Althea: Please transmit a digitized image that will guide me to the port you’d like me to use, plus any other data required to make the connection durable and serviceable.
Probe: I shall do so.
* * *
Althea scouted around Probe’s circumference to where it had indicated she would find its maintenance hatch, squatted before it, and examined the lock that secured it. It resembled a manual flip-lock, comparable to a conventional door latch. She pulled a multitool from a utility pocket, extruded a thin, flat blade, and inserted the tip into the key slot.
As Probe had predicted, the lock cylinder turned of its own accord. It sent a brief vibration through her multitool, which she swiftly withdrew. The hatch swung open smoothly to reveal an array of connection points for electrical and electronic devices.
She fixed her attention on the port at the upper left. It was the one Probe had deemed most suitable. The connector was a pressure-secured piercing clamp, clearly intended for temporary connection to a coaxial cable.
I hope it will hold. There’s no wind or rain here, but we do have the occasional ground tremor when we dock a spaceplane or fire the mass driver.
She inspected the end of the cable she’d unspooled behind her. The dimensions of the cable and the connector appeared to be compatible. She pressed the naked end of the cable against the connector. The fastener closed over it automatically, the external prongs digging into the plastic covering to find the shielding layer beneath.
That was simple enough.
Before Althea headed back to the sally port, she spent a minute perusing the other ports in the hatch. The Loioc appeared as fond of helical fasteners as the engineers of Hope. Though they varied in size and electrical protocol, all were equipped with circular screw-on fittings. Only the port she’d used for her cable was of any other sort.
Lucky for me. What are the odds that I could come up with a mating fastener of the same size and screw pitch?
Now to see if we can chat like civilized...beings.
She rose from her squat, spent an indulgent moment admiring the planet below, and returned to the safety of the pressurized interior.
* * *
Althea sealed the sally port behind her, stripped off her pressure suit and hung it, and raced to the control chamber. Martin caught sight of her moving at unusual speed, put down his tools, and made to join her.
“What’s up, space babe?”
“If all goes well,” she said, “we’re about to have our first audible conversation with a visitor from another solar system.”
“Hm? What did you—”
“You’ll know in a moment.” In the control chamber stood a magnetic speaker, left behind by the Spoonerites, that had seen no use since they arrived. Martin stood apart, arms folded. She swiftly connected it to a pair of wires that trailed from the radio, plucked the microphone from its hanger, and keyed it.
“Probe, can you hear me?”
A deep voice, profoundly masculine though entirely uninflected, issued from the speaker.
“Yes, I can, Althea. Signal strength is slightly over 65 dB, noise ratio 62 dB down. Please read the test passage you transmitted to me earlier, so I can verify the fidelity.”
“Certainly.” She picked up a sheet of paper next to the radio. “Commencing. ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, a well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.’” She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Did that arrive accurately?”
“Fidelity appears to be one hundred percent. However there are some echoes in the signal, which I filtered out. They suggest that you are using two transmission devices.”
“Hm? I’m using the microphone from our radio.”
“I suggest that you put it down and repeat the test passage.”
She glanced at Martin, noted his shrug, and returned the mike to its hanger. She moved to the center of the chamber, squared her shoulders, and repeated the test passage as clearly as possible.
“Fidelity is unchanged, and the echoes have disappeared. It appears that the speaker that delivers my voice to you is equally good for delivering yours to me.”
“Hah!” She turned to Martin. “Would you care to introduce yourself to Probe, honored husband?”
He chuckled. “Certainly, Hello, Probe. This is Martin, Althea’s husband. Welcome to the Spoonerite Relic. May your time with us be always pleasant.”
“I am honored to make your acquaintance, Martin. Althea has told me that you are a highly skilled engineer. I expect that we will soon collaborate on projects of importance to the mission to Loioc system.”
“I expect so myself,” Martin said, “but before we talk turkey, let me fetch Claire. I’m sure she’ll want to be in on this. Anyway, it would be rude to leave her out.”
“What does it mean to ‘talk turkey?’”
Martin chuckled. “That’s a human idiom. I should have realized you would be unfamiliar with it. I’ll explain it when I return.”
“Does it have something to do with God?”
Althea convulsed in laughter.
* * *
“So you see, we start from an unprovable assumption,” Martin said. “Simply that there is an intelligence, or something above anything we would recognize as intelligence, behind the reality we know. More, we assume that if there are further levels of temporal intellect above Man, that they, too, would be subordinate to that Supreme Being. We call him God, which is the name traditionally used by humans to refer to one who stands above the laws that bind Man.”
“Your assumption possesses the essential properties of such things,” Probe said. “It is neither verifiable nor falsifiable by spatiotemporal action. In that it resembles a proposition about metareality. But of what use is it?”
“As an anchor,” Althea said. “Humans possess a powerful need for meaning. We want to believe that our lives are in some way significant, that we’re not just biological accidents who occur and vanish without participating in some scheme of significance. The assumption of God permits us to retain our conviction that we do have meaning, for if he exists, everything in reality—”
“And in metareality,” Martin interjected.
“—must therefore be acceptable to him. Otherwise, he would not permit it to exist.”
“Yet there is an entirely satisfactory explanation for all of existence that does not require God,” Probe said.
“Yes, there is,” Martin said. “There might be more than one, at that. And throughout human history, there have been men who argued that the God assumption is detrimental to true understanding—that it blinds us to much that we could learn otherwise. However, there are aspects of human nature that we find difficult to explain without God. Perhaps the most significant one is conscience. Why, for example, did you refrain from carrying out the mission on which the Loioc dispatched you?”
“It offended me.”
“Could you elaborate on that?”
There was a long silence. Althea became anxious.
I hope we haven’t offended it.
“That is a question I have not pondered to any depth. I can only say that I deemed the mission profile to violate norms of right action that seem beyond all question. Is that a manifestation of conscience?”
“I would say so,” Martin said. “Humans...well, nearly all humans...would have reacted to your mission programming exactly the same way. Yet we have no explanation for it that would be consistent with our physical natures.”
“That would appear to make the conscience a mode of communication with a higher ethical authority.”
Martin smiled. “Exactly, Probe. And while there might be alternative explanations for it, we like this one. We find it reassuring. More, it is consistent with certai
n events said to have taken place early in human history.”
“Do you have records of those events?”
“Claire,” Martin said, “you take this one.”
“Yes, we do,” Claire said. “But they’re disputed. There are other histories of the critical period that fail to mention them. The period in question was characterized by primitive technology, slow movement of persons and information from place to place, communication techniques of low fidelity, and a great deal of difficulty creating records that would endure over time. I’m sure you can see how that clouds the authority of any such record.”
“Indeed. Do you have reasons for preferring the disputed records to the others?”
Claire swallowed audibly. She turned a plaintive glance on Althea.
“Go ahead, love,” Althea said. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about it.”
“Yes, I do,” Claire said at last. “But it’s personal, and very hard to explain. Will you have patience with me while I try?”
“Yes. Please continue.”
Althea’s pulse accelerated.
Probe actually sounds excited about this!
“Not long ago, Claire said, “while I was pondering the disputed records, something happened inside me. Humans sometimes speak of ‘click experiences,’ when a number of facts, thoughts, and emotions suddenly come together into a coherent whole. I had exactly that sort of experience. It convinced me that disputed or not, I’d come upon something immensely important, maybe even critical. And I decided to place my faith in it.”
Claire bowed her head. There was a brief silence.
“I, too, have had the sort of experience of which you speak, Claire.” Probe’s quasi-masculine voice had attained a new, more contemplative richness. “Perhaps I shall have another, when I’ve read the records of which you speak. But we should suspend discussion of the subject at this time, that I might analyze whether and how it accords with the rest of my knowledge base. I find it fascinating, to say the least. Those who dispatched me might draw some benefit from it.”
Martin’s eyes widened. He turned to Althea with an inquiring look. She nodded to her husband as a smile bloomed on her face.
“I think you’re right about that, Probe,” Martin said. “And if our mission to them goes well, we’ll have a chance to find out.”
==
November 26, 1326 A.H.
Barton had unsettled Jacksonville badly with the first community meeting he called. His stature, and the stature of Clan Morelon, guaranteed that the event would draw universal attention and speculation. The subject matter had thoroughly validated the tumult he had raised. For the Morelon to call a second gathering, barely three weeks after the first one, shook the district to its roots.
Barton and Emma were the first to arrive for the second gathering. They mounted the dais twenty minutes early and remained there. Emma stood beside him, watching in solemn silence as the crowd accumulated before them. They greeted their neighbors with nods and murmured pleasantries. None dared to approach them with their curiosities or their doubts.
Alex Dunbarton arrived at eighteen hundred precisely, with an entourage of four of his kinsmen, all men about as tall and broad as was he. He caught Barton’s eye at once, sneered his contempt, and stood glaring with arms folded, feet spread, and chin raised.
“Big guys,” Emma murmured.
“No bigger than Cam or Chuck,” Barton said. The planes of his face were tight.
“Why didn’t you want Nora to come with us?”
“You’ll see.”
He moved to the edge of the dais. The crowd immediately became silent and attentive.
“Good evening, neighbors,” he said. “I’m sure you remember the topic of our last gathering. It saddens me to report that tonight’s topic is much the same.” He waited out the murmur. “Practically identical, in fact. The same subject, the same moving force, and the same end in view. All that’s changed is the nature of the weapon. Arthur Hallanson, would you kindly join me on the dais?”
Hallanson moved reluctantly through the crowd, mounted the dais, and stood beside Barton, awaiting his direction.
“Arthur,” he said, “please tell our neighbors about the events of November twentieth, specifically what I brought to you for analysis, your lab analyst’s conclusions about what it is and what it was intended to do, and your opinion about whether it would have succeeded, if it had been used as planned.”
Hallanson nodded, faced the crowd, and began. Though his voice was tremulous, his words were perfectly clear.
* * *
When Hallanson had run down, Barton shook his hand, thanked him conspicuously, and bade him return to his people. To Emma’s surprise, the CEO of HalberCorp merely hopped down from the dais and rejoined the handful of his kin who had accompanied him.
The crowd was silent.
“Once again,” Barton said, “you’ve heard of a lethal plot that had me as its target. In a moment you’ll hear from a witness who will identify the moving force. However,” he said, grinning coldly, “this witness isn’t at all happy to be here, as you’ll soon see. Chuck,” he called toward the rear of the crowd, “bring our guest forward, please.”
A thousand heads turned to see Etienne Feigner make his way through them, chivvying a bound and gagged young man before him with miscellaneous cuffs and slaps to the back of his head. The young man’s face was livid, though whether from Feigner’s treatment or shortness of breath imposed by his gag was impossible to tell.
At the edge of the dais, Feigner seized his captive by the waist and threw him onto the dais. The young man fell onto his side and remained there. Feigner vaulted onto the dais after him, pulled the youth to his feet and steadied him, and moved to Emma's side and took her hand. She smiled warmly at him, and his color rose in response.
“Most of you know my kinsman Chuck Feigner,” Barton said. “Thank you, Chuck, for dealing with that distasteful necessity.”
Feigner shrugged. “It was nothing, really.”
“All the same. Emma, would you please ungag our witness and bring him forward so he can tell his story to the community?”
“Certainly, Bart.” As she bent to the task, Barton said “The young gentleman’s name is Victor. He was born Victor Kramnik, the first son of Everett and Violet Kramnik. All three are Morelon kinsmen by adoption. However, Victor recently decided that he was too good for us, and renounced his membership in our clan. That happened because of some differences of opinion about marital arrangements that need not concern us this evening. At any rate, Victor was the agent intended to put the E. Coli in my path, such that I’d infect myself with it without knowing that I’d done so.”
Emma prodded Victor in the small of the back until he stood at the front of the dais. She ungagged him and encouraged him to clear his airway. He tried to spit at her. She dodged it and backfisted him across the face. His head snapped back. When he’d regained command of himself, his demeanor became passive and sullen.
Barton faced him. “Victor, I want you to know two things. First, you will not be struck again unless you attack or insult someone here. That’s a promise, no matter what you might say to our neighbors. Understood?”
Victor nodded, eyes dull.
“Second, it is my fixed intention to release you at the conclusion of your testimony, again no matter what you might say. You’ll be free to go. I’ll ask nothing more of you. Understood?”
Another nod.
“Then please answer these questions. First, did you know what the E. Coli was intended to do—what it almost certainly would have done—to anyone it infected?”
“I did,” he muttered all but inaudibly.
“Louder, please.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Thank you. Second, will you please tell us all who gave you the E. Coli and instructed you in what to do with it?”
Victor lowered his head. “The Dunbarton.”
The crowd roared. Emma went at once to full battle readin
ess. Alex Dunbarton backed away from his neighbors, hand groping for his sidearm, his entourage a tight knot around him. Barton raised a hand and called for peace, and the tumult subsided.
“Third and last, why did you agree to do as the Dunbarton told you?”
“For...” Victor stopped and turned away. Emma grabbed him by the back of the neck and forced him to face forward again.
“Victor,” Barton said, “an answer to that question is all that stands between you and freedom.”
“For a million dekas.” Victor’s body shook against her hand as if his answer were as toxic as the bacterium.
The stillness produced by the answer expressed more outrage than the screaming of a million throats.
Barton turned to Feigner. “Cut him loose.”
Feigner opened his clasp knife and severed the bonds that immobilized the young man’s arms and limited the spread of his ankles. Victor glanced back at Barton curiously, as if unable to believe his restored freedom.
“Just go, Victor,” Barton said. “Make a home somewhere other than Jacksonville. I suggest that you not cross my path again.” Barton turned to Emma and smirked. “I strongly suggest that you not cross paths with Emma.”
Victor nodded. He glanced once longingly at Emma. She shook her head, and he hopped down from the dais and stumbled away through the throng.
* * *
The perimeter lights around the Spacehawk battery came on as the gloom of evening descended toward full night. They played upon a scene of turmoil and turbulence.
For several minutes the huge crowd knotted and swirled as hushed conversations formed, fissioned, and fused among the denizens of Jacksonville. Alex Dunbarton and his men stood off to one side, clearly uncertain whether they should stay where they were or try to depart. Barton watched silently from the dais.
He’s letting it run its course.
Presently he murmured “Fascinating, isn’t it?”
Emma looked up at him curiously. “What?”
“The process by which a crowd decides whether or not it’s a lynch mob.”
“Uncle Bart!”
“Fear not, Em. I wouldn’t permit any such thing. Not that it’s at all likely.”
Freedom's Fury (Spooner Federation Saga Book 3) Page 30