“Nine or ten years,” Martin said. Harpal concurred.
“The planet’s still there. Either they haven’t come in yet, or they were deactivated. Can we signal them?”
“They should pick up the noach,” Harpal said. “If they haven’t been destroyed.”
“Let’s do it,” Hans said. Hakim made the arrangements on his wand. The results were almost instantaneous; a signal sent out, a signal returned from a seed carrier to the ship’s noach receivers. The carrier reported that eleven seeds had been delivered to Nebuchadnezzar’s interior, sufficient to cook the planet’s entire surface to a depth of fifty kilometers. Detonation of the seeds was imminent. Seeds would be delivered to Ramses within two tendays.
“I’ll be damned,” Hans said. “We’ve come to just in time for a
The search team and Martin moved closer to the star sphere.
“Let’s send out remotes and take a closer look,” Hans said. “We’re how far?”
“Four hundred million kilometers from Ramses. Two hundred and fifty million from Nebuchadnezzar. Nebuchadnezzar must be a very sick planet,” Hakim said. “We were more successful than we ever hoped.”
“I trust in nothing,” Hans said. “Martin didn’t make any obvious big mistakes, and we still got whipped badly. I have to be that much better.” He smiled almost shyly at Martin, suggesting that they might share some secret joke, and his smile actually took a weight from Martin’s shoulders; he was not anathema, at least not to Hans. “If the planet’s sick, and if our doers have jammed its defenses, we don’t have to worry—but we haven’t dropped doers on Ramses, and anything could happen there when the seeds arrive to be inserted. Am I right?”
Harpal and Martin nodded. Hakim was busy releasing remotes to increase their baseline. “What about those orbiting dark masses?”
“They have not changed,” Hakim said, interrupting himself. “The same orbits, the same masses, the same sizes, judging by occultations.”
“And the small craft?”
“We are actually not far from one such,” Hakim said. “They are still in orbit. They have returned to status quo.”
“I’d like to see the close one,” Hans said.
“I have records from the past few tendays, recorded by the ship,” Hakim said. “I will play them back.” The star sphere sectioned and they watched a small bright point grow in size in compressed time to a long, blunt cylinder, gray in color, featureless, barely ten meters long. “It is coasting,” Hakim said. “Quiet, no drives;”
“Can we take it out?” Hans asked.
Hakim looked to Harpal and Martin.
“I suppose,” Harpal said dubiously. “Why waste the effort?”
“I want to try,” Hans said dryly. “I guess I give the order, am I right?” He lifted his wand. “We’re how close to this little slicker?”
“Two million kilometers.”
“I want two rifles to waste a little fuel, see if we can destroy it. That’ll wake the sons of bitches up if they’re still sleeping, or if they’re just logy from dealing with our doers. If they don’t react, we know something…”
“What?” Martin asked.
“That these orbiting ships aren’t important, or…” Hans shrugged. “That the planets are sitting ducks.”
“Or something else,” Harpal said.
“Keep it up,” Hans said, not unkindly. “Keep badgering me. What else?”
“Or they’ve got another trap set.”
“That’s what I think. But… I’m about to make the same mistake Martin did. I’m going to spring their trap and see what they can do to us. We survived the first one. Maybe we can survive the second. And if not, well…” He rubbed his palms together, as if scrubbing away dirt. “Our grief is shorter, hm?”
Martin shivered. Here was something he had never felt as Pan: fatalism. Hakim sensed it too, and looked away, swallowing. It was a reaction the others might embrace; a Wagnerian dedication to duty, a mighty blow against the enemy, valiant but useless, ending in death.
“Too strong, huh?” Hans asked, as if Martin had said something. “All right. I’ll tone it down, but I still want two rifles out there. Kill it.” He looked to Harpal. “Go to it, CR.”
Harpal left the nose. Hans concentrated on the cylinder for a moment, frowning. “I can’t imagine what purpose they serve, except… Hakim, could they work as mass detectors? Very sensitive to orbital changes caused by anything large entering the system?”
Hakim considered this. “I cannot say for sure, but I think there would be better ways to do that…”
“You could ask Jennifer,” Martin suggested.
“She gives me the shivers,” Hans said briskly. “But you’re right. What other purpose? They accelerated hours before our assault… Psychological weapons. I can’t buy that. These things don’t give a damn about our psychology. They just want us dead.”
“I have an idea,” Thomas Orchard said. The other members of the search team had been keeping a low profile, taking Hans’ measure now that he was Pan.
“Give it to me,” Hans said.
“I think they’re remote signaling stations. Something goes wrong in the trap, they survive a little while longer… They don’t attract much attention because they are small, because they seem to have primitive drives.”
“And…” Hans said, tapping his little finger again, “they accelerate just before an attack to be ready to zip out of here, if everything goes to hell…” He smiled and ran his hand through his stiff blond hair. “God damn. I like that. It makes sense.”
“But we can’t be sure,” Thomas said, proud to have Hans’ approval.
“We can be sure of nothing in this miserable place,” Hans said. “I say we try to take one out, and if they’re vulnerable, we’ll take them all out. Meanwhile, one planet down… maybe. I’ll be interested to see how Ramses responds.” He lifted his fist and grimaced. “Slick ’em all!”
Away from the nose, going with Harpal to choose two rifle pilots for the job, Martin broke into a sweat. He lingered a few meters behind Harpal and wiped his face on his sleeve.
Ten years. Theresa and William had been dead ten years—and the others. Yet he had seen Theresa just a few days ago. She was fresh in his mind, her words were fresh.
A private and selfish bitterness came over him. He stood on the edge of a mental gulf filled with emptiness. He closed his eyes and actually saw this gulf, melodramatic imagery nonetheless real and painful. Guilt at this private bitterness could not drive it away. Others grieved; why should his grief be any the worse?
Martin told himself to catch up with Harpal, now almost one third of the neck ahead. His body refused to move.
“What are you doing?”
He turned and saw Ariel. The despair on his face must have been obvious. She backed away as if he were contagious. “What’s wrong?”
Martin shook his head.
“Tired?” she asked tentatively.
“I don’t know. Bleak.”
“Be glad you’re not Pan,” she said, not forgiving but not accusing.
“Hans will do a good job,” Martin said automatically.
“Something’s wrong,” Ariel pursued. “What is it?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.”
“You’re having a reaction, aren’t you?” she said. “You were strong and stalwart, and now you’re paying for it.”
He grimaced. “You were always so full of bullshit,” he said before he could think to keep quiet.
“That’s me, bullshit babe,” Ariel said softly. “At least I don’t get trussed up like a lamb for my own slaughter.”
“I’m okay,” he said.
