Galactic Empires

by Gardner R. Dozois

  Further brighter ionization in the world's disperse exosphere sketched the vessel's course around the world and deeper toward the thermosphere. When its speed reached a predetermined level, the main drive cut out and the thrusters flared again, turning the ship nose to tail to present its reentry shield to the steadily thickening air. The flip-over had its usual effect internally, and clamping down on her churning guts, Kelly knew the vomit vacuums would again be required. Explosive bolts blew, clamps detached, especially weakened structural members broke where they were supposed to, and the entire drive section detached, small steering thrusters slightly altering its course to throw it into orbit around the world. Landing with a U-space engine and fusion reactor had never been an option.

  The reentry shield smoked as its layer of soft ceramic began baking hard. It soon began to emit a dull red glow. Then fire flared out and back from it, enclosing the ship, podlike. It hurtled down, planing on fire. Then the thrusters adjusted its course to bring it down on the underslung reentry plate and steadily began firing to slow the ship even further. As the ship penetrated cloud, sealed containers positioned all around the spin section opened like buds to spew parachutes. Using a combination of these and the big thrusters, the ship descended on prairie, scattering herds of buffalo, and one herd of unicorns. Grass fires ignited underneath as it finally began to settle, but they were short-lived, for this vegetation was spring green. With a final whump and a settling of parachutes all around, the Breznev was down.

  Her fingers digging into the arms of her acceleration chair, Kelly thought about the logistics of relaunch and knew that the Breznev would never be leaving this world. And she vowed to become part of the earth here rather than be subject to strouding by those who would soon be coming here after them.

  The gas content of the air was breathable, but it might be packed with lethal microbes and biotoxins. They had no way of analyzing the air and there weren't enough spacesuits to go around, and no one wanted to walk out there in the cumbersome things anyway. No one wanted to stay in the ship-not when seeming freedom awaited outside. Kelly was damned if she was going to wait until Slome and the others came to a decision about what to do next. While they squabbled, she collected all her stuff in a shoulder bag, including her Sancha carbine and her father's antique sidearm, and headed for the airlock leading into the storage and cargo section. "Not inclined to debate, SA Haden?"

  Standing below the ladder leading up to the airlock, Kelly turned to gaze at Longshank. He was carrying a large backpack, wore some large walking boots in addition to his usual attire, and carried his notescreen clipped to his belt.

  "Staying inside this ship is not an option-if something out there kills me, I would rather have that happen than wait here for one of the Guard to fit me with a stroud."

  "My thoughts precisely. Anyway, this Owner-constructed world seems eminently human-habitable. Maybe we'll pick up a few bugs along the way, but I doubt there's anything out there we can't handle in usual immune-response way." "You seem very confident." "No-resigned."

  Kelly mounted the ladder and climbed, stepped up onto the platform, and hit the door control as Longshank stepped up behind her. They crammed into the airlock together, and after Longshank closed the first door, Kelly opened the second door leading into the forward cargo section of the ship. It opened with a slight hiss of pressure differential. Kelly clamped her nose and blew until her ears popped.

  "There's an ATV packed away in here," she said while stepping out onto the next platform. She breathed carefully, wondering if anything would affect her right away, since they were now breathing the air of this world, the cargo section being vented to the outside.

  "Let's walk," suggested Longshank.

  "Where?"

  "Where else?"

  Many of the pressure-sealed crates in the section were open, their food contents all used up during the trip here. Other crates, once containing a cargo of freeze-dried ration packs destined for a Collective space station, were also empty. Kelly felt a pang of hunger, but it quickly passed-it had been some days since she felt really hungry. They moved past other sealed crates and Kelly hit the control to lower the loading ramp. Its locks clumped open and slowly it began to descend, exposing painfully bright blue sky. It finally hit down on vivid green dotted with blue and pink flowers. The intensity of light and color hurt her eyes, but seemed to balm something behind them.

  "Come on." Longshank led the way out.

  To their right, the silvery material of a parachute rippled in a soft caressing breeze. Longshank pointed to where trees dotted a distant slope. "Just beyond there—a few hills, a bit of a trudge."

  As they walked through the thigh-high grass, birds racketed into the sky to scold them and, on one occasion, a large flightless bird leapt up from a nest full of brown-speckled eggs and charged away hooting in indignation. On the slope, the vegetation was shorter—the grass cropped down by some animal and large areas covered by mosses or mats of low-growing vines. Kelly stared at the first squat tree they came to and recognized the green orbs it bore as walnuts. Higher on the slope, there were almond and olive trees and others she did not recognize.

  Weariness soon set in, and Longshank's "bit of a trudge" became a growing struggle until the splashing of a stream attracted them to a hollow.

  "Shall we?" Longshank enquired.

  The water tasted delicious and afterward they ate some of the walnuts, even though they were unripe. An eagle soared above, and short-eared rabbits scattered and observed them from ridges. Eventually they hit a track, and, in dry mud, Kelly observed the impressions of the soles of boots little different from the kind she was wearing. The track wound down through a sparse scattering of trees, beyond which she could see the multiple roofs of the house they had observed from orbit, and terminated against an ironwork gate set into a hedge of copper birch. Something like a chrome spider was working along the hedge far to their right, pruning it back with multiple gleaming pincers. A simple latch admitted them to perfect lawns and rose gardens.

  "Well, hello," said a man, standing up from inspecting a large red rose. "Goodness me, I haven't had any visitors here in what"—he turned to gaze at a huge gnarled oak standing within its own circular border in the middle of one of the lawns—"well, since I planted that."

  "Are you the Owner," said Longshank.

  The man, a stocky gray-haired individual with a deep tan and eyes like green chips of glass, gazed about himself for a moment. "I guess so… sort of."

  *

  Slome gazed about himself, the tightness in his guts increasing, then peered back at the loading ramp as he heard the sound of an electric motor. The ATV-basically an aluminum box able to hold six people and some cargo, suspended on four independent rubber wheels-rolled down onto the grass. Now that it was down, the fifty escapees began unloading supplies and placing them in makeshift packs. Slome turned from the scene and peered down at the notescreen Traviss was holding, which was displaying a map of the area. He tapped a finger against forest just back from the peninsula on this side of the estuary.

  "There, I think," he said. "If they head toward the estuary they could end up trapped against it by the Guard."

  "Peerkin said the same," Traviss replied, adding, "They've voted him temporary leader, what with his experience of wild environments."

  "Good. They need to go deep and keep under cover-we'll update them on whatever happens at the house and warn them if they need to run."

  "They'll probably run when the Lenin comes down anyway."

  Slome nodded.

  "So it'll be me, you, Elizabeth, and Olsen in the ATV. Anyone else?"

  "No, we'll need the space for Haden and Longshank if we have to run."

  Slome was all too aware that that might be the case. Why would this "Owner," supposing him able, want to help them anyway? He had deliberately remained out of contact with the human race for longer than living memory, and, though initially human himself, was supposedly no longer of that kind. Why had the
Owner allowed them, and the Lenin, through? Maybe the Owner no longer existed, maybe the individual they had seen from the probe was someone who had come here in the intervening time?

  "We're ready," Elizabeth called.

  He glanced over and saw that the steps were now folded down from the ATV and the others were climbing aboard. Snatching up his pack, he ambled over and boarded, too, taking the seat saved for him by Elizabeth behind the driver, Traviss. They headed away, leaving the other escapees to grab up what they could and head for the hideaway in the forest. Traviss accelerated the vehicle through the tall grass and soon hit the slope, navigating fast amid the trees and obviously enjoying himself. It took them very little time to come upon a track and within sight of the house.

  "Take us around to the front," said Slome upon seeing the hedge.

  Traviss took them around, then down beside a stream, up through an orchard, then onto another track. Visible through the apricot trees to their left was an arch, to which they headed. This led into a stone courtyard. Traviss parked the ATV before steps leading up to a heavy wooden door. Even as they climbed out of the vehicle, the door began opening and a man stepped out.

  "Hello and welcome," he said.

  Slome studied the man and thought he looked just too damned ordinary to be this "Owner."

  "I have some of your fellows here already," the man said. "Come in. Are you hungry?"

  The others looked to Slome for guidance and, after a moment, he led the way up the steps and held out his hand. "Slome Terl. My companions"—he gestured at each in turn—"are my daughter, Elizabeth, Olsen Marcos, and Traviss Painter. Who might you be?" A rough calloused hand and a strong grip-the hand of a laborer. The Owner? It seemed unlikely.

  The question seemed to puzzle the man for a moment, then he said, "Call me Mark-that would be best, I think."

  "Are you the Owner?" asked Elizabeth, somewhat querulously, Slome thought.

  Mark grinned. "You could say that, and you would be both right and wrong." Now he looked up. "Are these with you, too?"

  Slome abruptly gazed up into cerulean sky, but for a moment he could see nothing. Then, the flare of steering thrusters.

  "No," said Slome. "That is the Lenin-a. Collective ship containing those who intend to either kill or enslave us. Can you help? Because if you cannot, we had best start running now."

  "Oh, I can help," said Mark. He looked up again. "Seems they have a shuttle."

  Again, Slome could see nothing for a moment or two. Then he was able to discern a brief glint departing the position of the steering flame and the vague darkness of the Lenin. His eyes weren't bad-he'd recently had an optic nerve cellular stimulation and corneal cleaning—he should in fact be able to see better than anyone else here.

  "You have good vision," he commented.

  "Positively omniscient," Mark replied. "Do come in."

  He led the way into a well-lit entry hall, floored in polished wood and surrounded by statues carved from the native stone. Slome recognized only one of them: the legendary beauty Alison Markovian. From the hall, he took them through double doors into a plushly furnished living area.

  "Ancient Earth," said Olsen. "I think."

  Slome's gaze fell on Haden and Longshank, who were standing by an oval table before the window, steadily working their way through bowls piled with food. On the table there were platters heaped with comestibles. As the smell reached his nostrils, his stomach immediately rumbled and his mouth started watering.

  "Help yourself," said Mark.

  "Thank you." Slome led the way over to the table. He wanted to say something to Haden and Longshank, but that want was secondary to his hunger. They all quickly tucked in, and when a small amount of food in Slome's shrunken stomach satisfied his hunger, he finally turned to them.

  "You didn't wait for a decision," he said.

  "Decision about what?" Kelly asked. "About whether or not to stay at the ship and wait for a Doctrinaire to come along and scrub our brains?"

  Slome nodded, turning to glance over his shoulder and note that the man, Mark, had left the room. "What have you learned about him?"

  "Very little. He's been here a long time, or so he claims, but he's equivocating about whether or not he's the Owner."

  "With us, too, but he says he can help us."

  "Do you think him capable of helping us?" Elizabeth interjected. "I've seen no evidence here that he can do anything about the Guard, and that shuttle will be here soon."

  Slome shook his head. He didn't know what to think.

  Kelly shrugged. "Despite his equivocation, I trust him. I don't know why."

  "And on that basis we should risk ending up under the stroud?"

  Olsen now said, "I've told you all what would be involved in creating something like this world. The Guard should be no threat to someone that capable."

  *

  In the viewing cylinder, Astanger watched the shuttle descending toward the incongruous house on the planet below. Shrad had taken fifteen of the Guard with him, and, perhaps sensing Astanger's intentions, had set the rest patrolling or guarding the most critical areas of the ship—twenty of them were here on the bridge, ever watchful, their damaged minds rendered incapable of suffering boredom. Two of them stood behind each of the crew and four of them were standing watch about the weapons system controls—those consoles now abandoned by Chadrick, the weapons officer.

  Now, having flown into low orbit to drop the shuttle, it was time to move the Lenin back out. Astanger turned to his bridge crew.

  "Okay, bring us out," he instructed.

  "Where to?" enquired Citizen Grade, the helmsman.

  "Precisely to where Doctrinaire Shrad instructed us to wait: the Lagrange point between this world and its moon." He shot a glance at the two of the Guard standing behind him, then at the two standing behind Grade, and observed them studying the course alterations the man made. Were they even capable of knowing what he was doing? Of course they were. On many occasions, he had taken the opportunity to speak to some of them. Though devoid of any social ability or any understanding of plain conversation, they were intelligent and focused in other almost-enviable ways. They were good little robots.

  And they were an atrocity.

  Since Astanger had started questioning everything, he'd also started questioning his inculcated hatred and contempt of the Markovians. Shrad's Guard had all once been Markovians, and since Shrad had boastfully mentioned this only a little while ago, Astanger had begun to recognize the bone structure and features of those he had been taught to hate. Now he didn't hate them, just felt a huge sadness and pity, but he did hate Shrad. What the man had done, what the Committee had done, had nothing to do with social engineering, nothing to do with making a better world, nothing to do with doctrine. Shrad and his kind were rulers who were substantially less restrained about how they used their power than the Markovians had been. Astanger's disgust for Shrad and his kind was only exceeded by his self-disgust.

  As his men bent to their task, Astanger, with a bitterness in his mouth, returned his attention to his controls and tried to concentrate on what he had been doing before. In the cylinder, he pulled up a view of the moon. It was a cratered monster over two thousand miles in diameter, and only after scanning the planet below had Astanger now turned his attention to it. As yet no evidence of technology had been picked up, but there was something odd about the astrogation data that just kept on niggling at him, so, barring some opportunity to disarm the Guard aboard his ship and then incinerate Shrad's shuttle on its return journey, he focused on that sphere.

  Now under drive again, the Lenin headed for the Lagrange still point. The Guard, Astanger noted, seemed rooted to the deck despite the sideways drag of acceleration. On his screens, he decided to call up Markovian data on this sector of space, despite the watchful eyes behind him. Very quickly, he found the first discrepancy: the world wasn't in the right place. He felt a surge of awe, then immediately told himself not to be stupid-the data were obviously
wrong. Then another glaring error became evident. According to the Markovians, this world should not even have a moon. He speculated about the possibility of it being recently captured in orbit and thus also repositioning the world, but that didn't gel. If such a thing had happened between the time these data were recorded and now, there would be huge volcanic activity below and other massive damage. Nothing like that was evident. But he realized that all this had nothing to do with what was niggling him.

  Astanger called up the astrogation data again and kept on going through it. He gazed at the position of the Lagrange point, and suddenly realized what was bothering him: it was too close to the moon. Now calling up data on a similar orbital setup within the Collective, he confirmed this, then began to make his own calculations. The moon, he soon realized, must mass considerably less than a sphere of rock over two thousand miles across should mass, and yet, the data they had gathered on it showed it to be precisely that.

  Abruptly, he canceled out the data on his screens, then just called up prosaic stuff about their current trajectory. He leaned back and considered some possibilities. Either the scanners were malfunctioning—a not unusual occurrence under Collective rule—or that moon was definitely not what it appeared to be.

  He reckoned that it was hollow. He also reckoned that Doctrinaire Shrad might be heading for a rude awakening. He smiled to himself at the prospect, which seemed the best he could hope for. Then the U-signature detection alarm wiped the smile from his face, and horror bloomed in his chest as the ship's scanners automatically redirected, and displayed the source of that signal in the viewing cylinder.