people, not even with my own superior—” He nodded at General Smith. “In the end, there were secrets plucked from us that only I knew and which I communicated with my own crypto equipment.”
There was silence, as the obvious consequence of these claims hardened in the minds of his audience. Thract’s attention seemed to turn inward, as if he didn’t care that others thought he might be the Father of All Traitors. He continued more quietly, “As far as one person can be a paranoid and be everywhere, so I have been. I have used different comm paths, different crypto. I have used differential frauds…. And I tell you, our enemy is something more than any single ‘Honored Pedure.’ Somehow, all of our clever science is working against us.”
“Nonsense!” said Air Defense. “My department uses more of what you call ‘clever science’ than anyone, and we are entirely satisfied with the results. In competent hands, computers and networks and satellite reconnaissance are incredibly powerful tools. Just look at what our deep analysis did with the unidentified radar sightings. Certainly, networks can be abused. But we are the world’s leaders in these technologies. And no matter what else may be broken we have a completely robust encryption technology…. Or do you claim the enemy can break our crypto?”
Thract swayed slightly from his place behind the podium. “No, that was my first great suspicion, but we had penetrated to the heart of the Kindred’s encryption establishment—and we were safely there until very recently. If I trust anything, it is that they can’t break our encryption.” He waved at them all. “You really don’t understand, do you? I tell you, there is some force in our networks, something that is actively opposing us. No matter what we do, It knows more and It is supporting our enemies….”
The scene was pathetic, a kind of abject collapse. Thract was left with nothing but phantoms to explain his failures. Maybe Pedure really was clever beyond all imagination; more likely, Thract was a Father Traitor.
Belga watched the chief with half her attention. General Smith was deep in the King’s trust. No doubt she could survive Thract’s collapse simply by starkly disowning him.
Smith beckoned the guard sergeant by the door. “Help Colonel Thract to the staff office. Colonel, I’ll be along to talk to you in a few minutes. Consider yourself as still on duty.”
It seemed to take a second for the words to penetrate Thract’s funk. He was headed out the door, but apparently not for arrest or even imminent quizzing by underlings. “Yes, ma’am.” He straightened to a semblance of smartness and followed the sergeant out.
The room was very quiet after Thract’s departure. Belga could tell that everyone was watching everyone else, and thinking very dark thoughts. Finally, General Smith said, “My friends, the Colonel has a point. No doubt we are infested with deep-cover Kindred agents. But they are effective across much too large a range of our departments. There is some systematic flaw in our security, and yet we have no idea what it is…. Now you see the reason for the Lighthill team.”
FORTY-SEVEN
It was forty years since the OnOff star had last come to life. Ritser Brughel had not been on-Watch all that time, yet still the Exile had consumed years of his life. And now it was drawing to an end. What had been years was now a matter of days. In less than four days, he would be vice-ruler of a world.
Brughel hung over the shoulder of the ziphead operating the remote lander, and quietly watched what the tiny device was sending back. A few seconds earlier, the lander had come out of its brake and spread its meter- wide wings. Still forty kilometers up, they had ghosted over an unending carpet of lights, threaded by a glowing webwork that refined itself into recursive infinity. Greater Kingston South was the ziphead name for the place. A Spider supercity. This world was cold and freezing colder, but it was no wasteland. The Spiders’ megalopolises looked almost Frenkisch. This was a real civilization, crowned by forty years of sustained progress. Its capital technology was still short of Humankind’s highest standards, but with ziphead guidance, that could be corrected in a decade or two.Forforty years, I have been reduced to a Master of Tens, and soon I will beMaster of Tens of Millions. And beyond that… if the Spider world really held clues to a Higher Technology… someday he and Tomas Nau would return to Frenk and Balacrea to rule there too.
In the space of three seconds, the picture fragmented into a dozen copies, and then a dozen dozen. “What —”
“The lander just broke into submunitions, Podmaster.” Reynolt’s explanation was cold, almost mocking. “Almost two hundred mobiles—we’ll get some into Southmost.” She turned from the display and almost looked him in the eyes. “Strange that you are suddenly so interested in operational details, Podmaster.”
He felt a flicker of the old rage at her impudence, but it was a mild thing, not affecting his breathing, much less his vision. He gave a little shrug at the question.Nowadays I can get along even with Reynolt. Maybe Tomas Nau was right; maybe he was growing up. “I want to see what the creatures really look like.” Know your slaves. Soon they would fry Spiders by the hundred million, but somehow he must learn to tolerate those that were spared.
The spylets arced silently downward, across a frozen strait. A few were still spinning, and Ritser had a glimpse of clouds, the topside of a—hurricane? Two hundred thumb-sized pellets. Over the next thousand seconds they all came down, many in deep snow, some on rocky wasteland. But there were successes, too.
Several ended up on some kind of roadway, drenched in blue streetlight. One of the views showed snow- draped ruins in the distance. Heavy, closed vehicles lumbered by. Reynolt’s ziphead wiggled his spylets out onto the road. He was trying to hitch a ride. One by one, they ceased transmitting, squashed flat. Ritser glanced at an inventory window. “This better work, Anne. We only have one more multi-lander.”
Reynolt didn’t bother to reply. Ritser pulled himself down to tap her specialist on the shoulder. “So, are you going to be able get one indoors?”
The odds were against any answer; a Focused mind in a control loop is usually unreachable. But after a moment the zip nodded. “Probe 132 is doing well. I’ve got three hundred seconds left on the high-gain link. We’re just a few meters this side of the weather door. This one is getting in—” The fellow hunched lower over the controls. He swayed back and forth like an addict playing a hand-eye game, which in a sense was exactly the situation. One of the pictures panned up and down as he wiggled the device into traffic.
Brughel looked back at Reynolt. “That damn time lag. How can you expect to—”
“Running a remote like this isn’t the worst. Melin”—the ziphead operator—“has very good delayed coordination. Our main problem is operations on the Spiders’ networks. We can dredge for data, but very soon we’ll be interacting in tight real time. A ten-second turnaround is longer than some network timeouts.”
As she spoke, a flashing tread flew past the little camera. By some magic of ziphead intuition, Melin had flipped the gadget onto the side of the vehicle. The image spun madly for several seconds as Melin synched the rotation with the view. A door opened in the wall ahead of them, and they drove on through. Thirty seconds passed. The walls seemed to slide upward. Some kind of elevator? But if the scale information were true, the room was wider than a racquetball court.
Seconds passed, and Brughel found himself caught by the scene. For years now, everything they had gotten about the Spiders had been secondhand, from Reynolt’s ziphead translators. Some large precentage of that had to be fairy-tale crap; it was just too cute. Real pictures were what he needed. Microsat optical reconnaissance produced some pictures, but the resolution was awful. For several years, Ritser had thought that when the Spiders finally invented hi-res video, he would get a good look. But the visual physiologies were just too different. Nowadays, about five percent of all Spider military comm was this extremely hi-res stuff that Trixia Bonsol called “videomancy.” Without heavy interpretation, it was just a jumble to humans. He would have been very suspicious that it was a steganographic cover, except that the translators had proven to Kal’s snoops that it was innocent video—all quite impressive if you were a Spider.
But now, in a very few seconds, he would get to see how the monsters looked from a human pov.
No motion was visible. If this was an elevator, they were going down a long way. That made sense, considering what the south pole weather was like. “Are we going to lose signal?”
Reynolt didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know. Melin’s trying to get relays into that elevator shaft. I’m more worried about it being discovered. Even if the meltdown-triggers work—”
Brughel laughed. “Who cares? Don’t you see, Reynolt? We’re less than four days from grabbing it all.”
“The Accord is beginning to panic. They just sacked a senior manager. I’ve got meeting logs that show
