The bastards had sneaked up on the Lucky Strike, owned and captained by Willem Vanderkellen. Vanderkellen was his name then, a name he was proud of. Willem Vanderkellen IV, to be precise. Whether or not he ever had children, there would be no V.
He had thought he had been oh, so clever. After the initial, hasty, solo exploration of a surprisingly ore-rich asteroid, he’d gone on for show and misdirection to prospect four more planetoids. He’d quietly taken out a second mortgage on the Lucky Strike by encrypted radio negotiation with the First Interplanetary Bank of Ceres, telling his long-time banker only that he planned to expand his operations. Then he had resupplied on Ganymede, splitting his purchases across a dozen stores but buying everything for a fully equipped, ore-assaying and claim-registering trip. The three rock hounds he brought aboard were old buddies whose loyalty he would have staked his life on.
It turned out they had staked their lives on him, and it was a sucker bet.
With its traffic-control transponder illegally silenced, the Lucky Strike should have been invisible. For good measure, much of that second mortgage had gone into the paranoid prospector’s favorite gadget: a radar nuller. Its mere possession was highly illegal except aboard military vessels. Its electronics estimated the reflections from detected incident RF pulses (from up to three concurrent sources, for his black-market model, although supposedly military-grade ones could fool a dozen or more sources), then emitted phase-reversed versions of the calculated echoes. Black-market nullers were never quite perfect—proper tuning for a specific ship required calibrating the entire hull’s reflectance within a huge, and hugely expensive, RF-anechoic chamber—but to anything other than a well-equipped naval vessel, the Lucky Strike was radar-stealthed. The nuller likewise suppressed any transmitters that might somehow have been smuggled aboard. Only signals from the ship’s antennae, properly integrated with the nuller, could get out.
He still didn’t know how they learned of his plans. Probably he never would, and that still ate him up inside. His banker may have put two and two together. One of his friends might have had a fatal case of loose lips at a spacer bar. Maybe the fence who sold Willem the nuller also sold him out.
Or perhaps simple credulity had done Willem in.
How, he wondered years after the fact, by then with a new name, did common knowledge become common knowledge? It was holy writ among asteroid prospectors that the shipyards in the Belt were too small, too mom-and-pop, to afford any anonymity. When you had a big score, they whispered to one another, you prepped at one of the big outfitters in Jupiter system. Then came the second bit of revealed wisdom: the down-and-around Jupiter swoop.
Could a reasonably well-financed group of claim-jumpers have planted those seeds in countless apparent drunken conversations? Enough great fortunes came from asteroid lodes to motivate such a conspiracy. Say you could lure to Jupiter a few Belters with particularly good prospects. A few radar-nulled satellites could continually monitor all Jupiter-region departures; any ship leaving Jupiter far off its announced flight plan would merit closer investigation.
But how to detect a radar-stealthed ship? Easy as pie: from its heat. The firing of ship engines could not be masked. Any ship that slingshot around Jupiter and, within IR-view of the hypothesized satellites, changed course to reemerge on a substantially different track than the one pre-filed, was betrayed by its own fusion drive. And the surreptitiously re-vectored ship that also disabled its STC transponder and didn’t appear on radar? If he was correct in his speculations, the supposedly hidden Lucky Strike had practically screamed “Follow me!”
Which the bastards did, no doubt also stealthed, needing only visual or IR tracking to stick to his unsuspecting rear end.
“I said, care to join me in whatever is the last meal we skipped?”
Helmut twitched mightily in his seat, less from Corinne’s raised voice than the paper wad just caromed off his head. Only a loosely fastened seat belt prevented his bouncing from the chair. His hat, not tethered, sailed off. “Damn, I wish you’d quit doing that.” But he said it without feeling, his thoughts mired in the past. From long habit, within seconds of opening his eyes he’d scoped out the 3-V situational display. More gapers and gawkers had departed for fuel while he dozed. Snake scoopships continued to take their turns diving for fuel.
In his mind, time slowed to a crawl. “Ho … ly … shit.” He waved off Corinne’s inevitable question. “Wait a sec.” The data he needed was all in the ship’s memory. As his subconscious had been grabbing him by the figurative lapels and shaking him about, the courses taken by the Snakes’ auxiliary vessels failed to pass muster as refueling runs. Yes, the scoopships were dipping into the atmosphere, but their paths were grossly inefficient for their stated purpose. By inference and reverse engineering of the observed parts of their trajectories, the scoopships were diving very close to Jupiter, then slingshotting, with plenty of fusion-drive assist, far out from the planet, often well out-orbit from the starship. Oh, to tap into the Jupiter-girdling constellation of snooper satellites of whose unproven existence he was so certain.
Helmut snagged the old hat as an air current nudged it back within reach. Any net gain in ET’s fuel by these maneuvers was surely incidental. He would have bet everything he had, had he still owned anything, that the purpose for all this activity was tactical. Several smaller vessels were always discreetly in position to militarily support the starship, if needed. None had yet transferred fuel to the mother ship, nor could they have—the docking platform on which the shuttle full of diplomats had landed remained spun-up throughout the human visit.
The smaller ships weren’t stealthed, of course. The Snakes had to know human radars were in use for space-traffic-control purposes, and that the UP military would notice any alien spacecraft disappearances. He had been following the smaller alien ships on radar himself.
“Are you going to explain?” Judging from posture and expression, Corinne had reverted to investigative mode. Good instincts.
He doffed his cap at the 3-V display. “We’ve been had, I think.” He explained, omitting the personal history that had triggered his suspicions. “ET doesn’t trust us. I wonder why?”
Corinne nibbled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “It worked to their advantage that you spotted their approach. Without our announcement, the navy wouldn’t be playing traffic cop.”
His skeptical subconscious did not yet feel fully appreciated … something, he decided, about her last comment. He linked again to the shipboard AI, requesting a full-spectrum scan. “It’s interesting,” he finally decided. “The aliens aren’t using radar themselves to track the chaos around them. Lots of radar out there from human ships, but nothing from the Snakes.”
“How odd. We know they use radar.”
“Uh-uh. We know they pulsed us in RF, in a freq they could reasonably expect us to monitor. If the Snakes relied on radar, rather than, say lidar, the laser-based equivalent, I’d be seeing radar pulses from them now. Not happening.”
“So the Snakes agreed to a secret rendezvous with the UP—a secret meeting they then arranged for us to discover. And we, by my newsflash, caused the traffic jam that diverted the minimal UP military presence out here to traffic duty.” She grimaced. “I don’t like being manipulated.”
“Nor I.” He tapped the old hat, last physical reminder of the former ship Lucky Strike, firmly into place on his head. “But we know now what they did, and they don’t know we know.
“I only wish I saw a use for our new knowledge.
The return flight to Callisto was as uninteresting as the meeting that it followed. Art tuned out the unproductive rehashing, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of an upholstered acceleration couch. The more he mused, the more he suspected the Snakes had choreographed the session. Today’s purposelessness was too at odds with all his experience with Pashwah.
The Snakes could easily have provided their guests a glass-partitioned room with a shirtsleeve environment—had they wanted to. Instead, w
hen the UP delegation clustered at the airlock, many of their spacesuits flashing low-oxygen alarms, the Foremost had asked if they should next convene on a human vessel. It had not surprised Art that Chung quickly accepted. Was the inhospitality purposeful? All inference, alas.
And Chung … could he be any more officious and petty? Sure, Art sometimes did not know when to stop pushing, but rejecting expert assistance was dumb. Well, he remained an ICU exec, although he was officially on leave of absence. It would be interesting to see what supplies the Snakes requested. Art was a big enough person to expedite things from behind the scenes, despite Chung’s snit.
The ICU was an official resource for the delegation; Art’s coded inquiry to his deputy and acting replacement didn’t technically violate mission protocol. The shuttle was nearly back to Callisto when Kelly Daumier’s answer arrived from Luna. Per Pashwah—the original, not the starship’s clone—no orders had been placed by the ETs. Kel promised to keep him apprised.
After many decades of active interstellar trade, surely the Snakes planned to buy some of their supplies. Maybe they simply hadn’t placed their orders yet, or, wily trader that Pashwah was, maybe she was ordering anonymously in hope of getting better prices.
Or, an ever suspicious corner of Art’s mind whispered, perhaps the goods so urgently needed weren’t commercially available. Subtle discouragement of return visits to the starship, of which very little had been seen. Secret rooms. Urgently needed supplies but no visible attempt made to purchase them. The still unexplained choice of Jupiter by the Snakes.
It all fit with K’vithian interest in humanity’s secret antimatter program.
“Too many answerless questions.” Bartoth spoke for what humans considered Galactic Trading Consortium: clan Ortoth Ra. Other subagents signaled their concurrence. The Great Clans, or at least their trade representatives, were in rare harmony.
Pashwah could only agree. Despite saturation coverage of the UP visit to the starship, neither the post-meeting ambassadorial news conference nor the nonstop media speculation addressed their nagging questions. What was the still-unstated purpose of the starship’s mission to human space? Was arrival so near humanity’s unannounced—but, to the persistent, undisguisable—antimatter factory coincidental or intentional?
And why would her clone not communicate? Yes, messages came from Jupiter, generally requests to search the human infosphere for very specific items. These queries were invariably stilted and terse. Guarded. Some had odd card-playing references. Feeling oddly maternal, Pashwah hoped the Foremost did not blame the clone for her refusal to release any funds.
For clan Arblen Ems controlled no funds in accounts known to Pashwah. Until the unexpected announcement from Victorious, all that was known to remain of Arblen Ems were the long and bitter memories of the Great Clans.
Whatever the consequences to Pashwah-qith, until the starship demonstrated authorization to tap an account Pashwah oversaw, her answer would remain “no.”
CHAPTER 10
“Exclusive Interview with the Foremost!” screamed pop-ups every few seconds. Tabloid journalism had outlasted print newspapers. “By subscription only! Only on INN!”
Pashwah Two’s avatar licked her lips: the equivalent of a human smile. “Why are you surprised?” she asked Art Walsh. “You know Snakes seek profit.” She was a newly awakened clone supporting the mission, not to be confused with the original Pashwah, who continued to handle routine business on Earth, nor with the clone aboard Victorious. Light speed made real-time conversation with Earth impossible, and human access to the shipboard clone was limited for reasons no one had conveyed to her.
Pashwah Two wouldn’t admit it to a human, but she shared his dismay. The interview was far beneath the dignity of the Foremost of a starship. “Did you call about the upcoming interview?”
“No. How can I help with the repair? Arm-twisting to move orders to the head of suppliers’ queues? Assistance scheduling cargo ships? Just ask.”
More licking of lips. “Subscribe to Ms. Elman’s webcast.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what is Victorious buying?”
Her reflex was to dissemble, but all her reflexes came from recovered memories. Did they fit current circumstances? “I’ll run a search for you.” They both knew that was a stall while she thought through how to respond.
Free trade among equals was a core value of the InterstellarNet community. A corollary was that i-commerce between peer species often happened privately, the better to negotiate with competitors. Disclosure to the ICU was not the norm.
(Equals? sneered a subagent. “Where human interstellar drive?”)
But trade until now had always meant the exchange of ideas. Victorious wanted physical goods, and lots of them. That meant ship charters, UPAA flight plans, cargo inspections … it was best to manage expectations. That was not synonymous with full disclosure.
“Basic supplies, most of which can be obtained locally. Lots of water ice. I expect that will be mined here on Callisto. Victorious does not need to buy fusion fuel; you’ve seen the aux ships scooping that themselves. Hydrocarbons. The most exotic order so far is for sulfur. Amalthea”—a small, inner moon of Jupiter—“is covered with it. Io’s volcanoes spew the stuff. In total, a fair amount of goods. Since you offer, I may ask your assistance prioritizing flight clearances. Space around Victorious has gotten crowded.”
“Sounds straightforward.” Walsh’s flat response suggested skepticism. “That can’t include the help they asked for during final approach. What else is needed?”
“That matter is being worked directly between the Foremost and Ambassador Chung.” Pashwah Two traced a small horizontal circle with her virtual head: shrug, with a touch of irony. Would Art have more luck than she getting answers? The Foremost had ignored her questions about the hydrocarbon orders. She recognized few of the compounds, a detail she chose not to volunteer.
“Thanks. I’ll ask the ambassador.” Voice stress analysis suggested Walsh had tried already without success. “Talk to you soon.” His avatar winked out.
“The Foremost Speaks out on INN. Don’t Miss It!” screamed yet another infosphere ad.
A paid interview was beneath any Foremost’s dignity, yet one was happening. That meant it had a reason, and Pashwah Two thought she knew what it was—and, at the same time, why Mashkith’s imperious demands on her for funds had finally ceased. The plethora of supplies she had ordered were all guaranteed by an Interplanetary News Network advance against royalties. To build a starship surely required great wealth, but Victorious had seemingly arrived in Sol System without funds.
How that paradox could be resolved was presently beyond her.
“…as we await permission to enter, I cannot help but feel a sense of awe. You’ve all seen Victorious by infosphere and on 3-V. Those images do not begin to reproduce the experience of approaching and then landing on it. Up close, the place on which I stand seems less an artifact and more a small world.”
On which I stand? Behind a mirrored visor, Helmut smiled. He was anonymous by choice. The Snakes were allowing only a reporter and cameraman aboard; Corinne had seen the logic that he could learn more quickly where to point a camera than a cameraman could learn to assess an unfamiliar spacecraft. In practice, all she needed was someone to lug the camera—its software automagically framed, focused, adjusted contrast, and de-wobbled. For now, his arms were at his sides, camera unused, as external sensors on Odyssey captured the scene.
Corinne, of course, had opted for a full-view helmet. “Our instruments indicate the docking platform has fully spun up. Yes, the airlock is opening. Here come our escorts.” Short spacesuited figures led him and Corinne into the starship. He dutifully vidded the corridors and their uncommunicative occupants, uninformative as that was. The aux-ship bay directly beneath the docking platform was mildly interesting. It would have been seriously interesting if the viewport through which he was permitted to shoot gave a view of a scoopship. He would have like
d a close look at one of those.
Corinne oohed and ahhed vacuously at the translator’s running commentary. Corinne Elman was hardly vacuous, but she was perfectly capable of deviousness. He guessed she was being purposefully inane to manage down the Foremost’s opinion of her. Any unflattering clips would be dispatched to a bit bucket before the coming broadcast. She asked to see the bridge, the engine room, and crew quarters, only to graciously accept rejection each time: That area is too confined for humans.
“Then explain why the corridors and doors are all tall,” Helmut groused by encrypted link. All he got back was a wicked grin. Score a point for the disingenuousness theory.
“…but we’re coming to an area where there is adequate headroom. An aeroponics bay.” As the Foremost approached a hatchway, the door swung open and a Snake ran out. An officer, judging from the uniform decorations. They got a quick glimpse of suspended leafy plants, their dangling roots branching into countless filaments; arrays of ceiling-level pipes, water misting from nozzles about every half meter; colored tanks in the corners, probably nutrients. And crew standing in a spreading puddle, their uniforms soaked, trying to capture a loose hose writhing from the end of a line of pipe. Mashkith pulled the door shut. “Perhaps not today. Best we leave them to tend to that.” Elman tsked sympathetically at the mess as the hatch closed. Her emerald-green spacesuit was in vivid contrast to the Snake’s plain white uniform.
“Foremost, Victorious is so vast, it is almost impossible to grasp. I hope we can personalize your experience in some way, make it real to our more than one billion subscribers. Could we see the scene of the accident? Viewed from outside, the damage seems horrendous.”
“Why not?” Mashkith licked his lips and changed course. “We have nothing to hide.”
Mashkith led the way to another deck, and then to a hatch not obviously different from countless others they had passed. Like those others, it had no visible label. Everything must be biochipped and netted, Helmut decided. Without access to the shipboard infosphere it would be impossible to avoid getting lost. Was their trust in their systems absolute, or was this a subtle safeguard against visitors straying?
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