by Larry Niven
She shook off Sigmund’s hand to stand facing him, her eyes blazing. “Absolutely not! I came of my own free will, and I’ll not have anyone think such terrible things of you. Certainly not your son!” Her expression softened. “I can’t believe you would take the blame for me.”
He shrugged, embarrassed.
The hardest part of waiting was the silence. Maybe they had initiated a debate groundside, but it was impossible to know. Back in the day, Sigmund had kept spy ships skulking near the Fleet of Worlds. Any of those ships could have tapped into New Terra’s public networks from this distance. All he had was this short-range cargo ship, equipped and provisioned for same-day jaunts. Hiding beyond the reach of the early-warning arrays, carrying only commercial comm gear, the planet’s low-powered RF leakage was unintelligible babble.
“Maybe I will have a snack,” Amelia said. Changing the subject?
“Sure. What can I bring you?”
“Soup and a sandwich. Maybe some…”
Sigmund saw it, too: the flashing indicator for an incoming comm signal. But was the contact from Koala or New Terra?
* * *
“… CALLING SIGMUND AUSFALLER. Please respond. This is the governor calling — ”
The message was in full video and it showed — a man! He had a long, thin head, a trim goatee, sunken cheeks, and crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes.
Sigmund didn’t recognize the face.
“Could we have done it?” Amelia asked hopefully.
To put a new face on air would have been easy enough. “Let’s try to find out. Until we know more, I suggest you stay out of sight.”
Instead, Amelia plopped into the copilot’s crash couch.
Sigmund took the pilot’s seat, tilted the camera away from her, and accepted the hail. “Ausfaller here.”
“Minister Ausfaller,” the self-proclaimed governor said. “Thank you for taking my hail.”
The response was immediate, from outside the singularity. So why had the “governor” left New Terra? To facilitate comm, or to backtrack the chain of relay buoys to Elysium? Probably both.
Sigmund rested his hands on the hyperdrive controls. “Who are you?”
“Excuse me,” the man said. “Of course you wouldn’t know. My name is Llewellyn Kudrin-Goldberg. At the time of your … hasty departure, I was the assemblyman for a rural district in East Arcadia.”
“You’ve had quite a promotion,” Sigmund said.
“Quite.” Kudrin-Goldberg smiled briefly. “I blame you.”
“And the previous governor?” At Amelia’s voice, the camera pivoted toward her.
“Ah, Mrs. Ausfaller-Lopez. I’m pleased to see you are well.”
“I’ll be better,” she said, “when I know what’s been happening.”
“Very well,” Kudrin-Goldberg said. “Minister Ausfaller’s broadcast raised enough doubts that a few courageous individuals within the defense establishment came forward. Computers within the Ministry were searched. When it became public that Norquist-Ng had ordered the strike against the simulated Earth ship…”
Amelia nodded knowingly.
Sigmund had never understood the Puppeteer-like consensus process that swept out New Terra’s first government — and him — so long ago. He didn’t expect ever to quite understand this latest overthrow, either.
He could live with the mystery, assuming this revolution was as bloodless as when the government he had served stepped down. And if this revolution was for real …
“What do you want from us, Governor?” Sigmund asked.
“To return home, of course. To join us in welcoming Koala.” Kudrin-Goldberg paused. “The people have spoken. They want the reunification to happen, Minister. Please don’t scare away our visitors. They could arrive at any time.”
“One moment, Governor.” Amelia hit MUTE. “Sigmund, can we trust him?”
“Let’s find out.” Sigmund unmuted the connection. “Governor, I assume you have a link with the ground. I’d like to talk with someone down there.”
“Certainly. We can patch you in from this ship. Who should we call?”
“Check the header.” Except for the header, the text Sigmund transmitted was encrypted. Doubtless the encryption could be cracked — but not before he got his answer. “Send my file as addressed, and be ready to open a real-time session with the recipient.”
“Very well, Minister.”
“Hermes?” Amelia mouthed.
Sigmund shook his head.
Seconds stretched.
Over the comm console, the holo split. A familiar figure appeared wearing a long-tailed black dress coat, black vest, starched white shirt, black bow tie, and white gloves. “It is very good to hear from you, sir,” Jeeves said.
“You, too, Jeeves,” Sigmund answered. But was this his Jeeves? Was it a Jeeves at all, or a person hiding behind an animated avatar? Anyone running Sigmund’s psych profile might have guessed who he would contact. “Is everything well?”
“Quite well, sir. The old government has fallen. Mr. Kudrin-Goldberg has assumed the governorship. You are considered something of a hero again, sir.”
The words proved nothing. Anyone could guess Sigmund would want to hear them.
“Three seven theta alpha forty-two,” Sigmund challenged.
“Forty-four nineteen delta sigma,” Jeeves responded.
His Jeeves: no one else knew the challenge-response pair. Sigmund had set the AI loose on the public net, because what was one more law broken among so many? It was almost inconceivable that Jeeves had been caught and hacked in the few days Sigmund had been away.
Sometimes almost inconceivable was the best that one could hope for.
“All right, Governor, I’m convinced. We’ll be home soon.”
The governor said, “I’m pleased to hear that, Minister. The people will be, too. Once you are down, please come to my offices at your earliest convenience.”
At Sigmund’s side, Amelia was grinning from ear to ear. Kudrin-Goldberg looked relieved. And something else. Expectant?
“I have to ask. Why do you keep using my old title?” Flattery, Sigmund supposed.
“The truth is,” the governor said, “the Defenses Forces need a housecleaning. I had intended to make this request face-to-face, but I guess it can’t wait.
“Sigmund, I’m hoping to make Minister of Defense your current title.”
38
Koala flew along the Arcadian shoreline, slowly descending.
From an altitude of a kilometer and a half, Julia saw deep into the verdant continent and far out to sea. (About five thousand feet, she reminded herself. She had gotten spoiled by Earth’s metric system. Reverting to feet and miles, pounds and ounces, was going to be a shock.) Apart from zipping through the occasional high cirrus cloud, her view was unimpeded. Sunslight sparkled from azure coastal waters. Barrier islands beckoned: lush with vegetation, outlined by gleaming white sand beaches. Out to sea, a string of setting suns painted a band of low clouds in brilliant pinks and reds.
In her joy at being home, she could forget for seconds at a time that she returned without her ship and crew.
“Captain.” Wesley Wu waited till he saw he had Julia’s attention before gesturing at his bridge’s main view port. “Your world is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Long Pass City is coming up,” traffic control radioed. “You can’t miss it. Big city right on the coast, about five miles ahead of you. The main spaceport is five miles beyond.”
“Eight kilometers for each leg,” Julia translated units.
From the corner of an eye she caught two bridge officers grinning at the traffic controller’s description. For every person on New Terra, Earth had hundreds. Tanya had shown Julia images of arcologies each home to more people than New Terra’s capital city.
After their long voyage, the final approach was anticlimactic. Koala swooped to a landing in the center of the field. As t
hey touched down Julia caught a glimpse of reviewing stands set in front of the main terminal.
When the air-lock hatches opened, the cheers of the crowd were deafening.
And when, side by side, she and Wesley Wu exited the lock, the roar grew louder.
* * *
AFTER THE SPEECHES HAD ENDED, the parade run its course, and the concert ended with a loud brassy flourish, after most of the shore party had flicked with their official guides to homes and hotels around the globe, finally Julia got to make her way to where her family waited. Mom and Dad. Both her brothers and their families. Aunts and uncles and assorted cousins. After everything she had survived, she might be hugged to death.
Lots of family — but no grandfather.
“Mom!” Julia finally got out the word. “Save some for later.”
Mom gave one more squeeze, sighed, then let Julia go. “Sorry.” Shining eyes said she wasn’t. Dad was holding back tears, too.
“Where’s Grandpa?” Julia asked. She could imagine only one thing keeping Grandpa away: that he blamed her for Alice’s death. She had to get Grandpa alone, had to explain that Alice was well.
“Your grandfather was on the main reviewing stand,” Dad said. “Didn’t you see him?”
Julia shook her head. “I had the setting suns in my eyes and couldn’t make out everyone. I saw only a bunch of politicians. But it was impossible to miss that we have a new governor. What’s that about?”
“There were … changes while you were gone,” Mom said.
What aren’t you telling me? Whatever, it could wait. “Grandpa?” Julia prompted.
“Sigmund is in the new government,” Mom said, “as the minister of the defense forces.” She seemed conflicted about saying more.
“There you are.” Tanya Wu walked up briskly, sharp in her dress blues. She would be staying with Julia, and they would be touring New Terra together. “Your family?”
“Almost all of it. Everyone, this is my good friend, Tanya.”
Even as Julia made the introductions, her mind churned. Grandpa was in the government? That meant his past differences with the political establishment had been forgiven. She was very happy for him.
She could tell her grandpa anything — but how could she tell the Minister of New Terran Defense Forces that she had given away one of his starships?
39
The illusion was all but perfect. Overhead, the image shone of the primeval sun. Lush rolling pasture, vibrant in reds, yellows, and purples, merged flawlessly into the “distance” where walls fractured by Long Shot’s arrival had been restored. Indifferent to the solemn gathering of Citizens, a trio of Companions ambled along a nearby slope nibbling the fragrant meadowplant. Only stacked boxes spoiled the pastoral atmosphere. The equipment would be gone soon enough.
As shall I, Baedeker thought.
“You need not go.” Nike sang not only to Baedeker and Nessus, but to the volunteers gathered to accompany them. “You should not go. The prospects for success are unfavorable.”
The melody was polite for you are insane to go, and Baedeker did not argue. To serve the herd, one must fear for others more than for oneself.
Baedeker reached out to brush heads in farewell, then straightened. “I thank you for your hospitality, your assistance in our preparations, and the knowledge that many remain here” — when this adventure, too, goes awry — “in further assurance of the herd’s future.”
Nike lowered his heads in respect.
Baedeker took a final look around this idyllic spot. Perhaps this place was too perfect, a trap from which only the strongest-willed might ever emerge.
A stepping disc lay at Baedeker’s hooves. Like similar discs across the Hindmost’s Refuge, it had been powered off since Nike and his staff first arrived. Baedeker leaned over to activate the device.
Apollo, one of the disturbingly few volunteers, gripped a transport controller in a mouth. Born in the Refuge, he had never ventured beyond its confining, if artfully obscured, boundary. This little bubble was the youngster’s entire world.
As my children must imagine New Terra is their world, Baedeker thought. He wondered if he would ever see them. With pangs of guilt, he wondered if he should. Did Elpis and Aurora even remember him?
Apollo kept probing candidate destination addresses. On the fourth try, he sang, “I have a disc that appears ready to receive.”
“I will go first,” Nessus sang at once. Others quickly made the same offer.
“I thank you all, but the duty” — and the danger — “is mine.” Baedeker stepped onto the disc —
* * *
HEADS SWIVELING, BAEDEKER LOOKED ALL AROUND. The only light came seeping under a closed door. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he began to distinguish tarp-covered heaps.
An ear held to the door heard nothing. When he risked a low-powered flashlight beam, he saw dust coated everything but the stepping disc on which he stood. No one had visited this closet in a long time.
Baedeker stepped off the disc. With a transmitter taken from a pocket of his utility belt, he sent three short neutrino pulses deep into the mantle.
Nessus appeared almost at once, sneezing at the dust Baedeker had disturbed. Looking himself in the eyes, Nessus sang, “I remember your home as a more welcoming place.”
“I would guess you never went into the subbasement,” Baedeker replied.
Opening the door, he peered into a dimly lit, empty hallway. Its floor was dusty, too. After many years off-world, he had almost forgotten how decadent corridors were. In the Hindmost’s Residence, privacy and security took priority over conserving space. The only stepping discs here — apart from those he had hidden — were in the security foyer, well guarded.
“Let’s go up,” Baedeker sang.
Clutching stunners, Baedeker and Nessus walked down the hall. The thick dust that muffled their hoofsteps would also reveal their trespass to anyone at all alert. If they failed to make contact on this first attempt, they must clean up after themselves. A dirt-free floor might call less attention to itself than a floor with disturbed dust.
At the base of a ramp they paused to listen. Faint noises drifted toward them. Baedeker had timed their foray for the sleep shift, but remembered how irrelevant routine became during times of crisis.
With Fringe War fleets charging at Hearth, this, surely, was a time of crisis.
Almost, Baedeker retraced his steps to the storage room to flick back to the Refuge. Instead, hearts pounding, he started up the ramp.
On the main basement level, the floor was free of dust. They crept up a second ramp. The lights were less dim on the Residence’s ground floor. Baedeker heard soft voices. Guards or aides, singing among themselves.
And did he hear something else? An argument?
Nessus paused, heads cocked. He heard it, too.
The angry notes came from the small private study adjoining the Hindmost’s personal suite. Baedeker pointed toward a pantry door. He remembered the pantry had an inner door for access from the study.
The pantry was snug for two. Even from here Baedeker did not recognize the voices. The mysterious Horatius? Baedeker heard harmonics of command and stern undertunes — but hesitant grace notes, too.
Then someone else began to sing, much louder. Baedeker recognized those voices all too well.
* * *
“YOU ARE UNFIT!” Achilles railed.
“I am Hindmost,” Horatius countered.
He sounded unconvincing even to himself. He despaired of his weakness, his weariness, his inadequacies, and his reticence to confront Achilles for the effrontery of his uninvited arrival.
“Do you understand that we are at war, Hindmost? Tell me. Which precedents guide your policy? What Conservative predecessor ever ruled in such conditions?”
“I understand that you started a war.” Horatius tried and failed to maintain firmness in his second and fourth harmonics. “As Hindmost it is my duty to — ”
“Kzinti ‘diplomats’
started the war by attempting to seize one of our defensive drones. Can you imagine how helpless Hearth would have been had they succeeded?”
“But they did not succeed,” Horatius sang. “The matter was settled. You took it upon yourself to have Proteus attack their remaining ships.”
“There must be penalties for aggression against us. You don’t understand aliens. I represented General Products among Kzinti and wild human alike. To have done nothing would only have emboldened them.”
What of the armadas glimpsed by the defensive arrays? Ships in vast numbers emerged every few days from hyperspace, maintaining their course for the Fleet of Worlds. Were those aliens not already emboldened?
I could unburden myself of this madness, Horatius thought. The herd chose me, but I serve only at Ol’t’ro’s sufferance. What if I were to lose their confidence?
How hard could that be?
Horatius had had to replace many among his cabinet. More than once he had watched a friend and colleague carried away: curled around himself, heads hidden against his belly, withdrawn from the world.
And he had envied every one of them.
But there was no safety in catatonia. Not while Gw’oth ruled the worlds and more aliens rushed onward. Not after Achilles had given the Kzinti one more reason to seek vengeance.
“No!” Horatius sang with all the firmness he could muster. “I will not resign. I serve until the herd or Ol’t’ro say otherwise. Provoke the nearby aliens again without my permission, and I will discharge you.”
Achilles bowed his necks, not in subservience but to preen. “I suppose you will supervise Proteus and see to increasing his capabilities. Which of us will Ol’t’ro deem expendable?”
Catatonia beckoned, the lure of oblivion all but irresistible. “We are done,” Horatius sang. Maddeningly, the fourth harmonic cracked and his grace notes fell prey to a stutter. “Go!”