Betrayer of Worlds (8 page)

Since New Terran independence, the Fleet had steadily deployed sensors and weapons: lasers, particle beams, guided missiles. Since the rise of the Gw’oth the pace had accelerated. Without crews, and unwilling to use AI, inflexible automation had to operate everything. In far too many scenarios, the Fleet’s defenses could only blast away without hesitation at any possible threat.

“Nessus? I can’t understand the danger without knowing how the Fleet would defend itself.”

A nasty toxin waited in the relax-room synthesizer. Louis would be in his father’s autodoc when
Aegis
neared Hearth and authentication codes were given. Voice would be turned off. Nessus would take
no
chances with compromising the Fleet’s defenses, inadequate as they were.

“I am not prepared to discuss that.” Nessus felt little less programmed than Voice.

With a flick of a hand, Louis banished the star map. “Then how am I to . . . never mind. I’ll leave that alone for now. Maybe the Gw’oth don’t even want to attack. The world they settled may simply be a good choice for them. Its location along the Fleet’s path doesn’t prove anything.”

“They may believe they have a reason,” Nessus conceded.

And yet for all Baedeker’s antipathy toward the Gw’oth, he had never, even as Hindmost, taken action against them. MAD had prevailed.

“A reason?” Louis finally prompted.

“There was . . . friction in our early contacts.”

Much more than friction, if Baedeker’s plans for the Gw’oth had been overheard. But the Gw’oth had greater cause to fear the Fleet.

“What
kind
of friction?”

“Not important.” Nessus shuddered. “This is. In recent years, the Concordance has faced one danger after another. The times being so
extraordinary, the Citizens have entrusted governance to the Experimentalist Party. What you would call politics now comes down to competition among the—”

“
Politics?
You brought me here to meddle in Puppeteer politics?” Louis’s eyes flicked to the synthesizer.

Nessus fought his own self-destructive urge: to hide. “Did you ever wonder why Beowulf Shaeffer undertook such dangerous missions? No, I do not change the subject.”

Reluctantly: “Sure, I’ve wondered.”

“The first time, skimming the surface of a neutron star, because a Citizen scientist and scout coerced Beowulf into going. The same scout hired Beowulf for a journey to the galactic core because he had survived the first trip.”

“
You
are a Citizen scout.”

Nessus had not been far from the scene, but neither had he been responsible. He certainly was no scientist.

“He calls himself Achilles.” And Hearth had yet to recover from the chaos unleashed when his second hiring of Shaeffer encountered the galactic-core explosion. “Achilles is a politician now, not a scout. An ambitious politician.”

“Is there another kind, Nessus?”

“While Experimentalists rule, the contest for power comes down to a competition among radical ideas.”

All too often, crazy ideas, for not only scouts were insane. It took a special sort of madness to aspire to responsibility for the herd, rather than to submerge oneself within the herd. And among the few who aspired even to be
the
Hindmost . . .

Would Louis serve a society whose entire political class—by definition—was crazy?

The crazy-scariest possibility of all was that Nessus might have failed to find Beowulf Shaeffer because Achilles had found Shaeffer first. Trouble followed Shaeffer and Achilles both.

Nessus said, “Achilles aspires to guide the Experimentalists, and hence to become Hindmost of us all. As Minister of Science he has the public ear. He campaigns on taking ‘all necessary measures’ to end the Gw’oth threat.”

With a sigh, Louis looked away from the synthesizer and the drugs he was too proud to request.

Nessus waited.

Louis said, “The Gw’oth are too smart
not
to have stealthy ships or probes watching the Fleet. Whatever they overhear they can transmit home by hyperwave radio. And apparently what they’re overhearing is threats.”

Nessus stood, tottering on trembling legs. Of
course
the Gw’oth secretly followed events on Hearth, just as squadrons of stealthy Concordance probes ringed the Gw’oth worlds. “I fear, Louis, we are giving the Gw’oth a reason to decide they must strike first.”

“It would still be mad. . . .” Louis paused to gather his thoughts. “What if there is a message in
where
the Gw’oth put their settlement? Ice moons with oceans are common enough.”

“Of course there is a message! A threat. They put themselves in the Fleet’s path.”

Louis shook his head. “I suspect that it’s more than that. They could scatter planet-busters into the Fleet’s path from ships. They don’t need to establish, or expose, a colony to make an attack on the Fleet.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“If the Gw’oth established colonies as distant from Jm’ho, but in other directions, your people would never have encountered them. So maybe the meaning of the new colony, of this Kl’mo, is that they want the Concordance to know the extent of their capabilities.”

“Why would they want that?”

Louis began pacing. “To demonstrate that they are dispersed, that you cannot hope to find all their colonies. That if war should come, some of
them
will survive.”

“And we, bound to our Fleet of Worlds, will not.” Nessus shuddered, marveling that he did not collapse in terror. Even hindbrains and trembling flesh must know some disasters are too cosmic to flee. “War remains madness, but mutual destruction would no longer be the outcome.
That,
you are telling me, is the message.”

Louis laughed bitterly. “My entire military career was one skirmish in which I almost got myself killed, and from which I became an addict. Yet somehow you expect me to penetrate the grand strategy of genius aliens I’ve never met.”

Almost certainly you already have, Nessus thought. You have Beowulf’s quick mind and love of the strange. You have Carlos’s brilliance. You have the human heritage of aggression and war.

All Nessus said was, “That is why you are here.”

Only, it soon turned out, he had been preparing for the wrong crisis.

Amid chaos and ruin, light-years from Hearth, alone but for the ragged sounds of his own breathing, Achilles stared.

Debris floated all around him. Some things were recognizable and more were not: bits beyond counting slashed—or melted and recongealed—from every part of the ship.

But no stretch of the imagination could still call
Argo
a ship. It was a hulk, nothing more. Here and there ragged edges of onetime decks clung to the hull. The last wisp of air was long vanished from the vast, cavernous expanse. Life support, communications, propulsion, artificial gravity, sensors: all were gone. The flotsam that cargo and bulkheads and ship’s systems had become endlessly rebounded, in eerie silence, from the hull or one another.

His spacesuit recycled almost without loss; it could sustain him for years. A stasis field froze time; it could sustain him forever. For what? No one knew where he was, and Pak warships would be converging on his location. His hearts would stop from fright and conditioned reflex when the Pak arrived to claim their prize. Until that ignominious end, he had only his memories to occupy him. Bitter memories.

Once again his plans had gone horribly awry. . . .

Argo
popped into normal space.

Flat displays and holos sprang to life all around Achilles. He kept lips and tongue on the hyperdrive actuator while his other head swiveled to survey the readouts and imagery.

“Target acquired,” his copilot called. Roland Allen-Cartwright sat across the bridge. He was a large man, swarthy, with close-set eyes. “Call it three light-days.”

“And?” Achilles prompted.

“I’m looking at a squadron, twelve ships, about half a light-year distant. Big ships. Receding from us. And the usual background radio chatter.”

White-hot fusion flames streamed behind the twelve ramscoops, shouting their presence and course. Achilles had chosen his quarry from light-years away. By no known science could
Argo
’s reactionless thrusters be detected from similar distances.

Then again, he did not know what the Pak knew. Yet.

Any ramscoop accelerating toward
Argo
would be less obvious. Any ramscoop coasting toward
Argo
would be nearly invisible. To infer an approaching ramscoop required subtle modeling, element by element, of ripples in the tenuous interstellar medium, or triangulation of faint neutrino sources. Both methods entailed significant uncertainties. Both methods took time.

Or he could take more active measures.

“One radar ping,” Achilles ordered. If any ships lurked nearby, waiting to pounce, he meant to know
now.
The ping would not forewarn his quarry, three light-days distant. Before radar’s light-speed crawl ever reached that ship,
Argo
would strike.

“Ping sent,” Roland said. Seconds passed. “Nothing.”

Minutes passed before Achilles released his grip on the hyperdrive control. “What is the target ship doing?”

Roland frowned at his instruments. “It looks like there is a big free-floating snowball out ahead of it. So collecting water, I would guess.”

Hearth sweltered from pole to pole in the industrial waste heat of its trillion inhabitants. The home world had not seen snow in ages. In simpler times Achilles had encountered snow on human and Kzinti worlds. In more recent, more troubling times, in the “rehabilitation” camps on Nature Preserve One, he had made a far more intimate acquaintance with snow. He did not like snow.

At maximum acceleration
Argo
would match normal-space velocity with the isolated Pak ship within half a day. The hyperspace jump to the Pak’s position would take even less time. “Prepare your people, Roland. At this time tomorrow, we attack.”

“Did I actually say
attack
?” Achilles asked.

He was past caring that he talked to himself and starting to wonder when
he would begin answering. His words were muffled by the ball of flesh into which he had wrapped himself, his necks between his front legs and his heads pressed tight against his belly. How long had it been since he last unclenched? Wearing a pressure suit, he need never loosen to catch a breath.

He unwound anyway. The white-hot flame of a ship, or ships, decelerating toward him would be his only warning of death’s arrival, and the only functioning long-range sensors were his eyes. He would circumnavigate yet again the transparent hull, from which most of the paint had been seared away.

A bit of the drifting flotsam bumped his flank. He arched a neck for a look—

At the severed arm of Roland Allen-Cartwright.

Achilles’ heads whipped back between his legs. As his mind retreated into the troubled past, his last coherent thought was that he needed more dependable human hirelings.

“Dropping from hyperspace in three,” Achilles announced over the intercom. “Two. One. Now.”

On the main bridge display, stars appeared. So did a Pak ramscoop, its fusion drive blazing. It was but ten light-seconds away.

“Missile launched,” Roland called. “Locked on target.”

View ports went blank automatically as Achilles popped
Argo
back to hyperspace.

The missile carried a neutron bomb armed with a proximity switch. Achilles doubted even Pak technology could fend off a nuclear attack launched from out of nowhere.

Three minutes later
Argo
returned to normal space.

There was no need for a second missile. The Pak ship was adrift, its fusion flame extinguished. Instruments detected not a flicker of ramscoop field or a whisper of comm.

The neutron flux from the bomb would kill everyone aboard within a day. Then Roland and his cronies could search the derelict at their leisure.

With a final precise wriggle of lip nodes, Achilles eased
Argo
into position slightly ahead of the Pak derelict. He set the autopilot to maintain their position.

“Two miles and a bit,” Roland said, standing. “Close enough.”

“Be careful,” Achilles answered.

He pretended not to hear the snort as Roland left the bridge. You had to make allowances for beings willing to run dangers for you. No one could still be alive where Achilles’ crew was headed, but that did not preclude dangers. Beginning with a ship-to-ship transfer at almost half light speed.

Capture of a Pak vessel was momentous, and Achilles had coiffed himself for the occasion. Gold chains and strands of jewels glittered in his mane. Curls and braids and waves, each artfully dyed, were piled high above his cranial dome. He took a moment to straighten a braid. No one aboard, alas, could appreciate his resplendence.

The Pak vessel, imaged by stern-mounted infrared sensors, loomed in the main bridge holo. Achilles’ overall impression was of a great length of pipe. The flared bow hinted at the magnetic field that had—until the neutron-bomb blast scrambled things—projected far ahead to sweep up interstellar hydrogen. Small tanks ringed the aft end. The ramscoop field gathered too little hydrogen for propulsion until the ship, feeding its fusion drive with onboard fuel, got up its speed. The fat torus amidships was the crew compartment.