by Larry Niven
Now safety lay in speed. Thssthfok dashed through the relax room into the corridor and into the nearby stairwell. Taking the stairs three at a time, he scaled the flights between three decks. He burst onto the top deck and was in the bridge before Kirsten could turn around at the crash of the stairwell door.
Logic decreed that the bright red button beside the door would close it. Thssthfok slapped it, and the door sprang shut.
“Jeeves! Turn up—” Kirsten shouted.
Thssthfok grabbed her throat and squeezed. Her order trailed off in an inarticulate gurgle as he pressed her down into her seat. Easing his stranglehold just enough so that she could breathe, he took the other seat. It was the only place from which he could reach the console.
Fools! Teaching him to read irrelevant material also taught him to read the bridge controls.
The console was deceptively empty. Most functions must be handled by the computer, whether by keyboard or voice command. Those would take time to decode, with his hostage’s coerced assistance, if necessary.
Still, the console had some ordinary buttons, sliders, and toggles. Those would be for emergency functions, as simple and accessible as possible. He found the emergency-hatches release, clearly labeled. That should keep the others at bay for a while. He slapped the button—
And an invisible something grabbed him. A force field. He could not move! He could scarcely breathe.
Panting from exertion, her chest heaving, Kirsten pried loose Thssthfok’s grip one finger at a time. Strain as he might, he could not tighten his grip. He could not stop her.
“Jeeves,” Kirsten rasped, “get Eric up here.” She climbed from her chair, out of Thssthfok’s impotent reach, and stared with rage in her eyes. “Sigmund assumed you would try for the bridge again if you escaped. So he set a trap.”
An elementary trap, Thssthfok thought, with the reading material as bait—and I fell for it. Sigmund was clever, and that made him dangerous.
When he stayed as still as possible, Thssthfok found the restraint eased off just a little. A field to protect the pilot from collisions or turbulence, minimally modified so as not to relax. He could breathe more easily now; even, he guessed, speak if he should have something to say.
Stars drifted across the main view port, sign of the ship’s slow roll. Then something—a vessel? a city in space?—came into view. Something unlike anything Thssthfok had ever seen. And it kept coming. An artificial sun, tiny but blindingly bright, shone at one end.
The structure was either very near or very large—and given that fusion flame, it was hard to imagine it was close. He stared at it until Eric appeared on the bridge.
Eric took one look at Kirsten massaging her neck, bruises already starting to form. The sizzle of his stunner drowned out whatever he snarled.
42
“Something I might find interesting,” Sigmund echoed dubiously. The end of the world approached, and Twenty-three refused to help. Yet he expected Sigmund to go shopping.
The thing of it was, the Outsiders often had wondrous things to sell.
“An old human ship,” Twenty-three clarified. “Derelict. We found it adrift in space.”
“Where?” Sigmund asked.
“We are not allowed to say.”
Sigmund had expected that answer, but it hardly hurt to ask. In a trade deal with the Puppeteers, Ship Fourteen had committed all Outsiders to deny New Terrans clues to the location of Earth and its colonies. An old derelict human ship came very close to such a clue, didn’t it?
Maybe Twenty-three did want to help.
Sigmund knew of one other such incredible coincidence. But Puppeteers had not “happened” upon Long Pass, wandering deep in interstellar space. They had traced a message back to the ramscoop that sent it. And then they bred slaves from the frozen embryos aboard.
“Adrift in space, you say,” Sigmund said. It was as implausible as the fairy tale the Puppeteer had told their servants.
Twenty-three shifted position. “We understand your skepticism, Sigmund. No, we did not happen upon a ship. We detected a relativistic gravitational anomaly, which we found to be a neutronium object with the mass of a small planet. The ship orbited the larger mass.”
Sigmund blinked. Nature required a supernova explosion to produce neutronium. Only once, to his knowledge, had anyone made neutronium artificially. Julian Forward used his neutronium to bulk up a quantum black hole, with which he terrorized Sol system for months. And though Sigmund never discovered the specifics, Forward had had surreptitious Puppeteer backing.
On the bright side, Sigmund remembered Forward getting eaten by his own black hole, and taking the secret of his process with him.
A large, fast-moving neutronium mass made an exceptional beacon.
“I wouldn’t mind looking,” Sigmund answered cautiously. He lifted his helmet.
“That is not necessary,” Twenty-three said. With a wave of a root bunch it evoked a hologram inside its dome.
Sigmund knew one thing for certain about Earth and its colonies. They were far away. Had it been otherwise, Nessus would never have started a scout program using human Colonists. It stood to reason the salvaged ship was a starship, probably a hyperdrive vessel.
It wasn’t.
How could a little fusion-powered Belter singleship, something a solo prospector might use in the inner solar system, end up far from Earth? How, when, and where had the ship assumed an orbit around the neutronium mass? How had the singleship reached relativistic speed—no way it could carry enough fuel—to overtake the neutronium mass? Where did the neutronium come from?
With too many questions already roiling his thoughts, Sigmund spotted something shiny at the singleship’s bow. It looked out of place. Boot electromagnets clomping, he started around the dome to inspect the holo from another angle.
“You now have control of the image,” Twenty-three said. “It will follow your hand motions.”
Sigmund extended an arm experimentally. The holo ship receded. He rotated his hand, and the image rotated to follow. Something gleamed at him through the cockpit canopy. The age-pitted hull looked all the darker in contrast. Strange. He brought his hand toward his chest; the ship zoomed closer.
Inside the cockpit, as shiny as quicksilver, a smooth, ovoid surface hid the space where the pilot would sit. Staring at a holo Sigmund could not be certain, but that certainly looked like total reflection. Could that be a stasis field inside the singleship?
Twenty-three would know. Feigned ignorance could be a kind of help, to keep the price affordable for Sigmund. For stasis had but one use: freezing time inside to preserve something valuable.
Eons ago, two ancient races had waged a conflict of galactic extermination. Little remained from that era but a few artifacts preserved for eternity within stasis fields. Most items recovered from stasis defied understanding. All embodied technology of frightening potency—often weapons caches.
Stasis fields reflected everything, from visible light to the hardest gamma ray. A stasis field even reflected neutrinos, which was why pilots routinely deep-radar pinged every solar system they approached. A person could live in princely style on the standard ARM bounty for a stasis box—and it was a rare decade that saw the ARM making that payout.
Still, compared to a huge mass of neutronium (which, coincidentally, also stopped most neutrinos), the ship that had orbited it, and whatever waited inside, were but the ribbon around a priceless package. If Twenty-three chose to overlook a stasis field, Sigmund would not ask.
With slow, careful gestures, Sigmund turned the holo for study. The registration plaque came into view, the ship’s ID a mere five digits long. This ship was old.
The feel of Earth, its appearance, the constellations in its night sky . . . all were lost from his mind. Instead, useless numbers cluttered his memory. PINs for bank accounts of a former life. Bits of obscure tax rules, and entire tax tables. The addresses of former residences, but not the cities where he had lived. Too many years as an
accountant had made numbers and patterns second nature to Sigmund. And maybe that much harder to erase, if Nessus had tried.
The five digits on the registry plaque ignited rockets and flares in Sigmund’s head. He knew those numbers!
This was not merely an antique vessel misplaced in space and time. This was the singleship in which, more than half a millennium earlier, Jack Brennan had encountered Phssthpok! Sigmund had seen the official registration in Lucas Garner’s deposition. But Brennan-monster had evaded ARM custody and vanished—with this ship and a key module of Phssthpok’s starship.
If this was a stasis field, the singleship might preserve—to save New Terra in its hour of need—the only known human protector.
TWENTY-THREE, IN ITS OWN WAY, might be helping. It still would not give away the relic.
So what did Sigmund have with which to bargain? Discovery of the Pak invasion, already dismissed as old news and without value.
And Gw’oth!
“I would trade information for the ship,” Sigmund suggested.
Roots writhed. “If you have something more useful than your last disclosure.”
With a flick of his hand, Sigmund banished the singleship image. “How about a solar system filled with new customers? A young technological society, newly spacefaring.”
“That is an acceptable price,” Twenty-three agreed, “if, in fact, you identify a customer with whom we are unfamiliar.”
Sigmund nodded. “On that condition, we have a deal.” He quoted the coordinates of the Gw’oth solar system.
Roots wriggled and thrashed at the fastest rate yet. “Very clever, Sigmund. These coordinates lie in the path of the invaders. The customer whom you offer will be destroyed before we can reach them. Do you mock us?”
“The Gw’oth are quite real,” Sigmund said. “If my people find a way to survive, we will do our best to save them, too.”
Twenty-three replied, “We will help you transport the purchased item to your ship. For both our benefits, let us hope you survive.”
43
Quite possibly the stasis field in the singleship hid a potential ally—not that Sigmund entirely accepted the concept of a friendly protector. In practice, the field could hide anything.
And so he fretted and stewed for ten days before finalizing his plans. All the while the singleship, like some anachronistic remora, clung to the side of Don Quixote. With one cargo hold a prison and the other filled with Gw’oth, Sigmund could not have taken aboard his purchase even if such had been his wish.
Ship Twenty-three had carried the singleship behind a thick metal shield, towed by a very long tether. Those precautions made sense to Sigmund. The ancient singleship had been adrift, without maintenance, for centuries. And now? If anything were to trigger the fusion drive, better the potential H-bomb be outside Don Quixote’s General Products hull. The shock wave would still liquefy everyone within—but any chance was better than none.
Of course the Outsiders had not known whose ship this was. The singleship might be entirely safe, rebuilt for the ages by Brennan.
Two of the ten days were lost in Einstein space, hanging between the stars to maintain hyperwave links. To open a stasis field took specialized equipment few ships had any reason to carry. So Sigmund wasted a day trying to find a New Terran who knew anything about breaking open a stasis field. In hindsight, the surprise would have been success. New Terra had very few ships, and they had only flown for a few years. They had yet to encounter a stasis box.
Sigmund spent much of that day wondering how much Baedeker knew about stasis fields. Everything Twenty-three had had to say suggested Baedeker’s quest was futile. He would never master the planetary drives.
Baedeker should be here, tanj it, helping.
During the second day, Sabrina arranged for an expert to consult with Eric. That expert turned out to be—Baedeker. The real-time connection when he called meant the Puppeteer was working outside a singularity, somewhere in deep space.
Evidently, not every unbelievable thing happened around, or to, Sigmund.
DON QUIXOTE SAT on a planet with a breathable atmosphere, unremarkable except for its relative proximity to Ship Twenty-three. This was a young world, its oceans teeming with single-celled life but its continents utterly barren. The nearest possible source of food, if it was even edible, was seaborne sludge a thousand miles away. This was not a place Brennan-monster would choose to be left stranded.
With a delicate touch Sigmund could only envy, Kirsten had set Don Quixote, the singleship still lashed to its side, onto a bleak plain. “Ready when you are,” she sent over the comm.
Sigmund and Eric waited at the main air lock. “Copy that,” Eric replied.
“Check my gear,” Sigmund said.
“I have,” Eric said, reaching for the lock controls. “You’re clean.”
Sigmund raised his arms. “Do it again.”
Eric shrugged. “You’re the boss.” One by one he inspected Sigmund’s battle armor, opening every pocket and examining every belt clip. He patted down Sigmund as a double check. “Nothing.”
Sigmund pointed with a boot tip at the paraphernalia piled on the airlock floor. “And anything here I don’t need?”
“No, Sigmund,” Eric said, a touch impatiently.
Too bad. They would do this as carefully as possible.
Sigmund cycled through the air lock and stepped down to the sterile surface. He shuttled gear around Don Quixote, raising clouds of orange dust with every step, to where the singleship clung. Desolation stretched to the horizon in every direction. “Just a desert,” he muttered, lying to himself, trying not to look into the distance. Earth had deserts, after all. On his final trip, he shut the outer hatch behind himself. “Disable access from outside,” he directed.
“Copy that,” Kirsten radioed. “How’s our position?”
“Close. The singleship is about one foot above the ground.”
“One foot, Sigmund. Copy that. Commencing adjustment.”
Ever so slowly, under precise thruster control, Don Quixote rolled along its main axis. The hard ground beneath the ship crunched and groaned. “Stop,” Sigmund called.
“What’s the margin?” Kirsten asked.
“The singleship is still two inches off the ground,” Sigmund estimated.
“I can do better,” Kirsten said.
“Not necessary.” Sigmund took the clamp release from his pile of equipment. “It can’t be that fragile.” It meant the singleship, which might contain clues to the location of Sol system. No bump—up to and including the fusion drive going off—could hurt whatever waited inside the stasis field.
Five sturdy cables bound the singleship to Don Quixote’s hull. Sigmund released the clamps in pairs, leaving the center clamp for last. The remaining cable held the singleship aloft although, squealing against Don Quixote’s hull, one end of the antique vessel sagged to the ground. “Releasing the last cable,” he radioed.
Cables whistled through their clamps. The singleship thumped to the ground. Sigmund left the clamps unfastened. “The payload is down.”
“I’ll come out and help,” Eric radioed.
“No,” Sigmund said firmly. They had been over that, repeatedly. He unfolded a tripod and set up his camera. The camera opened a radio link; with some back-and-forth with Kirsten, he got the camera properly aimed at the singleship. “I’m going in.”
The little prospecting ship looked inexpensive, simple, and reliable. Hooks and clamps, all presently unused, dotted the hull. The ship predated thruster technology; instead, it had compressed gas or chemical-fuel attitude jets (Sigmund could not decide which) jutting at all angles. A massive nozzle aft served the fusion drive. There was no air lock; the canopy pivoted open for access. The pilot would always wear a spacesuit.
Viewed by direct sunlight, the surface glittering through the canopy shone more brightly than ever. It reflected light, radar, even neutrinos. No doubt about it: This was a stasis field.
Sigm
und released the latch. The canopy rose slowly, hinged at the nose end, suggesting a giant clamshell. The stasis field stood revealed, encompassing the pilot’s chair and much of the instrument console. Nothing in view looked like a stasis control.
Was the off switch right in front of him? Quite likely. No one had yet made sense of Thssthfok’s gadgets; Brennan as a protector was supposedly much smarter.
Sigmund set an emergency force-field generator (once again liberated from Don Quixote’s bridge—Thssthfok would not fall twice for that ruse) onto an unprotected stretch of console ledge. Eric had spliced a remote control into the restraint module. Sigmund armed the remote; the green LED lit as the red LED went dark.
“Connectivity check on the restraint device,” Sigmund radioed.
“Online,” Kirsten reported.
Time to find out who or what waited within.
Sigmund picked up the improvised stasis-field interrupter. It felt awkward in his hand. It looked half melted, like something of Puppeteer design.
As it was. When Sigmund and Baedeker met with Nike, most of Baedeker’s gear had remained on Don Quixote. Possibly, Baedeker had not yet decided to defect. Regardless, he had left behind a stasis-field generator in his cabin. For medical emergencies or as one more way to flee, Sigmund supposed.
After his escape from Hearth, Sigmund had searched Baedeker’s cabin—after cutting out Baedeker’s biometrically controlled lock with an oxy-fuel torch. It was hard to miss an active stasis field, but a quiescent stasis-field generator was another story. He had not recognized the Puppeteer field generator in Baedeker’s abandoned luggage. None of them had.
Reconfiguring the generator to collapse a stasis field was trivial once Baedeker told Eric how. Sigmund read that cooperation as a sign Baedeker’s own project did not go well.
Alas, the improvised stasis-field collapser had an extremely short range. Someone practically had to touch the stasis field. Sigmund aimed the device, clumsy in his hand. Finagle! It was time something went well.