Extremis (39 page)

Emz’hem was (confused, perplexed). “Then if there was collusion between the two, why did the store owner not simply make the toy a gift, or declare it lost from his inventory?”

“Several possibilities present themselves. Firstly, any lost inventory notation is unusual. As a statistical anomaly, it attracts attention. And attracting attention is the last thing a covert operative would wish to do. Also, the reduced price is probably equal to the merchant’s expenditure when purchasing the item from his suppliers. As the humans would say, he simply provided it to the Resistance ‘at cost.’ So the toy in question still registers as sold in the inventory database. Only when we look closer do we see that it wasn’t sold for the customary price. And even then, that would not signal much to us—unless we had this piece of incriminating evidence.” He waved the charred strip of metal in his tentacle. Now for Emz’hem’s next test. “So, how do we proceed?”

“We arrest the merchant. We force him to divulge the identity of the
griarfeksh
bom—” Emz’hem stopped, her abashed
selnarm
confirming that she had noticed all three of Lentsul’s eyes closing—slowly, wearily. “You believe I am in error, Junior Commander?” came the timid inquiry.

She has an unsurpassed talent for understatement.
Lentsul kept his
selnarm
carefully groomed and utterly blank as he replied, “Even if you could get this merchant to divulge pertinent information, the data will no longer be useful. Once we take him into custody, the Resistance members he supplies will go into hiding, perhaps relocate.
No, we must proceed in a far more patient fashion, and so let our enemies reveal themselves to us.”

“And how shall we compel them to do that, Junior Commander?”

So much to learn, indeed.
“We do not compel them at all, Emz’hem. Rather, if we give the
griarfeksh
enough time, they will show us their faces and not even know that they have done so.”

A strong new pulse of
selnarm
entered their conversation. “Lentsul, it seems you have made progress?”

Lentsul started out of his deductive trance and found that it was Mretlak’s
selnarm
which was touching his own.

“Yes, Commander, it seems so.”

* * *

“Excellent.” Mretlak sent (pleasure, congratulations, encouragement) and hoped Ankaht’s reservations about Lentsul would not prove warranted: the little
Ixturshaz
was his brightest staffer, and he had a turn of mind well-suited for the strange mix of detail-checking and free-form analysis that was the rootstock of all counterintelligence work. “I will ask you to let your trainee continue by herself for a moment. I wish your opinion on a technical matter.”

“Certainly.”

Once Lentsul had followed Mretlak into his office, and the door was shut, the Cluster-Leader reached out a private tendril of
selnarm
. “They have done it, Lentsul.”

(Surprise, avidity.) “The vocoder? Already?”

“Yes. I saw it working today. I listened to the communication that the Elder has established with the human artist. It is—very impressive.”

“This is wonderful news, is it not?”

“It should be, Lentsul. But before I allow my hopes to move too strongly in that direction, I want one other opinion.”

“Whose?”

“Yours. Here, absorb this recording. It will take many minutes. And I want your most skeptical reaction, Lentsul.”

“I have no other kind to give, Commander.”

And so Mretlak sat silently beside Lentsul as he absorbed the entire day’s exchange between Ankaht and the human named Jennifer Peitchkov. When the recording was over, Mretlak asked: “So, what do you think?”

Lentsul squinted his main eye. “I think the operation of this vocoder is akin to having a computer interpret the meaningless screechings and twitterings of a
flixit
. It is a parlor trick. The computer reports meaning? Of course it does—the meaning the programmers and their algorithms have wished into existence. This vocoder is not translating intelligent communication for us, because the human is not uttering any intelligent communication for the machine to translate.”

Mretlak smiled. “Then how do you explain the corroboratory
selnarm
exchanges?”

“I can’t.”

“And the conformity between those and the smart-board lexical translations?”

“I can’t—not unless the tape has been altered and edited.”

“In short, the entire tape is false.”

“It must be, because I cannot explain it otherwise.”

“And if I now relieve you of the duty of being an absolute skeptic?”

Lentsul’s main eye flexed wide. “Then I would say we finally have the tool we need. Actually, there is more evidence to support that conclusion than the mere matching of
selnarm
to the written language on the smart-boards.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Measure the time that the Elder has had access to subject Peitchkov. Then consider the number and aptitudes of the Elder’s staff. Now presume that everything we witnessed-every bit of conversation and
selnarmic
exchange—is all pure fabrication. There’s a mathematical discrepancy between the two.”

“There is?”

“Yes. The amount of labor required to fabricate the human’s seamless references and representations pertaining to her culture could not be completed by the number of workers Ankaht has, in the time available to them. Ergo, even if we were tempted to speculate that this is a meticulously crafted conceit, it is so flawless and extensive that it
cannot
be a conceit. Not given the limited time and resources available for its creation.”

Mretlak sent (gratitude, admiration). “Your logic is invaluable to me, good Lentsul. Now let me show you one other item of interest.” Mretlak opened the credenza next to his desk and lifted out what looked like a paper-thin tic-tac-toe grid.

Lentsul’s main-tentacle claws cycled quickly in powerful (curiosity). “What is that device?”

By way of answer, Mretlak activated the human machine. After a moment of gray static, a picture appeared in each cell of its three-by-three grid. At first, Lentsul frowned at the disparate images, but then his
selnarm
registered realization: all the scenes were of different locations in Punt City—specifically, the parts which had been taken over from the humans. As they watched, two Arduans crossed the field of view in the lower center screen, oblivious to being observed.

Lentsul looked up at Mretlak. “A monitoring system?”

Mretlak signaled (affirmation). “Yes—an incredibly widespread network of visual pickups. And unnoticeable to the unaided eye.” He held up an evidentiary fiber-optic filament that was just slightly thicker than a human hair. “In many cases, the fibers were embedded into the facades of the buildings during their construction. Quite ingenious, actually.”

Lentsul studied the images again. “Does the system extend to the human areas beyond Punt City?”

“It may have, but if it did, the humans have disabled the systems there. I surmise that when we took over what they called the West Shore District, they severed all of the links to the areas they inhabit.”

Lentsul’s mouth edges folded inward. “In that event, Cluster-Commander, may I ask: What need do we have of this system? For security within our city, we have our own
selnarm
repeaters—and so any creature who enters our precincts without
selnarm
will make themselves known soon enough when they fail to interact with our devices, doors, automated security checkpoints.”

“Yes, Lentsul—but what if we were to lose control of our compound? Unlikely, yes, but we are on a planet swarming with creatures that mean to annihilate us by any means possible. If they break in among us, how will
selnarm
alone show us where they are and what they are doing? They could be all around and amidst us—and once they have identified and eliminated the
selnarm
checkpoints and repeaters and interfaces, we would have absolutely no means of tracking their subsequent movements.”

Lentsul signaled (understanding) if not accord. “Very well, Cluster-Commander. I presume this system is in want of routine maintenance? And that there are more screens and many more pickups to refurbish?”

“Your foresight and deduction are, as ever, excellent, Lentsul.”

“I shall set myself to these tasks immediately, Cluster-Commander.” And Lentsul left.

Mretlak remained standing. We waited until the faintest murmur of Lentsul’s
selnarm
had faded and then manipulated the manual controls on the human viewing unit. All nine pictures changed—and one of them showed Ankaht, in her research lab, working with her Cluster. Another showed Urkhot arriving in his planetside chambers.

Yes,
he thought,
and in this time when our leaders share less and less of their
selnarm
with us, and when our
narmata
is frayed, and divided, and uncertain, I shall watch. Watch and record. For what our leaders do not wish to show us, is what we most need to see.

High City, New Ardu/Bellerophon Orbit

Torhok’s personal assistant, Fleet Staff Second Pergesh, probed his
selnarm
gently inward. “Senior Admiral, a communication from Urkhot.”

“Very well. Put it on the secure
selnarm
repeater, Pergesh.”

“As you instruct, Senior Admiral.”

A moment later, Urkhot’s boosted
selnarm
rose up to touch Torhok’s. “Senior Admiral, I will return to you within the hour.”

Illudor help me
. “This is excellent news,
Holodah’kri
. Fifteen days is a long planetside stretch for your tastes, but I trust you have now finished briefing the Council on the Revised Provenance Doctrines?”

“Yes.”

“And they have accepted these changes?”

“Too eagerly, if anything, Senior Admiral. Predictably, the
shaxzhu
on the Council—and even my own brother-priest, Tefnut ha sheri—wanted even fewer restrictions on document and data access for our general population. I do not think they will be able to compel an immediate reassessment of the dicta we have formulated, but within a year’s time—who knows?”

“It is the most we could hope for,
Holodah’kri
. Now, if you have no further—”

“There is one other pressing item of business, Senior Admiral.”

Torhok noted the oddly calm and controlled character of Urkhot’s
selnarm
. “Indeed?”

“Yes. I wish to know: Are you planning any visits planetside within the next week?”

Odd query.
“No. I have none planned.”

“Good. Do not change those plans. Under any circumstances. A pleasant day to you, Senior Admiral. I shall see you soon enough.” The link terminated abruptly.

Torhok leaned back. And physically smiled.

The weapon he had crafted weeks ago was about to clear its sheath.

Resistance Headquarters, Aeolian Lowlands, Icarus Continent, Bellerophon/New Ardu

Alessandro McGee licked his right index and middle finger and—pinching them together through the fabric of his right pant leg—stripped them swiftly down the length of the crease from knee to cuff.
Enough of that, Sandro,
he thought.
Worry about your presentation, instead.

The door opened without any knock; pretty typical when you were in the doghouse. McGee rose to attention, and the expected crew filed in: Heide, followed by Cap Peters, Lieutenant Chong and—surprisingly—Harry “Light Horse” Li, a newly-minted sergeant and evidently Heide’s new adjutant. Harry waggled his eyebrows at McGee as he entered; McGee arched a dubious eyebrow in response.

“At ease.” Heide nodded to the guards outside—Juan Kapinski and Roon Kelakos—who quickly brought in four folding chairs and a table that matched McGee’s own.

Heide wasted no time on niceties. “I’ll come right to the point, Sergeant. I am not here out of personal interest in your schemes, but because my two senior staff”—he glanced at Chong and then less charitably at Cap Peters—“both insist that you have concocted an offensive plan that is both pertinent and novel.”

“It’s ingenious,” insisted Peters. And McGee thought he could hear Cap’s additional words,
And it will get us off our asses and restore morale
. Of course, Cap didn’t say any such thing—but McGee knew the look in his old CO’s eye.

Heide sat straighter. “Your continued partiality for this man and his schemes—”

Chong spoke. “Brevet Captain Heide, I have no vested interest or prior personal affiliation with Sergeant McGee, but I fully concur with Majo—eh, Lieutenant Peters. This plan is ingenious.”

“Preposterous. Besides attracting attention to the Resistance, McGee is proposing an operation that will strike straight into the heart of the Baldy city in the West Shore District. It cannot be anything other than willful suicide, and I—”

Chong somehow interrupted and did not sound rude doing it. “Brevet Captain Heide, hear the man out and listen to the details of his attack plan. And yes, it will attract the Baldies’ attention—which is just what we need to remind the Resistance, and everyone else on Bellerophon, that we are a force to be reckoned with and that we haven’t forgotten our duty to fight on.”

“I agree that we must come up with some plan. But from this man? The full measure of his culpability for the deaths of Lieutenant Colonel Van Felsen and her team is still under consideration.”

Cap Peters nodded. “Yes, but the most serious matter—the treason investigation—is behind us now, so—”

McGee was, like the last time, on his feet before he had finished registering his surprise—and relief. “The treason investigation is over? I’m cleared?”

And what should have been a congenial moment only became darker still. Cap Peters’s stunned stare slid away from McGee, and, by the time it had come to rest on Heide’s profile, it was a dark and ominous glower. “Brevet Captain Heide, it was understood that Sergeant McGee was to be informed immediately upon our finding that there was no evidence to substantiate suspicion, let alone charges, of treason. That was three days ago.”

Chong said nothing but fixed Heide with a stare that was as blank and pitiless as a shark’s.