Wolf Among the Stars-ARC Read online

  “Leong was a small man,” Rachel said.

  “No doubt. And if you had weighed him, he would have proven to be even lighter than he looked.”

  “Something else,” said Andrew. “Leong was obviously of mixed ethnic background, sort of racially nondescript—an average human being. Maybe the Shape-Shifters find that easier than trying to convincingly reproduce a well-marked set of ethnic features.” He wasn’t sure how much this meant to the Rogovon, in whose eyes all humans probably looked alike. But in Reislon he thought to detect the body language of agreement.

  “And,” Rachel added, “on today’s Earth there are more and more racially mixed people.” A thought seemed to occur to her. “But how is it that they can speak English like they were born to it?”

  “Oh, that must be relatively simple,” Zhygon explained. “The technique of imprinting a new language on the speech centers by direct neural induction is well known. We Lokaron hardly ever use it because, as you may know, we find most such procedures to be vaguely distasteful, and because the ubiquity of translation devices renders it unnecessary.”

  “Still,” Rachel speculated, “each infiltrator must be a unique work of art, as it were. Another Shape-Shifter, even if it could assume exactly the same human form, would bring its own personality to the . . . performance.”

  “Indubitably,” Zhygon agreed. “I don’t believe we have to worry about multiple copies of the same person.”

  “Question,” interjected Reislon. “Captain Roark killed Leong with a gauss pistol. I should think that a Shape-Shifter in the state you have described would be able to ignore bullets.”

  “Except maybe silver bullets,” Rachel muttered sotto voce.

  “An astute observation, Reislon” said Zhygon. “And you are undoubtedly correct in the case of a single bullet, or perhaps even more than one. But the condition of the corpse made it clear that Captain Roark fired an entire autoburst, inflicting so much trauma to so many organs that it overloaded the capacity of the protoplasm to simply reconfigure itself.”

  “I thought he seemed to take an awfully long time to die, under the circumstances,” said Andrew.

  “So,” mused Reislon, “we will find these beings very hard to kill, despite their seeming physical fragility. I doubt if any number of flechettes from my implanted weapon would have sufficed, given the extremely small diameter of the perforation they inflict.”

  “But why did he change back when he died?” Rachel wanted to know.

  “I have a theory on that,” said Zhygon, who seemed to have a lot of theories. “As I mentioned, the process is a conscious one—although after the initial transformation it must become more or less automatic and effortless, since they are obviously able to remain in their assumed forms for extended periods of time, and function normally while doing so. As death approaches and consciousness fades, the mind becomes incapable of sustaining it. If you had inflicted instantaneous death—which, as Reislon has deduced, would take some doing—I suspect the body would have been left frozen in its human form.”

  “But,” argued Persath, “it could still be identified as nonhuman by genetic testing.”

  “Or even by a reasonably thorough scan with a handheld medical sensor such as the one I performed,” Zhygon agreed. “Only . . . it would never have occurred to anyone to perform such a scan.”

  After a few heartbeats, Andrew thought someone should break the general thoughtful silence. “Well,” he said briskly, “what are we left with? What do we know about this race? Let’s start with what we don’t know: their name, their origin, their objectives. We do know that they have the ability to masquerade as humans—”

  “And, we must assume, other four-limbed vertebrates as well,” Persath interjected.

  “—and have used that ability to infiltrate the Black Wolf Society.”

  “They may have come to dominate it,” said Rachel. “You can add that to your list of things we don‘t know about them.”

  “If they’ve infiltrated it thoroughly,” said Reislon, with the air of an expert in such matters, “then they’ve been active among humans for a while. These things take time.”

  “Longer than you think,” said Zhygon. “I imagine this species has, courtesy of evolution, an almost instinctual ability to assume the forms of various animals on its planet or origin. But masquerading as an alien life form must be an acquired skill. It surely required a lengthy and extensive study of human physiology.”

  “Their superior stealth technology must have helped with that,” said Andrew grimly. “We don’t know what else they have that’s technologically superior. Or how long they’ve been at this game of infiltration. Or what they’ve infiltrated besides the Black Wolf Society.”

  “The catalogue of our ignorance grows and grows,” grumbled Persath.

  “But we have one definite clue to build on, Persath. Remember when Leong, as I suppose we have to continue calling him, said he wanted you and Reislon for questioning about an artifact? I think we know what that artifact must be, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” said Persath with a sidelong glance at Reislon. “I believe we do. For whatever reason, the Black Wolf Society—or at least the Shape-Shifters behind it—are very, very interested in the device brought back from Mars in 2055.”

  “And they must not know fthat the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords has it.” Andrew nodded. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have needed to go through this whole elaborate scheme—or they could have simply infiltrated the Temple.”

  “But why are they so interested in it?” Rachel sounded bewildered—understandably, Andrew thought.

  “That’s what we need to find out. It seems to be the only line of inquiry open to us.” Andrew turned to Persath and Reislon. “We’ve got to go to the Sol system and—”

  Borthru had said nothing for a long time. Now he cut in brusquely. “You use the word ‘we’ rather freely, Captain Roark. I remind you that our organization’s purpose is the overthrow of the present regime in Gev-Rogov. And from what I have heard so far, this is an internal human problem.” He gave the distinct impression that he did not lavish a great deal of concern on human problems.

  “But these Shape-Shifters are a menace to us all,” Rachel protested.

  “Are they?” Borthru gave Zhygon a shrewd look. “You explained why these beings are barely able to masquerade as humans, and small humans at that. In your opinion, would they be able to convincingly assume the form of Lokaron?”

  “I see no way,” said the old scientist forthrightly. “Infants, perhaps. But what would be the point?”

  “Just so,” said Borthru with an air of self-satisfied triumph. “So you will understand, Captain, that we cannot divert any of our all-too-inadequate resources to aid in your quest, when these Shape-Shifters do not pose a threat to our race.”

  “I’m not sure I agree with that last,” said Reslon with his trademark deceptive diffidence. “They are working through the Black Wolf Society, and may in fact have made it their tool. Its agenda is implicitly anti-Lokaron in general, and explicitly anti-Rogovon in particular.”

  “I’ve always thought you exaggerate that group’s importance,” Borthru argued. “And besides, if it’s opposed to the present Gev-Rogov regime, then we and it may actually be . . . well, scarcely potential allies, but perhaps . . .”

  “Fellow travelers,” Rachel suggested archly.

  “I doubt if xenophobes like the Black Wolf are interested in Rogovon internal political arrangements,” cautioned Reislon. “You’ve admitted that you and others of your persuasion fell victim to wishful thinking before the war. Do not do so again. We canafford it.”

  Borthru glared at him but had no reply. Reislon had been proved right too often.

  “All we would need,” Reislon resumed, “would be a single small ship with integral transition capability, very heavily stealthed. We’re not planning to fight any battles.”

  “Very well,” Borthru conceded. “I suppose this does merit further investigat
ion.”

  “We will also require a couple of technicians with the requisite equipment for studying this artifact.”

  “Yes, I can provide that,” said Zhygon.

  “One other thing, Zhygon,” said Andrew. “The handheld medical sensor you referred to earlier . . . Could I trouble you for one, and a short course on how to use it?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Trovyr was a frigate, like the Potematu-class that had rescued them, but of a different class. It was specialized for scouting and covert planetary insertions, so it deemphasized armament and defenses in favor of speed and cutting-edge stealth technology—or at least cutting-edge as of a few years ago, for like everything else the rebel Rogovon fleet had, it was prewar. Something else not emphasized was spaciousness of living accommodations. Things were decidedly cramped with four passengers aboard, especially given the requirement that the two humans be given separate quarters.

  Borthru had insisted on taking command of it. (Not “she,” as Andrew constantly had to remind himself. The Lokaron, did not share humanity’s habit of giving ships a gender.) At first Andrew was apprehensive at the prospect of a skipper whose heart wasn’t really in the mission. But another nautical tradition that had never occurred to the Lokaron was that of treating a ship’s captain as its absolute despot. Borthru deferred to Reislon in everything not involving the internal running of the ship.

  They emerged from overspace more than a light-hour from Sol and well outside the plane of the ecliptic, then worked their way slowly sunward, minimizing their energy output. Such a small ship, so heavily stealthed, had little reason to fear detection, but Borthru insisted on caution and Reislon concurred. Andrew could see their point. The war had been over for seven years, but he wasn’t sure a Rogovon warship caught in the solar system would be given an opportunity to explain its political alignment. This didn’t stop Persath from grumbling about the crowded discomfort of the voyage, and Andrew could sympathize with that too.

  They finally inserted themselves into a solar orbit trailing Earth. In free fall and effectively immune to detection, they discussed their plans. In particular, they would require inconspicuous planetside transportation.

  “Will you solicit the aid of your Legislative Assemblyman Valdes?” asked Borthru, who by now had heard the entire story at length.

  “No,” said Andrew. “I don’t entirely trust Valdes. There’s only one person on Earth I’m absolutely certain I can trust. One living person,” he added, to the puzzlement of his listeners. “And as luck would have it, she lives fairly close to where we need to go.”

  The ship’s gig would hold four, and Reislon knew how to pilot it. Even more heavily stealthed than the frigate relative to its mass and energy signature, it had no trouble landing undetected on peacetime Earth’s nightside in a thinly populated area. It settled with the noiselessness and flamelessness of reactionless drives onto an upland meadow in the Rockies. Only then did Andrew make a call by ordinary cell phone.

  “Andy!” exclaimed Katy Doyle-Roark. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick, but I didn’t want to risk making inquiries. I haven’t heard from you since—”

  “Mom, it’s a long story. Right now, I need your help. Specifically, I need an air-car.”

  “Where are you?” was all she said. The concerned mother was abruptly gone, displaced by the woman who had been an undercover intelligence agent long ago.

  “Not far from you—just a little higher up, to the west. I have a beacon you can home in on.”

  “All right.” Katy had some fairly non-standard devices available to her, such as a small military-grade transponder.

  “And just so you’ll know what to expect, I’m in a ship’s gig. A Rogovon ship’s gig.”

  “All right,” Katy repeated. She knew when questions had to wait.

  By the time Katy arrived, dawn was breaking over the eastward ranges, casting a morning glow over the pine-clothed upper slopes of the surrounding mountains and the aspens below, beginning to show the first pale-green overlay of oncoming spring. The approaching air-car cleared the eastern escarpments, reflecting the dawn rays, and settled alongside the gig. Katy and Andrew exchanged a brief, hard hug in the thin air, still cold at these altitudes, before he introduced his companions.

  “Mom, this is Rachel Arnstein, daughter of the late Admiral Arnstein. Like me, she‘s been trying to ascertain the circumstances of her father’s death.” His hope that his mother would take the hint and not blurt out the fact of Arnstein’s suicide was not disappointed. She merely expressed her condolences in general terms. Rachel, for once, looked overawed in the presence of a living legend.

  “And this,” he continued, “is Reislon’Sygnath, formerly of Hov-Korth intelligence.”

  “I’ve heard stories about you,” said Katy. She didn’t turn a hair at Reislon’s half-Rogovon appearance.

  “And I about you and your late husband,” said Reislon urbanely.

  “And this,” Andrew finished, “is Persath’Loven, a Tizathon scholar who has authored several highly regarded works on human studies.” It never hurt to stroke Persath whenever possible.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of your works.” Andrew wasn’t sure his mother was telling the truth, but Persath looked gratified. “I must say, Andy, you’ve certainly collected an intriguing group of companions.”

  “That’s not the half of it. As I said, it’s a long story. Let’s go to your place before I try to tell it. Your air-car will hold me and Rachel and Persath. Reislon will wait here with the gig—maybe move it somewhere even more inconspicuous if he can find one.”

  “All right.” Katy pulled up the hood of her coat against a gust of chill wind and visibly suppressed her curiosity. “I suppose the house would be more comfortable. Let’s go.”

  “. . . and that’s the story,” Andrew finished, hoarse from so much talking, and took a pull on his Bourbon. They all found they needed drinks. Alcohol affected the Lokaron nervous system in much the same way as the human one, and Katy kept a supply of voleg for guests. But in his earlier days on Earth, Persath had acquired a taste for Scotch.

  “Andy,” said Katy at last, “this is quite a lot to adjust to. In particular, these Shape-Shifters are the ultimate counterintelligence nightmare.”

  “I know.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a datachip. “This has, among other things, pictures of the dead shape-shifter.”

  She waved it aside. “Oh, there will be time for that later. The question is, where do you go from here?”

  “There’s only one direction we can go, because we have only one lead: the fact that the Shape-Shifters are searching for what we might as well call the Cydonia artifact. They let me and Rachel lead them to Reislon, who they evidently thought was the one who knew.”

  Persath spoke up. “It is reassuring to know that they are fallible. All along it was I who had the information, and they knew where I could be found.” Andrew knew Lokaron expressions well enough to have to smother a smile as Persath suddenly realized what might have happened to him if they hadn’t been mistaken.

  “Well,” Rachel said, “the point is that we need to get access to this thing and find out what’s so important about it.”

  “That’s not all you need to do,” said Katy in a voice that made them all look up. “You need to steal it.” She smiled at their expressions. “Andy, you’re not an intelligence specialist. I was. One of the fundamental truisms is that secrets can’t be kept forever. If beings with the special abilities these have, and the Black Wolf Society to work through, want to find this out badly enough, sooner or later they will. And when they do, can you imagine a bunch of woo-woos like the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords being able to assure its security? No, it can’t be left in their custody.”

  “Then whose custody?”

  “If you had asked me that this time yesterday I would, of course, have said the CNE. But now . . . Christ! The Shape-Shifters may have infiltrated anything.”

  “Anything huma
n,” Rachel corrected. “If Zhygon knows what he’s talking about, they can’t infiltrate the Lokaron.”

  “That’s right. So the only safe place is this secret Rogovon fleet.” Katy shook her head. “I never dreamed I’d live to hear myself say something like that!”

  “Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Andrew quoted.

  “So I’ve heard.” Katy smiled reminiscently. “Your father used to say there were some well-known figures he suspected were pretty strange bedfellows even before they went into politics!” She turned serious again. “All right. What do you need.”

  “I need to know the current leadership of the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords,” said Persath.

  “Easy enough.” Katy led the way from the great room to her office and booted the computer. A brief search showed Persath what he wanted.

  “A stroke of luck!” he exclaimed. “After almost eighteen years I was afraid there would be no one left in the hierarchy that I knew. But Arnold Waemhofer is now the Steward, which is what they call their titular leader, who according to their doctrines is acting in the capacity of stewardship for the lost galactic empire until it returns.”

  “They must have gotten it from Tolkien,” Rachel muttered to Andrew.

  “In 2056 he was a relatively junior member of the group that showed me the artifact and the preserved body. He must he quite elderly now. But hopefully he will remember me.”

  A phone call resulted in a series of tedious delays as Persath was shunted through successive organizational levels. Finally the screen showed the face of a well-fed man with silvery gray hair and mild blue eyes in a good-natured face. He looked extremely well-preserved, doubtless by courtesy of Lokaron biotech. Andrew wondered if he appreciated the irony of that. His surprise at seeing a Lokaron face in the screen was obvious but he politely smoothed it out.