Deadman Switch (28 page)

“I'm a scientist, Benedar,” he continued. “I deal with the objective world, and I distrust anything that is by nature subjective. Near the top of that list are mind-reading stunts and religions of all sorts.”

“You sound like Dr. Chi,” I murmured.

His sense took on a distinctly sour tinge. “Perhaps. It was he who recommended we call you in.”

I blinked. “That's … very interesting, sir.”

Something like a breath of relief touched his sense. Relief, and—paradoxically—a touch of disappointment, as well. “So you
can't
really read minds,” he said, almost as if to himself.

“No, sir,” I shook my head. “I would think the Patri files on the Watchers would have made that clear.”

His lips tightened, and I could see he was trying to decide whether to terminate the interview right here and now. “If it helps, Dr. Eisenstadt,” I offered, “I
was
able to sense what seemed to be emotional changes in the thunderheads the last time.”

He nodded, not particularly impressed. “That much our sensors can do,” he told me. “What we need—” He hesitated. “What we want is some way to determine when one of them is dead.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“What's the matter?—isn't the question clear enough?” he growled. “I want to know if there's a way to distinguish between a thunderhead that's dead and one that's just out … visiting.”

I looked at him, listening to the way that last word echoed through my mind. “This bothers you, doesn't it?” I asked him quietly. “The idea that there could be something in us that exists independently of the physical body—”

“If you want to talk religion, Benedar,” he cut me off harshly, “you can do it alone in a Solitaran prison cell. All I want from you is one answer, yes or no: can you find me a dead thunderhead?” He glared at me. “And if the answer is no, then we'll just have to go out and choose one at random to dissect.”

I stared at him, throat tightening as understanding belatedly poured in on me.
Man of God, he said, may my life and the lives of these fifty servants of yours count for something in your eyes …
“What if you guess wrong?” I asked, striving for calmness. “What if you kill one of them?”

“What if we do?” he countered.

I took a deep breath, searching for some sort of non-religious answer to give him … and in that pausing, the emotion cleared somewhat from my vision, and I saw that the answer I sought was already there, buried in Eisenstadt's own expression. “If you do,” I told him evenly, “what happened to Mikha Kutzko's needler could happen again. To your people.”

His mouth twisted derisively; but it was a habitual derision, devoid of any strength. The attempt to block the muzzle of Kutzko's needler was abundant proof that the thunderheads had both the intelligence and the means to defend themselves, and Eisenstadt knew it. “There are ways to safeguard against that,” he said anyway, clearly determined not to admit even rational fears in front of me. “But if it turns out that these things are more intelligent than, say, dogs or horses, it might strain future relations if we began by killing one.”

His sense held very little doubt that such an intelligence level did in fact exist, but I passed over the chance to call him on yet another half-truth. “I understand,” I told him, “and I'll do what I can. But I'll need Calandra's help.”

Again, his mouth twisted. “Yes, I rather expected you'd ask for her—your crusade to save her from the Deadman Switch borders on the obsessive. Give me one good reason why I should let her get any more involved with this matter than she already is.”

“Because two of us together will have a better chance of finding what you want than either of us singly,” I told him simply. “And because it's in your best interests and those of the Patri to make the chances of failure as small as possible.”

He snorted. “By that logic, I should invite a whole colony of Watchers here.”

I shrugged. “I agree.”

He glared at me, a token attempt at intimidation as he pretended to be weighing my words. In actual fact, I could tell he'd already decided that Calandra's presence was something he could tolerate. Especially given the potentially disastrous consequences if he didn't. “All right,” he growled at last, shoving his chair back and standing up. “Let's go collect your friend and get out to the test area. Just remember that she'll be right up there with you when we start cutting … and if you choose wrong, you two will be among the first the thunderheads will fry.”

And if that happened, the
Bellwether
would have to choose from one of its own to man the Deadman Switch on its journey out … “Yes, sir,” I said, my lips dry. “I understand.”

We didn't go ourselves to wherever Calandra's cell was—Eisenstadt changed his mind at the last minute and sent a pair of Pravilos for her instead while he and I proceeded along the fenced-off corridor to the Butte City. We were there, and I was studying and marveling at the elaborate sensor gear that had been attached to several of the thunderheads, when she was finally brought in.

I didn't know where she'd been kept all this time, or under what conditions; but it was abundantly clear that she hadn't been treated as politely as I had. Her face was pale and noticeably thinner, her movements as she got out of the car vaguely hesitant. I took a step toward her, paused as I saw the warning in her guards' eyes, and waited instead for them to come to us.

“You all right?” I asked her quietly, reaching forward as she approached to take her hand. The skin was cool, but was warming up even as I held it.

“As well as can be expected,” she said, her sense a mixture of irritation and tiredness and resignation. And in her eyes—

Abruptly, it clicked. “Pravdrugs?” I asked, turning my head to stare at Eisenstadt. “For the whole six weeks?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Off and on during them, yes,” he said coolly. “We needed to know as much as we could about the thunderheads; and as you yourself implied, she was a somewhat better observer than you were.”

“And, of course, no one with the Carillon Group's influence was watching to make sure no one abused her like that?” I bit out.

His forehead darkened with anger. “If I were you, Benedar, I wouldn't push my luck too far. You're out on a pretty warm ice bridge yourself, and the minute you stop being useful there's likely to be a very fast thaw.”

I glared back at him; but before I could say anything Calandra squeezed my hand warningly. “It's okay,” she said. “He's right. And besides …” Her eyes drifted out over the sea of thunderheads, and I felt her hand stiffen. “Whatever's going on here, it's something we need to know about.”

I looked at her, back at Eisenstadt, and swallowed my anger. “Where do you want us to start?”

A flicker of relief touched Eisenstadt's face. “Let's try over here,” he said, the same relief evident in his voice. Clearly, Calandra and I weren't nearly as expendable as he wanted us to believe. I filed the fact away for possible future reference and we followed him to the edge of the thunderhead city.

“We've found several places along their skin where we can pick up neuroelectric signals,” he said, squatting down beside one of the thunderheads and gingerly indicating places along its side and atop the curving crest. I noticed that he was careful not to actually touch the creature, wondered if perhaps the scientists had had a second demonstration of the thunderheads' defensive capabilities. “We can detect well enough when the thing is … vacant … but so far every one we've found has come back within the decay limit.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Decay limit.” Eisenstadt's general discomfort deepened a bit. “While the bodies are empty there's a subtle form of tissue decay going on. Nothing particularly serious, but our projections indicate that if the thing stays away longer than about two hours, irreversible damage will begin to set in.”

Calandra shivered. “As if they really were dead.”

The word hung in the air for a moment. Temporarily dead thunderheads; permanently dead zombis. Nowhere in Solitaire system, it seemed, could you get away from death.

“Whatever,” Eisenstadt said at last. “We suspect that that limitation implies that this wasn't a talent that evolved along with their physical development.”

I cleared the image of death from my mind. “So. You set up your sensors on one of the thunderheads, who promptly runs out when he sees you coming, and then you have to wait another two hours before you can tell whether it's dead or just off somewhere hiding.”

Eisenstadt nodded sourly. “That's basically it—and we'd just as soon not have to go through the whole exercise with all two hundred forty-one of the smert-putrid things. And
then
maybe have to go outside to hunt one down anyway.”

I looked at Calandra. “What do you think?”

A slight frown creased her forehead. “It would be a little like trying to single out a particular conversation in a crowded room,” she said. “And from a fair distance, too. It's going to be tricky.”

“Why from a distance?” Eisenstadt demanded. “Why can't you just go up to one of them—?”

He broke off, looking annoyed with himself as the answer came. “Oh. Right. They spook too easily.”

Slowly, Calandra let her gaze sweep the thunderheads. “There,” she said, pointing. “Fourth back from the edge. Is that one … ?”

She trailed off. I stared at the thunderhead she'd indicated, searching with all my powers of observation for signs of sentience … “I don't know,” I murmured finally. “It's hard to tell.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Calandra lick her lips. “Well … there's one way to find out. Maybe.”

She started forward, walking carefully out toward the thunderhead. I watched closely … and saw the subtle change. “It's gone,” I called to her.

“Yes,” she agreed, coming to a halt. For a moment she stood there watching it; then, almost reluctantly, she turned and came back to where Eisenstadt and I stood. “I don't think this is going to work, Dr. Eisenstadt,” she sighed. “The signs are too subtle—” she waved a hand helplessly—“and there's just too much interference from the others around here.”

He gave her a look that was equal parts contempt and disgust. “What about you, Benedar?” he said, turning the look on me. “You giving up, too?”

The threat beneath the words was abundantly clear: if we couldn't or wouldn't help his investigation, we would be summarily returned to our cells. From which I would go to stand trial before the Solitaran judiciary; from which Calandra would be taken to her long-overdue execution aboard the
Bellwether.
“What about the thunderheads outside the Butte City?” I asked, searching desperately for a straw to grasp at. “Surely some of them must have died, too.”

“Some of them have,” Eisenstadt growled. “Unfortunately, the two or three we've located have been dead long enough for the local scavengers to have made a mess of them. More to the point, they never show up in groups of larger than four out there, and I have no interest in trekking all over Spall sifting through groups that small for a fresh corpse. This—right here—is our best chance; and it's your
only
chance to put all those high-minded religious principles of yours to work. If you can't, then we go out and pull up one of the things at random.”

I took a deep breath. “Sir …”

And at my side Calandra suddenly seemed to tense up. “What?” I interrupted myself, turning to her.

She was gazing unseeingly out over the thunderheads. “Perhaps, sir,” she said quietly, her voice taut with a strange reluctance, “we could try asking the thunderheads themselves.”

Eisenstadt snorted. “Oh, certainly,” he said, dripping sarcasm. “What do you suggest we use: sign language or dot code?”

Calandra hesitated. “It … may be easier than that,” she said hesitantly. She looked at me, eyes pleading—

And suddenly I understood. “Yes,” I agreed, my stomach tightening. A long, long shot indeed; and I could just hear what Eisenstadt would say when I suggested it. The thought made me wince … but if there was even a chance it would work … “Yes,” I said again, putting as much confidence into the word as I could and bracing myself for what was to come. “It's certainly worth a try. Dr. Eisenstadt … we're going to need an aircar.”

S
HEPHERD DENVRE ADAMS LISTENED
in silence until Eisenstadt had finished. He looked at me, at Calandra, at the sea of thunderheads beside us. “What you're suggesting,” he said quietly, “is blasphemy.”

Eisenstadt's lip twisted. “Look, I understand how you feel about this—”

“I doubt that, sir,” Adams cut him off. “I doubt it very much. At any rate, I won't do it.”

Eisenstadt threw a razor-edged glare at me, and I cringed at the raw frustrated anger boiling out at me. Just convincing him to give this a try had taken every bit of my persuasive powers, and he'd made it abundantly clear at the outset that it was going to be on my head if it didn't work out. Now, it didn't look like we were going to get even that far. “I wonder, sir,” I said to Eisenstadt, “if Calandra and I could talk with Shepherd Adams privately.”

“Why?” he demanded.

Calandra got the answer out first. “Because we
do
understand how he feels,” she said.

Eisenstadt turned his glare onto her. Unexpectedly, though, the reflexive refusal he'd been preparing to give seemed to get lost somewhere en route. “You've got five minutes,” he said instead. Turning his back, he stomped away to the central monitoring station.

“You can't convince me,” Adams warned me … but there was more than a hint of uncertainty beneath his quiet defiance.