Competition among species. Human and Citizen efforts to keep secrets showed an unwillingness to share. Anything else would have been the surprise. Tn’ho Nation was but one of many polities on this world. Tn’ho was rich because it was powerful. None but the powerful could retain their wealth.
Hence: the wealth of humans and Citizens. Ol’t’ro would learn all that the newcomers had to teach—not merely what they chose to offer.
Hence: faster-than-light technology. The visitors could survive unprotected nowhere in this solar system, and yet they had appeared in response to a radio summons long before the message could have reached the nearest star.
And: unknown means of calculation. In the privacy of their shelter, Baedeker and Kirsten had combined observations from widely spaced instruments. No Gw’otesht could assimilate the quantities of data necessary for the practical application of that algorithm, neither small groups who merely computed cooperatively, nor even fully emergent group minds like Ol’t’ro themselves. Yet somehow the calculation had been done.
And cooperation among species: The strangers in the ramscoops were a danger to all. To learn more about the strangers would benefit all. Surely Don Quixote would leave soon to investigate. And if Ol’t’ro was to join its crew . . .
Er’o, they signaled to their most capable component. You will get us into the coming mission.
ER’O HALF SWAM, half crawled, from him/themselves. Separation was always disorienting. To disconnect from an ongoing meld staggered him.
The confusion abated and he jetted into his meditation chamber, only without time to meditate, or even to feed the gnawing hunger a meld always produced. Wriggling into a surface suit, he summoned a servant to independently check his seals. “I am ready,” he radioed, trying to ignore the feeling that he spoke with himself—which, in a way, he did.
Ol’t’ro had interfaced themselves to a comm terminal. “Good,” they responded. “Proceed.”
From the nearest water lock Er’o made his way to a tram terminal. As his car sped down the cable to the ice, he consulted with Ol’t’ro. There were many factors, practical and tactical, to consider.
He struggled to concentrate, his thoughts, and those of Ol’t’ro, roiling. A sustained meld among fewer than sixteen was abnormal and sad. Such things only happened after a member died, while they wondered and worried whether they could find a compatible mind to heal them. But for a healthy member to decouple, to talk with an impaired Gw’otesht . . .
“We share your doubts,” Ol’t’ro said. “Best for you and us that you hurry.”
“I UNDERSTAND,” BAEDEKER SAID.
To understand neither agreed nor disagreed. It did little to encourage further discussion. The artful evasion reminded Baedeker of his life before exile, and of too many Concordance officials he had known. The comparison rankled.
He saw no other choice.
To refuse Er’ o’s request put at risk further cooperation with the Gw’oth. That might put him and Kirsten in immediate, personal danger.
And to accept? Baedeker managed not to shudder. If he had any say in the matter, no Gw’o would ever again board Don Quixote. Just allowing Er’o into the emergency shelter had Baedeker’s hide itching. It was unnerving that the aliens had intuited Don Quixote’s upcoming mission. Or cracked the Fleet’s most robust encryption algorithm to learn Sigmund’s intentions, which would be even more unsettling.
Of all those doubts and fears, Baedeker hoped sincerely, his visitor was unaware.
Er’o had one limb held aloft, arched, its tip directed at Baedeker. Eyes glinted behind circles of sharp white teeth. Er’o swiveled the limb. “Kirsten. What is your opinion? Might some of my people accompany your expedition?”
Kirsten laughed uneasily. “What I think doesn’t matter, Er’o. I only fly the ship where I’m told.”
Interesting, Baedeker thought. Was she also reticent about allowing Gw’oth on the ship? Baedeker felt he could trust Sigmund’s habitual paranoia to keep the little aliens off Don Quixote—if Kirsten and Eric did not press too hard on the other side.
Er’o waggled the elevated limb. “Not to toot my own horn, but Gw’oth participation could be useful on this mission.”
Toot my own horn? Baedeker puzzled over the expression at which Kirsten grinned. The Gw’oth were already mastering idiom? Bonding with the New Terrans? He had to discourage this relationship!
“Without speaking for our hindmost,” Baedeker said, “I do not see how Gw’oth could come along. You and we live in very different environments.” You learn fast, but have you learned yet to breathe air?
Er’o raised a second limb. (For a moment, the two elevated limbs peered at each other: a Citizen’s ironic laugh. So now the Gw’o mimicked Citizen body language! Er’o might think to seem familiar and friendly, but such quickness rattled Baedeker.) “Of course, my friend Baedeker, we would provide our own shipboard environment. Any of our standard above-ice habitat modules will serve. They are self-powered and recycle quite effectively. Each has a water lock, should it become necessary to bring in supplies. Many of our modules would fit through your air lock, as long as you open inner and outer hatches at once.”
“We can do that,” Kirsten agreed all too quickly. “And we can . . .”
“Can what?” Er’o prompted.
“Nothing.” Kirsten suddenly bore a guilty look. (Baedeker had a good guess what she had nearly blurted out: That a force-field curtain over the wide-open lock would hold the ship’s air. The Gw’oth had shown no signs of having force-field technology.) “Just that we can refill the ship with air after that.”
Er’o resumed a five-footed stance. “Good. We will be happy to replenish your gas supply. Oxygen from the hydrolysis of water is easy. Nitrogen is less common, but we extract it from minerals.”
“I understand,” Baedeker answered again.
Er’o paused for a long while: consulting by radio, the link encrypted. The Gw’o finally continued. “Baedeker, Kirsten, there is another logistical topic we thought to raise. You plan to travel a great distance. Will you need additional fuel?”
“It never hurts to supplement our supplies,” Baedeker conceded.
In fact, they would have to fill Don Quixote’s tanks before the long flight to the ramscoop fleet. Either Don Quixote refueled here, or they would detour to New Terra. The irony was that Don Quixote carried refueling probes: hydrojet-propelled submersibles for autonomous operation in any convenient water ocean. The probe’s active filter separated deuterium and the tiny traces of tritium from seawater; its stepping disc then transferred the fuels directly into Don Quixote’s tanks. But to deploy probes in this ocean risked losing teleportation technology to the Gw’oth. . ..
Er’o said, “Naturally we observed the neutrino flux from Don Quixote. If some colleagues and I are permitted to join your expedition, we will arrange for supplies of deuterium, tritium, or helium-3. Whatever you prefer.”
Naturally? Hardly. The hull itself blocked neutrinos, disguising the fusion reactor. But as weakly as neutrinos interacted with most matter, trapped neutrinos ricocheting indefinitely inside a ship could eventually become a radiation hazard. Only a small patch of the hull, near the engine room, permitted neutrinos to escape—and the Gw’oth had detected them.
As for fuel, Concordance ships used deuterium/deuterium reactions and New Terra had retained the practice. For all its shortcomings, D/D fusion was optimal in the way that most mattered: safety. In an emergency, any ocean or cometary-belt snowball would provide fuel. Ships could add tritium to the mix—D/T reactions released more energy than D/D reactions—but never relied on tritium. That isotope had a brief half-life. Away from civilization, where only cosmic rays produced new tritium, the availability was too limited.
None of which had been discussed with the Gw’oth.
Why did Er’o offer helium-3? Because the Gw’oth used it, perhaps. Or because, absent force-field technology, D/D and D/T fusion required bulky, massive shielding against the n
eutrons produced by the fusion reactions. Er’o could be subtly probing whether Don Quixote used force fields, or if the ship carried unproductive mass as internal shielding. He might be snooping for vulnerabilities, or assessing a commercial opportunity, or engaging in industrial espionage.
Physics, Baedeker understood. The motives of other Citizens? Only sometimes did those make sense. What, then, could he know of the hidden agendas of the Gw’oth?
So much ambiguity! It made Baedeker’s hump hurt.
Suddenly, he was eager for Sigmund’s return. There were worse circumstances than that another be hindmost.
THE LAST THING SIGMUND wanted—on the ice, at last, to reunite his crew—was an argument. He got one anyway.
“It is unacceptable to bring any Gw’oth,” Baedeker insisted. “Merely by observing Don Quixote decelerate, they were led to deduce general relativity. Permitted aboard Don Quixote, who can know what they will see, what else they will infer? Why risk them acquiring technologies we would rather they not wield?”
Known hostiles were careening toward New Terra and the Fleet. They used kinetic planet-busters, for Finagle’s sake! Careening toward Penny and the children! Worry about long-term risks was an unaffordable luxury when delay was surely the biggest danger of all. Sigmund focused on nuts-and-bolts practicality. “Full tanks are a big incentive, Baedeker. So unless you would rather use refueling probes while the Gw’oth watch?”
Baedeker plucked at his mane. “Reveal stepping-disc technology? I think not. But, Sigmund, you present a false dichotomy. Don Quixote brought ample fuel for a round trip. Our best option is simply to resupply at home.”
Delay for a detour to New Terra. More delay when, inevitably, Sabrina, or someone in her cabinet, saw Sigmund’s stopover as an opportunity to plan, or run through scenarios, or give advice—to “help.” Or a Puppeteer spy would learn about the mission—presuming, for the moment, that Baedeker resisted notifying Hearth’s authorities himself—and then they would be delayed longer still to coordinate with the Concordance.
No way. Sigmund took a deep breath. It was time to pull rank.
But Kirsten jumped in first, her eyes ablaze. “We wouldn’t even know about the present danger but for the Gw’oth. For me, that alone earned them a spot on the mission. But if gratitude and common decency are insufficient, consider this: Don Quixote will be one ship among. . . what, hundreds? Thousands?
“Almost certainly, the Gw’oth are more skilled than we at astronomy. They’re probably better at wringing inferences from observations. Good! We need those skills now! With Er’o and his colleagues aboard, maybe we can surveil without approaching quite so close. Wouldn’t that make us safer?”
“Perhaps,” Baedeker allowed. (That was sufficient concession for Sigmund, only Baedeker had not finished.) “But, Kirsten, they propose to bring sixteen. One of their biological computers, obviously, although Er’o has not volunteered that fact.”
“It’s settled,” Sigmund said firmly. “Er’o and the others will join us. Why accept their help if we’re not willing to welcome their best minds?”
We’re going to need all the help we can get.
THSSTHFOK
19
As sunlight to a drowning Pak, so did consciousness beckon. Thssthfok struggled upward, if not into awareness itself, at least into the concept of the possibility of awareness. Memories stirred, disordered and ill-formed.
With a shudder Thssthfok regained control of mind and body. His eyes flew open. His right hand, trembling, released the latch of the cold-sleep pod. The dome receded.
He checked the chronometer, even as he recognized the absurdity of the habit. The years whose passage the clock marked were real—and without significance. Life on Pakhome had been extinguished thousands of years earlier.
As life here, too, would be obliterated. It was not supposed to end this way. . ..
THE COMET DWELLERS HAD HONORED their commitments. Why not, since numerical superiority worked in their favor? Natural attrition served their interests without the risks attendant to betrayal and open warfare. They respected their agreement with clan Rilchuk, but they had chosen not to risk rescuing a lost one of that clan.
And so Thssthfok had been abandoned.
He remembered, as though it were yesterday, the raid on a world then nameless. Its natives had vast granaries ripe for the plundering. All that conveniently gathered biomass would supply the fleet’s synthesizers for years. The aliens were primitive, without the technology to offer any meaningful defense. They were physically fragile.
They were not without courage.
The shuttles struck in waves, strafing with their railguns before landing to disgorge troops. Thssthfok was but one of hundreds of Pak in the assault. He took no pride in slaughtering the gaunt creatures, guilty only of the poor judgment to try to defend their pathetic wood and stone houses.
Lasers, railguns, and grenades against swords and spears: The contest could not last, and it had not. The natives scattered, with much of their town burning. The raiders broke into the granaries and began loading their vessels.
Thssthfok was at the controls of his shuttle, its cargo hold packed, his squad of Rilchuk warriors strapping into their acceleration couches, when the natives tripped a crude but effective rock-fall trap. If they could not have their crops, the raiders would go hungry, too.
The first boulders struck the shuttle’s stern, and fail-safes disabled the engines. Alarms flared across Thssthfok’s instrument panel. For a moment, before external sensors gave out, there was a victorious ululation from the natives. Then the only sounds were the pounding of boulders and the sickening crunches of the hull. The only sensation was an end-of-the-world rumbling, until awareness ceased.
THSSTHFOK CAME TO IN HIS ACCELERATION COUCH, battered but not seriously injured. His instrument panel crackled and spewed acrid fumes; this ship would never fly again. His radio died in a shower of sparks when he tried to call for help. They had to get out before the other shuttles launched.
Only there was no they. Boulders had crushed the midship passenger compartment. Everyone else aboard, clanmates all, were dead.
He feared he had been buried alive, but one small porthole remained uncovered. He should be able to get out. And then be torn apart?
How long had he been unconscious? A considerable time, to judge by the scene beyond the porthole.
By the thousands, natives in bucket brigades battled the conflagration. Flames now extended to the wooden piers that lined the riverbanks. Boats burned at the wharfs; other vessels, powered only by sails and oars and desperation, struggled for the safety of the river.
If the inferno spread, he would roast to death inside the wrecked shuttle—unless the fuel tanks ruptured first and an explosion killed him. If the natives contained the fire, they would then surely turn their attention to their hard-won trophy. Either way, to wait here was to die.
Atop a low stone pyramid, he spotted a cluster of the natives. A few, gesturing, stood apart at the very apex, ringed by others who held swords. Thssthfok decided that the few in the center were rulers, directing the fight against the blaze.
Both air locks refused to open. No matter. Hatches—when they worked—offered the fastest ways out, best for combat situations. They were not the only way.
Thssthfok rummaged through equipment lockers until he found a structural modulator. Working methodically he traced closely spaced parallel strips with the modulator. More and more of the hull twing turned clear. Eventually he found a hull section not buried under rock, the exposed area just large enough to squeeze through. Reconfiguring the modulator, he turned that section of twing permeable. He forced an arm through the softened hull, got a solid handhold on a boulder, and oozed out of the ruined shuttle. The twing resealed behind him.
Only scorched ground and long, wedge-shaped indentations showed that additional shuttles had once landed here. And high in the sky—
Blinding blue-white streaks: fusion fire. The ships were leavin
g. Forsaking him.
He rigidified the exposed hull section before dashing from shadow to shadow, from wreckage to ruin, to the rear of the pyramid. The local gravity was oppressive, about half again what he was used to, and the air felt thick as syrup. Silently, he climbed the steep steps. Intent on the battle against the flames, no one noticed Thssthfok until he approached the summit.
The natives were as tall as he but only a fourth or fifth of his mass, with gossamer webbing between arms and legs. Their bones were hollow, judging from how they had snapped in battle. He guessed they had evolved from some sort of arboreal gliding creature.
To make a point, Thssthfok let the bodyguards whack futilely at his battle armor before scything down several with his laser pistol. Then he aimed his gun at the most garishly clad alien—and paused. “You’re next,” he said.
The native gabbled, as unintelligible to Thssthfok as Thssthfok must be to it. The surviving bodyguards, quaking, lowered their swords.
The ruler was smarter than a breeder. He might be smart enough to serve.
A plan took shape in Thssthfok’s mind. With his empty hand, he thumped his chest. “Thssthfok.”
“S’fok,” the ruler tried, tentatively.
Close enough. Thssthfok waggled the gun: Come this way. They went down the pyramid and toward a nearby stone building. The ruler’s domicile, perhaps. One of the guards there unsheathed its sword and Thssthfok lased it in two. “Thssthfok kills,” he instructed.
Gabble, gabble. The remaining guards backed away.
Thssthfok did not dare rest—nor did he let his royal prisoner rest—for much of a Pakhome day. By then, he had absorbed much of the local language. He knew that the “empire”—the fertile banks of one long, meandering river—was called Roshala. He knew that Roshala dominated this continent of Taba, and that the world was called Mala. He knew that a native was a Dra, collectively the Drar. He knew that his prisoner was Noblala, the empress.