Fate of Worlds: Return From the Ringworld

“You’re not supposed to be telling me, obviously.” Amelia rested a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Sigmund. But what do you mean about keeping her that way? And where is she?”

He sat on the hard-packed sand. After a brief hesitation, she settled beside him.

“The least of the matter is that I’m about to disclose classified material. I’ve smuggled spy gear into government buildings and recorded meetings illegally.”

“You’re scaring me, Sigmund. Just tell me. Please?”

He did. About Julia taking Endurance farther than any New Terran ship had gone in generations. About the Ringworld and the war fleets there watching. About contact made with Earth ships. About the theft of Endurance and, as sad as it made him, Alice’s death. About Koala’s coming visit and the strict ban on releasing any of this to the public.

“And you recorded all this?”

“Much of it.”

“I’ve pleaded for weeks for information about Julia. So why open up now? And why just me? Hermes deserves to know about our daughter, too.”

“Because what I’ve done is illegal.” Sigmund took a deep breath. “But not nearly as illegal as the things I fear — or as the help I need from you.”

* * *

THE COLOR/PATTERN/TEXTURE PARAMETERS of spaceport worker uniforms were not as counterfeit- resistant as the Defense Ministry’s holographic badges, but the watered appearance of the moire “fabric” far exceeded Sigmund’s artistic skills. Rather than risk hacking for the uniform software, Sigmund had taken pictures from a distance. Jeeves turned the deconstructed images into downloads for Sigmund’s generic programmable jumpsuit.

“Is this close?” Sigmund asked. His faux mechanic’s uniform was a streaky, muddy orange. He thought he looked like a mutant pumpkin.

Amelia looked him up and down. “You’ll pass from a distance. That’s as close as you’ll get to a ship without a valid ID.”

“We,” he reminded her. He reset his garment to a mundane herringbone in blacks and grays.

“Right, we.” She shivered. “What if you publicize what you know? Won’t that stop whatever the government is up to?”

“They’ll claim my recordings are fakes. And then they’ll make sure neither Julia nor I is around to contradict them.”

Amelia shivered again. “I don’t understand how you live like this. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he told her.

“Then I’m in.” She downloaded his improvised uniform parameters to the jumpsuit he had given her.

An old man terrified of spaceships. A middle-aged civilian who was just terrified. An entire world’s defense establishment arrayed against them.

Sigmund told himself they had the element of surprise on their side.

They flicked to the small private spaceport from which her employer serviced drones and sensors in New Terra’s early-warning array. Amelia went first. The stepping disc at the low-security area outside the terminal accepted her company ID. He followed quickly, before the receiving disc reset. A scanner flashed green: nothing he carried looked like a weapon.

Because, tanj it, he didn’t have a weapon. If he had carried the stunner from his stash of old spy gear and the spaceport security staff was even marginally competent, this escapade would have ended before it ever began. It wasn’t as though he still had reflexes.

Element of surprise, he told himself again.

“Hi, Floyd,” Amelia told the nightshift guard who stood behind the security desk. His uniform was brown moire. Two more guards loitered nearby. “Sigmund is my father-in-law. He asked to see the place.”

“Very good, ma’am. Welcome, sir. Please stay in the office area.” Floyd offered Sigmund a badge emblazoned V for visitor. “Wear this at all times.”

Sigmund and Amelia dallied in a break room until someone in an orange moire uniform came in. The large type on the mechanic’s badge declared JOE. “How are you doing?” Sigmund asked amiably.

“Fine,” Joe muttered. He turned away to consider the synthesizer menu. Short and wiry, his uniform would not have fit Sigmund or Amelia.

A chop to the back of the neck dropped Joe to the floor. “Sorry,” Sigmund said. With tape brought from home, Sigmund bound Joe’s hands and feet and covered his mouth.

With his pocket comp — not a commercial model — Sigmund scanned and captured Joe’s handprint. He peeled back Joe’s eyelid to take a retinal print. Quick swipes on the touch panel transferred the biometric data to Sigmund’s programmable contact lens and to the programmable film on his own hand.

Other than weaponry, Sigmund’s cupboard of spy gear was getting perilously depleted.

“Uniforms,” Sigmund said as he donned the mechanic’s ID badge and tool belt.

Amelia, turned ashen, complied.

Glancing at Joe, Sigmund decided their jumpsuits would pass if no one looked too closely. “Grab his feet.” They dragged the bound and unconscious mechanic to a janitor’s closet and shut him inside.

“I’m going to be sick,” Amelia said. She promptly was.

“Sorry. We have to move now.” Grabbing her elbow he guided her from the break room.

Joe’s badge and handprint got them through a locked door and onto the tarmac. Two small ships sat nearby. “Which one?” Sigmund asked.

“The ships take turns. Elysium was assigned as backup on the most recent servicing run. Arcadia had no problems, so Elysium should remain fully stocked and fueled. Arcadia may not have been serviced yet.”

“Elysium it is,” Sigmund said. “Lead on.”

Joe’s badge and retinal scan got them aboard a ship.

“Hello?” someone called as the inner air-lock hatch cycled shut. An athletic-looking young woman, maybe forty, emerged from a side corridor. She did a double take at seeing them. Her badge read LORRAINE and she was orange-clad, too.

Murphy was enforcing his tanj law again, and Sigmund improvised. “Periphery sensors report a fuel leak. Everyone off the ship while we check it out.”

“It’s just me aboard,” Lorraine said. “I’m running routine diagnostics on — ”

“It can wait.” Sigmund pointed to the air lock. “Out, now. Run, don’t walk, to the terminal.” That was a half mile away. “Let us do our job.”

“If you’re safe here then so am I.”

“Have you ever seen a hydrogen-gas explosion?” Sigmund asked. “Deuterium goes boom just like ordinary hydrogen.”

Lorraine squinted at Sigmund’s badge. “You’re not Joe. Get off the ship immediately.”

As Lorraine reached for her pocket comp, Sigmund stepped behind her, forcing her to the deck with a quick yank and twist on her right arm. It was a desperation move: he was too slow and frail to wrestle, and putting an armlock on anyone standing was tricky. If she had had any self-defense training, she would have slipped free and tied him into a pretzel.

He had gambled that she wouldn’t.

Wrestling, boxing, karate … Puppeteers had kept such skills from developing among their slaves. Sigmund had brought martial arts to this world, had taught the original trainers as he formed the Defense Ministry. A random mechanic was unlikely to have had the training.

For once, things had broken his way.

Things were going too fast, too improvised. He had not thought to give Amelia an alias. He had not planned an op in … he didn’t dare to remember how long it had been. Lorraine might not have read Amelia’s ID. “You,” he barked over his shoulder. “Get her comp.”

“Me?” Amelia said, confused.

“Yah.” He yanked Lorraine’s arm as she squirmed. “Lie still. Look, I’m sorry about this. Once we let you go, I