“Will you tell my father?”
“You will have the opportunity to do that yourself. You will have access to a public comm channel. That’s a basic right of any intelligent being.”
Johnston continued to manipulate the viewing field. Stars began to move across it. He appeared to be searching for something. Herb said nothing. He began to run his fingers over the soft white leather of the sofa, enjoying the sensation of luxury while he still could.
Johnston paused in his search and glanced toward him. “Don’t you want to know how long your sentence is?”
The thought that a finite sentence made any difference to his current circumstances hadn’t occurred to Herb. The thought of going to the Oort cloud was too big. Coming back was too remote a possibility, be it in ten or a hundred years’ time. He just shrugged.
Johnston grinned as he brought the stars’ movement to a halt.
“That’s an unfair question, of course. We don’t know the answer. How long will it take for you to atone? Only the EA knows. We don’t get that many cases of planetcide-one a year, if that. I’d guess your sentence would probably be more than your natural lifespan. We’d probably have to take an e-print of your consciousness.”
“Are you deliberately tormenting me?” asked Herb, a feeble twist of anger gently uncurling in his stomach. Johnston turned toward him again with an approving smile.
“Good. You do have some spirit, don’t you? No, Herb, I’m not tormenting you. I’m just trying to impress upon you the seriousness of your predicament.”
There was a silence, and Herb had the first inkling that maybe his fate wasn’t yet decided. He paused, wondering if he dared hope otherwise.
Eventually he had to speak. “Why?” he asked.
Johnston grinned in response. If Herb hadn’t known better, he would have thought the other man was pleased with him.
Johnston had finally found what he was looking for. He set the viewing field to full locale. Herb was floating in interstellar space on a white leather sofa. A star rushed toward his face, growing in size. It veered to one side just before hitting him and a smaller, darker object swam into view. A planet with the size, and the apparent intent, of a fist now hung in front of Herb’s nose.
“Take a look at it,” said Johnston. ‘I’ve enabled the tactiles.’
Herb reached for the planet and turned it around in his hand, the rest of the universe spinning around the room in a dizzying pattern of lights as it maintained the correct orientation with Herb’s viewpoint. The planet was a grey featureless sphere, like an old ball bearing Herb had once seen in a museum.
“What is it?” he asked, fascinated. As he stared at the object in his hand, the surface of the planet seemed to ripple slightly.
Herb frowned. “Those ripples must be hundreds of kilometers high. What’s going on?” As he spoke, an answer occurred to him. For a moment he had thought he was looking at his own planet, the one that seethed just outside the door of his ship. Then he had noticed the patterns of the star field.
“It’s the remains of another planet, isn’t it? Someone else has done what I’ve done here.”
Johnston’s smile loomed in the blackness of space, his teeth glowing blue in the reflected starlight.
“A few people, actually. Oh, don’t look so disappointed, Herb. I thought you were sorry for what you’ve done. Look at that planet, though. Look at the way it’s writhing in your hands. Think about the sheer power behind those machines. Just compare them to yours.”
“Mine were designed to build a city. Raw power is all very well-”
“Oh, Herb. Don’t be so sensitive. I was only making a point.”
Herb bristled. “Not necessarily. As I was trying to say, power isn’t everything. It all comes down to the design of the original machine. If that hasn’t been thought through properly, all the power in the world won’t insure its integrity.”
Johnston was silent. Herb let go of the planet and tried to see the man through the darkness, without success. He started at a sudden movement beside him. It was Robert Johnston, sitting down beside him.
He leaned close to Herb’s ear and spoke softly. “So what you’re saying is that you’re not worried by what you can see before you? If I asked you to, you could neutralize those machines?”
Herb said nothing. He breathed in and out slowly, gazing at the planet. So that was the deal.
“Yes…” He hesitated. Johnston was staring at him intently. Herb took another breath, and his habitual confidence rekindled.
“Yes,” he said again. “Yes, I could do it. I’m sure I could. I know I could.”
“Excellent,” said Johnston, slouching back in the sofa. “I hoped you could. I knew you could. Set a thief to catch a thief, that’s what I said to them.” He crossed his legs, his left ankle resting on his right knee, and began to tap out a rhythm on his thigh.
Herb stared at him. “So?” he said.
“So what?”
“So we have a deal. I neutralize those VNMs that have converted the planet, and you let me off?”
“Oh, Herb.” Johnston shook his head sadly. “I can’t let you off. Your crime is much too great for that.”
Again, Herb felt a great weight descend upon him. He slumped forward, all energy draining from his body. Johnston leaned forward quickly and placed a hand on Herb’s knee.
“That doesn’t mean that we couldn’t cut a deal, though.” I could have you transferred to an Earth prison, instead. Get your sentence cut to about a year. Even arrange for some remedial training in the responsible applications of self-replicating machines.”
Herb sat up straighter, though without as much enthusiasm as he would have expected. His constantly changing fate was making him feel drained and passive.
As it was supposed to.
He gave a weak smile. “Would you?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” said Johnston. “If it was anyone else but you.”
He rolled out of the chair easily before Herb could seize him by the throat and then backed casually around the room, ducking and dodging as Herb tried to catch him. Herb was incoherent with rage: shouting and swearing as he tried to punch, kick, scratch and bite his tormentor. Eventually Johnston tripped him up with one elegantly shod foot. Herb curled up on the floor and began to cry.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why are you playing with my life?” he sobbed.
Johnston looked puzzled. “I’m not. I’m sorry. I’m not explaining myself very well. Come here.” He reached out and took hold of Herb by the hand. Gently, he led him back to the sofa and sat him down.
“I think you need some more vanilla whisky.” He filled a new glass and pressed it into Herb’s hand. Herb gulped it down, staring into the star field that filled the room.
Robert Johnston’s voice was low and comforting. “You see, Herb, I didn’t mean that I wouldn’t cut a deal with you. No. Any time you want me to cut a deal, just say so, and it’s cut. You can trust me. But Herb, I have your best interests at heart and I don’t think you could handle this. You have to believe me: there is more to that planet than you think; a lot more. If you agree to make a deal with me, there is no going back. You can’t change your mind. You have to see this through. Do you understand?”
Herb nodded.
“I don’t want to go to the Oort cloud,” he said.
“I know that,” said Johnston, patting his hand. “But there are even worse things than service in the Oort cloud. Are you sure you want me to go on?”
“Yes.”
“Very well.”
Johnston sat back in the other white sofa, facing Herb, the converted planet they had been looking at still hanging between them. He placed the tips of his fingers together, gazing at Herb over them. The universe wrapped itself around him in trails of brilliant stars and black depths. His voice was rich and low.