Destroyer of Worlds (28 page)

“You will find this amusing,” Nessus said, sidling toward the synthesizer. He got himself a glass of something orange. Warm carrot juice, if Sigmund correctly remembered Nessus' vice. “I had an alternate suggestion for staffing a Concordance fleet. Artificial intelligences.”

Sigmund blinked. That was a brilliant idea. It took a fully sentient mind to navigate in hyperspace. So, scour Hearth for a few hundred Puppeteers to fly an AI-enabled fleet toward the Pak. Evacuate the living crews onto a few ships—those could be back into hyperspace before the Pak could even see them. Turn the rest of the ships over to AIs. Only—

“Refresh my memory, Nessus. Why don't Citizens use AI?”

“Because we fear creating our successors.”

And giving armed warships to those potential successors would be a nonstarter. “Still, I assume you raised the idea directly with Nike.”

“I did.” Nessus drained his beverage with one convulsive gulp. “He would sooner trust a fleet to New Terrans.”

To Sigmund's ears, that comparison sounded like an insult rather than an option. “So what now, Nessus? Holding me won't stop the New Terrans from acting, only make them loath to coordinate with the Concordance. Nike might as well let me go home.”

Sigmund's door rattled, accompanied by a torrent of notes. Nessus opened the door, bobbed heads at the guards, and closed the door again.

Why hadn't Nessus spoken, maybe yelled at the guards to intimidate them? Ah. Had he spoken, someone might have noticed the suppressed bugs
not
picking up his words.

Cantering back into the room, Nessus said, “The guard asked if I am all right. Sigmund, I
must
stop suppressing bugs before the security forces become suspicious. And yes, keeping you here may stop New Terra from acting. At least for a time. That is the Hindmost's judgment.

“Your government will be told that you and I have left together on another scouting mission. Alas, you will not be returning. Though my opinion changes nothing, Sigmund, I disagreed with this decision. I could not change it.

“If only you accept the inevitable, you can be comfortable here.” Nessus waved a neck sinuously at the wall of windows and its spectacular view. “There are far worse prisons than the Hindmost's residence. Sigmund, I vouched for you. I promised Nike you will behave.”

Here. Incommunicado. Unable to warn Sabrina of a mole within her inner circle. And worst of all, Nike might be correct about Sigmund's absence delaying any New Terran action.

I don't think so, Nessus. “You'd better unvouch for me. Because I
will
escape.”

“Sigmund, please reconsider.” Nessus looked meaningfully at the door. When Sigmund gave no answer, Nessus emitted a mournful trill and reached for his comm unit. The flashing stopped. Nessus reverted to English, to Sigmund's ears speaking a bit theatrically. “As you refuse to talk to me, I see no reason to stay.”

“Good-bye, Nessus.” And good luck to you and Baedeker.

As Nessus let himself out, Sigmund noted the time on his wrist implant. There was a flurry of music in the hallway.

Within an hour, guards escorted Sigmund to a stepping disc and dumped him into a doorless, windowless, cylindrical room perhaps eight feet across.

 

Sigmund paced his cell, because that's what prisoners did.

Translucent walls admitted sufficient light to see, not that there was much
to
see. It wouldn't take much image enhancement to give outside sensors a clear view inside. Did Puppeteer jailors routinely watch prisoners? Sigmund saw no reason why they would bother.

Then again, there was much about Puppeteers he did not understand.

Except for stepping discs, one in the floor and another in the ceiling, the cell was featureless. The top disc, to which adhered a thin-film molecular filter, must be there to exchange carbon dioxide and excess water vapor for fresh oxygen. The bottom disk, with a thin-film filter of its own, whisked away bodily wastes. Sigmund supposed the floor disc would be set occasionally to receive mode to deliver food.

The disc-plus-filter combinations reminded him of the mechanisms that moved deuterium and tritium to/from
Don Quixote
's fuel tanks. Very Puppeteer: reusing a proven design. And very predictable.

With nothing else to do, he glanced often at his wrist implant. The hours passed slowly. He had left the chronometer on ship's time. It cheered him up, however slightly, to imagine
Don Quixote
's shipboard routine. And finally—

It was time! Sigmund wrenched the disc from the floor. The right of which no Puppeteer would be deprived was a modicum of personal safety. Lest the ceiling disc or its air filter fail—unlikely, given the extreme conservatism of Puppeteer engineering, but always possible—there had to be a way for a prisoner to exit a sealed, impregnable cell.

And on that theory, Sigmund had goaded Nessus. He had had to get someplace where he could be assured of finding stepping discs. Any place. Even a maximum-security prison.

From this instant, Sigmund had to act quickly, in case anyone
did
watch him in real time.

The filter peeled easily from the disc. (Had removing the filter triggered an alarm? Certainly plausible.) Folded, the filter fit into a pocket of his jumpsuit. The Puppeteers would eventually realize what he had done. Until then, he had a locked-room mystery for them.

As Sigmund expected, the disc lacked even a maintenance-mode address keypad. He could not punch in a destination. The safety feature that logic insisted must exist would deliver him into a spare cell or a room full of guards: unacceptable. He pulled out and pocketed the disc's programmable memory chip, resetting the disc to its factory default mode.

Among Puppeteers, there could be only one default destination.

He restored the disc to its place in the floor and stepped. He emerged into urban cacophony, on some crowded public square. The nearest building—of course—was an office of the Department of Public Safety.

Puppeteers in the hundreds shied away, their bleating louder than God. A circle opened around Sigmund, behind a wall of hind legs: massive, sharp-hoofed, ready to lash out if he got too close. Puppeteers fought—when they had no other option—by turning their backs. That was all right—Sigmund had no intention of staying. Two paces took him to an array of public stepping discs.

He transported at random around the globe, anywhere public discs would take him. Malls. Stores. Arcology lobbies. Puppeteers gaped and blared music wherever he appeared. He heard the same motifs over and over. We are attacked! Or, God you're ugly! Or, Don't hurt me! Or—

His next two stops would
not
be random. He stepped, again via public disc, to the large park Eric had described to Sigmund. The park's popularity did not matter. That the park was a landmark, easy to spot from above, did.

For his final step, Sigmund needed a transport controller. He grabbed one from the sash pocket of a Puppeteer chosen arbitrarily from the crowd. “Sorry,” Sigmund said.

The Puppeteer shied away, wheezing like a drop-kicked bagpipe, eyes slitted in terror. Mugged by a human! He would be telling this story for the rest of his life.

Sigmund tapped a fifteen-digit disc address and stepped—

Aboard
Don Quixote
, flying in stealth mode. Its arcing course matched velocities with the popular park on Hearth, twenty-five million miles distant. That put the ship just outside the Fleet's gravitational singularity.

“Right on time,” Eric said.

“I could say the same,” Sigmund answered. “Good job. Any problems while I was gone?”

Eric looked at his shoes. “It's a long story.”

Then it would wait. “Let's jump to hyperspace, before anyone below notices that I've gone missing.”

That
will give the Hindmost something to think about.

 

The concept of an inquest was not new to Er'o. The feel was.

The mood aboard
Don Quixote
was strange, strained, and Er'o struggled to understand the emotional undercurrents. Sigmund had returned from Hearth alone, offering only the briefest of explanations: Baedeker chose to stay. This once, Sigmund's reticence seemed rooted in something other than distrust. The human seemed genuinely ambivalent about Baedeker's decision.

Meanwhile, Kirsten and Eric remained in shock at how close they had come to losing the ship. At least shock was how Er'o interpreted their trembling. Bodily quivers were a new phenomenon, for which Ol't'ro had yet to make a definitive interpretation.

Er'o was the only one in any condition to give answers about Thssthfok's recent escape.

The flight from Hearth to New Terra would take only two days, much of the second day spent shedding normal-space velocity after they dropped from hyperspace. Sigmund wanted answers before they arrived. “Once again,” Sigmund said. “
How
did Thssthfok get out?”

Kirsten and Eric studied the relax-room table and said nothing. Sigmund waited, staring, until Kirsten volunteered, “We simply don't know.”

“I checked the hatch lock. There were no signs of tampering.” Eric grimaced. “Not that we found tampering the first time Thssthfok broke out of the cargo hold. But at least then we found the gadget he used to override the controls.”

Kirsten looked up. “We heard him throw something into the air ducts.”

“And what have you found?” Sigmund probed.

Kirsten resumed staring at the table. “Just the bent grille he tore off. Of course, short of tearing apart the ship, we can't get at many of the ducts.”

Er'o raised an armored tubacle, wiggling it for attention. “To judge
from the size of the grilles, a Gw'o can fit the larger ducts. Say the word, Sigmund, and several of us will look.”

Sigmund shook his head. “You could get stuck in there. We'll be home soon, and then we'll send in maintenance bots.”

Er'o sensed no undercurrent of
you might see something not meant for you to see.
The trust felt good. For apprehending Thssthfok? Or for saving them from an unknowable hyperspace abyss?

“I just had a good idea,” was Er' o's reason, impossible to disprove, whenever asked why he had interrupted Jeeves's countdown. The answer had the virtue of truth (albeit partial): pinning Thssthfok with acceleration
had
been a good idea. The humans might suspect Er'o had learned about hyperdrive and singularities. They could not ask without hinting at matters they wanted kept secret.

It was like interrogating Thssthfok. No one asked him what he thought of the hyperdrive announcement, either.

“Let's look at the problem another way,” Sigmund said abruptly. “Something made the hole in the bridge hatch. You found nothing to do that, either. Are we talking about
two
devices, both missing, or one device that melts holes and unlocks doors?”

Sigmund sounded skeptical about both possibilities. Because of a third scenario, unspoken? Shipboard surveillance had been bypassed. Any of them could have unlocked Thssthfok's cell. Any of them could have found and hidden Thssthfok's tool or tools.

Of all the suspects, only the Gw'oth need not fear a search of their living space—at least until New Terra and the arrival of maintenance bots.

From the furtive glances in Er' o's direction, Eric had had the same thought. Sigmund, more subtly, looked everywhere but at Er'o.

“I would like to analyze the melted door,” Er'o said, to change the subject. “Maybe that will suggest what type of Pak device we are seeking.”

“I'll help,” Eric said quickly.

The sense of trust had been good while it lasted.

 

THSSTHFOK SAT CROSS-LEGGED
on the cell floor. Except for three simple containers, of water, food, and for bodily waste, his cell was bare. Gone with the shelving and cabinets—removed while he lay helpless, still stunned—were most of his repair kit and any pretense of privacy.

The repair kit, he would miss.

He wondered if his captors had thought to search inside the hollow recesses of the removed furniture. In their haste to clear the room before his paralysis wore off, they had overlooked the small spot on the floor turned transparent by the structural modulator.

As his stomach rumbled, Thssthfok wondered when the tool would reappear.

He had positioned the water pitcher to cover his peephole into the room below. His captors were more apt to check the other containers for anything he might have hidden inside. Why bother with the pitcher, though? They could see through the water to the bottom.

So far, he had managed to sit or stand on that clear spot, or to set something on it, and the altered area had gone unnoticed. He thought. He kept hoping for food the color of the deck—something to chew into a paste that, surreptitiously spread, would stop light from leaking out of the room below. So far, nothing he had been offered matched the floor.

For now, the floor must tend to itself. Thssthfok had company and more immediate concerns.

“How did you get out?” Sigmund asked. Armored, he could almost pass for Pak. The same could not be said for the other suited figure. Er'o.

Thssthfok made a broad gesture with his arm. “You see everything I have.” Except for the structural modulator, still inside me.

“Answer the question,” Sigmund said.

Thssthfok said nothing.

“How did you make a hole in a hatch?”

The bridge hatch. Thssthfok said nothing. If they thought it possible he had not recognized the bridge, why should he enlighten them?

“The breach is very odd,” Er'o said suddenly. “The opening appears melted, but something more complex has occurred. At the molecular level, the material surrounding the hole is stronger than the door. The bulge shows too few microscopic gaps and voids. Trace impurities are too regularly distributed. The material is, for lack of a better word, improved.”