Moon Flower

by James P. Hogan

  The simview window set in the outside wall was showing a live morning cityscape looking out over the center of Tokyo. Callen voiced the house system again to change it to a subdued artificial composition of moonlight over mountains, and cleared away some sensitive papers that he had been working with earlier. The door tone sounded from the room system just as he was finishing. A reflex glance at the monitor that flashed to life in a corner confirmed that it was Krieg. “Admit,” Callen directed. It would have been too condescending of rank to go out into the hallway to greet Krieg; but he remained standing.

  Krieg appeared moments later, square-built and solid, clad in a brown leather hip coat and black, crew-neck sweater. He was from Milicorp’s dirty work department — on the payroll but not listed officially in the organizational chart. He was, and accepted being, a “deniable,” who dealt only through Callen. Thus, the exalted levels that included Rath Borland could legitimately claim no knowledge of his existence or his activities. Precisely how, or in conjunction with whom, he carried out his assignments, even Callen preferred not to know. They had both been in the business long enough to understand what needed to be done without leaving trails of records.

  Krieg rubbed his palms together as if he had come in from the cold, even though it was warm outside, and looked pointedly in the direction of the cabinet opposite the fireplace. It was an unconscious way that Callen had observed before of signaling that he had news that was worth something. Callen walked over to the cabinet, opened it, revealing a selection of bottles and glasses, and gestured for Krieg to help himself. Declining anything on his own part, he sat down in one of the armchairs, laid the envelope that he had brought from the study casually on a side table, and waited. Krieg mixed a concoction, added a couple of cubes of ice, and spread himself in the chair opposite. He took a sip and swilled it around in his mouth approvingly.

  “Amaranth,” Callen guessed.

  Krieg nodded. It was the name of a planet that Interworld had “acquired” for development somewhere around two years before, and from which Krieg had only recently returned. This would be a short stopover for him; he would be coming on the Cyrene mission too. “It’s all in place. Zannibe’s gotten to the head of the roost and told him his knotheads don’t have a clue. It’s all over the city that Zannibe says he’s seen hard times coming and they haven’t, and when it happens he’ll be the one who’ll know what to do. The whole country’s ready to buy his line as soon as water starts turning red and there are bodies falling over.”

  “Sounds like an upstream injection,” Callen said.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What are we using?”

  “PF13-C followed up by an aerosol herbicide. If that doesn’t work, a denatured local gastric virus. Latency five days. Peaks after two weeks. Mortality ten percent.”

  “Redesignated operational?” Callen checked.

  “Yup,” Krieg confirmed. “Code word Bistro.”

  Callen nodded and made a mental note of it. Then, changing his mind, he got up and went over to the cabinet to pour a measure of brandy while he went over the details again in his head.

  Amaranth possessed an anthropoid-pongid race that had spread to most of the planet’s habitable areas, and in its most advanced manifestations reached a stage of erecting large stone structures and warring with metal weapons and animal-drawn chariots that looked surprisingly like their earlier Terran predecessors. And, also in keeping with many Terran precedents, the rulers were often jealously protective of their image, and not disposed to subordinate themselves to the authority of intrusive aliens, whatever technological advances or other gimmicks they might have to offer.

  The usual Terran ploy was to find an envious rival or ambitious enemy who could be lured by the prospect of commanding unmatchable firepower, after which it was simply a case of playing one against the other until a winner emerged, who would from then on be a dependent, and therefore dependable, puppet to keep the population in line and ensure that the dues for all the ensuing benefits were collected. But it sometimes happened that no suitable candidates presented themselves, and the reigning native powers were relatively settled and content, with differences limited to occasional squabbles and small-scale skirmishes. Such was the situation in Amaranth.

  However, such societies could be breached by appeal to religious superstition. Zannibe belonged to an enterprising clan of nomadic astrologer-diviners who made a living out of scaring wealthy and powerful, but gullible, patrons — which usually lasted until they were either lynched or deemed it prudent to move on. On getting some glimpses of the powers and real magic wielded by the alien god-figures who had appeared from the sky, Zannibe had become an instant ally and readily placed himself and the small group of kin currently following him at their disposal to be coached in a scheme to subvert the ruler of a distant nation called Jorst, whose name was Xeo and who was proving recalcitrant.

  In essence, the plan was straightforward. By Krieg’s account, Zannibe had already been insinuated to speak at the court of Xeo, where he would have delivered a prophecy of a plague about to befall the land, that would be signaled by the river turning red. Xeo’s own priests, of course, would know nothing about this, since they didn’t have the benefit of a contact man to the Milicorp commando group that Krieg had quietly set up, equipped with the chemicals to make it happen. Synchronized with the arrival of the discolored waters at Xeo’s capital city on the region’s major river, drones deployed upwind would release a quantity of airborne toxins sufficient to destroy crops and induce sickness among inhabitants and livestock on a scale that no one would have difficulty in recognizing as a “plague.” The preferred outcome would then be to see the incumbent priesthood discredited and dismissed and Zannibe installed with honors as the new official seer and advisor to the throne, whereupon the pestilence would magically cease, and in due course a more cooperative policy could be expected to unfold — not the least reason being that Zannibe would find himself in need of comparably magical protection from the vengeful priests.

  But if that failed, more drastic measures would be employed. By “denatured,” Krieg meant that the viral DNA would degenerate with each replication cycle, eventually becoming nonviable and ending any further spread after a set period.

  Callen had no further questions or points to raise. He came back to his chair with his glass and sat down. “Fine” was all he said. It was the kind of operation that fell under the blanket understanding of what constituted “security” interests, without any express directive from Interworld. In the same way, Borland’s instructions to Callen had not been in a form that would be found in any company records. It was a subject about which the less said, the better.

  Krieg waited a few moments more before changing the subject. “How are things going at Cyrene?” he asked. “I’ve been out of touch. I hear they’ve got some kind of trouble there.”

  “Two follow-up missions have been sent. They both disintegrated.”

  “Disintegrated?” The furrows in Krieg’s naturally plowed forehead deepened.

  “People started disappearing. I don’t mean just the usual few Lewis and Clarks, or Hayseeds who decide they want to go native. I’m talking about wholesale — Interworld people, our own people, all the kinds who are on contract. We can’t even make sense out of what we get from the ones who are still left at the base there. They start talking about seeing the world differently, not being able to communicate. Nothing you say seems to mean the same anymore.” Callen shook his head. He could have given more detail, but he was tired. They had two months of voyage ahead of them for going into things like that.

  “Sounds like something in the air,” Krieg said, kneading the back of his neck with a hand.

  “They’ve tried all the tests anyone can think of. Nothing shows up. But one of the names that’s gone AWOL is of special interest. We’ve got a brief to track him down and bring him back. That was something I wanted to talk about. A scientist. Name of Evan Wade, from the Bay Area, used to be at
Berkeley.” Callen picked up the envelope from where he had set it down and passed it across. “Apparently he has unfinished business with Interworld that they want delivered. The also see him as a threat to their operation — subverting the natives.”

  “Hm. Sounds like something big,” Krieg commented. “What kind of scientist?”

  “He’s into some new type of wave that has to do with quantum physics. That’s about all I can tell you. There’s more in there.” Callen gestured at the envelope in Krieg’s hand.

  “So all we have to do is find a guy who obviously doesn’t want to be found, somewhere on an unknown planet that freaks out everyone who lands there. Anything else?” Krieg made it sound like something he polished off every day before lunch.

  “It’s not all bad,” Callen told him. “Before he disappeared, Wade put in a rec for some help. A guy at Berkeley called Shearer, who used to work with him, applied for the slot, and friends of Interworld made sure it went through.”

  “So he’ll be shipping out on the Tacoma too?” Krieg completed.

  “Right,.”

  “And he leads the way. We follow.”

  “Exactly. You know our motto: Keep it simple.”

  Of course, Wade would hardly be coming back to the base on Cyrene to meet Shearer, but the two of them would be in touch somehow. So it wasn’t going to be quite that simple. “We’ll need tabs on Shearer,” Krieg said after taking another drink and studying his glass for several seconds.

  “We’re putting a plant close to him,” Callen replied. “To be referred to as Dolphin. In fact, it’s already moving along. He’s in the same training class as Shearer at Interworld. They had lunch together in the cafeteria there yesterday.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Early on the morning set for departure, Shearer and the rest of his group from the familiarization sessions appeared back at the Interworld center in Redwood City from the hotels where they had been lodged. From there they would be bused out to the launch complex at Alum Rock, where they would be joining other groups who had been processed in other locations. They all knew each other pretty well by this time, and the groupings and friendships that would doubtless take shape during the voyage ahead could practically be foretold. They had learned what basics were known of Cyrene’s geography, physical characteristics, and strange climatic cycles, and something about the culture and customs of the inhabitants, as well as more about mission procedures and regulations. And of particular interest to Shearer as a physicist, even though from professional curiosity he was by no means a stranger to the subject, some time had been devoted to elaborating a little on the principles behind the new method of propulsion that would take them there.

  A modification to preexisting beliefs that physicists had been forced to accept as a result of the demonstrated success of Heim’s theory was that the speed of light that mattered was not with respect to the observer, as Einstein had maintained, but with respect to the dominant energy field in the region through which the light propagated. In the parts of the cosmos where conditions were cool and tranquil enough for neutral matter to form, in which the powerful electrical forces canceled each other, this meant the local gravity field. For over a century, all the experiments relating to this postulate had been performed in laboratories solidly nailed to the ground and stationary in the Earth’s field, and hence the crucial difference had escaped detection.

  The difference was crucial not only on account of the theoretical implications, but also in a more practical way, in that the operation of Heim ships depended critically on the gravitational field energy of the object being accelerated — i.e. the ship — compared to that induced by other gravitating bodies close enough to be significant. All of which was a long way of saying that they used conventional nuclear drives to get away from Earth’s immediate vicinity before kicking in the part that really got things moving.

  Another good reason for keeping the flips in and out of Heim space well removed from planets, moons, and busy regions of human space activity was that navigating across Heim space over interstellar distances was not yet a perfected art, and the point at which an arriving craft would materialize couldn’t be fixed with precision.

  The launch facility at Alum Rock was not, therefore, something akin to a railroad terminal, where, as some enthusiasts had prophesied in the early days, vessels would dematerialize from an underground terminal and reappear in similar environs at the destination, but a more traditional style of base from which travelers and freight were beamed up via ground-laser-powered shuttles to join the mother craft in orbit.

  Although, like most people, Shearer had seen such launch centers many times in pictures and news documentaries, and found the image of what they symbolized stirring, the reality as they approached was in some ways sobering. The perimeter of fences, concrete, guard posts, and even watch towers mounting weapons, gave more the impression of a military fortification than what was billed as a gateway to the stars. Even the sight of the shuttle noses rising above their service gantries and the surrounding clutter, and the massive, turretlike mountings of the two pusher lasers on the squared, blockhouselike peak above the sprawling power complex four miles away failed to relieve the feeling. The world ran on plunder protected by violence. Was this the great vision that they were now destined to export out into the galaxy?

  Jeff interrupted his brooding from the seat across the aisle. “Why so solemn, Marc? You’ve been talking for days about going to the stars. This is the big day, man.”

  Shearer smiled halfheartedly. “Oh, just making the best of the first morning in days when I can tune out, I guess. It’s been a hectic week.” Jeff was around most of the time. He seemed to have latched on to Shearer as a pal. Shearer didn’t really mind. Jeff seemed okay. He could come up with some interesting tidbits of Cyrenean history — no doubt from getting some homework in before leaving on his assignment.

  In a seat somewhere behind, Roy was foghorning to somebody about the racial clashes that were threatening to break up the fragile Texas Republic, and how they ought to nuke Mexico City before Occidena lost another piece. He was some kind of market surveyor and forecaster, big and fleshy, boorish in manner, and Shearer did his best to avoid him. The night before, in the hotel bar, he had been calling for bets on who would get the first lay with a Cyrenean.

  In front of Shearer, Arnold and Karen were engrossed in what looked like an intense debate about something. Arnold was an appraiser and planner of commercial real estate, Karen a financial analyst. It seemed that behind the scenes, schemes were already advanced for meshing Cyrene’s anticipated productivity with the Terran economy and establishing a basis for value exchange. Shearer had found them nominally social and agreeable as was true of most young, upwardly aiming professionals, but in the remote kind of way that stemmed from conforming to expected norms rather than anything real in the way of feelings. They typified the dedicated servants of the system that Shearer abhorred, upon whom its existence depended. What baffled him was not so much that they never questioned, but the apparent inability to conceive that anything could be questioned.

  The general company was drawn from the younger, relatively more junior elements of those who had attended the various courses and classroom sessions that week. They had also glimpsed and occasionally crossed paths with members of a higher-status contingent who would evidently be traveling to Cyrene too, but none of them were on the bus or the other two buses following behind. They were being flown over from the pad on the Interworld Center roof. Jerri Perlok had mentioned that among them was someone from the Corbel family, who had bankrolled Conrad Metterlin and owned over half of Interworld. She hadn’t said how she knew.

  She was sitting a couple of rows ahead on the far side. Through the drive out from San Jose and for most of the way up into the hills she had immersed herself in reading, but set it aside when they came within sight of the launch complex. Now she was upright and alert, her waves of dark, reddish hair prominent above the seat back, moving in s
hort starts as she took in every detail. By nature, Shearer had found, she was the opposite of Arnold and Karen — questioning everything, willing to give unconventional views an equal hearing, and probably incapable of conforming. But he had also noticed that she had the sense not to argue when outnumbered by people who weren’t listening. One of the few truly interesting people that life washed up out of its vast ocean from time to time, he had decided. She had a dog called Nim that she was taking with her to Cyrene. The hotel had found a place for him, and Jerri had brought him out once or twice in the evenings to meet the group. A few of them had seemed mildly disapproving, but Shearer liked dogs. They were intelligent, honest, affectionate, and totally loyal... traits, it often seemed, that had yet to evolve in much of humanity. Or had they existed at one time, and since atrophied?

  He hadn’t realized he was staring so obviously until Jeff’s voice teased, “You wish.”

  Shearer raised his eyebrows and didn’t try to deny it. “A guy could do worse, Jeff,” he agreed.

  Just then, the Interworld agent who was acting as courier for the group cut in over the speaker system. “When we get to the gate, there will be an individual security check. Everybody has to get off the bus. You’ll all need your regular ID, tax clearance certificate, and countersigned embarkation papers.”

  Nobody left the country owing money to the government. It wasn’t that the downsized regional governments wielded much real power these days. They functioned as collection agencies for the corporate empires and as caretakers to deal with social unrest and placate — or at least make token gestures toward — the dispossessed victims of the utopian order that everyone was assured now existed.