Edward M. Lerner

by A New Order of Things

  Perhaps Mashkith had fixed the World Series for the Cubs. Or perhaps Mashkith, somehow, had seized control of a Centaur starship.

  CHAPTER 34

  A dozen stony-faced men and women sat around the outside edge of three tables arranged in a shallow U. Their dress whites were crisply pressed, gold-braided, and resplendent with row upon row of campaign ribbons. UP, Galileo, and Belter flags affixed to poles behind the center table rippled in the draft from a ventilation duct. A telescopic image of Victorious, flanked by its escort fleet, occupied the room’s sole virtual display.

  Aaron O’Malley, the one familiar face at the table, would not meet Art’s eyes. That’s a bad sign, he thought.

  “You’ve come a long way to speak to us, Dr. Walsh, and at a very critical juncture.” Adm. Aafia Khan entered to take the final open seat at the U. She was a near-legendary figure, veteran of both wars of Phobos secession. This was her staffroom aboard her flagship, the Donald Rumsfeld. “It is a testament to the respect we place in your colleague,” and she nodded slightly at Carlos, “that we agreed to your request. Be advised the length of this discussion is at my sole discretion.”

  A firm hand on Art’s shoulder kept him in his chair at the open end of the U. Carlos stood. “Thank you, Admiral. We appreciate the seriousness of the moment; I promise we’ll respect your time pressures. That said, I hope you will allow me a brief setting of the stage.

  “None here will deny that the diplomatic mission to the K’vithians has failed dismally. Thousands have died, including many of our friends and colleagues. Our top-secret antimatter program has been disclosed, looted, and destroyed. Our key scientists are now prisoners of the aliens.” Some impatient shifting of positions made Carlos pause. “Granted, that part is conjecture. Set it aside. Here’s my point: Your justified anger is misdirected.

  “Dr. Walsh was the first to suspect the K’vithians might be interested in our antimatter, and to engage my agency. He was the most insistent that the K’vithians demonstrate their own antimatter capability before any deals were made.” Grudgingly, Aaron O’Malley nodded concurrence. “Dr. Walsh also insisted upon rigorous proof that the vessel offered to us in trade actually had an interstellar-drive capability. Ladies and gentlemen, we were all fooled. In my opinion, Dr. Walsh has earned the right to our thoughtful consideration.”

  Art’s shoulder got a final, brief squeeze of support, then the pressure vanished. He netted a quick, private, “Thanks,” before standing, his Velcro ship slippers solidly planted on the carpet. Carlos’ praise notwithstanding, Art’s credibility was unlikely to survive floating off like some flatlander.

  He had agonized the whole high-gee pursuit flight about each word he would present. Confronting so many impassive faces, Art knew his practiced, polished speech was over-rehearsed and over-precise. A rote data dump would not cut it. “The K’vithians actions are unconscionable and inexcusable. I am as outraged as anyone in this room. I understand the gathering here of the fleet, the impetus toward a forceful response.

  “We’ve met K’vithians. We’ve been outwitted by K’vithians. The complication is, other … parties have had the same experience.” He pointed at the holo display. “We’re looking at a Centaur starship.”

  That brought expression into the watching faces. “I would like,” Adm. Khan said very deliberately, “an explanation for the statement.”

  “If I may,” and Art gestured to the holo. At the admiral’s nod, he cleared the telescopic image. “Only recently have enough anomalies accumulated to see the pattern. Only very recently did that pattern lead us to the proof that has been hidden in plain sight.” Despite Carlos’ generous introduction, Art would never forgive himself for not seeing it sooner.

  He barely mentioned the merely suggestive data: the too-tall corridors; the fortune in Centaur credits being laundered; the Centaur-like fusion drives aboard Victorious and the lifeboat; the Centaur photonics integral to the Snake’s antimatter transfer canister. “None of that is proof. It was enough to make us search for proof.”

  Art cleared the text summaries that had accumulated in the holo. A time-sorted list of shipping data took their place. “What Victorious has been acquiring besides antimatter is instructive.” A netted thought highlighted in yellow and magnified several bills of lading. “These compounds are Centaur biochemicals. In human space, they have specialty industrial uses, but our manufacturers have never seen orders in nearly these quantities.”

  The shipping data shrank into half the display. Atmospheric measurements popped into the vacated space. “At the top right, readings by my suit instruments on our first trip aboard Victorious. See the concentrations of sulfur dioxide and hydrogen sulfide. Bottom right, similar readings from my second visit. By this time, they had loaded lots of volatiles and biochemicals.”

  “Lower levels of the sulfur compounds,” muttered one of the naval officers.

  “K’vith is a very volcanic world. K’vithian biochem is rich with sulfur compounds.” That was hardly news. Buffering the sulfur concentrations had been one of the original challenges to adapting biocomps to human neural implants. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, that recharging their shipboard environment removed lots of sulfur?”

  “Suggestive, I agree. It’s not conclusive.” Khan stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe they started their trip with excess sulfur.”

  Art highlighted new cargoes. “I suspect not, Admiral. Look how much sulfur they bought from the mines of Amalthea.” He was silent as they connected the dots: too much sulfur for the ecosystem concurrent with too little sulfur aboard.

  Eyes around the U suddenly glazed over. Was there a shipboard crisis? “If I could have a moment longer, I have one more item.” Text vanished from the display, replaced by an old 3-V clip from Art’s helmet camera: Snakes and pressure-suited humans meeting in a dimly lit conference room. In a corner he put two simple graphs. “The solid red curve is the light spectrum of Barnard’s Star, intensity versus frequency. As you know, it’s a red dwarf. Its light peaks in the red region. The shorter, dashed red curve is a light spectrum for the conference-room lighting.” He slid the graphs together, and the peaks coincided.

  Meeting room and graphs shrank to the left; another conference room appeared on the right. This vid had been captured by Keizo’s helmet camera. “Looks the same, doesn’t it? Just wait.” People stood from their chairs, milled around in goodbyes, and began filing from the room. “Habit is a wondrous thing.” Walking out the door, one figure—Ambassador Chung—patted beside the door frame well above Snake head height. For a few seconds, room lighting blazed bright. Snakes flinched and blinked, some shading their eyes with a hand. The lighting reverted to its prior dim level.

  Art backed up the scene to a moment of brightness and froze frame. A new graph appeared. “The solid blue curve is our sun’s light. They said the room had been configured for human use—not that we were ever unsupervised anywhere aboard Victorious.” Pop: a second graph. “In yellow, the light component added when Ambassador Chung reflexively operated that wall sensor.” He superimposed the graphs. The axes aligned perfectly, but the yellow and blue peaks were slightly offset. He slid the curves apart.

  Pop: a third graph. “That dotted yellow curve is for Alpha Centauri A. Looks like our sun’s, doesn’t it? But Alpha Cen A is about ten degrees Kelvin cooler than Sol. That makes their color balances slightly different.”

  The solid and dashed yellow peaks aligned perfectly.

  A fleet matter never explained preempted the navy brass. As they reassembled an hour later, the mood felt different. Officers reentering the room made eye contact; a few even smiled. The admiral reconvened the session with a casual, “As you were saying.”

  “Before break, I explained why I’m convinced Victorious is a Centaur vessel.” And, Art thought, its proper name surely has a different translation. In his ICU dealings with T’bck Fwa, there had never been any aura of competition. “We’ve seen no Centaurs, but the dietary-supplement purchases
strongly suggest some are aboard.”

  “Are the Centaurs and Snakes in this together?” Aaron O’Malley asked.

  “Probably not.” Art gazed at the telescopic image of Victorious that again filled the display. The starship was accelerating steadily now at a bit over one standard gee. “I wish I could offer certainty. The best I can do is explain my reasoning.

  “The K’vithians appear to have undertaken an epic journey—forty years round trip—to steal the UP’s antimatter production technology. That voyage wouldn’t be necessary with Centaurs as their allies. It seems more likely the K’vithians captured the starship only to find themselves unable to manufacture new fuel.

  “Why? I can only guess the Centaurs were playing safe. In this scenario, the original crew is held prisoner.”

  “With due respect, Dr. Walsh, why does this matter?” Art didn’t need Carlos’ netted warning that Capt. Swoboda, the admiral’s aide, was likely fronting for her boss. The full panel’s sudden rapt attention was a tip-off.

  “It’s common knowledge the navy is being mobilized—at least as much of the fleet as might possibly overtake Victorious before it recedes beyond our reach. I hope that fleet goes to rescue our friends, but I don’t believe it. Whenever I mention the missing, I get very impersonal responses. If they’re not already dead, and I concede they may be, too many of you already consider them collateral damage. I fear your plan is a revenge mission, not a rescue.”

  “Please answer the question, Doctor,” the admiral said.

  “I am.” Only after Helmut discreetly laid a hand on Art’s arm did he realize he was shaking. Then the full panic attack hit: sweating, light-headedness, nausea. The ship was in weightlessness, yet the weight and fate of solar systems were on his shoulders. His eyes with a will of their own kept flicking to the cabin’s single door. With a shudder, Art got himself under control. “I am.

  “Set aside thoughts of our friends. Forget any dreams we shared short days ago of human starships. Ignore that the K’vithians now hold large quantities of antimatter, while we have none. Assume an attack succeeds. Victorious is destroyed.

  “That ‘achievement’ would kill an innocent crew of captive Centaurs. Would we be starting a war with the species we know has antimatter and interstellar travel?”

  “How will they—”

  Art cut off Swoboda’s question. “Of course they’ll know. T’bck Fwa, their local trade agent, may already know. Do you doubt that an AI can deduce such secret matters from the public infosphere? Remember, the Snakes arrived already knowing about the antimatter program on Himalia. There’s no reason to think T’bck Fwa is any less skilled at data mining. You can be certain he’s noticed the plunge in value of Centaur credits.”

  For a while, the only sound was someone’s pensive tapping on a tabletop. Good, he had given them something to think about. It gave him time for some deep breathing, and to superimpose over the harsh, confining reality of the room a translucent image of cloudless blue sky and Illinois cornfields stretching as far as the inner eye could see. As a bit of the tension drained out of him, Art cleared his throat. “One final point: The Centaurs distrusted us even before this whole incident.”

  “Explain, Doctor,” Khan said.

  Human/Centaur misunderstandings dated back almost to the dawn of InterstellarNet, but basic math was a lot less esoteric than old trade disputes. “We’re their nearest neighbor: From Alpha Cen to Sol system is four light-years. The Centaurs made their first interstellar journey to Barnard’s Star. That’s six light-years. Why—besides distrust—would they add years to their travel time?

  “Put yourself in the Centaurs’ place. Their starship is stolen. The K’vithians bring it here and the UP very publicly agrees to refuel it in trade for the Centaurs’ interstellar-drive technology. Everything since then just looks like a falling out among thieves.”

  The Donald Rumsfeld was among the biggest ships in the UP fleet, and Adm. Khan’s personal suite was spacious—but not at all what Art expected. The private office to which Art, Carlos, and Helmut had been summoned was sparsely furnished, with a sound-synched holo waterfall, delicate black-lacquered table and chairs, and a short bookcase of antique leather-bound volumes. Khan was studying a holo of the still-gathering forces, her back to the door, as Capt. Swoboda escorted them in. “This is, by far, the largest massing of UP military forces within my career. Do you know why?”

  I requested a meeting, Art thought. She’s talking to me. “Revenge, I assume.”

  “Nothing so simple, Doctor.” She turned toward them. “Try again.”

  “So you do hope to rescue the prisoners?”

  “We will if we can, but hope is too optimistic a verb.”

  “Then why?”

  “We’ll attack, and pay a terrible price, to make a point. Revenge, gentlemen, is not strategic, but too many civilians”—and there was a derisive undertone to the label—“think in those terms. Someday, the UP will reconstruct the facilities destroyed at Himalia. Someday, human scientists will develop an interstellar drive. There is one course of action we can undertake now to head off true interstellar war then. We must cause the Snakes enough pain that the public feels avenged.”

  “But we may instead be provoking the Centaurs!”

  “It may be, Doctor. Your realization of Centaur involvement has complicated our planning considerably. I’ve been pondering just that factor since your briefing.” Khan shrugged. “If Centaurs feel the need for revenge, their fight will presumably be with two species. That’s another reason to even the score with the Snakes up front. I’d rather not have two enemies.”

  “Realpolitik,” netted Carlos. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.”

  Art tended toward terrified. “Admiral, does it change the equation if the Snakes don’t have antimatter technology?”

  “They have it now, stolen fair and square. We must assume everything they’ve learned has been radioed home.” Art’s expression was evidently more scrutable than he hoped, because she continued, “Okay, Dr. Walsh. What else haven’t you shared?”

  “I’m skeptical they relayed any technology,” Art answered. “We may be dealing with renegades.”

  “Again: How many tidbits have you kept to yourself?”

  Just one, for now, besides this one. “Are you familiar with the Snake Subterfuge? The trapdoor hidden—”

  “I did my homework,” Khan interrupted. “Know your enemy. Biocomps derive from Snake genetic material, which was incompletely understood when first adopted. The technology the ICU licensed over InterstellarNet contained an unrecognized trapdoor, which Interstellar Algorithms Consortium used to try extorting a fortune. The Snake agent was convinced it was against species interests to let one corporation act that way. The UP was given the genome decoding, after which a tailored biovirus fixed the problem. Old news.”

  “Pretty much,” agreed Art. “That said, the standard text, ‘Their agent was convinced,’ seriously downplays the crisis. It was in the ICU’s interest to minimize a very close call. Pashwah threatened to disable biocomps across the solar system. As a demo, she crashed and restarted enough ICU computers to be credible.

  “Before the pay-or-else deadline, one of my ICU predecessors transmitted the whole extortion scheme to ICU trade agents hosted by all other InterstellarNet species. Disclosure of the plot—hence the discrediting everywhere of Snakes as trading partners—was automatic absent recurring ‘wait’ messages from Earth. The UP suddenly disappearing from InterstellarNet would have been compelling corroboration. Pashwah sacrificed Interstellar Algorithms Consortium to avoid losing the Snakes every other market.”

  Khan nodded. “Interesting. How does this relate to our present happiness?”

  “The diplomatic mission has a sequestered clone of Pashwah. We call her Pashwah Two. After the recent overt attack, she shared something. There’s no way to prove it, but she claims the clan behind Interstellar Algorithms Consortium was Arblen Ems.”

  “Can w
e borrow a display, Admiral?” At a nod, Carlos linked in a vid. “The ‘Snake’ you see Art and me interrogating is Pashwah Two. These are highlights.”

  The Snake Subterfuge was more than a breathtakingly audacious attempt at extortion. There was a political dimension, some undisclosed plan to exploit what would have been an unprecedented fortune on K’vith. Pashwah Two speculated Arblen Ems, then one of the eight Great Clans, intended to buy enough allies to seize total power.

  With the collapse of the extortion attempt, Arblen Ems was unmasked rather than enriched. All other Great Clans united to attack the schemers, and the survivors fled to the fringes of their solar system. The remnants were believed extinct, last seen retreating into deep space in a damaged experimental habitat.

  “Victorious.” Khan drifted, eyes closed in thought. “Or so we are to believe. Carlos, what reason is there to buy into this fairy tale?”

  “I’ve never interrogated an AI or a Snake. Obviously, we’re dealing with an avatar; the mannerisms are all synthesized. They could be meaningful, or entirely for effect. Complicating things further, we’re often discussing what Pashwah was supposedly told, not things from her direct experience. I can truthfully say her story is self-consistent and compatible with everything we know—which is a far cry from proof.”

  “And you, Doctor? Do you concur?”

  Yes, but. “Here’s another supporting factor: the pattern of resupply efforts. The Snakes ordered no supplies when they first arrived. They bought a few things after the media blitz, after they earned a little money. Whole convoys of supplies began coming only after the Centaur credits started flooding the market. So the indirect corroboration—not proof, I agree—is the absence of evidence Snake funds paid for resupply. It all fits with a crew of desperate and impoverished Snake exiles. Would you agree, Carlos?”