George Martin - Tuf Voyaging

“Go, Moses, and plague no more. I am through with you.

“And you, Jaime Kreen, see that your Charitans take no further vengeance. You shall have victories enough. In a generation, his culture and his religion and his way of life will all be dead.

“Remember who I am, and remember that Dax can look into your thoughts. If the Ark should pass this way again, and find that you have disobeyed me, it will be as I have shown you. The plagues will sweep your little world until nothing lives upon it.”

Jaime Kreen shuttled Moses back to his people in the Griffin , then—on Tuf’s instructions—collected forty thousand standards from Rej Laithor and took it back up to the Ark. Haviland Tuf met him on the shuttle deck, with Dax in his arms, and took his payment with only a stately blink.

Jaime Kreen was thoughtful. “You are bluffing, Tuf,” he said. “You’re no god. Those were only simulations you showed us. You could never have actually done all that. But you can program a computer to show anything.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf.

“ Indeed ,” said Jaime Kreen, warming now. “You frightened Moses out of his head, but you didn’t deceive me for a minute with your picture show. The hail gave you away. Bacteria, disease, pests—all that is within the sphere of ecological warfare. Maybe even that darkness creature, although I think you made that up. But hail is a meteorological phenomenon, it has nothing to do with biology or ecology. You slipped up, Tuf. But it was a nice try, and it should keep Moses humble.”

“Humble,” agreed Haviland Tuf. “I should have hesitated and planned more thoroughly before attempting to mislead a man of your perception and insight, no doubt. At every turn you frustrate my small schemes.”

Jaime Kreen chuckled. “I have a hundred standards due me,” he said, “for bringing Moses up and back.”

“Sir,” said Haviland Tuf, “I would never forget such a debt. It is not necessary to chivvy me.” He opened the box that Kreen had brought up from Charity, and paid out one hundred standards. “You will find a convenient personal airlock in section nine, just beyond the doors marked Climate Control.”

Jaime Kreen frowned. “Airlock? What do you mean?”

“Sir,” said Haviland Tuf, “I would think it obvious. I mean airlock, a device by which you may depart the Ark without my valuable atmosphere departing with you. Since you have no spacecraft, it would be foolish to use the large airlock here. A smaller personal lock, as I said, may be found in section nine.”

Kreen looked aghast. “Are you going to jettison me?”

“Not the best choice of words,” said Haviland Tuf. “They sound so harsh. Yet I can hardly keep you aboard the Ark , and were you to depart in one of my shuttles, there would be no one to bring it back to me. I can hardly afford to sacrifice a valuable piece of equipment simply for your personal convenience.”

Kreen frowned. “The solution to your dilemma is simple. We will both board the Griffin. You will take me down to Port Faith. Then you will return to your ship.”

Haviland Tuf stroked Dax. “Interesting,” he said. “Yet I do believe it might work. You must understand, of course, that such a trip would constitute a distinct annoyance for me. Surely I should receive something for my troubles.”

Jaime Kreen stared into the still white face of Haviland Tuf for a minute, then sighed, and handed back the hundred standards.

The S’uthlamese armada was sweeping the outskirts of the solar system, moving through the velvet darkness of space with all the stately silent grace of a tiger on the prowl, on an interception course with the Ark.

Haviland Tuf sat before his master console, scanning the banks of telescreens and computer monitors with small, careful turns of his head. The fleet angling to meet him appeared more formidable with every passing moment. His instruments reported some fourteen capital ships and swarms of smaller fighters. Nine bulbous silver-white globes, bristling with unfamiliar weaponry, comprised the wings of the formation. Four long black dreadnaughts served as outriders on the flanks of the wedge, their dark hulls crackling with energy. The flagship in the center was a colossal saucer-shaped fort with a diameter Tuf’s sensors measured as six kilometers from rim to rim. It was the largest spaceship that Haviland Tuf had seen since the day, more than ten years past, when he had first sighted the derelict Ark. Fighters swarmed around the saucer like angry stinging insects.

Tuf’s long, pale, hairless face was still and unreadable, but in his lap, Dax made a small sound of disquiet as Tuf pressed his fingertips together.

A flashing light indicated an incoming communication.

Haviland Tuf blinked, reached out with calm deliberation, and took the call.

He had expected a face to materialize on the telescreen in front of him. He was disappointed. The caller’s features were hidden by a faceplate of black plasteel, inset into the helmet of a mirror-finish warsuit. A stylized representation of the globe of S’uthlam ornamented the flanged crest upon his forehead. Behind the faceplate, wide-spectra sensors glowed red like two burning eyes. It reminded Haviland Tuf of an unpleasant man he had once known.

“It was unnecessary to dress formally on my account,” Tuf said flatly. “Moreover, while the size of the honor guard you have sent to meet me tickles my vanity somewhat, a much smaller and less prepossessing squadron would have been more than sufficient. The present formation is so large and formidable as to give one pause. A man of a less trusting nature than myself might be tempted to misconstrue its purpose and suspect some intent to intimidate.”

“This is Wald Ober, commander of the Planetary Defense Flotilla of S’uthlam, Wing Seven,” the grim visage on the telescreen announced in a deep, distorted voice.

“Wing Seven,” Tuf repeated. “Indeed. This suggests the possibility of at least six other similarly fearsome squadrons. It would seem that S’uthlamese planetary defenses have been augmented somewhat since my last call.”

Wald Ober wasn’t interested. “Surrender at once, or be destroyed,” he said bluntly.

Tuf blinked. “I fear some grievous misunderstanding.”

“A state of war exists between the Cybernetic Republic of S’uthlam and the so-called alliance of Vandeen, Jazbo, Henry’s World, Skrymir, Roggandor, and the Azure Triune. You have entered a restricted zone. Surrender or be destroyed.”

“You misapprehend me, sir,” Tuf said. “I am a neutral in this unfortunate confrontation, of which I was unaware until this moment. I am part of no faction, cabal, or alliance, and represent only myself, an ecological engineer with the most benign of motives. Please do not take alarm at the size of my ship. Surely in the small space of five standard years the esteemed spinnerets and cybertechs of the Port of S’uthlam cannot entirely have forgotten my previous visits to your most interesting world. I am Haviland—”

“We know who you are, Tuf,” said Wald Ober. “We recognized the Ark as soon as you shifted out of drive. The alliance doesn’t have any dreadnaughts thirty kilometers long, thank life. I have specific orders from the High Council to watch for your appearance.”

“Indeed,” said Haviland Tuf.

“Why do you think the wing is closing on you?” Ober said.

“As a gesture of affectionate welcome, I had hoped,” Tuf said. “As a friendly escort bearing kudos, salutations, and gift baskets of plump, fresh, spiced mushrooms. I see that this assumption was unfounded.”