Deadman Switch (36 page)

“Held there by what?” Governor Rybakov asked coolly. All things considered, I thought, she was taking this with considerable composure.

“A cable, we assume,” Freitag told her. “Unfortunately, the
Kharg's
cameras weren't good enough to resolve it. That gives us a lower limit for its strength, though, and it's considerable.”

“How considerable?” Rybakov demanded. “Beyond Patri capabilities?”

Eisenstadt shook his head. “I've done some checking and we
could
duplicate it. Tricky and expensive, but possible.”

The tension in the governor's sense eased a bit. “At least they've got similar technology,” she murmured. “I suppose we should be grateful for small favors.”

Freitag and Eisenstadt exchanged glances. “Perhaps, Governor,” Freitag said cautiously. “But don't forget that these ships have been running, probably constantly, for something like eighty-five
years
—and without putting in at a port for maintenance, I might add. That implies a tremendous technological consistency; and for them to be willing to ride the things in the first place implies an equally impressive confidence in that technology.”

“Although we don't really
know
the ships are manned, do we?” Rybakov countered. “They could just as easily be robots. And as far as your assumed consistency is concerned, remember that we also don't know how many ships they had when they first started out. These one hundred ninety-two could conceivably be just the tail end of a fleet that originally numbered in the thousands.”

“Unlikely,” Freitag grunted. “Easy enough to check, though—all we have to do is search their backtrack for derelicts or debris.”

“Provided the thunderheads will cooperate in such a search,” Rybakov said, turning her gaze on me for the first time. “Which is why I wanted Benedar to be in on this conference today.”

I gazed back at her … and it was only then, faced with the contrast in attitudes, that I suddenly realized just how much Eisenstadt's original antagonism toward me had diminished over the past few weeks. “I'll help in any way I can,” I said evenly.

She almost grimaced, her sense a mixture of distaste and determination reminiscent of when she'd come to Randon to retrieve her illegally issued customs IDs. “I understand you've been keeping an eye on these Halloas Dr. Eisenstadt is using to talk to the thunderheads,” she said.

“Yes,” I nodded. “Though at the moment there's only one Seeker there to keep an eye on.”

“And … ?”

I shrugged. “So far things seem to be going all right. Shepherd Zagorin is exhibiting some subtle changes, but they seem to be mainly adjustments to the thunderhead presence. There's no indication that they're subverting her or anything like that.”

Rybakov glanced at Eisenstadt; peripherally, I saw his nod of agreement. “For the moment we'll assume you're right,” she went on. “So. If they're so cooperative and friendly, explain why they didn't tell us about the Invaders sooner.”

I winced. “We don't actually know they're deliberate invaders—”

“You can practice turning the other cheek on your own time,” Rybakov cut me off. “Just answer the question, and save the moralizing for your religious friends.”

“I
was
answering it, Governor,” I told her, fighting back my own irritation. “I was trying to suggest that the thunderheads may not have said anything about them because they themselves may not see it as an invasion.”

She snorted. “Ridiculous. What do they think they're coming for, a picnic?”

Eisenstadt cleared his throat. “It's possible they've examined both the ships and their passengers and concluded they won't be wanting Spall,” he said. “We think it likely they did the same with
us
before they first started guiding us through the Cloud.”

“The fact remains that, unlike the Invaders, they let
us
in,” Rybakov countered. “Or are you going to suggest the Invaders were offered the same Deadman Switch approach and were turned down?”

“The Invaders may not have Mjollnir drive,” Eisenstadt pointed out. Just as I was doing with the aliens, he was clearly trying to give the thunderheads every possible benefit of the doubt. “We won't know until we can take better pictures and see if the ships are equipped with the necessary hull lacings.”

Rybakov grimaced. “All right, then, let's try it from another direction. According to the report you filed when you first asked for a Solitaran zombi, the thunderheads were offering to show you the Cloud generator. They lied about that; what's to say they aren't lying about other things, too?”

“Yes, well, we wondered about that too,” Eisenstadt said, embarrassment seeping through his professionalism. “If you go back and check the tapes, you find that the thunderheads promised to take us to the origination—their word—of the Cloud. ‘Origination,' my dictionary tells me, is something that gives origin to, or something that initiates. I assumed at the time that they meant the generator of the Cloud; what I gather they actually meant was the
reason
for the Cloud's existence.”

“In other words, as a protection from invasion,” Rybakov snorted. “As I said.”

Eisenstadt glanced at Freitag. “Again, not necessarily, Governor,” Freitag said. “It's possible that they're maintaining the Cloud in order to protect
us.”

Rybakov opened her mouth, a retort ready … closed it again as her sense turned suddenly thoughtful. “Uh-
huh,”
she said at last. “Well, that's hardly a flattering thought—rather reduces our role here to something like pets or valuable wildlife.”

“Or an equally valuable scientific study,” Eisenstadt offered. “That might explain, too, why they hid their sentience from us for so long.”

“Perhaps. Hardly an improvement over being pets, to my mind.” She frowned into space for a moment. “Didn't they say at your first contact that they didn't have any interest in studying us?”

“What they actually said was that they had no desire to learn any
more
about us,” Eisenstadt corrected her. “If they already had seventy years of such studies behind them, they would hardly need any more.”

Rybakov snorted gently. “Again, a strictly truthful statement that nevertheless manages to mislead. I don't like the pattern I see forming here.”

There was considerable irony in such a complaint coming from a professional politician, but Eisenstadt had the sense to pass up the obvious barbs. “At least they seem reluctant to tell out-and-out lies,” he shrugged. “Don't forget, too, that they've already demonstrated respect for human life. When that shield—what was his name, Gilead?”

“Mikha Kutzko,” I supplied. A pang of guilt poked in under my concentration; I'd hardly thought at all over the past few weeks about what might be happening with him and the others on the
Bellwether.

Eisenstadt nodded. “When Kutzko did his little experiment to see how fast the thunderheads could learn, they could presumably have tried to kill him instead of going after his needler.”

“Protecting their scientific experiment,” Rybakov said sourly. “—yes, I know, Doctor, it's better than being considered enemies,” she added as Eisenstadt started to speak, “Anyway, the issue of thunderhead perceptions is low on the priority list at the moment. What's important is how we're going to deal with the Invaders. Any ideas, Commodore?”

Freitag waved a hand uncomfortably. “I've done a couple of preliminary scenarios, but none of them is especially promising.”

“What's the problem, the speed they're making?”

“Basically. You have to remember that they're doing twelve percent lightspeed; that's thirty-six thousand kilometers a
second.
None of our weapons has the slightest chance of even tracking something that fast, let alone connecting with it.”

“What about shooting at them from the front?” Rybakov asked. “We
know
what their course is, after all.”

“Wait a moment,” I objected. “Isn't this a little early to be thinking about shooting at them? We haven't even
tried
to talk to them yet.”

All three looked at me; Rybakov with impatience, Freitag with an almost guilty impatience, Eisenstadt with genuine regret. “The problem, Gilead,” the latter said, “is that their speed also pretty well precludes any kind of communication. We'd have to use high-density pulses, fired from close range the instant they passed, and signals like that are notoriously sensitive to the sort of electromagnetic fluxes they've got operating.”

“But surely they know how to compensate for that,” I argued. “I mean, they must have some way of watching ahead of them, at the very least.”

“I'm sure they do,” Freitag said, his discomfort putting gruffness in his voice. “But they'll be watching out for cometary masses, not pulsed radio signals. And besides …” He seemed to brace himself. “It might not be a good idea to tip them off that we're even aware of them. It would lose us any advantage of surprise we might still have.”

I looked at him, feeling the blood draining from my face.
Look at them, lurking to ambush me, violent men are attacking me, for no fault, no sin of mine …
“You can't do that,” I said quietly. “It would be nothing less than mass murder.”

“It's called survival,” Rybakov said sharply.

“Since when?” I demanded. “This isn't some sudden, split-second assault we have to react to—they're not even going to
be
here for, what, ten years?”

“More than that,” Freitag grunted. “Somewhere along the line they'll have to flip their ships over and start decelerating; depending on what kind of thrust their engines can handle, it could be anything from twelve to twenty years before they arrive.”

“Which means that everyone involved will have plenty of time to weigh the alternatives,” Eisenstadt told me soothingly. “I presume, Governor, that ‘everyone,' in this case, will be people other than us?”

Rybakov nodded. “The Patri will almost certainly want to set up a commission to examine the situation and make recommendations.” She turned to me.
“Your
job, Benedar, will be to continue assisting in the thunderhead study. That is, if Dr. Eisenstadt still needs you.”

“I do,” Eisenstadt said. Almost too quickly. “Both he and Ms. Paquin are proving indispensable.”

Rybakov shrugged, striving for off-handedness but not entirely succeeding. “Fine. Let me know when either of them becomes superfluous. Well. Thank you, Doctor; Commodore. I congratulate you both on your work in this, and I'm sure the Patri will find a way to put their appreciation into more concrete form. Good day to you all; Dr. Eisenstadt, keep me informed on your work.”

Freitag parted company with us outside the governor's mansion, heading for his office at the main Solitaran Pravilo HQ, as Eisenstadt and I headed back to Rainbow's End and the shuttle awaiting us there. I waited until we were aboard, out of earshot of drivers and crewers, before asking Eisenstadt the obvious question. “What did the governor mean, that you should let her know when either Calandra or I became superfluous?”

“Oh, there've been some further legal rumblings about you two,” he shrugged, trying hard to sound unconcerned. “Same sort of thing as before.”

“You mean that Calandra's execution should be carried out?”

“Mainly,” he said. “There's also some noise that you ought to be charged for your role in her escape. Completely ridiculous, especially given the importance of what it was you two stumbled onto poking around Spall.”

I thought about that a moment. One of the immediate implications— “Then the Patri are still planning to keep all of this a secret as long as possible?”

He nodded, throwing me a lopsided smile. “Uh-huh—and that's very much to your advantage right now. As long as they're reluctant to bring any more people than absolutely necessary into this, you two are by definition the only Watchers available. As long as I need you, Rybakov's not about to take you away.”

“Yes, sir,” I murmured. To our advantage, certainly … and even more to the Patri's. No public knowledge meant no public opinion … and no public opinion meant they could plot the aliens' destruction with complete impunity.
Though a thousand fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, you yourself will remain unscathed …
“Yes, sir,” I said again. “I understand.”

F
OR THE NEXT THREE
weeks nothing much happened. Eisenstadt talked with the thunderheads once every couple of days, Calandra and I watching each contact and trying to learn how to read and interpret the aliens' sense as they spoke through Shepherd Zagorin. Eisenstadt didn't learn all that much from the conversations, and now that I was looking for it I realized that Governor Rybakov's comment had indeed been correct: the thunderheads really
did
like making strictly truthful statements that were nevertheless misleading. At one point Eisenstadt got mad enough to consider calling them on it, but eventually decided not to. It could, after all, be merely an odd quirk of their psychology, in which case objecting would accomplish little and probably be insulting in the bargain.

Of the approaching fleet they would say nothing at all, no matter how many creative ways Eisenstadt found to rephrase the questions we wanted answers to. Eventually, he gave up asking, but only after he managed to obtain assurances that they would cooperate in guiding the observation ships the new Patri commission would undoubtedly be sending out.

The commission itself arrived, bringing with them a pair of Pravilo ships, a selection of highly sophisticated sensor and photographic gear, and—I heard—upwards of a dozen zombis. The thought of the latter made me wince, and I wondered how I was going to handle living in the same camp with a full-fledged death-cell prison. But my worry turned out to be for nothing; instead of joining us, the commission opted to set up their headquarters a few hundred kilometers away in one of the now-abandoned smuggler bases. Settling in for a long, leisurely study, apparently, and unwilling to spend it in what was still something of a makeshift camp.