Against her better judgment, Reille y Sanchez kept a hand on the multicolored line drawing her toward the pulley attached to a branch overhead. It was that or fall a hundred meters. Yet common sense told her that her fingers would be shredded in seconds unless she let go. The only thing that kept them wrapped around the line, braided from strands of a dozen different colors, was her experience that common sense didn't count for much on 5023 Eris.
Bright-winged life fluted and rustled amid the litter of dew-damp leaves into which she rose. No other sapience (she entertained doubts about her own, hanging like a spider on someone else's thread) was in sight. Among its other notable events, last night had brought an invitation—and accompanying map—from Mister Thoggosh to visit a power plant turning garbage into energy, the appendage sent by the merchant-explorer had explained, on the principle by which quasars burned so fiercely in the extragalactic depths. She had no credentials for representing the humans as a technician, but was keeping the appointment as a tactician, with the idea of future seizure or destruction of the plant, which might even the odds should it come, as Washington intended, to open conflict.
She gasped; at the last moment the line writhed in her fingers, half of it unbraiding, passing over the pulley, while the other half remained in her hand below the rim. At the infirmary level where Piotr had spent his brief recuperation, she'd found what resembled ski tows, although she didn't know it. She had never engaged in a sport limited to the nomenklatura—the upper class of her supposedly classless society—and to special mountain troops. Her instructions had included the color combination to look for. She'd seized a line, been yanked aloft, and carried a kilometer before arriving at the high point of her journey, the pulley she now passed beneath.
Past the pulley, the line somehow reintegrated and she felt the descent begin. Nearer the surface, it carried her in a new direction and deposited her within walking distance of the plant. For reasons she couldn't explain—she'd never been afraid of heights—she already dreaded the return. Her watch said she'd arrived early. Taking her time along a forest path, she kicked through dead leaves like a child on her reluctant way to school, marveling at how quickly this once cold, airless rock circling so far from the sun had come to resemble, in its weird way, the wild reaches of her own planet.
If, she thought—then stopped thinking, certain what the object was, the moment she saw it. That didn't keep her from stepping closer, kneeling, clearing off the debris that failed to hide it. Under a bush, half-buried in dead vegetation, lay the equally dead body of Piotr Kamanov.
She sat on her haunches pondering items she must attend to in correct order. Alone, her first problem was that she mustn't leave the body to the next random idiot who stumbled over it, perhaps without her reasons for leaving it as it was. She needed, however, to inform Gutierrez and summon the doctor, what was her name?
Standing, she saw the building where she was to meet Aelbraugh Pritsch, a quonset-like structure in a clearing, surrounded by large bins, actually input chutes for raw materials. She wondered what he'd do when she didn't show up.
Glancing about, she also wondered how much damage a bullet would do the canopy keeping the asteroid covered with its blanket of air. She couldn't see all the way to the artificial sky anyway, couldn't risk killing some intelligence up there among the branches. Instead she chose a nearby tree—super kudzu, Piotr had called it—drew her Witness, aimed at the massive trunk, fired three quick shots, three spaced apart, and three more quick ones. Absently pleased that the slugs had all struck within a handspan at sixty meters, she swapped the partial magazine for a full one and bent to retrieve spent cases where they'd arced, glittering, into the brush. It took an effort to stop, thinking that such tidiness hardly mattered, and another to start over when the realization hit her, once again, that this murder would begin the fight which had dominated conversation since yesterday. They'd need to conserve brass.
"Major, what's— Oh, my!"
She whirled at a familiar voice. "Mr. Pritsch, you've got to go to the camp! Ask the general and the doctor to come. I can't, somebody's got to stay with—understand?"
"Aelbraugh Pritsch, Major, the whole name, together. This is beyond belief." The creature looked at her a long while before speaking again, his voice strained and thoughtful. "I believe I do understand. You can't trust me with the body. I expect you're wondering this very minute whether your message will ever arrive at what you call the camp."
Although she shook her head in polite denial, she'd wondered exactly that. Many of her fellow humans would blame his people for this. Suspecting the nonhumans might be inclined to preventive countermeasures, she intended to stay here, holding her weapon. "Just get my boss, please. I'll never ask you for another favor as long as I live."
The feathered biped nodded, stepped around her, and vanished down the trail the way she'd just come. She rubbed a hand over her face, ran the same hand through her auburn hair, took a breath, and sat. Her watch said it was half an hour—although it felt much longer—when Gutierrez and Dr. Nguyen arrived, with Pulaski. The sergeant took a look and disappeared into the undergrowth, retching. The major and the general stood by in a silent state of delayed shock. The doctor, kneeling, made the traditional arcane gestures. At last she stood, pronouncing the geologist officially dead.
"A blow to the head, I presume to subdue him, then he was strangled. As you can see, neither the person who did it is immediately apparent, nor whatever weapons were used by him or her."
"Or it," the general muttered between clenched teeth, fighting an urge to imitate Pulaski. Knowing him, the major guessed the only thing keeping him in control was the terrible anger she could read on his face. "Did he have any warning," he asked Dr. Nguyen, "any chance to defend himself?"
She sawed Kamanov's S&W revolver from his jacket pocket, catching its rear sight and the knurling of its hammer in the fabric. She handed it to him. "Six unfired .44 magnum caliber cartridges in the cylinder." From the opposite pocket, she pulled the tiny Kahr K9 autopistol with its long KGB suppressor, taken from Richardson. It, too, was fully loaded. "That's as far as my forensic expertise extends, I'm afraid." She looked around to see that they weren't overheard. "Something else: peculiar marks on the throat."
Looking where the doctor pointed, the major saw a row of indentations resembling the tracks left by a hermit crab in beach sand. Pulaski, having just returned, seemed fit enough to volunteer an opinion. "They look like marks," she offered, "from the tentacle of a squid or octopus."
"Let us hope you're mistaken." Aelbraugh Pritsch, having fetched the general and the doctor, had hurried off on another errand. He returned now with four sea-scorpions, sounding horrified. Even the expressionless lobster beings were agitated. "It would appear you're not. May forces of randomness aid us, those are markings which the tentacles of an Elder leave behind!"
Gutierrez looked at the avian as he spoke. "I was afraid you'd say that. Rosalind, this is his bailiwick. Back home, we'd have an inquest, but it's up to him to say what happens next. You and Toya go along and represent us, whatever turns out to be customary."
Aelbraugh Pritsch blinked affirmation. "Sir, your cooperation's greatly appreciated. Each of us understands that our situation, already tense, has taken a sudden turn for the worse."
"Thanks to unwanted interference from Washington." Gutierrez ignored Pulaski's scandalized gasp. The doctor's mouth was a grim line. Reille y Sanchez remained silent, curious to see what the general had in mind.
"How very generous of you, sir," the creature replied. "Shall we say, then, that a truce, however momentary and uneasy, still holds between beings who, sadly enough, were formerly just hosts and guests?"
"Gracious hosts and grateful guests," Gutierrez insisted. "Yes, Aelbraugh Pritsch, tell your employer it does, until we find out who did this to my friend. After that, well, I suppose that'll depend."
"Yes." The avian gave him a nod which almost amounted to a bow, then, an afterthought, extended a slim hand. "I suppose so." The humans watched him direct his guard in the use of what could only be recording equipment, small antenna-covered devices scanning the area around the body and pathways leading away in both directions. Afterward, the aliens helped Nguyen and Pulaski carry the remains back to the infirmary at ground level for examination by both sides. In this gravity, it constituted a burden only in a moral sense.
When the departing company was lost among the trees, Gutierrez turned to the major. "It must seem pretty grotesque to Aelbraugh Pritsch. I tell you, Estrellita, from a military viewpoint, to the poor asshole obeying them in the field, our orders are grotesque. Generous, he called me, for acknowledging the truth! The generosity of the helpless, the opposite of noblesse oblige!"
"Sir?" She wasn't sure whether he was talking to her or to himself, using her presence as an excuse. It was a difficulty of her trade. She didn't know how to respond, whether to stand at attention or slouched with her hands—which she never knew what to do with anyway—in her pockets.
"You still don't get it, do you? He doesn't want our blood on his hands! He's grateful I'm trying to prevent it! Forty-two lunatics issuing orders to their numerical and technological superiors, our only weapons a comical collection of obsolete pistols, rifles, and shotguns. Bayonets! You saw what happened when Vivian shot at Semlohcolresh. What are their professionals like?" Staring at the .44 magnum as if he'd never seen it before, he shoved it in his suit at the waist. He unscrewed the suppressor and tucked the Kahr 9mm in his jacket pocket, thrust his hands in his pants pockets, and began shambling up the trail.
The major followed, a light breeze blowing the faint scent of magnolias toward them. In her mind, she reviewed their meager inventory. This, at least, was something she could deal with. "The ammo situation's even worse, sir. We brought no more than a token, a few dozen rounds per gun."
"Even that was sent," he told her, "against my better judgment."
The ground became uneven, her reply had to wait until they threaded their way down a miniature ravine. "We'll just let the enemy supply us, sir."
Eyes on his footing, he shook his head. "We can't afford an enemy, Estrellita. Few of our personnel—scientists, engineers—have the training or temperament for war. I'm nothing but a retired pilot myself. Being kicked upstairs isn't the same as a promotion for merit. Against us is an unknown force of unknown size, undetermined capability, and enormous versatility. We might be seeing them at their worst, roughing it, with what they consider only the bare necessities."
She agreed with his facts, but this wasn't the attitude she'd expected. The astonished Marine fought a humiliating urge to tears. Stumbling, she began to mutter at the rough going until she realized again that perhaps only weeks ago, this had been a cold, airless crater-scarred waste. "I hadn't considered the possibility, sir, I don't know what to say."
He stopped to smile. "I never know what not to say. Between us we might've made one decent officer. One thing I know, we must believe the evidence of our eyes. The Elders possess more numerous and potent weapons than we do, and they're armed to the mandibles all the time."
He resumed walking. She was surprised and hurried to catch up, almost turning her ankle where the ground dropped away. "Another aspect, sir, if you'll permit an observation from one of our professionals."
He didn't look up. "And what might that be, Major?"
"Sir, we're speaking of personal weapons."
"And you think they have something even nastier in reserve?"
"That isn't it, sir. They're like Sikhs or Moros, accustomed to handling their own weapons on an everyday basis, as familiar with them as we are with—I don't know what. That's worse news than any number or power—"
The general nodded. "We can't all be like you, Major, and with all due respect, maybe it's just as well. Peace is balanced on a knife edge. Before this is over, you'll see it tilted this way and that, from one instant to the next, by all kinds of conflicting forces and differing—"
"I thought it was just us and the—"
"More deadly, I think, than our dispute with the Elders, are frictions between, let's say, ideologues and pragmatists on both sides. I don't imply there's a reason to prefer one or the other; ideology's an ugly word because one in particular gave a bad name to the rest. It's just that it won't be fun to deal with while we're trying to find out what happened to Pete."
They reached the point where the tow line had dropped her and went past, still headed toward the camp. The general wanted to walk. It was a pleasant day for it, if they could have avoided thinking about current events. "I meant to ask, sir, how will we find out what happened?"
He stopped to lean against something like a birch tree. "I'd say it was Arthur's job, but he wasn't sent here as a detective, and I doubt he has any talent for it, being no more than a glorified . . ."
She swallowed. "Hall monitor, sir?"
Pushing away from the tree, he grinned. "You said it, Major, not me. `Of the dead—and the KGB—speak nothing but good.' How brave a quarter of a billion miles makes us." He stopped again and turned. "Look, you're in military charge of this mission, I'm in overall command, sheriff and mayor, respectively. Whatever they decide back home about who does the investigating—you realize we'll have to ask?—it won't hurt if the two of us talk it over."
She smiled back. "I'm game, sir." This was more like it. Maybe he'd just been shocked with grief, forced to struggle the past half hour to refocus his reasoning power. "How do we begin?"
"By thinking out loud," he replied, resuming his former pace. "First we review a list of our shipmates, whom we must now regard as suspects."
"Yes, sir." This time she was ready and kept up without difficulty. For a man beyond his prime, she thought, his breath short from desk jobs and a little fat from a lifetime of flying, he made good time in the woods. She was a little out of breath, herself. "Also the nautiloids and their allies."
"We'll get to them. Given the effect this is likely to have, our best bet's someone who agrees with Washington and wants to provoke a fight. In no special order, consider Rosalind Nguyen, whose only known allegiance—known to me, that is—is to her patients. I've studied her dossier, so have you: personal background tragic, but far from unique; granddaughter of southeast Asian `boat people' who fled halfway around the world to escape the rising tide, only to discover that their place of refuge . . . well, you know."
Without answering, she pushed a branch aside, ducked under another. The path had all but disappeared.
"Given official attitudes toward such refugees," he continued, "if she has a talent besides medicine, it's for survival. As a doctor, she can be presumed to oppose Washington's policy here, but keeps her opinion to herself, a talent I never had much luck cultivating. Her real position's unknown."
"Probably unknowable, sir."
They stepped over a stream, no more than a trickle centimeters wide, leaving heel marks in the soft ground. "Who next? Well, Toya's the descendant of refugees, too. Her ancestors were escaping Cossacks."
"I like Toya, sir," the major offered, "she's an overgrown Girl Scout. Any loyalties she has are to the ASSR. Deep down, I think she loves learning for its own sake. She'll never love anything more tangible."
"Like a man?" Following the stream, they arrived at a tiny cataract, stood watching the water, and went on. "Pretty rough for somebody you like. Can't say I disagree. From various inarticulate grunts—that's what we're reduced to—I'd guess she'd rather study the Elders than fight them."
"Yes, sir." She sneezed, then sneezed again violently. They'd wandered into a streamside grove of giant ferns. Spores drifting from the undersides of the broad fronds dusted their uniforms. "Sorry, sir."
They pushed through the plants and took a moment to slap at their clothing. "Bless you, Estrellita, are you all right?"
"Of course I am, sir, what were you saying?"
"I was saying, again, `Of the dead—and the KGB—speak nothing but good.' But we can't allow that to limit us. It's with friend Arthur that we begin getting to the really interesting suspects. Hell, he might have killed Pete last night in front of all of us, if you and Marna hadn't pulled him off."
"Tension, sir." Reille y Sanchez shrugged. "That's what Piotr thought. Art's like anyone who belongs to the KGB." She wasn't sure why she dared such honesty with a superior. "Willingly, I mean. Not very deep inside, he's a power junkie, and likes the idea of going head-to-head with the Elders. It represents a good gamble, an obvious path to power."
"Promotions come most quickly in wartime," Gutierrez suggested, "and in the terms you state, power can be seized most easily. Hmmm. I never thought of Arthur as that sincere and open a fellow. I do remember his fingers around Pete's throat, however, and I'm putting him at the top of the list, along with those four flunkies of his. Any one of those mutants might have done it at Art's order while he was somewhere else, providing himself with an alibi. What do you make of Vivian?"
The general didn't know that she'd had to pull Hake off Pulaski early in the trip, adding to the difficulty of an already difficult situation, and making Toya her friend for life. She wasn't sure she wanted a friend for life. At the time, Empleado had expressed the opinion that she should have let his corporal have the girl. It wouldn't have done her lasting damage, he'd maintained. On the contrary, it might have made a woman out of a wallflower. It certainly would have prevented certain frictions created by the black eye the major had inflicted on Hake and his consequent loss of face. Demene Wise, by contrast, apparently couldn't get it up for anything female, and Delbert Roo, she was certain, couldn't get it up for anything human, whereas Roger Betal simply couldn't get it up. But Gutierrez had asked about Richardson.
The major inhaled. "On the assumption that her illness is fake? I wondered about that, myself. She's a good suspect, sir, loyal to the ASSR and covertly, but not very covertly—well, I just hope it's the American branch of the KGB."
He laughed. "You're a cynic, Estrellita! I was proud of myself for spotting her as Art's understudy, but the international wrinkle hadn't occurred to me."
"It's my job, sir. She'd like to fight for the same reasons Arthur does. In addition, she's black, and she's a woman."
"Too deep for me, Estrellita," Gutierrez replied. "What's being black and female have to do with it? I'm at a loss—"
"Beg pardon, sir, but you aren't in a position, if I may speak freely—"
"Major, that's what we're here for. We're not going to figure this out if we hold anything back."
"It's just that—" she colored from discomfiture "—socialism's been a bit relaxed about the equality it promised for women and minorities. I've heard it said—Piotr said it was originally a Russian saying—that socialist equality means women are perfectly free to do a man's job as long as they hurry home to cook dinner."
He laughed. "So, if anything, she'd be more volatile than Art. She could be our killer, even if she's genuinely flipped out."
"You can bet," she agreed, "it enters into the picture."
"I'll take your word. Okay, next suspect. How about me?"