Dire Steps (6 page)

“Regardless of who my father is, I can assure you that
I
take a dim view of anyone threatening me—­or my veterans.”

B
locker held his tongue until Ayliss's personal vehicle took them through the fencing. He'd been standing in earshot on the balcony, an impassive statue. Now he allowed his annoyance to show.

“That wasn't very diplomatic of you, Minister.”

Looking out through the armored windshield, Ayliss answered serenely. “Then it's a good thing diplomacy wasn't what I was shooting for.”

“And what, may I ask,
are
you shooting for?”

“That depends on a number of variables, Dom. I'll let you know if they start to line up.”

“I doubt that your father recommended this approach.”

“My mother would have. You told me yourself that when she didn't know if someone was a friend or an enemy, she assumed they were an enemy. I think that's wise.”

“I said she couldn't
tell
a friend from an enemy. And she didn't try to find out. Lydia assumed everyone was a potential opponent, and she reacted accordingly. Your father was the exact opposite until she changed him. Way back then, watching those two, I swear I couldn't tell which one of them had been in combat.” He looked out the window, forcing himself to shut up.

“Combat.” Ayliss allowed herself a secret smile. “That's what it all is, isn't it?”

 

CHAPTER FOUR

“W
hat's gotten into you, Olech?” Horace Corlipso asked the question while handing him a goblet of wine. “You didn't used to go racing all over the galaxy, disrupting things.”

Warm sunlight streamed in through the chamber's transparent ceiling, floor, and outer wall. Wispy clouds passed close by while Horace's flying yacht slid through the air of Celestia.

“I only visited the construction zone. And they should have guessed I was coming.” In addition to the far-­off war zone, a smaller chunk of the galaxy had been designated the construction zone many years earlier. Defended by a fleet of warships, it was a vast stretch of space where enormous factory stations created the machines and tools of war. “After all, when I do get to leave Earth, I usually make the trip worthwhile.”

“Still, you seem to have caught the leadership by surprise.”

“All the more reason to replace them. If I can sneak up on them like that, imagine what a Sim raid force might do.”

“I doubt the Sims could join a supply convoy and coast into the zone the same way.”

“I brought an entire brigade of troops with me, with support personnel. Tripled the size of that convoy, and they waved us right through the cordon.”

“So it was your intention to rotate the security assignment, regardless of what you found.” Horace sat on the couch, close to his guest. Twenty years older than Olech and almost completely bald, he wore a flowing robe made of a rich, cream-­colored fabric. “I call that disruption.”

“I already knew what I was going to find—­and you do, too. The construction zone has devolved into a circus. Half of the supplies are being diverted to nonmilitary uses, and they're making more luxury items than weapons. Unauthorized vessels coming and going, all sorts of black market activity, and the Force units providing security were taking bribes to look the other way.”

“A little graft here and there, Olech, nothing new. The units in the war zone are getting everything they need.”

“I did find something unexpected. The highest level of Command in the war zone somehow managed to get
out
of the war zone. Generals Leslie and Osamplo, as well as Admiral Futterman, ensconced right there in the construction zone, and very comfortable. So far away from the war that they no longer had instantaneous communication with any of the units in their commands. Think about that. Directing combat operations with a time lag.”

“A military headquarters on this side of the CHOP line?” Concern showed on the older man's face. The CHOP line was a line in name only, because of the extreme distances and constantly shifting nature of space, but it was a mechanically recognized boundary between the war zone and everywhere else.

“Exactly. Seems they forgot it was a death-­penalty offense to cross the CHOP line while in command of war-­zone forces.”

“I assume you reminded them.”

“I did—­and you never saw such a gaggle of surprised faces. I gave them five days to get themselves and all their lackeys back to the war, and I'm sending the previous construction-­zone security contingent with them. The army part, that is. Too risky to reassign the ships protecting the stations.”

“I imagine they got the message. So this new brigade you put in place—­how long before they start taking bribes and it all goes back the way it was?”

“I've been planning this move for a while. Recruited some highly reliable ­people. And I put a very unusual general officer in command out there.”

“Really? Anyone I know?”

“Merkit, of all ­people.”

“Now that
is
a surprise. I heard you sent him out to rebuild your son's brigade.”

“Reena did that. And she wasn't nice about it.” They exchanged knowing smiles. “But something happened to him out there. Apparently the Orphans turned him back into a soldier. Contacted me himself, when he was due to come back to Earth and resume his former duties. Said he wanted a combat assignment.”

“And instead you made him the warden of a gigantic space jail run by the inmates.”

“He's a gifted infighter, and quite tricky in his own way. The corporate types out there are going to have quite a challenge, slipping things past him.”

“Unless they arrange some kind of an accident, of course. It's been known to happen.”

“He has my full protection.”

“That's what I'm talking about.” Horace set his goblet on a low table. “You've really stirred things up lately, between this reorganization of the construction zone and the assignment of prized conquered planets to the Veterans Auxiliary. I'm hearing a lot of grumbling about you, and even a few veiled threats.”

“I'm sure you stamped them right out.”

“Of course. We're about to become relatives.”

“But you disapprove of my actions.”

“It's not disapproval, it's disquietude. The war will eventually end, and giving our allies their share of the new worlds will create a great deal of good will.”

“We really should win the war before we start dividing up the spoils.”

“But that won't work. According to that approach, every conquered planet would remain under military control on an indefinite basis. They could end up in anyone's hands. That is, unless the leader of our government decided to give some of them to the organization that employs his daughter.”

“You do understand that we're not actually winning the war, right? Things have been quiet for a while, but there are still vast numbers of Sims out there.”

“How strange. You see that as a negative.”

“You don't?”

“No.” Horace rose, looking down through the floor at a mottled brown smear that went for miles. “See that? One of our most productive mining regions, providing the minerals that are so vital to the conflict. And so little of it would be available, without the proper labor force.”

“Slavery's not proper.”

“We call it servitude. And, proper or not, it is necessary for the war effort. The only reason some ­people think it's not proper is because the servants are human. Just think how much more palatable it would be if they were something else.”

“You can't be serious. The Sims kill humans on sight, always have. There's no way you could control them.”

“Their leaders seem to do that quite easily. The Sims are an organized, hardworking species with great adaptability. And as for controlling them, let's just say that here on Celestia, we've become adept at identifying crucial motivations.”

A low series of chimes rang out, and a far door slid back without a sound. A young woman entered, dressed in a sleeveless pink gown. Her blond hair was arranged in delicate ringlets, and Olech noted her beauty as she approached. The sunlight from so many directions went through the sheer material of her dress, showing that she wore nothing beneath it.

“Speaking of motivation, I'd like you to meet Emma.” Horace beckoned, and the girl went to his side. He draped an arm across her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “Enchanting, isn't she? She was living in the gutter when my ­people found her, filthy, abused, starving. I imagine you feel we should have left her there.”

Olech stared in surprise. “It's been too long since my last visit. Is this where things are now—­slaves outside the mines?”

“What are you suggesting? That servitude in exchange for survival is only acceptable if it supports the war?” Horace took the girl's hand, raised it, and turned her in a slow twirl. “Honestly, now. Would you send
this
to the mines?”

“I wouldn't send her anywhere. I'd take part of the planet's abundant profits and use them to help her. Not exploit her.”

“I'm afraid our guest doesn't find you attractive, Emma. You may go now.” The smooth skin of the girl's forehead wrinkled for just a moment, and fear entered her eyes. She switched immediately to a look of decadent cunning that Olech's political instincts told him was well rehearsed. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed Horace on the cheek while one of her palms glided deftly across his crotch. The older man watched her until the door slid shut.

“I was going to offer her to you. I guarantee it would have changed your opinion.”

“I'm marrying your sister tomorrow.”

“I suppose that's a good excuse.” Horace picked up his goblet and walked to the side windows. “I'll tell poor Emma you were tired from the trip. The Step has that effect, sometimes.”

“One of many.” Olech joined him, looking down as the yacht approached the capital city of Fortuna Aeternam. “Tell me something, Horace. Do you dream in the Step?”

O
lech's shuttle lifted off from Horace's yacht just as the sun was setting over the city. He studied the clouds from a portal near his desk, watching them go from a rosy pink to a blood red and feeling relief when the vista turned black. Leeger entered his office a few moments later, secured the hatch, and sat down.

“No extra devices from our visit, inside or outside,” he reported, noting Olech's grave countenance.

“It's even worse than our ­people have been telling us. The slaves aren't just in the mines anymore. They've got slaves of every kind. Thousands of men and women dying all over the galaxy, and for this?”

“It's not surprising that they're crossing the line—­how do you punish someone for violating a secret agreement?”

“Horace finally laid his cards on the table. The Celestian leadership believes the Sims would make an excellent slave race, a labor force on the conquered planets.”

“I'd call that ambitious, considering we can't communicate with the Sims and that they die if they spend too much time around us.”

“Horace feels that's a plus. He believes there's a way to isolate captive Sims where they can be forced to work—­tasks like mining, fuel extraction—­by controlling their food supply. Rations delivered by robotics, no contact with humans at all.”

“For that to work, they'd have to find a means of communication or a go-­between.” Leeger frowned. “I believe we might have discovered why so many alliance members wanted to hear Captain Nabulit's story about the alien.”

“Fits, doesn't it? The only entity that can communicate with both humans and Sims. So if they're going to enslave the Sims, they'll need another alien just like the one Jan encountered.”

“Does Horace know we're not winning the war?”

“That's the problem: the war's been going on for so long, at such a remove, that some ­people have concluded we've got the Sims stopped. Add in the notion that our technology will eventually give us a way to subdue them completely, and you can see why Horace and his friends have decided to focus on what happens after that.”

“That would explain why they're so unhappy with your giving those planets to the Auxiliary.”

“I gave them to the veterans, as the first colonies on new worlds to be populated by mankind. New worlds governed by our laws.”

“The laws we're ignoring on the planet below us, just so we can get the minerals out of the ground.”

“That decision was made long before I took office, and I went along with it because we need to win the war.” Olech's eyes reached for the ceiling. “Am I the only one who understands that's the most important thing?”

“I doubt the slaves would agree with you on that.” Leeger sensed he was agitating the Chairman. “What would you like me to do?”

“Horace introduced me to a slave girl named Emma. She's his current bed partner. Let's find out if she has family or friends who might like to leave Celestia.”

“My ­people can do that.” Leeger locked eyes with his boss. “I should remind you that Horace is the brother of the woman you're marrying, and one of the most influential ­people in the galaxy.”

“Exactly why we need to explore the option.”

“I'll get on it.” Leeger rose and headed for the hatch.

“Hugh.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Have the SCOTS come see me.” The acronym SCOTS applied to two different groups of Olech's advisors, a duplication meant to hide the existence of the smaller entity. The Select Committee on the Sims was made up of dozens of scientists, linguists, and other experts, but the Special Committee on the Step had only four members—­all of whom were aboard.

“Can't that wait until after the wedding?”

“No. In fact, I'm almost certain I'll have to act right after the ceremony.”

“T
he surviving records of the probe's return are quite spotty regarding its location, and of course the planetary bodies of our solar system—­as well as the system itself—­have moved around considerably since then.” Gerar Woomer, an astrophysicist of great renown and an expert on the Step, spoke to Olech in a small, dark room on the flagship
Aurora
. A hologram of Earth's sun and the planets in its orbit hung in the air between them, motionless. “With that said, I have finally calculated the coordinates you requested.”

Woomer touched a finger to the hologram, creating a blinking red light in space relatively close to Earth. “For the purposes of the mission you have planned, this location should suffice. Following your guidance, I have plotted ten separate Step voyages, all starting from and returning to this point.” Woomer's aged eyes took on a look of concern. “I must state again that your safety in this multi-­Threshold voyage cannot be guaranteed.”

“We've taken every precaution we can. There is no way to make it safer,” Olech stated flatly. He and Reena had been holding hands tightly from the moment the hologram appeared.

“There is. Send someone else.” Woomer turned toward the room's remaining occupant. “Someone who is already sensitive to the kind of communication you hope to achieve.”