Juggler of Worlds (30 page)

So some had, but almost exclusively among Conservatives. That ancient history would matter more to Nessus than to most of his recruits. Achilles had studied the would-be scout’s file; he came from a long line of Conservatives.

“But the world is surely full now,” Nessus went on. “Isn’t it?”

A wave crashed onto a pile of surf-smoothed rocks, splashing them both with spray. Achilles locked eyes with his protégé. “Not the ocean floor. Most of the world’s surface is ocean.”

Of a trillion Citizens, all but a few lived in stacked cubicles deep in the bowels of vast structures, the very air they breathed replenished by filters bonded to stepping discs. What sky they saw they experienced by holovision or by teleporting elsewhere. How would their lives change if those boxes lay under the sea?

Achilles now poured out his vision, of the ocean floor covered in arcologies built of impervious hull material. Surely Hearth could support two, even three trillion more Citizens.

More young ones waited nearby, all previously initiated. Achilles had honed the process. First, the approach: overwhelming an eager-to-please protégé with his charisma. Individual attention from a high official at the academy was usually enough. Then, the warm welcome from a few peers. Finally, the group assembly, bonding the recruit—a lonely misfit, as every scout trainee was—into Achilles’ growing sect.

The initiates he had designated sidled closer, eager to perform their parts. Vesta, tall and lithe, with his booming contralto voices. Clotho, of the dancing green eyes and striking russet patches. Nyx, of the boldly striped coat. As they approached, Achilles rhapsodized about their wondrous future, his voices thrumming with enthusiasm—

And Nessus recoiled! “I don’t understand. What of such arcologies’ waste heat, bubbling up from the seabed?” A nervous whinny escaped him. “The oceans remain the lungs of the world.”

“Plankton was genetically engineered once.” Annoyed undertones crept into Achilles’ voices. Had they not just discussed that? And his disciples might hear Nessus’ impertinence. “The plankton can be reengineered, if need be, for greater heat tolerance.”

“I see.” Nessus tugged at his earnestly plain mane, the reflex putting the lie to his tentative words. “In theory, that is.”

Nyx edged closer. “Respectfully, sir, I had begun to wonder about the implications of disturbing seabed methane clathrates….”

“Methane clathrates?” Achilles snapped back, warbling in anger. “What is this trivia?”

“Methane trapped in ice in the ocean-floor sediments,” Clotho said. “How would its release affect—”

“Silence!” Achilles trilled, his undertones demanding immediate obedience. “I know what they are,” he lied. None of this mattered. His true interest wasn’t trillions more theoretical Citizens. Of course there were questions and unpredictable implications.

All that mattered was that a single arcology be deployed to the ocean floor as an experiment. Such a test would require a cadre of volunteers. Scouts were the obvious source—as soon as enough had pledged their loyalty. And surely the research population must include a Harem House of potential Brides.

He
would be their Hindmost, master of the ocean floor, commanding them all.

Now
four
trainees buzzed around him, discussing uncertainties. Higher up the sandy slope, others milled about, confused by the delay.

“Leave us,” Achilles thundered at Nessus. “I have no patience for your juvenile failure of imagination.” Achilles
had
to deal with the swelling murmurs all around. In his mind, he was already the Hindmost of a seabed arcology. There
must
be respect for his authority.

Nessus had introduced doubt. Like a pebble rolling downhill, the disturbance grew. Unable to still the cacophony, Achilles ordered the cadets back to their dormitory.

Soon after, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs reorganized the scout academy. And so he was first sent to Kzin.

A COMMUNICATOR trilled discreetly from a pocket of Achilles’ decorative sash. “Achilles,” he answered softly.

“You are summoned to the Hindmost’s suite,” a resonant contralto said. “We have established hyperwave communications with Nessus. The conference begins momentarily.”

Dismounting from his padded bench, Achilles pivoted heads and looked himself briefly in the eyes. Some disciples remained true.

It warmed Achilles’ hearts that loyal, pliant Vesta now headed Clandestine Directorate.

Ian Girard hunched over his little-kid table, lips pursed in concentration. He labored away on his electronic tablet with a stylus gripped in his chubby fist.

Sigmund sat beside Andrea on the sofa in her LA apartment. She was dye free, scrubbed clean for space. (Until last night, he’d had no idea she was blond.) Guilt didn’t remove so easily; it was plain on her face as she watched her son sketch. Amid that guilt of abandonment bubbled hints of excitement. This would be her first long-range mission.

Sigmund stood for a better perspective on Ian’s art. He saw two sort-of stick figures, their arms and legs emerging directly from enormous heads, separated by a triangle of similar height. “Who are they, champ?” Sigmund asked.

Ian glanced up. “Mommy and you.”

Andrea chortled at his double take. “Just because you’re here, Sigmund.”

Not because he had spent the night, or any childish expectations thereof. “Who’s who, Ian?” he asked.

Ian pointed. “This is you in black, silly. Mommy wears colors.”

Andrea laughed again, eyes twinkling. “It’s a beautiful picture, Sweetie. Sigmund just isn’t used to your style.”

Sigmund wondered what he’d gotten himself into. He’d happily return; he felt warm and uncharacteristically relaxed here. Andrea’s intentions were the mystery. For all he knew, last night was only about preflight jitters. “Is this a house?” he asked the boy.

“No way!” Ian scribbled vigorously beneath the triangle. Flames? “It’s a spaceship. Like Mommy is going on.”

Hobo Kelly
would launch on thrusters, of course. It also had a fusion drive, which doubled as a weapon, but launching from Earth on fusion drive would send a pilot straight to the organ banks—assuming he was caught.

Andrea’s headshake, peripherally glimpsed, closed Sigmund’s mouth. No three-year-old needed to hear that. “Great spaceship,” Sigmund said.

“Good save,” she mouthed.

What a simple joy it must be to raise a child. Andrea experienced paranoia only through chemicals; she’d had no trouble getting a birthright.
Even though he knew only a short-term marriage contract had been involved, Sigmund thought the departed father was a fool.

A few hours around Ian, and Bey raising Carlos’s children suddenly made sense. Maybe Feather’s obsessions did, too. And maybe also Feather’s anger at Sigmund.

Now Sigmund felt guilty. Guiltier? That Andrea might diagnose his uncertainty made him guiltier still.

Andrea waved at the bulging backpack by the door. “Sweetie, your aunt Tina will be here in a minute for you. Save your great picture and put away your tablet.” When he only scribbled that much more furiously, she added, “Seriously, Ian. Finish up.”

“Stay home, Mommy,” Ian said. He circled the triangle/rocket with the stylus, and dragged the symbol over the black stick figure. “Sigmund, you go.”

Sigmund froze. His heart pounded. He had begged
his
parents to stay, and he’d been ten at the time.

“Ian, Mommy has to go now.” Andrea brushed past Sigmund, pressed the save button on the tablet, and picked up the little device. “Sigmund would come if he could.”

But he couldn’t! Childhood nightmares mingled in his mind’s eye with autodoc alarms glowing red, Carlos dying inside. Sigmund shook, and thought he might puke. Could he ever leave Earth again? If so, it wouldn’t be on
Hobo Kelly
.

“You’ll have fun with Aunt Tina.” Andrea used a this-time-I-really-mean-it tone, and Ian scooted.

Sigmund held it together until Andrea’s sister and Ian departed.

“I’m looking forward to this,” Andrea said. “I know why you won’t, but there’s plenty of room aboard if you decide to join us.”

Us: an ARM naval crew and marines. They’d probably find nothing, “north” being rather vague as a clue. They could almost surely outrun and outgun anything hostile they encountered.

None of which halted Sigmund’s trembling. “I don’t think so.”

They went to the building’s roof. He unlocked his rental air car for the short jump to Mojave Spaceport. “Any last-minute questions?”

“Only one. Will we celebrate my triumphant return just as enthusiastically?” He must have looked surprised, because she patted his arm. “I
do
plan to return, you know.”

“That’s an order,” he said. “And the answer to your question is yes.”

HOBO KELLY rose
noiselessly, swung slowly to orient itself into the spaceport traffic pattern, and accelerated. In a moment, it was invisible to the naked eye.

Sigmund peered into the cloudless desert sky for minutes after the ship disappeared. “Godspeed,” he whispered. Then he set out for the commercial terminal, for the short, suborbital flight back to New York, there to practice the skill he was worst at.

Waiting.

Baedeker struggled to grasp how his life had so suddenly changed. A sumptuous private cabin had replaced the communal hardship of the Rehabilitation Corps. He once more enjoyed a proper grooming and a professionally styled mane. He was in space, again.

One change eclipsed all others. He was suddenly, if tentatively, in the confidence of the Hindmost himself, observing great affairs of state.

Observing, but not participating. The Hindmost had directed Baedeker to monitor in secrecy from his cabin. He stood and watched—and wondered why.

The Hindmost seemed to think nothing of the casual informality with which the two scouts addressed him, simply, as Nike. It was well known that scouts were insane; surely, this proved it.

And one of those scouts, the one participating by hyperwave radio, had ruined Baedeker’s life: Nessus.

The Deputy Minister, Vesta, kept the social niceties short. “Nessus, you requested an urgent, real-time consultation.”

Nessus bobbed heads. “The problem is urgent. My most highly placed agent has informed me of an ARM exploratory vessel traveling in your direction.”

“Then you have failed,” Achilles said. The bass harmonics oozed disdain.

“It wasn’t
my
neutronium traps that drew ARM attention,” Nessus snapped back.

“At least I tried. How much accumulated General Products wealth have
you
squandered failing to distract the ARM?” Achilles rebutted.

As the scouts quarreled, Baedeker struggled to understand why he was here. Through his family, he had sent word from exile to onetime colleagues
at General Products: “It doesn’t take antimatter.” Everything after that happened with amazing speed.

“We need recommendations, not argument,” Vesta interjected finally.

Baedeker had never considered himself socially skilled. Banishment and near isolation on Nature Preserve 1 changed that. There, often with only memories for companionship, he had endlessly revisited past conversations. His newfound ear for nuance sensed ulterior motives and strained relations. Why did Vesta act so deferentially toward Achilles?