KANTANO SKYBASE SEEMED like little more than a gigantic spaceport, wheeling through the sky a few hundred kilometers over the clouds and oceans of Kantano’s World. Tamika, Max, and Ruskin made their way across the lobbies like all the other tourists, rubbernecking out the windows at the sight of the world they had just left, pulling their baggage along behind. Ruskin didn’t trust automatic baggage handling, especially with his data slivers. It meant they had to pass through inspection the slow way. Once they’d cleared customs, they made their way across the spaceport to the gate for the high-planetary-orbit shuttle.
Max hardly looked out of place at all here, even in his visored exposure suit. The station was full of nonHumans, including the occasional Logothian. Ali’Maksam’s kin tended to wear disconcertingly similar garb, and at one point Ruskin almost called out to a Logothian he thought was Max, wandering away from him—only to realize that Max was at his side, just a step or two behind him. Tamika chuckled at his double take and latched onto his opposite arm.
They passed through a tropical garden in the restaurant district, where it was a little less crowded—possibly because the humidity hit them like a wall of moisture as they passed into the display of aromatic bay rum bushes, white-and-purple-blossomed frangipani, Seven Sisters orchids, and Barnard’s elephant ears. As they paused to admire the blossoms and inhale the sweet fragrances, Ruskin noticed a small knot of Querayn academicians seated beneath a stand of bamboo-ferns. There was nothing terribly unusual about the sight of Querayn scholars; but for some reason, his gaze was drawn to them: two Humans and several noliHumans, all wearing the distinctive mauve-bordered robes of their disciplines.
He felt a curious urge to engage them in conversation—a totally involuntary urge, which was extremely odd. He had no particular interest in the Querayn; Ali’Maksam had far more in common with them than he. As a class, the tele’eLogoth and Querayn shared overlapping interests in some of the more abstract disciplines—logic and ethics, universal consciousness psychology, mathematics, and certain abstruse branches of epistemology and teleological exegesis. Ali’Maksam was in fact exceptional among tele’eLogoth for his practical skills; the majority of his fellows kept to the more arcane branches of knowledge, pursued in part through empathic meditation. The Querayn, however, were even more extreme in their devotion to the esoteric disciplines. They were best known for their studies, generally dismissed by mainstream science, of such notions as supposed consciousness in quantum and cosmological systems. Though some of their work had earned them high regard, many scientists (including Ruskin, so far as he could remember) considered the majority of their studies unempirical at best, more fringe-element religious philosophy than science.
“Willard?”
He turned, startled.
Ali’Maksam angled his head. “Are you planning to join in their conversation?”
“What?” And then he realized that he had not merely been staring at the Querayn, but walking toward them. “No—no—of course not.” In response to a quizzical look from Tamika, he shrugged, his cheeks flushed. “Let’s get going. It’s hot in here.”
Ali’Maksam pointed the way out of the garden. Ruskin followed, but his mind was in a haze, wondering why those people had caught his eye. He looked around dreamily, noticed several noliHumans of other varieties: their pale, hairless, almost featureless faces setting them off from their genetically different Human cousins. Most noliHumans were not Querayn. Why did that matter? Now they were passing a pair of dark, lean Tandesko talisans, carrying food from a nearby lunch counter. Ruskin stared after them, suppressing a feeling of anger—which the two Tandeskoes had done nothing to provoke.
((Willard, your emotions are a cauldron here. I wonder why.))
He walked a little farther before replying. (I don’t know.) It shamed him to see the prejudice in his own heart. (Is that really me?)
((We’re working on a test to find out.))
(Great. Let me know.) Dax and his new programming. He recalled napping on the shuttle ride up; in the midst of it he’d had a feeling that somehow his dreams were being altered, manipulated. What kind of strange capabilities had Daxter given his little synthetic offspring, anyway?
((Tsk, tsk . . . resistance and hostility. That’s no way to treat someone who’s only trying to make you better.))
Ruskin growled inwardly. (Nobody ever told me I had to enjoy being headshrunk by someone a millionth my size.)
((Actually, Willard, I’m more like a billionth your size—))
Ruskin sighed, walking with Max and Tamika into a passenger waiting area.
((—but I understand your feelings.))
(Dax—can’t you take an insult?) He ignored the NAGs’ rejoinder. “Is this the place, Max?”
“Aries Grissondon City shuttle number one-three-four,” Ali’Maksam said, pointing to the sign. Passengers were already clotting the waiting area. Max led the way across to the far side, where they stacked their bags and perched for the wait on a short bench. “And here,” Max said whimsically, “we await our destiny to the stars.” He rested his head against the wall and went instantly to sleep.
Tamika curled her legs up on the bench, laid her head on Ruskin’s lap, and followed Max’s example.
Ruskin stared at the crowd of passengers and unconsciously started counting aliens as they walked by, making a list of the ones he instinctively trusted, and those he didn’t.
* * *
The offices of the Associative Frontiers Institute were unusually silent this morning. That was fine with Judith; she didn’t want to have to speak with anyone right now. She sat at her desk, scowling at a memo that had come up on her work-display. It was from Willard Ruskin. It said that he was terribly sorry, but he’d had to advance his departure time and therefore hadn’t been able to clear his research results first with Judith and Ankas. By the time she read this, it said, he would be on his way off Kantano’s World.
Judith’s left eyebrow twitched as she reread the memo for the fourth time. What bothered her was not so much the breach of company policy about internal review—which was serious, but not unforgivable—as the confirmation in her own mind that Ruskin’s behavior had become dangerously erratic. If she’d needed proof of his instability, then this was it. The day before yesterday, he’d been confused and unable even to summarize the state of his research results. Today, he was on his way off-planet, because time was too short for him to submit to review. Highly unlikely: far more probably, he was afraid to submit to the review.
Judith felt a terrible pang of dismay. She genuinely cared for Ruskin and didn’t want to hurt him. Nevertheless, she seemed to have no choice. With a sigh, she flicked a smokestick alight and turned to open a com-channel. It took only a moment to make the connection.
* * *
Broder took a chance and left the office on automatic for a few minutes while he went to grab some lunch. He had a terrific headache from lack of sleep and food, and Gorminski hadn’t come in yet. He’d been up all night tracking reports of Ruskin’s departure from Kantano’s World. It was a delicate time, because soon he would no longer have any direct control over the operation. It would be up to Ganz and Jeaves; and he didn’t want to turn them loose without maximum information and instructions. One thing that worried him was that Ruskin had taken his two friends, the Jones woman and the Logoth, with him. That hadn’t been in the original itinerary. Did it mean that the man suspected something—that Gorminski’s NAGs were failing? The thought was enough to give Broder a sour stomach. He wondered, not for the first time, if it had been a mistake for them to drop out of sight as they had; perhaps they should have taken the risk of continuing contact with Ruskin, continuing the charade.
Another thing: why the hell hadn’t April checked in? Or any of her colleagues?
His favorite diner was just down the block. He hurried, and bought a salad sandwich crammed with greens and cheddar cheese, and a large coffee. Fretting over the time even as he did so, he tore open the end of the sandwich wrapper and took a huge bite, growling with satisfaction. Gulping a mouthful of coffee, he hurried out of the diner.
It was a gorgeous, sunny day—yet another day, lost to worry and fear. It’s for the good of the worlds. Remember that. For the good of the worlds.
Gorminski was in the office when he got back. “Sorry I’m late,” he wheezed. “Staying up last night did me in. I’ve got a touch of nuflu, I think.” He blew his nose. He looked awful.
Broder shook his head silently. That was just what he needed, was Ilex passing some goddamn bug on to him. “You don’t have to stay if you’re sick,” he said, none too diplomatically.
“I’m okay,” Gorminski said, snuffling. “We got a message from April. Priority.”
“Shit,” Broder said. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone out.” He punched up the message on the com. “Did you read it?”
“I just got here. No.”
“Well, take a good look.” Broder rapped the screen where the message was framed. He stepped back to let Gorminski peer at it.
Gorminski’s face sagged as he read. “Unstable . . . compromised reliability . . . recommends removal.” He looked up. “Stanley, this isn’t good.”
“You don’t say. And April’s prejudiced in the guy’s favor. If she thinks he’s far enough gone to turn in a report like that . . .”
Gorminski rubbed his eyes wearily. “Ganz?”
“What the hell else?”
Gorminski looked unhappy. “You don’t want to check with Jeaves first?”
Broder sat down at the com, sandwich and coffee forgotten. “Sure, we’ll ask. But I don’t see what Jeaves could say that would change what we’ve got in front of us right now.
“No.” Gorminski’s voice was full of regret. “No, I guess not.”
“Bad breaks. They’re part of the game, Ilex. I know you worked hard on those NAGs. But it’s just part of the damned game.
“So if Ruskin’s out of it, what do we do then?”
“Well, we’ll just have to leave it to Ganz, won’t we?” Broder shrugged unhappily. “It might be better to sacrifice the whole thing than to let it stay in the wrong hands.”
Gorminski shuddered, but did not disagree.
* * *
Jeaves was in the darkness of his other employers’ briefing room when the call came in from Broder. The robot answered without breaking the stride of its conversation with the Seniors. (Yes, Stanley, I understand. Can I check back with you in a few minutes? I am in the midst of preparing a transmission to Grissondon Space City, quite important. Yes, as soon as I can. . . .)
To the Seniors, the robot continued, “My analysis of the tissue sample confirms the presence of a third set of NAGs in Ruskin’s body. His visit to E’rik Daxter two days ago clearly suggests their source; however, so far I have been unable to decode the new programming. If Daxter deliberately disguised his design—”
One of the voices interrupted. Jeaves recognized the voice as that of Senior Karel. “We understand that, Querobo. We wish you to continue your analysis, of course. But just now we feel that more might be gained from an evaluation of Ali’Maksam’s intentions.”
“His intentions with respect to what?” Jeaves asked.
“With respect to his choice of E’rik Daxter. If he felt he needed further help, he could have sought it from us. He did not.” Senior Karel sounded puzzled and perhaps a little hurt.
“I know of no way to determine Ali’Maksam’s intentions,” Jeaves said.
“Perhaps you can do so in the field,” another voice said. “It is possible that you will solve the programming code, as well. We will work on it here, of course; but it is uncertain whether we will be able to convey our findings to you once you have left the system.”
“Will you notify your representatives at Starmuse of the situation?” Jeaves asked.
“If I am able to travel there myself, I will,” said Senior Karel. “Otherwise, no. Even if communications were secure, those at Starmuse are of a more conservative persuasion. Academic purists, really. Willing to study, but reluctant to act. To be safe, we must supply you with all of the tools and data that we can, before you leave.”
“That must be in the next day or two,” the robot cautioned. “I cannot predict exactly when my last updating transmission will occur. Once I am out of range—”
“Of course. We understand. Do Broder and Gorminski know of the tissue samples?”
“No. Not unless their intelligence sources exceed my estimation.”
“Very well. Querobo, you have done well. We pray that you will succeed.”
Jeaves withdrew its codelink. “Thank you. And now I must depart. My soulware transmission is scheduled for this evening, and there is much to be done.”
“Much indeed. We will speak soon.”
* * *
Judith was still thinking of her message to the Auricle Review Agency long after she had transmitted it, even after the acknowledgment had come back. More than ever, she felt the weight of the responsibility that the agency had laid upon her, to observe and report on security-sensitive activities at AFI. When they’d recruited her, six months ago, she had been shocked at the idea; later, reconsidering, she’d concluded that it was both a compliment to her and possibly a genuine service to the worlds-nation she loved. Not without pride—and not without misgivings—she had accepted the code-name “April” and agreed to keep her eyes open at the institute. This was the first time, however, that she’d actually blown the whistle on a colleague; and she didn’t like the taste of it. Why did it have to be her friend Willard, of all people?
Never mind that she’d had little choice, that the success of important Alliance projects depended upon people’s willingness to put their ideals ahead of even personal relationships. She flipped her memo back onto the screen, to read it one last time before erasing it: “. . . Ruskin has become unstable to a degree that may compromise his reliability in so sensitive a position. With regret, I must recommend his removal from the Breakstar project.” She exhaled slowly.
“Judith?” said a voice directly behind her.
“What?” Startled, she sat upright and turned. It was Galen. She stared at him dazedly for an instant, then hastily reached out and blanked the message. “What is it, Galen? I didn’t hear you. You should knock.” She was angry but tried not to show it.
“I’m sorry. I did knock. May I come in?” Galen said.
“Yes, of course.” She tried to soften the rasping sound of her breath, deep in her throat. She felt as though she had just been caught in some shameful act. Maybe she had.
Galen nodded solemnly. His eyes went to the screen, now empty. “I was coming to talk to you about this ag report.” He tapped a printout in his hand, but his eyes were still focused on her screen. He blinked and looked away. “Maybe I should come back later.” He backed out of the doorway.
“Galen, wait!” But he was gone. Jesus Christ—how stupid! He’d obviously seen the message, or at least part of it. How could she have been so careless? Lost in her own thoughts . . . But you did what you had to do. There was no other choice. Not with Willard acting that way.
Guiltily, she erased the memo from her console’s memory. Then she rose and strode down the hall to Galen’s cubicle. The door was closed. She hesitated, then buzzed. The door winked open, but Galen remained seated with his back to the door, studying his printout. She recognized that posture. He was hunched forward, his shoulders tensed. He was upset. Deeply upset.
Because of what he’d seen on her screen?
Judith triggered the door closed and cleared her throat.
Galen turned suddenly, raising his eyes to meet hers. His expression took her by surprise. Uncertainty, and . . . joy, it looked like. Joy? But why? When he spoke, his voice was contrite. “Judith, I didn’t mean to look at your screen—really! But I couldn’t help seeing—”
“What was on that screen was none of your business,” she said sternly.
“Of course not,” he whispered. “I know. It’s just that—I never knew that you and I were both—” His head jerked away. “I shouldn’t even be saying it.”
Startled, she tilted her head, studying him. “You shouldn’t be saying what?”
He brought his gaze back nervously. “That we’re both—I mean, I didn’t know that you were working for the Group, too. That’s all. I saw the header on your memo. I didn’t see anything that you wrote—really—just that you were reporting to the Group.” He pronounced group as though it were a proper name.
“The—” she hesitated, before saying cautiously “—agency, you mean?”
He smiled. “Right. The agency.” He barked a short laugh. “The Auricle Review Agency. Right.”
A knot of tension took hold in her throat. “Is there something funny about that?” she murmured.
He looked puzzled. “Well, I mean it’s just—what better cover? I mean, than the name of the opposition.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand for a moment. “Right?”
Judith bit her lip. “Right,” she whispered.
Galen nodded in apparent relief. He lowered his voice, but it still cracked with emotion. “God, Judith, I’m just so happy that I’m not the only one here. And you, of all people! I was afraid you were still strong on all that Auricle stuff!”
Judith kept her mouth shut as her mind raced. Was she going mad? What was Galen saying? The Auricle Review Agency was a watchdog bureau for Alliance security. At least, that was what she had thought. What she had been told. Could he possibly be saying . . . oh Jesus.
Galen had admitted to a brief flirtation once with Tandesko-style sex, but that was all over. Wasn’t it? And anyway, he’d never been political, certainly not with . . . them. Had he?
Jesus!
She struggled to take a deep breath. All this . . . was it possible that she had been deceived from the start? Auricle Review Agency. How could she have known?
“Judith?” Galen murmured. “I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t have said—but I thought since we both—oh, shit, Judith, I’m sorry!”
For a moment longer, she could not speak. Straighten shoulders . . . take breath . . . get control. The idea that she had been . . . deceived by a political group (who? Tandesko?) had never even entered her mind. It had all seemed so real, so legitimate.
She focused her gaze narrowly on Galen. Her head was buzzing and she felt as though she were a million miles away. “Galen,” she said, her voice far sterner than her heart, “I want you to tell me exactly what your connection is with the Auricle . . . Review Agency. You’ve just breached security, and I must know precisely how serious that breach is.”
Galen’s eyes looked wounded. Her gaze burned into his.
Finally he nodded, took a breath. And began, in a trembling voice, to tell her what she wanted to know.
And as he spoke, a chill grew down her spine as she realized the enormity of her error.