“They’re not still working here are they, ma’am?”
“Yes, Parker, they’re still here. Why?”
“I fail to see the reason. They knew all along what had happened to the Laymil. Their whole presence here is some absurd charade.
They never had any intention of helping us.”
“The Kiint are not hostile to the human race, Parker. Whatever their reasons are, I’m sure they are good ones. Perhaps they
were gently trying to nudge us in the right direction. Who knows? Their intellects are superior to ours, their bodies too,
in most respects. You know, I’ve just realized we don’t even know how long they live. Maybe they don’t die, maybe that’s how
they’ve beaten the problem.”
“In which case they can hardly help us.”
She stared at him coolly over the rim of her cup. “Is this a problem for you, Parker?”
“No.” His jaw muscles rippled as he fought his indignation. “No, ma’am, if you value their input to the project I will be
happy to set aside my personal objection.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, there are still four thousand hours of sensorium records in the Laymil electronics stack which we haven’t
accessed yet. Even with the new teams you brought it’s going to take a while to review them all. We’ll have to accelerate
the process.”
“Oski Katsura can construct additional reformatting equipment, that ought to speed things along. The only area of conflict
I can see is weapons technology. You did say you wished to retain the right of embargo, ma’am.”
“So I did.”
He has a point. Do I really want to hand Laymil weapons over to the Confederation, no matter how noble the cause?
It is no longer a relevant question,
Tranquillity said.
We know why the spaceholms committed suicide. Our earlier assumption that it was inflicted by an external force is demonstrably
incorrect. Therefore your worry that the data for some type of superweapon exists is no longer applicable. No superweapon
was designed or built.
You hope! What if the spaceholms built one to try and stop the approach of the possessed Laymil ships?
Given the level of their knowledge base at the time of their destruction, any weapons built in defence of the spaceholms would
not be noticeably different to our own. They did not think in terms of weapons; whereas there is a case to be made for plotting
human history in terms of weapons development. It may well be that anything the Laymil came up with would be inferior.
You can’t guarantee that. Their biotechnology was considerably more advanced than Edenist bitek.
It was impressive because of its scale. However, their actual development was not much different to the Edenists. There is
little risk of you worsening the situation by allowing unlimited access to the recordings.
But not zero?
Of course not. You know this, Ione.
I know it.
“I think we’d better rescind that proscription for the time being,” she told Parker Higgens.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there anything else we can do to assist the Confederation Navy? Our unique position here ought to count for something.”
“Their senior investigator came up with two suggestions. Apparently Joshua Calvert said he found the original electronics
stack in some kind of fortress. If he were to supply us with the coordinate of this structure we could explore it to see what
other electronics remain. If one stack can survive undamaged, then there must be others, or even parts of others. The data
in those crystals is priceless to us.”
Oh, dear,
Tranquillity said.
Don’t you dare go all sarcastic on me, not after Joshua agreed to find the Alchemist. We both agreed he’s grown up a lot since
that time.
Unfortunately his earlier legacy remains.
Just in time she guarded herself against a scowl. “Captain Calvert isn’t here at the moment. But, Parker, I’d advise against
too much optimism. Scavengers are notorious braggarts, I’d be very surprised if this fortress he spoke of exists in quite
the same condition he claimed.”
Neeves and Sipika may have the coordinate,
Tranquillity said.
They might cooperate. If not, we are in an official state of emergency; debrief nanonics could be used.
Well done. Send a serjeant in there now to interview them. Make it clear that if they don’t tell us voluntarily it’ll be extracted
anyway.
“I’ll see what can be done,” she said in the hope of countering his disappointed expression. “What was the other suggestion?”
“A thorough scan of Unimeron’s orbital track. If the planet was taken into another dimension by Laymil possessed there may
be some kind of trace.”
“Surely not a physical one? I thought we had this argument before.”
“No, not a physical one, ma’am. We thought, instead, there may be some residual energy overspill in the same way the possessed
betray their presence. It may be there is a detectable distortion zone.”
“I see. Very well, look into it. I’ll authorize any reasonable expenditure for sensor probes. The astroengineering companies
should welcome the work now I’ve stopped ordering weapons for the SD network. We might even get some competitive prices.”
Parker finished his tea, not quite certain he should ask what he wanted to. The responsibilities of the project directorship
were sharply defined, but then he was only human. “Are we well defended, ma’am? I heard about Arnstadt.”
Ione smiled, and bent down to scoop Augustine from the floor. He’d been trying to climb the table leg. “Yes, Parker, our defences
are more than adequate.” She ignored the old director’s astonishment at the sight of the little xenoc, and stroked Augustine’s
head. “Take it from me, the Capone Organization will never get into Tranquillity.”
Hull plate 8-92-K: lustreless grey, a few scratches where tools and careless gauntlets had caught it, red stripe codes designating
its manufacturing batch and CAB permitted usage, reactive indicator tabs to measure radiation and vacuum ablation still a
healthy green; exactly the same as all the other hexagonal plates protecting the delicate systems of the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
from direct exposure to space. Except it was leaking a minute level of electromagnetic activity. That was what the first
scanner pad indicated. Erick hurriedly applied the second over the centre of the source. The sensor block confirmed a radiation
emission point. Density analysis detailed the size of the entombed unit, and a rough outline of its larger components.
“I got it, Captain,” Erick datavised. “They incorporated it in a hull plate. It’s small, electron compressed deuterium tritium
core, I think; maybe point two of a kiloton blast.”
“You’re sure?”
Erick was too tired to be angry. This was his ninth search, and they were all imposing far too much stress on his convalescent
body. When he finished each ten-hour session spent snaking through the starship’s innards he had to go straight on bridge
duty to maintain the illusion of normal shipboard routine for Kingsley Pryor and the eight rover reporters they were carrying.
On top of that the Organization had played dirty. Just as he knew they would.
“I’m sure.”
“Thank the blessed saints. Finally! Now we can escape these devils. You can deactivate it, can’t you,
mon enfant
?”
“I think the best idea would be to detach the plate and use the X-ray lasers to vaporise it as soon as it’s clear.”
“Bravo. How long will it take?”
“As long as it does. I’m not about to rush.”
“Of course.”
“Are there any reasonable jump coordinates in this orbit?”
“Some. I will begin plotting them.”
Erick slowly swept the rest of the little cavity for any further incongruous processors. Opposite the hull plate was a spiral
of ribbed piping, resembling a tightly coiled dragon’s tail, which led to a heat exchange pump. He had emerged at its rim,
wedged between the curving titanium and a cluster of football-sized cryogenic nitrogen tanks which pressurized the vernier
rockets. A small, cramped space, but one providing a hundred crannies and half-hidden curves. It took him half an hour to
sweep it properly, forcing himself to be methodical. Not easy with an armed mini-nuke eighty centimetres from his skull, its
timer counting down.
When he was satisfied there were no booby triggers or alarms secreted in the cavity, he squirmed around to face the hull and
eased himself further out of the crawlway like paste from a tube.
Normally, a starship’s hull plates were detached from the outside, with the seam rivets and load pins easily accessible. This
was a lot more difficult. The arcane procedure for an internal jettison ran through Erick’s neural nanonics, an operation
which must surely have been dreamed up by committees of civil servant lawyers on permanent lunch breaks and with no knowledge
of astroengineering. It was highly tempting just to shove a fission blade into the silicon and saw around the mini-nuke in
a wide circle. Instead he datavised the flight computer to switch off the sector’s molecular binding force generator, then
applied the anti-torque screwdriver to the first feed coupling. It might have been imagination, but he thought his new AT
arm was slower than the other. The nutrient reserves were almost depleted. His thoughts were too cluttered to really bother
about it.
Eighty minutes later, the plate was ready. The little cavity swarmed with discarded rivets, load pins, flakes of silicon,
and several tool heads he’d lost. His suit sensors were having trouble supplying him with a decent image through all the junk.
He slotted the last tools back in his harness and wriggled even further out of the crawlway, feeling around with his toes
for a solid foothold to brace himself against. When he was in position he was bent almost double with his back pressing against
the plate. He started to shove, his leg muscles straining hard. Physiological monitor programs began signalling caution warnings
almost immediately. Erick ignored them, using a tranquillizer program to damp down the swelling worry about the further damage
he was causing himself.
The plate moved—neural nanonics recording a minute shift in his posture. Then he was rising in millimetre increments. He waited
until the neural nanonics reported the plate had shifted five centimetres, then stopped pressing. Inertia would complete the
work now. Cramp persecuted his abdomen.
A wide sliver of silver-blue light shone into the cavity as he retreated back down into the crawlway. One edge of the plate
was loose, rising up out of alignment. His suit collar sensors hurriedly reduced their receptivity as the beam animated the
rivet fragments into a glittering storm.
The plate lumbered upwards. Erick checked the edges one last time to see if they were all clear, then datavised: “Okay, Captain,
it’s free. Fire the verniers. Let’s separate.”
He could actually see the silent eruptions of the tiny chemical rocket nozzles ringing the starship’s equator, quick luminous
yellow fountains. The hull plate appeared to be moving faster now, receding from the cavity.
Kursk was visible outside. The
Villeneuve’s Revenge
was in low orbit, soaking in the wellspring of lambent light shimmering off the planet’s cloud-daubed oceans.
It was the Capone Organization’s second conquest: a stage three world, six light-years from Arnstadt. With a population of
just over fifty million, it was evolving from its purely planetary-based economic phase to develop a small space industry.
Consequently, it was an easy target. There was no SD network, yet it had valuable modern astroengineering stations and a reasonable
population. The squadron of twenty-five starships which Luigi Balsmao dispatched to subdue the planet had encountered almost
no opposition. Five independent trader starships docked at Kursk’s single orbiting asteroid settlement had been armed with
combat wasps; but the weapons were third-rate, and the captains less than enthusiastic about flying out to die bravely against
the Organization’s superior firepower.
Along with the other escort ships, the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
had been assigned to the new Organization squadron within eight hours of arriving at Arnstadt. A subdued but furious AndrÉ
was unable to refuse. They had even seen action, firing half a dozen combat wasps against the two defenders who had responded
to their arrival.
With their depleted crew numbers, everyone had to be on the bridge during the last stage of the mission, which meant they
couldn’t continue their search for the bomb. Which in turn meant they couldn’t duck out of the final engagement.
With the small battle won, and the planet open to Capone’s landing forces, the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
had been given orbital clearance duties by the squadron commander. Tens of thousands of tiny fragments thrown out by detonating
combat wasps now contaminated space around the planet, each one presenting a serious potential impact hazard to approaching
starships. Combat sensor clusters on the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
were powerful enough to track anything larger than a snowflake that came within a hundred kilometres of the fuselage. And
AndrÉ was using the X-ray laser cannons to vaporise any such fragment they located.
Erick watched hull plate 8-92-K shrink, a small perfect black hexagon against the glittery deep turquoise ocean. It turned
brilliant orange in an eyeblink, then burst apart.
“I think it is time we had a small discussion with Monsieur Pryor,” AndrÉ Duchamp datavised to his crew.
• • •
It was almost as if the Organization’s liaison man was expecting them when AndrÉ datavised his command code to open the cabin
door. It was Kingsley Pryor’s designated sleep period, but he was fully dressed, floating in lotus position above the decking.
His eyes were open, showing no surprise at the two laser pistols levelled at him.
Nor fear, Erick thought.