“Angel, can you see what that …”
The question became unnecessary. The object was approaching rapidly along the shaft. Its shape was engraved deep in her memory.
Leah was looking at a rounded silver-blue diamond, four meters high and more than two across. At the upper end was a blunt, neckless head with well-defined compound eyes. Latticed wing panels shrouded the middle section of the body. In their folded position they were compact and unobtrusive, no more than pencils of stiff wire. Extended, they could be shaped as needed to form solar panels, communications antennae, or protective shields. The base of the body ended in a tripod of supporting legs, each one able to be totally withdrawn into the body cavity. The mid-section also contained a dozen dark openings. They held the weapons — the lasers, the fusion devices, the shearing cones.
Leah registered everything in a fraction of a second. She gasped and stumbled back a pace along the tunnel. Around her she felt a sudden blizzard of Tinker components as Ishmael dispersed instantly from its composite form. A high-pitched scream of terror came from S’glya.
Angel’s hedging of probabilities back at the tent had been completely appropriate. The Morgan Construct had indeed moved since the time of the orbital survey.
Fifty-six lightyears away, Esro Mondrian was still watching and listening through Leah’s mentation monitor. He had followed the group all through its long descent. The feeling that rippled along his spine was an odd mixture of awe, fear, and exultation. The Morgan Construct was indeed on Travancore. It was alive and undamaged — and functioning with its full powers.
The encounter, Construct against Team Alpha, was beginning.
Mondrian watched everything, until the monitor no longer sent back any message.
After that he was silent and thoughtful for a long time. At last he went back to the record, and watched — three times over — the final few minutes of the transmission.
The call came while Luther Brachis was asleep. A tiny unit behind his right ear provided a soft but insistent summons. He grunted, lifted his head, and looked at the time. The middle of the night — and he had arrived home after the marathon session at the Sargasso Dump less than ten hours ago.
He swore, eased himself free, and slid quietly over to the edge of the bed.
Godiva gave a drowsy murmur of complaint. She slept like a child, deeply, peacefully, securely, snuggled against Brachis with one arm across his body. She usually fell asleep at once and claimed that she never had anything but pleasant dreams. Once she was asleep, Luther’s departure from her side was one of the few things that would produce any reaction at all.
He waited to make sure that she would not waken, staring down at her as he pulled on his uniform. As always, Godiva slept naked. The skin of her bare body was so fine and fair that it seemed to glow like a pink pearl in the faint light of the ceiling panels. Brachis cursed again as he left her and hurried through into the living room. Three in the morning! But the communication unit was already in message receiving mode.
“Commander Brachis?” said a weary voice, as soon as Luther touched the keys.
It was Mondrian. He might have known. “Here. This is a devil of a time to make a call.”
And if it were Mondrian, there had to be a good reason for it. Brachis was already straightening his uniform and pulling on his boots.
“I need to talk to you. At once.” The dry voice had a tone that Brachis did not recognize. “You look as tired as I feel. Come to Anabasis Headquarters. To Communications. Alone.”
The unit went dead. Brachis snorted. Alone! What did Mondrian expect, that he’d lead in a brigade of bagpipers? But he headed for the door with his boots still unstrapped. Mondrian would never add that unnecessary word unless the situation were truly abnormal.
The door to Anabasis Communications was locked. That was significant, too. Brachis banged his fist hard on the metal, taking some of his own irritation out on the panels. After a long delay and a clicking of tumblers the heavy plate slid open.
Mondrian stood waiting. With one stiff movement he gestured Brachis to enter, and locked the door at once behind them.
Luther Brachis stared at him. “I don’t know what you’ve been doing, but I suggest you stop it. You look freeze-dried, like one of the things we pull out for identification after a major airlock failure.”
Mondrian did not smile, did not greet him. “Travancore,” he said.
“We lost the team?” Brachis was not too surprised. He had always thought that the first team in was likely to get wiped out. There was no substitute for experience, and the second or third team would have a much better chance.
“Worse than that.”
“Christ. The Construct is out and on the loose?”
“And worse than that.” Mondrian took the other man by the arm. His fingers bit into Brachis’s biceps. “There’s something terrifying on Travancore, fully operating and incredibly dangerous. I want you to watch this. Then we must talk.”
“I told you that the first team wouldn’t cut it when it came to blasting the Construct. They chickened out, didn’t they? Pipe-Rillas and Tinkers and goddamned Angels, no bunch of misfit aliens has the guts to do the job properly. Why not let humans handle it, that way there’s a chance of success.”
Mondrian paused in the middle of setting up a playback sequence. “You are wrong, Luther, quite wrong. But that is all irrelevant now. We have to blockade.”
“Travancore?”
“More than that. The whole Talitha system. The only thing that goes in is the next pursuit team.” The screen began to flicker with the preliminary rainbow fringes of a long-distance Mattin Link transmission. “And that’s just the beginning. Nothing comes out.”
“Esro, you re out of your mind. Do you realize what it costs to blockade a stellar system?”
“I know exactly what it costs. It’s more than you think.”
“So why bother? There’s an easier way. I don’t care how tough that Construct is, it can be destroyed if we just pump in enough energy.”
“You’d have to sterilize half the planet.”
“So what? Sterilize the whole damned thing if we have to.”
“And who explains that to the Stellar Group ambassadors?”
“Easy. We blame the Construct. They’re scared out of their minds about it already. Do you think they’re going to question us?”
“I don’t know. I’m not going to find out. Sit down, Luther. I’m not going to argue with you now. I don’t have to, because you hate aliens a lot more than I ever will. Just watch what came in from Travancore — and then see if you don’t agree with me completely about the need for blockade.”
Chapter 29
Skrynol was ready to dim the lights when Mondrian stopped her.
Not this time. If you don’t mind, I want to do something different.”
The lanky Pipe-Rilla clucked disapproval. “I do mind. The agenda is set by the Fropper, not the patient. And recently we have been making very slow progress.”
“Then one extra session won’t matter.” Mondrian had been carrying a narrow black tube, as long as his forearm. He handed it to Skrynol. “I also think this may be relevant to my problem.’
“A recording?” Skrynol glanced around the claustrophobic chamber for an open viewing space. “If it does not involve you, it has no value.”
“It is of me, and of one other. I want you to examine it, and tell me what he was thinking of as we talked. Also, I want to know what / was thinking.”