A Deepness in the Sky Part 45

And now the first target estimates had appeared on the display. The three circles were all near the south pole.

Coldhaven made a chopping gesture at the attack-management technicians. "Go to condition Most Bright." On the main display, the news cameras were still panning around Parliament Hall, soaking up the reactions to General Smith's speech.

One of the attack-management techs rose from her perch. "Sir! Those missiles are ours. They're from the Seventh, the Icedug Icedug and and Crawlunder Crawlunder !" !"

"Says what?" General Coldhaven's voice cut through whatever his former boss had been about to say.

"Autologs from the ships themselves. I'm trying to get through to their captains right now, sir-we're still bidding each other's crypto."

Dugway pounced on the report. "And until we talk to them direct, I don't believe anything. I know those commanders. Something strange is going on here."

"We have real launches and real targets, sir." The technician tapped the crosses and circles.

Dugway: "You have nothing but pretty lights!"

"It's across the secure net, sir, direct from our launch-detection satellites."

Coldhaven motioned both of them to be quiet. "This seems a bit like the problems my predecessor ran into."

Dugway glared at his former protege. . .and slowly the significance seemed to sink in. "Yes. . . ."

Coldhaven grunted. "It's not just us. There have been rumors going around on the unswitched a.n.a.log radio." There were still people who used such things; Underville had rural agents who resisted all upgrades. The surprise was that anyone at Lands Command would seriously listen to such comm. Coldhaven noticed Belga's expression. "My wife works in the technical museum out front." A smile flitted across his aspect. "She says her old-time radio friends aren't cranks. And now we're seeing the impossible, too. In the past we could blame the contradictions on someone else's idiocy. Now . . ." The arrival time on the shrinking target circles was barely three minutes away. The targeting satellites all agreed on their destination now: Southmost.

Underville boggled for a moment. All Rachner's paranoia- true true? "So maybe the launch is a fake. Anything we see-"

"At least anything we see on the net-"

"-could be a lie." It was a technophobe's most extravagant nightmare.

The point was finally getting through to Dugway. A faith built over twenty years was being shattered. "But the encryption, the cross-checking. . .what can we do, do, Elno?" Elno?"

Coldhaven seemed to wilt. His theory was accepted, and that left them with disaster. "We-we can shut down. Disa.s.sociate command and comm from the net. I've seen it as a war-game option-only that that was on the net, too!" was on the net, too!"

Belga put a hand on his shoulders. "I say do it. We can use a.n.a.log radio from the museum. And I've got people, couriers. It will be slow-" Far too slow, but at least they would discover what they were up against.

There were others a moment away across the net-Nizhnimor, the King himself-and now nothing seemed trustable. Dugway was present, but Elno Coldhaven was the CCC commanding officer. Coldhaven hesitated, but didn't defer to Dugway. He called to his chief sergeant. "Plan Network Corrupt. I want the notice hand-carried to the museum."

"Yes, sir!" The tech had been following the conversation, and seemed not quite as dumbfounded as his seniors. The target circles showed two minutes to impact. On the video from Parliament Hall, stark chaos reigned. For an instant, Underville was caught by the horror of the scene. The poor cobbers. Before, war had been an ominous cloud on the horizon; now the Southland Elected found themselves at ground zero with less than two minutes to live. Some sat frozen, staring upward at where megatons would burst. Others were stampeding down the carpeted stairs, searching for some way out, some way downward. And somewhere beyond their view, General Smith was facing the same fate.

By some miracle, the senior sergeant had hardcopies of Plan Network Corrupt. He handed them to his techs and started the procedures for opening the CCC's blast doors.

But the doors were already opening. Belga stiffened. Nothing Nothing was supposed to come in until the shift ended, or Coldhaven gave the release code. A CCC guard entered with a confused backwards gait, his rifle held at an uneasy port arms. "I saw your clearance, ma'am, but no one is allowed-" was supposed to come in until the shift ended, or Coldhaven gave the release code. A CCC guard entered with a confused backwards gait, his rifle held at an uneasy port arms. "I saw your clearance, ma'am, but no one is allowed-"

An almost familiar voice followed him. "Nonsense. We have clearance, and you saw that the doors opened. Please stand aside." A young lieutenant strode into the room. The plain black uniform, the slender, deadly build. It was as if Victory Smith had not only escaped from the South but had returned as young as the first time Underville had ever seen her. After the lieutenant came a huge corporal and a team of combateers. Most of the intruders carried stubby a.s.sault rifles.

General Dugway spouted indignant rage at the young lieutenant. Dugway was a fool. More than anything, this looked like a decapitating strike-but why weren't they shooting? Elno Coldhaven edged back around his desk, his hands reaching for some unseen drawer. Belga stepped between him and the intruders and said, "You're Smith's daughter."

The lieutenant snapped Underville a salute. "Yes ma'am. Victory Lighthill, and this is my team. We're authorized by General Smith to make inspections per our best judgment. With all respect, ma'am, that's what we're here for now."

Lighthill sidled past the frothing Director of Air Defense; old Dugway was angry beyond words. Behind Belga, and mostly shielded by her body, Elno Coldhaven was tapping out command codes.

Somehow Lighthill realized what was going on. "Please step away from your console, General Coldhaven." Her big corporal waggled his a.s.sault rifle in Coldhaven's direction. Now Underville recognized the corporal. Smith's r.e.t.a.r.ded son. d.a.m.n.

Elno Coldhaven stepped back from his desk, his hands raised slightly in the air, acknowledging that they were far beyond any "inspection." The two techs nearest the door sprinted past the intruders. But these combateers were fast. fast. They turned, pouncing on the techs, dragging them back into the CCC. They turned, pouncing on the techs, dragging them back into the CCC.

The blast doors swung slowly shut.

And Coldhaven made one more try, the most frail of all: "Lieutenant, there's ma.s.sive corruption in our signals automation. We have to get our Command and Control off the net."

Lighthill stepped close to the displays. There was still a picture from Parliament Hall, but no one was behind the camera: the view wandered aimlessly, finally centering on the ceiling. Across the other displays, Most Bright lights had blossomed, queries to the Command Center, launch announcements from the King's Rocket Offense forces. The world coming to an end.

Finally, Lighthill spoke. "I know, sir. We are here to prevent you from doing that." Her combateers had spread around the now crowded Command and Control Center. Not a single tech or officer was out of their reach now. The big corporal was pulling open a cargo pannier, setting up additional equipment. . .game displays?

Dugway finally found his voice. "We suspected a deep-cover agent. I was sure it was Rachner Thract. What fools we were. All along it was Victory Smith working for Pedure and the Kindred."

A traitor at the heart. It explained everything, but-Belga looked at the displays, the network-ma.s.saged reports of Accord launches coming in from all directions. She said, "What of it is really true, Lieutenant? Is it all a lie, even the attack on Southmost?"

For a moment Underville thought the lieutenant wouldn't answer. The target circles at Southmost had shrunk to points. The news camera view of Parliament Hall dome lasted a second longer. Then Belga had a fleeting impression of the rock bulging downward, of light beyond-and the display went blank. Victory Lighthill flinched, and when she finally answered Belga, her voice was soft and hard. "No. That attack was very real."

FIFTY-SIX.

"You're sure she'll be able to see me?"

Marli looked up from his gadgets. "Yes, sir. And I've got a clear-to-talk from her huds."

You're on, Podmaster. The greatest performance of your life."Qiwi! Are you there?"

"Yes, I-" and he heard Qiwi's quick intake of breath. Heard. There was no video coming back this way; the desperation of this situation was no fake. "Father!"

Nau cradled Ali Lin's head and shoulders in his arms. The ziphead's wounds were gouges, oozing a swamp of blood through makeshift bandages. Pest, I hope the guy isn't dead. Pest, I hope the guy isn't dead. But above all, this had to look real; Marli had done his best. But above all, this had to look real; Marli had done his best.

"Tas Vinh, Qiwi. He and Trinli jumped us, killed Kal Omo. They would have killed Ali if. . .if I hadn't let them get away." The words tumbled out, fueled by true rage and fear and guided by the tactical necessities. The savage attack of traitors, timed for when everything was most critical, when an entire civilization stood at risk. The destruction of North Paw. "I saw two of the kittens drown, Qiwi. I'm sorry, we couldn't get close enough to save them-" Words failed him, but artfully.

He heard small choking sounds from the other end of the connection, the sounds Qiwi made in moments of absolute horror. d.a.m.n, that could start a memory cascade. He pushed down his fear and said, "Qiwi, we still have a chance. Have the traitors shown themselves at Benny's?" Has PhamNuwen gotten through to the parlor? Has PhamNuwen gotten through to the parlor?

"No. But we know something has gone terribly wrong. We lost the video from North Paw, and now it looks like war down on Arachna. This is a private link, but everyone saw me leave Benny's."

"Okay. Okay. This is good, Qiwi. Whoever are in this with Vinh and Trinli are still confused. We have a chance, the two of us-"

"But surely we can trust-" Qiwi's protest trailed off, and she didn't give him any argument. Good. This soon after a scrubbing, Qiwi was most unsure of herself. "Okay. But I I can help. Where are you hiding? One of the sluiceways?" can help. Where are you hiding? One of the sluiceways?"

"Yes, trapped behind the outer hatch. But if we can get out, we can rescue the situation. L1-A has-"

"Which sluiceway?"

"Uh." He looked at the face of the hatch. A number was just visible in Marli's light. "S-seven-four-five. Does that-"

"I know where it is. I'll see you in two hundred seconds. Don't worry, Tomas."

Lord.Qiwi's recovery was awesome. Nau waited a moment, then glanced questioningly at Marli.

"The connection is down, sir."

"Okay. Realign. See if you can punch through to Ritser Brughel." This might be his last chance to check on the ground operation before everything was settled, one way or another.

The Invisible Hand Invisible Hand was over the horizon from Southmost when the missiles arrived there. Nevertheless, Jau's displays showed flashes against the upper atmosphere. And their trailing satellites relayed a detailed a.n.a.lysis of the destruction. All three nukes were on target. was over the horizon from Southmost when the missiles arrived there. Nevertheless, Jau's displays showed flashes against the upper atmosphere. And their trailing satellites relayed a detailed a.n.a.lysis of the destruction. All three nukes were on target.

But Ritser Brughel was not entirely happy. "The timing wasn't right. They didn't get the best penetration."

Bil Phuong's voice came over the bridge-wide channel. "Yes, sir. That depended on high-level ordnance knowledge-things that are up on L1."

"Okay. Okay. We'll make do. Xin!"

"Yes, sir?" Jau looked up from his console.

"Are your people ready to hit the missile fields?"

"Yes, sir. The burn we just completed will put us over most of them. We'll take out a good part of the Accord's forces."

"Pilot Manager, I want you to personally-" A tone sounded on Brughel's console. There was no video, but the Vice-Podmaster was listening to something incoming. After a moment, Brughel said, "Yes, sir. We can make up for that. What is your situation?"

What's happening up there? What's happening to Rita?Jau forced his attention away from the long-distance conversation, and looked at his own situation board. In fact, he was pushing his zipheads to the limit. They were beyond finesse now. There was no way they could disguise this operation from the Spider networks. The Accord missile fields stretched across a swath of the northern continent, and they only approximately followed the track of the Invisible Hand. Invisible Hand. Jau's pilots were coordinating a dozen ordnance zipheads. The Jau's pilots were coordinating a dozen ordnance zipheads. The Hand' Hand' s patchwork of battle lasers could take out near-surface launchpads, but only if they were given a fifty-millisecond dwell time. Hitting everything would be a miracle ballet of firepower. Some of the deepest targets, offensive sites, would be hit by digger bombs. Those had already been launched, were now arcing down behind them. s patchwork of battle lasers could take out near-surface launchpads, but only if they were given a fifty-millisecond dwell time. Hitting everything would be a miracle ballet of firepower. Some of the deepest targets, offensive sites, would be hit by digger bombs. Those had already been launched, were now arcing down behind them.

Jau had done everything he could to make this work. I didn't have anychoice. I didn't have anychoice. Every few seconds, the mantra floated up through his consciousness, the response to the equally persistent Every few seconds, the mantra floated up through his consciousness, the response to the equally persistent I am not a butcher. I am not a butcher.

But now. . .now there might be a safe way to evade Brughel's terrible orders. Be honest, you're still a butcher. Be honest, you're still a butcher. But of hundreds, not millions. But of hundreds, not millions.

Without the detailed geographic and ordnance advice from L1, any number of small errors might be made. The Southmost strike showed that. Jau's fingers drifted over his keyboard, sending last-second advice to his team. The mistake was very subtle. But it would introduce a tree of random deviations into their attack on the antimissiles. Many of those strikes would now be way off target. The Accord would have a chance against the Kindred nukes.

Rachner Thract paced back and forth in the visitor holding box. How long could it take Underhill to come out? Maybe the cobber had changed his mind, or simply forgotten what he was about. The sentry looked upset, too. He was talking on some kind of comm line, his words inaudible.

Finally, there was the whine of hidden motors. A moment later the old wood doors slid aside. A guide-bug emerged, closely followed by Sherkaner Underhill. The guard came racing around his sentry box. "Sir, could I have a word with you? I'm getting-"

"Yes, but let me talk to the Colonel here for just a moment." Underhill seemed to sag under the weight of his parka, and every step took him steadily to the side. The sentry fidgeted by his post, not sure what to do. The guide-bug patiently dragged Underhill back onto a more or less straight path headed for Thract.

Underhill reached the visitor holding box. "I have a few free minutes now, Colonel. I'm very sorry about your losing your job. I want to-"

"That's not important now, sir! I have to tell you." It was a miracle that he had gotten through to Underhill. Now, if I can just convince him beforethat sentry gets up the courage to intervene. Now, if I can just convince him beforethat sentry gets up the courage to intervene. "Our command automation is corrupt, sir. I have proof!" Underhill was raising his arms in protest, but Rachner rumbled on. This was his last chance. "It sounds crazy, but it explains everything: There's an-" "Our command automation is corrupt, sir. I have proof!" Underhill was raising his arms in protest, but Rachner rumbled on. This was his last chance. "It sounds crazy, but it explains everything: There's an-"

The world exploded around them. Colors beyond color. Pain beyond the brightest sun of Thract's imagination. For a moment the color of pain was all there was, squeezing out consciousness, fear, even startlement.

And then he was back. In agony, but at least aware. He was lying in snow and random wreckage. His eyes. . .his eyes hurt. hurt. The afterimages of h.e.l.l were burned all across his foreview, blocking his vision. The afterimages showed stark silhouettes against a beam of utter darkness: the sentry, Sherkaner Underhill. The afterimages of h.e.l.l were burned all across his foreview, blocking his vision. The afterimages showed stark silhouettes against a beam of utter darkness: the sentry, Sherkaner Underhill.

Underhill! Thract came to his feet, pushed aside the flatboards that had fallen on him. Now other pains were surfacing. His back was a single ma.s.sive ache. Getting punched through walls will do that to you. Getting punched through walls will do that to you. He took a few shaky steps, but nothing seemed broken. He took a few shaky steps, but nothing seemed broken.

"Sir? Professor Underhill?" His own voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. Rachner turned his head this way and that, like a child still with its baby eyes. He had no choice; his forevision was filled with burning afterimages. Downhill, along the curve of the caldera wall, there was a row of smoking holes. But the destruction here was enormously greater. None of the Underhill outbuildings still stood, and fire was spreading across all that was flammable. Rachner took a step toward where the sentry had been standing. But now that was the edge of a steep, steaming crater. The hillside above him was blown out. Thract had seen something like this before, but that had been a terrible accident, an ammo dump struck by penetrating artillery. What hit us? What was Underhill storing below? What hit us? What was Underhill storing below? Something in the back of his mind was asking the questions, but he had no answers and plenty of more immediate concerns. Something in the back of his mind was asking the questions, but he had no answers and plenty of more immediate concerns.

There was an animal hissing sound, right at his feet. Rachner turned his head. It was Underhill's guide-bug. Its fighting hands were poised to stab, but its body lay twisted in the wreckage. The poor beast's sh.e.l.l must be cracked. When he tried to sidle around it, the bug shrieked more fiercely and made a ghastly effort to pull its crushed body out from the flatboards.

"Mobiy! It's okay. It's okay, Mobiy." It was Underhill! His voice was m.u.f.fled, but so were all sounds just now. As Thract slipped past the guide-bug, it pulled its broken body from the flatboards and followed him toward Underhill's voice. But the bug's hissing was no longer a threat. It was more a sobbing whimper.

Thract walked along the edge of the crater. The edge was piled deep with debris that had been thrown up. The gla.s.sy sides were already slumping, collapsing inward. And still there was no sign of Underhill.

The guide-bug pulled himself past Thract. There, right ahead of the bug: a single Spiderly arm stuck sharp and high from the mangle. The guide-bug shrilled, and started feebly digging. Rachner joined him, pulling boards out of the way, shoveling the warm splatter dirt to the side. Warm? It was hot as the Calorica bottomland. There was something especially horrifying about being buried in warm earth. Thract dug desperately faster.

Underhill was buried rear-end down, his head just a foot below the air. In seconds, they had him free down past his shoulders. The ground lurched, sliding with the rest of the crater's edge. Thract reached out, twined his arms around Underhill's-and pulled. An inch, a foot. . .the two of them fell onto the high ground just as Underhill's grave slid into the pit.

The guide-bug crawled around them, his arms never letting go of his master. Underhill patted the animal gently. Then he turned, weaving his head about in the same silly way Thract had been. There were blisters in the crystal surfaces of his eyes. Sherkaner Underhill had shaded the blast from Thract's eyes; the whole top of the old cobber's head had been directly exposed.

Underhill seemed to be looking toward the pit. "Jaybert? Nizhnimor?" He said softly, disbelievingly. He came to his feet, and started for the drop-off. Both Thract and the bug held him. At first, Underhill let them guide him back over the crest of the splatter. It was hard to tell under the heavy clothes, but at least two of his legs seemed to be cracked.

Then: "Victory? Brent? Can you hear me? I've lost-" He turned and started back toward the pit. This time, Rachner actually had to fight him. The poor cobber was drifting in and out of delirium. Think! Think! Rachner looked downslope. The helipad was tilted but the ground above had shielded it from the flying debris. His chopper still sat there, apparently undamaged. "Ah! Professor-there's a telephone in my helicopter. Come on, we can call the General from there." The improvisation was thin, but Underhill was drifting in and out of delirium. He swayed for a moment, almost collapsed. Then a moment of false lucidity: "A helicopter? Yes. . .I have a use for that." Rachner looked downslope. The helipad was tilted but the ground above had shielded it from the flying debris. His chopper still sat there, apparently undamaged. "Ah! Professor-there's a telephone in my helicopter. Come on, we can call the General from there." The improvisation was thin, but Underhill was drifting in and out of delirium. He swayed for a moment, almost collapsed. Then a moment of false lucidity: "A helicopter? Yes. . .I have a use for that."

"Okay. Let's go down there." Thract started for the top of the stairs, but Underhill still hesitated. "We can't leave Mobiy. Nizhnimor and the others yes. They are surely dead. But Mobiy . . ."

Mobiy is dying.But Thract didn't say that aloud. The guide-bug had stopped crawling. Its arms waved gently in Underhill's direction. "It's an animal, sir," Thract said softly.

Underhill chuckled, delirious. "That's all a matter of scale, Colonel."

So Thract took off his outer jacket and made a sling for the guide-bug. The creature seemed like about eighty pounds of very dead weight. But they were going downhill, and now Sherkaner Underhill followed without further complaint, needing only occasional help to keep on the stairs. Sowhat better could you be doing now, eh, Colonel? Sowhat better could you be doing now, eh, Colonel? The lurking Enemy had finally pounced. Thract looked out across the caldera at the pattern of smoking destruction. Likely it was repeated on the altiplano, trashing the King's strategic defenses. Doubtless, the High Command had been nuked. The lurking Enemy had finally pounced. Thract looked out across the caldera at the pattern of smoking destruction. Likely it was repeated on the altiplano, trashing the King's strategic defenses. Doubtless, the High Command had been nuked. Whatever it was I came to do, it's too late now. Whatever it was I came to do, it's too late now.

FIFTY-SEVEN.

The taxi floated up from the L1 jumble. Below them, the mouth of S745 was open, exhausting air and ice particles. If not for Qiwi, they would still be trapped behind the sluiceway's pressure hatch. Qiwi's landing and ad hoc lock work were something that even well-managed zipheads might not have accomplished.

Nau slid Ali Lin gently into the front seat beside Qiwi. The woman turned from her controls, and her face twisted in grief. "Papa? Papa?" She reached to feel for his pulse, and her expression eased a fraction.

"I think he'll make it, Qiwi. Look, there's medical automation at L1-A, and-"