Destroyer of Worlds Part 2

5.

Sigmund strode across the central plaza of Long Pa.s.s City. He studied his destination, the una.s.suming, four-story Governor's Building. He took in the bustling crowds. Trees and bushes dotted the plaza, and he looked at the stately pines and oaks and poplars, at the whimsical topiary animals, at- Snap!

Sharp crack and unexpected movement drew Sigmund's eyes, unwillingly, to a shoulder-tall snarl of red and purple tendrils. As he stared, a second purple tendril lanced out. It was an alien hedge, snaring and devouring alien insects.

His eyes jerked away, down- To find two cl.u.s.ters of shadows at his feet, one group extending to his left, the other to his right. His eyes jerked away again, skyward- Where tiny artificial suns shone in two parallel arcs. A glow on the eastern horizon hinted at another string of the orbiting suns about to rise.

With a shiver, Sigmund forced his attention back to the plaza. His escorts glanced at Sigmund sidelong, and he realized he had skidded to a halt. He resumed his purposeful walk toward the Governor's Building.

Thirteen local years on this world, and the strangeness could still take him unawares. One of the few things Sigmund knew about Earth was that it orbited a star-that on Earth, a year meant meant something. Free-flying habitable planets like New Terra were the exception. That Nessus had left intact the memory of a life-giving sun could only mean that the knowledge something. Free-flying habitable planets like New Terra were the exception. That Nessus had left intact the memory of a life-giving sun could only mean that the knowledge wasn't wasn't a clue to Earth's location. a clue to Earth's location.

Unless, that was, Earth was was like New Terra, and Sigmund's memory of a normal star had been planted as a false clue... . like New Terra, and Sigmund's memory of a normal star had been planted as a false clue... .

It would be nice to know something for certain.

At one time he could have gone in one step directly from home or office to his meeting with the governor. How insane was that that? Stepping-disc access to the world leader's own office! Everyone here trusted the teleportation system, no matter that the Puppeteers had designed and deployed it. No matter that, until a few years ago, the humans on this world had been unwitting slaves, the Puppeteers their absolute masters, and this world, then one among the Fleet of Worlds, was known simply as Nature Preserve Four. And it wasn't terrestrial life the Puppeteers had cared to preserve here, outside of the enclave that sustained their slaves. Pines and oaks, not purple bug-eating hedges, were the oddities here.

None too soon, Sigmund completed his march across the plaza. Outside the Governor's Building armed guards saluted. The squad leader extended a hand, palm up, for identification. "Good morning, Minister," she said.

"Good morning, Lieutenant." The lesson had taken years to set in, but everyone everyone was to be checked for proper identification. Even the minister of defense. Even the world governor herself. was to be checked for proper identification. Even the minister of defense. Even the world governor herself.

Sigmund took an ID disc from his pocket. He pressed his thumb against the sensor pad, and up popped a holo bearing his name and likeness against a shimmering backdrop of New Terra.

Beyond the security checkpoint people milled about the foyer. So did the occasional Puppeteer-only Puppeteer was a term from Earth and politically incorrect here. The aliens-locals-called themselves Citizens. After independence thousands of Citizens had chosen to stay. Native New Terrans saw nothing strange in that: Life anywhere off the home world marked a Citizen as low-status or an outcast, if not insane. Why not make a new life here?

Sigmund had another explanation. Many of the stay-behinds, surely, were spies.

Spy or not, one could never mistake a Puppeteer for anything else. He-females never appeared in public-stood on a tripod of two forelegs and a ma.s.sive, complexly jointed hind leg. The torso reminded Sigmund of an ostrich, only the leathery hide lacked feathers. Two serpentine necks-vaguely sock-puppetlike, hence the nickname on Earth-emerged from between muscular shoulders. Each flat, triangular head had an ear, an eye, and a mouth. The mouth also served as a hand, with tongue and k.n.o.bby lips subst.i.tuting for fingers. The bony hump between the necks, padded with a thick mane, encased the brain.

Except for a belt or sash for pockets, Puppeteers wore no clothing. Like fabric selections among New Terrans, mane coiffures indicated status among Puppeteers. Even the few Puppeteers in the lobby exhibited a wide range of braids and curls, ribbons and jewels.

As Sigmund's eyes swept across the lobby, at people and Puppeteers alike, he wondered: Which of you are spies?

The lieutenant finished her scrutiny and returned his holo ID. "Thank you, Minister."

An aide waiting just inside the main entrance led Sigmund to the governor's outer office. More sentries stood there; Sigmund presented his ID again before he was permitted inside to meet, alone, with the governor.

Sabrina Gomez-Vanderhoff looked more like a doting grandmother than the planetary leader. Her office was spartan and una.s.suming, decorated only with potted plants-all, blessedly, of terrestrial green-and holos of her family. Sigmund had known junior accountants with fancier offices.

No wonder he liked her.

"Morning, Sigmund," Sabrina said. t.i.tles came out only on public occasions or around junior staff. Her slacks and blouse combined a riot of color and texture that doubtless-he would need Penny to truly understand-befit Sabrina's position. Her ma.s.sive progeny ring glittered with four small rubies and a dozen emeralds: tokens of children and grandchildren. This was a farm world, all but unpopulated. Small families were a rarity here. That, too, was different from Earth-but a welcome change.

She gestured at a built-in synthesizer. "Help yourself."

"Black coffee," he told the synthesizer before beginning a slow circuit of her office, scanner in hand, checking for bugs. "We're clear, Sabrina."

They both knew he lied.

High on the wall behind Sigmund the grille of the air duct had a panoramic view of Sabrina's office. The screws that fastened the grille did double duty as stereoscopic optical and audio sensors. The bugs Sigmund pretended never to have found were far beyond New Terran technology-but not that of the Puppeteers.

With such an excellent source of information, Puppeteer agents might look elsewhere with less diligence. Such was Sigmund's hope.

Not that he placed much stock in hope.

They took their seats, Sabrina behind her desk, the better to squarely face the hidden cameras. She said, "So, Sigmund. What's scary today?"

What wasn't? But they rarely discussed the truly scary stuff within range of the bugs. "Don Quixote is overdue checking in, though not yet alarmingly late. A training accident at the Army academy. Defect rates remain too high at Munitions Plant Three." is overdue checking in, though not yet alarmingly late. A training accident at the Army academy. Defect rates remain too high at Munitions Plant Three."

"An accident? Not serious, I hope."

Sigmund kept his voice level. "We lost a young man." The cadet would arrive, soon enough, someplace the Puppeteers and their sympathizers might not suspect existed: the New Terran intelligence academy. Spy school.

"Remind me. Where did Don Quixote Don Quixote go this trip?" go this trip?"

"Routine mission, scouting ahead of New Terra," which world, in turn, flew ahead of the Fleet of Worlds. Sigmund suspected this world's erstwhile masters didn't entirely mind New Terra making its own way. By rushing ahead as fast as its planetary drive would take it, New Terra served as a lightning rod. Any hostile aliens that human scouts encountered in their path would more likely strike the world in the vanguard than those that lagged behind. "Sabrina, the delayed report may not mean anything." It wasn't even delayed. Not everything the scout ships did was intended for Puppeteer consumption, even though the Puppeteers paid well for scouting reports, and in the only currency that truly mattered: ships.

Which served only to replace-slowly-the ships destroyed in Hearth's nearly successful attempt to reclaim its errant farm world. Sigmund kept his expression stoic, not letting his resentment show. It wasn't as though Sabrina didn't share the anger.

Item by item, Sigmund updated Sabrina on New Terra's fledgling military and defense industry. Only someone born off-world could hope to grasp the concepts, let alone manage the undertaking. He was a talent pool of one.

(Who but the off-world paranoid even saw the need for a military? The only planets nearby were the Fleet of Worlds, whose inhabitants outnumbered the New Terrans almost a million to one. This world remained free at the whim of the Puppeteers. And among those Puppeteers, Nessus, at the least, expected Sigmund-somehow-to protect New Terran interests. That was why Nessus had brought Sigmund here. A very complex individual, Nessus.) Sabrina asked for background on a long list of topics. He grumbled about a few. And finally the session was done.

Sigmund stood to leave. "Getting you those answers will take a while," he warned.

That, as they both knew, was another lie. It would serve to explain his absence for a few days-while he did his real job.

THE SQUAT AND RAMBLING STRUCTURE that was headquarters to the defense ministry existed in a state of perpetual flux. The disorder served both sides. Ongoing construction provided the perfect cover for Puppeteer sympathizers to hide sensors, and for Sigmund's most trusted inner circle to "accidentally" damage or discard the most troublesome of those bugs.

Amid organizations and reorganizations, drills and exercises, the ebb and flow of defense contracts, the ongoing construction, the cycles of plans and budgets ... who could possibly detect the critical resources Sigmund siphoned off to where they could do some actual good?

From the governor's office Sigmund made his way across the plaza to the defense ministry, past layers of security personnel, deep into an area of ongoing remodeling where a few stepping discs had been deployed temporarily to facilitate the delivery of construction materials. Noise-absorbing part.i.tions and stacked boxes "happened" to shield him there from anyone's view. His hand dipped into his pants pocket for his transport controller, thumbprintand DNA-authenticated. He stepped onto one of the discs- DNA-authenticated. He stepped onto one of the discs- And off another disc, half a continent away.

Officially, this facility did not exist. Its funding was laundered through the Ministry of Defense. Its staff appeared, if at all, in the files of the Office of Agricultural Research. The stepping disc here had never been entered into any directory of the transportation network; only a few biometrically triggered transport controllers could override the system to access this location.

Few in the crowded, windowless room took note of Sigmund's arrival. Among those who had, he rated only desultory waves in greeting. These were the best of the best, handpicked and personally trained. It had been years since they needed much in the way of direction.

The Office of Strategic a.n.a.lyses managed the real defense of New Terra.

SIGMUND SPENT A WHILE REVIEWING routine intelligence reports.

New Terra's military was mostly for show. It had to be capable enough to discourage meddling, if only to hold down interference to manageable levels; it dare not even hint at growing into a serious force. The Puppeteers would strike at the first sign New Terra might become a threat. All that deterred the Puppeteers from reclaiming their former colony, truly, was fear of disfavor with the Outsiders. Sigmund had ferreted out enough secrets to play off one species against the other-and extortion was a precarious way to live.

If New Terra was ever to achieve long-term security, he must find Earth.

With a sigh and a hand gesture he dismissed the latest report file. "Jeeves," Sigmund called.

"Yes, sir," his computer answered in a British accent. Some days, the AI understood Sigmund better than anyone or anything with whom he spoke. And with good reason: Jeeves, too, came from Earth.

Nearly half a millennium earlier, Puppeteers had established their slave colony using frozen embryos from a captured starship. To this day, no one in Human s.p.a.ce knew.

Until recently, no one here here had known, either. They had been taught for generations to believe themselves the fortunate survivors of a derelict found adrift in s.p.a.ce, and that the Puppeteers were their generous benefactors. Happy, grateful slaves they were- had known, either. They had been taught for generations to believe themselves the fortunate survivors of a derelict found adrift in s.p.a.ce, and that the Puppeteers were their generous benefactors. Happy, grateful slaves they were- Then the Puppeteers found out about the core explosion. Who better than expendable human slaves to scout ahead of the Fleet of Worlds?

More of Nessus' doing.

To give humans a starship, even under supervision, was a mistake. In time, Nessus' scouts found Long Pa.s.s Long Pa.s.s, their supposed ancestral derelict. It wasn't afloat in the vastness of s.p.a.ce; it was stashed inside a Puppeteer cargo ship orbiting another Nature Preserve world. The whole tissue of lies collapsed.

Much of the colonists' true history lay hidden in the ancient shipboard AI. Alas, Jeeves also had holes in its memory. Its ill-fated crew had managed, under attack, to erase all the astronomical and navigational data that might reveal the location of Earth. Not that the Puppeteers hadn't eventually found Earth anyway... .

"We're two of a kind, Jeeves," Sigmund said. We're brain-damaged fossils from Earth.

"Indeed, sir."

Jeeves's mellifluous voice brought England to mind, the accent reminding Sigmund of Shakespeare in Central Park. That, uselessly, Sigmund remembered, but not the shape of England, or its size, or where on Earth's surface it resided. Or, for that matter, what Central Park was at the center of.

d.a.m.n Nessus! He had violated Sigmund's mind, and Sigmund hated the Puppeteer for that. But in bringing Sigmund here, Nessus had acted to protect the New Terrans from the darker instincts of his own kind. Here, Sigmund had started a new life. Here, he had the family on whom he doted. On New Terra, if he only could learn to embrace it, he might find actual happiness. So thank you, too, Nessus. Nessus! He had violated Sigmund's mind, and Sigmund hated the Puppeteer for that. But in bringing Sigmund here, Nessus had acted to protect the New Terrans from the darker instincts of his own kind. Here, Sigmund had started a new life. Here, he had the family on whom he doted. On New Terra, if he only could learn to embrace it, he might find actual happiness. So thank you, too, Nessus.

"The usual, sir?" Jeeves prompted. "If I may be so bold."

Sigmund had to smile. "Please."

A holo globe appeared over his desk, slowly spinning. Land, sea, and ice appeared on the surface, their boundaries ever changing. Jeeves invented topography, subject to the facts, and glimmers of facts, and wild speculations from facts-anything the two of them managed to dredge up. Occasionally, one of the random variations struck a chord, and then they had one more datum to guide a search for Earth.

The globe spun on, bringing into view twinkling motes atop an island peak. A city. It evoked the omelet Sigmund had had for breakfast. "Denver, the mile-high city," he said to himself. Whether on an island or in the heart of some continent, at least one major Earth city sat at that approximate elevation. Useless of itself, the random phrase from his subconscious had woken up Sigmund, his heart pounding, years after his arrival. Where one descriptive detail had surfaced from cultural trivia, others must lurk unsuspected.

New England clam chowder. Did England, wherever it was, have an overseas colony? It implied England had coastline.

Baked Alaska. The recipe involved ice cream and baked meringue. An implication of glaciers and volcanoes in proximity? That vague speculation evoked a second trace of memory. Who, Sigmund wondered, was Seward? Why was Alaska his folly?

Jeeves knew more than ten thousand recipes, replete with terms that might be place names or mythological references or-Finagle knew what.

Jeeves had more than cookbooks in his memory, and Sigmund was working systematically through it all. Legends and literature. Song lyrics. Not 3-V movies. A rotating globe, the outlines of Earth's oceans and continents plain to see, had been the logo of a movie company. The memory remained tauntingly just out of Sigmund's reach. In the rush to hide Earth from those who were boarding Long Pa.s.s Long Pa.s.s, the entire film library had been erased.

That Earth had a moon was another fact Sigmund believed he knew. Month and moon went together-didn't they?-yet the months he remembered ranged from twenty-eight days up to thirty-one days. Not that he knew the length of an Earth day. Perhaps Earth had several moons, each with its own orbital period ... but no. He remembered tides, twice a day. One moon.

Recently he had been sifting Jeeves's musical library for clues. Lyrics cited a blue moon, a silvery moon, a harvest moon, an old devil moon, even a paper moon. What was fact, what metaphor, what- Sigmund started at a sharp rap on the door. The door swung open.

A man, short and stocky, dark-skinned with a long, black ponytail, stood in the doorway. Eric Huang-Mbeke was the first person Sigmund, fresh from the autodoc, had met on this world. Now Eric was the chief tech wizard for the Office of Strategic a.n.a.lyses. He usually managed to get made just about any gadget Sigmund could need-and like most New Terrans, Eric was too innocent to know what needed making until Sigmund asked.

Eric looked-grim? No, stunned.

The alarms were silent. New Terra was not under attack. What, then?

"Is it Don Quixote Don Quixote?" Sigmund asked. Eric's wife, Kirsten, was aboard Don Quixote Don Quixote, its navigator and chief pilot.

Eric shook his head. "You have to see this, Sigmund. Jeeves, the incoming hyperwave message. Time-"

"I have it, Eric. A distress call, looping."

Like a soap bubble p.r.i.c.ked, the spinning globe vanished from above Sigmund's desk, replaced by a 3-V playback. The text crawler was all squiggles, and Sigmund did not understand a single symbol. But that was not why he stared.

The figure in the image looked like a cross between an octopus and a starfish.

6.

Cowardice was overrated.

The notion was insane, even seditious. Baedeker dared to think it anyway. He lived on New Terra in voluntary exile, far from home. Among Citizens, that choice alone branded him as insane.

He crouched over his redmelon patch, patiently weeding. The suns warmed his back. Both necks ached and the joints in all three legs, but that would pa.s.s.

Besides, few things tasted as fine as vine-ripened redmelon.

Cowardice was not a Citizen concept, of course. Citizens were prudent. Cautious. Sensible. Where humans had their leaders, Citizens sought direction from their Hindmost.

Once, the flight instinct was una.s.sailably correct. To stray from the herd was to meet the jaws and claws of predators. Any tendency to wander had been bred from his ancestors long before the first glimmerings of sapience.

But things change.

Through fear, technology, and ruthless determination, Citizens had exterminated predators from the land surface of Hearth. They could not eliminate the lifecycle of stars. Now the Fleet of Worlds fled the sterilization of the whole galaxy- Headslong into unknown perils.

THE DAY WAS ENDING, all but one arc of suns gone from the sky. Purple pollinators had begun to emerge from their nests, thrumming their delicate tunes. Far overhead, a lone terrestrial bird circled, effortlessly soaring. A cool breeze ruffled Baedeker's mane. He continued his weeding, trying to lose himself in the moment and the company of friends.

"I'm ready to stop," Tantalus said, his voices raspy from the dust they had raised. In truth, he had just arrived and scarcely started, hoping to hurry Baedeker along to dinner.

"And I," Sibyl agreed. "Food all around and nothing here to eat." His heads swiveled to look each other in the eyes. Sibyl was partial to irony, not least in the human-p.r.o.nounceable label he had chosen for himself. Human independence had freed him from hard labor in a reeducation camp-not exactly how he had foretold regaining his freedom. "Baedeker, how about you?"

Baedeker was hungry, too, and so what? "I'll work a bit longer," he sang.

"A glutton for punishment," Tantalus answered. It was a human aphorism, and as he delivered it in English, it required only one mouth and throat. With his other head, he was already gathering his tools.

Tantalus' gibe was hardly fair, but Baedeker saw no reason to comment. Why match wits with his friends when to match wits with these weeds was the limit of his ambition?

He toiled all day, every day, not as punishment, although once he had been banished to another farm world and condemned to hard labor, and not as penance, although he had much for which to atone. He gardened as therapy.

With trills of farewell (and grace notes of disappointment) Baedeker's friends brushed heads with him before cantering off. They dropped their loads of weeds through a stepping disc, to a composting facility, perhaps, or into a food-synthesis reservoir, before they disappeared themselves, leaving Baedeker alone in the sprawling garden.