Deadman Switch

by Timothy Zahn

  “Such an accusation … is utterly fantas … tic.”

  I shook my head. “I agree it’s wilder than most of the theories that have tried to account for the heat-treating of the rocks out there, but once Lord Kelsey-Ramos made the connection it was a trivial matter to show that the heating was done by the same set of wavelengths as the melted spots on that ramp in the Butte City.”

  There was another long silence, and I had the distinct impression that the thunderheads were a little taken aback. For all their remarkable natural abilities, their lack of any kind of technology severely limited their knowledge of the physical sciences. To their minds, the analysis I’d just described—a very straightforward one, I’d been told—probably sounded identical to magic. “Well?” I prompted after a moment.

  A sense of firmness touched Adams’s face. “You will stay and fight for … the minerals in the … rings,” the thunderhead repeated.

  I bit at my lip. This was getting me nowhere. “Will you at least tell me why they’re coming?” I asked him.

  “They are invaders.”

  The stock answer. “Yes, so you’ve told us,” I said, feeling my frustration level beginning to rise. “But why are they coming? What quarrel do they have with you that they’re willing to spend a hundred years coming through your Cloud to get to you?”

  “They are invaders.”

  I focused sharply on Adams. Something in his voice on that last sentence … ? “Thunderhead, we haven’t got much time left,” I said, watching Adams closely. The contact was beginning to get to him. “We can’t simply kill the aliens in cold blood—we just can’t. Don’t you understand how unethical such a thing would be for our species?”

  Adams’s glazed eyes turned up to me … and suddenly I felt a chill run up my back. There was a hard edge to his sense, something I’d never before seen in a thunderhead contact. “You are defenders,” he whispered; and even with a whisper’s usual lack of tonal cues I could hear the contempt there. “You will destroy them be … cause that is your nature. That is why you are here.”

  I gritted my teeth hard, anger and frustration combining into a violent urge to somehow lash out at the thunderhead. But I couldn’t. A nerve was twitching in Adams’s neck, and I could see the palpitation of the carotid artery, and there was nothing I could do except swallow my fury and break off the contact. “We are human beings,” I gritted out. “We go where we wish, do what we wish. As you will find out. Adams!—break contact.”

  For a second I had the horrible feeling that the thunderhead was going to refuse to allow it, that he was going to let Adams die as a demonstration of thunderhead power. But a second later the stiffness went out of Adams’s back, and he was free.

  I watched him closely, finger resting lightly on the Emergency button on my phone. But the worrying turned out to be unnecessary; compared with the last time, this recovery was practically instantaneous. Within a minute his breathing and eyes had returned to normal and he was able to sit up straight again. “So,” he said at last. “It didn’t work.”

  Defeat had a bitter taste. “No,” I shook my head wearily. “I’d hoped there might be something else there … but there isn’t. We really are nothing but overgrown insects to them. They’re playing with us—have been playing with us, for seventy years now. And if the Pravilo gets their way on this one …”

  Adams turned his head to gaze through the security fence. “Perhaps they aren’t simply being blind or greedy,” he suggested quietly. “Perhaps they don’t see any safe alternative to cooperation at this point.” He hesitated. “The thunderheads’ lasers—did they really burn the light elements out of the rings?”

  I saw what he was getting at. “Yes, but Lord Kelsey-Ramos told me that it took them literally years to do it. At least ten, probably closer to twenty. The individual lasers aren’t all that powerful, really—they seem to have come about mainly as a means for stirring up their insect protectors when a predator approached. It wouldn’t be all that effective a weapon against us.”

  “They fused the end of a needler with it,” he pointed out.

  “Melted a few drops across the opening,” I corrected him. “And it probably took the entire Butte City population to do it. Agreed, a direct confrontation would carry a certain risk. But I can’t see the Patri knuckling under solely because of that.”

  Adams snorted gently. “Then you’re right: it has to be either blindness or greed.”

  I nodded. “My guess is greed.”

  For a minute we sat there silently. I found my eyes turning upward, toward the glistening white clouds drifting serenely across the blue sky … and in my mind’s eye the clouds became Mjollnir-equipped rocheoids. Massive chunks of death, moving into their appointed places in front of the approaching ships.

  Ships that would probably never even know what had happened to them.

  “You can’t give up,” Adams said.

  I turned back to find his eyes on me. “I don’t want to give up,” I retorted. “But I’ve tried everything I can think of, and I’m out of ideas. Even if the thunderheads were willing to tell us how to talk to the aliens, there’s no guarantee we could get a dialogue going fast enough to figure out what the conflict is between the two races.”

  “Still, if the aliens could tell us their side of things, you can bet the thunderheads would open up and give us their version,” Adams pointed out.

  “For whatever good that would do,” I shrugged. “Whatever the morality of the situation turns out to be, the fact remains that siding with the thunderheads keeps us the ring mines. I don’t think the thunderheads would let the Patri forget that.”

  “As if the Patri would need reminding.”

  “Right.” Carefully, I got to my feet, the muscles in my legs protesting as I did so. “Thank you for your time, Shepherd Adams, and for your willingness to risk your life in this.”

  He waved a hand, figuratively brushing the gratitude away. “What will you do now?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked toward the Butte City. “Go talk to Dr. Eisenstadt or Lord Kelsey-Ramos, I suppose. Keep nagging people until they get tired enough of me to do something.”

  He smiled. “‘For a long time he refused,’” he quoted, “‘but at last he said to himself, Even though I have neither fear of God nor respect for any human person, I must give this widow her just rights since she keeps pestering me, or she will come and slap me in the face.’ Is that it?”

  “More or less,” I said. “Except that unlike the judge in the parable, they don’t really have to put up with me any longer than—”

  I broke off as my phone twittered. I frowned as I pulled it out, wondering who could possibly be calling me. “This is Benedar,” I identified myself.

  “Gilead, this is Eisenstadt.” The scientist’s voice was tight. “Where are you?”

  “Out near the fence, talking with Shepherd Adams,” I said, stomach muscles tightening. “What’s wrong?”

  His sigh was just barely audible. “You’d better get back to the ship right away. There are some Pravilos here … with a warrant for your arrest.”

  Chapter 32

  THE PRISON CELL WAS simple, small, and unadorned—a sort of sardonic parody, I thought more than once, of my cubicle in the Carillon Building back on Portslava. Without the magnificent view, of course. Or even a reasonably good intercom system.

  “As near as I can tell, it’s sort of a forced misunderstanding,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos said, his image on the display fuzzing just enough to make it exasperating to try and read. “What’s happened is that someone labyrinthed a writ through the central judiciary on Portslava, ordering the Pravilo to detain you here on charges stemming from your running off with Calandra Paquin. Total nonsense, of course, given what’s happened since then, but until we can backtrack it there’s not a lot I can do about it.”

  I nodded heavily. “I don’t have to guess who’s behind it, do I?”

  He grimaced. “Not really. I’ve talked to Randon and we both agr
ee it was almost certainly this smert-headed Aikman you kept locking horns with. Something of a farewell present to you, I expect.”

  I frowned. “Farewell present? He’s gone?”

  “Left about a week ago. Took a new position on Janus, the HTI people tell me.”

  “How very convenient for him,” I murmured.

  “How, indeed,” Lord Kelsey-Ramos said grimly. “Don’t worry, though—we’ll track him down.”

  I sighed, a bitter taste in my mouth. “Don’t bother, sir. He’s not worth it.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos glared at me. “You’ll forgive me, I trust, if turning the other cheek isn’t part of my philosophy.”

  “It’s not that, sir,” I told him. “It’s just that he really isn’t worth the effort. You can get me out of here just as fast through normal channels as you could by chasing him down, and even hauling him back here wouldn’t do anything but give him the chance to gloat in my face.”

  “Give you the chance to gloat, don’t you mean?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir. You see, he’s already lost his original battle—I’ve kept Calandra away from the Deadman Switch. He can’t make me watch her die, the way he wanted to … so instead he’s arranged for me to be locked away and helpless while the alien fleet dies in her place.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos made a sour face. “I understand. Yes, it could easily take the three weeks we’ve got left to sort all of this through to Portslava and back.” He studied my face. “Unless, that is, I make an all-out fight of it.”

  I shrugged. “What would be the point? I’ve already done everything I can think of to get the Patri to change their minds about talking to the aliens first. Whether I sit here or in the Butte City encampment makes no real difference.”

  Lord Kelsey-Ramos sighed. “I’m sorry, Gilead. If there was any way I could help, I would.”

  “I know, sir,” I assured him. “You’ve done all you could, too.”

  “Yes.” He paused, his sense turning inward. “It’s interesting, you know,” he said in a meditative voice. “Ever since I took over Carillon I’ve pretty much had things my own way—been the man making the decisions, both the good ones and the bad ones. This commission takes me back to earlier days.”

  “Days you’d rather forget?” I suggested.

  His gaze came back to me. “I like having power, Gilead—I admit that. No one gets to my position who doesn’t. What I hate about this commission is being saddled with a share of the responsibility for actions which I haven’t really had any power to influence.”

  Something in his voice … “Are you saying,” I asked carefully, “that the Pravilo had already made up their minds to destroy the aliens, no matter what the commission recommended?”

  “Oh, come on—you don’t think Aaron Balaam darMaupine originated the echo council, do you?” he growled. “Sorry to be crude, but there it is. Of course the Pravilo had already decided the Invaders were a threat; the commission’s only real choice was to either rubberstamp that opinion for them or else prove conclusively that the Invaders weren’t dangerous to us. I imagine you know all about proving a negative.”

  As in proving the Watchers weren’t a threat to the rest of humanity … “I know it very well, sir,” I said quietly.

  He grimaced, and I could see he’d followed my line of thought. “Yes, well … sorry I jumped down your throat like that. As I said, I’m willing enough to accept the responsibility that goes with power, but I hate like blazing chern-fire to have the responsibility all by itself.”

  I managed a smile. “That’s what makes you different, sir,” I told him. “Most people prefer to have the power without any of the responsibility.”

  He snorted. “Yes, we at Carillon certainly are a noble bunch,” he said dryly.

  I thought about the Solitaran executives’ fears that Carillon would put a stop to their profitable smuggler trade. “Yes, sir. In many ways, you are.”

  He eyed me sharply, and even with the fuzzy picture I could sense his embarrassment. Nobility was not exactly the sort of image he’d tried to project to his competitors. “Thank you for the vote of confidence,” he rumbled. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back up to Spall, consult with my fellow commissioners. I’ll be back to talk to you in a week or so—sooner if I make any headway against the judiciary.”

  “Thank you, sir. I appreciate all you’re doing.”

  “No problem. Take care.”

  He stood up and turned away, and I caught just a glimpse of the visiting-room wall behind him before the guard blanked the screen. For a moment I stayed where I was, staring at the blank display for lack of anything better to do. But the seething frustration within me was too great to let me sit still for very long. Getting to my feet, I went the four steps over to the cell’s outer wall.

  Outside the tiny window was fifty meters of open ground, ending at a two-story wing I’d been told was part of the Pravilo headquarters here. The windows facing me were black squares—polarized ninety degrees to mine, presumably, to give the officers working there privacy from prying eyes. Blank people behind blank windows, I thought with a touch of bitterness. Faceless people wielding power without having to take the responsibility for the use of that power. Doing their daily work without knowing—probably without even caring—what the ultimate results of that work would be. It was why bureaucracies grew and flourished. Why people like Aaron Balaam darMaupine had been able to seize power …

  And without warning, my mind suddenly and inexplicably froze. Aaron Balaam darMaupine. Aaron Balaam darMaupine …

  Balaam …

  I have no explanation for the idea that burst, virtually full-grown, into my mind. Perhaps my back-brain had already come up with it, and had merely used the name as a trigger; perhaps it was a genuine case of divine inspiration. Either way, it was as if a star had exploded in my mind, showering light where before there had been only darkness. And in that light, I saw the answer.

  Or at least, a possible answer.

  For a handful of heartbeats I stood there at the window, my full attention inward as I sifted frantically through the idea, searching for errors or flaws. But if they were there, I couldn’t find them. It could be done—it could definitely be done.

  And then my eyes focused again, and I remembered where I was; and spinning around, I dove for the intercom.

  It seemed like an eternity before the monitor answered my signal. “Has Lord Kelsey-Ramos left yet?” I snapped at him.

  He frowned at my tone, but apparently decided prisoners who rated a visit from someone like Lord Kelsey-Ramos should be treated with at least marginal politeness. “Hang on, I’ll check,” he growled.

  “I have to talk to him right away,” I insisted as his eyes shifted to a different display.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see if he wants to talk to you,” he grunted. “Lemme see … Rayst?—yeah; give a shout to that guy who just passed, will you? Tell him Benedar’s calling for him.”

  I licked my lips, trying to organize my thoughts, the taste of black irony in my mouth. Aikman’s final, pitiful gesture of hatred … and it was beginning to look like it might do far more damage than either he or I had believed.

  A minute later the monitor’s face vanished from the screen, and I was again looking at Lord Kelsey-Ramos. “Yes, Gilead, what is it?”

  “I have to get out of here,” I told him, voice trembling slightly with emotion despite my efforts to control it. “Right away. It’s urgent.”

  He frowned. “I just finished telling you it’ll take some time,” he reminded me.

  I bit the back of my lip, suddenly mindful of how easy it would be for one of the guards to eavesdrop on the line … and that my idea could very likely be construed as treason. “I know, sir,” I said, wracking my brain desperately to find some kind of private cue to feed him. Something the guards wouldn’t be able to interpret … and for the second time in as many minutes, inspiration struck. “It’s just that this room is so small—so small and so plain. I thought I c
ould handle things being this dull, but I can’t.”

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise; and abruptly there were tension lines in his face. “I see,” he said carefully. His eyes flicked to the side, where a guard was presumably standing. “Yes, I understand how that would be hard for you to take—you’re used to so much more luxury back at Carillon. More privacy, too, naturally.”

  “Exactly, sir,” I nodded, feeling a small surge of hope. He was with me, now, correctly hearing both what I was saying and what I wasn’t saying. In eight years with Carillon I’d learned a great deal about the man; now, for the first time, I realized how much he’d learned about me in the process. “Besides, I hate the thought of wasting time here,” I added. “There’s always so much work to be done.”

  His eyes were locked with mine. “I know the feeling,” he said. “I’ll talk to Commodore Freitag and Admiral Yoshida right away, see if you might at least be … reassigned, perhaps, to somewhere closer to home?”

  Closer to home. Here, on Solitaire, that could only mean the Bellwether. “I’d very much appreciate that, sir,” I said, speaking the words clearly. “You might speak to Governor Rybakov, too—I believe she still owes us a favor.”

  “I’ll do that,” he agreed. “Let me get started, and I’ll see what I can do.” He paused, and his gaze seemed to intensify. “Are you certain this will do it?” he asked, his voice deliberately casual.

  I swallowed. Was I sure this would solve the problem of the alien ships. “I’m not certain, no,” I had to admit. “But I believe it’s worth a try.”

  He nodded. “All right. Sit tight, and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  His lip twitched in a tight smile. “I’ll do what I can,” he said … and in his tone I heard a promise that went beyond the immediate situation. That if my idea had any chance at all of success, he would stand behind me all the way.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said again, and watched his image blank from the screen. Taking a ragged breath, I once more went over to the window, trying to still the tension roiling within me. The aliens’ lives were still hanging by a thread, but at least now I had a plan. A plan and, more importantly, an ally.