Flinx Transcendent (10 page)

Vunkiil BNCCRSQ did not very much like her job. For one thing, the work was too easy, too repetitive. Without challenge there was little room in which to acquire status and therefore few opportunities for advancement. She longed for a crisis that would allow her to demonstrate her exceptional competency. One serious enough to allow her to reap the formal name of BNCCRS. Alas, it seemed that the “Qucent” of her family name was likely to be attached to her until her scales dulled in hue and her claws grew blunt and old.

What attracted her attention that afternoon did not exactly qualify as a crisis, but it was at least curious enough to entice her away from her tiresome regular duties.

In her position in the station as one of a dozen monitors of traffic in orbit above Blasusarr's largest continent, it was her task to keep track of a certain number of vessels both coming and going that had been assigned to her watch. Over the past several days one had drawn just a little more notice than most. Not because it had done anything unusual, not because its visual or electronic signature was in any way out of the ordinary, but simply because it had done precisely that—nothing. Not merely nothing unusual, but nothing at all. That was in and of itself—unusual.

Vessels did not arrive in orbit around the homeworld for no reason.
Interstellar travel was always difficult, dangerous, and expensive. It was not undertaken for a lark. As with any action taken by the AAnn and their allies, reason and purpose underlay every activity. Yet in all the time it had been in quiet, standard orbit around Blasusarr since arriving from outsystem, this particular minor commercial vessel had distinguished itself by doing nothing. While doing nothing did not exactly constitute a hazard, the complete lack of action and response was sufficiently out of the ordinary to finally invite her attention.

She might well be making a fool of herself for following up on the observation, she knew. There could be any number of perfectly rational explanations for the vessel's continued inaction. She debated with herself for one more day before deciding that the prudent course of action would be to find a colleague to concur with her opinion. The reason she delayed was that if additional action was taken on her recommendation she would be the one to garner all the blame, but if anything positive resulted, she would have to share the credit with her defender. After wrestling with the conundrum for part of yet another morning, she finally decided there was no way she could plausibly proceed without at least one corroborator. She found herself turning to Arubaat DJJKWWE, the monitor who was stationed next to her.

“I have a requesst: run a sstock ssafeguard on the vessel occupying thesse coordinatess.” Without waiting for a response she reallocated the relevant information to his station. Tail tip barely flicking the floor behind his seat, he complied without looking over at her.

“A class twenty-four cargo craft, with minimal if any passenger-carrying capability,” he reported with becoming swiftness. “Onboard life ssupport appearss to be active. When queried, it resspondss appropriately.”

“But alwayss electronically.” She leaned slightly though not provocatively in his direction. She wanted confirmation, not a fight. “I have been querying the craft for sseveral dayss now and have yet to receive a ssingle vissual of any member of the crew.”

Her colleague's dismissal was unapologetically sarcastic. “Perhaps the crew iss sshy. They need only resspond appropriately to formal queriess. Nothing requiress that they sshow themsselvess.” The third-degree gesture of apathy he flipped in her direction matched his tone. “For thiss you interrupt my own sscanning?”

“In the time that I have been monitoring them,” she replied frostily, “they have done nothing but acknowledge presscribed ssignalss. They have initiated no application for landing, forwarded no requesst for cusstomss clearance, ressponded uninteresstedly to repeated offerss to clear cargo. Do you not find thiss odd? Or possibly you think they have come all thiss way ssolely to drift in orbit around the homeworld and admire itss landsscape?”

Reluctantly, Arubaat found himself somewhat drawn to his colleague's disquiet. “They have not yet requessted permission to ssend down a sshuttle, or to validate their bussiness here?”

“Nothing,” she told him firmly. “All codess and queriess are ansswered with a promptness that iss only undersscored by their lack of detail.”

“Not likely a ssecretive thranx warsship, then. What elsse can it be?” Returning his attention to his own station, the now intrigued Arubaat sent skyward a series of electronic requests. They were answered without delay—and without a hint of elaboration. His carefully formatted queries had generated the minimum response required to satisfy regulations. The automated files were completely satisfied.

He, however, was not. At least, not entirely. Much as he hated to admit it, his coworker and natural work-rival might be on to something. How could he make the most of her apparent insight to benefit himself? Much depended on what she wanted to do next, on how she wanted to proceed. So he asked her. After first formally registering his own interest in the matter, of course.

Distastefully but not unexpectedly, she recorded his official acknowledgment of support before elaborating. “The sship'ss crew musst have ssome agenda in mind, whether commercial or otherwisse. It iss incumbent upon uss”—and she took care to emphasize the “uss”—“as Imperial monitorss to find out what it iss. There alsso exisstss the possibility that thosse aboard have ssuffered a collective injury either to themsselvess or to their communicationss facilitiess. Or they may be ssuffering under adversse circumsstances we cannot envission—becausse they can do nothing more than resspond automatically and electronically to our inquiriess.”

Arubaat withheld comment until the female had concluded her review of the situation. “What do you proposse?”

Taking the necessary risk, Vunkiil plunged ahead. “A formal invesstigation. I would conssider mysself remiss in my dutiess were I to ssuggesst anything less. A crewed orbital monitor needss to approach the vessel in quesstion and examine it with more than jusst insstrumentss.”

Her colleague made a second-degree gesture of concurrence. “I will ssecond your recommendation—bassed ssolely, of coursse, on your assessment of the ssituation.”

“Of coursse,” she responded flatly. It would have been unrealistic to expect anything less from a fellow and equally ambitious nye. Arubaat was taking steps to cover his tail in the event the time-consuming and costly inspection revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

Too late for second thoughts, she told herself. The bones had been thrown. While she still felt confident she had made the right decision in requesting the detailed check, her convictions would have been greatly reinforced if only she could have come up with a better rationale for the continuing silence of the mysterious craft's peculiarly nonresponsive crew.

One reason that never occurred to her was that the vessel in question might not have a crew.

Kiijeem had hardly retired for the remainder of the night, slipping quietly back to his quarters in the main residence, when the integrated communit inside the hood of Flinx's simsuit sang softly for attention. Inconspicuous as it was, the sound was so unexpected that a startled Flinx looked around in momentary shock before settling on the source.

It was the
Teacher
calling. It had to be. There was nothing and no one else within a hundred parsecs that had access to that special frequency or the means to address him. The call itself told him immediately that something was wrong. While on the surface of another world
he
contacted the
ship
. It did not, would not, try to contact him unless something had gone amiss.

Hurrying over to the suit, he picked it up and positioned it so that the internal receptor was close to the side of his head. Though the
Teacher
could bend frequencies as efficiently as a child could snap elastic bands, it was still important to keep all such clandestine communications
as brief as possible to avoid any chance they might be traced and tracked.

“I'm here,” he declared simply.

“I wish you were here,” the
Teacher
replied. “I am currently undergoing examination by a small orbital patrol vessel of the type favored by the AAnn. I am certain that this is because both my programmed and extemporaneous responses to all ground-based inquiries as to purpose and intent have been purely abstract.”

“Can you be certain of this?” a suddenly tense Flinx asked.

“I am being asked to present a member of my ‘crew’ to respond to these queries in person. I have managed to gain a delay by claiming that a general illness is present among the ‘crew’ and that a suitable presentation will be made available to the immigration and transit authorities within a two-day They have accepted this explanation but are persistent with their uncomfortably close observations. While my present facade was fashioned to its usual meticulous standards, there are details that will not stand up to any actual attempt at boarding.”

This was bad, Flinx knew. Very bad. If the
Teacher's
exterior was discovered to be false, his ship would draw an immediate response that was likely to be as overwhelming as it was unwelcome. If the
Teacher
was determined to be of Commonwealth origin, not even its advanced design, technology, and capabilities would be sufficient to allow it to escape safely outsystem. Even if it did manage to flee successfully, in the process it would be forced to leave at least one important component of itself behind.

Him.

“I'm assuming you've evaluated potential lines of response to this probe,” he murmured toward the pickup.

“I have.” The
Teacher's
prompt response was encouraging. “I could easily destroy the inspecting vessel. However, the reaction this would provoke would likely prove disadvantageous to your presence here.”

Same old
Teacher
, Flinx told himself. As thoroughgoing a master of understatement as an artificial intelligence could possibly be.

“Let's assume we discard that option as unworkable,” he replied dryly. “What else have you got?”

“I will generate a lengthy and detailed rationale for having to hastily depart outsystem. One that conforms to and is suitable for all the
pertinent AAnn procedures in my database. My calculation is that this will engender some minor irritation at the lowest levels of the relevant bureaucracies. It should quickly be forgotten. After a short but suitable interval spent undetectably in space-plus during which time I will completely revamp and rechameleonize my external appearance, I will return. For several days at least, a newly arrived, completely different ship occupying a completely different orbit should not arouse similar discomfiting suspicions among those still searching for my previous incarnation. Several days constitute ample time in which to pin-plunge a shuttle, recover you from the surface, and disappear safely back into space-plus.”

Flinx considered. The ship's suggestion was typically comprehensive and well thought out. There was only one flaw he could find in the proposal.

“That means I'll be stuck here. Until you can reconfigure and return.”

“Until I can reconfigure and return, yes.” There was a pause, then, “To attempt anything more forward and direct while I am under such close observation would be to put both of us unnecessarily at serious risk.”

The
Teacher
was not arguing on its own behalf, Flinx knew. It would do exactly as it was instructed. If he ordered it to make an attempt to pick him up on the grounds of the Imperial Palace itself, it would comply. And in all likelihood be vaporized in the process.

“How much time will you need?” he murmured. “To depart out-system, enter space-plus, jump back, reconfigure, and return?”

“Certain components of the course of action you state are not immediately quantifiable. Given the variability of the conditions involved I would rather not venture specifics. Say, no less than a few days, no more than a couple of local teverravaks.”

A single teverravak was sixteen Blasusarrian days, Flinx knew. Even with Kiijeem's help, could he continue to avoid the attention of the authorities for that long? Or even continue to avoid coming to the notice of members of the young AAnn's extended family? Only the day before he had nearly been discovered by a pair of distant relations who had been walking the family property. Fortunately they had been more
interested in finding a place to complete a secluded mating than in searching the crannies and crevices of the landscaped pool where he was hiding.

He really had no choice, he realized. The mounting risk to the
Teacher
had to be addressed immediately. He took a deep breath as a concerned Pip stirred to wakefulness nearby.

“Initiate the program described at your preferred speed,” he whispered into the pickup. “Carry out the necessary measures as fast as you can—without compromise. I understand that we risk disaster if you make an attempt to return before modification is properly completed. The new camouflage has to be at least as effective as your present disguise.”

“I concur absolutely.” Did the ship sound relieved? Flinx wondered. “I will exert maximum effort, Flinx, and resume contact as soon as is safe. Until then, you must preserve yourself and all your functions without recourse to my facilities.”

“You can count on that,” he muttered fervently. There was no need to say good-bye, farewell, or anything else. All that needed to be said had been said.

Setting the simsuit aside, he lay down on the cool sandstone. His gaze wandered upward to focus on the unfamiliar stars. Somewhere up there the
Teacher
would be formulating excuses to satisfy increasingly inquisitive AAnn administrators of both the organic and electronic variety. Shortly thereafter his ship would head outsystem, whereupon it would make the jump to the safety and anonymity of space-plus as soon as was feasible.

At which point, he reflected, he would be well and truly alone on an alien and hostile world.