Fate of Worlds: Return From the Ringworld

numbers.

A console computer generated the corresponding response and Achilles tapped SEND.

“Confirmed,” Proteus sang. “Traffic Control, you may resume.”

“This is Minister Achilles requesting prioritized clearance to Harmonious Field.”

“Very well,” the controller sang tremulously. “You are cleared for immediate landing.”

Achilles landed Poseidon. Moments after the ship grounded, Citizens emerged, quavering, from stepping discs embedded in the tarmac. He stepped from his ship to appear among his greeters. Sashes and coveralls identified them as spaceport workers.

One stepped forward. “Welcome, Minister. We hope your test went satisfactorily.”

“Very well, thank you,” Achilles sang.

They lowered their heads subserviently and waited.

“Very well,” he repeated. Because while Proteus performed as expected, even one ship deviating from routine sufficed to panic you. “If you will excuse me, official matters require my attention.”

A tongueprint and wriggle of lip nodes retrieved a protected address from his transport controller. He stepped from the tarmac directly to the security foyer of the private residence of the Hindmost.

* * *

GUARDS ESCORTED ACHILLES through the residence to Horatius’ private office. Achilles knew the room well — and disdained these bland and minimalist furnishings. Scattered cushions and one massive oval desk did not suffice. Not for a Hindmost’s office.

“Leave us,” Horatius sang.

“Yes, Hindmost,” the senior guard responded. The squad retreated, shutting the door behind them.

“I asked you here to see me, not set off a panic,” Horatius began without preamble. Displeasure did nothing to shorten his would-be portentous pauses.

“Our defenses require realistic testing,” Achilles sang.

“Chiron would likely agree with you.” Horatius settled onto a mound of pillows. “He proposes a significant expansion, to be implemented within the next hundred days.”

Proposes. It was all Achilles could do not to look himself in the eyes. This was the sort of suggestion no Hindmost dare ignore. “Why did you invite me?”

“To oversee the changes to Proteus, as you doubtless realize.” Annoying pause. “Why do you bother to pretend otherwise?”

As a reminder, Horatius, that you need me. That Ol’t’ro needs me. “By your very welcome, this proposal is sound. You sang that with a single ship, I caused a panic. What would have been the response to an entire Kzinti fleet?”

His necks trembling, Horatius managed not to pluck at his unimaginatively braided mane. “We would surrender, of course. Any sane ruler would.”

“Only Ol’t’ro will not allow surrender, will they?”

“That is why you are here,” Horatius admitted.

Remember that. “To expand our defenses will entail significant resources.”

“You will have them,” Horatius sang.

“And there will be more unannounced tests like you saw today, some involving more than one ship. Respectfully” — that chord was a twisted, ironic lie — “can you govern in those circumstances?”

Horatius stood tall, hooves set far apart. “I am Hindmost.”

“So you are.” But you are not up to the task. “But you need not carry that burden.”

The longest pause yet, but this time Achilles chose to interpret the silence as his offer being considered. “I am Hindmost,” Horatius finally sang.

Achilles sensed further nuance in the harmonics. A yearning? A moment of temptation? “War amid the worlds of the Fleet is unprecedented. How can any Conservative preside at such a time?”

“I am Hindmost,” Horatius repeated.

The grace notes of pain in that repetition were unmistakable.

27

Sigmund picked at his dinner, the little he had managed to eat burning in his gut like molten lead. There were only so many ways to convey, “I don’t know,” and “Sorry, I can’t tell you that.” He had used them all.

“It’s not fair, Dad,” Hermes said. His face was weathered and tanned from years of farming. “I spent my childhood wondering if you would make it back home. I grew up watching Mom struggling to put on a brave face for Athena and me. Now my daughter is the one out … somewhere, the one out of contact.”

And she’s my granddaughter. I do understand, son. “I can only tell you that Julia is well, that she’s doing work you can be proud of. I’m sorry, but I can’t say more.”

“You won’t say more,” Amelia chided.

His daughter-in-law normally had a wicked sense of humor. She was a communications engineer and twice as smart as Sigmund — just ask her. Amelia didn’t very much like Sigmund and the feeling was mutual. But she loved Hermes and his son loved her, and together they had raised one heck of a fine bunch of children. Sigmund’s dislike of Amelia did not matter.

Today she was one hundred percent an aggrieved mom, and Sigmund was as close as she could get to the people who had put her child at risk. Had Amelia only known, he was one of them. Her dinner also looked stirred and untasted.

“Well?” she prodded.

“I won’t say more,” Sigmund conceded.

“Will she come home soon?” Amelia tried again. “Is she in danger, Sigmund?”

She’s in a war zone, far, far away. If he could answer truthfully, it wouldn’t help. “She’ll be fine,” Sigmund said, knowing the words were hollow.

His pocket buzzed. “Excuse me.” He retrieved his comp.

Come now. The text was from Norquist-Ng.

“Is that about Julia?” Amelia asked.

Certain that it was, Sigmund said, “I don’t know,” once more. “I have to go, though. Thanks for dinner.”

From a stepping disc just outside Hermes and Amelia’s front door, he flicked to the Ministry.

* * *

“IT’S MY FAULT,” Julia said. She looked drained, beaten. “I take full responsibility.”

Norquist-Ng paused the playback. “What do you think?”

Sigmund looked around the private office, glad to be rid of the usual hangers-on. I think that Alice took matters into her own hands, Minister, because you took matters into yours. And that had I gone aboard Endurance, Alice would be here, alive.

On whose hands was the blood thickest?

“I’d like to speak with Julia,” Sigmund said.

“The news won’t get any better, but all right.” Changing tone, Norquist-Ng directed, “Jeeves, hail Koala and ask for a secure link to our captain.”

Though it took only minutes, the wait seemed interminable. Finally, a holo opened: Julia, in a nondescript, closet-sized cabin, looking even more dejected than in her message. Something about her surroundings — proportions? furnishings? the wall color? — shouted that this wasn’t any New Terran vessel.

“We have your report,” Norquist-Ng said abruptly. “We have questions.”

“Yes, Minister.” She swallowed. “Grandpa. It isn’t good.”

“Start at the beginning,” Sigmund suggested.

“Yes, sir. Endurance was fueled up for the trip home, but low on feedstock for the synthesizer. We’d been communicating with an ARM ship, Koala, so Alice suggested we ask if they had feedstock or food to spare.” Julia sighed. “Unfortunately, they did.