Fate of Worlds: Return From the Ringworld

That when Achilles was distracted, requests for additional capacity were granted as a matter of routine.

That Nessus’ broadcast to Louis had diverted Achilles.

That so far, no one had answered.

That a reply from “Louis” would surely further divert Achilles.

That disguised as Chiron, he had briefed Nessus’ team, including Louis Wu, before the Ringworld expedition. Most likely, it was to Louis Wu that Nessus had messaged.

That he could synthesize video of “Louis” from those pre-Ringworld memories.

That with his connectivity to every Concordance network, he had only to reach out …

* * *

“ALPHA, EPSILON, AND PERHAPS THETA. Acknowledged,” Achilles murmured to himself. “Acknowledged. Acknowledged.” Louis’s broadcast reply revealed no more.

“Acknowledged!” he wailed in frustration.

What could these plans be?

Achilles stared out a window, the palace sealed against the overpowering stench that continued to waft from the nearby valley. When he got his jaws on Nessus …

First things first, Achilles lectured himself. Louis Wu had stymied him more than once. What would the human do?

On the freshly fertilized slopes, the riot of plant life was more luxuriant than ever. Suns shone brightly. A few high, wispy clouds scudded across a cerulean sky. With the air filtered, Achilles could almost forget what had happened. Almost.

Alpha. Epsilon. Theta. What were they? What could they…?

As the suns switched off, plunging the palace into blackness, Achilles knew one of Nessus’ wretched plans.

Another exhibition of his helplessness, to be misconstrued by the herd on Hearth.

When Proteus asked for additional capacity to diagnose the suns’ problem, Achilles approved the request without a second thought. Who better than the AI to scrub from the network whatever had usurped control of his world’s suns?

Raging against his enemies, Achilles arched a neck to turn on a desk light —

Waiting for Plans Epsilon and Theta to unfold.

44

The thud swallowed up by a triumphant roar, a long stretch of fence crashed to the tarmac. Citizens swarmed onto the spaceport grounds, galloping to the grain ships.

As the first stolen grain ship lifted off, Nessus’ hearts sank.

With the vanguard of the Kzinti horde scant days away, flight was the essence of sanity. But to flee where? These ships lacked hyperdrive capability. At best one could hope to withdraw far enough from the Fleet to miss the worst of the coming battles.

There need be no battle, Nessus wanted to sing, but he dare not. Not with Baedeker’s preparations so near to completion. Already those arrangements had stretched out far too long — and the longer they took, the more panics like this would play out across Hearth and, Nessus supposed, the Nature Preserve worlds.

When the Clandestine Directorate computer in his pocket emitted the distinctive vibration that signaled his recall, Nessus still did not dare to sing.

Now, more than ever, absolute secrecy was essential.

* * *

TONGUEPRINTS, A CODE CHORD, and an unregistered stepping-disc address long committed to memory delivered Nessus to the staging area in the subbasement of the Hindmost’s Residence. Baedeker and Horatius waited nearby to greet him.

Baedeker’s welcoming stance would not have fooled Nessus, even if Horatius had not quivered where he stood. Nessus sang, “What has gone wrong? All was to be ready by now.”

Baedeker’s necks sagged. “Everything has been deployed. Here and on Nature Preserve Three, we have begun the modifications. But on Nature Preserve Two…”

Horatius completed woefully, “One of our technicians could not bear the pressure.”

“Catatonic?” Nessus guessed. “But working together, cannot the rest — ”

“No!” Horatius trilled. “Fearing that all is lost, Apollo’s report also sang that the others with him meant to flee aboard a grain ship.”

“Then we proceed without Nature Preserve Two?” Nessus asked. The possibility made him feel ill.

“We cannot,” Baedeker insisted. “Millions live there. I will not abandon them.”

That which must be done would take a small herd of technicians. They could not move so many between worlds in secrecy before the Kzinti vanguard arrived — even if, which Nessus doubted, another team of specialists existed with the requisite training. “Then it is over?” Nessus sang. “We surrender?”

“We cannot do that, either. Talks with the diplomatic missions on Nature Preserve Three have failed.” Horatius stared into the distance, lost in thought. “The aliens are mad. Beyond mad. Surrender to one group, and the others will consider it an act of war. And whether from greed or distrust, they refuse to accept our surrender jointly.”

Nessus sidled off the stepping disc to stand in fetlock-deep meadowplant. He told himself he would not paw and tear at the turf, but his leg muscles ached less for knowing that they could. He asked, “And what of Ol’t’ro?”

Still not meeting Nessus’ eyes, Horatius sang, “They sing that Proteus will be ready.”

“There is another option,” Baedeker sang.

Horatius turned his heads back toward them, and his eyes were dull with torment. “That is madness, too.”

“But also the sole chance for everyone who lives on Nature Preserve Two,” Baedeker gently rebutted.

“You would do everyone’s work?” Nessus asked.

Baedeker stood mute.

Baedeker had designed the equipment, overseen its construction, and trained the technicians. The equipment, at least, should already be onsite. Perhaps no one could do this, but if any single person could, it would be Baedeker.

“Gather what you need,” Nessus sang. “We do not have much time.”

* * *

DRESSED IN MATCHING COVERALLS, Nessus and Baedeker flicked to an outdoor shopping mall. Though the concourse was crowded, few shopped.

Arcologies on six sides bounded the area, and Achilles, vastly larger than life, glowered from the lighting/display sidewalls. “The Hindmost has failed you in this crisis,” Achilles sang sternly. “You know me. You know that I saved our worlds from the Gw’oth invasion. With your help, I can save everyone again. Add your voices to the chorus demanding that the Hindmost step down. Raise your voices now. It is almost too late.”

The Gw’oth whose invasion Achilles had, in fact, provoked. The Gw’oth to whom he had betrayed the herd, in order to become puppet Hindmost. The Gw’oth who ruled still. But, Nessus thought, the public knew nothing of that.

“I know you, lord of the manure,” anonymous voices in the crowd murmured. “I don’t think so.”

That defiant melody lifted Nessus’ mood, just a little.

“Come,” he sang to Baedeker. “We must hurry.”

Together they flicked from spaceport to spaceport, until they found one still with ships to steal. The fence had just gone down. The spaceport staff had fled or blended into the mob. Grain spilled to the ground from gaping