A Deepness in the Sky Part 39

General Smith gestured at the others. "Comments?" There were several. Public Relations suggested buying in to some of the hardened enterprises; he was already planning for after the end of the world, the b.l.o.o.d.y-minded little wimp. The chief just nodded, a.s.signed Belga and the wimp to look into the possibility. She checked the Domestic Intelligence report off her copy of the agenda.

"Ma'am?" Belga Underville raised a hand. "I do have one more item I'd like to bring up."

"Certainly."

Underville brushed her eating hands nervously across her mouth. She was committed now. d.a.m.n. If only the Finance Minister weren't here. "I-Ma'am, in the past you have been very, um, generous in your management of subordinate operations. You give us the job, and let us do it. I have been very grateful for that. Recently though, and very likely this is without your precise knowledge, people from your inner staff have been making unscheduled visits"-midnight raids, actually-"on domestic sites in my area of responsibility."

General Smith nodded. "The Lighthill team."

"Yes, ma'am." Your own children, running around as though they werethe King's Inspectors General. Your own children, running around as though they werethe King's Inspectors General. They were full of crazy, irrational demands, shutting down good projects, removing some of her best people. More than anything, it made her suspect that the chief's crazy husband still had great influence. Belga hunkered down on her perch. She really didn't have to say more. Victory Smith knew her well enough to see she was upset. They were full of crazy, irrational demands, shutting down good projects, removing some of her best people. More than anything, it made her suspect that the chief's crazy husband still had great influence. Belga hunkered down on her perch. She really didn't have to say more. Victory Smith knew her well enough to see she was upset.

"On these inspection visits, did Lighthill find anything significant?"

"In one case, ma'am." One fairly serious problem that Belga was sure she would have pounced on herself inside of another ten days. Around the table, Underville could see that most of the others were simply surprised by the complaint. Two nodded faintly in her direction-she already knew about them. Thract tapped an angry tattoo on the table; he seemed about to jump into the fray. It was no surprise that he had been targeted by the chief's nepotistic crew, but please G.o.d, grant him the cleverness to keep hismaw shut. please G.o.d, grant him the cleverness to keep hismaw shut. Thract was already in such poor standing that his support would be about as much help as a steel anvil to a racing-climber. Thract was already in such poor standing that his support would be about as much help as a steel anvil to a racing-climber.

The chief inclined her head, waited a polite moment for anyone else to comment. Then, "Colonel Underville, I understand that this can hurt your people's morale. But we are entering very critical times, far deadlier than a declared war. I need special a.s.sistants, ones who can act very quickly and who I understand completely. The Lighthill team acts directly for me. Please tell me if you feel their behavior is out of line-but I ask you to respect their delegated authority." Her tone seemed sincerely regretful, but the words were uncompromising; Smith was changing policy of decades' standing. Belga had the sinking feeling that the chief knew all her cobblies' depredations.

The Finance Minister had looked almost bored so far. Nizhnimor was a war hero; she had walked through the Dark with Sherkaner Underhill. You might forget that when you saw her; Amberdon Nizhnimor had spent all the decades of this generation climbing up the Other Side of the royal service, as a court politician and arbitrator. She dressed and moved like an old coot; Nizhnimor was a cartoon caricature of a Finance Minister. Big, lank, frail. Now she leaned forward. Her wheezy voice sounded as harmless as she looked. "I fear this is all a bit outside my realm. But I do have some advice. Though we can't have a Plebiscite, we are very much at war. Internal to the government, we are moving to a war footing. Normal chains of appeal and review are in suspension. Given this extraordinary situation, it's important for you to realize that both I and-more importantly-the King have complete faith in General Smith's leaders.h.i.+p. You all know that the chief of Intelligence has special prerogatives. This is not outmoded tradition, ladies and gentleman. This is considered, royal policy, and you must all accept it."

Wow. So much for "frail" finance ministers. There were sober nods from all around the table and no one had anything more to say, least of all Belga Underville. In a strange way, Belga felt better for getting so definitively squashed. Things might be on a road straight to h.e.l.l, but she didn't have to worry about who was on the driver's perch.

After a moment, General Smith returned to her agenda. ". . .We have one item left. It is also the most critical problem we're up against. Colonel Thract, will you tell us about the Southland situation?" Her tone was courteous, almost sympathetic. Nevertheless, poor Thract was in for it.

But Thract showed some hardsh.e.l.l. He bounced off his perch and walked briskly to the podium. "Minister. Ma'am." He nodded at Nizhnimor and the chief. "We believe the situation has stabilized somewhat in the last fifteen hours." He poked up the recon pictures that Belga had seen him studying before the meeting. Much of Southland was shrouded in a swirl of storm, but the launch sites were high in the Dry Mountains and mostly visible. Thract tapped away at his pictures, a.n.a.lyzing the supply situation. "The long-range Southlander rockets are liquid fueled, very fragile things. Their parliament has seemed insanely bellicose these last few days-their 'Ultimatum for Cooperative Survival,' for instance-but in fact, we don't think that more than a tenth of their rockets are launch-ready. It will take three or four days for them to get all the tanks topped off."

Belga: "That seems awfully stupid on their part."

Thract nodded. "But remember, their parliamentary system makes them less decisive than either us or the Kindred. These people have been tricked into thinking that they must either fight a war now, or be murdered in their sleep. The Ultimatum may have been a mistake in timing, but it was also an attempt by some in Parliament to make the prospect of war so frightening that their colleagues would back down."

The Director of Air Defense: "So you figure things will stay peaceful until they complete fueling?"

"Yes. The crunch will be the Parliament meeting at Southmost in four days. That's where they review our response-if we've made one-to the Ultimatum."

The wimp from Public Relations asked, "Why not just accede to their demands? They aren't asking for territory. We are so strong that giving in would scarcely be a loss of prestige."

There was a rattle of indignation from around the table. General Smith answered in terms a good deal milder than the question merited. "Unfortunately, it's not a matter of prestige. The Southland Ultimatum requires us to weaken several of our military arms. In fact, I doubt that it would make the Southlanders any safer in their deepnesses-but it would increase our vulnerability to a Kindred first strike."

Chezny Neudep, Director of Rocket Offense: "Indeed. Now the Southlanders are simply Kindred puppets. Pedure and her bloodsuckers must be happy. No matter how this comes out, they win."

"Maybe not," said Minister Nizhnimor. "I know many of the top Southlanders; they are not evil, or insane, or incompetent. We have come down to a matter of trust here. The King is willing to go to Southmost for this next meeting of the Southlander Parliament, and stay there for the remainder of this session. It's hard to imagine a greater expression of trust on our part-and I think the Southlanders will accept it, no matter what Pedure may wish."

Of course, this is what Kings were for. Nevertheless, the Minister's offer was a shock; even "Old Megadeath" Neudep seemed taken aback. "Ma'am. . .I know it's the King's power to do such things, but I can't agree that this is a problem of trust. Certainly, there are honorable people in high positions in the South. A year ago, the Southland was nearly an ally. We had sympathizers at all levels of government. Colonel Thract told us that we had-to be blunt- spies spiesin positions of power there. If not for that, I don't think General Smith ever would have encouraged the technical growth of Southland.. . .But in less than a year, it seems we have lost all our advantage there. What I see now is a state thoroughly infiltrated by the Kindred. Even if the majority of Parliament is honorable, it doesn't matter. it doesn't matter. " Neudep shot two arms in Thract's direction. "Your a.n.a.lysis, Colonel?" " Neudep shot two arms in Thract's direction. "Your a.n.a.lysis, Colonel?"

Blame-a.s.signment time. It had been part of each of the recent staff meetings, and each time Thract had been more the target.

Thract gave a little bow in Megadeath's direction. "Sir, your a.s.sessment is generally correct, though I see little infiltration of the Southland rocket forces, per se. We had a friendly government there-and one that I would swear was carefully 'instrumented' with Accord agents. The Kindred were active, but we had them stymied. Then, step by step, we lost ground. At first, it was bungled surveillance, then fatal accidents, then a.s.sa.s.sinations we weren't quick enough to block. Lately there have been trumped-up criminal prosecutions.. . .Our enemy is clever."

"So the Honored Pedure is a genius beyond our ken?" asked the Director of Air Defense. Sarcasm dripped.

Thract was silent for a moment. His eating hands twisted back and forth. At earlier meetings, this was where he would counterattack with statistics and fine new projects. Now-something seemed to break inside him. Belga Underville had counted Thract as a bureaucratic enemy ever since the chief's children were kidnapped, but now she felt embarra.s.sed for him. When Thract finally spoke, his voice came out an anguished squeak. " No! No!Don't you know I. . .I've had friends die; I've lost others because I began mistrusting them. For a long time, I thought there must be a Kindred agent high in my own organization. I shared critical information with fewer and fewer 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 a.n.a.lysis 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. 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. 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 s.p.a.ce 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. 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. 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 d.a.m.n 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sed, 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 c.r.a.p; 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 Victory Smith now suspects network corruption."

"Their Intelligence boss?" The news stopped Brughel for a moment. This must have happened very recently. Still, "They have less than four days. What can they do?"

Reynolt's gaze was the usual stone thing. "They could part.i.tion their net, maybe stop using it altogether. That would stop us."

"And also lose them the war against the Kindred."

"Yes. Unless they could provide the Kindred with solid proof of 'Monsters from Outer s.p.a.ce.' "

And that was not b.l.o.o.d.y likely. The woman was obsessive. Ritser smiled at her frowning face. Of course. That's how we made you. Of course. That's how we made you.

The elevator doors had opened. The camera was giving them only one frame a second now, with low resolution. d.a.m.n.

"Yes!" That was Melin, triumphant about something.

"He's got a relay in place."

Suddenly the picture turned crisp and smooth. As the spylet crept out from the elevator doors, Melin turned its eyes to look down an incredibly steep set of stairs, more like a ladder really. Who knew what this area was, a loading garage? For now, the little camera hid in corners and looked out upon the Spiders. From the scale bar, he could see that the monsters were of the expected size. A grown one would come up to about Brughel's thigh. The creatures stretched far across the ground in a low posture, just as in the library pictures retrieved before Relight. They look very little like the mental picture that the ziphead translators evoked. Did they wear clothes? Not like humans. The monsters were swathed with things that looked like banners with b.u.t.tons. Huge panniers hung from the sides of many of them. They moved in quick, sinister jerks, their bladelike forelegs cutting this way and that before them. There was a crowd here, chitinous black except for the mismatched colors of their clothing. Their heads glittered as with large flat gemstones. Spider eyes. And as for the Spider mouth-there the translators had used the proper word: maw. maw. A fanged depth surround by tiny claws-was that what Bonsol & Co. called "eating hands"?-that seemed to be in constant, writhing motion. A fanged depth surround by tiny claws-was that what Bonsol & Co. called "eating hands"?-that seemed to be in constant, writhing motion.

Ma.s.sed together, the Spiders were more a nightmare than he'd imagined, the sort of things you crush and crush and crush and still more of them come at you. Ritser sucked in a breath. One comforting thought was that-if all went well-in just under four days, these particular monsters would be dead.

For the first time in forty years, a stars.h.i.+p would fly across the OnOff system. It would be a very short hop, less than two million kilometers, scarcely a remooring by civilized standards. It was very nearly the most that any of the surviving stars.h.i.+ps could manage.

Jau Xin had supervised the flight prep of the Invisible Hand. Invisible Hand. The The Hand Hand had always been Ritser Brughel's portable fiefdom, but Jau knew it was also the only stars.h.i.+p that had not been wholly cannibalized over the years. had always been Ritser Brughel's portable fiefdom, but Jau knew it was also the only stars.h.i.+p that had not been wholly cannibalized over the years.

In the days before their "pa.s.sengers" embarked, Jau had drained the L1 distillery of hydrogen. It was just a few thousand tonnes, a droplet in the million-tonne capacity of the ramscoop's primer tanks, but enough to slide them across the gap between L1 and the Spider world.

Jau and Pham Trinli made a final inspection of the stars.h.i.+p's drive throat. It was always strange, looking at that two-meter narrowness. Here the forces of h.e.l.l had burned for decades, driving the Qeng Ho vessel up to thirty-percent lightspeed. The internal surface was micrometer smooth. The only evidence of its fiery past was the fractal pattern of gold and silver that glittered in the light of their suit lamps. It was the micronet of processors behind those walls that actually guided the fields, but if the throat wall cavitated while under way, the fastest processors in the universe wouldn't save them. True to form, Trinli made a big deal of his laser-metric inspection, then was contemptuous of the results. "There's ninety-micron swale on the port side-but what the h.e.l.l. There's no new pitting. You could carve your name in the walls here, and it wouldn't make any difference on this flight. What are you planning, a couple hundred Ksecs at fractional gee?"

"Um. We'll start with a long gentle push, but the braking burn will be a thousand seconds at a little more than one gravity." They wouldn't brake till they were low over open ocean. Anything else would light Arachna's sky brighter than the sun, and be seen by every Spider on the near side of the planet.

Trinli waved his hand in an airy gesture of dismissal. "Don't worry about it. Many times, I've taken bigger chances with in-system flight." They crawled out the bow side of the throat; the smooth surface widened into the beginnings of the forward field projectors. All the while, Trinli continued with his bogus stories. No. Most of the stories could be true, but abstracted from all the real adventurers the old man had ever known. Trinli did know something about s.h.i.+p drives. The tragedy was that they didn't have anyone who knew much more. All the Qeng Ho flight engineers had been killed in the original fighting-and the pod's last ziphead engineer had fallen to mindrot runaway.

They emerged from the bow end of the Hand Hand and climbed a mooring strand back to their taxi. Trinli paused and turned. "I envy you, Jau my boy. Take a look at your s.h.i.+p! Almost a million tonnes dryweight! You won't be going far, but you'll be bringing the and climbed a mooring strand back to their taxi. Trinli paused and turned. "I envy you, Jau my boy. Take a look at your s.h.i.+p! Almost a million tonnes dryweight! You won't be going far, but you'll be bringing the Hand Hand to the treasure and the Customers it sailed fifty light-years to find." to the treasure and the Customers it sailed fifty light-years to find."

Jau followed his broad gesture. Over the years, Jau had realized that Trinli's theatrics were a cover. . .but sometimes they reached out and plucked at your soul. The Invisible Hand Invisible Hand looked quite starworthy, hundred meter after hundred meter of curving hull sweeping off into the distance, streamlined for speeds and environments at the limit of all human accomplishment. And beyond the stern rings-1.5 million kilometers beyond-the disk of Arachna showed pale and dim. looked quite starworthy, hundred meter after hundred meter of curving hull sweeping off into the distance, streamlined for speeds and environments at the limit of all human accomplishment. And beyond the stern rings-1.5 million kilometers beyond-the disk of Arachna showed pale and dim. A First Contact, and I will bethe Pilot Manager. A First Contact, and I will bethe Pilot Manager. Jau should have been a proud man. . . . Jau should have been a proud man. . . .

Jau's last day before departure was busy, filled with final checks and provisioning. There would be more than a hundred zipheads and staff. Jau didn't learn just which specialties were represented, but it was obvious that the Podmasters wanted to manipulate the Spiders' networks intensively, without the ten-second time delay of L1 operations. That was reasonable. Saving the Spiders from themselves would involve some incredible frauds, perhaps the taking over of entire strategic weapons systems.

Jau was coming off his s.h.i.+ft when Kal Omo appeared at Xin's little office just off the Hand' Hand' s bridge. s bridge.

"One more job, Pilot Manager." Omo's narrow face broke into a humorless grin. "Call it overtime."

They took a taxi down to the rockpile, but not to Hammerfest. Around the arc of Diamond One, embedded in ice and diamond, was the entrance to L1-A. Two other taxis were already moored by the a.r.s.enal's lock.

"You've studied the Hand' Hand' s weapon fittings, Pilot Manager?" s weapon fittings, Pilot Manager?"

"Yes." Xin had studied everything about the Hand, Hand, except Brughel's private quarters. "But surely a Qeng Ho would be more familiar-" except Brughel's private quarters. "But surely a Qeng Ho would be more familiar-"

Omo shook his head. "This isn't appropriate work for a Peddler, not even Mr. Trinli." It took some seconds to get through the main lock security, but once inside they had a clear pa.s.sage into the weapons area. Here they were confronted by the noise of fitting machines and cutters. The squat ovoids racked along the walls were marked with the weapons glyph-the ancient Qeng Ho symbol for nukes and directed-energy weapons. For years, the gossip had speculated just how much survived at L1-A. Now Jau could see for himself.

Omo led him down a crawl line past unmarked cabinets. There was no consensual imagery in L1-A. And this was one of the few places left at L1 that did not use the Qeng Ho localizers. The automation here was simple and foolproof. They pa.s.sed Rei Ciret, supervising a gang of zipheads in the construction of some kind of launch rack. "We'll be moving most of these weapons to the Invisible Hand, Invisible Hand, Mr. Xin. Over the years we've cobbled together parts, tried to make as many deliverable devices as possible. We've done the best we could, but without depot facilities, that's not a h.e.l.l of a lot." He waved at what looked like Qeng Ho drive units mated to Emergent tactical nukes. "Count 'em. Eighteen short-range nukes. In the cabinets we have the guts of a dozen weapon lasers." Mr. Xin. Over the years we've cobbled together parts, tried to make as many deliverable devices as possible. We've done the best we could, but without depot facilities, that's not a h.e.l.l of a lot." He waved at what looked like Qeng Ho drive units mated to Emergent tactical nukes. "Count 'em. Eighteen short-range nukes. In the cabinets we have the guts of a dozen weapon lasers."

"I-I don't understand, Podsergeant. You're an armsmen. You have your own specialists. What need is there for-"

"-For a Pilot Manager to be concerned with such things?" Again the humorless smile. "To save the Spider civilization, it's entirely possible that we'll have to use these things, from the Invisible Hand Invisible Hand in low orbit. The fitting and engagement sequences will be very important to your pilots." in low orbit. The fitting and engagement sequences will be very important to your pilots."

Xin nodded. He'd been over some of this. The most likely start of a planet-killer war was the current crisis at the Spiders' south pole. After they arrived, they'd be in position over that site every fifty-three hundred seconds, with near-constant coverage from smaller vehicles. Tomas Nau had already announced about the lasers. As for the nukes. . .maybe they could help with bluffing.

The podsergeant continued the tour, pointing out the limitations of each resurrected device. Most of the weapons were shaped charges, and Omo's zipheads had converted them into crude digger bombs. ". . .and we'll have most of the network zipheads on board the Hand. Hand. They'll supply fire-control information for your maneuvers; we may have to make substantial orbit changes depending on the targets." They'll supply fire-control information for your maneuvers; we may have to make substantial orbit changes depending on the targets."

Omo talked with an ordnanceman's enthusiasm, and quickly left Jau with no place to hide. For a year, Jau had watched the preparations with increasing fear; there were details that could not be disguised from him. But for every treacherous possibility, there had always been some reasonable explanation. He had held to those "reasonable explanations" so fiercely. They allowed him to feel a shred of decency; they made it possible for him to laugh with Rita as they planned what the future would be like with the Spiders, and with children she and he would have.

The horror must have shown on Jau's face. Omo stopped his parade of murderous revelation, and turned to looked at him. Jau asked, "Why. . .?"

"Why must I spell it out for you?" Omo jabbed a finger at Jau's chest, pus.h.i.+ng him away from the crawl line and into the wall. He jabbed again. His hard face showed an angry indignation. It was the righteous indignation of Emergency authority, what Jau had grown up with on Balacrea. "It shouldn't really be necessary, should it? But you're like too many of our pod. You've gone bad inside, become a kind of Peddler. The others we can let drift for a while longer, but when the Hand Hand reaches low orbit, we need your intelligent, instant obedience." Omo jabbed him once more. "Do you understand now?" reaches low orbit, we need your intelligent, instant obedience." Omo jabbed him once more. "Do you understand now?"

"Y-yes. Yes!" Oh Rita! We will always be part of the Emergency. Oh Rita! We will always be part of the Emergency.

FORTY-EIGHT.

More than a hundred zipheads were leaving Hammerfest's Attic. Genius that he was, Trud Silipan had scheduled the transfer as a single move. As Ezr headed for Trixia's cell, he was swimming against a current of humanity. The Focused were being herded in groups of four and five, first out of the little capillary hallways that led to their roomlets, then into the tributary halls and finally into the main corridors. The handlers were gentle, but this was a difficult maneuver.

Ezr pulled himself sideways, into a utility nook, a back-eddy in the flow. There were people drifting past that he hadn't seen in years. These were Qeng Ho and Trilander specialists, Focused right after the ambush, just like Trixia. A few of the handlers were friends of the Focused they guided. Watch on Watch they had come to visit the lost ones. At first there had been many such people. But the years pa.s.sed and hope had dimmed. Maybe someday. . .they had Nau's promise of manumission. In the meantime, the zipheads seemed beyond caring; a visit was at most an irritation to them. Only rare fools kept at it for years.