Deadman Switch (19 page)

“So then … ?”

“I think he was basically sympathetic to our plight,” I said. “But he was also afraid that if he came down on a single smuggler now the rest would suddenly realize he's not the ziphead everyone thinks he is and instantly bury themselves out of his reach.”

She considered that. “So you think,” she said slowly, “that if
we
can pinpoint a group of smugglers, he can go ahead and pick them up without risking that?”

I grimaced. With Randon backing my demand for such official action, I had no doubt Commodore Freitag would have been willing to do exactly that. Now, though … “I hope he'll be that reasonable,” I said.

“You don't know for sure, though,” she said quietly. “Do you?”

“It's a calculated risk,” I conceded.

She took a deep breath. “Gilead … look, I deeply appreciate what you're trying to do for me. But the risk's not worth it. Please take me back.”

“We've already been through this,” I said gruffly. “Whether you remember or not, part of a Watcher's job is to stand up for the helpless.”

“To the point of ruining your career?”

“To the point of giving up my life, if necessary.”

She swallowed. “There's still no need for me to be along,” she said, making what I could sense was her last effort. “You can take me back to the
Bellwether
and then go out alone and find your smuggler.”

“And what happens if I can't do it in time?” I asked her. “You'll be executed on schedule.”

“But you'll be in less trouble than you are now,” she countered. “I'm willing to take the chance.”

“I'm not,” I told her flatly. “Besides, I'm going to need your help. Spall is a big planet for one person to search.”

Possibly for the first time that evening, I'd taken her by surprise.
“Spall?”
she echoed, blinking in confusion.

“Spall,” I nodded. “Though no one seems willing to talk about it, I get the distinct impression that at least some of the smugglers are thought to have their permanent bases there.”

“But—” she floundered.

“It makes sense, when you think about it,” I continued. “The only two places in the system where they can have both a reasonable amount of room and a shirtsleeve environment are Solitaire and Spall, and Solitaire's got too much traffic coverage for them to sneak in and out easily.”

“And Spall's got the exact opposite situation,” she pointed out. “No one lives there at
all
—which means a smuggling settlement would stand out like a floodlight on even the simplest spectrum scan.”

“Except that it turns out Spall isn't as uninhabited as we'd all thought,” I said, shaking my head. “They've got scientific groups poking around all over the planet … and also a group of permanent settlers called the Halloas.”

Something either in the name or in the way I said it … “A … religious group?” she asked cautiously.

I looked at her. Behind her eyes, I could almost see the memories of her childhood with the Watcher's Bethel settlement passing through her mind. Bittersweet memories … “Yes,” I confirmed. “Apparently treated with the same contempt every other religious group gets. Possibly one of the reasons they left Solitaire.”

She winced. More bittersweet memories. “Are you planning to make contact with them?” she asked.

I heard the reluctance in her words. “We have to,” I told her firmly. “We'll need supplies, transportation, the likeliest places for smugglers to have dug in—things only the Halloas will be able to provide.”

“And what makes you think they'll cooperate?”

I shrugged. “Faith. And the hope that they'll recognize the rightness of what I'm doing.”

To that she made no answer. Sitting next to her in the relative gloom, I watched the spaceport pass by outside the car. And tried to plan out just what I'd say to the ground crew when we reached our ship.

“Okay, now, here's the main control bank.” The crew boss pointed the panel out to me, his words slightly distorted by the pepperstick hanging out one corner of his mouth. “Lot of stuff here you can ignore—these Crickets were built for rock hunting, but all the fancy grappling equipment's been taken off.”

Though it could undoubtedly be put back on if necessary. Like everything else I'd run across on Solitaire, even these minor shuttle ships had apparently been chosen with an eye on their possible use in the ring mines. Just one more reminder of how thoroughly the mines—and the wealth from them—permeated every aspect of Solitaran life. “And my course settings?”

“Idiot-simple,” the boss assured me. “That box there is a set of course cyls. Just plug in the one you want—right there—and hit the button here.” He tapped it. “Not till you clear atmosphere, of course—up till then the cat'll have override jurisdiction and all you'll get is a loud beep and a nasty 'nostic on the status display.” He grinned.

Beside me, Calandra stirred. “Not too many options, are there?” she murmured, indicating the small number of course cyls in the box.

“Not a lot of places to go in the system,” the boss shrugged. “You got four Rockhounds, you got six ring research platforms, you got Solitaire. What else is there?”

“How about Spall?” I asked.

He snorted. “What, you mean Halloa Heaven? Who'd want to go there?”

“We do,” I told him, putting some firmness into my voice. I was, after all, supposed to be the one in charge here. “I have to drop my friend here off before continuing on to Collet.”

He frowned slightly, his sense suddenly becoming uncertain. “I thought this was supposed to be a one-man trip,” he said. “I mean, that's what we've got her serviced and stocked for—”

“Minor change in plans,” I cut him off. “And I seem to recall the
Bellwether's
captain specifying double safety margins for the supplies.”

A surge of professional pride overpowered the uncertainties. “Oh, sure, there won't be any problem like that—I mean, Spall's just five or six hours away.”

“Good,” I nodded. “Then if you can dig us up a course cyl for Spall, we'll be ready to go.”

“Yeah, well—yeah, sure. Let's see …” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I guess the tower banks'll have a complete set on file. It'll take a few minutes, but I could send someone over and have them make you some copies. Or if you can tell me where exactly you'll want to land, I could have a copy of that particular one fed to you while we get you loaded into the cat.”

“Don't we have to go to wherever Spall's launch catapult is?” I frowned. “Or do they have more than one?”

“They don't have any at all,” he shook his head. “People who go there pretty much land anywhere they want. All you have to do when you want to leave is gimp your way up a couple thousand meters and then kick in the fusion to get you to ram speed. Uses more fuel than with a cat, 'course, but not as much as you'd think.”

The thought of using a fusion drive that close to a planetary surface … “What does it do to the landscape?” I asked.

“Not much good,” he conceded. “Doesn't matter much, though—practically the whole planet is desert, anyway. So; you want one cyl or the whole batch?”

I glanced at Calandra, thinking fast. It would be handy to have a complete set—aside from having a wider range of choices, it would help spread the search around when my web of lies eventually fell apart. On the other hand, a list of reference points or even place names wouldn't do us much good by themselves. “Would the nearest convenient place to the main Halloa settlement be okay with you?” I asked her.

Once again, she deciphered my train of thought with ease. “A list of all the settlements would be better,” she said. “You
do
have maps of Spall programmed in, don't you?” she added to the boss.

“Oh, sure. For all the good they are—cartographers haven't exactly fallen over themselves getting the place fine-gridded out. Tell you what; I'll have the tower feed you course cyls for the six biggest Halloa places, okay?”

I raised my eyebrows questioningly. “Yes, that should be satisfactory,” Calandra nodded.

“Okay,” the boss said, relief in his sense as he brushed past us to the control panel. From a box next to one of the contour seats he scooped a handful of blank cyls and laid them out neatly in a row on a grip next to the computer feed. “You put them in here,” he said over his shoulder, demonstrating with the first. “When it beeps, you replace it with the next one—”

“I
am
familiar with the procedure,” I told him mildly. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He straightened, took one last look around the cabin at the displays and indicators. “Well, everything seems ready. Just sit down and make yourselves comfortable, and I'll get the crew started on loading you into the cat. And I'll get the tower going on those cyls, too.”

“Thank you,” I said again. He shifted the pepperstick to the other side of his mouth, gave us each a brief nod, and left.

“Now what?” Calandra asked nervously as the door was sealed behind us with a hollow
thud.
Her aura of calm, adopted for the boss's benefit, was gone without a trace.

“We sit down and make ourselves comfortable,” I told her, trying to keep my voice light. “And we try to think optimistic thoughts.”

She snorted. Turning her back on me, she chose one of the twin control seats and began strapping in. I followed suit with the other seat, noting that my suggestion about optimistic thoughts didn't seem to be working for her.

Not really surprising. They weren't working for me, either.

S
IX HOURS LATER, WE
began our final approach to Spall.

It had been a quiet trip. Both of us had tried to get some sleep, with varying degrees of success; neither of us had felt much like talking. Calandra, I could tell, was still unhappy with both me and the situation, her worrying underpinned by a low-level anger that wasn't showing much sign of subsiding.

I could hardly blame her. Once away from Solitaire, with my adrenaline-fueled tension fading as it became clear we had indeed gotten away, I had started having second thoughts myself. Two people, setting off to search an entire planet—it was so utterly ridiculous I couldn't believe I had actually considered it a rational scheme. And yet, that was all we had left. Two people against a world, with nothing but faith to go on … and
my
faith very possibly having to do for both of us.

He brought out his people like sheep, guiding them like a flock in the desert …
I could only hope that there was more than poetic imagery behind the words.

“Doesn't look very inviting,” Calandra murmured from beside me.

I looked at the display she was indicating. “The crew boss said it was mostly desert,” I reminded her.

“I've seen other deserts,” she said shortly. “They didn't look like this.”

I pursed my lips, studying the landscape slowly scrolling down the screen. She was right; there was far more variation in color and visual texture than in the handful of deserts I'd seen from space. “Well … desert in this case may just mean that most of the soil isn't easily arable,” I suggested.

“Maybe.”

I shifted my eyes to her. “Worried that the Halloas may be just barely scraping a living for themselves, and therefore not inclined toward helping strangers?” I asked.

The muscles of her face tightened slightly. She could read others without compunction, but she didn't much care to have the roles reversed. I felt a flash of annoyance at her double standard; a heartbeat later it belatedly occurred to me that I felt exactly the same way. “The thought
had
crossed my mind, yes,” she growled. “That, along with the normal pattern of outcast societies.” She glanced at me. “Or did the Cana settlement conveniently leave that one out of
your
curriculum, too?”

“I'm not sure I know what you mean,” I said, getting the distinct feeling I wasn't going to like this one.

“Really,” she said, her voice heavy with contempt. “Well, it seems that religious groups that go off and establish their own societies to escape persecution almost always wind up being just as bad to their own minorities.”

“The Watchers didn't—” I began; then broke off.

A bitter smile touched her lips. “That's right,” she agreed, following my unspoken thought. “Aaron Balaam darMaupine's Bridgeway was heading exactly that direction when he was finally stopped.”

I clenched my teeth. “You don't
know
that it would have become that,” I pointed out. But it was a weak argument, and I knew it—besides which, what was I doing playing advocate for darMaupine in the first place? “I don't recall learning that in Cana, no,” I added, getting back to the issue at hand. “But I wouldn't think the Halloas have been here long enough to have forgotten their own problems with intolerance.”

She shrugged uneasily. “I guess we'll find out soon enough,” she said, nodding toward the display. “We're coming down.”

The whole thing went reasonably smoothly, I suppose, especially considering that the Cricket's autopilot probably cost less than a hundredth of the one aboard the
Bellwether
and was operating without benefit of a spaceport tower system besides. A few jerks and stomach-wrenching jolts—a couple of sudden swerves for no reason I could discern—one final
thud
and a last-second drive shriek that left my ears ringing, and we were down.

The drive shut itself off, and in the silence Calandra and I looked at each other. “I don't care if they execute me tomorrow,” she announced evenly. “I'm
not
riding one of these things again.”

I took a deep breath. “That's not especially funny.”