A Liaden Universe® Constellation: Volume Two

by Sharon Lee

  The winds continued to grow; the shift in the pressure systems suddenly painting an all-too-cogent picture. Brunner worked longer hours still, pushing himself and the station’s resources, combing the literature.

  Something . . . Terran would have it that something “bad” was hovering on the horizon. One hesitated to ascribe such values to the outcome of systemic interactions. And yet something . . . at least, different, was bearing down upon them. Hints whispered to him from the altered pressure systems, from the increasing erratic winds, if only he had wit enough to understand . . .

  * * *

  The Scout stood by while Brunner teased a possible pattern from the various historical models. If the scout recognized what he was doing, or knew how it might be done more efficiently, he said nothing, but that was the way of scouts; they interfered as little as possible unless you failed of doing what they wanted of you. So, for the moment at least, the scout wished him to work.

  Eventually, Brunner smoothed the touch panel with a reluctant thumb, watching as the images reformed, slowing as the storm moved in reverse, dividing into two smaller storms and a smudge of low pressure. He tapped the screen again, looked up to his silent watcher.

  “Service? It will be a number of minutes before the information I seek appears on screen.”

  The scout sighed lightly, his hands saying something Brunner couldn’t read, and then said, quite abruptly, “While the data, which should belong to all of us, is encrypted, the words, which should belong only to the speaker and their intended recipient, are not.”

  Brunner felt his face heat. He bowed, acknowledging receipt of information. “And this is monitored where beside my own instruments, if I may know?”

  “It is recorded, as a side channel, along with all the broadcasts from Klamath.”

  “This is not simply a science station, then?” Brunner asked sharply, though he had for some time suspected—

  “Of course not, except as you allow the study of human systems in disintegration to be a science.”

  Brunner acknowledged the point with another bow, and looked back to his screen.

  “Science can be so many things,” said the scout, speaking to the wall perhaps, or to the floor, or to himself. “It can be imprecise and immediately useful and reek of technology and action, or it can be an escape of beautiful equations and elegant systems, backed by theory and distanced by case numbers and modeled meta-statistical analysis.”

  The scout paused as the screen Brunner was watching reformed. The storm systems moved forward once more, dutifully came together, marched across the planet picking up energy, joined two into one, and again, two into one, the cyclonic motion barely apparent early on and then—

  Thumb-tap.

  The systems stopped moving.

  Thumb-tap.

  The screen now displayed four views, all tagged with the same date and time.

  The top left showed a widespread storm, faltering, moving northward above the equator with its center diffuse.

  The top right showed a tight-knot of mini storms first hugging the northeastern coast above the equator, then following a wide bay north.

  The bottom two veered from the northern route and crossed the isthmus, where both blossomed into monstrous cyclonic storms. While the one on the right rushed eastward and then slowly dissipated, the one on the left veered deep into the Chilonga Mountains after striking the river delta.

  Brunner knew the “why” of the blossom into major storm: on the west side of the isthmus, the ocean level was considerably higher and considerably colder than on the east side. Assuming the storm survived the not inconsiderable plunge down the cliffs of the isthmus.

  “These are the major models which are now at work.” Brunner said conversationally. “One and Two are most standard. Four is the ‘preferred’ model of my predecessor. She was very climate-oriented in her approach, I think. In going back over her work and comparing it to the standard models, I find that hers were often less wrong than those models, which is interesting given the variability we think we see.”

  “Less wrong is a useful trait, is it not?” murmured the scout.

  They both watched as the images ran again in hypermotion, Brunner mumbling a distant, “Indeed. In theory, it is better.”

  Thumb-tap. Models One and Two disappeared from the screen. Three and Four immediately resized themselves, greedily filling the space.

  Number Four played its image out, giving way to another image, which formed itself with a view of a cloud formation far to the west. That formation, shown as small storms, dispersed into a weak trough, then . . . the trough joined a small storm, which merged with a larger which . . . stopped about where Number Three began.

  “My current model,” Brunner said, “is Number Three. On screen to the left is the model that predicted the current positions within this . . .” a touch on keypads, a screen tap, an overlay.

  The images were not identical by any means, but on a gross scale, storm overlaid storm, calm highs overlaid calm highs.

  “Ah,” said the scout, executing a small bow.

  “My model works from the assumptions my predecessor made initially, modified to reflect my conclusions that we have here in Klamath a planet acting more like a gas planet than a core planet, a planet whose weather is not only driven by surface and near-surface conditions but by core convection and other inconvenient energy sources such as groundswell tides and the like.”

  “So there might be a paper in this for you? A publication is always good for the career!”

  Brunner shook his head, his attention still mostly on the screen and the predicted, coming storm.

  “I am not so sure,” he said to the scout. “The information may be owned by my employer, after all. If they care to admit that it exists. At the moment, the chief is broadcasting my real-time information, but uses the old model for the official predictions he broadcasts.”

  The scout raised his hands, palms up.

  “Chief Thurton values the neutrality of the station high, does he not?”

  Brunner sighed. “Staff is under orders to write a letter of dissent to your involving the mercenary unit in our work. I am to report any actions I perform under your orders or in your name.”

  “Yes,” said the scout, who was pacing the long axis of the room almost as if he were at exercise. “You must, of course, follow protocols. My orders to this point amount to you doing your work, making your predictions, and sharing that information with interested parties. My actions are the same; report them as you must. In the meanwhile, you must be aware that your communications with those on the surface may be public.”

  Now the scout favored him with a bow of direct instruction.

  “As I understand matters, you are from time to time in direct contact with the party carrying your monitor. Continue that association, and share with that group your exact forecasts. You are to make the fullest use possible of the Stubbs unit. Read the manual thoroughly, and forward information as may be required to maintain the unit’s performance. Report and forecast the weather accurately. I do not require you to seek out other interested parties with whom to share your predictions; simply make them, forward them to your party on the ground and to the control room where Chief Thurton must see the information shared.”

  He spun, standing ready on the balls of his feet, as if he expected to need to run, or leap—

  “Understand me, Brunner. In so far as you are able, insure the continued performance of the Stubbs unit. That serves the purpose of the organization which hired your company and it serves my needs as scout-in-place. As to the needs of the group carrying the unit . . . inform them that I have forbidden landings by unaccredited spacecraft, and that ongoing scheduled unmanned replenishment may go forward. I have broadcast a request planetwide that civilian populations not be targeted and that I will permit landings on my approval only and by agreement of locally recognized authorities.”

  Brunner bowed in receipt, and considered his latest predicti
ons.

  “Then I am to suggest to—Corporal Robertson— that the Stubbs should be on a protected elevation away from rivers within three Standard days and that wind speeds of up to one-fourth the speed of sound are probable?”

  The scout bowed his assent.

  “You are so instructed.”

  * * *

  “Brunner, you guys are life savers!”

  “Please, if you are in a secure location do not leave it! You are only in the eye!”

  A very slight delay and then: “Oh boy, aren’t we. This has gotta be the best weather we’ve seen on this place. Feels great. Even smells clean, kinda like ocean!”

  Yes, of course it smelled like ocean . . .

  “Redhead, you are not in the center of the eye—this lull is very glancing. Mere moments. Eat something! And I must say it is very dangerous for you to move during the storm. Please do not do it again unless threatened—You are already—”

  But there, he hadn’t thought to start a threaded conversation, and the delay was small, so a thread was not really required.

  “Are you crazy? I was hunkered right down here the whole time. Haven’t moved a bit except to empty water out of my boots!”

  Not moved? But, the instruments were quite clear, and quite accurate!

  “Say again?”

  A sound: footsteps behind him. He waved for quiet.

  “I said I haven’t moved!” Redhead repeated. “I felt like I was floating a couple times but there’s no water here that didn’t drain off! We’re tucked in a grain storage ranch with everything made out o ’crete! But the rest of your info is right, hey? Been working out for you?”

  Indeed, the rest of the information was useful—treasure beyond price. And her report of floating; the fact that the unit reported it had moved by nearly a meter! That required study.

  “It is excellent,” he told her. “You have done well, and I am very pleased!”

  “Good. I’m gonna grab something to eat! Liz says a spotter claims to see a wall o’ clouds. Out.”

  “Out,” said Brunner, but she had already gone. He sighed and turned away from the monitor.

  The scout stood nearby, smiling.

  “The young Terrans, they are amazing. One can hear the excitement in their voices . . .”

  Brunner frowned. Was it possible that the scout did not know?

  “Terrans?” he murmured.

  “Brunner, for this, yes, Terrans. Jack asked me—but no matter. Liz vouches for the child as from Surebleak. Liz is from Surebleak. Surebleak is Terran.”

  Brunner bowed in acknowledgment, allowing irony to be seen, and turned back to his equipment.

  “Your point, Tech Brunner,” the scout murmured, perhaps amused. “In the meanwhile, it may be well for you to produce both local and regional forecasts, as usual.”

  “I have been remiss,” Brunner said, without looking around. “In yestermorning’s recorded note from our galandaria was this message, which you have perhaps not heard.” He touched a key.

  Flat silence except for the susurration of the room’s air-moving equipment, then Miri Robertson’s steady voice, “Liz ain’t too happy about these new landing regs. Says it sounds iffy as all get out. Wants to know if I can pinbeam a voice message outta here to merc headquarters if things get tight. Dunno what that might do to the power supply and your info.” A slight hesitation, as if she was listening, then: “Liz says relay to the scout that any merc transport should be passed, no questions.”

  Brunner looked at the scout.

  “I have not answered.”

  “I hear this.” The scout sighed.

  “Ah. Well, hear also that the girl holds the master key. When she is bored she reads the manuals.”

  The scout glared—and then laughed, fingers dancing out an unread phrase.

  “Yes, of course! All honor to you. Were I on a strange world which is doing its best to rid itself of humankind, encircled by enemies who are trying to kill me, I would also need light reading. Liz Lizardi hires quality help. I hear this, too, Weatherman.”

  * * *

  No matter how engrossing the work, a man must sometimes tend to other necessities. Brunner acknowledged that he was becoming a danger to the data when he caught himself reviewing the same data loop for the fifth time.

  Dragging himself to his quarters, he fell fully dressed into his bunk, plummeting instantly into sleep.

  “Ichliad Brunner! Report to the meteorology lab!”

  The words reached him in the dreamless depths, senseless as stones.

  “Ichliad Brunner to the weather deck, pronto. Ichliad Brunner—”

  That voice roused him, and he pushed upright, still more asleep than awake. The weather deck—Yes, surely! He had told her to call for him by name—

  “Ichliad Brunner to the weather deck, pronto!” Again came the demand in Jack’s big voice, the speaker at his bedside taking up the cry echoing those in the hall outside his quarters. The door buzzer gave tongue, followed by pounding.

  Brunner threw himself across the room, slapped the door open and stepped back as Jack all but fell into the room.

  “You’re needed. Sorry to wake you.”

  Brunner stared. “What can possibly be worth all this—”

  “Under seal,” Jack interrupted. “We’ll talk when we’re private.”

  * * *

  His lab room was hardly private. The planetologist’s intern huddled near the real-time monitors, openly weeping. Brunner stopped, horrified. Why had she not been given the privacy such emotion required? He looked ’round to Jack, but that noisy person had stepped over to the aux monitors, tool belts silent, for a wonder, as if he wished not to be noticed.

  The scout stood with Station Chief Thurton some distance from the weeping girl, his face half-averted, as if he, too, wished to grant her seclusion. Dr. Boylan, the planetologist, stood at the intern’s side, apparently taking the part of kin.

  She looked up as Brunner approached, face grim.

  “Ah, here you are, Weatherman. Estrava,” she said, carefully touching the intern’s shoulder, “was following up on my request for drift correction. We’ve been using the dome of the Governor’s Hall as a target, it being gold-plated and reflective in a number of useful frequencies.” She took a hard breath and nodded at the screen. “We need you to confirm a disaster.”

  The monitor she indicated displayed a looping series of images, first in false-color infrared mode, then in visible wavelengths. It repeated: an area of relatively lush valley giving way to random buildings, then to an actual urban conglomeration dominated by a bright-lit structure all out of proportion to the rest. Suddenly smoke—or possibly fog—intruded, deepening from a vague white mist to a frothy greenish mass, drifting down from the hillsides, filling the valley and the town until only the top of the building remained visible. The image cut back to infrared—

  “An unusual flow,” Brunner said slowly. “It seems very dense. Were this some backworld, I would say smog. But this is Klamath, after all; fluke winds might conceivably have trapped a sulfur exhalation and created such a fog.”

  “Not fog,” the intern moaned, half-bent over the counter, like a bird favoring a broken wing. “Not fog. Not fog.”

  Brunner turned to her, keeping his face politely neutral, which was the least he could do for her distress. He’d had little enough to do with Estrava, the planetologist having laid claim to the bulk of her hours, and she nervous of Liadens in any case.

  “It’s not fog,” she said shrilly, straightening to stare directly into his eyes. “Look at it! The spectrum is wrong, the flow is wrong—people are dying!”

  Brunner looked as directed, frowning at the lack of definition.

  “What have we, then?” he asked the room at large, stepping forward, his fingers already on the fine controls.

  It was the scout who answered.

  “Death,” he said, his voice neutral to the point of aggression. He bowed, firmly, a bow of duty required.

  �
��As we need to know for certain, Ichliad Brunner. First, please confirm that what we see here is a poison gas. If this is the case we will wish to know of its dispersal range, potential mixing, and to track it if we might—”

  “Scout, this station is to remain neutral!” The station chief gestured with his hands, not with sense as the pilots might, but conveying urgency nonetheless. “The treaty requires that we not interfere.”

  “I require information!” the scout interrupted. “Your station is here at my whim, Chief Thurton.”

  “I think Phaetera might have something to say to that, sir!” the chief snapped.

  Brunner turned from the monitor and raised his hands, one to each combatant, seeking instruction.

  Chief Thurton drew a hard breath, turned his back on the scout, and walked away.

  “Do as he says, Brunner. You’ll give me a full report of all actions you perform for this man, and we will both sign a statement that you act under duress, as I do.”

  Brunner bowed at the retreating back.

  “And these coordinates,” he said to the helpful room, “do I have them?”

  “In the south,” the intern whispered. “Chilonga Center.”

  * * *

  On civilized worlds, among civilized people, disasters are accidents or acts of nature; they are not premeditated.

  In such times, a meteorologist’s declaration of disaster insures the issue of worldwide warnings and unleashes a gathering of willing assistance. Emergency plans bring together medical teams, rescue teams, housing teams—

  Klamath hung below the station, uncaring, uncivilized.

  Still, it was his necessity as meteorologist to confirm and declare the windborne poisons, the act of intentional war, a disaster.

  Perhaps someone would be listening, and thus be warned and saved.

  So his thoughts went, and he recorded the thing, and set thumb to it.

  The scout bowed.

  “A disaster declared, I hereby interdict and quarantine Klamath as a hazard to space travelers.”

  Brunner stared at the scout.

  “You cannot,” he said, hearing the protest as if it was spoken by someone else.

  “I can and I do,” the scout responded, weariness and sorrow apparent on a worn face. “Believe I do it lightly if you must.”