InterstellarNet- Enigma

by Edward M. Lerner

  In the workshop, as in the main gallery, sculptures loomed: big metallic constructions welded, hammered, and twisted into eerie, contorted shapes. A tall, skinny pyramid giving birth to a mutant lobster. An upright coffin. (Obviously not. Snakes didn’t bury their dead.) A chain-link fence/snake devouring its tail. A smushed giant cruller.

  Nonrepresentational art, even of the human kind, eluded Carl. He hadn’t a clue about Snake abstract art. Half the time, he couldn’t even decide whether a particular sculpture was finished. The price tags on the gallery pieces suggested that someone appreciated Banak’s talent. Then again, maybe the prices just reflected novelty. In the Snake home system, all metal, even iron, was precious.

  “How are you coming?” Danica netted.

  “Done,” he answered. “What about Banak?”

  “Still searching for his package. Pretending, anyway.” Between sidelong glances, her relayed vision continued to take in the desolate, much churned landscape beyond the window. “Checking over everything on all the shelves. I guess you’ll have time to look around, too.”

  “Turn a bit to your right,” he netted. One of Danica’s peeks had caught someone sliding past. The second look left him no doubt. After twenty years on this rock, he thought he knew most of the Snake counter-intel types. Glithwah and company, just as surely, knew who among the human workforce worked for him, which was why he had brought in Danica. “That’s one of Glithwah’s senior people. Not the sort to be sent on routine errands.”

  “We knew the Snake authorities are interested in Banak. Isn’t that why we are?”

  “Yeah.” Carl wasn’t even lying, just not being entirely truthful. Glithwah’s people watching Banak had caught his eye.

  But Carl didn’t plan to share what kept him curious. Not with anyone but Corinne.

  Twenty years earlier, in the shattered hulk of Victorious, the op had been billed as a final sweep for survivors. The search-and-rescue squad did, in fact, come across an injured Centaur. But that was serendipity; what the marines sought was any kind of records. Petabytes of scavenged data, personal files and clan records alike, were taken aboard the final evac ship to depart the dying starship.

  By sixty years, a Snake—if he survived that long—was a senior citizen. And yet in more than a century, “Banak” had scarcely aged.

  Sole survivors, without family and friends, were common enough among Ariel’s settlers. The Snake who called himself Banak would not have stood out. Just as, two decades earlier still, fleeing the Barnard’s Star system, a lone refugee reaching Victorious might have drawn sympathy, but no special attention. Just as, before that, cycles of clan warfare had time and again created opportunities to disappear. And then, under a new name, to reinvent oneself ….

  In the purloined archives, the names changed. Faces changed, too, but not the bone structure beneath or the subcutaneous patterns of blood vessels. To recognize the same Snake in four separate guises took UPIA facial-recognition software that peered beyond the visible spectrum.

  Perhaps before anything else, recognition took the right person looking. Someone who had had more than once to reinvent himself. So: Carl might have discovered an Intervener mole.

  Or, more than likely, he emulated the proverbial drunk who searched for his lost keys where the light was brightest.

  “Banak and the newcomer are arguing,” Danica netted. “That’s to judge from body language. The watchman doesn’t seem happy, either. I’m going to sidle closer. Maybe I’ll overhear something.”

  “Be—”

  “Careful,” she completed. “Yeah, yeah.”

  • • • •

  Banak dawdled amid the crowded shelves. He had spotted his package—and left it, for the nonce—on the first shelf he checked, where the arrival notice suggested it would be. He wasn’t expecting any package. What mattered was the excuse to survey the cargo area.

  Something unusual was underway in the colony, and that something was approaching a climax. The Foremost herself revealed nothing, but several among her minions lacked Glithwah’s discipline. Their preoccupation spoke to something major soon to occur.

  Something, doubtless, of which their UP warden would disapprove.

  If Glithwah connived only to evade United Planets rules, Banak would ignore it. He always did, still Hunter enough to savor such defiance. But what if Glithwah’s scheming involved something he was duty-bound to resist? Until he discovered the nature of her plot, he would not rest.

  And so, the notice to retrieve a package had been fortuitous. Cargos incoming to Ariel might offer clues. What unusual had been received? Were any of the typical imports present in unaccustomed quantity? Boxes and bins told him nothing—but to the subtle instruments he carried, even sealed cargo, even the trace chemicals in the very air, had already implied much.

  Such as crates of ships’ life-support components generically—some might say, misleadingly—labeled as heavy-industrial goods. Such as pilferage from the stocks of specialty alloys imported for rebuilding the shattered deuterium refinery, but with additional uses. Such as—

  “You there.”

  Banak startled at the voice. A moment ago, he had been alone but for the watchman standing in the outer office. The nearby public-safety cameras into which Banak remained netted had shown no one else. They still showed no on else.

  And yet here stood Cluth Monar, one of Glithwah’s chief lieutenants. The public camera feeds had been overridden, making this a Security operation. It meant he had been followed—with his pockets full of instrumentation he could neither explain nor permit to fall into others’ hands.

  “Me?” Banak asked.

  “You.” Monar stepped closer, sharp talons peeking from his fingertips. “Reason for your extended presence in this area?”

  “Here for a pickup.” Banak held out his claim slip. “Location of my package uncertain.”

  “Or perhaps here with inappropriate curiosity.”

  What would Monar consider inappropriate? Banak wanted to know. But more, he wanted to escape that storeroom, to avoid becoming the object of Monar’s curiosity—unless he was already too late for that. Banak said, “Search almost at completion.”

  With feigned nonchalance, Banak continued his methodical scan of the shelves. To retrace his steps and claim his package now would only confirm his dissembling. “Old eyes,” he grumbled.

  “Your thorough explanations necessary,” Monar said. “In my office.”

  The spaceport watchman had become tense. Beyond the anteroom, from a hallway still vacant on the public-network view, Banak heard hurried footsteps. Many of them.

  The future became all too clear to Banak. Taken into custody. His instruments found. Suspicions raised. His gallery and workshop searched.

  Ancient secrets imperiled.

  He had served the masters faithfully, devotedly, unquestioningly, for far too long to allow that outcome.

  The consequences for him scarcely mattered.

  • • • •

  “Something’s up,” Danica netted. “I’m going to amble by the storeroom door.”

  Be careful, Carl thought. At himself, too.

  If Glithwah’s operatives were bringing in Banak, others would be showing up—soon—to tear apart this gallery. Maybe he would overhear something before they found his bug. He permitted himself a last, quick look, with images from his entry overlaid on the real-time view. Where he had bumped against a workbench, the double vision revealed a welding torch out of its place. He nudged it to its original position. And over there—

  On one sculpture, the sort-of coffin, a red spot glowed where all had been inert metal. “Run!” he netted to Danica. For good measure, he net-texted the warning, too.

  He was out of the workshop, through the gallery, the door into the curving public corridor not quite shut behind him, when the blinding flash came. And the searing heat. And the palpable sound—for the instant before his eardrums burst.

  The “coffin” had been rigged. Why it?

/>   He flew through the air scarcely long enough for synapses to fire. To remember how Banak disappeared for days into his workshop. To intuit that in that “coffin” Banak slept, or hibernated, or slowed time. To realize that the coffin’s open cavity was at least a meter taller than necessary to accommodate a Snake. And to marvel that, just maybe, he had his first clue to the physical nature of the Interveners.

  Then, as a wall loomed to swat Carl, the world went dark.

  CHAPTER 23

  From boundless apathy, out of a deadening fog, sensation emerged. The scratchiness of stiff sheets. Soft, rhythmic beeping. An antiseptic smell. A dry, irritated throat. In his left arm, an odd twinge. A floating sensation …

  Drugged! Forcing open gummy eyes, Carl saw the issue with his arm was an IV needle. The beeps came from bedside instruments. A hospital room, then. Because …

  The memories flooded back. “Danica,” he croaked.

  “You’re okay,” a familiar voice said.

  Bruce Wycliffe, the latest deputy to rotate through, sat beside the bed to Carl’s right. Bruce looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. The man was more bureaucrat than spy. They had never gotten along.

  Carl found a control, elevated the head of the bed, before rasping, “How long?”

  “Since the explosions? Almost two weeks. You were pretty banged up. The doctors had you in a medically induced coma.”

  “I hope …” Carl’s wish lost itself for a time in a coughing fit, “I hope you haven’t been sitting here that whole while.”

  Bruce offered a bulb of water. “I didn’t have that luxury. Things have been busy.”

  “Anyone, besides me?”

  “Twelve dead. Twice that injured.”

  He must have been the closest to the explosion. How had so many others …?

  “Go back, Bruce. You said explosions, plural.”

  “Correct. Two. You got … caught by the smaller one.”

  The smaller one? The other explosion must have been horrendous. Then there was Bruce’s hesitation, and his circumlocution, as though the room might be bugged.

  “I’m well enough to net,” Carl sent. “Start explaining.”

  Bruce studied his shoes.

  “That wasn’t a suggestion,” Carl prompted.

  “All right.” Bruce’s avatar joined the link. “But lose the attitude. You’re not the boss anymore. Even Snakes have rights, you know? And you were caught red-handed, at the very least burgling Banak’s rooms. As soon as you’re ambulatory, ideally before you’re in any shape for Glithwah to speak with, I’m to put you on the first ship home.”

  Home? He’d lived on Ariel for twenty years. As Carl Rowland, he had never lived elsewhere. Even after softheaded policies demoted him to an all but powerless observer, he had stayed. Home? Hardly.

  Recalled to Earth.

  “Consider this as a request, then,” Carl netted. “Or a parting favor.”

  The update was no favor. Banak’s second bomb had been in … Banak. No one would be questioning him or any of the five who had been about to take him into custody. Another five Snakes had died nearby, from explosive decompression. And Glithwah was more than a little curious why Carl happened to be at the terrorist’s shuttered gallery when the bomb there went off. She anticipated “a chat” before Carl left.

  His thoughts remained fuzzy: drugs not yet out of his system, he supposed. He could still add small numbers. The answer was obvious, but he needed to hear it. “Twelve dead?”

  “Yeah. That insurance woman visiting from down-system. Decompression, too.”

  Because he had assigned Danica to keep an eye on Banak. Wearily, Carl dropped off the link. “Thanks for coming, Bruce. I think I need some sleep.”

  Bruce stood. “Get well soon.”

  Maybe, Carl heard a shred of human concern in the words. Mostly, he heard satisfaction at getting rid of him.

  • • • •

  Still unsteady on his feet, Carl made his way to the Foremost’s office. The exterior walls had been set transparent, showing the stark landscape outside.

  “You look terrible,” Glithwah said. “Sit.”

  And you’re gloating, Carl thought. Glad to be rid of me. Glad to have stolid, unimaginative Bruce left in charge.

  Carl sat.

  “You’ll be leaving us tomorrow,” Glithwah said.

  “Yes.” And a long, uncomfortable flight it would be, aboard the freighter that had been held over while he convalesced. Danica’s sealed casket was already aboard.

  “So,” Glithwah said, “tell me about Banak. The truth.”

  The truth? It was tempting, if only to shake Glithwah’s smug complacency. How much easier her scheming—whatever it was—would proceed without him. He settled for the partial truth he had shared with Danica. “I became interested in Banak because you were interested. Do you care to explain?”

  She licked her lips: the Snake version of a smile. “I’ll miss our game. Sincerely. You were learning.”

  B’tok? Or the larger game? Getting him sent away was a coup in the latter.

  But he hadn’t left yet. He asked, “What was Banak up to?”

  “Why ask me? The listening device found in his gallery was not of clan manufacture.”

  “I know nothing about that.”

  “A pity.” Lips licked once more. “And the dead woman?”

  “An innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like several of the victims.”

  “My medical people did autopsies.” Glithwah fixed him with a stare. “The clan’s bystanders did not exhibit abnormal brain chemistry.”

  He stared straight back. “I know nothing about that.”

  Nothing more than that an agent’s implant dissolved when it sensed an oxygen-level drop in the cerebrospinal fluid. You could not recover information, even in death, from an operative’s implant. No more than—Carl had seen pictures from the explosion scene—anyone would be recovering information from the scattered stains that had once been Banak.

  “To be sure,” Glithwah said skeptically. “What can you tell me?”

  “Nothing.” Because apart from Corinne and—once he got back to Earth—Robyn Tanaka, he would not be discussing what he had learned with anyone.

  “If not citizens, exactly, we of Arblen Ems are under the protection of the United Planets. We have rights, too. You violated them.”

  Her little speech had an air of dismissal. Despite Ariel’s trivial gravity, he struggled to climb to his feet. He shuffled to the door and paused, out of breath.

  Carl’s valedictory was shorter. “Be good.”

  • • • •

  Admiral, despite her grand name, was plodding, scruffy, and old. She moved lots of cargo cheaply, and her owners wanted nothing more. Accommodations for the occasional passenger? Dependable hot water? A decent galley, or even synthesizers that didn’t impart to every meal an aftertaste of sweaty socks and days-old fish? The scow offered no such amenities, much less decent comm gear.

  Leaving Carl, eager to get word to Corinne, frustrated almost out of his skull.

  He could not trust this ancient comm gear to transmit anything securely. That ruled out sending anything specific. Not his evidence of an Intervener mole, deceased, among the Arblen Ems exiles. Not the imagery held in his implant of what might be an Intervener time retarder. And most certainly not his musings whether Robyn had the influence to postpone Discovery’s scheduled departure to the Mobie home world. The Mobies were hive minds, each a continent-sized swarm. Wherever the Interveners came from, it wasn’t Tau Ceti.

  Still, he would have liked some response to the short message he had sent Corinne: That thing we discussed? I’ve seen it now, too.

  A day passed, then two. He tried relaying his message via Ariel’s much more powerful transmitter. That attempt didn’t get a response, either.

  He told himself the absence of an acknowledgment meant nothing. So, Odyssey had deviated somewhat from its flight plan. So, what? It could mean space junk to
be dodged, or a spot of unscheduled maintenance, or that Corinne, being Corinne, had simply changed her plans. Piloting for her, those many years ago, he’d experienced all three.

  Only he wasn’t flying Odyssey. Neither, due to mischance, was Corinne’s customary pilot. Leaving Carl to wonder about the woman who was at the helm. And about something he devoutly hoped was a freakish coincidence.

  Grace DiMeara had traveled to Ariel to meet with Banak.

  CHAPTER 24

  In a remote mining camp, deep within an abandoned shaft, without deputies or aides, Glithwah rendezvoused with her tactical officer. She desired his insight and candor.

  He stood as she entered. “Foremost,” he greeted her.

  “Pimal,” she acknowledged. “Welcome back to Ariel.”

  Tall and trim, martial in his bearing, Rashk Pimal was the very embodiment of a Hunter warrior. He even bore battle scars. A jagged slash crossed one cheek, from a melee in seizing one of the clan’s new ships. A forearm bore a puckered burn scar, from putting down a human riot in the internment camp.

  When had she last seen combat? As a young lieutenant, aboard Victorious, in the final struggle against UP commandos. Twenty interminable years ago ….

  Pimal’s composure assured her that their plans continued to advance. His posture wordlessly added that, sooner rather than later, he meant to challenge her. In his sandals—leading the return to independence and honor, while an aging Foremost begged favors from and affected subservience to the humans—she would aspire, too.

  Of course, the scars he so proudly bore demonstrated carelessness more than courage, just as the human casualties during the short-lived resistance—clubs and shivs and homemade incendiaries against armored soldiers!—showed more courage than sense.