Betrayer of Worlds (23 page)

“I refer to the Gw’oth. Our government refuses to give this threat its due. And why is that? Because he who lost the secret of hyperdrive, he who is responsible for making these warlike aliens into the threat they are, has become our Hindmost.”

The more nuanced truth was that Baedeker gave the Gw’oth an early start with hyperdrive. The Outsiders traded with all space-capable species—almost certainly they would have sold hyperspace technology to the Gw’oth if the aquatic aliens had not already reverse-engineered it.

Let Baedeker cite nuance if he chose. It would only make him appear defensive.

“It falls to me to share the fearsome news your government refuses to disclose.” The surveillance imagery from Thalia’s message would be inserted here, while Achilles continued to speak. “The Gw’oth have launched a great armada at us.”

On its way to the rebellious colony, the Gw’oth ships
would
pass close to the Fleet.

From undertunes of danger and regret, Achilles segued into reluctance and irony. “And who will protect us? Not the Hindmost who brought this catastrophe upon our heads. Not the same tired establishment.”

And surely not the Conservatives. They had been out of power, and rightly so, since shortly after discovery of the galactic-core explosion. Consensualizations took time—and the Gw’oth warships hurtling toward the Fleet left no time. Deliverance could come only from within the ranks of the ruling Experimentalists.

And not just
any
Experimentalist.

“Fellow Citizens, we need a new Hindmost. We need him now. As your Minster of Science, it is well known, I urged that the Concordance
act
against the growing danger. For this I have been driven from office and accused of the vilest crimes.

“But many share my concerns, and these friends of the Concordance released me from unjust confinement. And so I speak to you, reluctantly, from exile, asking that you request—no, that you demand!—a change in Experimentalist leadership.

“For the Gw’oth war fleet
is
coming.”

.   .   .

“The predator’s jaws or the leap from the cliff?” Nike mused aloud, pacing his spacious office.

A fair question. From his years on Earth, Nessus could pose others. The frying pan or the fire? The devil or the deep blue sea? But why choke chords. “Disaster by Gw’oth or by the insanity of Achilles?”

Vesta shrugged, as if to ask: Why does it matter? He continued to favor the side injured when he happened upon Achilles’ escape.

Like poor Sigmund, Nessus decided. Autodocs only healed the body.

But Nessus’ deepest sorrow came as Baedeker, who had stepped to Clandestine Affairs for an inconspicuous, confidential briefing, merely chanted dispiritedly. He seemed not to notice, or to care, that this meeting had collapsed into despair. Party elders had approached him about Achilles’ accusations. Even, most recently, the previous two Hindmosts.

Almost, Nessus despaired, too. The trends were so ominous. . . .

With a nervous shiver, Baedeker rejoined the meeting. “The more immediate question is, what other traitors lurk, prepared to do Achilles’ bidding?”

Did Achilles need more help? Not that Nessus could see. “Do we know who put Achilles’ message into the satellite feed?”

“We do not,” Nike conceded.

“Worse,” Vesta said, “we do not know who in Clandestine Affairs leaked Thalia’s report from Jm’ho. And because Achilles released the information, he made the government look like it was hiding the information.”

“Where does that leave us?” Nike sang gloomily.

“As targets, with a Gw’oth fleet on its way,” Baedeker reminded them. He straightened, and newfound resolve lit his eyes. “With planetary defenses to inspect and reinforce. With doomsday ships to launch.”

“Yes, Hindmost,” Nike acknowledged. He began instructing Vesta.

Only there could be no practical defense against kinetic-kill attacks! One deterred rather than defend. Nessus shuddered at the memory of Louis Wu’s term: mutual assured destruction. If the Gw’oth refused to be deterred . . .

Everyone understood the futility of kinetic-kill weapons. The Gw’oth—and
surely,
any Gw’otesht—must understand, too.

So
did
Gw’oth ships come charging at the Fleet? Thalia’s report—the complete dispatch, not the part Achilles trumpeted to panic the herd—said
that the Gw’oth went to suppress a rebellious colony. But the Tn’Tn’ho’s assurances proved nothing. If the Gw’oth meant to attack Hearth, they would hardly volunteer the fact.

“We need more information,” Nessus said. And maybe Sigmund or Louis could find some melody hidden within this madness. “Permit me to take out
Aegis
—”

The door to Nike’s office swung open. An aide, his eyes narrow with fear, burst in. “Your pardon,” he squeaked. With a dramatic shudder, the assistant got his voices under control. “It is as Achilles’ broadcasts have warned.

“The outermost hyperwave radar barrier to galactic south of the Fleet has been breached.”

In the privacy of his grandly rebuilt cabin, while the Gw’oth, unsuspecting, danced to his tune, Achilles bided his time.

For each day, through secure channels, pleasing messages streamed to
Remembrance.
Fear and doubt blossomed on Hearth. Whispers of dissatisfaction became murmurs, became grumbles, became shouts. The party elders wavered.

The summons to rule
must
come soon.

Until then, Achilles had an accession ceremony to plan.

Louis had never skimmed the surface of a neutron star, like his stepfather. He had not, like Sigmund, turned whole worlds into shrapnel to defeat the Pak fleets. How many had?

But Louis
had
pillaged a Pak warship, stalked a Pak fleet, and burgled the Pak Library. He had come to see himself as quite the adventurer. The shoot-down of
Clementine
, a disastrous involvement with the Wunderland underground, and painkiller addiction belonging to some remote past seemed like mishaps that had befallen another person. Well, so they had: Nathan Graynor.

But the adventuring phase of Louis’s life had ended as abruptly as it had begun. Sigmund and Alice, for quite different reasons, and “for your own good,” did not want amateurs involved in spying or defense. Nessus remained ensnared in affairs on Hearth.

Louis, it turned out, had one marketable skill: master chef. No matter that he could not
find
Earth, Home, Wunderland, or Fafnir. He remembered and could reproduce their cuisines.

His future on New Terra looked secure—and mundane.

Reinventing recipes involved a lot of waiting for things to rise, melt, thicken, brown, bake, or cool. He read, listened to music, filled a notepad with sketches and began a new one. He spent
way
too much time in front of New Terra’s equivalent to 3-V. And like most of New Terra’s population, he found himself riveted.

Many New Terrans had grown up under Concordance rule, and they monitored the Citizen broadcasts relayed by hyperwave buoys. For more than a century Concordance politics had been a spectator sport. Only now the New Terrans watched with the guilty fascination of gawkers at a traffic accident.

While New Terra—scrupulously neutral—observed, affairs between
Puppeteers and Gw’oth seemed headed for disaster. And under the strain, Baedeker’s government was coming unglued. Louis had no opinion about Baedeker, but he
did
know Achilles.

All Puppeteers who left Hearth were insane; Louis understood that. He had known Nessus at his most manic and depressed into catatonia. Achilles was more than insane. Worse than insane. Achilles was a sociopath. That Achilles might become Hindmost was monstrous.

Meanwhile Louis, retired adventurer, watched 3-V and puttered in Alice’s kitchen.

When Sigmund called Louis to ask if he might come to the Ministry of Defense, Louis leapt at the chance.

Uniformed guards escorted Louis from the Ministry Building’s foyer. More guards waited outside Sigmund’s office. One opened the door to let Louis in.

He found Sigmund and Alice inside. Alice smiled unconvincingly.

The office was much as Louis remembered it, only the atmosphere had changed. There had been tension on Louis’s prior visit, but that was personal. The aura today was foreboding.

“Thank you for coming, Louis,” Sigmund said. “Something to drink?”

“Sure.” Louis synthed a cup of coffee for himself and sat. “What’s going on?”

Sigmund said, “We’ve told you that New Terra trades with the Gw’oth. No one mentioned that we have a source aboard every ship.”

“The spymaster has spies. I’m shocked, Sigmund.” Louis sipped coffee, waiting. The synthesizer needed adjustment.

Alice leaned forward. “A freighter reached Jm’ho recently, and the captain reported back to us by hyperwave.”

“And?”

“And,” Sigmund said, “an interesting event happened on Jm’ho just before the Gw’oth launched their fleet. It’s probably what provoked the military response. I’m hoping you’ll see something everyone here has missed.”

“An interesting event.” That was awfully vague, Louis thought. Was this another of Sigmund’s tests? “You’re not volunteering much, but I’ll hazard a guess. Ol’t’ro struck back. A retaliatory bioattack, maybe?”

Sigmund shook his head. “Not a bioattack. But Ol’t’ro? If only because I’m stymied, I could easily see their involvement.”

“Just tell me, tanj it!” Louis said.

Alice looked at Sigmund, who nodded. She said, “We’ve never encountered anything like it. For half a day, someone or something suppressed fusion reactions in power plants across Jm’ho. I spent my morning discussing this with physicists. They insist it’s impossible.”

“So your captain has it wrong.” Louis laughed cynically. “Or complain to Nessus when you next see him. He brought you the wrong Wu.”

Sigmund said, “You’ve heard what our scientists say. In similar circumstances Carlos once told me, ‘Reality trumps theory every time.’ ”

“I’m no scientist, Sigmund. Why did you ask me here?”

“Honest answer? Desperation. If fusion-suppression technology exists, it would make a fearsome weapon. A weapon against which New Terra would have no defense. So if there is anything you might know, any rumor you might have heard in Known Space, any offhand remark from Nessus, anything in the Gw’oth files you saw on
Aegis,
anything at all . . . we need to hear it.”

“Nessus volunteers information about as freely as you, Sigmund. Sorry.” Louis gripped the arms of his chair, ready to stand. Ready to slink home, to putter uselessly in the kitchen.

And then it hit him: the possible source Sigmund had not mentioned. The Pak. The attack on Jm’ho, whatever attacks Jm’ho’s fleet now undertook,
everything
was Louis’s fault. If only he had not started decoding the Library. . . .

Louis shuddered.

“What is it?” Alice asked anxiously.

“In the Pak Library, a file dealing with fission. I saw something about dampening fields. It meant nothing to me.”

“And,” Sigmund prompted.

“And,” Louis said, “Achilles was with me in the lab at the time. I’m guessing the article meant a lot more to
him.
”

Beneath Hearth’s largest ocean, below its stony crust, deep within its mantle, an artificial cavern hid.

Secrecy and the remote location had once sufficed to maintain the cavern’s concealment. No longer. The more technology enabled the finding of hidden places, the more countermeasures had been deployed. Now sophisticated shielding subtly deflected any probes, whether by electromagnetic waves or neutrino beams.

Communications between the cavern and the rest of the universe relied upon neutrino micro-bursts, routed through a buried array of communication relays that ringed the planet. Only radio signals of extremely long wavelength
could
penetrate to the cavern’s depth, and the large antennae needed to send or receive those wavelengths would have hinted unacceptably at the cavern’s existence.

The tunnel that had originally given access to the cavern was long vanished, obliterated by the mantle’s relentless heat and pressure. Stepping discs provided the only ways in or out, but not just
any
stepping discs. The addressing scheme was nonstandard; the discs’ addresses were closely held secrets; the inter-disc transmissions were securely encrypted. And while radio waves interconnected the stepping-disc system on Hearth’s surface, the cavern’s discs responded only to modulated neutrino beams.

Those who had built and first configured the underground facility were long dead. Those few entrusted to maintain the equipment did so without ever knowing where they had been sent—and knowing that their memories would be edited upon the completion of their tasks.

Around the cavern the pressure and heat turned rock into oozing, viscous goo. Except for the pressure, lead and tin would melt at these depths. Yet inside the hidden cavern, life flourished. If one did not peer too closely
at the digitally simulated distance, much of the cavern could be mistaken for meadow and woodland.

The little bubble of life, as artificial as the ecology aboard any spaceship, demanded power. Lots and
lots
of power. Power-gulping force fields to withstand the incredible pressure. Enormous thermal pumps to keep the heat at bay. More power to preserve the privacy shields and run a vast computer complex. Communications gear, teleportation equipment, autodocs, stasis-field generators, synthesizers, and more: they all took power. To provide that power, the cavern stored enough deuterium—for compactness, compressed and chilled to a solid—to fuel its fusion reactors for thousands of Hearth years.