Haze and the Hammer of Darkness

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  There was something about the basement walls. They were all dark and metallic. Although he couldn’t tell for sure, he thought they were covered with lead sheets nanocoated with something to keep the lead from getting into the air. The last thing he noted was the heavy vault door set in the east wall of the basement. He wasn’t about to try to open that, not with the equipment he carried, but he was more than willing to bet that behind the heavy vault door lay an armory of some sort.

  He made his way back up the circular staircase, then closed the sliding panel.

  His internal sensors registered the change in energy fields. Someone had deactivated the outside security system. While he thought he’d bypassed all the alarms, there was always the possibility of another system, a totally passive one.

  Roget slipped to the rear wall and then dropped into a squat, facing the door. He waited. After almost five minutes, the door opened.

  Nerve-shredder blasts swept the back room even before the man stepped inside, and Roget flattened himself against the floor and rear wall. Despite his position, one bolt slashed Roget’s right leg. Sheer agony slammed up his leg and spinal column, and it took all his concentration to keep still and wait for the man—Smith—to step fully through the rear door.

  Roget fired a dart.

  Smith looked blankly at the narrow penetrator protruding from his chest, then tried to grab for it, but his fingers slipped away as his body began to convulse. The nerve shredder dropped from his other hand.

  Roget inched forward toward the paralyzed man, trying to get an impression of who or what, if anyone, remained outside. Just short of the still half-open door, he began to pick up signs of two other men, also with nerve shredders, standing outside, well back from the rear entrance. One wore goggles—heat/motion detectors.

  There was no way for Roget to cross the open distance without getting hit by the shredders, especially with one leg burning and numb. He eased awkwardly into a standing position and opened the waist-pak. Out came the explosive device. Step by step, he made his way back to the closet and the sliding panel, which he eased open before he tossed the device down into the basement.

  Then he hurried—as quickly as he could—out of the back room and into the front room, circling so that he would not be in the line of fire from the two men outside. He waited … and waited, keeping low so that he could not be silhouetted against the growing glow from the fire that was beginning to reach up the wooden staircase into the back room.

  He slowly moved until he was positioned beside the front door, one hand on the heavy stool that sat beside the processing console.

  Behind and around him the entire building shuddered, and the floor shivered, buckling upward in the back room. More flames began to lick upward in the rearward section of the building. He could sense one of the men behind the building rushing toward the rear door, hopefully to reclaim Smith.

  All sorts of nanomists began to flood the premises, along with water from an old-style fire sprinkler system, but the oils and chemicals in the supply bins of the microfabbing equipment in the basement had begun to feed the flames, and with some of them supplying oxygen, the fire continued to grow.

  Because the heat was getting oppressive, even as low as he was to the floor, Roget finally slammed the stool through the glass of the door. The rush of air offered a moment of respite before the fire intensified. Roget took a deep breath, then began to clamber through the lower part of the front door where the glass had been. A handful of people had gathered on the far side of Bluff Street, but Roget judged that his nightsuit would blur him enough against the shifting light created by the fire that his exit from the building would not be that noticeable.

  The toe of his boot on his injured leg caught on the metal rim of the door, and he had to use his free hand to help lever his barely responsive leg high enough to free his foot. Even so, if anyone saw his figure, no one yelled or said anything as he limped slowly and painfully up Bluff Street. Behind him the sound of klaxons and sirens rose, and fire lorries and local patrollers converged on the burning building that held DeseretData.

  It took Roget almost an hour to reach his apartment, by foot and slowly, because he didn’t want any record on the tram system of where he’d been. From there, he immediately burst-sent a message to his controller, explaining the probable armory behind and beneath the smoldering ruins of DeseretData, as well as the microfabbing equipment and nerve shredders, and an explanation that the discharges from the devices used by the three men had apparently set the fire. He wasn’t about to report that he had, and neither the colonel nor his controller would have wanted that in a report.

  Within minutes, a response arrived. Roget read over it, his eyes picking out the key phrases.

  … incendiary results unfortunate but understandable … will alert local authorities and request complete inventory of weapons discovered … federal inspector will arrive within hours to cordon area … remain in current status … do not contact inspector … As necessary … authorization to use all force required against those involved …

  That might be, but Roget was in no shape to use force against anyone, or do much more, for the moment and for at least several hours, until the worst of the nerve pain in his leg subsided.

  He also wasn’t in the least happy with the wording that suggested the fire was unfortunate. Without it, he’d most likely be dead or captured by the locals as an intruder, and the FSA certainly wouldn’t have been happy about that—except that he’d have been disavowed, with no records remaining to show his affiliation, and he’d have ended up relocated and brain-damped, if not worse.

  19

  21 MARIS 1811 P. D.

  Monday morning, Roget was awake early. Sunday had been a more detailed repeat of Saturday, except that he’d used the subtrans to visit the areas around five other local stations. While the geography varied somewhat, and the architecture more than a little, the similarities were overwhelming. He saw no sign of industrial facilities anywhere on the surface, but he’d found more than a few tunnels from the subtrans ramps that led to archways that didn’t open to him. There were parks and schools and shopping districts—and no wheeled surface transport, except for two powered chairs used by individuals who looked to have acute leg problems. He’d sweated through the humidity and observed happy people, sad people, laughing and crying children, and not a single individual in what looked to be a uniform. There were few overt signs of old age, but that was to be expected in an advanced society. There were also somewhat fewer children than he would have expected, which suggested a comparatively stable population—something rare in a society without apparent overt control measures. While he’d worn his camouflage-equipped blue shipsuit both Saturday and Sunday, there had been no place and no reason to use it, but he’d felt more comfortable having its capabilities.

  When he finished breakfast Monday at the nameless bistro where he and Lyvia had eaten on Saturday, he took his time walking to the square and then north to the Ministry of Education and Culture. He was early enough that he saw a constant flow of men and women in roughly equal proportions leaving the central square—but not nearly so many as he would have expected in a capital city.

  Surprisingly to him, there was a chill and brisk wind, as if fall or even winter were on the way. How could that be, given the redistribution of solar radiation by the orbital shields and the minimal axial tilt of the planet?

  Lyvia was waiting inside the Ministry of Education and Culture. She wore a deep blue singlesuit with a short cream vest. “You look better in the green than the blue or gray.”

  “The gray and blue both need cleaning. I’m not used to the humidity here. Is everywhere on Dubiety as damp as Skeptos or the Machiavelli Peninsula?”

  “The general humidity level depends on the altitude. People who have trouble with it often move to the Anasazi Plateau in the west of Thula. The altitude there is around two thousand meters. Some people think that Chaco is a charming town, with all the native stone. Andoya isn�
�t bad either. They’re both quiet, though. Very quiet compared to Skeptos or even Avespoir.”

  “It’s colder today,” Roget observed.

  “That’s not surprising. We’re headed into fall.”

  “But the shields…?”

  “Dubiety’s orbit is elliptical enough that the change in total radiation makes a difference. We don’t have hemispherical seasonal differences but planetwide seasons. It’s fall everywhere at the same time. Oh, there are local variations, usually because of altitude and proximity to the oceans, and when it does get colder in the mountains, we have stronger winds.” She gestured toward the doors that led to the ramps. “Shall we go? I imagine Director Hillis is waiting.”

  The fact that she spoke in old American reminded Roget, and he asked, “What sort of technology have you aimed at me so that I’ve been able to understand people better? I assume it’s been in my sleep.”

  Lyvia nodded. “It’s easier that way.”

  “What is it?”

  “A linguistics booster. You only needed a little help. Stenglish differs from old American more in cadence and pronunciation than in terms of basic vocabulary.”

  “How does it work?”

  “I have no idea, except that similar technology has been around for a long while, even in the Federation. Or it used to be.” Without waiting for a reply, she turned and headed for the ramp doors.

  The implication of her last five words bothered Roget, but he took three quick steps and caught up with her. He didn’t say anything until she paused at the third level before the door opened.

  “What about the other scout?”

  “I have no idea. Director Hillis could tell you.” Lyvia stepped through the door, turned to her left, and headed through the reception area, past a young-faced man who looked up abruptly as the two agents swept past him.

  If Hillis would tell, thought Roget, and if what she said could be trusted …

  Selyni Hillis stood waiting by the door to the very same conference room where Roget had first met her. “Please come in. We need to cover some matters quickly.”

  Roget and Lyvia had barely stepped into the conference room when Hillis closed the door and pointed to a bound volume set beside a blue case that was roughly five centimeters thick and eight centimeters on a side. Both rested in the middle of the conference table. “The Federation places a great emphasis on hard evidence. These briefing packets contain information printed on nearly-indestructible film sheets that can be washed and sterilized. In addition, the case contains the same information, as well as a great deal more, in link-insets compatible with Federation systems, including the portable versions that can be operated independently of ship systems.”

  “They won’t let anything like that onto a Federation ship,” Roget pointed out.

  “We’re aware of that. That’s why the information is set out in multiple formats. It can be read from the dropboat, run through whatever filters you think necessary, and transmitted from there. If someone is particularly suspicious, it can be read aloud and transcribed, or scanned with your own equipment and retransmitted.”

  “Is the technique for language implantation in there?” Roget gestured toward the case and bound volume.

  Selyni Hillis smiled. “We’re not about to spend time reinventing what the Federation has lost or buried.”

  “Then what will you offer them?”

  “Why don’t you read the material and see? That’s why it’s here.” Hillis took the chair closest to the door.

  Roget took the chair that put his back to the window, sat down, and reached for the bound volume. He opened it. The first inside page was blank. The second was a table of contents.

  The first chapter heading read “Planetary Radiation Shields.” Roget flipped to the first page of that section and read a page, then a second. He couldn’t say that he understood everything, or even that it was technically correct, but it purported to contain the theory and specifications for designing a shield like the ones around Dubiety.

  He looked up. “Assuming this is correct and not technical double-talk, why would you give this to the Federation?”

  “It’s not double-talk, and we do have our reasons.”

  Roget went back to the table of contents. The second heading read “Pseudo-Event-Horizon T-D Transposition.” He tried to read that section, but all he could glean from it was that it purported to be another form of interstellar jump drive. The next section dealt with a form of anomalous composite with radiation-damping properties. The next section was a proof of some sort that he could make no sense of at all, except for the title, “Trans-Temporal Entropic Reversal.”

  He looked up. “If I understand any of this, you’re offering technology, or technological insights that the Federation doesn’t have.”

  “Or has and has chosen not to employ. We’re not exactly privy to what the High Council or the FSA has decided.”

  “I don’t see the linguistic technology here, but you’ll give them technology they don’t have?”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words, Agent Roget. Let’s just say that in the interests of friendship and a willingness to avoid conflict, we’ll offer potentially useful technology.” Hillis smiled.

  “What’s to keep a Federation fleet from just showing up and taking whatever they want?” he countered.

  “We would hope that the Federation would read and consider our offerings first. That’s why we’ll be sending you back with the material. Our technical staff has been working on your dropboat over the weekend, and they believe they’ll have both boats ready to launch for your return by Thursday, Friday at the latest.”

  “Exactly how am I supposed to get through your orbital screens?” asked Roget.

  “We do have ways, but that is one matter that we’ll keep to ourselves for now. I trust you do understand that.”

  If there actually happened to be such a way, he could see why they wouldn’t be interested in revealing it. He was more worried that he was just being set up for what amounted to a suicide launch. But … if that were the case … again, why the elaborate charade? And if it weren’t a charade …

  “Why don’t you just defy the Federation?”

  “We believe in offering first,” replied Hillis. “In technological societies, all conflicts cost more than they recover, even for the winner.”

  “Historically, that hasn’t seemed to matter.”

  Hillis shrugged. “We hope that the Federation has learned something from that history. We have.”

  “You seem to think that—”

  “What we think is irrelevant to what the Federation will do. What the Federation thinks is what matters. Your job as an agent is to provide information. Your job as a human being is to provide insight and persuasion. Also, we’d like you to return to the WuDing in one piece. We’d prefer not to give the Federation any unnecessary excuses for stupid actions.”

  “I’m just one agent.” Roget paused. “I’d be interested to know how the other scout is faring.”

  “He isn’t as adaptable as you. He attempted to attack a number of people. He’s been restrained until he can be returned to the WuDing—or whatever Federation ship will handle your recovery.”

  “You’re sending us both back? How thoughtful.” Roget knew he shouldn’t have been so sarcastic, but it was a measure of his frustration—and something else he couldn’t immediately identify.

  “You don’t want to return to your beloved Federation?” Hillis’s words matched Roget’s almost perfectly in the degree of sarcasm. She turned to Lyvia. “He should see Manor Farm Cottages. Today might be best.”

  For just a moment, distaste flitted across Lyvia’s eyes. At least Roget suspected it was distaste. Whether Lyvia found another escort duty distasteful or whether she found going to Manor Farm Cottages unpleasant, he didn’t know, but either was possible.

  “Might I ask what these cottages are for?”

  “You’ll understand when you see them. If you have questions a
fter you do, Lyvia will certainly be able to answer them. We’ll meet again tomorrow sometime.” Hillis turned to Lyvia. “You know where to reach me.”

  “Yes, Director.”

  “That will be all for now.” Hillis stood. “Good day.”

  As he rose, Roget’s first thought was that he still didn’t understand the almost disjointed interview/interrogation system the Thomists were employing. Was it merely to get him into a room where they could upset or confuse him and then use technology to pull thoughts and information out of his mind? But why would they go to all the trouble of putting together an information package and then design it so that its contents could be received without any Trojan horses? Or did the very words themselves constitute something like that? And then there had been the words about not giving the Federation any excuse for stupid actions. Had that really been the point of sending agent scouts in the first place? Certainly, the FSA had done that before, as Roget well knew … personally.

  “We can go,” Lyvia said quietly.

  Roget followed her out along the corridor and down the ramp to the main level. Then she headed through the building foyer for the walkway leading to the central square. Her steps were long and deliberate. Once they were outside, Roget drew alongside her. He got the definite impression that she was less than pleased with the assignment the director had ordered.

  “How long will this take?”

  “Several hours, at the least.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “The regional subtrans in the square.” Her words were cool and clipped.

  Roget decided not to say more, not for the moment. In fact, he said nothing at all until they were seated side by side in a half-filled car on the regional subtrans line heading northward out of Skeptos.

  “How many stops before we get off?”

  “It’s the second stop.”

  Roget sat quietly through the first stop and rose when Lyvia did at the second. From his internals, he calculated that the travel time had been approximately eleven minutes. When they stepped out onto the underground concourse, they were the only ones. Lyvia marched toward the ramp, and Roget matched her step for step.