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  The corridor, too, was dark. She tapped a lighting control to reveal chaos. Torn and shattered objects lay everywhere, the scraps scarcely recognizable. Scorching covered the bowed-in walls of the corridor.

  What had happened here?

  “Eric,” she called. Silence. “Eric,” she tried again, a little louder. She crept through the clutter to the bridge, where the situational holo cast enough light to hint at more madness.

  Omar joined Kirsten as she studied the status display. Despite the all-encompassing disorder, despite consoles slid away from the walls to the limit allowed by their cabling, everything registered as nominal. “What happened here? Where is Eric?”

  “I don’t know.” Her answer covered both questions. Kirsten swept a pile of clothing off her crash couch and sat to scan the instruments. “Explorer is where we left it, deep in the ocean. The refueling probes are working. Readings for temperature, oxygen, everything we routinely monitor, they’re all fine.”

  Omar activated the intercom. “Eric.” Silence. “Kirsten and I are on the bridge. Report.”

  Sven appeared in the doorway, looking anxious. “Is everything all right?”

  She threw up her hands. “Honestly, we don’t know. The readouts are fine, but something happened here. And Eric . . .”

  “I’ll search the bow,” Omar said. “Kirsten, take the stern. Sven, stay here. We’ll keep in touch by intercom.”

  Kirsten struggled aft through cluttered corridors. These halls had been empty, their walls straight and clean, just a day earlier. She activated lights as she went, checking inside each cabin, hold, and closet, finding only disarray until—

  Eric sat on the engine-room deck, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, rocking, amid a jumble of tools and spare parts. Main thrusters and the hyperdrive were unbolted from their deck mounts and rudely shoved aside. A flicker of recognition appeared on Eric’s face but he said nothing.

  “Eric is in the engine room,” Kirsten called into the intercom before settling beside him. “Eric. Eric!” No response. She shook his arm. “Eric, what’s the matter?”

  “I’ve been a fool,” Eric said softly. “A fool,” he repeated as Omar ran in.

  “Are you all right?” Omar asked.

  “Yes.” With a shiver, Eric came out of his funk. He looked around as though noticing the disarray for the first time. “Welcome back.”

  “What happened?” Omar asked. “Why is everything torn apart?”

  Leaning against an overturned cabinet, Eric got to his feet. He handed each of them a slender copper tube from a heap on a workbench. Wires protruded from one end. “While you two were away, I decided to look for any more hidden sensors.”

  “For that you tore apart the ship?” Omar snapped. “With the telemetry bypassed, the sensors were harmless. We never revealed that we knew about hidden sensors. How do you propose to disguise this destruction when Explorer gets its next overhaul?”

  Eric’s eyes demanded Kirsten’s attention. He seemed so sad. There was more to this mess than sensors. “Eric, these aren’t listening devices, are they?”

  “They’re electric detonators.” Eric laughed humorlessly at their evident shock. “After I found one, I got a little crazy. I found them all through the ship.”

  “Detonators,” Kirsten repeated. “To detonate . . . what?”

  “A good question.” Reaching behind an upended supply cabinet, Eric scraped off a fleck of the paint-and-insulation layer that lined the hull. He sealed the paint chip, a detonator, and a sledgehammer inside a little GP #1 hull, one of many Explorer carried for use as free-flying probes. He strapped everything down on a workbench. “And presto.”

  Kirsten barely heard a loud crack before the engine room’s noise cancellers kicked in. Vibrating madly, the GP #1 hull seemed unharmed—only its transparent shell had suddenly turned black. When Eric opened the probe’s hatch, heat puffed out, and a stench of metal. She realized what now coated the orb’s inner surface: the vaporized metallic head of the sledgehammer.

  “The Citizens never trusted us. We were expendable.” Eric’s voice trembled with grief. “They were prepared to blow us up.”

  “They wouldn’t . . . they planned for some remote contingency. . . . I don’t see how . . .” Kirsten grasped for an explanation for the inexplicable.

  “You think? Come with me.” Eric led them toward the bow. “This could almost be funny. A lifetime’s deference to the Citizens almost killed me.”

  As they approached the burst hatch of Nessus’ former cabin, Kirsten’s jaw dropped. An explosion had destroyed everything inside.

  DRIFTING OFF TO sleep after hours of backbreaking labor restoring order to the ship, Kirsten realized why Eric looked so different. It was more than the pain in his eyes.

  The elaborate braids and colorful dyes—every trace of the Citizen-mimicking coiffure Eric had so long affected—had vanished.

  From adulation to doubt to anger and shock. Kirsten could not imagine how upset Eric must be.

  Nor could she help thinking the Citizens would someday come to rue it.

  27

  Julian Forward was a fireplug of a human, short and squat. He had arms as massive as most men’s legs, and legs like columns. Forward was a Jinxian, and Jinxians bred for strength. That made sense on a world with nearly twice the gravity of Earth.

  Nessus was happy to be thousands of miles distant.

  Forward peered curiously and unknowingly into the hidden camera. His eyes, as though with minds of their own, kept sliding off axis. “Interesting,” he finally said. He left briefly. Reappearing with a broom, he poked it into the transfer booth. Then, with a wry smile, Forward dropped the broom. He stepped inside the booth and picked up the package Nessus had sent.

  This one was smart, Nessus thought, as quick as Kirsten. Forward’s mind had leapt from the extra-dimensionality of the package to distrust of transfer booths to the realization that, had abduction by teleportation been intended, it would have happened without warning.

  Optics far beyond human capabilities reconstituted the scene from rays scattered by their contorted path into the package’s interior. Nessus watched Forward carry the object to another room. The nearest window offered a spectacular view of the Coliseum. Other windows gave equally striking views of the Grand Canyon, the Great Wall, and the pyramids at Giza. Boxes were piled all around, some still open, spoiling the simulated views.

  All did not run smoothly in the life of Julian Forward.

  “Whenever you’re ready.” Forward sat on his sofa, legs apart, facing Nessus’ parcel. His eyes continued to slide off. “You have my attention.”

  “You are very perceptive, Dr. Forward,” Nessus began.

  Forward smiled. “You have a beautiful voice. Transfer in and give me a look at you.”

  “You are very calm for a man in your circumstances.” Forward brought his hands together, making a tent of his fingers. “A tesseract is a singular gift with which to get my attention.”

  “Your fame in astrophysical circles brought you to mine. But tesseract? I am unfamiliar with the term,” Nessus dissembled. It was a small test.

  “A four-dimensional ‘cube.’ Modern cosmological theories invoke additional dimensions beyond those we experience.” Forward patted the tesseract; his fingertips bent oddly as they entered the volume of manipulated space. “To manifest one of those dimensions at macro scale—that is exceptional. And of course transfer booths somehow access those hidden dimensions to accomplish teleportation.”

  He was right, of course, on all counts—including, from the human perspective, that “somehow.” General Products did not share the underlying science when it licensed transfer-booth technology. “Do you like Earth, Doctor?”

  “Call me Julian. And you are?”

  “Very cautious,” Nessus answered. Over Forward’s hearty laugh, Nessus added, “I wonder if you might consider a new professional opportunity.”

  “As to Earth—no, I don’t much care for it. It’s mu
ch too crowded for my taste.”

  “And yet here you are, Julian,” Nessus said. “You have spent years on Earth. Attempting to prove a theory about the Tunguska Event, I believe.”

  “You have the advantage of me again . . . whoever you are. Yes, something fascinating happened in Siberia in 1908, something still unexplained. For all the devastation, that ‘something’ left no crater. And yet, trees remained standing near the epicenter. The accepted explanation, that a meteorite struck, simply fails to fit the facts.” Forward frowned. “You need not have gone to such extremes merely to discuss my investigation.”

  Nessus knew all about Forward’s research. After a hasty study, Nessus knew about most leading cosmologists in Sol system. Unfortunately, excitement and enthusiasm drove genius. It could not be coerced.

  Few at the apex of human physics had seemed approachable. If the Jinxian would not serve Nessus’ purpose, no one would.

  And then Ausfaller would continue to stalk the Fleet.

  “You are only the most recent to advocate that a quantum black hole, not a meteorite, struck Siberia that night. What you cannot answer, Julian, is when and where your hypothetical black hole, having passed through the Earth, then exited. If you determined that, perhaps you could deduce the black hole’s orbit. And the historical records, such as they are, are all on Earth.”

  Forward stiffened. “This grows tiresome. Get to your point.”

  “The Institute of Knowledge funds your research, does it not?”

  “It did.” A scowl. “Apparently I failed to show sufficient progress.”

  And so we arrive at the hearts of the matter. Of course Nessus had the advantage. He knew why the Institute had truly canceled Forward’s funding: they were bribed. Hence Forward was busy packing. “Then perhaps you would consider an alternative employment.”

  “Your convoluted methods do not evince confidence,” Forward answered.

  But they would evince curiosity. “All I ask for now is your confidentiality and consideration,” Nessus said. “You will receive a handsome remuneration for this consultation.” With the flick of a tongue, he severed the connection.

  “HELLO, JULIAN,” NESSUS began.

  Forward had taken the call in his living room. Towers of boxes climbed higher than ever; today, only one box remained open. A sealed box hid the tesseract and blinded its camera. He removed a large box from the sofa and sat. “An unforgettable voice. And now an unforgettable face to put to it. When do I get a name?”

  Forward had lifted the box effortlessly. The stack he had brushed past had tottered. These boxes were empty: props. The scientist was tempted—by the large honorarium, if nothing else.

  Aboard Aegis, Nessus winked; his image in the call smiled. The avatar wore Kirsten’s face. “You may call me Nessus.”

  “An unusual name for an unusual circumstance. What can I do for you, Nessus?”

  “As I suggested in our last conversation, I have a complicated task that you might help me with.”

  Julian leaned forward. “Related to black holes?”

  “Something less weighty.” Nessus had his avatar smile again. “But only a little.”

  “And the work would be performed on Earth?”

  “That is one of the complications,” Nessus replied. “It’s best to perform this project at a distance. You see, we’re going to produce neutronium.”

  “At a distance.” Forward’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, some separation would be desirable, given that it takes a super-nova to make neutronium.”

  “Is that a given, Julian?”

  “Perhaps not.” Forward stood. “Perhaps not for your kind.”

  Nessus somehow resisted the urge to snatch at his mane. He had no idea how the avatar program would represent that mannerism. “My kind?”

  “Puppeteers.” The silence stretched uncomfortably. “Now I have your attention.”

  “Do I look like a Puppeteer? “You look like an angel, which is hardly conclusive since this is a vid call. You sound like a Puppeteer. General Products pulled up stakes just five years ago. It takes much longer than that to forget just how sexy a Puppeteer sounds.

  “More to the point, Nessus, is the tesseract you sent to get my attention. It embodies technology for which humans have no scientific foundation—much like making neutronium.

  “While you consider that, Nessus, allow me to share an observation. In past dealings with humanity, General Products considered blackmail a perfectly acceptable business practice. The tesseract, and everything about it—and about you—that I know and could surmise, have been entrusted to a friend.”

  Nessus relaxed. Blackmail was a human term. Among Citizens, this was merely a stage of negotiation.

  He had his native expert.

  CRASH!

  Furniture suffered when Forward grew frustrated. His newest table toppled, its top dented and a leg shattered by this latest blow. Tables, fortunately, were simple to synthesize.

  “What now, Julian?” Only the relative safety of Aegis enabled Nessus’ philosophical detachment. His native expert fulminated from inside the research center to which Aegis had berthed, the mined-out and repurposed Oort Cloud object immodestly renamed Forward Station. The Institute of Knowledge nominally owned the base; Nessus had anonymously arranged its lease.

  “This derivation makes no sense. The third postulate here, to start . . .”

  Forward ranted, not expecting a reply. The process had become all too routine. Experts in the Fleet would send isolated bits of theory, entirely out of context lest too much be disclosed. Then their responses to Forward’s inevitable questions would be as unforthcoming as the incomplete information that had raised questions in the first place. As often as not they failed to grasp the limitations of human technology, blithely assuming Forward had access to instruments and means of fabrication available only in the Fleet.

  An intellect any less brilliant than Julian’s would have made no progress at all.

  Despite the considerable pay Forward was accruing, he took no step until he entirely understood every nuance and implication. But for the passage of time the Fleet could ill afford, Nessus would have approved. The vast energies that they employed deserved the utmost caution.

  So time passed—too much time—as Forward made the tools to make the tools to make the tools. It brought to mind Kirsten’s musings, so seemingly long ago, about Gw’oth progress. How were his Colonist scouts faring? Nessus wondered. Nike declined to “distract” him with their progress reports.

  How much quicker things would proceed if Nessus could only return to the Fleet for a neutronium generator! Alas, hyperdrive notwithstanding, he could not make the trip. Too much here in Sol system relied upon his constant attentions: Guiding his minions. Fomenting the Birth Lottery unrest. Anxious and indirect monitoring of Ausfaller.

  And no one, regardless of Nessus’ importuning, was available to deliver a neutronium generator to Sol system.

  It all too often seemed that the fate of the Fleet rested on far too few freaks like himself. The pressure made Nessus yearn all the more for oblivion in a tightly rolled ball. For Nike, he reminded himself, countless times each day . . .

  “I said I’m going to drop offline for a bit.”

  Nessus had once again let his attention wander. “Sorry. Doing what, Julian?”

  “Uploading new calibrations for the implosion effect to the stasis-field generators. Baedeker sent new specs.” Forward nodded at the holo of a nearby icy mass, its surface dotted with test gear. “While I do, perhaps you can recheck the instrument constellation.” He referred to the halo of microsats, each a GP1 hull, which would monitor the coming experiment.

  “Of course. And this”—the nearby mass of ice and rock, miles across—“will make how much?”

  Forward grimaced. “About a cubic centimeter, Nessus. I hope this process scales up well.”

  To reproduce a neutronium trap here, to mimic what the ARM might find at any time in the Fleet’s wake, Nessus needed a twelve-
foot sphere.

  They had their work cut out for them.

  28

  The acrid stench of explosives tainted everything. By the time Explorer’s scrubbers eliminated the last of the fumes, all traces of herd pheromone were also gone.

  Somehow, Kirsten thought, that seemed fitting.

  Sven was dazed, indifferent to symbolism, overwhelmed by his plunge without warning into intrigue and peril. The Concordance had tried to kill Eric, Omar, and Kirsten; he was endangered by staying anywhere near them. But if the authorities already suspected his involvement with the three, going home could be just as dangerous.

  Perhaps, for as long as the Concordance believed Explorer destroyed, the safest spot for them all was onboard.

  Kirsten shrugged. They would accomplish nothing by playing safe.

  She found Sven in his cabin. The room had been hers until she had doubled up with Eric. Despite the bulging satchel at Sven’s feet, he seemed reticent to leave. She said, “We’re about to learn secrets every archivist before you would have given his right arm to know.”

  Sven smiled wanly. “I find I’m very like a Citizen. This seems foolhardy.”

  “Course match in ten minutes,” Omar announced over the intercom. “Eric is waiting in the relax room.”

  She touched Sven’s arm. “No one can make you come—but if you miss this opportunity, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  Nodding, Sven picked up his bag. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  KIRSTEN MATERIALIZED IN the ancient storeroom, its crisp right angles and emptied shelves just as she remembered. Sven stood nearby, his fears forgotten, enthralled by the handwritten list on a yellowed scrap of paper pinned by magnet to a bulkhead. Eric, who had previously only glimpsed the ship’s exterior, looked about in awe.

  At Kirsten’s approach, Eric shook off his distraction. He burrowed into his backpack for a motion detector. It was just one of the devices he had prepared for this expedition. “Nothing detectable,” he whispered.

  For all Kirsten’s certainty that this ship was abandoned, its contents long offloaded to Hearth for study, she sighed in relief. “Then why whisper? Let’s look around.”