On the other hand, if I grabbed the rocksucker by the tentacles and eliminated Heimdall, the structure would sooner or later create another—was Gilmesh any different? And Freyda might do the same sort of thing, more gently and not with the same intention, but to make the galaxy safe for Query.
Plus, I didn’t have the resources for an extended war—let alone any way to survive if the entire Guard came after me. Hell, I still didn’t know exactly what I wanted to do, or if I really wanted to. So far, all I’d been able to do was to set it up so I could disappear and not be tracked—like Baldur.
I told myself I needed more information, but I wasn’t sure I really did, or that I had time to get it. First, I needed to recover, but two days after the ministrations of Dr. Odd-Affection, I planet-slid to the Tower and popped out of the undertime right in front of the South Portal.
I walked into the Tower wearing the mesh armor I’d gotten so long before from Sinopol under my jumpsuit, gauntlets, and a stunner strapped under my forearm, ready to drop undertime at the slightest provocation.
Edgy?
And how! Who knew what had gone on while I had been absent?
I trotted down the ramps to the Maintenance Hall, nodding to the few trainees I passed, but prepared for anything. The only surprise was the empty bin by my space and the note Brendan had left.
Not sure we did it as quickly, but decided you didn’t need to come back to it all.
B—
I had to smile. Brendan would fill the bill fine. Narcissus would even do an adequate job if anything happened to Brendan, and Elene was coming along fine.
If … if I were going to go through with my mad scheme, I needed a few props. Both could be fabricated elsewhere, but I needed information from the Archives.
So … back to the Archives and a theoretically shielded booth I went, where I keyed in my request, using Heimdall’s code, asking for hard copy.
“Galactic Sectoral star chart, normal space, centered on Query.”
The second query was shorter.
“Field theory … enabling equations for FTL drive … with universal math addendum.”
I stopped back in Maintenance to leave a note on Brendan’s console, telling him I was still somewhat under the weather, but hoping to be back as soon as possible. I also asked him to convey that to Heimdall.
Following that, I marched up the ramps and across the Tower to the Travel Hall, where I picked up my personal equipment chest and slid it and myself back to the Aerie. So heavy was the chest I staggered out of the undertime wobbling.
My next step was to confuse the issue.
I began pulling phony Locator tags from their hiding place, time-diving straight from the Aerie and placing them on planets scattered both fore- and backtime, but making sure I avoided the systems listed on my printout of possible high-tech cultures. By objective nightfall at the Aerie, I’d dumped—and I had literally dropped them—several hundred “Lokis” throughout the Guard’s corner of creation.
Those left I unloaded into the Lestral Trench. The ones I’d planted would have to do.
I tumbled into my furs for some sleep, but sleep didn’t come, and my shoulder still itched.
In a culture where life was short, decisions had to be made in a hurry. You would never have enough time, might never live to see the consequences of a wrong action—or a correct one. On Query, it was different.
At the back of my mind, the thought kept recurring—you can always wait and see what happens. So far, nothing you’ve done can’t be undone.
The thoughts eventually merged with dreams, and neither were clear.
I was up with the dawn and time-diving slightly foretime and clear to Sertis before the sun broke from the horizon. I’d been there dozens of times before on routine procurements, but this was different. For one thing, I carried no Locator tag.
Three of four establishments turned me down cold.
“Copy that on metal … no. That’s out of my line. Try …”
I tried whoever they mentioned.
Despite the fact that I was no longer tied into the Locator system, I had the feeling that Heimdall’s blood-seekers wouldn’t have too much trouble tracing me through Sertis, burnoose draped properly or not, not with the signs I was leaving. I felt that every metalworking shop and jeweler on the planet would have heard of the red-haired fellow with the accent who wanted a screwball map copied on one side of a metal plate with funny squiggles on the other. Still, without a Locator signal, they’d have some trouble trying to find out when on Sertis, and by going forward, there wouldn’t be obvious change winds.
All I needed was one basic plate. I could duplicate from that.
After more than a dozen false starts, I found a woman who dealt in exotic metals and engraving who promised the plate within a ten-day local. I left a substantial deposit and the promise of a more exorbitant payment.
Needless to say, I merely time-dived ahead and picked it up. I studied the result carefully, and as far as I could see, she’d copied both the map and the equations exactly. She also wanted more money, claiming that she’d had to use a diamond stylus to do it properly. She probably had, and I didn’t quibble.
A second study confirmed to me that a trained astrogator or astronomer could pick out the starred system without difficulty. The starred—I guessed it was really highlighted—system was Query’s.
I was back in the Tower by nearly normal working time, even so, and had managed to duplicate more than thirty of the plates on thin eternasteel by midday.
Packing them into a light carrying case was no problem, and I studied the Hall to decide what else might be useful to cart along when I skipped out.
The thought of leaving caught me. Ferrin or Heimdall would have planned something like that down to the last unit and realized it sooner.
But why should I skip before I had to? In my case, that amounted to leaving a signpost.
I regeared mentally, tucked the case and star plates into the big bottom drawer under my workbench, and dragged a repair job into position. A simple one, which gave me a chance to think.
What a circular path I had been treading. First, I had decided to confuse the Locator system by duplicating my personal tag and strewing it all over the galaxy. Then I had reversed tracks and had Dr. Odd-Affection remove the tag. In the meantime, while on Query I was wearing the removed tag on a chain with the appropriate gadgetry to ensure that the Tribunes did not know I had removed it.
I had gotten the information necessary to use outside cultural pressure on Query, but hadn’t done anything because I figured it would start a time war if Heimdall weren’t removed. Then I’d temporized by saying to myself that Heimdall would only be replaced by someone else just like him.
Sooner or later, and probably sooner, I was going to have to make up my mind. What was I going to do?
As I struggled over the questions, and automatically knocked off the gauntlet repair in front of me, Verdis glided in with the warmth of a blizzard and smiled.
“I’m glad you’re still here.” Her smile wasn’t genuine because her black eyes weren’t smiling with her mouth.
She twisted her body to flip her heavy red hair back over her shoulders.
“So am I, I guess,” I answered, smiling a phony smile to match hers.
“Have you heard the rumors?”
“Which rumors?”
“Facts, actually,” admitted Verdis. “Frey’s been charged with high treason by Gilmesh.”
“What?” I was afraid of what was coming next.
“The Tribunes placed snoops around the Tower. They have frames of Frey rifling desks and recovering snoops of his own. He swears it’s a plot, that he’s been framed.”
“When did this get out?”
“Last night. The hearing is set for late this afternoon. Frey’s in the holding cells below. Heimdall is demanding that Freyda not sit on the Tribunal. In the meantime, he’s also charged that Gilmesh has been using his personal code to obtain culture information. It’s a mess.” With that, her smile became real. Verdis was pleased.
“You’re pleased,” I noted.
“Not displeased, but I never thought Frey had the brains to think up something like this.”
I decided to muddy the waters by being honest.
“He doesn’t. Nor the mechanical talent to handle snoops.”
“You sound awfully certain, Loki.”
I shrugged. “I’ve no great love for Frey, but either he’s telling the truth, or someone else is in it with him.”
Verdis pursed her lips.
“Could be … could be. And who might that be?”
“Verdis, I’m scarcely up on intrigue. As you so pointedly reminded me at our last meeting, I bury myself away from what really goes on. You already know the answer. You just want me to answer for you. Count me out of the games, thank you.”
She shook her head. “You amaze me, Loki. The biggest scandal in centuries—one of the Guard caught plotting—and you want out.” She glared and mimicked my voice. “‘Count me out. It’s getting a bit complicated … Yes, count me out, Verdis.’”
I chuckled. Her imitation was good.
“Young lady, just what do you want me to do? Go up before the Tribunes and declare, ‘I have no basis for my statement, honored Tribunes, except that I do know that Frey is a mechanical idiot and incapable of higher thought. So either he didn’t do what you’ve charged him with, or he’s someone’s dupe.’ Is that what you want, Verdis?”
She actually stamped her foot on the glowstone flooring.
“Loki, you’re impossible! I don’t know if you practice density or if it comes naturally. If you can think all that up, everyone already had. Who handles all the microcircuitry? You do! And who could dig up Heimdall’s codes? And how soon do you think it will be before Heimdall persuades the Tribunes to send someone down here for you? He’s already arranged to take over Domestic Affairs because Frey’s been relieved of duty, and because Kranos said it would be a conflict if Gilmesh did.” She stepped back from the workbench. “Good luck. You’re either the culprit, which I can’t believe, because it’s a bigger mess than even you could create, or you’re going to be Heimdall’s way of getting out of it all. But I suppose you’ll sit here and wait and go to Hell again, like always.”
She turned and marched out, heading for the ramps.
How long would it take Heimdall to act? Not long, and he’d be arriving before long too, if Verdis were right. But was she? Or was she trying, again, to panic me into something so that her little tech group could fill in the breach somehow?
I left the repairs stacked around and reached down and pulled out
the case and set it by my table. Then I looked at the copy of my cultural meddling printout. My request had been coded to request the easiest changes first, followed by those which would take more and more dives and effort. The whole project would be even more difficult than a normal cultural alteration because I intended to point the finger of time right at the Guard and at Query. That would probably require additional dives and doubtless some ad hoc improvisations.
Altara IV was the first planet on the list, as I began to study what would be required. I didn’t have much time to study it then.
Brendan came flying into my spaces. “Loki! Get out of here! Heimdall and the Strike Force are gathering, and they’ve got a big laser. There must be a dozen of them, and they’re coming after you.”
“Thanks!” I meant it. “Now get the Hell out of here, and take everyone else with you.”
Brendan got.
Fight now or later? My guts said now. But someone had wised Heimdall up about needing more than gauntlets or stunners. Gilmesh? Freyda? Not Sammis. He knew a laser wouldn’t be enough, not anything portable.
I didn’t know enough, but what was clear was that I was still getting pushed around. Did I want to stand around and get tied to a rock on Hell? Not exactly, and staying there meant either blasting away Guards or getting locked to a rock.
I jammed the printout into my jumpsuit, grabbed the plates from beside the table, and slid straight undertime from the Maintenance Hall—sidetracking for an instant to drop my Locator tag into the Sand Hills—to the Aerie.
If … if I had to straighten things out, I could always claim I wasn’t there—while if I fought it out, a lot of people would get killed, and there was always the possibility that I might be one of them. Not a high possibility, but real, nonetheless.
Standing in the Aerie, I surveyed my small nest, from the permaglass to the stores of destruction, the power cells, the equipment I had gathered over the seasons.
I had been considering action for years, putting it off, planning and replanning in my dreams, but I was down to a decision point, with Heimdall, and probably the Tribunes, close behind.
I had wondered why he couldn’t have arranged my death when I was unconscious after losing my hand in the shark mission, but Hycretis belonged to the Tribunes, and I suspect I just wasn’t unconscious long enough. Besides, I hadn’t finished off the sharks yet, and the Tribunes probably wanted to keep me around until that was resolved—there had
certainly been the chance that the sharks could have done it for them.