The War Machine: Crisis of Empire III

by David Drake

  “How strong?” Spencer asked.

  “That’s the weird part, Captain. If you assume the parasite has a density of equal to H2O, then I’m reading enough G-waves to generate thousands of gravities of acceleration—but there is no G-force generated, as if the G-waves were precisely cancelling the attraction between the planet and the parasite. But that can’t be right, either,” the chief said.

  “Why not?” Spencer demanded.

  “Because if it were right, then the parasite weighs just under sixteen metric tons,” the chief said tonelessly. “Which would make it denser than the core of many neutron stars.”

  There was a silence on the line. Neither Spencer or Chu could think of anything to say, anything to ask in response to such an outrageous statement.

  Wellingham gave them both a chance to digest his findings, and then went on. “I can’t explain how or why it creates or uses the gravity-waves,” he said, “but the G-waves should come in very handy for spotting these things. They ought to stand out like a searchlight after dark in a gravity-wave detector. It’ll take me some time to rig a detector capable of scanning the ship for our other visitor—but we should have the little beast nailed the moment we switch the detector on. Assuming I can get something with enough range.”

  “Nice work, Chief. Work fast on that—but be advised I’ve ordered Chu to cast off and get the ship away, so some of your engineers might be busy with other duties. Get that detector on line. Chu, I’ll let you make the judgment call, but if possible, I don’t want the ship to lift until that parasite is neutralized. It doesn’t sound like you could fly safely just yet anyway, and I’d just as soon have that thing out of the control circuits before you fire up the fusion engines. And Wellingham, when you do catch the second parasite, don’t let it near the first one.”

  “I’d thought of that already, Sir. God knows if the bloody things can link up with each other—or what would happen when they did. Don’t you worry, I won’t introduce them socially.”

  “Excellent. I’m going to sign off now—but I hope to call in on a secure line soon. Spencer out.”

  “Duncan out,” Chu said, wondering why, exactly, she had been so relieved to hear from the captain. He hadn’t exactly eased her mind or solved her problems. She sighed and checked the time. She had been serving as commanding officer for just about six hours. Well, at least it hadn’t been dull, and showed no signs of becoming so.

  ###

  Captain Allison Spencer, Master of the cruiser Duncan, stepped away from the antique-looking audiophone feeling the master of nothing at all. He had been driven by events since the moment they had taken Bethany away. He felt like one of the pieces on a game board, trying to play the game by itself, battling against a huge and invisible past-master of the game.

  Well, that was no way to win, Spencer told himself. It was time and past time for him to start acting instead of reacting. Time to get ahead of the curve. Spencer glanced out the window. Dusk was coming on, the sun setting on what had already been an exceedingly long day. One that was not yet over. Not while they still had the night to work with.

  He turned and walked back into the main room where the others were waiting for him. The first job was to get the AIDs secure.

  “Dostchem,” he asked, “can you rig a device to scan for gravity-wave generation?”

  Dostchem looked startled, and Spencer indulged himself enough to savor the sensation of being ahead of the Capuchin, throwing her off-balance. Yes, he could definitely enjoy getting in front of the curve instead of behind it.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Might I ask for more details on the specification? And why you would need such a device?”

  “To locate what is either a device or a creature that seems to act as a parasite inside machinery. Machine or animal, it is wholly beyond anything the Pact has ever seen. If they are machines, they are lightyears beyond us. They resemble small blobs of mercury—and seem able to infiltrate and control any sort of machinery. My chief engineer reports that the parasites produce massively powerful G-waves, enough to support the weight of sixteen tons.”

  The Capuchin drew back in startlement and then snorted derisively. “That is flatly impossible. In nature, it takes a whole planet to produce a significant gravity field. As for producing pulsed gravity artificially, it would require the entire power of the Duncan to generate G-waves strong enough to lift my hat off my head. The parasites could not possibly produce that sort of power. Your chief must be mistaken.”

  Spencer felt his temper flare. “Either you’re going to do this for us, or we’re going to find somebody else who can. If you’re working for me, and I tell you I need a left-handed windshifter, I want a windshifter, not a lecture on my innate inferiority. And as nothing about the parasites makes sense, I see no reason why their use of gravity-waves should be understandable to someone who hasn’t even seen the damn things. Look, these things are taking on the Pact. Think about what they’ll do to us—humans, Capuchins, everybody. How long do you think you’ll have your Undertowns to hide in? So get to it, or admit you can’t do the job.”

  Dostchem opened her mouth, thought better of whatever protest she was planning to make, then turned and stepped into her workshop. Suss looked up at Spencer, one eyebrow raised in amusement. “Nice work, Captain. She was getting eyestrain from looking down at us.”

  “You can’t really blame her, though,” Sisley said. “The damnable thing is that the Capuchins are smarter than us, in a lot of ways—and they know it. No imagination, maybe, but terrific engineers. No wonder she has a chip on her shoulder. I wish we could hire a few of them in my section—efficiency would probably double. But the work laws—”

  “Yeah, right,” Spencer said hurriedly. This was no time to get involved in an argument on civil rights. “Right now, I just need the detector. I want to confirm that both AIDs are clear. By the way, where are they?”

  “Each one buried in the back of a separate closet,” Suss said, “each wrapped in insulating fabric with pillows stuffed in on top, and metallic-film shields over that. I don’t think they could hear us, or reach anything by radio, or be tracked by any electronic means I know of. I doubt the AIDs are being controlled or else we’d all be dead by now—”

  “Then shouldn’t they be shut down?” Sisley asked. “Or destroyed? Even if Dostchem can certify them clean now—they might become infested later.”

  Suss looked up at Sisley in shock. Logically, Mannerling was right—but how could Suss explain how important Santu was to her? Not just as a tool, not even just as a companion and ally, but as something close to a talisman, a good luck piece. KT agents throughout the Pact went in on mission runs with their spirits calm and secure because their AIDs were watching out for them, tracking for snooper beams, listening for enemy transmissions, recording data, ready to crack open secure areas, call for transport, squawk for help. The devices were guardian angels that worked. Suss knew perfectly well that someone could kill her just as dead when she was wearing Santu—but she felt safer and that made her a bolder, braver, better agent. She was able to focus on the job, and not worry about danger to herself.

  More importantly, though, it had to be admitted that Santu was a friend. Out, alone, on her own, Santu was Suss’ only trusty companion.

  “You might be right,” Spencer said to Sisley. “Maybe we should scram them.”

  Suss was stunned. How could Spencer talk that way? He had lived with his AID all this time. His nameless AID. Suss suddenly understood why Spencer had never decided to name the device Ted or Murphy or Elmo, or anything at all. He had seen that this moment might come. She couldn’t blame him. Why should he make it harder for himself to endure the necessary loss of an ally when he already endured the pain of losing his whole way of life? She wanted to protest, but somehow she could not.

  “The trouble is,” Spencer went on, “we’re going to need the damn things. Besides, we can always run periodic checks. But I’d be tempted to hang onto them even if Dostchem couldn’t c
lear them. Neither of them seems to have been acting strange in any way. Of course, maybe they are infested, but are being held in reserve. But for now there’s no harm in not taking chances. Leave them in the closet and we can talk freely.”

  Suss nodded. Probably Dostchem could snoop in—but as long as she wasn’t interrupting to show how smart she was, she could spy all she wanted as far as Suss was concerned.

  “As I see it,” Spencer said, “our primary goal at this point is to determine exactly who is controlling the parasites—and through them, a lot of other things—and then figure out what their plans are. We can’t fight them very well if we don’t know who they are. We need some solid leads. Comments?” He looked from one woman to the other.

  Sisley Mannerling folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “I—I think I have something. In fact I’m sure I do. I never passed it on to McCain or anyone else because it seemed so strange. I thought better of it later on, but it was too late by then. McCain had already vanished. Now I think it might be important.”

  Spencer looked at her closely—something he hadn’t had a chance to do yet in this chaotic morning. He saw a pretty, matronly woman, in early middle age. Pale face, good skin, intelligent brown eyes with just a few crow’s feet starring to appear. An ample, but graceful figure. She looked like she should have been someone’s kindly aunt. And now, thanks to Suss and himself, here she was hiding out from crazed killer robots.

  “What is it Miss Mannerling?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  “It’s—it’s just that the times match up,” she said. “Something strange that happened just before McCain dropped out of sight, just before Chairman Jameson became so reclusive.

  “A man came to see me. He called himself Captain Destin, and said he had something for Chairman Jameson. Something for the chairman’s collection. He should never have gotten as far as me—there are a half-dozen security checkpoints between the street and my desk. But apparently they all just waved him through—and so did I. I shouldn’t have.”

  “What was it he had for the chairman?” Suss asked.

  “I can’t quite remember,” Sisley said. “The whole memory is a bit foggy for me. I know that sounds crazy—something that unusual should have stuck in my memory. But that’s part of what makes it strange. I did something very wrong, something I shouldn’t have done, and then afterwards I had no clear recollection of it. But what I can remember is that Destin was carrying it, wrapped up in a cloth. How big it was, what shape it was, I don’t know. But I do remember the cloth slipping away for a minute—and seeing something silver underneath. Gleaming, bright-polished silver.”

  “The same as the parasites,” Spencer said. “My God.” Had the parasites managed to influence human minds, as well as machines? Manipulated Sisley, and then made her forget?

  “Then it sounds like this Destin character is our best possible lead,” Suss said. “Maybe he invented the parasites, or controls them. Sisley, do you have any idea what he’s the captain of?”

  “I can’t swear to it,” Sisley said, “but I am at least 99 percent certain he isn’t Pact military command. At least not Pactmil assigned to this system through the cluster command or Government House. There are only a few hundred officers detailed to the Daltgeld system, and I have the list memorized. And I memorize retired officers, too. Only about a hundred of those. He’s not one of them.

  “So unless he’s not officially here, or unless he’s a scientific type they gave a commission for some reason, he’s not one of our captains or one of us would know about him,” Suss said. “After all, Sisley and I are both professional spooks—”

  “I’m strictly part-time and amateur, thank you very much,” Mannerling put in. “And suppose Destin was a Pact agent on some sort of job?”

  “You may be part-time, but you’re good,” Suss said. “One of the prime jobs for a spook is to know all the other spooks—especially the ones on your side. If Destin were sent by the KT or Pactmil on some sort of hush-hush job, one or both of us would know about it. You’d have heard some sort of chatter.”

  “Yeah, we all know the KT has its hooks into the military,” Spencer agreed sourly. “I’ve got reason to know that. But why are you so sure he isn’t a scientist with a courtesy commission?”

  “Because no one ever uses those ranks,” Suss said. “They’re just used to tidy up the table of organization, allow military security clearances, assign pay grades—that kind of thing. He would have called himself ‘Doctor’ Destin, or ‘Academician’ Destin, no matter what his putative rank.”

  Spencer nodded. “Okay, then he probably isn’t one of ours. Then what does that leave?”

  “Local militia, commercial shipping, or else he’s just some old coot everyone humors by calling him Captain,” Sisley said. “And I can tell you flat out he’s not local militia. I relay the list of their officers to KT headquarters every sixty days, and I just sent the update ten days ago. He wasn’t on it. And somehow I don’t see an old wharf rat taking time out to invent the parasites.”

  “Which makes the commercial captains the first place to look. How and where are they listed? There must be some sort of directory.” Practically every star system had some sort of central, constantly updated, directory of commercial shipping officers and crew members. Otherwise it would be all but impossible for friends, family, and business contacts to track not only the ever-moving ships, but the crew members themselves as they were endlessly hired, fired, transferred, transhipped and deadheaded across the vastness of space.

  Sisley looked unhappy, and suddenly Spencer knew the answer to his own question. “You’re about to tell me StarMetal handles the spaceside directory, aren’t you?” he said accusingly.

  Sisley shrugged apologetically. “They bought up the directory service company about six months ago—and then tightened down the screws on it. Cranked up the security to paranoid-plus, which I guess makes sense if they’re trying to hide a lot of activity. The service is very tightly controlled, and I doubt we could crack into it from an unauthorized remote terminal.”

  Spencer stared at her for a long moment. “But you do know how to get to it. And let me guess from where.”

  “At the office, of course,” she said.

  Spencer slumped back in his chair. If there was one place he didn’t want to go, it was to the StarMetal building, the enemy’s headquarters. “Oh, well,” he said slowly. “If it was easy, then everyone would do it.”

  ***

  Spencer didn’t claim to know much about xenopsychology, but he did succeed in getting results out of Dostchem. She had a working G-wave detector in two hours. It took only thirty seconds for her to try it on both of the AIDs, and give them each a clean bill of health.

  Both Spencer and Suss were glad to be able to have faith in the devices again. For Spencer especially, it had been most uncomfortable to rely so much on a device he couldn’t entirely trust. But he still didn’t want to use the AIDs much, especially not for communications or active probe work. Even a completely loyal AID could give its owner away if he insisted on constantly broadcasting signals and sensor beams.

  Mannerling and Dostchem, the two locals, went to work on a whole series of convoluted plans to gain entry into the StarMetal Building. They discussed schemes involving diversions or armed raids or bribing the guards (which, both agreed, would be tough if only robots were on guard, as seemed likely) before concluding that none of the more direct approaches had any hope of working, and that they would simply have to find some way of sneaking into the well-guarded building.

  Undertown was the ideal neighborhood for finding someone who could handle that assignment. Suss and Dostchem both had the technical ability to get through any alarm in use, but neither knew the building’s layout, its schematics. They would need some local talent for that side of the job.

  Spencer wanted to go out and hire his own break-in artist, but Dostchem flatly vetoed that. As she pointed out, a human looking to hire someone for an illegal job
was sure to get his throat cut. None of the humans could argue with the point, but on the other hand, none of them was entirely relaxed trusting Dostchem. That they had little choice in the matter was cold comfort.

  Spencer kept watch by the window—and saw Undertown come alive as the dusk faded into full night. The streets, which had been so empty and forbidding during the day, seemed to blossom with hustling, bustling life. There seemed to be more vigor, more zest, more color and light than Spencer remembered seeing in any human part of a town. Watching cautiously from Dostchem’s window, he saw the crowds appear, hundreds of beings from dozens of species easing out into the warm night air. Street vendors, hucksters, strolling couples, musicians—playing instruments that set Spencer’s teeth on edge—seemed to spring up from nowhere.

  Where did they all come from? Why did Undertown get busy only at night? Were they all just coming home from jobs in the human part of town? Were they afraid of autocop surveillance during the day? Spencer hadn’t seen many autocops, but he knew better than most that a lot of the force was deployed on unusual duties.

  Was it something biological? Was Daltgeld’s sun unpleasant to non-humans? Was the day too hot? Or was it just that many of the other sapient species were mainly nocturnal? Spencer realized he didn’t even know enough about the other sapients to know if any of his explanations made sense, and felt a bit ashamed of his ignorance.

  If humans were supposed to rule the Pact, shouldn’t they at least know something about the subject species? Another tough question there was no time to handle just yet. He spotted Dostchem returning, in the company of another Capuchin.

  Suss was at his side, looking out the window, before he had a chance to say anything. She had either read something in his body movement or was simply relying on some sort of highly developed sixth sense. There didn’t seem to be any reason for Dostchem to betray them and Capuchins had the very strong virtue of resembling honest cops: once you paid them, they stayed bought. But even so, it was possible that Dostchem had double-crossed them. Not as if they could really do anything about it or protect against it.