by Vernor Vinge
Victory Smith slid down next to her old sergeant. “But she has kept the press off our backs. What word from Rachner?”
“He’s down in the Accord-secure center.” In fact, the young major did not confide in Unnerby.
“He’s so sure this is a pure Kindred operation. I don’t know. They are in on it…but, you know the museum clerk is a trad? And the cobber working the museum’s loading dock has disappeared. Belga’s discovered he’s a traditionalist, too. I think the local trads are in this up to their shoulders.” Her voice was mild, almost contemplative. Later, much too much later, Hrunkner would remember back: The General’s voice was mild, but she sat with every limb tensed.
Unfortunately, Hrunkner Unnerby was lost in his own world. All night long he had watched the reports, and stared out into the windy dark. All night long he had prayed to the coldest depths of the earth, prayed for Little Victory, Gokna, Brent, and Jirlib. He spoke sadly, almost to himself. “I watched them grow into real people, cobblies that anyone could love. They do have souls.”
“What do you mean?” The sharpness in Victory’s voice didn’t penetrate his fatigue. He had years afterward to think back on this conversation, this single moment, to imagine the ways he might have avoided disaster. But the present did not feel the desperate gaze of the future, and he blundered on: “It’s not their fault that they were brought into the world out-of-phase.”
“It’s not their fault my slippery modern ideals have killed them?” Smith’s voice was a cutting hiss, something that even sorrow and fatigue could not block from Unnerby’s attention. He saw that his General was trembling.
“No, I—” But it was finally, irrevocably too late.
Smith was on her feet. She flicked a single long arm across his head, whiplike. “Get out!”
Unnerby staggered back. His right side vision was a coruscating ray of plaid agony. In all other directions, he saw officers and noncoms caught with aspects of shocked surprise.
Smith advanced on him. “Trad! Traitor!” Her hands jabbed with each word, killing blows just barely restrained. “For years you’ve pretended to be a friend, but always sneering and hating us. Enough!” She stopped her relentless approach, and brought her arms back to her sides. And Hrunkner knew she had capped her rage, and what she said now was cold and calm and considered…and it hurt even more than the wound across his eyes. “Take your moral baggage and go. Now.”
Her aspect was something he had seen once or twice before, during the Great War, when their backs were against the wall and still she had not yielded. There would be no argument, no relenting. Unnerby lowered his head, choked on words he was desperate to say. I’m sorry. I meant no harm. I love your children. But it was too late for words to change anything. Hrunkner turned, walked quickly past the shocked and silent staff and out the door.
When Rachner Thract heard that Smith was back in the building, he hightailed it down to the joint command post. That’s where he should have been during the night, except I’ll be damned if I let my crypto get exposed to the domestic branch and the local police. The separate operation had worked, thank goodness. He had hard information for the chief.
He ran into Hrunkner Unnerby going the other way. The old sergeant had lost his usual martinet bearing. He walked unsteadily down the hallway, and there was a long, milky welt across the right side of his head.
He waved at the sergeant. “You okay?” But Unnerby walked on past him, ignoring Rachner as a beheaded osprech might ignore a farmer. He almost turned to follow the cobber, then remembered his own urgency and continued into the joint command post.
The place was silent as a deepness…or a graveyard. Clerks and analysts sat motionless. As Rachner walked across the room toward General Smith, the rattle of work resumed, sounding strangely self-conscious.
Smith was paging through one of the operation logs, just a little too fast to be getting much out of it. She waved him to the perch beside her. “Underville sees evidence of local involvement, but we still don’t have anything solid.” Her tone was casual, belying or ignoring the astounded silence of a moment before. “Have you got anything new? Any reaction from our Kindred ‘friends’?”
“Lots of reaction, Chief. Even the superficial stuff is intriguing. About an hour after the kidnap story broke, the Kindred turned up the volume on their propaganda—especially the stuff aimed at the poorer nation-states. The spew is ‘murder after Dark’ fearmongering, but more intense than usual. They’re saying that the kidnapping is the desperate act of decent people, people who realize that non-trad elements have taken over the Accord…”
Everything was getting quiet again. Victory Smith spoke, a little sharply. “Yes, I know what they say. This is how I’d expect them to react to the kidnappings.”
Maybe he should have begun with the big news. “Yes, ma’am, though they did respond a bit too quickly. Our usual sources hadn’t heard about this beforehand, but now—well, it’s beginning to look like the kidnappings are just a symptom that the Extreme Measures faction has achieved decisive control within the Kindred. In fact, at least five of the Deepest were executed yesterday, ‘moderates’ like Klingtram and Sangst, and—alas—incompetents like Droobi. What’s left is clever and even more risk-attracted than before—”
Smith leaned back, startled. “I—see.”
“We haven’t known for more than half an hour, ma’am. I’ve got all the area analysts on it. We see no related military developments.”
For the first time, he seemed to have her full attention. “That makes sense. We’re years away from the point where a war would benefit them.”
“Right, Chief. Not war, not now. The Kindred grand strategy must still be to wear down the developed world as far as possible before the Dark, and then fight whoever is still awake…Ma’am, we also have less certain information.” Rumors, except that one of his deep-cover agents had died to get them out. “It looks like Pedure is now the Kindred’s head of external ops. You remember Pedure. We thought she was a low-level operator. Apparently she is smarter and more bloody-handed than we guessed. She’s probably responsible for this coup. She may be first among the new Deepest. In any case, she’s convinced them that you and, more particularly, Sherkaner Underhill are the key to the Accord’s strategic successes. Assassinating you would be very difficult, and you’ve protected your husband almost as well. Kidnapping your children opens a—”
The General’s hands tapped a staccato on the situation table. “Keep talking, Major.”
Pretend we’re talking about somebody else’s cobblies. “Chief, Sherkaner Underhill has talked often enough about his feelings on the radio, how much he values each child. What I’m getting now”—from the agent who had blown cover to get the word out—“is that Pedure sees almost no downside to grabbing your children, and any number of advantages. At best, she hoped to get all of your children out of the Accord, and then quietly play with you and your husband over a period of—years, perhaps. She figures that you could not continue in your present job with that sort of side conflict.”
Smith began, “If they were killed one by one, pieces of them sent back to us…” Her voice faded. “You’re right about Pedure. She would understand how things work with Sherkaner and me. Okay, I want you and Belga to—”
One of the desk phones chattered, an in-building direct line. Victory Smith flicked a pair of long arms across the table and grabbed the handset. “Smith.”
She listened for a moment, then whistled softly. “They what? But…Okay, Sherkaner, I believe you. Yes, Jaybert was right to pass it on to Underville.”
She rang off, and said to Thract, “Sherkaner’s found the key. He’s deciphered last night’s radio intercepts. It looks like the cobblies are being held in the Plaza Spar, downtown.”
Now the phone by Thract went off. He stabbed the Public On hole, and said, “Thract here.”
Belga Underville’s voice sounded faint and off-mike: “They have? Well, shut them up!” Then louder: “Listen, Thract? I�
�ve got my hands full down here. Now I get a call from your techie-freaks saying the victims are being held on the top floor of the Plaza Spar. Are you cobbers for real?”
Thract: “They’re not my techs. It’s important intelligence, Colonel, wherever it came from.”
“Damn, I already had a real lead. The city police spotted a silk banner snagged on the Bank of Princeton tower.” That was about half a mile from the Plaza Spar. “It was the jacket fabric that Downing described to us.”
Smith leaned close to the mike, and said, “Belga, was there anything attached? A note?”
There was an instant’s hesitation, and Thract could imagine Belga Underville getting her temper under control. Belga didn’t mind complaining to her fellows about all the “bloody stupid technology,” but not with Smith on the line.
“No, Chief. It was pretty well shredded. Look. The techs could be right about the Plaza Spar, but that’s a busy place. I’ll send a team to the lower floors, pretending to be customers. But—”
“Good. No alarms; get in close.”
“Chief, I think the tower where we found the banner is a better bet. It’s mostly vacant, and—”
“Fine. Go after both.”
“Yes, ma’am. The problem is the city police. They went off on their own, sirens, everything.”
Last night, Victory Smith had lectured Thract on the power of local police. But that power was economic, and political. Just now she said, “They have? Well, shut them up! I’ll take responsibility.”
She waved to Thract. “We’re going downtown.”
THIRTY-ONE
Shynkrette paced about her “command post.” Talk about luck. This mission had been designed as a hundred-day lurk-and-pounce. Instead, they’d bagged their targets less than ten days after insertion. The whole op had been an incredible combination of happenstance and screwup. So what else was new? Promotions came from pulling success out of real-world situations, and Shynkrette had survived worse than this. Barker and Fremm getting squashed had been bad luck and inattention. Maybe the worst mistake had been leaving the witnesses—at least it was the worst mistake that could be laid on her own back. On the other hand they had six children, at least four of them the targets. The getaway from the museum had been smooth, but the airport pickup fell through. The Accord’s local security was just a little too quick—maybe again because of those surviving witnesses.
This office space ringed the Plaza Spar, twenty-five stories up. It gave an excellent view of city activity, except directly below. In one sense, they were completely trapped here—who had ever hidden by sticking themselves up in the sky? In another sense—Shynkrette paused behind her team sergeant. “What does Trivelle say, Denni?”
The sergeant lifted the phone from his head. “Ground-floor lobby is about average busy. He has some business visitors. An old coot and some last-generation cobbers. They want to rent office space.”
“Okay. They can look at the third-floor suites. If they want to look at anything else, they can come back tomorrow.” Tomorrow, Deep willing, Shynkrette and her team would be long gone. They would have been gone last night, if not for the storm. Kindred Special Operations could do things with helicopters that the Accord military had never imagined…If good luck and competence held another day or two, her team would be back home with their prize. The Kindred book of doctrine had always been big on assassinations and decapitating strikes. With this op, the Honored Pedure was writing a new and experimental chapter. Deep, what Pedure would do with those six children. Shynkrette’s mind shied away from the thought. She had been in Pedure’s inner circle ever since the Great War, and her fortunes had risen accordingly. But she much preferred doing the Honored’s fieldwork to being with her in the Kindred torture chambers. Things could get so easily…turned around…in the chambers. And death could be so slow there.
Shynkrette moved from quarter to quarter, scanning the streets with a reflecting magnifier…Damn, a police convoy, emergency lights blinking. She recognized the special gear on those trucks. This was the police “heavy weapons” team. Their great success lay in scaring criminals into surrender. The lights—and the sirens she would surely start hearing in a minute—were all part of the intimidation. In this case, the police had made a very large mistake. Shynkrette was already running back around the ring of offices, pulling her little shotgun off her back as she ran.
“Team Sergeant! We’re going upstairs.”
Denni raised his head in surprise. “Trivelle says he hears sirens, but they don’t seem to be coming this way.”
A coincidence? Maybe the police had someone else they wanted to wave their guns at? Shynkrette balanced in a rare moment of indecision. Denni held up a hand, continued, “But he says he thinks three of the oldsters have left the sales tour, maybe gone to the washroom.”
So much for indecision; Shynkrette waved the sergeant to his feet. “Tell Trivelle to melt away,” if he can. “We’re into Alt Five.” There was always an Alternative Plan; that was a grim joke in Special Operations. They had had some warning. Very likely they could get out of the building, melt into the sea of civilians. Corporal Trivelle had less of a chance, but he knew so little it wouldn’t matter. The mission would not end up an embarrassment. If they took care of one last piece of business, it might even be counted a partial success.
As they raced up the central stairs, Denni was pulling down his own shotgun and combat knife. Success in Alt 5 meant taking a few minutes for a little detour, long enough to kill the children. Long enough so it would look really messy. Pedure apparently thought that would screw someone’s head on the Accord side. It sounded nuts to Shynkrette, but she didn’t know all the facts. It didn’t matter. At the end of the war, she had helped massacre a sleeping deepness. Nothing could be uglier than that, but the stolen hoards had financed the Kindred’s resurgence.
Hell, she was probably doing these children a favor; now they would miss their date with Honored Pedure.
Through most of the morning, Brent had lain flat on the metal floor. He looked as discouraged as Viki and Gokna felt. Jirlib at least had his hands full trying to comfort the two babies. The little ones were totally and loudly unhappy now, and wouldn’t have anything to do with the sisters. The last time anyone had been fed was the previous afternoon.
There wasn’t even much left to conspire about. By morning twilight, it had been obvious that their rescue flag was gone. A second attempt tore loose in less than thirty minutes. After that, Gokna and Viki spent three hours wrapping the play twine in intricate patterns through the pipe stubs above the room’s only entrance. Brent had been a real help with that—he was so good with knots and patterns. If anyone unfriendly came through that door, they would get a mawful of unpleasantness. But if their visitors were armed, how could it be enough? At that question, Brent had retreated from their arguments, gone to splay himself out on the cold floor.
Above them, a narrow square of sunlight crept foot by foot across the high walls of their prison. It must be almost noon. “I hear sirens,” Brent said abruptly, after an hour of silent sitting. “Lie down close and listen.”
Gokna and Viki did. Jirlib shushed the babies, for what that was worth.
“Yeah, I hear them.”
“Those are police sirens, Viki. Feel the thump, thump?”
Gokna jumped up, was already racing for the doorway.
Viki stayed on the floor a moment longer. “Be quiet, Gokna!”
And even the babies were quiet. There were other sounds: the heavy thrum of fans somewhere lower in the building, the street noise that they had heard before…but now the staccato sound of many feet, running up steps.
“That’s close,” said Brent.
“Th-they’re coming for us.”
“Yes.” Brent paused, in his usual dull way. “And I hear others coming, quieter or farther away.”
It didn’t matter. Viki ran to the doorway, hoisted herself up after Gokna. What they planned was pretty pitiful, but the worst and the best of
it was that they didn’t have any other choice. Earlier, Jirlib had argued that he was bigger, that he should swing down from above. Yeah, but he was only one target, and someone had to keep the babies out of the line of fire. So now Gokna and Viki stood against the wall, five feet above the doorway on either side, bracing themselves against Brent’s clever ropework.
Brent rose, ran to the right side of the doorway. Jirlib stood well off to the side. He held the children tight in his arms, and didn’t try to quiet them anymore. But now, suddenly, they were quiet. Maybe they understood. Maybe it was something instinctive.
Through the wall, Viki could feel the running steps now. Two people. One said something low to the other. She couldn’t hear the words but she recognized the leader of the kidnappers. A key rattled in the lock. On the floor to her left, Jirlib gently set the babies down behind him. They stayed quiet, totally still—and Jirlib turned back to the door, ready to pounce. Viki and Gokna crouched lower against the wall. They had twisted all the leverage they dared out of the twine. A final look passed between the two. They had gotten the others into this mess. They had risked the life of an innocent bystander to try to get out. Now it was time for payback.
The door slid open, metal slipping across metal. Brent tensed for a leap. “Please don’t hurt me,” he said, his voice the same sullen monotone as always. Brent couldn’t act to save his soul, yet in a weird way that tone sounded like someone scared into abject mindlessness.
“No one’s going to hurt you. We want to move you someplace better, and get you some food. Come on out.” The boss kidnapper sounded as reasonable as always. “Come on out,” a bit more sharply. Did she think she could bag them all without even mussing her jacket? There was quiet for a second or two…Viki heard a faint sigh of irritation. There was a rush of motion.
Gokna and Viki dived as hard as they could. They were only five feet up. Without the twine, they would have crushed their skulls on the floor. Instead, the elastic snapped them back, heads down, through the open doorway.