Empery

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  Chapter 17

  * * *

  The Provider’s Voice

  Midway between Lynx Center and Perimeter Command, Tilak Charan emerged from the craze at the leading edge of the gravitational track that betrayed its position among the stars of Leo Minor. At the bidding of its comtech Charan’s instruments reached out and snatched from the ether the recognition sign and ready-to-link signal of its destination, toward which the ship continued to hurtle with barely less urgency than before.

  In the privacy of his cabin Wells waited patiently for the pale blue WAITING FOR CARRIER message to vanish from the display. Two minutes of waiting exhausted his patience, and he touched the com key. “Problem, Mr. Stevens?”

  “Sorry, sir. A little trouble picking it out of the scruff, that’s all,” the comtech said. “Should be coming up now.”

  A moment later the pallid-skinned, mustachioed face of Osten Venngst appeared on the screen. Venngst glanced to his left, as though listening to someone standing there out of view, then nodded and looked down at his lap as though consulting a slate. “Time mark, 710.245. Defense status: We are at Code One alert throughout the entire Perimeter—”

  “What’s happened?” Wells demanded, unable to contain his alarm. “Why are we in a war alert?”

  “Sir, two months ago we received a positive confirmation on an active Mizari nest in the One Corona Borealis system,”

  Venngst said. “The rogue ship Munin was entering the system on a survey run and was destroyed by a hostile by means of an intense burst of black-body radiation. Fortunately Munin was relaying data right up until the end, so we did get a good look at their weapons. But since the attack came so quickly, the system survey is very sketchy and we could not establish where within the system the Mizari are based.”

  For the first time since he had set his course fifteen years ago, Wells felt the stabbing chill of uncertainty. A touch on the terminal command board brought a map of the Boötes and Lynx Octants up in place of Venngst’s face. “One Corona Borealis—that’s Alphecca, yes? What the hell are the Mizari doing there at all? That’s way outside the cluster. If they’ve gotten that far, they could be anywhere.”

  “Ye?, sir. The strategy staff here is very concerned, as you might imagine.”

  This is my own damn fault. Thackery wouldn’t have been out there if I hadn’t been feeling soft about him. Damn, damn, damn. These always come back to bite you. Wells chased the map from the screen with a touch. “What action have you taken?”

  Venngst acknowledged the question with a nod. “I immediately placed all elements of the Perimeter Defense on highest alert. I also exercised my preemptive authority under Status-A mission rules to divert Triad One from its patrol circle. Triad One is now in the high craze-to Alphecca with instructions to locate and destroy the Mizari nest.”

  Wells frowned and sat forward in his chair. “I presume these attack orders conform to the specifications of the Strategy Committee.”

  “Yes, sir. As per your instructions, Captain Lieter’s orders are presumptive-go, and he was given full command discretion. Triad One will come out of the craze twelve hours before system contact to pick up the most current intelligence and to provide a final opportunity for a wave-off—you’ll be on-station by then, incidentally. Absent a recall at that time, he will go back into the craze and not drop out again until beginning the actual assault run.”

  “Very good, Osten.”

  “There is one other matter,” Venngst said. “I took the liberty of amending the standard battle order to provide an additional opportunity for a wave-off, approximately six weeks from now on the PerCom time track. The command lineship only will come out of the craze for a twenty-minute Kleine troll—”

  Wells slammed his palm down on the console beside him.“Damn it, Osten, all that does is give them a chance to get two fixes on our ships and a track back to our facilities on this side of the Perimeter.”

  “I thought this additional exposure was justified,” Venngst said defensively. “Sir, I ordered Triad One to Alphecca with serious reservations about the wisdom of doing so. Yes, it was the response dictated by the strategic plan—except the strategic plan didn’t anticipate a target so far removed from what we always considered the primary front. I wanted you to have an opportunity to countermand my attack authorization if you thought it more important to keep Triad One at home than to make a swift, punitive response.”

  Venngst hesitated, then glanced down at his lap again. “I understand that you may wish to convene the Strategy Committee to discuss this, so we are prepared to hold this link open as long as necessary.”

  “Has there been any additional activity in or near the One Cor Bor sector?”

  “No, sir. We have sixteen buoys focused on the hot zone, and they’ve seen nothing. However, we are somewhat limited by the fact that the buoys out on the fringe have never been upgraded since their original deployment. At the moment we can’t even pick up the Mizari EM signature Munin was monitoring.”

  “Status of the other Triads?”

  “Fully operational and on their patrol circles.”

  “And the recon ships?” Wells asked, calling back the map.

  “No change. Eagle is inbound to the 285 Lynx system, to make contact with the Feghr colony. Kite has completed a survey of the Megrez system, negative outcome, and is continuing on to Alioth. Falcon is headed for 17919 UMa. All this is in the report we high-banded to you at the top of the link. We’ll stand by while you and the Committee review it.”

  “Not necessary,” Wells said. “Your ambivalence about the Alphecca mission was unnecessary. I’m confirming your attack orders for Triad One. Send Lieter a scram signal so that he’ll get his ship back up in the craze as quickly as possible.”

  Venngst seemed relieved. “Yes, Commander.”

  “But you didn’t go far enough,” Wells continued. “It’s strategic suicide to sit around waiting for them to take the first swing on the primary front too.”

  Swallowing hard, Venngst said, “We thought that considering the length of the run to Alphecca, we could afford to defer on that until you’d been put in the picture.”

  “You shouldn’t have,” Wells said bluntly. “I assume you’d have told me if we’d picked up any additional probables?”

  “There are none, sir. Mizar-Alcor and Phad are the only systems displaying the EM signature.”

  “All right—what follows are formal command orders, to be abstracted into both Charan’s command log and your command log there. Eagle is to be redirected from the Feghr contact to survey 21 Leo Minor. We can’t offer the people of Feghr any protection, so there’s no point in possibly betraying their presence to the Mizari. Kite is ordered to proceed directly, to Phad and conduct a pre-assault recon. Falcon is to proceed directly to Mizar-Alcor and do likewise there. All best speed and minimum exposure.”

  “Confirming, Eagle to 21 Leo Minor, Kite to Phad, Falcon to Mizar-Alcor, Code One rules.”

  “Yes,” Wells said, settling back in his chair. He felt strangely calm. “On my authority you are also instructed to deploy Triad Two on a presumptive-go mission to Mizar-Alcor, ditto Triad Three to Phad. I want the wave-offs scheduled so that they get every last bit of data from the recons, and I want the assaults as tightly scheduled as possible, so the Mizari don’t have a chance to learn from experience. Clear?”

  “Yes, Commander Wells. Clear. We’re going in after them.”

  Oh, certainly—the vainglorious quest for honor, the challenge and glory of combat, Wells thought. All the easier to embrace because you will not huddle in the tunneled dark spaces of a Triad hull bargaining with Death. But what choice do we have? What choice have we ever had?

  But his thoughts were thoughts to which no Commander could admit ownership, and he stilled their voice inside him. What were needed now were words that Venngst could pass to the crews of the Triads, words that conformed to image and expectation.

  “Damn right we are,” Wells said. “It’s tim
e to hit back.”

  On a long leg in the high craze there was little to do aboardWesley except mark time. The crew found the long watches tedious and the time between them a challenge to their capacity for self-amusement. Nothing changed except money from one hand to another and bodies from one bed to another.

  With neither those diversions nor even the alternative of work available to her, Sujata’s days were even longer and harder to fill. She and Berberon were outsiders: out of deference or vindictiveness or both, the crew had effectively closed them off from ship life.

  Oh, they recognized her right to go anywhere without being challenged, but her presence was accepted rather than welcomed. When she appeared in a compartment, conversations came to a halt, and they regarded her with looks that were wary at their core. They acknowledged her right to inquire into any aspect of ship operation, but she knew only that which she asked about. Except for an occasional tidbit from Captain Killea, nothing was ever volunteered.

  Perhaps they thought that she wanted nothing more than that. A few probably thought that Berberon filled whatever social needs she had—the same few who kept alive the ugly jokes about the nature of their relationship. Killea had said nothing to Sujata about it—she learned of it directly from ship’s records—but he had already disciplined two crew members for “propagation of salacious and unsubstantiated anecdotes disrespectful of the office of Chancellor generally, and Chancellor Sujata personally.” Rather than putting an end to it, no doubt Killea’s action had simply taught the crew not to repeat such jokes in his presence.

  In truth, Berberon had been very poor company since Wesley had left Lynx three weeks ago. His characteristic cheeriness and volubility had vanished without warning in the wake of their failure to catch Wells there. The removal of Wells’s staffers from Wesley left them with separate cabins, and Berberon rarely left his. He would sit quietly in the dark for hours, thinking unimaginable thoughts.

  When he did emerge, Berberon was at best polite and cooperative. It was as though he no longer felt the need or could summon the energy to raise the smiling mask he formerly wore. But he offered no explanations, and for a time Sujata respected his privacy.

  But one evening when the empty hours and the silence were wearing on her, she came to his cabin to find him sitting on the far end of the lower bunk, chin propped on his steepled hands, staring vacantly at the wall. Settling at the opposite end of the bunk, she broached the issue with an attempt at humor.

  “What have you done with the real Felithe Berberon?” she asked. “Did you replace him at Lynx, or is he still on board somewhere?”

  He responded to her words as though being called back from somewhere, his eyes seeking hers, his face suddenly reanimated. “I’m afraid my thoughts have been largely unhappy ones, and I have never seen much point in sharing unhappiness.”

  “Why unhappy?”

  Berberon glanced upward at the cabin ceiling. “Such a little world this is, this ship,” he said. “Coming out from Earth we had the daily dispatches to unite us with the rest of humanity, to give us new things to think about. But flying deaf in the craze this way, all the way to PerCom—”.

  “It’s the only way to be certain we catch Wells.”

  “I know that,” Berberon said. “But he could have changed his plans, his schedule, even his destination when he learned that we were still following him. They could be fighting the war even now. I don’t know how you deal with the uncertainty.”

  “Wells will be there’,” Sujata said with the confidence of the desperate. “We will have a chance to change his mind.”

  Berberon sighed. “When I am not feeling any more than my normal measure of cynicism, I, too, think that he will be there. But I can take no comfort in that, because I hold little hope that you will succeed in dissuading him,.”

  Sujata’s eyebrows narrowed in surprise. “Once you told me that you thought I was the only one who could persuade Wells not to do this. Or what else was that long harangue on the biology of aggression about?”

  “About nothing, it seems. You’ll recall that I was unable to convince you.”

  “Which doesn’t mean that I ignored what you said.”

  “Yes—your research project. From which you learned too little or learned it too late. It doesn’t matter now,” Berberon said tiredly. “Besides, you misremember what I said. I thought you had promise as one who could stop Wells. I never believed that you could change him.”

  “It isn’t necessary to change Wells—just this particular decision.”

  Berberon slapped the cot with his right hand. “But don’t you see, what he’s doing comes from what he is. He’s listening to voices he doesn’t know how to say no to, voices that have been working on him all his life. You can’t hope to turn him around with a few well-chosen words.” He let his head tip back until it rested against the bulkhead and he was staring up at the ceiling. “This is pointless. You don’t believe it even now.”

  Sighing, Berberon closed his eyes. “It isn’t your fault,” he went on. “Admitting that we have an animal nature is not easy. Harder still is the truth that it controls us as much or more than we control it. We are too proud, we humans, too attached to the idea of our own free will. It took generations for the simple truth of evolution to become part of the educated concept of who and what we are.”

  Sujata allowed an affectionate smile to touch her lips briefly. “I liked the old Felithe better—the silver-tongued schemer who always had five angles on the situation and smiled so much, you knew right away you couldn’t trust him.”

  Berberon straightened up and met her eyes squarely. “If you see him,” he said dourly, “tell him he can have his job back.”

  “Felithe,” Sujata said gently, reaching out to pat Berberon’s knee. “I did listen to you back then. I listened then, and I’ve been listening ever since, everywhere, to everyone. Trying to hear what’s not said, to find the common threads that you said linked so much together. I found something—not what you said I would find but something all the same. Will you let me take you away from your misery long enough to tell you what I learned? I think perhaps I can promise you a little hope.”

  Shifting to a more comfortable position, Berberon managed a weak smile and a weaker joke. “Very well, Janell. But only a little hope, please. I am afraid that in my condition, I might suffer an allergic reaction to the full dose.”

  The energy resonance that called itself Merritt Thackery had learned much since returning uptime from the birthplace of the Mizari. He knew now the cause of the storm that raged in the near uptime. He had learned how to hear the echoes of Mizari thoughts and to resolve the patterns of their unimaginable antiquity and fundamental alienness. He carried within him as new harmonics the imperatives that were integral to the Mizari mind.

  What he did not know was if he would ever be able to tell another human what he knew.

  While roaming the interface and garnering new understanding, he had been confident that he knew how to reach across the barrier. The Kleine units on every ship and station were linked through the spindle. The subharmonic that carried the coded patterns of communication was as open and exposed as an unshielded cable, vulnerable to the tumult of the interface, open to Thackery’s touch.

  He had thought it would be a simple matter to manipulate the Kleine waves, to reshape them to carry his message throughout the net. They would not be able to ignore the image and message of a dead man, images originating from nowhere, invading the system from somewhere outside reality, messages comprised of warnings and portents.

  But when he tried, he failed. He thought at first that the waves were too subtle and his efforts too clumsy. But when he focused his senses more clearly on the Kleine harmonic, he saw that his touch was deft enough. Following the altered waves outward, he learned that the fault was not his. Every change he effected, every thought he injected, lasted only until the waves dived back beyond the barrier and reached the machines that waited patiently in the loop to sift th
e wheat from the electronic chaff. To those machines his messages were merely noise to be suppressed.

  The only possibility remaining in Thackery’s limited inventory of ideas was to drive himself down to the barrier and reach across to plant his thoughts directly into the mind of a chosen individual, echoing the way Gabriel had reached out and touched the mind of a young Merritt Thackery.

  But Thackery was determined not to make the mistake that Gabriel nearly had. He had searched across time and space to discover the one who could act on what she would learn from him, and then had searched again to find her. Now he looked down on the ship that carried her, looked down into the swirling vortex of its drive, down through the hull and bulkheads.

  He found her young and vibrant resonance cocooned within a cabin with a second, more subdued. She was speaking, and Thackery opened his senses to hear both her words and the inner voice that declared her namepattern.

  Her words said, “It’s as if there are two distinct ethics in the human ethos—a provider ethic and a preserver ethic. The provider ethic is about acquiring. It says that if one slain deer is good, two is better. The preserver ethic is about keeping. It says that there is a point at which it is more important to protect what you have than to run the risks involved in acquiring more.”

  Focusing his substance and energy, Thackery drove himself downward in an attempt to project himself into the cabin between them. If he could stretch the barrier until it touched her, if she could hear his echoes the way he heard hers—

  Chancellor Sujata—listen to me. What we are—you are—means nothing now. What matters is what the Mizari are. Listen and I will tell you. They harness the energy of the spindle through their Mind’s Shout. They destroy out of a reflex twenty times older and more finely honed than any you may carry in your bodies.