Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  “Double-secure, code Zeta 922 licorice-allsorts dolphin rupture Melvin oyster,” I said, also displaying upon my viewpad the image of a panda cub wearing a hat. The door closed behind me, and all manner of security programming took effect. Electrified mesh descended into the ductwork. Even the mirror above my bathroom sink became obscured.

  “Lt. Lord Thomas,” CF-202m, my assigned LAI valetbot, came bustling up to me. Coffee stood as tall as I did, but was composed mainly of narrow metal struts on a wheeled assembly that allowed it to glide nearly as smoothly as Parsons. Its upper extremities terminated in nimble, glovelike hands, only with three thumbs instead of one. “How may I serve, sir?”

  Without waiting, I threw open the doors to my wardrobe, and began to peruse it for the appropriate outfit for my meeting. My plan ought to succeed. Parsons was a trifle taller than my lofty height and of a similar slim build. If the contact did not know him personally, the superficial resemblance which I planned to significantly enhance might fool it. Instead of the high-fashion garments, the choice of which I prided myself, I reached for the simplest and least-adorned of all my tunics and plain trousers. I need not worry about insignia; Parsons never wore any. If I hadn’t known him since I was small, I wouldn’t know his rank or distinguished history. I donned these self-effacing items.

  Enceladus, properly speaking, was a warship, pride of His Highness the Emperor Shojan XII, ruler of the vast extent of space in which Enceladus flew and my cousin. Enceladus had been chosen as a meeting point for periodic renegotiation of trading terms among the many neighbors that bordered the Imperium. It had been readily agreed by the Uctu Autocracy owing, I add with all due modesty, to my recent efforts as envoy to Her Serenity the Autocrat Visoltia. Her representative here, Lord Steusan, minister of agriculture, knew me well. I needed to avoid being recognized by him as well as the crew. Fortunately, the Uctu were easily confused when it came to telling human beings apart.

  I sat down before the mirror. By Imperium law, I was not permitted to make physical changes to the natural lineaments of my face or body. No member of the noble house was. The reason was lost in antiquity to all but a few, a number to which I was proud and humbled to be a member: the noble class had been genetically modified, millennia ago, to be completely bilaterally symmetrical and of surpassing beauty. The rest of the citizens of the Imperium, but particularly humans, had been modified at the same time to respond to our extremes of symmetry and handsomeness with an overwhelming willingness to obey the rule of law. They loved us because they had been born to do so. That visual-neural link helped to keep the Imperium, spread across thousands of stars, from fragmenting into chaos over the intervening years, even when no more than a three-dimensional image of the Emperor or Empress was present. As a result, the nobility was forbidden from intermarrying with common folk, or from altering themselves genetically, so as not to dilute the necessary gene pool for producing future leaders. The very cohesion of the Imperium depended upon those strictures.

  However, in matters of temporary cosmetics and pigmentation, the law was vague. I intended to wrap myself in that obscurity, for the best cause in the world.

  “Coffee, listen carefully,” I addressed the valetbot’s reflection, “I need you to do something rather unusual…”

  * * *

  Reflected in the glossy golden wall of the reception corridor, the tall, slender figure sauntered with expressionless mien toward the concealed doorway that lay hidden around the next turn. Black clothes, which matched the wearer’s black hair and dark eyes, gave him the appearance of a shadow as he passed virtually unnoticed through the crowd of diplomats gathered at the entrance to the small amphitheater that served as the meeting hall. I watched my own reflection in the shining wall opposite the doorway, and felt deeply impressed at how well my valetbot had made me up to look like my aide-de-camp. I was much better looking, of course. CF-202m had used sophisticated layering of cosmetic surface filler to change the lines of my face as well as to tint it to match Parsons’s complexion. Some subtle artistic rendering had thrown off the perfect symmetry that was a mark of my familial descent. Every time I saw that irregularity, it shocked me. But the subterfuge worked. No one addressed me by my name.

  In fact, no one addressed me at all. They were all engaged in groups of two or three, or in one case, six, speaking in low tones. I had to strain to eavesdrop. I slowed down beside the largest group, representatives of the Trade Union, the Imperium’s largest neighbor, all blondes with broad faces and rather flat noses. The only reason I could distinguish the ambassador was that the other five deferred to her. I dared not pass too closely to the gecko-like Uctu trio lest Lord Steusan detect any traits that would allow him to identify me.

  The subject under discussion by most of the attendees was not matters of trade, but my abduction. The murmurs confirmed that all of the ship’s systems were on high alert, turning the attention outward, in search of the vessel on which “I” was not a prisoner.

  The landing bay had become the busiest site on the ship, as small-range fighters zipped in and out, dropping off a tired pilot in exchange for a fresh one. Most of them speculated on the reason for my capture, wondering what the ramifications would be for kidnapping the son of a high-ranking government official. I did my best to avoid reacting. It was rather like attending my own funeral, without the distinct inconvenience of actually being dead. I heard a few words of praise and admiration that I took to my heart, as well as expressions of deep concern for my well-being.

  “No, ma’am,” Lt. Philomena Anstruther said in a low voice as I edged by her. The slender, dark-haired human female was a member of my personal crew—or rather, that assigned to my ship, the Rodrigo, a small scout vessel that was at this moment patrolling around the Enceladus under the steady hands of Oskelev, my Wichu pilot. Her pale face was chalky with concern. “No word yet on Lord Thomas. I hope he’s all right.”

  “Confound him,” Captain Ranulf said. She was a sturdily built human with small features set in a large, pugnacious ochre face and very short dark-blonde hair. “The First Space Lord is going to tear my arms off if I don’t come home with him! Why didn’t he just muster out when he graduated like the rest of his class?”

  Anstruther glanced away. Her large eyes lit upon me, now ten meters farther down the hall. I saw recognition dawn, but she covered it in a nanosecond. Inwardly, I cheered. I knew I could count upon her not to reveal my disguise. As the information specialist of my small crew, she had a skyrocketing intelligence coupled with a banker’s grasp of secrecy. She turned her gaze back to Ranulf.

  “The visitors from the Autocracy like him, Captain,” she said. Her voice was slightly shaken, like a good cocktail, but Ranulf didn’t notice. “He amuses them.”

  I felt like strutting with pride, but did my best to proceed with a Parsons-like glide, drawing no more attention from the assemblage than a breath of wind. I had to admit it was more difficult than I thought. My natural inclination is to dress and walk in order to draw all possible eyes, and optical receptors needed to be suppressed lest the rumor of my disappearance be disproved. I had to channel my recent enthusiasm of theater to absorb the personality of he whom I pretended to be.

  “Sir!” exclaimed an officer in formal dress, bursting forth from an office at the end of the corridor. To my dismay, his eyes were fixed on me. Quelling the butterflies that had begun a lively cotillion in my midsection, I assumed a cool expression and returned his nod. “Commander!”

  I relaxed. He had taken my appearance at face value.

  “Lieutenant Commander Schiele,” I said, keeping all inflection from my tone, as would my friend and associate. Schiele offered me a glance that was both admiring and fearful. I imagine my own address to Parsons bore some of the same characteristics.

  “I want you to know, Commander, that we are doing everything we can to retrieve Lord Thomas! Please reassure Admiral Kinago Loche that we will retrieve her son safely.”

  “I know that you will do your best
,” I said, careful not to allow myself to sound as though I believed it in the least. Schiele quivered and rushed on, catching up with a pair of security officers who stood at the edge of the diplomatic crowd.

  I congratulated myself with another inward cheer. I had fooled one pair of eyes at least. Now, to carry on with the mission at hand.

  Our presence and subterfuge on board the Enceladus was to enable Parsons to meet with another operative of the Imperium Covert Services Operations, a Croctoid whose code name was Dolly. I had been present for part of the briefings, which had been delivered by my mother and another senior official, but had paid less than rapt attention, since my role was solely camouflage. The Bluts, who were, not to put too fine a point on it, not part of the Covert Services operation, had been provoked into making the attack on the Enceladus by having their ambassador’s invitation accidentally but very publicly rescinded across the Infogrid, the main means of communication, record-keeping and socializing throughout the Imperium and beyond. By law, all persons over the age of literacy were required to maintain an up-to-date and accurate file on the Infogrid, so the Bluts’ humiliation was widespread. In addition, it was bruited about that it was my doing that caused the withdrawal of the invitation. It had been carefully noted, though not in my personal file, that I would be on the Enceladus, in that vulnerable and easily exploited location, at a certain time. If one wanted to educate me on the niceties of Blut diplomacy, that would be the opportune moment. I still had a knockout spray in my sleeve that I would have deployed to prevent physical damage, should that diplomacy extend to physical interaction. In any case, the moment the kidnapping had occurred, a secondary message had gone out saying that there had been a grave misunderstanding, and the Blut representative was not only welcome but vital to the conference.

  The Croctoid’s scout ship, disguised as an Imperium fighter, will have hung off the Enceladus, lying low without any lights or unnecessary emissions before flying into the landing bay under cover of the hue and cry out for me. As he or she would be wearing Imperium fighter uniform, no notice would be taken of him as he entered.

  The agent was risking his life to meet with Parsons. He carried evidence of something that was of grave importance to the summit conference. I wished that I had listened more intently to that part of the mission. I taunted my memory centers with scorn, demanding that they remember everything. I had less than ten meters before my portrayal must be perfect.

  I ambled with purpose toward my rendezvous, hoping that the agent’s first words would spur mnemonic recall in me.

  I turned the corner, waited until a yet another blond man in Trade Union beige with the air of a harried assistant passed me, then slipped through the door. To my surprise, the chamber was not an office or a meeting room, but a janitor’s closet, cluttered with trash receptacles, buckets, bottles and jars of high-smelling fluids, and various small cleanerbots, currently disabled. Fortunately, the Croctoid had already arrived.

  I admired his adherence to subterfuge: he was dressed in the pale-gray costume of a maintenance worker, down to the pail of some noxious-smelling organic compound he was pouring down the drain in the corner. Croctoids, with their scaly, greenish skin, long, toothy jaws, knobby heads, clawed hands and feet, and thick, heavy tails, were rather unlovely to the human eye, though attractive to one another, I had no doubt.

  The Croctoid looked up at my approach.

  “What do you want… sir?”

  Excellent! That was exactly what the briefing had said was the first of the coded exchange.

  “I was just passing through,” I said blithely. “Lovely day if it doesn’t rain.”

  “Raining on a starship?” the Croctoid replied, narrowing one beady eye at me.

  I halted. Perhaps I was recalling the lines incorrectly. He was supposed to respond with “I have no time for umbrellas.”

  “How do you feel about weather protection?” I prompted him.

  The Croctoid looked alarmed. “Is something going wrong with the hydroponics section, sir?”

  “No!” I said. “At least, I do not believe it is malfunctioning.” We had diverted from one set of coded phrases to another which I had never heard. I smiled at him, doing my best to be charming. It did not work. My natural advantage was lost because of the seeming asymmetry of my features. I needed to fall back upon authority. I fixed him with a stern, Parsons-like gaze. “Perhaps an umbrella would be a useful device.”

  The Croctoid, instead of picking up on my cue, started to edge toward the door.

  “I’ll just go look in the gardens, sir,” he said, his scaly brow twitching nervously. “I’d better go…”

  “But what about my umbrella?” I asked, as he retreated down the corridor.

  A heavy hand fell upon my shoulder. I jumped.

  “I have no time for umbrellas,” a throaty voice said from behind me. I glanced back in alarm. Another Croctoid stood, or rather leaned there, a much larger specimen than the janitor, his lower half contained within one of the round trash barrels. He stared down his long snout at me with small black eyes like dull onyx. “Well?”

  I realized that I had made a mistake in identity. I hastened to recover myself.

  “There was a lovely crop of rutabagas this year,” I said.

  The Croctoid in the trash barrel nodded curtly.

  “Greens are good for gout,” he said. “Who writes these absurd exchanges, anyhow?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, relieved. I held out a hand to assist him in removing himself from the receptacle. “My understanding is that their author is lost to the mists of antiquity.”

  He showed his impressive rows of jagged, yellowed teeth. “That would make a better countersign. I’m Dolly. You’re Mask?”

  “That’s right.” Thank goodness he knew my code name. I was certain I’d never heard it.

  “I can’t believe you mistook a sanitation worker for me!”

  I shrugged, channeling Parsons’s magnificent indifference to cover my chagrin.

  “It amused me. I had to test you. I wondered if your handler might have sent a decoy.”

  “No time for that,” Dolly hissed. Croctoids had very short tempers. “Come with me.”

  He departed the room at a rapid pace. I have a long stride, but even I had to hurry to keep up with Dolly. He pushed through the busy crowd near the entrance to the landing bay. Before we went through the airlock, he grabbed a spare breather helmet off the racks near the door and tossed it to me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked. “I thought we were going to confer back there.”

  He gave me a pitying look and his tail lashed, slapping me in the leg.

  “Can’t talk here!” He donned his own helmet. Assuming my own, I followed him through into the chill air. He wove among the personnel on duty with the air that he belonged there. I didn’t usually think about the professions of Covert informers when they were not delivering reports. “Dolly” was clearly used to command, perfectly at ease in this milieu. My guess was that he was an officer in the Imperium navy, who had risen through the ranks by virtue of competence and loyalty. How long that had taken him, I did not know. I was not good at guessing a Croctoid’s age. It would have been against protocol to try and trace him later on via the Infogrid, but I admit to an aching curiosity as to his quotidian identity.

  Ninety percent of the time, the bay of a destroyer was quiet and echoingly empty except for LAI and AI bots maintaining the small fighters and support vehicles. During that remaining ten percent, orderly chaos reigned. Banks of lights flashed out coded messages and warnings to pilots and ground crew. Small, triangular fighter craft flew in and out of the bay, piercing the vacuum barrier that kept atmosphere circulating at the inner end. When they landed, bots checked the fuel rods and structural integrity, emptied and filled tanks, and made way for the next pilot or pilots to jump in and continue the battle or patrol or what mission was the rule of the day. In this case, it was the ongoing search for me.

  Doll
y led me behind a repair gurney to a two-seat fighter that looked like all the others, and bundled me into the rear seat. The life-support system automatically sealed around my long frame and fitted itself to the valves in the helmet. The communications system ran through its sound check, beeping a series of tones in my ears, and raised the heads-up scope to my eye level. Before I could give the traditional thumbs up, Dolly blasted the fighter out of the landing bay, past the sequencing red-and-green lights, and into the black breadth of space. The g-force thrust my body back into the crash padding. I gasped for breath until the pressure equalized. It was not a pleasant sensation. The wearer of the helmet before me must have had a dry throat. The padding bore an eye-watering odor of menthol and eucalyptus.

  I had never been allowed to operate one of these fighters on my own, despite being the winner of multiple prestigious space races and atmosphere flitter rallies, because these were short-range vessels, essentially a bubble of air fitted with an engine and guns, and no real safeguards beyond rudimentary shielding. Sometimes it was a trial having my life safeguarded so closely. Under Dolly’s expert management, the fighter swooped and turned on a wingtip, following nearly invisible ion traces on the navigational scope projected before my eyes. I was enchanted.

  “May I fly her?” I asked, as we rose over the bulk of the Enceladus’s knobbly engine cluster in pursuit of a minuscule ion trail. The blackness of space swallowed up most of the destroyer’s massive form except where lights indicated service access and entryway hatches. In my peripheral vision, I spotted tiny, moving flecks of light that were other fighters searching for “my” abductors.