CHAPTER FOUR
Hov-Korth’s headquarters, however, was practically a mini-Enclave in itself, without the extraterritoriality. Located in Rockland County, New York, as close to Manhattan as availability of real estate permitted, it was built in the vaguely Arabian Nights-reminiscent Lokaron architectural style, clustering around a central tower whose slender, soaring elongation was possible only to the nanotech-produced materials the aliens had introduced to Earth.
Andrew Roark arrived by ground car in the midst of a winter storm that had grounded all air-cars. An elevator powered by a very minimal application of the reactionless propulsion that drove Lokaron spacecraft took him swiftly up a transparent shaft through which he watched a landscape whose bleakness matched his mood. That landscape receded farther and farther below as he rose to the highest levels, to the suite of offices that had been put at the disposal of the Executive Director while he was on Earth. A live functionary—always a status symbol among the Lokaron—met him as he emerged from the elevator. Trained to read the signs, he recognized a primary male, subjugated along with the females in traditional transmitter-dominated Lokaron societies, although that was changing in modern times, as was reflected by the fact that this one wore the standard “business suit“ of loose sleeveless robe over double-breasted tunic.
“Greetings, Captain Roark. The executive director is expecting you. Follow me, please.” He led the way along hallways of softly luminous jadelike materials for which English held no names, through gently tingling curtains of hovering security nanobots into the innermost office.
“Ah, Captain Roark!” greeted Svyatog from behind an extensive desk whose capabilities were completely unobtrusive. “Or may I call you Andrew?”
“Of course, sir.” They had no difficulty understanding each other. Andrew’s skull held a translator implant like Svyatog’s, not generally available on Earth but standard issue for CNEN officers whose ranks and duties involved Lokaron contacts. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It is no trouble. I was glad to be able to oblige your mother when she called and indicated that you wished to see me . . . on private business.” The amber alien eyes glanced significantly at the visitor’s civilian clothes.
“That’s correct, sir. I’m not here in my capacity as a Confederated Nations officer. In fact, I’m currently on indefinite leave.” Actually, he had no business being here at all. He had informed the IID he was going to New York to settle some paperwork involving his father’s estate—and had in fact gone there by verifiable public transport, and then rented the ground car. He could only hope that he wasn’t under actual surveillance, in which case he would have some explaining to do.
“I will of course assist you in any way I can,” said Svyatog graciously. He touched a control on his desk. “Please take a seat.”
Andrew looked behind him, at the previously empty space where an invisible, impalpable cloud of lighter-than-air nanobots had silently coalesced into a chair. He sternly told himself that it wasn’t magic, although as cutting-edge Lokaron technology it might as well have been. He sat down gingerly, not fully believing in the chair’s solidity until he felt it. It adjusted its contours to him, which didn’t exactly aid his efforts to compose his thoughts. Neither did the fact that he was addressing one of the wealthiest beings in the known galaxy.
“I’ve come to you, sir, to ask for any information you can give me—within the bounds of propriety, of course—on certain matters. The circumstances are rather delicate, so I’ll have to ask that our conversation remain confidential. I’ll also ask that you not inquire about my motives.”
Svyatog’s mouth stretched slightly while remaining closed. Andrew recognized a Lokaron smile. “Would this, by any chance, be related to Admiral Arnstein’s death?”
Andrew stared, openmouthed. “I don’t suppose I should even be surprised,” he finally managed. “Given the intelligence resources at your command.”
“You flatter me. I gather you have not had an opportunity to view this morning’s news.”
“No, I haven’t. You mean they’ve gone public with it?”
Instead of answering, Svyatog manipulated other concealed controls, and a holographically projected display appeared in midair over the desk.
“Yesterday,” a well-known news announcer intoned, “the Confederated Nations lost one of its heroes. Naval authorities have announced the sudden and untimely death of Admiral Nathan Arnstein. The cause of death is still under investigation. Admiral Arnstein will be best remembered for stopping Gev-Rogov’s aggression in its tracks in 2067 with his great victory at—”
Andrew had stopped listening. Yesterday? Cause of death under investigation? The thoughts echoed through his incredulous mind.
Svyatog, with half a century of experience at reading human faces, gave Andrew an expressionless regard as he turned off the recording. “Actually, your initial assumption about Hov-Korth’s intelligence apparatus was not entirely unfounded. We have reason to believe that Admiral Arnstein in fact died several days ago, and that your government has been sitting on it, as I believe the expression goes. Of course, I will not ask you to compromise yourself by giving me confirmation of that.”
“Besides, you don’t really need my confirmation, do you?” Andrew reached a hasty but unequivocal decision. “Nevertheless, I’ll tell you that your sources are correct as far as they go. In return, I’ll ask you if you have any information on the Black Wolf Society, dating from the period just before the war.”
For a few heartbeats the slit-pupiled eyes that humans found to be the most disturbing Lokaron feature regarded Andrew in silence. When Svyatog finally spoke, the translator implant conveyed his expressionlessness. “Why do you suppose we would have information on what is essentially an internal human matter?”
“You have information on most things. And if the stories about the Black Wolf are true, it isn’t just a crime syndicate of no interest to anyone except human law enforcement agencies. With its strident human expansionism, its influence could have a destabilizing effect that would be bound to impact the interests of Hov-Korth.”
Had Svyatog been human, Andrew would have sworn he was affecting an air of casual interest. “Have you had the opportunity to access your late father’s upload?”
Andrew did his best to equal the old Lokar’s expressionlessness. He knew he was skirting the edges of revealing Reislon’Sygnath’s double game. He decided on an approach that could do no harm if Svyatog was, in fact, already aware of that game. “Yes, I have. I’m sure I needn’t pretend that I didn’t put these and other questions to him. He was able to give me certain vague hints, based on contacts he had maintained in the Confederated Nations intelligence community after his retirement. But nothing really useful. Which is why I’m here today.”
Over the decades, Svyatog had picked up certain human mannerisms. One was steepling his fingers—twelve altogether, in his case—and peering over them. He now leaned back and did so. “I did, in fact, receive a report on the subject during the period to which you refer, from one of our agents—a very important agent, who reported directly to me. I have never known quite what to make of it, since the agent in question turned out to be playing a double game.”
Andrew held his breath and ordered himself not to mention the name Reislon’Sygnath.
“This was not known to us at the time he submitted the report,” Svyatog went on. “It was not until just after the war ended that we became aware that he had been simultaneously working for Gev-Rogov.”
Afterward, Andrew had the leisure to congratulate himself for the complete expressionlessness he enforced on his features. At the time, he could only wonder how his father’s upload would react to the news that Reislon had been a triple agent.
“We were quite prepared to ‘play’ him, as I believe your own intelligence community puts it, in an effort to exploit his Rogovon contacts. But he dropped from sight after the war. We would of course be very interested in any information as to who his current employers might be.” Svyatog paused significantly, but Andrew maintained his poker face. “At any rate,” Svyatog resumed, “I was obliged to take his report seriously, despite its inherent improbability and its author’s duplicity, because I had independent knowledge of its sources.”
“What were those?”
“First I must give you a little background. Before a Gev-Tizath expedition discovered you, we had never encountered any non-Lokaron races above a Bronze Age technological level. As a result, we had fallen into the fallacy of equating ‘non-Lokaron’ with ‘primitive.’ I fear this engendered certain attitudes and assumptions that caused us to miscalculate in your case. At any rate, your uniqueness naturally aroused interest. During the 2040s and early 2050s, according to your dating system, the study of human cultures enjoyed a certain fad among the intelligentsia of Gev-Harath and Gev-Tizath.”
“Yes, I seem to recall reading that we got a number of curious visitors then.”
“One of them was an extremely wealthy Tizathon amateur named Persath’Loven. He began to publish his findings in 2050. At that time, his work was considered quite sound. But subsequently, he wandered into some dubious byways. In particular, he took an interest in the doctrines of the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords. Indeed, his next two works reflected . . . Ah, did you say something?”
Andrew choked down his smothered laugh and took a deep breath. “No, sir. Sorry to interrupt. But . . . did you say the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords? They’re crackpots—a fringe group!” He took another breath. “You must understand that back in the middle of the last century, when people were expecting the world to end in a nuclear holocaust, one form the general hysteria took was sightings of supposed extraterrestrial spaceships: unidentified flying objects, or ‘flying saucers,’ as they were called. One offshoot of this was the notion that the saucers had visited us thousands of years ago and started humans on the road to civilization. Every impressive relic of ancient times—the Pyramids, Stonehenge, the Easter Island statues, you name it—was attributed to godlike beings from the stars.”
“Odd that humans would assume their own ancestors incapable of such works,” Svyatog observed mildly.
“Not if you know humans! It was all a substitute for religion. But then, in 2020, the ships from Gev-Tizath actually appeared, and the flying-saucer believers announced that they’d been vindicated.”
“But the Tizathon carefully explained that neither they nor any other Lokaron had been observing Earth for decades before that, or at any previous time.”
“Yes, and as a result all the nonsense died down—but only for a while. Shortly before the time you’re talking about, around 2040, a con artist named Sebastian Gruber rummaged up the ‘ancient astronauts’ theory, complete with all its bogus archaeology and mythology and linguistics, and added a new twist: the ancient astronauts were humans, who colonized Earth. We today on Earth are a surviving remnant of a prehistoric human galactic empire!”
“But is there not conclusive evidence that your species evolved on Earth?”
“Sure. But many people have never wanted to accept that, and still don’t. By denying evolution, Gruber roped in a whole new category of suckers.”
“And what supposedly became of this human interstellar empire?” Svyatog sounded intrigued.
“Ah, that was Gruber’s masterstroke. It seems the empire fell because it strayed from the true religion—which he, Gruber, had rediscovered and revived. At the same time he left open the possibility that the empire—reformed and chastened—is still out there somewhere, and may return.” Andrew chuckled. “You can see why all this was so appealing. It relegated you Lokaron to the status of Johnny-come-latelys. And if the empire does come back, then the members of the Imperial Temple of the Star Lords that Gruber founded will enjoy special favor for having kept the faith. No question about it, he was a genius in his way. He died twenty years ago, but the Imperial Temple is still going strong—and, as I understand, since his death it’s been run by genuine true believers. To quote a human named P. T. Barnum—although he went to his grave denying he had ever said it—there’s a sucker born every minute.”
“But I understand that the Imperial Temple has sponsored research into evidence of prehistoric extraterrestrial manifestations on Earth, and elsewhere in the Sol system.”
“Oh, yes. Gruber realized he wasn’t going to be able to go on forever milking the stuff he had plagiarized from Von Däniken and Hoagland and others. So he financed some splashy expeditions and claimed anything they dug up, however ambiguous, as proof. All in keeping with the intellectual traditions of this school of thought, if you can call it that.”
“No doubt. Nevertheless, as you have intimated, the Imperial Temple reflected at least an undercurrent of anti-Lokaron sentiment. This made it worth our while to investigate. The agent of whom I previously spoke made it his business to do so, and in the process made the acquaintance of Persath’Loven in the mid-2050s. It was also at this time that . . .” Svyatog hesitated. “This is not general knowledge, and I rely on your discretion. In 2055, a military vessel from Gev-Harath that was paying a courtesy call on this system spotted a formation of unidentified spacecraft—only briefly, for they almost immediately withdrew into the concealment of what seemed to be some very sophisticated cloaking technology. It was naturally assumed that they were experimental craft of yours, but our intelligence agencies were unable to discover any evidence of this.” A Lokaron smile. “Your mention of ‘unidentified flying objects’ in the last century naturally reminded me of this incident.”
“It’s news to me, sir. And I have a very high security clearance.” But not necessarily a need to know, Andrew mentally hedged. But he was quite certain that the CNE possessed no cloaking technology capable of spoofing the Harathon space navy’s cutting-edge sensors as thoroughly as Svyatog implied.
“The year after that, Persath published his last work about Earth. Most found it to be somewhat incoherent, verging on paranoia. Immediately after that, he returned home to Tizath-Asor, where he diverted his personal fortune into secretive researches into some odd byways of physics. Apparently he is still so occupied.
“We might have looked more deeply into the matter. But the following year, in 2057, came the destabilization of the Kogurche system, and our intelligence resources—including the agent to whom I alluded earlier—were diverted to the developing crisis there. Two years before your war with Gev-Rogov broke out, that agent submitted his highly enigmatic report on the Black Wolf Society. We were puzzled, but his disappearance just after the war prevented us from pursuing the matter.”
“You must have been even more puzzled when you learned he had been betraying you to Gev-Rogov,” Andrew ventured.
“‘Betraying’ is too strong a word. He did remarkably good service for us during that period, and we have never found any evidence that he acted directly against our interests. Rather, he seems to have felt that working for the Rogovon was not incompatible with working for us. Or perhaps it would be truer to say that he considered both to be compatible with his own agenda.”
And presumably he felt the same way about working for Earth. Aloud, Andrew asked, “And you have no idea where he vanished to after the war?”
“No.” Was there just a slight hesitation in Svyatog’s reply? “Our last verified sighting of him was in the Kogurche system.”
“Then, sir, it would seem that my most promising line of inquiry would be this Persath’Loven, who you say is now back in his home system of Tizath-Asor.”
“That would seem to be the case.” Svyatog rose to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end—yet another human gesture he had picked up. “I am sorry I was not able to be more helpful.”
Andrew also rose. “To the contrary, sir, you’ve been most helpful, as you always have to my family. I suppose my next stop should be the Tizathon embassy, to obtain a visa.” He inclined his head—handshaking was not a Lokaron custom—and departed.