by Chris Bunch
“Of course,” the Al’ar said. “I will make a side comment here. How can these Chitet be logical, if they, and I use your words, call themselves most logical?
“Logic is a condition, an absolute. Can a Terran be a little bit alive? A little bit dead?”
“You’ve never been to some of the bars I have on a Sunday night,” Wolfe said in Terran. He switched back to Al’ar. “So all these years this must have been working at the Chitet. They valued the war, because they imagined that when it was won by the Terrans, they would be able to find this secret weapon, or whatever it was. And now they’re trying once more. What in the — what can they be seeking?”
“Perhaps we should seek them out and ask them.”
“Perhaps so.” Wolfe looked thoughtful. “But we’ve got a line to follow first.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Grayle banked into the street and hovered as her port slid open. Taen and Wolfe doubled from the shelter of the subway entrance to the ramp and went up it, and the ship climbed away.
“I was observed entering atmosphere,” the ship reported. “A robot craft was launched to investigate, according to my sensors.”
“Well, shame on you for getting sloppy. Will the bird, sorry, the craft come within observation range?”
“Negative.”
“Then don’t worry about it. Ship, when clear of atmosphere, assume the electronic characteristics of a Sorge-type vessel. I remember that as being in your repertoire. Let’s give the Federation patrollers some confusion if they pick us up.”
“Understood. Request name.”
“I guess it’d be subverting the purpose of a spyship to call yourself the Philby. Umm, you’re now the Harnack. I don’t think anyone will catch that.”
“Understood.”
“As soon as we’re able, blindjump us away from Sauros. You will be given the coordinates.”
“Understood.”
Wolfe stretched hugely. “Taen, I want a shower, about two pounds of near-raw animal tissue, a decent glass of fermented grape juice, and ten straight hours of sleep. And I’ll kill anyone who gets between me and them.”
The ship answered: “My sensors report a ship within range. It has not yet detected us but will within seconds. I shall not be able to evade detection.”
“I made a promise,” Wolfe said. “I’ll keep it. Open all frequencies. Let’s see who I’m going to murder.”
Five minutes later the call came: “Unknown ship, unknown ship. Please cut your drive, and stand by for boarding and inspection.”
“Son of a bitch,” Wolfe swore. “The singer’s a little more polite, but I still don’t like the song.”
“The Chitet,” Taen said.
“Yeah. I guess they’re running their own interdiction out here, as well as the Federation Navy. How many goddamned ships do they have, anyway? Ship, what are the characteristics of the craft?”
“I would identify the ship in question as being a light corvette, Federation-built, Hamilton class. It has superior armament, but its performance capabilities when new were inferior to mine.”
“Finally,” Wolfe said. “Something we can just run away from.”
“Perhaps,” Taen said, “that may not be the best idea?”
Wolfe looked skeptically at the Al’ar. “You will have to do some serious convincement to make me believe we should stand and fight a Hamilton-class corvette.”
“I think we can devise a strategy for that.”
“So what’s the purpose, besides general piss-off at being chased around so much?”
“In battle,” Taen said carefully, “sometimes a war leader can be distracted by the unexpected. Especially when it is aimed at himself and comes from nowhere.”
“Hmm.” Wolfe considered.
“The corvette is broadcasting once more, with the same message,” the Grayle said. “What should my reply be?”
“Stand by,” Wolfe said. “All right. Let’s start the ball rolling with your scheme. You can explain as we go.”
• • •
“Unknown ship, unknown ship, cut your drive immediately. We are armed, and will launch missiles unless you obey our command instantly. This is your last warning.”
“Now, this one I’m particularly proud of,” Wolfe said. “Built her all by myself. Watch the third screen.”
He touched sensors, swung a mike down, touched other sensors. One screen showed the computer simulation of the approaching Chitet spacecraft.
The screen Wolfe had told Taen to watch cleared, and the image of a rather handsome woman appeared, wearing a Federation Naval uniform.
“This is the Federation Monitor ship Harnack,” Wolfe said, and the onscreen lips moved. “Who is attempting to contact this unit?”
Static blared, then:
“This … this is the exploration ship Occam,” the voice said, now sounding unsure of itself. “We are conducting an authorized control of the space around the planet Sauros. We request we be permitted to board and inspect your vessel.”
Wolfe touched sensors, and the woman onscreen frowned in anger.
“I say again, this is the Federation naval vessel Harnack. How dare you order a Federation ship to do anything?”
“Please stand by,” the voice bleated. “I am summoning the captain.”
“Occam, eh? Another goddamned logician.” Wolfe grinned tightly, waited.
“This is Captain Millet of the Occam. My watch officer reports that you are a Federation naval vessel. Is that correct?”
“Affirm.”
“Would you please transmit your recognition signal?”
“We do not have such data,” Taen said.
“Neither do they. Spoofing people who want codes is easier than standing on your head in a zip-gee field. Ship, broadcast blue, green, blue-white colorbands.”
“Understood. Transmission complete.”
There was dead air for a time, then:
“Harnack, this is Occam. I do not understand your signal. That is not on the list of recognition signals we were provided.”
“Occam, this is Captain Dailey of the Harnack. I am thoroughly tired of this nonsense. By what right do you have to order any ship to stop anywhere at any time?”
“I have my orders from my superiors.” Now Millet’s voice was as uncertain as his subordinate’s. “It is my understanding that such a matter has already been arranged between our governments.”
“This is Harnack.” The woman appeared completely outraged. “Perhaps you are not aware of the function of a monitoring vessel. We operate directly under Federation High Command on matters of the most critical importance. I received no such information from my own superiors before undertaking my mission and doubt whether any such understanding exists.
“Now, sir, I have orders for you. You will cut your drive and stand by. I have already sent a com reporting this absurd incident. I propose to board you and examine your papers. Any attempts to resist will be met with the appropriate response. Do you understand, sir?”
A long silence, then:
“Message understood. We are obeying your instructions.” Then, plaintively: “I am sure this matter will be settled to our mutual satisfaction.”
Again Wolfe smiled, a smile that was not at all humorous.
• • •
The watch officer waited nervously in the port. Beside him two other Chitet stood, hastily adjusting their best shipsuits.
He felt a hum of a shipdrive as the other ship closed with his, the clang as their ports met, sealed.
He stiffened to attention, determined to impress this martinet of a Federation captain before she could do his career any further damage.
The port opened, and utter horror burst out, impossibly thin and corpse-white, a nightmare that should no longer exist. The officer clawed for his pistol, fell dead with half his face blown away.
As the corpse fell, one of the other Chitet was killed where he stood; the second managed two steps and a gargling scream before he, too,
died.
The Occam’s intercom chattered something as Wolfe cleared the lock. He wore a light Federation naval space-suit, carried a pistol in one hand, a fighting knife in the other.
“That way,” he said, voice metallic through the suit’s external speaker. “To the bridge.”
A man looked around the port and ducked back as Wolfe fired, searing a hole in the bulkhead where he’d been. Joshua jumped to the passageway, sent three blaster bolts down it without looking, and ran in the direction he’d indicated.
• • •
There were five humans in quiet, plain-colored shipsuits on the bridge of the Occam. Four of them were still alive. The fifth lay sprawled across a nav table, blood from his slashed throat pooling on a starchart. The four had their hands in the air.
“Come on, Millet,” Wolfe shouted. “Tell them, or I blow the atmosphere unit.”
The captain hesitated, then keyed a mike. “All hands, all hands, this is the skipper. We have been attacked, and I have surrendered the ship. Do not offer any resistance. I repeat, do not offer any resistance.”
He looked at Wolfe, features invisible in the darkened faceplate. “What do I do next?”
“All hands to Supply Hold Delta,” Wolfe said. “Five minutes. If anybody shoots, we dump the air. Five minutes, we dump the air anyway.”
“But — what does the Federation — why — how can — ” one of the other men on the bridge sputtered.
Wolfe sent a bolt shattering past his face in reply, and two screens on the control board fragmented. The man yelped and ducked.
“No questions, no goddamn answers! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Wolfe shouted, herding them toward the compartment hatchway.
They moved, stumbling, not looking where they were going, eyes returning again and again to the impossible form of the Al’ar, standing silent, gun ready.
• • •
“So what did you do with the crew?” Cormac asked.
“We dumped them on … let’s say a certain world where they’ll be able to reach civilization in a week, maybe two. They had plenty of rations, two guns.”
“You’re getting soft in your old age, Ghost Actual,” Cormac said. “I can remember a time when — ”
“That’s what … someone else accused me of,” Wolfe interrupted. “Guess that’s the price of being lovable. Besides, they saw — or think they saw — some things I’d like people to learn about in a while. I’m trying to complicate some lives with this one.”
Cormac snickered, turned serious. “Always wheels within wheels. Anyway, I can rig the ship the way you want it. I guess you’ll want me to do it myself, right?”
“By preference. The only way three people can keep a secret is if two of them’re dead.”
“All right,” Cormac said. “You haven’t gotten that lovable. Just as a guesstimate, I suppose you want me to rig you up a deepspace HAHO rig as well?”
“Just like the old days.”
“Except with different enemies.”
Wolfe shrugged. “I never could tell the difference between folks who were trying to kill me. By the way. I need this stuff yesterday, and I mean yesterday.”
“Of course. Like always. You know, I could drag things out,” the shiprigger said. “Make sure you’re around for the wedding. I could use a best man.”
“You’re getting married?”
“Yeah.” Cormac looked sheepish. “I’m old-fashioned.”
“Not this time,” Wolfe said, real regret in his voice. “I’m moving too fast to touch down.”
Cormac spread his hands. “I tried.”
• • •
The Grayle and the Occam, slaved together, lifted away from Malabar, reached their first jump point, disappeared.
• • •
“Countdown to fifth jump,” the ship announced.
Wolfe put the book down on his chest and waited.
Time, space moved around him, and the Grayle came out of N-space. His eyes returned to the book, read two paragraphs, then he tossed the volume, An Examination of the Relationship Among Ezra Pound, the Provençal Poets, and the Cygnus XII School of the Early 27th Century, in the general direction of the overflowing bookcase. It thudded down, the magnet in its spine holding it in place.
“Now that,” he said softly, “is easily the dullest goddamn book I’ve tried to read in ten years.” He went down the passage and rapped at the door to Taen’s compartment.
“Come on, you alien monster. Let’s see if you can break a few more of my bones.”
“So now we are in the heart of the Federation. Probably farther than any other Al’ar not on a diplomatic mission ever achieved,” Taen said.
“We are. And you’ll be thrilled to note this section of space is wildly different, far more colorful and exciting than any other we have transited.”
“Sarcasm once more.”
“When I was a boy,” Wolfe said, “I couldn’t wait until I made my first jump. Things were very glamorous in the romances, with ships hurtling past comets and planets and suns. I guess I thought it was like being on a bullet train at night, when you could look out and see the lights of the cities flash past. Then I found out that all you see is computer simulations unless you’re too damned close, and there’s nothing at all in N-space. More like the first time I rode the sea-train from Calais to New York, except there wasn’t even the ocean to stare at.”
“All hatchlings imagine things to be different than they are.”
“Did I ever say that reminiscing with you is just about as much fun as watching rocks become sand?”
• • •
“This is the starship Normandie to unknown paired ships. Please respond.”
Wolfe, looking worried, swung the mike down. ”Normandie, this is the tug Foss Enterprise. Go ahead.”
“This is the Normandie, First Officer Wu. Is that a Hamilton-class corvette you’re pulling?”
“Normandie, this is the Foss Enterprise. That’s affirmative. It’s the mothballed Hailsworth.”
“I thought I recognized my screen projection, Foss Enterprise,” the woman’s voice said. “I was just curious. I commanded the Hetty Green during the war. I don’t think I want to ask, but where’re you taking her to?”
“You’re right. You didn’t want to know. She’s headed for the knackers’ yard.”
A sound very much like a sigh came from the speaker. “Thanks, Foss Enterprise. What’s the line … ‘but at my back/I always hear/Time’s winged chariot,’ something or other?”
“That’s ‘hurrying near,’ Normandie.”
“Yeah. That’s it. This is the Normandie, out.”
Wolfe turned away the speaker. “Nice to see there’s at least one other sentimental slob out here.”
“I do not like this,” Taen replied. “That was the fourth ship onscreen within the past few ship-hours. There are too many starships in this sector. There is too much chance of our being detected and challenged by either a Chitet ship or Federation Navy.”
“Now you’re the one who’s not thinking right,” Wolfe said. “Here, inside the Federation, there’s no reason for any naval vessel to challenge a ship proceeding on lawful business, and sure as hell no Chitet would dream of doing that. Hide in plain sight, and all that.”
“You are correct. I was thinking like an Al’ar, like an enemy.”
• • •
“This will be the last jump. Estimated distance from target world of Batan three ship-days’ journey if all navaids correct,” the ship said.
The world twisted, changed, and the Grayle entered normal space.
Half filling the screen in front of them was the capital world of the Chitet.
By his conservative dress, the man onscreen might have been a preacher. He was not.
With further good news for our people, Master Speaker Athelstan announced a two percent reduction in the approved luxury tax. This, he said, was due to the excellent and mature response from us all when he announced last ten-m
onth that we were consuming all too many nonessential goods and services. He promised that if this reasoned pattern continues, it might be possible …
Joshua turned away from the measured movements of the newscaster’s face.
“Nice to hear that,” he said. “It’d be a real pain if the bastard wasn’t home to give us a nice, logical response to events.”
• • •
“It has been too long since I’ve done stupid things like this,” Joshua said.
He wore a bulky deepspace suit and stood next to a stack of metal rafts nearly as tall as he was, Cormac’s High Altitude, High Opening rig. Short lengths of chain ran to rigid metal bars connected to the four corners of the bottom raft. The small hold of the Grayle was crowded.
“Twelve beat until the correct time,” Taen said. He sealed his own suit.
Joshua snapped his faceplate shut. “Any time.”
“Atmosphere being removed.”
The slight ambient noise coming through the suit’s insulation died.
The air rushing out into space tugged at the Al’ar, and he steadied himself against a stanchion.
The lock opened all the way, and Joshua stared out at the green-and-white bulk of Batan. They were only a few hundred miles above the planet, barely outside range of the Landing Authority.
Taen and Joshua slid the metal stack to the edge of the hold, and Joshua floated out into space.
The chains grew taut and pulled him gently away from the Grayle. The lock door closed.
He spoke into the bonemike. “Execute orbital change as directed. You now are required to take commands from either this station or from the one who remains aboard.”
“Understood.”
Joshua saw brief wisps from the ship’s secondary drive, and slowly the two starships moved away from him.
“Orient suit. On zero,” the ship said, “fire suit drive … five … four … three … two … fire.”
Wolfe had turned as the Grayle instructed him and, on count, twisted the red handle on the canister attached to his stomach. Gas hissed for a time, then the cylinder was empty. He pulled two D-rings and let the container float away to find its own orbit as he began his descent into gravity.