Beckhart’s word proved good. Angel City was quiet. Central
Park, a recreational area at the city’s heart, had been
equipped with field tents, trailers, and miscellany the Admiral had
borrowed from the Corps. Storm and benRabi set up for business
before noon.
“Mouse,” benRabi said, “you get the feeling
we’re being rushed?”
“It’s not a feeling, Moyshe. It’s a
fact.”
“How do we stall?”
Men with briefcases were lining up to obtain the little catalogs
Moyshe’s team had brought along. “Buy time,” Jarl
had said. It did not look like they would be given a chance. The
various purchasing agents, impelled by the war scare, wanted the
bidding to begin right away.
The Marines proved to be perfect policemen. They helped
immeasurably. They showed favoritism only to Starfisher tourists.
The Admiral seemed determined to avoid a significant incident, and
to help the local shopkeepers relieve the Seiner sightseers of all
their hard currency.
Storm lost his first tourist their second day on The Broken
Wings. The man turned up again before Mouse learned that he had
been taken. He was none the worse for wear. He was a mess cook from
Danion who knew nothing anyone wanted to know.
“It’s started,” Mouse told benRabi when Moyshe
relieved him. “Make sure everybody checks in before they
wander off. Check their passes. The ones we have to watch have been
given a red one.”
“You know who grabbed the man?”
“No. I didn’t try to find out. I just passed it to
Beckhart. I figure we might as well let his people do it.
We’ll have more people to watch our criticals.”
Moyshe lost several people on his shift. There was only one
incident with anyone who mattered. His people handled it perfectly,
and presented the would-be kidnapper to Beckhart’s
Marines.
The man turned out to be a frustrated newshawk trying to get
around Seiner and Confederation censors. Beckhart booted him off
planet.
Days ground by, producing no insoluble problems. The auction
bidding was wild. Prime ambergris nodes repeatedly brought record
prices. There were rumors that Confederation meant to get a
stranglehold on the trade. Outsiders and private industry wanted to
grab while the grabbing was good.
That rumor made Moyshe nervous. The way the Admiral shrugged it
off, he suspected the Bureau had an angle.
The war scare, if not genuine, was convincing. Confederation and
Ulantonid forces were marshaling on the boundaries of the March of
Ulant. People were getting scared.
Did they mean to fight one another? Or some third party? The
news people were wondering too. Luna Command had been leaking one
line of news one week, another the next.
News snoops became Moyshe’s biggest problem. They used
every trick to capitalize on an opportunity to approach real
Seiners. Moyshe did three interviews himself. Someone had tipped
the media that he was a former Bureau agent.
He refused interviews after someone discovered that he and Mouse
had been responsible for Jupp von Drachau’s famous raid in
the Hell Stars.
Then Seiners ceased to be newsworthy. The sword-rattling on the
frontier faded away.
Luna Command had admitted that a secret research station and its
entire solar system had been destroyed. The hitherto hypothetical
nova bomb had been developed there, and proven in unfortunate
circumstances.
Maybe there is a God, Moyshe thought. A loving God willing to
turn an insane weapon on its creators.
There was a tape of the disaster. Navy claimed it had been shot
by a supply vessel entering the system by happenstance. It got
hours of air play.
It was awesome, but there was something odd about it.
Moyshe could not shake the feeling that it had been faked.
Beckhart seemed to be amused by the whole thing. That was not
his style. Not in the face of a genuine disaster.
Moyshe was using a free minute to try digesting sixteen months
of back news when Amy walked into his trailer-office. “What
the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“That’s some greeting from a husband.” She
pouted. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.” She
pulled his rolling chair from behind his desk, spun him, and
plopped into his lap.
“I’m not. It’s too damned
dangerous.”
“You must’ve found yourself a girlfriend. Yeah. I
know all about you Navy men.”
“The danger . . . All right. I give
up.” He hugged her.
“Let me knosh on your neck, woman.”
There was a knock. “Up, girl. Enter.”
A harassed and apologetic youth bustled in. “Messages and
mail,” he said. “Looks like some real excitement
starting.”
“How so?”
“Read. Read.” The messenger folded his receipt and
left.
The top flimsy was a copy of a terse communique from Gruber. He
had sent a strong probing force toward Stars’ End. It had
been driven away by a combined force of Sangaree and McGraw
pirates. “Amy! Read that.”
She did. “What?”
“An alliance between the Sangaree and pirates?” He
initialed the copy, flipped it into Mouse’s In box.
The next flimsy was intriguing. Freehauler merchantmen off
Carson’s and Sierra reported that the Navy squadrons there
had taken hyper. He passed the copy to Amy.
“All Naval personnel here have had their liberties
cancelled. Two of the squadrons up top have been told to make ready
to space. What do you think?”
“The war thing about the break?”
He shrugged.
The only other item was a magazine, Literati, with
attached envelope hand-addressed to a Thomas McClennon, Captain,
CN.
It baffled Moyshe.
“I see you’ve been promoted,” Amy said.
Suspicion edged her voice. He glanced at her, surprised. Anger and
fear colored her face in turn.
“What the hell?” He set the envelope aside and
turned to the magazine’s contents page. Halfway down he
encountered the title, “All Who Were Before Me In
Jerusalem,” followed by the promoted name. “No,”
murmured, and, “I don’t understand this.”
“What is it?” Amy looked over his shoulder.
“Am I supposed to congratulate you? I don’t understand
what’s happening.”
“I don’t either, love. Believe me, I
don’t.” He slipped one arm around her waist, turned to
the story.
It was the version he had written aboard Danion, before
deciding to become a Seiner. How had the magazine obtained it?
He threw his thought train into reverse.
He had not packed the manuscript in any of the bags he had lost
when his gear had gone back to Confederation without him. Though he
had not seen the manuscript since then, he was sure it was in his
cabin. He had not moved it. He was absolutely certain he had
not.
“Amy, remember my story? The one you never could
understand? You know what happened to the manuscript?”
“No. I figured you trashed it. I didn’t ask because
I thought you’d get mad. I never gave you any time to write,
and I know you wanted to.”
He made a call to Security aboard Danion. Fifteen
minutes later he knew. The manuscript was not in his cabin.
Thinking it safely stowed away, he had not worried about it
before. He worried now.
Everything he and Mouse had learned about the Starfishers had
been in that manuscript, penned between the lines and on the backs
of sheets in invisible ink. If that had reached the
Bureau . . .
“Amy, that business with the Sangaree
failsafer . . . Come on. We’ve got to
talk to Jarl.” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her. He
snatched the flimsies from Mouse’s In tray.
“What are you mad about?” she asked. “Slow
down, Moyshe. You’re hurting me.”
“Hurry up. This’s important.”
They found Kindervoort at a place called
Pagliacci’s. It was a dusky, scenty, park-facing
restaurant where both Seiner and Confederation luminaries dined and
amused themselves by pumping one another over pasta and wine.
BenRabi pushed past the carabinier doorman, overran a spiffy maître
de, stalked across a darkly decorated main dining room, through
garlicy smells, to a small, private room in the rear. Admiral
Beckhart held court there these days.
He and Kindervoort were playing a game of fence-with-words.
Kindervoort was losing. He was relieved by Moyshe’s
appearance.
Moyshe slapped the papers down in front of Kindervoort.
“We’ve been had.”
Kindervoort scanned the top flimsy. “Where’re your
ships headed?” he asked Beckhart.
The Admiral chuckled. “I don’t ask you questions
like that. But not to worry, my friends. It doesn’t involve
your people. Not directly.” He chuckled again, like an old
man remembering some prank of his youth.
Kindervoort read the second flimsy, then thumbed through the
magazine. “I suppose you want me to congratulate you, Moyshe.
So congratulations.”
“Jarl, I didn’t finish that story till a couple days
before the landsmen went home. And I came into this mess graded
Commander. Someone had to put the story on the ship to
Carson’s.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t me that did. I left it out of my stuff
because it carried the notes I’d kept for
him.”
“Ah. I see.” Kindervoort considered Beckhart.
The Admiral smiled, asked, “This lovely lady your bride,
Thomas?”
Amy favored him with an uncertain smile.
“Watch him, honey. He’s another Mouse. He can charm
a cobra.”
Kindervoort stared and thought. Finally, he asked, “Did
they get anything critical?”
“I can’t remember. I think it was mostly social
observations. Like that. Impressions. Guesswork.”
“Sit down, Thomas,” Beckhart said. “Mrs.
McClennon. Drinks? Something to eat?”
“It’s benRabi now. Moyshe benRabi,” benRabi
grumbled.
“I’m used to McClennon, you know. Surely you
can’t expect an old dog to learn new tricks.” He rang
for service. “Mrs. McClennon, you’ve caught yourself a
pretty special man. I consider my men my boys. Like sons, so to
speak. And Thomas and Mouse are two of my favorites.” BenRabi
frowned. What was the man up to? “So, though he defected and
it hurts, I try to understand. I’m glad he finally found
someone. He needs you, Missy, so be good to him.”
Amy began to relax. Beckhart charmed her into giving him a
genuine smile.
“There we go. There we go. I recommend the spaghetti,
children. Astonishingly good for this far from nowhere.” Jarl
coughed, a none too subtle reminder that there was business to be
discussed.
“All right,” Beckhart said, turning to Kindervoort.
“I’m exercising an old man’s prerogative.
I’m changing my mind. I’m going to spill the facts
before there’s a bad misunderstanding.”
“Yes, do,” benRabi snapped.
“Thomas, Thomas, don’t be so damned hostile all the
time.” He sipped some wine. “First, let’s swing
back to the Ulantonid War. To their rationale for attacking
Confederation.
“Our blue friends are obsessed with the long run. Us apes,
the best we manage is a ten-year fleet modernization program, or a
twenty-year colonial development project. They figure technological
and sociological effects in terms of centuries. We’d save
ourselves a lot of trouble if we’d take a page from their
book. Thomas, sip your wine and be patient. I’m politely
getting to the point.
“What I want you to understand is they roam pretty far
afield in order to figure out what’s coming up the day after
next year.”
“What’s that got to do with whatever you’re up
to now?” Kindervoort asked.
“I’m getting there. I’m getting there. See.
This right here is what’s wrong with our species. We’re
always in such a damned hurry. We never look ahead. My point? Ulant
does. When the war hates settled down and we let them build ships
again, they resumed their deep probes.”
“So?” Moyshe said. He was trying to fly easy, but
for some reason he had a chill crawling his spine.
“Let an old man have his way, Thomas. It isn’t every
day I spout cosmic secrets in an Italian restaurant. Here it is,
then. About thirty years ago Ulant made an alien contact. This was
a long way in along The Arm. They eventually brought it to our
attention.
“People, this race makes our friends the Sangaree look
angelic. I’ve seen them in action myself. Really, words
can’t express it. What I mean to say is, I hope I don’t
have to see them again, here in our space. They’re bad,
people. Really bad. When they get done with a world there’s
nothing left bigger than a cockroach.”
The Admiral paused for effect. His audience did not respond. He
looked from face to face.
“That’s a bit much to swallow,” Moyshe
said.
“It is. Of course. It took us a while to bite when the
Blues brought it to us. By us I mean Luna Command. They knew better
than to go to that dungheap called a Diet. For a good many years
now, with the Minister the only civilian in the know, we’ve
been working with Ulant to get ready.”
BenRabi recalled his visit to Luna Command before drawing the
Starfisher assignment. The place had gone completely weird. The
tunnels had been filled with rumors of war, and crowded with
military folk from a variety of races and scores of human planets
beyond Confederation’s pale. Even then there had been the
smell of something big in the air.
“Then this confrontation with Ulant is a smoke screen? A
light show cooked up with Prime Defender so she and you people
could con bigger appropriations? Admiral, the first lesson pounded
into me at Academy was that the Services don’t make
policy.”
“Yep. And it’s the first lesson an officer unlearns,
Thomas. One of my staff boys quoted me a Roman soldier a while
back. ‘We are the Empire.’ Thomas, the Services
are Confederation. Those of us who have gotten old in our
jobs take that to heart. We make policy. Me, I shape the whole
Confederation outlook. I’m doing it right now, by talking
about this. It’s no big thing, though. The news is starting
to break. So many people are in the know now, truth can’t
hide. In three months every citizen will have seen tapes
documenting the murder of the world I
visited . . . I can run that tape for you if
you want. Just come over to headquarters sometime. Then you
won’t think I’m blowing smoke.”
“I don’t think it, I know it.” But
Moyshe was not sure. He had known the Admiral for a decade. He
never had seen the man more excited, or more intense. He had
assumed an aura, the way Mouse did when he talked about Sangaree.
“You talk like a man who’s found religion.”
Beckhart nodded. “You’re right. I’m getting
carried away. But I’ve seen it. It doesn’t make any
sense, and that’s why it’s so damned scary. They hop
from world to world, like galactic
exterminators . . . I’m doing it
again.
Sorry.”
“Why are you telling us now?” Kindervoort
demanded.
“Trying to shed some light on what we’re doing.
We’re going to make our first spoiling strike before the end
of the year. We have just a couple of things left to straighten out
before we move.”
BenRabi had a sudden, intense feeling of danger. Startled, he
glanced over his shoulder. There was no one behind him.
Beckhart’s explanation, mad as it sounded, did tie the
Bureau’s frantic behavior into a neat ball.
“What’s still on your job list?” Moyshe asked. He
glared at Beckhart, daring him to say something about
Starfishers.
The original assignment now made military sense. Communications
were the backbone of the fleet. Every ambergris node obtained would
improve Navy’s combat efficiency.
Beckhart surprised him again. “Sangaree, Thomas. The worms
that gnaw from within.”
Moyshe’s mental alarms jangled. “You don’t
expect the Sangaree to be a long-term problem?”
“No. Thanks to Mouse.”
“What?” Kindervoort and benRabi spoke together.
“Why were you sent to the Starfishers, Thomas?”
“To locate you a starfish herd. To get Navy a source of
ambergris it wouldn’t have to share.”
“So you thought. So you thought. Actually, incorporation
was a political goal, not military. It hasn’t been important
to Luna Command. We’ve known how to find Payne’s Fleet
for years. That’s right, Captain Kindervoort. Starfishers can
be recruited. I have agents aboard Danion. Thomas
suspected as much when he charged in here with his magazine. But
there was no pressing need to incorporate you. Grabbing a fleet
might have started a fatal uproar.
Nowadays . . . If I was a Starfisher who hoped
for a future in my business, I’d polish up on my
Confederation studies.”
Kindervoort smiled a thin, wicked smile. “I don’t
think we need to worry, Admiral.”
Beckhart winked at Moyshe, jerked his head to indicate
Kindervoort. “Doesn’t know me, does he? Thomas, the
mission was aimed at the Sangaree. You should have known.
That’s all Mouse works. Don’t interrupt your elders,
boy.”
BenRabi had intended to ask why he had been sent along.
“I thought the Starfishers, because they deal with the
Freehaulers and McGraws, might have a line on Homeworld too. My
guess was wrong, but my intuition was right.”
You’re lying, Moyshe thought. You’re editing the
past to fit the needs of the present. You knew, and controlled,
more than you’ll ever tell.
Beckhart said, “Mouse found what I needed. He got it out
of the astrogational computer of a mindburned raidship captured
at Stars’ End. He extracted the data and sent it out. Von
Drachau was given the attack mission. Judging from the fleet alert,
he pulled it off. He’s probably on his way home now, likely
with a mob chasing him. The pressure should ease for you at
Stars’ End, Jarl. You might not have to fight your way in
after all. You might say we’ve done you a favor.”
Beckhart leaned back in his chair, grinning at
Kindervoort’s consternation. “You can’t kid a
kidder, boy. We guessed what you were up to before you got here.
Our agents confirmed what we suspected.”
“If you knew that,” Moyshe said, “why
haven’t you given us any trouble? I’d think you’d
jump on Stars’ End like . . . ”
Kindervoort kicked him under the table.
“Several reasons, Thomas. We’re spread too thin
already, guarding against their raidships if they get too excited.
We’ve got no feud with you. And you can’t do anything
but get yourselves killed out there anyway. So why get
excited?”
BenRabi studied the old man. Beckhart was excited. What
else was up his sleeve? The theft of the Stars’ End weaponry
after the Seiners opened the planet?
Had Mouse reported their suspicion that the Seiners could manage
it?
Why was the Admiral here, now, instead of in Luna Command?
Stars’ End would be a damned good reason.
It came down to Mouse. Had Mouse simply yielded to his hatreds
and passed on the information about the Sangaree? Or was he still
reporting?
Kindervoort asked, “If you’re spread so thin, how
could you mount a raid on Homeworld?”
“It wasn’t a raid. It was a wipeout. Let’s say
the nova bomb disaster wasn’t as complete as the news people
have been led to believe. Let’s suppose a couple of the
weapons were taken out before the blowup. Let’s take it a
little further and speculate that a certain Jupp von Drachau
tumbled one into Homeworld’s sun.”
BenRabi snapped up out of his chair, breaking Amy’s sudden
iron grip on his arm. He stared over Beckhart’s head, into
cruel vistas of self-condemnation.
A whole solar system destroyed!
“You’re insane. You’re all insane.”
“I wish you could know how much soul-searching went into
the decision, Thomas. I honestly do. And, despite the Four slash
Six memo, I don’t think the decision would have been made had
it not been for the centerward race. Thomas? Come and see those
tapes before you judge us. All right?”
BenRabi ignored him. He was back to that failsafer day again.
How did Mouse get the manuscript out to Beckhart? Kindervoort had
watched them every second. Beckhart’s Seiner agents must have
handled it while Mouse was holding everyone’s attention.
He remembered a Seiner known as Grumpy George. Old George was a
coin collector. He and Moyshe had done business several times.
George had had a superb collection. He had claimed to have made an
outstandingly lucky “blind” purchase during an auction
held on The Big Rock Candy Mountain, years ago.
Any truly devoted collector was vulnerable. And George was an
obsessive.
This same George had come to Angel City with the first group of
tourists. He had stopped by the office to ask about hobby shops.
Moyshe had passed him on to Storm. Mouse had given him a list.
“How many hobby shops does the Bureau run,
Admiral?”
Beckhart’s eyebrows leapt upward. “Damn,
‘Thomas. But you always were intuitive. Just one these days.
Oddly enough, it’s right here in Angel City.”
“In other words, the place has served its
purpose.”
Beckhart leaned toward Kindervoort. “You see why he made
Captain so young?”
Kindervoort simply looked baffled.
An ulcer that had not bothered Moyshe for a year took a sudden
bite from his gut.
Someone pounded on the door. “Mr. benRabi, are you
there?”
“Come in. What’s up?”
“Someone just tried to kill Mister Storm.”
“What? How?”
“It was a woman, sir. She just came up and started
shooting.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes sir. He took off after her. She headed into Old
Town.”
Old Town was that part of Angel City which had lain under the
first settlers’ dome. Today it was largely a warehouse
district. It was the base of the city’s small underworld.
“You think it’s the Sangaree woman?”
Kindervoort asked.
“Marya? A grudge like that is the only thing that would
set Mouse off,” benRabi replied.
“How could she be here?” Amy demanded.
“I’d better go dig him out,” Moyshe said.
“If it’s all right with you, Jarl?”
“It’s your shift. Do what you want.”
“Amy, stay with Jarl.” Moyshe told the messenger,
“Find me six off-duty volunteers. Tell them to meet me
outside my office. Armed.”
“Yes sir.”
Moyshe bent, kissed Amy. “In a little while, hon.”
He wished he could have been a more loving husband lately. Events
had permitted them only the most brusque of relationships.
He caught Beckhart giving him an odd look. A baffled,
questioning look.
What did that mean? Puzzled, he went to the door.
He paused there, glanced back. Kindervoort and Amy were sipping
their drinks, lost within themselves. Poor Jarl. The pressures here
were too much for him. He was becoming less and less active, more
and more a figurehead. Was it cultural shock?
He would survive. He would make a comeback in his own milieu. He
did not worry Moyshe.
His concern was the almost magical disappearance of the Admiral
while his back was turned.
He hated to admit it. He loved that old man like a father. Their
relationship had that attraction-repulsion of father-son tension.
But he could not trust the man. They were of different tribes
now.
He had to hurry if he meant to stay ahead of Beckhart.
He was a block from the restaurant when he encountered the first
poster. It clung crookedly to the flank of a Marine personnel
carrier. He trotted past before it registered. He stopped, spun
around. His eyes widened.
Yes. The face of a woman, a meter high, smiled at him.
“Alyce . . . ” he croaked. Wham! Darkness slammed home. He no longer knew where or
who he was. He staggered past the carrier, went down on one
knee.
His head cleared. He was in Angel
City . . . He looked behind him. There was a
man following him . . . No. That was last time.
Or was it?
For a moment he was not sure if he was Gundaker Niven or Moyshe
benRabi. Somebody was trying to kill Gundaker
Niven . . .
He shook his head violently. The mists cleared. Which name he
wore did not matter. Niven. McClennon. Perchevski. BenRabi. Any of
the others. The enemy remained the same.
He returned to the personnel carrier. The poster was gone. He
circled the quiet machine. He could find no evidence one had
existed.
“What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered. He
resumed trotting toward his headquarters.
He encountered the second poster fewer than fifty meters from
his office trailer. It clung to the side of one of the tents his
people used for quarters. He reacted just as he had before. He came
out of it clinging to a tree, gasping like a man who had almost
drowned. The poster was gone.
Had it ever existed? he wondered.
The fragile stability he had constructed with Chub’s help
was fraying. Was he in for a bad fall?
He clambered into his trailer like a man carrying an extra fifty
kilos, dropped into his swivel chair. His heart hammered. His ears
pounded. He was scared. He closed his eyes and searched his mind
for a clue to what was happening. He found nothing.
It had to be this contact with his past. The benRabi personality
was not really him. It could not withstand the strain of the milieu
of Thomas McClennon.
Then he noticed the envelope lying on his desk. The envelope
that had been attached to the magazine Literati.
He stared as if it were poisonous. He tried to back away. One
hand stole forward.
It was from Greta Helsung, the girl he had sponsored in Academy.
His pseudo-daughter. It was a grateful, anxious, friendly missive,
seven pages of tight script reviewing her progress in Academy, and
her continual fears for his safety. She knew that he had been
captured by enemies of Confederation. His friends had promised they
would rescue him. They would get her letter to him. And this, and
that, and she loved him, and all his friends in Luna Command were
well and happy and pulling for him, and she hoped she would see him
soon. There were several photographs of an attractive young blond
in Navy blacks. She looked happy.
There was also a note from an old girlfriend. Max expressed the
same sentiments with more reserve.
What were they trying to do? Why couldn’t yesterday let
him be?
Greta had such a cute, winsome
smile . . .
He sealed his eyes and fought to escape the conflicting
emotions.
He began to feel very cold, then to shake. Then to be terribly
afraid.
Beckhart’s word proved good. Angel City was quiet. Central
Park, a recreational area at the city’s heart, had been
equipped with field tents, trailers, and miscellany the Admiral had
borrowed from the Corps. Storm and benRabi set up for business
before noon.
“Mouse,” benRabi said, “you get the feeling
we’re being rushed?”
“It’s not a feeling, Moyshe. It’s a
fact.”
“How do we stall?”
Men with briefcases were lining up to obtain the little catalogs
Moyshe’s team had brought along. “Buy time,” Jarl
had said. It did not look like they would be given a chance. The
various purchasing agents, impelled by the war scare, wanted the
bidding to begin right away.
The Marines proved to be perfect policemen. They helped
immeasurably. They showed favoritism only to Starfisher tourists.
The Admiral seemed determined to avoid a significant incident, and
to help the local shopkeepers relieve the Seiner sightseers of all
their hard currency.
Storm lost his first tourist their second day on The Broken
Wings. The man turned up again before Mouse learned that he had
been taken. He was none the worse for wear. He was a mess cook from
Danion who knew nothing anyone wanted to know.
“It’s started,” Mouse told benRabi when Moyshe
relieved him. “Make sure everybody checks in before they
wander off. Check their passes. The ones we have to watch have been
given a red one.”
“You know who grabbed the man?”
“No. I didn’t try to find out. I just passed it to
Beckhart. I figure we might as well let his people do it.
We’ll have more people to watch our criticals.”
Moyshe lost several people on his shift. There was only one
incident with anyone who mattered. His people handled it perfectly,
and presented the would-be kidnapper to Beckhart’s
Marines.
The man turned out to be a frustrated newshawk trying to get
around Seiner and Confederation censors. Beckhart booted him off
planet.
Days ground by, producing no insoluble problems. The auction
bidding was wild. Prime ambergris nodes repeatedly brought record
prices. There were rumors that Confederation meant to get a
stranglehold on the trade. Outsiders and private industry wanted to
grab while the grabbing was good.
That rumor made Moyshe nervous. The way the Admiral shrugged it
off, he suspected the Bureau had an angle.
The war scare, if not genuine, was convincing. Confederation and
Ulantonid forces were marshaling on the boundaries of the March of
Ulant. People were getting scared.
Did they mean to fight one another? Or some third party? The
news people were wondering too. Luna Command had been leaking one
line of news one week, another the next.
News snoops became Moyshe’s biggest problem. They used
every trick to capitalize on an opportunity to approach real
Seiners. Moyshe did three interviews himself. Someone had tipped
the media that he was a former Bureau agent.
He refused interviews after someone discovered that he and Mouse
had been responsible for Jupp von Drachau’s famous raid in
the Hell Stars.
Then Seiners ceased to be newsworthy. The sword-rattling on the
frontier faded away.
Luna Command had admitted that a secret research station and its
entire solar system had been destroyed. The hitherto hypothetical
nova bomb had been developed there, and proven in unfortunate
circumstances.
Maybe there is a God, Moyshe thought. A loving God willing to
turn an insane weapon on its creators.
There was a tape of the disaster. Navy claimed it had been shot
by a supply vessel entering the system by happenstance. It got
hours of air play.
It was awesome, but there was something odd about it.
Moyshe could not shake the feeling that it had been faked.
Beckhart seemed to be amused by the whole thing. That was not
his style. Not in the face of a genuine disaster.
Moyshe was using a free minute to try digesting sixteen months
of back news when Amy walked into his trailer-office. “What
the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
“That’s some greeting from a husband.” She
pouted. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.” She
pulled his rolling chair from behind his desk, spun him, and
plopped into his lap.
“I’m not. It’s too damned
dangerous.”
“You must’ve found yourself a girlfriend. Yeah. I
know all about you Navy men.”
“The danger . . . All right. I give
up.” He hugged her.
“Let me knosh on your neck, woman.”
There was a knock. “Up, girl. Enter.”
A harassed and apologetic youth bustled in. “Messages and
mail,” he said. “Looks like some real excitement
starting.”
“How so?”
“Read. Read.” The messenger folded his receipt and
left.
The top flimsy was a copy of a terse communique from Gruber. He
had sent a strong probing force toward Stars’ End. It had
been driven away by a combined force of Sangaree and McGraw
pirates. “Amy! Read that.”
She did. “What?”
“An alliance between the Sangaree and pirates?” He
initialed the copy, flipped it into Mouse’s In box.
The next flimsy was intriguing. Freehauler merchantmen off
Carson’s and Sierra reported that the Navy squadrons there
had taken hyper. He passed the copy to Amy.
“All Naval personnel here have had their liberties
cancelled. Two of the squadrons up top have been told to make ready
to space. What do you think?”
“The war thing about the break?”
He shrugged.
The only other item was a magazine, Literati, with
attached envelope hand-addressed to a Thomas McClennon, Captain,
CN.
It baffled Moyshe.
“I see you’ve been promoted,” Amy said.
Suspicion edged her voice. He glanced at her, surprised. Anger and
fear colored her face in turn.
“What the hell?” He set the envelope aside and
turned to the magazine’s contents page. Halfway down he
encountered the title, “All Who Were Before Me In
Jerusalem,” followed by the promoted name. “No,”
murmured, and, “I don’t understand this.”
“What is it?” Amy looked over his shoulder.
“Am I supposed to congratulate you? I don’t understand
what’s happening.”
“I don’t either, love. Believe me, I
don’t.” He slipped one arm around her waist, turned to
the story.
It was the version he had written aboard Danion, before
deciding to become a Seiner. How had the magazine obtained it?
He threw his thought train into reverse.
He had not packed the manuscript in any of the bags he had lost
when his gear had gone back to Confederation without him. Though he
had not seen the manuscript since then, he was sure it was in his
cabin. He had not moved it. He was absolutely certain he had
not.
“Amy, remember my story? The one you never could
understand? You know what happened to the manuscript?”
“No. I figured you trashed it. I didn’t ask because
I thought you’d get mad. I never gave you any time to write,
and I know you wanted to.”
He made a call to Security aboard Danion. Fifteen
minutes later he knew. The manuscript was not in his cabin.
Thinking it safely stowed away, he had not worried about it
before. He worried now.
Everything he and Mouse had learned about the Starfishers had
been in that manuscript, penned between the lines and on the backs
of sheets in invisible ink. If that had reached the
Bureau . . .
“Amy, that business with the Sangaree
failsafer . . . Come on. We’ve got to
talk to Jarl.” He grabbed her wrist and dragged her. He
snatched the flimsies from Mouse’s In tray.
“What are you mad about?” she asked. “Slow
down, Moyshe. You’re hurting me.”
“Hurry up. This’s important.”
They found Kindervoort at a place called
Pagliacci’s. It was a dusky, scenty, park-facing
restaurant where both Seiner and Confederation luminaries dined and
amused themselves by pumping one another over pasta and wine.
BenRabi pushed past the carabinier doorman, overran a spiffy maître
de, stalked across a darkly decorated main dining room, through
garlicy smells, to a small, private room in the rear. Admiral
Beckhart held court there these days.
He and Kindervoort were playing a game of fence-with-words.
Kindervoort was losing. He was relieved by Moyshe’s
appearance.
Moyshe slapped the papers down in front of Kindervoort.
“We’ve been had.”
Kindervoort scanned the top flimsy. “Where’re your
ships headed?” he asked Beckhart.
The Admiral chuckled. “I don’t ask you questions
like that. But not to worry, my friends. It doesn’t involve
your people. Not directly.” He chuckled again, like an old
man remembering some prank of his youth.
Kindervoort read the second flimsy, then thumbed through the
magazine. “I suppose you want me to congratulate you, Moyshe.
So congratulations.”
“Jarl, I didn’t finish that story till a couple days
before the landsmen went home. And I came into this mess graded
Commander. Someone had to put the story on the ship to
Carson’s.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t me that did. I left it out of my stuff
because it carried the notes I’d kept for
him.”
“Ah. I see.” Kindervoort considered Beckhart.
The Admiral smiled, asked, “This lovely lady your bride,
Thomas?”
Amy favored him with an uncertain smile.
“Watch him, honey. He’s another Mouse. He can charm
a cobra.”
Kindervoort stared and thought. Finally, he asked, “Did
they get anything critical?”
“I can’t remember. I think it was mostly social
observations. Like that. Impressions. Guesswork.”
“Sit down, Thomas,” Beckhart said. “Mrs.
McClennon. Drinks? Something to eat?”
“It’s benRabi now. Moyshe benRabi,” benRabi
grumbled.
“I’m used to McClennon, you know. Surely you
can’t expect an old dog to learn new tricks.” He rang
for service. “Mrs. McClennon, you’ve caught yourself a
pretty special man. I consider my men my boys. Like sons, so to
speak. And Thomas and Mouse are two of my favorites.” BenRabi
frowned. What was the man up to? “So, though he defected and
it hurts, I try to understand. I’m glad he finally found
someone. He needs you, Missy, so be good to him.”
Amy began to relax. Beckhart charmed her into giving him a
genuine smile.
“There we go. There we go. I recommend the spaghetti,
children. Astonishingly good for this far from nowhere.” Jarl
coughed, a none too subtle reminder that there was business to be
discussed.
“All right,” Beckhart said, turning to Kindervoort.
“I’m exercising an old man’s prerogative.
I’m changing my mind. I’m going to spill the facts
before there’s a bad misunderstanding.”
“Yes, do,” benRabi snapped.
“Thomas, Thomas, don’t be so damned hostile all the
time.” He sipped some wine. “First, let’s swing
back to the Ulantonid War. To their rationale for attacking
Confederation.
“Our blue friends are obsessed with the long run. Us apes,
the best we manage is a ten-year fleet modernization program, or a
twenty-year colonial development project. They figure technological
and sociological effects in terms of centuries. We’d save
ourselves a lot of trouble if we’d take a page from their
book. Thomas, sip your wine and be patient. I’m politely
getting to the point.
“What I want you to understand is they roam pretty far
afield in order to figure out what’s coming up the day after
next year.”
“What’s that got to do with whatever you’re up
to now?” Kindervoort asked.
“I’m getting there. I’m getting there. See.
This right here is what’s wrong with our species. We’re
always in such a damned hurry. We never look ahead. My point? Ulant
does. When the war hates settled down and we let them build ships
again, they resumed their deep probes.”
“So?” Moyshe said. He was trying to fly easy, but
for some reason he had a chill crawling his spine.
“Let an old man have his way, Thomas. It isn’t every
day I spout cosmic secrets in an Italian restaurant. Here it is,
then. About thirty years ago Ulant made an alien contact. This was
a long way in along The Arm. They eventually brought it to our
attention.
“People, this race makes our friends the Sangaree look
angelic. I’ve seen them in action myself. Really, words
can’t express it. What I mean to say is, I hope I don’t
have to see them again, here in our space. They’re bad,
people. Really bad. When they get done with a world there’s
nothing left bigger than a cockroach.”
The Admiral paused for effect. His audience did not respond. He
looked from face to face.
“That’s a bit much to swallow,” Moyshe
said.
“It is. Of course. It took us a while to bite when the
Blues brought it to us. By us I mean Luna Command. They knew better
than to go to that dungheap called a Diet. For a good many years
now, with the Minister the only civilian in the know, we’ve
been working with Ulant to get ready.”
BenRabi recalled his visit to Luna Command before drawing the
Starfisher assignment. The place had gone completely weird. The
tunnels had been filled with rumors of war, and crowded with
military folk from a variety of races and scores of human planets
beyond Confederation’s pale. Even then there had been the
smell of something big in the air.
“Then this confrontation with Ulant is a smoke screen? A
light show cooked up with Prime Defender so she and you people
could con bigger appropriations? Admiral, the first lesson pounded
into me at Academy was that the Services don’t make
policy.”
“Yep. And it’s the first lesson an officer unlearns,
Thomas. One of my staff boys quoted me a Roman soldier a while
back. ‘We are the Empire.’ Thomas, the Services
are Confederation. Those of us who have gotten old in our
jobs take that to heart. We make policy. Me, I shape the whole
Confederation outlook. I’m doing it right now, by talking
about this. It’s no big thing, though. The news is starting
to break. So many people are in the know now, truth can’t
hide. In three months every citizen will have seen tapes
documenting the murder of the world I
visited . . . I can run that tape for you if
you want. Just come over to headquarters sometime. Then you
won’t think I’m blowing smoke.”
“I don’t think it, I know it.” But
Moyshe was not sure. He had known the Admiral for a decade. He
never had seen the man more excited, or more intense. He had
assumed an aura, the way Mouse did when he talked about Sangaree.
“You talk like a man who’s found religion.”
Beckhart nodded. “You’re right. I’m getting
carried away. But I’ve seen it. It doesn’t make any
sense, and that’s why it’s so damned scary. They hop
from world to world, like galactic
exterminators . . . I’m doing it
again.
Sorry.”
“Why are you telling us now?” Kindervoort
demanded.
“Trying to shed some light on what we’re doing.
We’re going to make our first spoiling strike before the end
of the year. We have just a couple of things left to straighten out
before we move.”
BenRabi had a sudden, intense feeling of danger. Startled, he
glanced over his shoulder. There was no one behind him.
Beckhart’s explanation, mad as it sounded, did tie the
Bureau’s frantic behavior into a neat ball.
“What’s still on your job list?” Moyshe asked. He
glared at Beckhart, daring him to say something about
Starfishers.
The original assignment now made military sense. Communications
were the backbone of the fleet. Every ambergris node obtained would
improve Navy’s combat efficiency.
Beckhart surprised him again. “Sangaree, Thomas. The worms
that gnaw from within.”
Moyshe’s mental alarms jangled. “You don’t
expect the Sangaree to be a long-term problem?”
“No. Thanks to Mouse.”
“What?” Kindervoort and benRabi spoke together.
“Why were you sent to the Starfishers, Thomas?”
“To locate you a starfish herd. To get Navy a source of
ambergris it wouldn’t have to share.”
“So you thought. So you thought. Actually, incorporation
was a political goal, not military. It hasn’t been important
to Luna Command. We’ve known how to find Payne’s Fleet
for years. That’s right, Captain Kindervoort. Starfishers can
be recruited. I have agents aboard Danion. Thomas
suspected as much when he charged in here with his magazine. But
there was no pressing need to incorporate you. Grabbing a fleet
might have started a fatal uproar.
Nowadays . . . If I was a Starfisher who hoped
for a future in my business, I’d polish up on my
Confederation studies.”
Kindervoort smiled a thin, wicked smile. “I don’t
think we need to worry, Admiral.”
Beckhart winked at Moyshe, jerked his head to indicate
Kindervoort. “Doesn’t know me, does he? Thomas, the
mission was aimed at the Sangaree. You should have known.
That’s all Mouse works. Don’t interrupt your elders,
boy.”
BenRabi had intended to ask why he had been sent along.
“I thought the Starfishers, because they deal with the
Freehaulers and McGraws, might have a line on Homeworld too. My
guess was wrong, but my intuition was right.”
You’re lying, Moyshe thought. You’re editing the
past to fit the needs of the present. You knew, and controlled,
more than you’ll ever tell.
Beckhart said, “Mouse found what I needed. He got it out
of the astrogational computer of a mindburned raidship captured
at Stars’ End. He extracted the data and sent it out. Von
Drachau was given the attack mission. Judging from the fleet alert,
he pulled it off. He’s probably on his way home now, likely
with a mob chasing him. The pressure should ease for you at
Stars’ End, Jarl. You might not have to fight your way in
after all. You might say we’ve done you a favor.”
Beckhart leaned back in his chair, grinning at
Kindervoort’s consternation. “You can’t kid a
kidder, boy. We guessed what you were up to before you got here.
Our agents confirmed what we suspected.”
“If you knew that,” Moyshe said, “why
haven’t you given us any trouble? I’d think you’d
jump on Stars’ End like . . . ”
Kindervoort kicked him under the table.
“Several reasons, Thomas. We’re spread too thin
already, guarding against their raidships if they get too excited.
We’ve got no feud with you. And you can’t do anything
but get yourselves killed out there anyway. So why get
excited?”
BenRabi studied the old man. Beckhart was excited. What
else was up his sleeve? The theft of the Stars’ End weaponry
after the Seiners opened the planet?
Had Mouse reported their suspicion that the Seiners could manage
it?
Why was the Admiral here, now, instead of in Luna Command?
Stars’ End would be a damned good reason.
It came down to Mouse. Had Mouse simply yielded to his hatreds
and passed on the information about the Sangaree? Or was he still
reporting?
Kindervoort asked, “If you’re spread so thin, how
could you mount a raid on Homeworld?”
“It wasn’t a raid. It was a wipeout. Let’s say
the nova bomb disaster wasn’t as complete as the news people
have been led to believe. Let’s suppose a couple of the
weapons were taken out before the blowup. Let’s take it a
little further and speculate that a certain Jupp von Drachau
tumbled one into Homeworld’s sun.”
BenRabi snapped up out of his chair, breaking Amy’s sudden
iron grip on his arm. He stared over Beckhart’s head, into
cruel vistas of self-condemnation.
A whole solar system destroyed!
“You’re insane. You’re all insane.”
“I wish you could know how much soul-searching went into
the decision, Thomas. I honestly do. And, despite the Four slash
Six memo, I don’t think the decision would have been made had
it not been for the centerward race. Thomas? Come and see those
tapes before you judge us. All right?”
BenRabi ignored him. He was back to that failsafer day again.
How did Mouse get the manuscript out to Beckhart? Kindervoort had
watched them every second. Beckhart’s Seiner agents must have
handled it while Mouse was holding everyone’s attention.
He remembered a Seiner known as Grumpy George. Old George was a
coin collector. He and Moyshe had done business several times.
George had had a superb collection. He had claimed to have made an
outstandingly lucky “blind” purchase during an auction
held on The Big Rock Candy Mountain, years ago.
Any truly devoted collector was vulnerable. And George was an
obsessive.
This same George had come to Angel City with the first group of
tourists. He had stopped by the office to ask about hobby shops.
Moyshe had passed him on to Storm. Mouse had given him a list.
“How many hobby shops does the Bureau run,
Admiral?”
Beckhart’s eyebrows leapt upward. “Damn,
‘Thomas. But you always were intuitive. Just one these days.
Oddly enough, it’s right here in Angel City.”
“In other words, the place has served its
purpose.”
Beckhart leaned toward Kindervoort. “You see why he made
Captain so young?”
Kindervoort simply looked baffled.
An ulcer that had not bothered Moyshe for a year took a sudden
bite from his gut.
Someone pounded on the door. “Mr. benRabi, are you
there?”
“Come in. What’s up?”
“Someone just tried to kill Mister Storm.”
“What? How?”
“It was a woman, sir. She just came up and started
shooting.”
“Is he all right?”
“Yes sir. He took off after her. She headed into Old
Town.”
Old Town was that part of Angel City which had lain under the
first settlers’ dome. Today it was largely a warehouse
district. It was the base of the city’s small underworld.
“You think it’s the Sangaree woman?”
Kindervoort asked.
“Marya? A grudge like that is the only thing that would
set Mouse off,” benRabi replied.
“How could she be here?” Amy demanded.
“I’d better go dig him out,” Moyshe said.
“If it’s all right with you, Jarl?”
“It’s your shift. Do what you want.”
“Amy, stay with Jarl.” Moyshe told the messenger,
“Find me six off-duty volunteers. Tell them to meet me
outside my office. Armed.”
“Yes sir.”
Moyshe bent, kissed Amy. “In a little while, hon.”
He wished he could have been a more loving husband lately. Events
had permitted them only the most brusque of relationships.
He caught Beckhart giving him an odd look. A baffled,
questioning look.
What did that mean? Puzzled, he went to the door.
He paused there, glanced back. Kindervoort and Amy were sipping
their drinks, lost within themselves. Poor Jarl. The pressures here
were too much for him. He was becoming less and less active, more
and more a figurehead. Was it cultural shock?
He would survive. He would make a comeback in his own milieu. He
did not worry Moyshe.
His concern was the almost magical disappearance of the Admiral
while his back was turned.
He hated to admit it. He loved that old man like a father. Their
relationship had that attraction-repulsion of father-son tension.
But he could not trust the man. They were of different tribes
now.
He had to hurry if he meant to stay ahead of Beckhart.
He was a block from the restaurant when he encountered the first
poster. It clung crookedly to the flank of a Marine personnel
carrier. He trotted past before it registered. He stopped, spun
around. His eyes widened.
Yes. The face of a woman, a meter high, smiled at him.
“Alyce . . . ” he croaked. Wham! Darkness slammed home. He no longer knew where or
who he was. He staggered past the carrier, went down on one
knee.
His head cleared. He was in Angel
City . . . He looked behind him. There was a
man following him . . . No. That was last time.
Or was it?
For a moment he was not sure if he was Gundaker Niven or Moyshe
benRabi. Somebody was trying to kill Gundaker
Niven . . .
He shook his head violently. The mists cleared. Which name he
wore did not matter. Niven. McClennon. Perchevski. BenRabi. Any of
the others. The enemy remained the same.
He returned to the personnel carrier. The poster was gone. He
circled the quiet machine. He could find no evidence one had
existed.
“What the hell is happening to me?” he muttered. He
resumed trotting toward his headquarters.
He encountered the second poster fewer than fifty meters from
his office trailer. It clung to the side of one of the tents his
people used for quarters. He reacted just as he had before. He came
out of it clinging to a tree, gasping like a man who had almost
drowned. The poster was gone.
Had it ever existed? he wondered.
The fragile stability he had constructed with Chub’s help
was fraying. Was he in for a bad fall?
He clambered into his trailer like a man carrying an extra fifty
kilos, dropped into his swivel chair. His heart hammered. His ears
pounded. He was scared. He closed his eyes and searched his mind
for a clue to what was happening. He found nothing.
It had to be this contact with his past. The benRabi personality
was not really him. It could not withstand the strain of the milieu
of Thomas McClennon.
Then he noticed the envelope lying on his desk. The envelope
that had been attached to the magazine Literati.
He stared as if it were poisonous. He tried to back away. One
hand stole forward.
It was from Greta Helsung, the girl he had sponsored in Academy.
His pseudo-daughter. It was a grateful, anxious, friendly missive,
seven pages of tight script reviewing her progress in Academy, and
her continual fears for his safety. She knew that he had been
captured by enemies of Confederation. His friends had promised they
would rescue him. They would get her letter to him. And this, and
that, and she loved him, and all his friends in Luna Command were
well and happy and pulling for him, and she hoped she would see him
soon. There were several photographs of an attractive young blond
in Navy blacks. She looked happy.
There was also a note from an old girlfriend. Max expressed the
same sentiments with more reserve.
What were they trying to do? Why couldn’t yesterday let
him be?
Greta had such a cute, winsome
smile . . .
He sealed his eyes and fought to escape the conflicting
emotions.
He began to feel very cold, then to shake. Then to be terribly
afraid.