Larry Niven - Fate of Worlds - Return From the Ringworld

“ Long Shot, ” Baedeker confirmed. “Or, rather, what remains of it. Voice missed by about ten kilometers.”

Nessus pawed at the sod. He had heard Baedeker’s plan, had agreed to it. But that plan had been so complex, so unprecedented, so insane, agreeing to it had been an act of unquestioning trust. “If there had not been tunneling equipment…”

Baedeker bobbed heads. “We would have remained in stasis forever. But as it must, this place has such equipment. A sufficient disaster aboveground might destroy all stepping discs. The tunneling machines are here to recover from any such catastrophe, as are ships to fly to the surface through a newly excavated tunnel.”

Nessus managed two halting steps into the opening. “And when Long Shot materialized inside the solid rock?”

“Crushed,” Baedeker sang almost cheerfully. “But not you and I, in stasis.”

“If we had not waited for our hull to dissolve…?”

“Our rescuers could never have reached us. Or, if we had reentered normal space precisely on target, an intact, impervious hull would have severely damaged the Refuge. And had Ol’t’ro not seen the ship come apart, our enemies would have known to keep searching for us.”

Even in hindsight: madness! Catatonia beckoned to Nessus. Had they done this?

With the echoes of their warning message, beamed from various vantages around the Fleet, Voice had located the Refuge despite its deep-radar stealthing. He had matched the ship’s course with the Refuge’s rotation around Hearth’s axis and Hearth’s orbit around the Fleet’s center of mass. And then, even as their hull had burst asunder, faster than any breathing pilot could function, the AI had delivered them blind to within ten kilometers of their goal.

“What of Voice?” Nessus sang softly.

“Gone. Sacrificed.” Scattered segments of digital wallpaper had failed. Baedeker pointed with one neck to the nearest jagged fissure in the Refuge wall. “Solid equipment does not materialize gracefully into solid rock. Our arrival set off a small temblor. That is how our rescuers knew the direction in which to tunnel — once they summoned the wisdom to make the attempt.

“Voice was my companion for a long time. Often he was my only companion. I will miss him.”

Nessus lowered his heads in respect. For a long while, neither of them sang anything.

With a mournful trill, Baedeker turned to go back the way they had come. Having escaped death, their work had just begun.

As Hermes cleared plates from the dinner table, Sigmund passed Amelia a folded sheet of paper. The note within read, Come with me. I’ll explain outside. He had found sensors hidden in his house; it did not take much imagination to predict his children’s houses were also bugged.

“I need to walk off dinner,” Sigmund announced.

“Mind if I join you?” Amelia asked, tucking the note into a pocket.

“Of course not.” Sigmund gestured at a window. Between flashes of lightning, the evening was pitch-black. Rain streamed in torrents down the plasteel. “There’s much to be said for living in the desert.”

Amelia took the hint. “Hon? We’re going to walk around near Sigmund’s place before dessert.”

“Um-hmm,” came the grunt from the kitchen.

One by one, they flicked to Sigmund’s patio. He went first, to shake his head, No, don’t ask, when Amelia appeared.

Here the suns had yet to set. Sigmund stalked off into the desert, griping to the bugs in the house — about the price of deuterium, about his bad knee, about anything — trusting Amelia to follow. They descended into a twisty arroyo. At the second gnarled juniper, they were out of line of sight of his house, out of range — almost certainly — of the bugs there. “Okay, it’s safe here to talk.”

“Is this about Julia?” Amelia asked anxiously. “Is my daughter all right?”

“As far as I know, Julia is fine. I intend to keep her that way.”

“You’re not supposed to be telling me, obviously.” Amelia rested a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Sigmund. But what do you mean about keeping her that way? And where is she?”

He sat on the hard-packed sand. After a brief hesitation, she settled beside him.

“The least of the matter is that I’m about to disclose classified material. I’ve smuggled spy gear into government buildings and recorded meetings illegally.”

“You’re scaring me, Sigmund. Just tell me. Please?”

He did. About Julia taking Endurance farther than any New Terran ship had gone in generations. About the Ringworld and the war fleets there watching. About contact made with Earth ships. About the theft of Endurance and, as sad as it made him, Alice’s death. About Koala ’s coming visit and the strict ban on releasing any of this to the public.

“And you recorded all this?”

“Much of it.”

“I’ve pleaded for weeks for information about Julia. So why open up now? And why just me? Hermes deserves to know about our daughter, too.”

“Because what I’ve done is illegal.” Sigmund took a deep breath. “But not nearly as illegal as the things I fear — or as the help I need from you.”

THE COLOR/PATTERN/TEXTURE PARAMETERS of spaceport worker uniforms were not as counterfeit-resistant as the Defense Ministry’s holographic badges, but the watered appearance of the moiré “fabric” far exceeded Sigmund’s artistic skills. Rather than risk hacking for the uniform software, Sigmund had taken pictures from a distance. Jeeves turned the deconstructed images into downloads for Sigmund’s generic programmable jumpsuit.

“Is this close?” Sigmund asked. His faux mechanic’s uniform was a streaky, muddy orange. He thought he looked like a mutant pumpkin.

Amelia looked him up and down. “You’ll pass from a distance. That’s as close as you’ll get to a ship without a valid ID.”

“We,” he reminded her. He reset his garment to a mundane herringbone in blacks and grays.

“Right, we.” She shivered. “What if you publicize what you know? Won’t that stop whatever the government is up to?”

“They’ll claim my recordings are fakes. And then they’ll make sure neither Julia nor I is around to contradict them.”

Amelia shivered again. “I don’t understand how you live like this. You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” he told her.

“Then I’m in.” She downloaded his improvised uniform parameters to the jumpsuit he had given her.

An old man terrified of spaceships. A middle-aged civilian who was just terrified. An entire world’s defense establishment arrayed against them.

Sigmund told himself they had the element of surprise on their side.

They flicked to the small private spaceport from which her employer serviced drones and sensors in New Terra’s early-warning array. Amelia went first. The stepping disc at the low-security area outside the terminal accepted her company ID. He followed quickly, before the receiving disc reset. A scanner flashed green: nothing he carried looked like a weapon.

Because, tanj it, he didn’t have a weapon. If he had carried the stunner from his stash of old spy gear and the spaceport security staff was even marginally competent, this escapade would have ended before it ever began. It wasn’t as though he still had reflexes.

Element of surprise, he told himself again.

“Hi, Floyd,” Amelia told the nightshift guard who stood behind the security desk. His uniform was brown moiré. Two more guards loitered nearby. “Sigmund is my father-in-law. He asked to see the place.”

“Very good, ma’am. Welcome, sir. Please stay in the office area.” Floyd offered Sigmund a badge emblazoned V for visitor. “Wear this at all times.”