facility—in connection with my university—that has developed retinal transplant to evade security scanners.”

  Annelise said, “What?”

  “And you had the surgery yourself.”

  Rachel said calmly, “Yes. For very good reasons. I suppose Julie Hampden told you.”

  Annelise said, “Wait. You didn’t tell me?”

  Caitlin said, “She didn’t tell anyone. When Jane discovers this…You think you can control it, but that’s not how science works. Word will spread, and others will exploit it. Peregoy scientists, rogue doctors, protestors, anyone with either expertise or money to hire expertise. The genie never goes back into the bottle, and no one’s security system will be safe, just as happened when fingerprint transplants took hold.”

  “I know,” Rachel said. “That’s why I have people working on new security systems involving brain scans. Hard to transplant brains.”

  Annelise was still stuck on grandmotherly betrayal. “You didn’t tell me?”

  “I would have, dear heart. Soon. I had a heart attack, you know, just as the research was coming to full fruition. But, Caitlin, what is the second thing you need to tell us?” Diversion—always a good tactic.

  Caitlin said, anger emerging as a brutal bluntness, “Jane is running a biowarfare lab on Rand.”

  Rachel felt her mouth open to an involuntary O. “No. She wouldn’t. Not even Jane. How do you know?”

  “From Julie Hampden, who was told by a desperate virologist named Jenna Derov. It’s been in the works a while. They’re engineering one of the Rand plagues to be airborne through changes to both its RNA and cell walls. Plus other changes.”

  Annelise said to the wallscreen, “On. Jenna Derov, virologist, all information. Visual only. Caitlin…you can’t be sure.”

  “No. But I don’t think it’s beyond what Jane might do if the war goes against us.”

  Annelise said, “There is no war anymore! The gates…” She realized, and let out a soft whimper.

  The gates were open again. Not to armed warships, but you didn’t need a warship to carry bioweapons to a Peregoy world. Philip can’t read minds, Rachel had told herself. He had stopped the weapons using—this must be true, it was the only explanation that fit—manipulation of the laws of physics, not biology. Biology was, as always throughout history, a wild card.

  She said, forcing herself to calm, “Where is the biowarfare facility on Rand?”

  “Julie didn’t know. Jenna Derov wasn’t going to give her that piece of intel until she got proof she was at the top of all lists for passage home to Rand. Now, Denov will probably withhold the location until she arrives there.”

  Annelise, reading information on her screen, said, “She has a family. Two kids and a husband.”

  Rachel said, “Forget lists. Annelise, send a flyer with Security to pick up this Derov person—where is she, Caitlin?”

  “I’ll take care of it. I’ll bring her and Julie here.”

  Rachel said, “Yes, bring Julie Hampden here as well. I definitely want to talk to her.”

  Caitlin turned to face her grandmother. “Rachel, Julie is my employee, and my concern. You will not bully or threaten her in any way for telling me about the retinal transplants. Yes, I know you’re CEO again and that’s fine, but the university and its research are my concerns and I will run them. You’ve already erred in keeping the retinal project from me. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes.” Caitlin would never believe it, but Rachel’s heart sang with pride. She had at least one granddaughter who had both steel and the knowledge of when rules applied and when they did not. Unlike tradition-shackled Annelise, broken Tara, not to mention—

  “The gates are open!” Jane cried as her face appeared on their wristers. Damn override. “Did you know? I just cleared the Rand-Galt gate. I’ll be there tomorrow. The war will resume now, and I know how we can win it.”

  32

  * * *

  NEW CALIFORNIA

  The moment his ship cleared the Polyglot-New California gate, Sloan called Sophia. When her beautiful, austere face appeared on his wrister, Sloan’s eyes went salty. He blinked hard; not only would Sophia not have appreciated tears from her father, but the small vessel was so crowded that there was no privacy.

  Sloan had done it. He’d found on Polyglot an accomplished neurologist who’d once worked on the retinal transplant project, and he’d persuaded Dr. Antonin to work for him. The persuasion had included not only an enormous salary but complete control over labs and personnel. Now Sloan was transporting the fledgling effort to New California; Antonin had brought a team with him. The ship, meant to seat ten, held sixteen, including Sloan and Chavez. Sloan could have waited for a larger ship to be stripped of radiation weaponry, but he hadn’t wanted to wait. He wanted to resume control of the Peregoy worlds, to see Sophia, to tell her about this success.

  Partial success. Sloan had recruited retina-transplant scientists, but not any physicists who knew anything more about the gates than physicists already on New California. In fact, Sloan hadn’t been able to discover if such physicists even existed. All his network had turned up was nonsense about Julie Hampden’s deep-brain implants and Philip Anderson. That people could actually believe in that coincidence—Anderson dying on the new planet and the gates closing—was beyond Sloan.

  “Sophia,” he said to her image on his wrist.

  “Welcome home, Father.”

  Impossible to say much, personal or professional, in the crowded, listening craft. “All is well?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her face on his wrister said there was more. SueLin? When Rachel Landry had traded SueLin for Anderson’s ridiculous trip to the eleventh gate, Sloan had had SueLin sent, under guard, back to New California. She should still be under guard, safely protected—and isolated—in a mountain cabin. Was she? Sloan would have to wait to ask Sophia.

  As the small ship landed at Peregoy Corporation Headquarters, Sloan was shocked to see how many protestors massed outside the compound walls. Why hadn’t Sophia had them arrested? More important, what were they protesting about in the first place? He provided everyone in his care with jobs, housing, medical, education…and with the closing of the gates, Sophia would have ended extended conscription—hadn’t she? What more could his people want?

  Outrage filled him. This was personal. They were kicking him in the face—he, who gave them everything.

  He just glimpsed some of the holosigns before the ship dipped below the compound walls:

  ELECTIONS NOW

  STRIKE FOR FREEDOM

  REMEMBER SUELIN—AND ACT!

  What?

  Sophia had sent people to escort the scientists to their quarters. Sloan rushed to meet her in his office, brushing past the faithful Morris, who stood waiting by the door with a tablet in his hand. “Welcome home, sir. This is a—”

  “Sophia!”

  “I’m so glad you’re home, Father.”

  “Yes. Those protestors—are they actually striking? Why haven’t you arrested them?” Everyone on New California was, in theory anyway, an employee of a licensed sub-business of Peregoy Corporation, and striking was illegal. If someone didn’t like his or her job, transfers were readily available, or quitting. But nothing interfered with production.

  “I did arrest them. More came. I arrested those. More came. The jails wouldn’t hold them all. It’s not just a protest, Father. It’s a rebellion.”

  “They want elections? A corporation’s CEO is not elected by the employees!”

  “You spoiled them. You gave them so much that they think they’re entitled to everything now, including what’s ours. Including control.”

 
Something in her face chilled him. He took the tablet from the trailing Morris, dismissed him, and closed the door. He kept his tone quiet. “What did you do when the jails became full?”

  “I found out who the leaders were and sent them to a labor camp on Horton Island.”

  “We have no labor camp on Horton Island. Or anywhere else.”

  “We do now. The owners of the island were paid handsomely and resettled.”

  “Sophia…”

  “Don’t, Father. This was necessary. You don’t know, you weren’t here. Besides the strikes disrupting everything, the protests turned violent. Property was destroyed. A factory owner who defended you publicly was beaten by his own workers. He nearly died. I’m restoring order to New California before the situation grows worse.”

  “We’re stewards of this planet, Sophia. Not dictators.”

  Her face cracked into emotion. When had he seen anger from Sophia? Never.

  She said, “Stewards? Really? Look at your wolves, Father. Do you know what happened on Terra when they were eliminated from the top of the food chain? Their prey proliferated, grew too numerous, and starved, but not before they’d overgrazed all the plant life and wrecked whole ecologies. An ecology—including New California—needs dominant beings at the top of the food chain, or the whole system crashes. I’m doing what is necessary for all our people.”

  Sloan heard the unspoken coda: So don’t try to stop me. Vertigo swooped through him; the bottom was falling out of his world. But only for a moment.

  From long experience in handling people, he said quietly, “We can talk about this later, when I’m more rested.”

  “Of course.” Her face resumed its usual calm. “Tell me about these scientists you’ve brought. What project are they intended for?”

  “In a minute. First tell me about SueLin.”

  “She’s safe in the cabin where you put her. But she’s turned into a sort of symbol. Half the protestors think you killed her, the other half that you’ve imprisoned her. The whole propaganda program is being driven by one Scott Berman, who was an engineer at the Carrington bot factory. He’s clever, manipulative, and dangerous. I have infiltrators in the Movement—that’s the pretentious name they’re calling it—but so far he’s eluded me. They seem to have a very sophisticated communication system. Berman has no family that I could work through.”

  Work through. She meant threaten. How had things gotten this bad in the three months since Sloan had been gone? Or had Sophia set up some of her control systems as soon as the war began, without telling Sloan? Maybe even before the war? Sophia had always been more ruthless than he—but how ruthless was she?

  He looked at this beloved, competent daughter, his heir, and realized that he needed to go slow. Before challenging her directly, he needed more information. Then he could plan.

  He said, “You asked about the scientists I’ve brought with me. This is potentially very valuable, Sophia. I want them to get to work immediately. At Galt University, researchers have developed…”

  As he talked, Sloan gazed past Sophia’s shoulder at his stuffed wolves. How had she learned all that about wolves’ place in the food chain? It wasn’t the kind of thing that usually interested her. Luis Martinez must have told her, during the brief time that Sloan had thrown them together, hoping for a marriage. Where was Luis now? If his fleet had survived Landry attacks plus the three months of gate closure, he could be on his way now to New California. Sloan could use Luis. The world was collapsing, and Sloan needed help in shoring up the beams.

  The wolves’ yellow glass eyes shone back at him, unblinking.

  33

  * * *

  DEEP SPACE

  One month into the three-month voyage to New Utah, the Skyhawk braced for attack.

  Martinez had the conn, with a pilot-in-training at the helm—what could be dangerous in this vast stretch of empty space? Then two Landry ships appeared as distant, distinctive blips on his scanner. The OOD said, “Captain—”

  “I see them,” Martinez said, at the same time that messages came in from the Zeus and the Green Hills of Earth. Martinez put all three ships on battle alert.

  These two Landry warships must have been caught on the Prometheus side of the Prometheus-Polyglot gate when the gates closed. The rest of the Landry fleet defending the Prometheus-Polyglot gate had probably mostly been on the Polyglot side, able to voyage back to Polyglot. But these two vessels must have waited a while to see if the gate would reopen and then, when it did not, had done the only thing they could do to avoid starvation, the same thing that Martinez was doing: set a course for the Peregoy planet of New Utah.

  The two Landry ships had therefore not gone through any gates. Unlike Martinez, they were armed. With the Landry meta-beams? If so, they could destroy as much of New Utah as they chose.

  And they could destroy Martinez’s small fleet.

  The Landry ships were between him and New Utah; Martinez couldn’t get there first. He could, however, warn planetary defense. He did that, knowing the Landry ships would intercept the signal. But if he knew the Landrys were here, then the reverse was true. At least the inhabitants of New Utah had ample time—two months—to prepare. The message was sent to New Utah.

  Martinez said, “Send this message to the Landry fleet on all frequencies: ‘This is the Peregoy Corporation Space Service ship Skyhawk, Luis Martinez commanding. The war ended with the closing of the gates. Are you attempting to negotiate safe orbit and resupply on New Utah for your ships?”

  The OOD’s shoulders tensed. He sent the message.

  There were three possibilities. One: the Landry ships had the meta-beam and would use its greater range to destroy the Skyhawk, Zeus and Green Hills of Earth, before using it to take New Utah. Two: the Landry ships did not have the meta-beam and would fight a conventional space battle, which Martinez’s fleet would lose as soon as the enemy realized Martinez’s ships were not armed. Three: the Landry ships did not have the meta-beam and were willing to peacefully negotiate for food on New Utah, either because they believed hostilities had ended or because they thought they could not win against the New Utah planetary defense. Or even against Martinez, who had three armed (they thought) ships against their two. Thus, they might even surrender to him. If so, Martinez thought wryly, then they were all back in the Napoleonic Wars, taking enemy ships as prizes.

  None of those things actually happened.

  Neither Landry vessel replied to the Skyhawk’s hail. Were they maneuvering for position to fire?

  “Lieutenant, send the message again. Are you on all frequencies?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  No reply.

  No reply to four more attempts, spaced over half an hour.

  The OOD said, “Sir…there’s something odd about those ships’ motions.”

  “They’re on course for New Utah,” Martinez said.

  “Yes, sir. But they’re not maintaining constant distance between them. They’re drifting apart. It’s like—I can’t be sure about this, but it’s like something knocked one of them askew and nobody has corrected for it.”

  “Comet? A hull breach?”

  “Unknown.”

  Martinez considered. His ships were outside what he estimated to be meta-beam range, and if they circled around the Landry vessels and toward New Utah, the enemy would be expected to match course and initiate battle. He said, “Get Captains Vondenberg and Murphy on the encrypted frequency.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Captain?” Murphy said from the Zeus.

  “Take the Zeus on a wide evasive maneuver around the Landry ships, toward New Utah, staying well out of what we know to be K-beam range. If they match course, retreat. Maintain contact with me. Vondenberg, maintain position.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The data blip that was the Zeus began to move. Distance widened between her and the two Landry vessels, neither of which changed course. Now Martinez could get a clear visual on the
distance widening between the Landry ships.

  It could be a trick.

  But after several hours, it seemed less of one. The Zeus had made a wide semi-circle around both Landry ships and was now positioned between them and New Utah. There was no pursuit, and no attack.

  Murphy said, “Out of presumed meta-beam range.”

  “Proceed to New Utah.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Martinez heard the jubilation in the young captain’s voice; his ship was on the way to food.

  The two Landry ships flew on, the distance between them ever growing, their comm frequencies silent. Martinez trailed them, out of meta-beam range although he was increasingly sure that they were not equipped with the long-range weapon.

  What was the Landry fleet captain doing?

  “Move slowly within firing range.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cautiously the Skyhawk crept toward the closer of the Landry ships, the one drifting off the course for New Utah. The ship did not fire. Its image grew on the viewscreen. The Skyhawk circled the enemy ship.

  “Captain, the hull is breached, starboard side, just behind the bridge.”

  “I see it.” A big gaping hole. Why hadn’t the repair bots fixed it? By now there would be nobody left alive on that ship. Had the crew evacuated to the other vessel? Or—

  “Move closer. Keep their hull between us and the other Landry ship.”

  No reaction from either ship. At a few klicks apart, the name of the ship was visible: the Dagny Taggart. Martinez grimaced. He doubted that anyone aboard his ship even knew who that was; few people read propagandist novels nearly three hundred years old. The second ship, the Galaxy, showed sensor data just as inert as the first.

  Martinez, having exhausted the simple possibilities in his mind, ran through the more fanciful ones. Deliberate mass suicide—it had happened before, on Terra. A crazy captain that had released poison gas to kill everyone on his ship. But—two crazy captains? Or maybe a hull breach that had knocked out all bot repair capability on the Dagny Taggart, the survivors had transferred to the Galaxy, and—then what? A comet-borne spore-borne disease that had killed everyone? Aliens?