“Find them?” Bhelabher smiled. “I do give myself some credit, young man; and I know that I am an expert on data storage and retrieval. When I'd spoken with Minister Bound-bridge, I was thoroughly convinced; but my bureaucrat's instincts still functioned, almost by themselves. I was determined to aid the LORDS' coup; but I was also determined that I would not be made a scapegoat if anything went wrong.”
Dar's eyes widened. “My lord! Is human trust that far gone on Terra?”
Bhelabher waved the objection away, irritated. “It has been for centuries, young man—probably ever since the Chinese invented bureaucracy. One of the first rules you learn in an office is, ‘Get the directive in writing—and keep a copy.' And if I knew that, certainly Satrap and Forcemain did, too, plus whomever else was involved in the conspiracy. I knew they'd each have saved their own bits of evidence.”
“But how could you find it?”
Bhelabher smiled, preening. “People don't hide things in chests with false bottoms, or secret rooms, anymore, young man. They hide them in computers, with secret activation codes. But whatever code one man can think up, another can deduce—especially if he has his own computer to do the donkey-work of searching. I am an expert, after all—and I did have some time.”
Dar stared. “You mean you actually managed to break each of their personal codes?”
“Only Satrap's and Boundbridge's; General Forcemain held his inside the military computer, which is somewhat better protected against even expert pilfering. But the Electors' dossiers sufficed—especially since they directed me to several others. No, young man, that code I've given you will reveal enough documented evidence to convince even the Secretary-General.”
The slip of paper suddenly seemed to burn Dar's fingers. He held onto it resolutely, the numbers fairly searing his retinas. “Somehow I don't think I'll have any trouble remembering these numbers now, Honorable.”
“Stout fellow!” Bhelabher clasped his arm and pumped his hand. “I'll be eternally indebted to you—and so will quadrillions of other persons, most of whom have not even been born yet!”
“I'll collect when they've grown, and the interest has, too.” Dar forced a smile. “Don't worry, Honorable—I'll do my best.”
“More than that, no man can ask.” Bhelabher looked up. “Except possibly your commander; I see he wants another word with you.” He stepped aside, and Shacklar stepped up. “It's about time to depart, Ardnam.”
A high-pitched whine hit their ears as the ferry's coolant pumps started up. Sam pushed her way through the door and strode over to the small ship.
“Allow me to escort you,” Shacklar murmured, taking Dar by the elbow and steering him out the door.
Once outside, he raised his voice to be heard over the beginning rumbles of superheated steam. “You do realize the importance of the mission you're undertaking?”
“Yeah, to make sure BOA leaves us alone,” Dar called back. “Uh, General . . .”
Shacklar gave him an inquiring blink.
“The Honorable just told me about a coup the LORDS're planning, back on Terra. Think I should take him seriously?”
“Oh, very seriously. I've been sure it would happen for quite some time now.”
Dar whirled to stare to him, appalled. “You knew?”
“Well, not ‘knew,' really. I can't tell you the date of its beginning, nor who will be behind it—but I do see the general shape of it. Any man who's read a bit of history can see it coming. On the inner worlds, it's all about you, the signs of a dying democracy. I'd been watching it happen for twenty years, before I came out here.”
“And that's why you came out here?”
Shacklar nodded, pleased. “You're perceptive, young fellow. Yes. If democracy is doomed on the interstellar scale, it can at least be kept alive on individual planets.”
“Especially one that's far enough away from Terra so that whatever dictatorship replaces the I.D.E. will just forget about it,” Dar inferred.
Shacklar nodded again. “Because it's too costly to maintain communication with it. Yes. By the end of the century, I expect we'll be left quite thoroughly to our own devices.”
“Not a pleasant picture,” Dar said, brooding, “but better than being ruled by a dictator on Terra. So what should I do about it?”
“Do?” Shacklar repeated, surprised. “Why, there's nothing you can do, really—except to make the quixotic gesture: inform the media, if you like, or the Secretary-General, or something of the sort.”
“You can't mean it,” Dar said, shocked. “We can't let democracy go down without a fight!”
“But it already has gone down, don't you see? And all you can gain by a dramatic flourish is, perhaps, another decade or so of life for the forms of it—the Assembly, and the Cabinet, and so forth. But that won't change the reality—that the frontier worlds have already begun to govern themselves, and that Terra and the other Central Worlds are already living under a dictatorship, for all practical purposes. Ask anyone who's lived there, if you doubt me.”
Dar thought of Sam's disgust and despair, and saw Shacklar's point. “Are you saying democracy isn't worth fighting for?”
“Not at all—but I am saying that all such fighting will get you is a lifelong prison sentence in a real, Terrestrial prison, perhaps for a very short life. The press of social forces is simply too great for anyone to stop. If you really want to do something, try to change those social forces.”
Dar frowned. “How can you do that?”
Shacklar shrugged. “Invent faster-than-light radio, or a way of educating the vast majority to skepticism and inquiring thought—but don't expect to see the effects of it within your lifetime. You can start it—but it'll take a century or two before it begins to have an effect.”
“Well, that's great for my grandchildren—but what do I do about the rest of my life?”
Shacklar sighed. “Try to find a nice, quiet little out-of-the-way planet that the new dictators are apt to overlook, and do your best to make it a pocket of freedom for the next few centuries, and live out your life there in whatever tranquility you can manage.”
“Which is what you've done,” Dar said softly.
Shacklar flashed him a smile. “Well, it's still in process, of course.”
“It always will be, for the rest of your life. Which is how you're going to maintain your illusion of meaning in your life.”
“Quite so,” Shacklar said, grinning, “and can you be certain it is an illusion?”
“Not at all,” Dar breathed. “If I could, it wouldn't work. But that line of thought is supposed to induce despair.”
“Only if you take it as proof that there is no purpose in life—which your mind may believe, but your heart won't. Not once you're actually involved in it. It's a matter of making unprovability work for you, you see.”
“I think I begin to.” Dar gave his head a quick shake. “Dunno if I'm up to making that little ‘pocket of freedom,' though.”
“You'll always be welcome back here, of course,” Shacklar murmured.
“Two minutes till lift-off,” declared a brazen voice from the ship.
“You'd better run.” Shacklar pressed a thick envelope into Dar's hand. “You'll find all the credentials you'll need in there, including a draft on the Bank of Wolmar for two first-class, round-trip fares from Wolmar to Terra.” He slapped Dar on the shoulder. “Good luck, and remember—don't be a hero.”
Dar started to ask what he meant, but Shacklar was already turning away, and the ship rumbled threateningly deep in its belly, so Dar had to turn and run.
“Took you long enough,” Sam groused as he dropped into the acceleration couch beside her and stretched the shock webbing across his body. “What was that high-level conference all about?”
“About why I should flow with the social tide.”
“Hm.” Sam pursed her lips, and nodded slowly. “Quite a man, your General.”
“Yeah. I really feel badly about deceiving him.” Dar roll
ed back the envelope flap.
“What's that?” Sam demanded.
Dar didn't answer. He was too busy staring.
“Hi, there!” Sam waved. “Remember me? What have you got there?”
“My credentials,” Dar said slowly.
“What's the matter? Aren't they in order?”
“Very. They're all for ‘Dar Mandra.’ ”
“Oh.” Sam sat quietly for a few minutes, digesting that. Then she sighed and leaned back in her couch. “Well. Your General . . . perceptive, too, huh?”
7
The courier ship had room for ten passengers. Dar and Sam were the only ones. After five days, they'd both tried all ten seats at least twice.
“No, really, I do think it looks better from back here,” Dar said from the seat just in front of the aft bulkhead. “You get more of a feeling of depth—and it's definitely more aesthetic to feel the force of acceleration on your back.”
“What force of acceleration? This ship could be in free-fall, for all we feel. Built-in acceleration compensators, remember? This cabin's got its own gravity unit.”
“Luxury craft,” Dar griped, “absolutely destroys all sense of motion.”
“Which makes it far more aesthetic to sit in the middle of the cabin,” Sam opined. “You get the sense of the environment this way.” She spread her arms. “The feeling of space—limited, but space. You're immersed in it.”
“Yeah, but who wants to be immersed in molded-plastic seats and creon upholstery?”
“If your accommodations bother you, sir . . .”
Dar looked up at the stewardess in annoyance. “I know: I don't have any choice about it.”
“Not at all, sir. I can offer you a variety of other realms of reality.” The stewardess's chest slid open, revealing several shelves crammed with pill bottles. “All guaranteed to make you forget where you are, sir, and make the time fly.”
“And my brain with it. No, thank you—I'll stick with the old-fashioned narcotics.”
A plastic tumbler rammed into his palm; the stewardess's finger turned into a spigot, and splashed amber-colored fluid and crushed ice into his tumbler. “One old-fashioned, sir.”
“I had in mind a martini,” Dar grumbled. “But thanks, anyway.”
“It is unnecessary to thank me, sir I am merely . . .”
“A machine, yes. But it keeps me from getting into bad habits. When do we get to Haldane IV?”
“That's got to be the twelfth time you've asked that question,” Sam sighed, “and I told you as soon as we'd boarded—Bhelabher said it'd take us five days!”
“I know, I know,” Dar griped, “but I like to hear her say it. When do we get to Haldane IV, stewardess?”
“Experienced space travelers never ask ‘when,' sir,” the stewardess answered, a bit primly.
“I love the programmed response.” Dar leaned back, grinning.
“Look at it this way—it's a faster trip then I had on the way out,” Sam offered. “That took a week and a half.”
“I believe the ship transporting you on the outbound swing was a common freighter, sir. . . .”
“Miz!”
“Oh, really? But I believe you'll find that an I.D.E. courier ship is a bit faster than your earlier conveyance. In fact, we're approaching breakout now. Stretch webbing, please.” And the stewardess rolled into her closet, clicking the door shut behind her.
“Talk about bad habits!” Sam snorted. “Or didn't you realize you were making fun of her?”
“I know, I know,” Dar growled. “But I have definitely taken a dislike to that machine.”
“Programmed by a snob,” Sam agreed. “Come on, we'd better get ready.”
“Approaching breakout,” the resonant PA ship's voice informed them.
“I don't know why we bother.” Dar stretched his shock webbing across his body. “What could happen when you break out of H-space, anyway?”
“Y'know, you're getting to be a pretty surly bird.”
“So, I'll get a worm. You've got to admit, there isn't even a jar when you break out into normal space.”
“Not unless they've got you bottled up.”
Dar frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”
Sam sighed. “It's a holdover from the pre-I.D.E. days, when there wasn't any central government and things were pretty chaotic outside the Sol system. Pirates used to lie in wait for ships at the breakout points. They couldn't touch a freighter while it was in H-space, but they could jump it as soon as it broke out.”
“Oh.” Dar felt a slight chill of apprehension. “Uh—the central government isn't too effective, these days. . . .”
“Breaking out,” the ship's voice informed them. “We will be without interior power for a few seconds.”
The lights went out as all the ship's power was channeled into the isomorpher, translating them back into normal space. A surge of dizziness washed over Dar, and objective reality became a little subjective for a second or two—in fact, it seemed to go away altogether. Then it came back, and the lights came on again. Dar blinked and turned his head from side to side, to see if it still worked. “On second thought, maybe the webbing isn't such a bad idea.”
“Please maintain your position,” the ship's voice advised. “There is an unidentified craft in pursuit.”
Dar looked over at Sam. “What were you saying about pirates?”
“Not in this day and age, certainly.” But she looked a little pale.
“I think they said something like that in the early 1800s, to a man named Jean Laffite.” Dar turned to stare out the porthole. “You know, you can actually see something out there now.”
“Of course—stars. We're back in normal space, remember? So what did he answer?”
“That one's got a discernible disk; must be Haldane. . . . Who?”
“This Jean Laffite.”
“Oh—‘Stand and deliver.’ ” Dar peered through the porthole. “There was more; I forget the exact wording, but it had something to do with the ownership of a place called ‘the Caribbean. . . .' Wow!”
An orange glare lit up the cabin.
“That was close!” Sam said through the afterimages.
“I think that's what they used to call a ‘shot across the bow.’ ”
“This is serious!” Sam yelped. “Where's the Navy when you need it?”
“Ask the pirates—I'm sure they know.”
“So do I; I got one of the Navy data operators drunk one night, just before I quit, and got the access code out of him.”
Dar frowned. “Why'd you do that?”
“I wanted to make sure I was going to be safe on my trip out here. And I found out I would be; there wasn't supposed to be a sailor for fifty parsecs. The nearest fleet's a hundred seventy-five light-years away, over toward Aldebaran, sitting on their thumbs and polishing the brightwork.”
“What're they doing there?”
“Somebody called 'em, about a year ago, to come take care of some pirates.”
“So, while they were on their way out, the pirates were coming back here! Great!” Dar said.
Sam took a deep breath. “Now, wait a minute. Wait a minute. We're getting carried away here. For all we know, those aren't pirates out there.”
“Sure, maybe it is the Navy—and for all they know, we're pirates. If you'll pardon my saying so . . .”
A brilliant flare lit up the cabin. Sam shrieked. “I'm convinced! It's pirates!”
Dar shrugged. “Pirates or Navy—after we've been turned into an expanding cloud of hydrogen atoms, I'm afraid I won't really care much about distinctions.”
“You're right.” Sam loosed her shock webbing. “Whoever it is, we've gotta get out of here.”
Dar's head snapped up, startled. Then he waved an airy hand toward the porthole. “Sure—be my guest. It's a great day outside, if you face sunwards. Of course, the night on your backside gets a teeny bit chilly.”
“Credit me with some sense,” she snorted. “This shi
p must have some kind of lifeboat!”
But Dar was looking out the porthole. “Get down!”
Startled, Sam obeyed. A rending crash shot through the ship, and she slammed back against the cabin wall. Dar bounced out against his webbing.
“What in Ceres' name was that?” Sam gasped.
“They got tired of playing games.” Dar yanked his webbing loose and struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the pull of acceleration. “They shot to maim this time, and they had some luck. They got our gravity generator. Where'd you say the lifeboat was?”
“It'd make sense to put it between the pilot's bridge and the passenger cabin, wouldn't it?”
“Right.” Dar turned aft. “Since that makes sense, it'll obviously be between the cabin and the cargo space. Let's go.”
Sam started to protest, then shut up and followed.
The ship bucked and heaved. Dar caught the tops of the seats on either side, bracing himself. Sam slammed into his back. “Near miss,” he grated. “We got hit by a wave of exploding gas. Wish I had time to watch; this pilot's doing one hell of a job of dodging.”
“Is that why my body keeps trying to go through the wall?”
“Yeah, and why it keeps changing its mind as to which wall. Come on.”
They wallowed through a morass of acceleration-pull to the aft hatch. Dar turned to a small closet beside the hatch, and yanked it open. “Two on this side; there'll be three on the other side, I suppose.” He took down a slack length of silver fabric with a plastic bulb on top. “Here, scramble into it.”
Sam started struggling into the space suit. “Little flimsy, isn't it?”
Dar nodded. “It won't stop anything sharper than a cheese wedge. It's not supposed to; the lifeboat'll take care of that. The suit's just to hold in air.”
The ship bucked to the side with a rending crash, slamming Sam up against him. Jumpsuit or not, he realized dizzily, she was very definitely female. Somehow, this didn't seem like the time to mention it.
She scrambled back from him, and kept on scrambling, into her suit. “They're getting closer! Hurry!”
Dar stretched the suit on and pressed the seal-seam shut, being careful to keep it flat. Sam copied him. Then he braced himself and touched his helmet against hers, to let his voice conduct through the plastic. “Okay, turn around so I can turn on your air supply and check your connections.”
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