Larry Niven - Fate of Worlds - Return From the Ringworld

That for a singleton, Baedeker had been a competent scientist. It was unfortunate that he persisted in meddling in their affairs.

That a former unit of theirs, exiled to Amity, confirmed Minerva’s report.

That they remained puzzled why Tf’o had found — and rendered — melding so distasteful that it had become expedient to expel him.

No? I can explain, Cd’o asserted faintly.

They swatted aside the impudence, tamped down the impertinence, and continued their deliberations.

That by its actions near the Ringworld, the Patriarchy had shown itself to be as reckless and dangerous as it had appeared in the historical files of Clandestine Directory.

That humanity had proven itself to be almost as reckless as and even more dangerous than Kzinti.

( And Sigmund? Louis? The New Terrans? posed a remnant unit. Did they not twice save our worlds? )

They ignored that interruption, too.

That Nessus’ pathetically obvious scheme to draw alien interceders to Hearth was, finally, about to succeed. That all that had been required to advance Nessus’ plot was the still-unexplained disappearance of the Ringworld into hyperspace!

That they had not foreseen that possibility, either.

That Nessus was about to discover that to bring armed allies and to evict Ol’t’ro were quite different undertakings.

That a New Terran vessel had also appeared, drawn by the unique event that was the Ringworld departing.

That Endurance had made contact with the ARM humans, and so the long-hidden history of a world of slaves must, inevitably, come out.

That whatever might be motivating the Kzinti warriors to come, the ARM humans had just found more than ample reason to attack the Fleet.

That the historical record implied — Citizens’ feeble efforts at secrecy notwithstanding — Concordance meddling in the affairs of humans and Kzinti and perhaps other species besides.

Pragmatic cowards, Cd’o whispered into the meld, along with fleeting images of predators in a preserve.

That cowardice did not preclude violence, only channeled violence into subtlety.

That by their dominance of the Fleet and their taming of the Citizens, they kept the Concordance from continuing its practiced, selfish aggression.

That their choices now came down to two. They could just leave, the Citizens deserving everything that was rushing toward them. Or they could fight, because every warship destroyed here was a warship that would never endanger Jm’ho, or Kl’mo, or the newer colonies they had yet to know in person.

Imagine the marvels to be beheld on new worlds, Cd’o tempted.

Ol’t’ro again swatted the insolent unit into silence.

That they had almost four five-squared days until the Kzinti could arrive. That they had easily twice as long if — as, supposedly, the New Terrans reported — the Kzinti intended to invade. To land, Kzinti ships would need time to match normal-space velocity with the Fleet.

That for as long as they ruled, the full resources of the Ministry of Science remained their personal instrument.

That they themselves could evacuate this world in a day, should they so choose.

That to preserve their options, they would do well to expand Proteus as fully as possible.

That they could tolerate Achilles’ smug satisfaction with their decision.

That they suffered fools like Horatius and Achilles expressly to preserve their own time for projects of greater interest.

And so — the news from Amity passed on, their decision regarding Proteus delivered — they turned their full attention to fine points of multiverse mathematics.…

“THIS IS SPACE TRAFFIC CONTROL.”

In Achilles’ tactical display, queues of transponder codes, each code denoting a ship, streamed to and from Hearth. He sang, “This is Poseidon, inbound from Nature Preserve One.”

“Acknowledged,” the controller reported, adding the parameters of a midaltitude staging orbit. “Confirm.”

Achilles waited silently. His hearts pounded, for this course of action was insane. Stepping away from the herd, whether to scout or to guide, was the very definition of insanity.

And for the herd to survive, there must be crazies.

“ Poseidon, do you confirm?”

Achilles flipped off his transponder, removing Poseidon from the Space Traffic Control system. Seconds later, his instruments reported radar pings. But Poseidon was in stealth mode; it would produce no echoes.

“ Poseidon, are you there?”

Achilles altered course and speed, then altered them again.

New voices came: stronger, firmer, with stern harmonics designed to command instant obedience. Proteus. “This is Hearth Planetary Defense. Poseidon, or whoever you are, we are tracking you with optical sensors. Break away or you will be destroyed. This is your only warning. In ten. Nine. Eight…”

In Achilles’ tactical display, nearby grain ships scattered.

Between seven and six, his console reported a low-intensity laser beam. Target lock, or a lucky hit? He zigged, this time putting the ship into a spin.

Jaws ached to release the flight controls. Legs trembled with the urge to run. Feel the mania, he told himself. Embrace the madness.

His jaws remained clenched on the controls. There would be time later to collapse.

The laser beam stayed locked.

A second laser beam impaled his ship. Now the tactical display showed infrared sources in three tiers streaking toward him. Kinetic-kill drones.

“Four. Three.”

Achilles pulled away from Hearth. With his other mouth he flipped the STC transponder back ON.

“Two.”

“This is Poseidon, Minister Achilles speaking.” The lasers stayed locked on, but the nearest rank of the inward-streaking drones veered off. “This was an unannounced test of planetary defenses.”

“Identity challenge,” the stern voices commanded. They transmitted a random-sounding sequence of numbers.

A console computer generated the corresponding response and Achilles tapped SEND.

“Confirmed,” Proteus sang. “Traffic Control, you may resume.”

“This is Minister Achilles requesting prioritized clearance to Harmonious Field.”

“Very well,” the controller sang tremulously. “You are cleared for immediate landing.”

Achilles landed Poseidon. Moments after the ship grounded, Citizens emerged, quavering, from stepping discs embedded in the tarmac. He stepped from his ship to appear among his greeters. Sashes and coveralls identified them as spaceport workers.

One stepped forward. “Welcome, Minister. We hope your test went satisfactorily.”

“Very well, thank you,” Achilles sang.

They lowered their heads subserviently and waited.

“Very well,” he repeated. Because while Proteus performed as expected, even one ship deviating from routine sufficed to panic you. “If you will excuse me, official matters require my attention.”

A tongueprint and wriggle of lip nodes retrieved a protected address from his transport controller. He stepped from the tarmac directly to the security foyer of the private residence of the Hindmost.

GUARDS ESCORTED ACHILLES through the residence to Horatius’ private office. Achilles knew the room well — and disdained these bland and minimalist furnishings. Scattered cushions and one massive oval desk did not suffice. Not for a Hindmost ’s office.

“Leave us,” Horatius sang.

“Yes, Hindmost,” the senior guard responded. The squad retreated, shutting the door behind them.