talk reasonably with each other," the Net said. "These children did bad things. They explored forbidden territory, asked questions that should not be asked."
"Not children. One child, named Venron. He was alone. You verified that yourself. He accessed the data alone and he broke into the hangar alone. He alone—"
"—condemned forty-three Tenoy to an agonizing death. Forty-three of your best guardians. A crime without parallel in the history of the Ship! Yes, he carried it out alone. But the seed can't have grown in him alone. And it's that seed that concerns us. Venron is dead, forgotten, the past. We have to concern ourselves with the future."
"We?"
"You, of course. With my insignificant help."
"And what would that be?"
"I'm at your side," the Net replied in a maternal tone. "I'm at your side in your hour of need, when critical decisions must be made."
"The decision was made for us. The traitor is dead."
"He is, yes. But the others still live."
"The others?" It was a rhetorical question. The Naahk knew as well as the Net that there must be others like Venron: his confidants, co-conspirators. But Netwar had hoped to ignore that knowledge, to deny it so that he would not be forced to act upon it.
"His co-conspirators. Haven't you looked at his file?"
"Of course. He was an eccentric, a loner. People like him occur occasionally, regardless of our skill in prenatal genetics. Even education has its limits." When did you become an inquisitor, Net? I altered you to support me, to help me—to ease the weight of my office, not to exercise it.
"Loners are never alone. The term is a symbol, an imprecision of speech. Loners have families, a friend or two, and they belong to a Metach'ton."
"Should I have everyone who ever spoke with Venron arrested?"
"Of course not. Just a few will suffice."
"On what evidence shall we arrest them?"
Several seconds passed before the Net replied. "Your children are clever. And my presence is not as extensive as it once was, though we attempt to give the opposite impression."
"So there is none," the Naahk said trying to keep his relief from his voice.
"There is no evidence, but it isn't necessary. We know Venron's associates. We'll send the Tenoy to them, intimidate them, and ask penetrating questions. Anyone collaborating with Venron will give himself away under the pressure, and perhaps a few others. And those others will betray additional members until we have the whole conspiracy. The traitors will betray each other. Could there be a more fitting outcome?"
"And if we catch the innocent in our net?"
"Then we will have performed worthwhile educational work. If anyone harbors doubts about his place on the Ship, we will have driven out those doubts."
Netwar looked down at his large hands. He believed in the mission, in the great goal of the Ship and everyone on it. He had sworn to do everything necessary to fulfill their task. But he had taken that oath unable to imagine how heavily it would weigh on him. He had always imagined himself as a kindly ruler, a loving father who protected those in his care. He never would have believed that one day he would order the death of the very people he was pledged to protect, in order to save the larger community.
Desperate thoughts pounded at his brain. He wished that something would happen to take the decision out of his hands. Or that some of the conspirators would show remorse and allow him to be merciful. Or that the Net would give up on this course of action. Or—and this was the height of improbability—that the Protector would return.
Has it finally come to this—hoping for miracles? he admonished himself. It's time for you to be renewed again!
"Well?" asked the Net.
The Naahk straightened his spine. "You're right, as usual. Do what you think is necessary."
"I'll give the orders. We'll start with his sister—it's very unlikely that she knew nothing of his subversive activities."
"Fine."
Netwar tried to suppress the thought of what the Net's orders would lead to and concentrated on the master display screen in front of him. He called up the Ship's status data and compared the actual numbers with their corresponding theoretical values, then reviewed area status reports. After a while, his tension faded as he relaxed into the familiar routine of leadership. Proposed changes to the irrigation schedule, personnel decisions, mediating disputes between neighbors—the banal but reassuring elements of daily life—reminded him of his real work: taking care of the community.
"Lemal?"
"Yes?"
"What are you doing there?"
"You can see for yourself. I'm working."
"Yes, but at what?"
"You can see that, too."
"I can. You are doing the wrong work."
"And what would be the right work?" the Naahk asked, though he knew the answer.
"You must speak to the metach. Forty-three Tenoy are dead. Their friends and co-workers deserve an explanation for their deaths—and the hope of justice."
"I will personally call their friends and coworkers to reassure them that proper measures are being taken."
"That is an excellent idea. You should do it right away, as soon as you've given your speech."
"My speech?"
"The metach have a right to know who endangered their community, don't you think?"
When the Naahk didn't reply, the Net continued. "I have taken the liberty of preparing some accompanying visuals." The pale face of a young man appeared on the command display. His jaw was clenched and pushed out toward the imager. He apparently didn't like to have his likeness reproduced. Despite his aggressive posture, his eyes held the look of a dreamer, and an alert intelligence. The Naahk knew this look: it had to be Venron, the traitor.
Always the best, Netwar thought. It's always the best of us who find life on board too constricting, who yearn for outside, whose curiosity won't allow them to rest. And I crush them ...
Words appeared below the traitor's chin. "Metach, I am speaking to you today—"
"Get rid of the text."
"Don't worry—it's only visible to you."
Netwar jerked upright. Pain stabbed his joints. "You will not put words into my mouth! Get rid of it at once!"
"As you wish."
The Naahk angrily tugged his jacket straight. Was this what the Net had intended? To provoke him into a rage? He could admit to himself, at least, that the anger would help him fulfill his obligation.
Lemal Netwar spoke to his metach, informing them of the ghastly treason that Venron had committed, explaining the incalculable danger to which his actions exposed them, and describing the merciless punishment awaiting all those in league with the traitor.
The Net illustrated his words with images of dying Tenoy, but as he spoke, Netwar saw only his own face reflected in the display screen.
He studied his reflection, looking for the dreams he had always been able to see in his own eyes, regardless of his current life-cycle phase.
The dreams were no longer there.
6
The wreck seemed to be alive.
The metal of the ruined shuttle, whose temperature had stood near absolute zero for no one knew how long, groaned and creaked as it expanded in the warmth of the Palenque.
Under normal circumstances, Sharita Coho would have waited until the temperature of the wreck adjusted to the temperature of the hangar: the thing was dead,