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 cargo-hold doors, faster than off-loading to waiting granaries.

Nessus and Baedeker mixed into the crowd pushing aboard a ship. Moments later, under unpracticed mouths, the vessel wobbled off the tarmac.

Nessus led the way inward, toward the bridge, pressing through crowded corridors. Some Citizens trembled with fear and others with relief, while everyone looked dazed. The background din swelled each time they passed the access hatch into one of the herd-packed cargo holds.

“We are pilots,” Nessus howled each time the throngs stymied their progress.

Finally, they came to the entrance to the bridge. The plasteel hatch stood open. Baedeker slipped onto the bridge and Nessus followed.

The main bridge display showed a view from above the plane of the worlds. Hearth glittered with the glow of billions of buildings. Nature Preserve worlds, in varying phases, shone in blue, white, and tan. Icons of traffic-control transponders hung everywhere.

A Citizen with a brown-and-tan-striped hide and brown-and-russet braids sat astraddle the pilot’s bench. At the slam of the hatch closing, he turned a head. “Who are you?”

“We are pilots,” Baedeker answered.

“Good for you,” Stripes sang, turning back to his console.

By then, Nessus had one head in a pocket: the pocket with a sonic stunner. Stripes never knew what hit him.

*   *   *

AS SOON AS THE GRAIN SHIP landed on Nature Preserve Two, Nessus used bridge controls to open the exterior hatches of the lower cargo holds.

By the hundreds, citizens tumbled to the tarmac. Some froze, stunned by the unfamiliar sight of a sunslit sky and open spaces stretching in every direction to the horizon. Others collapsed. Most ran toward the comparative normality of the terminal building.

“We should go,” Nessus sang. The hallway had emptied, and he and Baedeker cantered to catch up with the mob emptying from the ship. None knew they had restolen the ship.

On this farm world, they could have landed almost anywhere. But while Proteus was not molesting ships fleeing the Fleet, Nessus had been afraid to see how the defensive system would respond to an inbound ship that ignored Space Traffic Control. So here they were in a spaceport that remained under government control. The perimeter fences here still stood.

Drained of the wild energy spent in escaping Hearth, the evacuees formed orderly lines for entrance into the terminal. Neck in neck, Nessus and Baedeker sidled deeper into the crowd.

Until Nessus came close enough to see uniformed security guards standing just inside the terminal doors! “Hang back,” he whispered.

“No one here knows us,” Baedeker whispered back.

No, everyone knew Nessus, at least as seen in the appeals for his capture. And Baedeker had been Hindmost. Colored lenses and coveralls seemed woefully inadequate disguises.

And if no one recognized them? The stunners in their pockets would raise a few questions.

“Give me your stunner,” Nessus murmured.

“Why?”

“No time.” Nessus insinuated a head into Baedeker’s pocket to grab his mate’s weapon. “You go through security first.” And don’t forget your assumed name.

“I’ll meet you on the other side of the gate,” Baedeker crooned.

Nessus held back, studying the screening process. He saw four security personnel, each carrying a stunner, two wearing the crazed look of thugs. Too many to attack—if, somehow, he could excite his mania to such a level—even given the advantage of surprise.

Baedeker reached the front of his line. His answers must have been unsatisfactory, because the guard gestured over another.

But Baedeker had to get through!

Nessus took out his contact lenses and jammed them into a pocket. He opened his coveralls enough for his disheveled mane to peek through. Sidling out of the crowd, he looked shiftily at the guards. Notice me, you fools.

Heads swiveling, scanning the crowd, the guard’s gaze swept right past Nessus.

Somehow, Nessus took a stunner in each mouth. At the loud crackle of his weapons the evacuees scattered, screaming. He stunned two refugees by mistake.

Baedeker’s heads whipped around, and his eyes grew wide. By remaining as everyone around him fled, he would draw attention to himself.

Nessus dropped one weapon to howl, “Go!”

Baedeker stood, frozen.

“Go!” Nessus howled even louder.

With anguish in his eyes, Baedeker turned and ran.

There was a loud sizzle. Legs, necks, torso—everything went numb.

As Nessus toppled, four guards, stunners clenched in their jaws, trotted toward him.

*   *   *

A DELUGE OF ICY WATER brought Nessus shuddering and sputtering back to awareness. He had been carried off the field to a windowless room. The glow panels were too bright. Two of the spaceport guards stared down at him. The two crazed-looking ones.

“Ready to sing?” one of them asked.

Nessus was sprawled on the floor, limbs splayed out. He willed himself to stand, and nothing happened. If it was too soon after the stunning to stand, perhaps it was also too soon to sing.

A kick in the ribs brought an involuntary bleat from him.

“You don’t need to move, just answer questions,” a guard said.

The dregs of his nervous mania gone, Nessus put what little energy he could muster into the hope his diversion had worked. When he could move, he would channel that energy into rolling up into a catatonic ball.

Catatonia was the best way to endure what must come next.

Splash! More icy water. In his faces. Down his throats. His eyelids fluttered and he coughed. “What do you want?” he gasped.

“A big reward.” One of the guards looked himself in the eyes. “And as soon as Achilles’ representative arrives to collect you, that is what I’ll have.”

What purpose will money serve once the Kzinti arrive to take their revenge? Nessus let his eyes fall shut.

Splash!

“But there is a way to have more money,” the loquacious guard sang. “When we reported your capture, Minister Achilles offered a second reward. Tell me where to find Louis.”

Louis? There was no Louis. Nessus considered explaining. But Achilles had offered a reward for Louis, too. Achilles would not appreciate being taken for a fool—if he even believed Nessus’ explanation.

Memories of Penance Island surfaced, unbidden, in his thoughts.

Another poke in the ribs. “Tell me about Louis.”

This time, Nessus twitched away from the blow. He sang nothing.

“If I find out soon enough to stop Plan Epsilon”—the guard mangled the Greek letter—“the reward will be even greater.”

Nessus tried to roll up, but could hardly tremble.

The second guard sang, “What kind of Citizen are you?”

Insane. I would not be here otherwise.

Nessus tried to remember his garden on New Terra: the tranquility of the honest labor, the simple joy of eating food he himself had grown and harvested. Memories of Sigmund, unbidden, kept popping up instead.

Unable to turn his heads, Nessus managed a human-type snort of laughter. They were out to get him. Worse, they had succeeded.

The talkative guard set a hoof on one of Nessus’ throats and pressed. “Where do we find Louis?”

The guards had yet to ask about Baedeker. Nessus told himself his beloved had gotten away, that there was still a chance. Fantasies about Louis Wu could continue to occupy Achilles and his gang.

Through his one clear throat, Nessus gasped, “I will tell you. Let me sing.”

The hoof came off his throat.

“It is complicated,” Nessus began. “Louis could be many places. Where is he? That depends.”

“On what he is trying to do? It must be Plan Epsilon.”

“You seem very certain.”

“Not I, but Minister Achilles. Louis hyperwaved, asking you for clarification about Plan Theta.”

Louis was a ploy, a ruse, a fiction. He could not have transmitted a question. Unless …

When Ol’t’ro first took charge of the Fleet, leaving Nessus to the tender mercies of Achilles, Louis had rescued him from Penance Island. Later, on the Ringworld, Louis had charged through an armed mob to scoop up Nessus—a head lopped off, blood spurting from the stump of a neck—from enraged natives.

Louis was foolishly, foolishly loyal. Even after Long Shot had vanished, he must have stayed near the Fleet. Alice, too, then.

Two good friends were about to die for their loyalty.