Destroyer of Worlds (25 page)

“Remove your clothes. Ribbons and jewels, too,” one of the guards directed. (He wore one more ribbon in his mane than the rest, suggesting he was the hindmost for the squad. Sigmund dubbed him Sergeant.) “Pile everything on the disc.”

Puppeteers had no nudity taboo. At least the males didn't. Of Puppeteer females, New Terrans knew only that they were cloistered.

Still, undressing came as a surprise and Sigmund didn't like surprises. Till now, Kirsten and Eric's predictions for this trip had been accurate. But they hadn't mentioned disrobing—and New Terrans
had
a nudity taboo. This was not a detail either would have forgotten.

Of course when his friends had seen Nike on Hearth, before independence, the Puppeteer had been a mere deputy minister. Now Nike was Hindmost.

“Is undressing typical?” Sigmund asked as he removed his jumpsuit.

Baedeker had removed and folded his sash. He began unbraiding his few mane ornaments. He gave the impression of being happy to have something to do besides look at Sigmund. “Hardly. I believe that your reputation precedes you.”

“Mr. Ausfaller. What is that on your wrist?” Sergeant asked.

“A clock implant.” Sigmund held out his arm for closer inspection.

Seconds ticked by while Sergeant considered that. “Very well,” he finally said.

Sigmund's garment and shoes, and Baedeker's few things, vanished. Into another sealed hull-material container, Sigmund supposed, one darkened against, say, a flash bomb or laser pistol. He had carried nothing like that—getting caught with a weapon would have sent the wrong message—but he would have preferred to keep his pocket comp (with its snooping modes enabled, naturally) and his transport controller.

“You will get your things back when you leave,” Sergeant said. “Mr. Ausfaller, we have a garment and slippers for you, if you wish.”

Professionally speaking, Sigmund had to approve of the security measures.

“You may proceed,” Sergeant decided at last. A head gestured at the antechamber's disc. His second head clutched a weapon with a grip like a boxer's mouthpiece.

Sigmund guessed the guards and their weapons were biometrically paired. That's what he would have done, lest a gun be wrestled from its owner. Of course Sigmund wouldn't have chosen a tongueprint for personalizing the weapon.

Baedeker and then Sigmund stepped to the main security lobby. Guards fell in around them as Sigmund dressed in the plain jumpsuit provided. “Follow me,” Sergeant ordered.

Their route passed two more checkpoints before terminating, abruptly, in a most un-Puppeteer setting: a long, narrow patio hugging a craggy mountainside. Sentries ringed the stepping disc. Without speaking, Sigmund's original escort trotted to an end of the patio.

The long terrazzo patio blended seamlessly with a living area carved deep into the mountain. Padded benches, mounds of overstuffed pillows, holo sculptures, and melted-looking oval tables dotted the salon. Only a faintly shimmering force field (weatherproofing, Sigmund supposed) separated indoors from out. Beyond the patio's stone balustrade, far below, waves crashed against the shore. A magnificent stone castle, its endless soft curves
and rounded features almost Dali-like, climbed hundreds of feet overhead. No other structure was anywhere in sight.

On Earth, a world of eighteen billion, this palace and its splendid isolation would have been decadent. On Hearth, with its trillion occupants . . .

“A private audience in the Hindmost's personal residence,” Nessus whispered unnecessarily. “Be honored.”

The honor did not, Sigmund noted, keep Baedeker from craning for possible exits.

Sigmund wasn't buying into a great honor, either. A new attempt at intimidation, maybe.

With that thought, a Puppeteer appeared inside the salon. He was petite for a Puppeteer, his cream hide unmarked by patches of any other color. His mane was resplendent with orange jewels. Orange, of course, was the color of the ruling Experimentalist faction.

The Hindmost.

He came through the force field onto the patio. “Mr. Ausfaller,” he said in unaccented New Terran English. Earlier in his career, speaking the colonists' language had been a useful skill. With only one throat and one set of vocal cords, no human could speak any Puppeteer language.

“Excellency,” Sigmund began. He stood ramrod straight even as Baedeker lowered his heads subserviently. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

“You have a strong advocate in Nessus,” the Hindmost said, “setting aside that he, too, was not told the nature of the supposed emergency. Regardless, formality is unnecessary. Here in my private residence, I am Nike. And may I call you Sigmund?”

Nike: the Greek goddess of victory. An immodest choice.

Puppeteers dealing with humans took human pronounceable names, and names from Earth mythology were a common affectation. Nessus' true name sounded to Sigmund like an industrial accident in waltz time. “Certainly, Nike.”

Sigmund and Baedeker followed Nike back into the grand salon, the force field only a slight pressure and a tickle as they pressed through. Another Puppeteer joined them. Nike introduced the newcomer as Vesta, head of the Clandestine Directorate. The guards sidled closer but remained on the patio, watching from a respectful distance.

Nike stood tall, legs straight, hooves far apart, exuding confidence. It was the Puppeteer dominance stance—he was
un
ready to run. “All right, Sigmund. Explain what this is about.”

Beginning with Ol't'ro's plea for help, Sigmund summarized
Don Quixote
's travels and everything the crew had encountered. The Gw'oth. The ramscoop fleet glimpsed from afar. Shattered worlds. Deliberations within the New Terran government. The Pak—and their course.

Nike asked few, but always insightful, questions. Baedeker contributed details, often on his own initiative, occasionally in response to Nike's or Nessus' prompting. From time to time aides appeared, apologetically reminding Nike or Vesta of one scheduled event or another. Nike sent them away.

No one asked about the Pak military capability, so Sigmund volunteered. Among clans so warlike, any weapon that could be built would be. Minimally the Pak would have powerful lasers and fusion-driven missiles with nuclear warheads. The former would pass right through a General Products hull. Concussions from the latter would scramble anything inside a GP hull.

By the time Sigmund finished, he felt drained. He felt he had been talking forever. A glance at his wrist showed more than two hours had passed.

Now it was Nike's turn.

 

THROUGH THE CLEAR SPOT
in the cell floor, Thssthfok monitored the room below, ascertaining the pattern of crew visits. The two-headed thing no longer appeared, nor did Sigmund. Only two other humans—from overheard conversations, Kirsten and Eric—came into the room, usually together. Sometimes they came to take food from synthesizers. Sometimes they exercised. Several day-tenths usually separated their visits.

Eric, wearing battle armor, had brought the last few plates of food and removed Thssthfok's waste. During these brief visits, artificial gravity pinned Thssthfok in place, while even Eric, the motors in his armor whining, moved slowly.

Thssthfok's feedings, too, followed a routine.

If the room below was the crew's only food source—and why would there be more?—Eric and Kirsten were now the only jailors aboard.

Two unarmed humans, taken by surprise . . . soon the ship would be Thssthfok's.

 

A CONCORDANCE WAR FLEET!
Commanded by the New Terrans!

Baedeker almost fled, the ideas were so outrageous. Sigmund had
traveled so far to propose
this
? Had Sigmund asked for an opinion, Baedeker could have saved them a trip.

“I expected as much,” Sigmund told Nike. “But we are discussing your starships, so I believed it appropriate to begin there. Consider this, Nike. Lend New Terra the ships to defend us both. We'll train our own pilots.”

“Of course, Sigmund.” Vesta looked himself in the eyes. “Why wait for the Pak to destroy us? Why bother to wonder if the Gw'oth will develop into rivals?
You
can destroy us sooner with our own fleet! Or will you, merely, use our ships to evacuate New Terra and leave the Concordance to its fate?”

Baedeker wanted to run, but where could he go? This was madness! “My apologies, Nike. I was unaware of the request Sigmund intended.”

Nessus cleared his throats. “Excuse me, Nike. I have seen Gw'oth. Today I saw a Pak. Let us assume our astronomers will confirm the danger headed our way. They will, for Sigmund would not have concocted such a story if our astronomers could refute it. Then what?”

As it became clear that no one had an answer, Baedeker's right forehoof, with a mind of its own, began scratching at the Hindmost's floor.

 

EVEN BEFORE HIS ABDUCTION
to New Terra, Sigmund had studied Puppeteers. Everything he now read in their body language revealed irrationality or shock. Nike and Vesta, clearly angry—at Sigmund, rather than confronting the real problem. Baedeker, on the verge of collapse. Only Nessus had remained focused, and
his
glittering eyes conveyed—what? Manic excitement.

Sane Puppeteers didn't get manic. The only way Nessus and the very few like him ever managed to leave the Fleet was by suppressing their fears beneath mania.

Sigmund pictured Nessus frenzied like this when he decided to kidnap Sigmund from Known Space. Sigmund didn't have a warm feeling for whatever Nessus might be thinking now.

“I have a suggestion,” Sigmund said. Stall. Stall for time, while I play tourist across Hearth, looking for opportunities to
steal
ships. Talk one-on-one with Nessus before he acted on his latest wild idea. “But we've covered a lot today. Perhaps we can meet after everyone has had a chance to sleep on it?”

Heads bobbed—up/down, down/up, up/down—in vigorous agreement. Whac-A-Mole. “An excellent suggestion,” Vesta concluded.

But Sigmund didn't get the chance to reconnoiter a landing field, nor to consult with Nessus. Nike invited Sigmund and Baedeker to stay at the official residence.

It did not seem to Sigmund like an invitation.

Pacing the spacious guest suite, armed guards posted outside the door—“In case,” as the Hindmost put it, “you need anything”—Sigmund had to wonder. Was there another place
anywhere
on Hearth without stepping discs?

He had become a prisoner.

 

THSSTHFOK SLIPPED
through the softened floor of his cell into the empty room below. After several visits to bypass various sensors and control circuits, the passage was routine. But this trip was in no way routine.

This trip, he would seize the ship.

 

The next day, the Hindmost's grand salon looked the same. The participants were the same. The aura, though—

That, Sigmund sensed,
had
changed. Today there was a shoot-the-messenger vibe.

Meaning Sigmund had nothing to lose by pushing. “New Terra can't win this fight. Nor can the Gw'oth. Nor can the Fleet.” Because you
won't
fight. “In a few years, if nothing changes, the Pak will smash our worlds back to a preindustrial state.”

A trillion Puppeteers depended on tech for
everything
. A crash of the stepping-disc system would trap most deep inside their gargantuan buildings. Finagle! Those rooms were usually doorless and windowless. Billions would suffocate in their rooms, for lack of oxygen.

Sigmund said nothing, letting the implications speak for themselves.

“But you have a proposal,” Nessus said hopefully.

Sigmund wanted to lock eyes with the decision maker, but the Hindmost held his heads too far apart. Sigmund chose one eye to look at. “To stand any chance against the Pak, we need an ally with a strong navy. Nike, we need
Earth
.”

Sigmund thought he knew all the possible objections. That the Fleet relied for its safety on remaining hidden from the races of Known Space. That Earth would rather attack Puppeteers—as punishment for the ancient crime against the New Terrans—than help the Puppeteers. That Earth's navy could evacuate New Terra, or defend only New Terra, while abandoning Hearth to its fate. That not even the ARM, for all its resources, was equal to the task. That Earth would rather sacrifice the few New Terrans than divert its navy and leave itself defenseless against the ever-resentful Kzinti.

Those objections were really all facets of a single argument: distrust.
Better to risk disaster later from the Pak than court disaster now at Earth's hands.

Sigmund had spent the night pacing, refining possible rebuttals, as Baedeker snored lyrically in the next room. Sigmund's answers, too, boiled down to one. The Concordance had nothing to lose by trying. Only he never got the chance to argue his point.

“Earth is gone,” Vesta said. “All the human worlds. The Kzinti worlds. All the worlds you remember, Sigmund. They were in the path of the Pak.”

Faces from Sigmund's past flashed through his mind. That part of his memory, cruelly, remained intact. But it wasn't only old friends and colleagues. Billions, surely, had died. Billions whom, as an ARM, Sigmund had sworn to protect. Billions he had failed.

Almost he gave in to despair—but, tanj it!—he was no Puppeteer to hide within himself. Anger washed away the grief. Grief yielded to cold, calculating reason. In that moment of clarity, Sigmund knew: He didn't believe Vesta. The question was, why not?

Because something didn't square with Sigmund's intuition about the Pak.

For all Thssthfok's self-control, he had reacted to the name Phssthpok. Then, discussing Phssthpok's ambitions at length, a way of changing the subject from Pak military capabilities, Thssthfok had corroborated many details in Lucas Garner's recitation.