Betrayer of Worlds (38 page)

With frightening precision, six ships dropped from hyperspace at the same instant to surround
Remembrance
. The ships were short, squat cylinders, tinier than any Citizen ship.

Achilles puzzled over their asymmetric deployment until he imagined the newcomers turning lasers on him. No laser beam passing through
Remembrance
’s hull would strike another vessel.

Achilles shuddered. The Gw’oth were a warlike race.

“We are Ol’t’ro,” announced the hail. (It came relayed through a buoy that had likely dropped from hyperspace at the same time as the ships, but that Achilles had just now noticed. Rerouted, the hail denied any hint which ship housed the enemy leader.) “Our ships are ready.”

Not
enemy. Ally. From the bridge, Achilles opened three cargo-hold hatches. He waited alone, as Metope and Hecate cowered flank to flank in a remote cabin.

He radioed, “This is Achilles. Come aboard.”

Via security cameras, he watched the tiny ships dart inside, two to each cargo hold. They landed far apart. Positioned to blast
Remembrance
from within if he should manage to immobilize them.

He would not be so foolish as to try. It had been Ol’t’ro, after all, who invented the Gw’oth method of destroying General Products hulls. Ol’t’ro, who helped invent the planet-buster that defeated the Pak. Not that a successful trap, if Achilles were insane enough to take the risk, would suffice. The rest of the Gw’oth still sped toward Hearth.

And only Gw’oth allies had the means to satisfy his hunger. . . .

“All ships are aboard,” Ol’t’ro sang. “You may proceed.”

“Acknowledged. Welcome to
Remembrance
. Hatches closing.”

The little ships disgorged crew. (Boarding parties. Their pressure suits and exoskeletons seemed indistinguishable from battle armor. The unfamiliar
implements dangling from their harnesses surely included weapons.) They scuttled about like gigantic bugs, disgusting even encased in their protective gear.

As the aliens formed into orderly units, Achilles steeled himself to meet them. He had railed, warned, and conspired against them for years. He had used them; now they would use him.

“Send the floor plans for this ship,” a Gw’o radioed. The song, while fluent, lacked the commanding presence that Ol’t’ro could project.

In each cargo hold Achilles set a ceiling light flashing. “Find the disc in the floor beneath the blinking light. Tell me where in
Remembrance
you wish to go. The discs will deliver you.”

“Send floor plans,” Ol’t’ro commanded, the undertunes of authority sharp and unambiguous.

Achilles transmitted the files. He watched through security cameras as his new masters scuttled and scurried to the engine room, the life-support center, and onto the bridge.

I act to save the herd, Achilles told himself. If I had not proposed this, then what? Baedeker did nothing. Baedeker
could
do nothing, for the Gw’oth refused to talk with him. Nike had fled—wherever. Vesta, tasked with the defense of the Fleet, struggled even to respond robotically to orders. Many among the Party elders had succumbed to catatonia; the rest, without ideas of their own, had added to the cacophony emanating from Hearth with renewed pleas that Achilles—somehow—help.

Accommodation was the only way to placate the Gw’oth. Among all the herd, only he had the vision and imagination to make an accommodation.

But in his hearts, Achilles knew a deeper truth. While he kept order on Hearth, Ol’t’ro would not care what the new Hindmost did or to whom he did it.

His
time—to savor power; to bask, at last, in the public adulation of his supporters; to crush and humiliate everyone who had ever thwarted him—had finally arrived.

“This is concordance vessel
Remembrance,
registered to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, inbound to Hearth,” Achilles announced. He sat astraddle the pilot’s crash couch, close to the comm set’s camera. The armored Gw’oth on the bridge squatted outside the camera’s line of sight.

“This is Hearth traffic control,” a voice sang back. “
Remembrance,
we are not reading your traffic-control transponder.”

“Inoperative,” Achilles responded. It was, having had its power cut off. The transponder registered to
Grain Ship 247
was all too likely to be flagged somewhere within the space-traffic-control system. “We have been away for a long time.”

“Maintain course and speed while we confirm with Foreign Affairs,” the controller sang.

“Acknowledged.” Achilles waited, unconcerned. Vesta had created
Remembrance,
a long-range scout ship, in the databases of Clandestine Directorate.

“
Remembrance,
we have confirmation. Because your transponder is offline, I will need current ministry authentication codes.”

“Transmitting on a secure channel.” Achilles sent the data Vesta had provided. “Can you expedite, traffic control? We are on urgent official business.”

“One moment.” After considerably longer than that, the controller returned. “Codes confirmed. Detailed approach information is on its way,
Remembrance.
Maintain regular radar pings for safety, since your transponder is offline. I am clearing a path for you.”

“Understood, traffic control.
Remembrance,
out.”

While armed Gw’oth watched, Achilles piloted
Remembrance
through layer after layer of Fleet defenses. None of the few grain ships still flying came anywhere close. He entered the worlds’ singularity. He continued inward. He approached the plane of the planets. . . .

“Now,” Ol’t’ro ordered from within their ship. “Open the hatches.”

Baedeker had just begun an unannounced nightshift inspection of the Clandestine Directorate command bunker when everything fell apart.

“Unidentified neutrino sources!” an operator sang. “This is not a drill. Four. Five. Six. Six ships.”

“Where?” Baedeker shouted. And, “Get Vesta in here.”

The operator enlarged his tactical hologram, a synthesis of data from public sensors, the defense grid, and Space Traffic Control. One unidentified blip streaked toward each of the Nature Preserve worlds. Two sped toward Hearth. And at the point from which the blips must have emerged: the icon of a Directorate vessel,
Remembrance.

There was no Directorate ship by that name.

For a moment, transfixed, Baedeker stared at the catastrophe racing at the worlds of the Fleet. Racing was not exactly correct. Only the ships’ proximity made them appear fast. These were not kinetic-kill weapons.

“How did intruders first appear deep inside the singularity?” Baedeker trembled in disbelief: at what was happening. That Gw’oth ships—who else could these be?—had arrived before their main fleet. That the automated defenses had yet to activate. “Never mind. Set loose the automated defenses.”

Vesta arrived, his mane elaborately coiffed as if for some ceremonious occasion. He bobbed heads at the tactical display. “The war has come to us,” he intoned portentously.

“Why do our weapons not fire?” Baedeker ululated.

Across the room, images flashed above a diagnostic console. The operator there sang out, surprise plain in the second and fourth harmonics, “The intruders are transmitting Directorate authentication codes.”

“Override!” Baedeker sang. “Target manually, if you must.”

“A broadcast on the public safety channel,” Vesta interrupted.

“This is Achilles,” the broadcast began.

Not now!
Baedeker wanted to scream. He forced himself to listen.

“. . . The government cannot defend you from the Gw’oth fleet that approaches. At the invitation of the Experimentalist elders, I return, reluctantly, to assume the duties of Hindmost. Assist me in the transition of power, and you
will
be safe. Stay in your home or—”

“Mute that herdless outcast!” Baedeker sang. The intruder blips, now visible to ground-based telescopes, had morphed in the tactical display into flat cylindrical icons. Gw’oth ships, definitely. “Why do our defenses not fire?”

“A hail on the Directorate emergency network,” Vesta called. “Now, two hails. Full encryption.”

“Whose authentication codes?” Baedeker asked.

“Both hails use my codes,” Vesta sang.

Baedeker stared. “Take the first hail. Put the call on speaker.”

“Is Baedeker there?” the familiar, hated voices of Achilles asked.

“The
Hindmost
is here,” Baedeker sang icily. “If you wish to help the Concordance, get off this channel.”

“Only I can save the Concordance. Now empty the room—I imagine you are in the command bunker.”

“Why should I do that?”

Achilles whistled in amusement. “Surely your sensors show six very good reasons. Now for the good of the herd, send out everyone before responding to the second hail.”

Baedeker counted to twenty. “It is done.”

“He lies,” Vesta sang.

Baedeker stared. The betrayal was suddenly clear.

“Clear the room,
Baedeker,
” Vesta sang.

Mighty current
was on its final approach to Nature Preserve Five, close to atmospheric entry, when the hail over the secure channel was answered.

“We are Ol’t’ro,” they announced.

“This is the Hindmost.”

“We remember you,” Ol’t’ro sang. “It has been a long time. We ask a question for the good of the Concordance, so do not deceive us. Are you alone?”

“Yes. What do you want?” Baedeker sang sourly.

“We want safety for everyone, Citizen and Gw’o alike. You have failed to provide that.”

“Safety, how?”

“You will address the Concordance. You will announce your immediate resignation and endorse Achilles to succeed. Soon after, Achilles will declare the successful conclusion of a brilliant negotiation.

“The lagging part of our armada will turn away. Most of our ships already in the Fleet of Worlds will withdraw.
We
will remain on a Nature Preserve to assure Achilles’ absolute obedience.

“Except for you, Achilles, and us, none need ever know who rules these worlds.”

An odd, half-choked melody, inarticulate. Heavy breathing, as the Hindmost regained control of his emotions. “Ol’t’ro, it was
Achilles
who threatened your worlds. Why would you help him? Why would you trust him?”

Was it not obvious? “We do not trust him, Baedeker. We use him.”

“Then use
me.
You must know Achilles is . . . beyond insane.”

Ol’t’ro had considered that. But especially after sharing
Remembrance,
after seeing how egomaniacal Achilles was, they had no doubts: Achilles was their ideal tool. He would do
anything
to maintain his status and power.

“You may take our refusal as a compliment. Achilles’ obsessions make him easy to predict and control. If he disappoints us, we may reinstate you to office. He is instructed not to harm you.”

“Achilles has endangered worlds to further his ambition. You cannot, you
must
not, hold a trillion Citizens hostage to his good behavior.” Baedeker’s harmonics rang with despair. “It is too easy to imagine the day he will stop caring about their fates.”

Achilles had never started to care. “Were we to disclose even a small part of what we know about him, even you timid creatures would surely trample him. He craves the herd’s adoration. He will obey us.”

“And if I do not resign?”

Through an uncoupled tubacle, Ol’t’ro peered through the melding-chamber floor at navigational sensors. All six ships were on their final landing approaches. The Fleet’s compromised defenses remained inoperative. “We are taking control of your planetary drives.”

“T . . . to change the Fleet’s course?”

“Baedeker, think as the engineer you once were. What will happen if we destabilize even one of the Fleet’s planetary drives?”

There was a roar like a seamount avalanche, and an ice sheet cracking and grinding, and a million voices screaming—and then silence.

In a low, quaking melody—devoid of grace notes, its harmonics limp, with undertunes ineffably sad—Baedeker intoned, “I will comply.”

Emergency tones, piercing and insistent, ripped Nessus from exhausted sleep. He lunged for his pocket computer as it shrieked on his nightstand.

“Thank the herd I reached you!” Baedeker sang. “Vesta was the traitor. Nike did only what any sane person would: he ran for safety while he still could. You must go to the Directorate immediately and erase all director-restricted files. Then, hide. Get to New Terra if you can.”

Nessus’ hearts pounded. “Why? What is happening?”

“There is no time. Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Nessus sang.

“Then hurry and be safe.” Baedeker broke the connection.

Nessus gave his sleep-stirred mane a perfunctory brushing, just enough to avoid calling attention to himself. He stepped through to Clandestine Directorate’s security foyer, where the nightshift guards stiffened in surprise. “Other worlds, other schedules,” he sang in explanation. They confirmed his identity and let him proceed into the building.