Aftershocks (80 page)

“She wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been for Auerbach,” Monique said.

“Do remember something else as well,” Ttomalss added. “If you got your position thanks to the Race, you can also lose it thanks to the Race.”

“I know. Believe me, I know,” she said. “But I was working as a shopgirl before Rance Auerbach did me that favor. I can find work as a shopgirl again.”

“I daresay I could find another Roman historian, too,” Ttomalss warned.

“What do you think?” Monique asked Pierre.

“If he meant to tell you no, he’d have done it already,” her brother replied.

“I think you’re right. I hope you’re right,” Monique said. “Tell him this: I’m sure he’s right. If he wants to do that, he can. But if he wants to keep working with
this
Roman historian, he needs to give me some help here. He’s not paying me much money to work with him, and remind him of that, too.”

After Pierre translated, Ttomalss let out another sigh. “I can make no promises, but I will see what influence I can bring to bear,” he said at last. (“You won’t get any more than that out of him,” Pierre said.) “Can we now continue with our discussion of grades of Roman citizenship?”

“Yes, superior sir,” Monique answered, as meekly as if she were only a scholar of classical civilization, and not a blackmailer at all.

Glen Johnson had company as he rode his scooter through the scattered drifting rubble of the asteroid belt, though he was alone in the cabin. He couldn’t see his company with the naked eye, either. But his radar assured him he wasn’t alone in this stretch of space. One of the Lizards’ probes followed him on his rounds.

This wasn’t the first time a probe had shadowed him as he went hither and yon, either. He wondered if the machine had received instructions from back on Earth to keep an electronic eye on him, or if the computer controlling it had decided to follow him on its own. Mankind remained behind the Race when it came to computer-guided machinery. Just how far ahead the Lizards were wasn’t quite clear.

“Okay, pal,” Johnson said to the probe, not that it could hear him. “You want the grand tour, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

He remained convinced that, no matter how smart the probe was, he was smarter. It was faster and stronger and more accurate. But he was more deceitful. If the probe wanted to learn more about what all the Americans were up to out here in the vicinity of Ceres, he would cheerfully lead it down the primrose path.

His radar guided him toward one of the rocks on which a work crew had mounted a motor: a weapon, in other words, aimed at the Lizards back on Earth. He used his little maneuvering jets to go all around the asteroid, examining it in microscopic detail. The Lizards’ probe also went around the rock, though it stayed several miles farther out than he did.

After finishing his inspection, he radioed the
Lewis and Clark:
“Asteroid code Charlie-Blue-317. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

That done, he took the scooter away from the asteroid and on toward another one of similar size about twenty miles ahead. He gave the second floating chunk of rock the same meticulous inspection he’d given the first one. As before, the Race’s probe followed him. As before, it also went all around the asteroid. There was only one difference: this asteroid didn’t boast a motor.

Even so, Johnson sent a radio message to the
Lewis and Clark:
“Asteroid code Charlie-Green-426. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

Having said that, he went on to the next rock on his list. This time, the Lizards’ probe didn’t follow him quite so quickly. Instead, it kept prowling round and round the asteroid he’d code-named Charlie-Green-426. He knew exactly what it was doing. It was trying to figure out why he’d gone there and what installations he was talking about. He wondered how long the Lizards would take to figure out that he was yanking their tailstumps. The longer, the better.

By the time he was done inspecting the next asteroid—which also remained untouched by human hands—the probe had caught up with him. He sent off the usual kind of message: “Asteroid code Charlie-Green-557. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

Then he had a new thought. Instead of heading off toward another drifting hunk of rock, he pointed the scooter at the Lizards’ probe and used the radar to steer toward it: it was so efficiently blackened, he couldn’t see it till he got very close. The scooter mounted machine guns. He didn’t know what sort of weaponry the probe mounted, and didn’t want to find out here.

Instead, he flew around the probe at about the same range as he’d flown around the past several asteroids. The probe maneuvered, too, making it more like a dance than anything else. When Johnson had finally finished, he fired up the radio again and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069. All installations appear to be operating according to design.”

What will the Lizards make of that?
he wondered. If he were a Lizard monitoring the Big Uglies out in space, he wouldn’t care for the implication that his probe was one of their installations. He hoped his hypothetical Lizard wouldn’t like it, either.

After that bit of confusion, he went on to visit several more asteroids, some with motors mounted on them, others without, on a long, looping trajectory that took him back to the American spaceship from which he’d departed. He guided the scooter into the airlock, which closed behind him. When the inner door opened and he emerged from the scooter, the airlock operator said, “The commandant wants to see you right away.”

Fighting back a strong impulse to groan, Johnson said, “Oh, God, what now?”

“Beats me,” the operator said. “But that’s what he told me, and when he says something, he usually means it.”

“Isn’t that the sad and sorry truth?” Johnson answered. “Okay, Rudy, thanks.” He swung off to beard Brigadier General Healey in his den.

When he got to the commandant’s office, deep in the heart of the
Lewis and Clark,
Healey fixed him with a fishy stare and said, “Asteroid code Edgar-Black-069? We have no asteroid with that code designation.”

“Oh.” Johnson fought against another groan. The commandant was at least as literal-minded as any Lizard ever hatched. He explained his
pas de deux
with the Race’s probe. “I made up the code name. Let the Race go nuts trying to figure out my signals. The probe is black. That’s what made me think of it.”

Healey drummed his fingers on the desktop. “I see. Very well. Dismissed.”

“Sir?” Johnson said in surprise.

“Dismissed, I said.” Healey’s expression turned suspicious, which wasn’t a very sharp turn. “Why? Did you think I would keep grilling you once I found out what I needed to know?”

Johnson shrugged. “Never can tell, sir. It’s happened before, Lord knows.” He didn’t have to worry about keeping the commandant sweet. Brigadier General Healey was going to despise him till one of them died.

He hoped Healey would erupt now. For a couple of seconds, he thought the commandant would. But no such luck. After a long exhalation, Healey growled, “I haven’t got time to play games with you today, Lieutenant Colonel. Get the hell out of my office.”

“Yes, sir,” Johnson said, and glided away. He wondered if the commandant would throw something at him to speed him on his way, but Healey didn’t.

Out in the corridor, Johnson looked at his watch. He’d made better time out among the asteroids than he’d expected; he wasn’t due back in the control room for another hour and a half. That left him to ponder whether he felt more like sleep or company. He yawned experimentally, then shook his head. He could do without sleep a while longer. Which left . . .” The refectory,” he murmured, as if giving orders to his chauffeur.

But he was his own chauffeur. He brachiated down the corridor till he came to the entrance to the large chamber. It was the middle of the afternoon, ship’s time: not a meal period. The place was crowded anyway; because it was the biggest chamber in the
Lewis and Clark,
and because people did assemble there for meals, they’d got into the habit of gathering there to chat and socialize whether it was mealtime or not.

Lucy Vegetti spotted him floating in the entranceway and waved. He waved back and swung his way toward her. As he drew near, he spotted Mickey Flynn hanging on to a nearby handhold. “You two plotting together?” he asked.

“Of course,” Flynn said solemnly. “What else would we be doing? This is, after all, a ship full of conspiracies about to hatch.”

“And if you don’t believe him,” Lucy added, “just ask the Lizards.”

“Oh, I believe him,” Johnson said. “After all, could a man with a face like that possibly tell a lie?”

“Why, the mere idea is ridiculous,” Flynn said.

“Besides,” Johnson went on, “I just spent a few hours in the scooter adding to the Lizards’ paranoid fantasies.”
And to Brigadier General Healey’s,
he thought, but he didn’t say that out loud.

Lucy Vegetti wagged a finger at him in mock indignation. “You’ve been visiting rocks with no motors on them again.” She paused. “Did you notice anything interesting on any of them?”

“Spoken like a geologist,” Glen said, at which she stuck out her tongue at him. He continued, “I didn’t see anything that struck me as strange, no. Sorry. But I did do a little buck-and-wing with the Lizard probe that was trundling along after me.” He described how he’d treated it as if it were an American installation, not a spacecraft belonging to the Race.

“I like that.” Lucy nodded, then turned to Flynn. “What do you think, Mickey?”

“How could I presume to disagree?” the backup pilot asked. “If I did, you would presume me presumptuous.”

“Anybody who knows you is more likely to presume you preposterous,” Johnson said.

“I am affronted,” Flynn declared, letting go of the handhold so he could fold his arms across his chest and show how affronted he was. As far as Johnson was concerned, that only made him look more preposterous. And, since air currents started to move him away from the handhold, he had to reach out and grab it again.

“To the Lizards, we’re all preposterous,” Lucy said.

“That’s part of the game,” Johnson said. “The less seriously they take us—
us
as people generally and
us
as the people out here—the better off we are.”

“If they didn’t take us seriously, would that probe have followed you everywhere you went, like Mary’s little lamb?” Mickey Flynn enjoyed playing devil’s advocate.

“Maybe not,” Johnson admitted. “But if I run around doing crazy things, after a while the Lizards will just be sure I’m nuts, and then they won’t take me seriously any more. That’ll be good, like I said.”

“It would have been better if they thought we were just out here mining,” Lucy said. “Now that they know we’re turning little asteroids into weapons, they’re going to keep a closer eye on us.”

“They’ll keep a closer eye on us
while we’re doing that,”
Flynn said.

Johnson nodded. “Mickey’s right. The asteroids are useful as weapons, but they’re also useful as camouflage. The Race is paying an awful lot of attention to those rocks, and to the motors on them. The Race is paying attention to us when we go to them. It’s paying attention to us when we set up motors on new rocks, and when we look rocks over to see if they’d be good with motors on them.”

“I know.” Lucy nodded, too. “And the Lizards aren’t paying so much attention while we go on about our real business—our A-number-one real business, I mean—out here.” She looked from Johnson to Flynn and back again. “Do you really think we’ll be able to launch a starship by the turn of the century?”

“I’ll be an old man by then,” Glen Johnson said. “Too old to be in space, by rights. But I hope I’ll still be around to see it.”

“Me, too,” Lucy said. “The Lizards got here. We ought to be able to go see Home.”

“Who knows where the Russians will be by then, either?” Mickey Flynn said. “Maybe they’ll be right behind us—or right beside us. I wouldn’t mind.”

“Home. Ten light-years away—a little more. Something to look forward to,” Johnson said. “We should always have that.” His friends nodded once more.

Harry Turtledove
was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, including
The Guns of the South
,
How Few Remain
(winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), the
Great War
epics:
American Front
and
Walk in Hell
, and the
Colonization
books:
Second Contact
and
Down to Earth
. His new novel is
American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold
. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.

BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE

The Guns of the South

THE WORLDWAR SAGA

Worldwar: In the Balance

Worldwar: Tilting the Balance

Worldwar:Upsetting the Balance

Worldwar: Striking the Balance

COLONIZATION

Colonization: Second Contact

Colonization: Down to Earth

Colonization: Aftershocks

THE VIDESSOS CYCLE

The Misplaced Legion

An Emperor for the Legion

The Legion of Videssos

Swords of the Legion

THE TALE OF KRISPOS

Krispos Rising

Krispos of Videssos

Krispos the Emperor

THE TIME OF TROUBLES SERIES

The Stolen Throne

Hammer and Anvil

The Thousand Cities Videssos Besieged

Noninterference

Kaleidoscope

A World of Difference

Earthgrip

Departures

How Few Remain

THE GREAT WAR

The Great War: American Front

The Great War: Walk in Hell

The Great War: Breakthroughs

American Empire: Blood and Iron