Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 4 Read online

  To hear the news source tell it, the introduction of "professional warriors" had taken the heart out of the enemy or enemies. All fronts were quiet; even the reports of atrocities decreased. The enemy-or-enemies had, the news source reported, withdrawn, to pray and to take counsel of such wise ones and elders as they had. The government in Chilonga Center, in the province where Lizardi's Lunatics had been stationed, audibly held its breath.

  Brunner watched the weather, made predictions, noted his errors; he collaborated with Dr. Boylan, the planetologist, on a study of the likelihood that there was a long-term subsurface flow echoing the jet stream. The Stubbs continued to report, so whoever had been targeting the stationary weather machines seemed not to have the interest—or the means to destroy—a roving unit.

  Betting pools were formed—days until the end of the war; where the next cyclone would form; which government would fall to a coup.

  As always, Brunner declined to bet, but found himself importuned anyway, as those who had formed a pool on the probable length of survival of the various mercenary units inquired after the supposed "inside information" he was gaining from his contact on the surface.

  In retrospect, it was a time of peaceful repose such as Brunner had rarely experienced during his tour of duty.

  * * *

  The first hint that things might be returning to normal came, not from Brunner's intense study of Klamath's erratic weather systems, nor from his rather less intense study of the news reports, but from his contact on the planet's surface.

  "Okay." Robertson's recorded voice sounded breathless. "Just wanted to let you know that we got through it fine, and the machine's good. Some of us got messed up and we had to send a few off to the hospital in Chilonga Center. We had real good luck, though, 'cause I read the manuals, and when I can I have the local prediction mode up. Caught a march on the Bluebies that way. Anyhow, we're gonna be moving fast so don't expect too many updates for awhile."

  What "it" had been he did not know, though he was heartened to hear that she had survived it in good health and with the Stubbs intact.

  Automated reports flowed up from the surface, though there was no communication from the operator for nearly a Standard week. Brunner chose to view the arrival of the data as proof of her continued good health—after all, she had said she would be out of contact.

  He went back to his work. The pressure systems had undergone a subtle and not-entirely comprehensible change. Brunner pulled archives, did overlays, ran projections, sorted and resorted the data, stretching his work shift well into Slot A.

  Ten days after assuring him of her survival of "it," Robertson sent another message, short and barely intelligible over a sound like ship's engine cycling.

  "Wow! Lotta wind!"

  And indeed there had been a lot of wind as a high and a low had fought their own battle over a quarter of the planet, starting at the pole and spiraling down across the equator where they'd formed battle lines over the tortured isthmus connecting Chilonga's embattled territories with those of their bitter invaders.

  He had taken heart from that message as well; whatever fighting that may have taken place since her last contact was far from her mind at that moment.

  The winds continued to grow; the shift in the pressure systems suddenly painting an all-too-cogent picture. Brunner worked longer hours still, pushing himself and the station's resources, combing the literature.

  Something . . . Terran would have it that something "bad" was hovering on the horizon. One hesitated to ascribe such values to the outcome of systemic interactions. And yet—something . . . at least different was bearing down upon them. Hints whispered to him from the altered pressure systems, from the increasing erratic winds, if only he had wit enough to understand . . .

  * * *

  The Scout stood by while Brunner teased a possible pattern from the various historical models. If the Scout recognized what he was doing, or knew how it might be done more efficiently, he said nothing, but that was the way of Scouts—they interfered as little as possible unless you failed of doing what they wanted of you. So, for the moment at least, the Scout wished him to work.

  Eventually, Brunner smoothed the touch panel with a reluctant thumb, watching as the images reformed, showing as the storm moved in reverse, dividing into two smaller storms and a smudge of low pressure. He tapped the screen again, looked up to his silent watcher.

  "Service? It will be a number of minutes before the information I seek appears on screen."

  The Scout sighed lightly, his hands saying something Brunner couldn't read, and then said, quite abruptly, "While the data, which should belong to all of us, is encrypted, the words, which should belong only to the speaker and their intended recipient, are not."

  Brunner felt his face heat.

  He bowed, acknowledging receipt of information.

  "And this is monitored where beside my own instruments, if I may know?"

  "It is recorded, as a side channel, along with all the broadcasts from Klamath."

  "This is not simply a science station, then?" Brunner asked sharply, though he had for some time suspected . . .

  "Of course not, except as you allow the study of human systems in disintegration to be a science."

  Brunner acknowledged the point with another bow, and looked back to his screen.

  "Science can be so many things," said the Scout, speaking to the wall perhaps, or to the floor, or to himself. "It can be imprecise and immediately useful and reek of technology and action, or it can be an escape of beautiful equations and elegant systems, backed by theory and distanced by case numbers and modeled meta-statistical analysis."

  The Scout paused as the screen Brunner was watching reformed. The storm systems moved forward once more, dutifully came together, marched across the planet picking up energy, joined two into one, and again, two into one, the cyclonic motion barely apparent early on and then . . .

  Thumb-tap.

  The systems stopped moving.

  Thumb-tap.

  The screen now displayed four views, all tagged with the same date and time.

  The top left showed a widespread storm, faltering, moving northward above the equator with its center diffuse.

  The top right showed a tight-knot of mini storms first hugging the northeastern coast above the equator, then following a wide bay north.

  The bottom two veered from the northern route and crossed the isthmus, where both blossomed into monstrous cyclonic storms. While the one on the right rushed eastward and then slowly dissipated, the one on the left veered deep into the Chilonga Mountains after striking the river delta.

  Brunner knew the why of the blossom into major storm: on the west side of the isthmus the ocean level was considerably higher and considerably colder than on the east side. Assuming the storm survived the not inconsiderable plunge down the cliffs of the isthmus.

  "These are the major models which are now at work." Brunner said conversationally. "One and Two are most standard. Four is the "preferred" model of my predecessor. She was very climate-oriented in her approach, I think. In going back over her work and comparing it to the standard models, I find that hers were often less wrong than those models, which is interesting given the variability we think we see."

  "Less wrong is a useful trait, is it not?" murmured the Scout.

  They both watched as the images ran again in hypermotion, Brunner mumbling a distant, "Indeed. In theory, it is better."

  Thumb-tap. Models One and Two disappeared from the screen. Three and Four immediately resized themselves, greedily filling the space.

  Number Four played its image out, giving way to another image, which formed itself with a view of a cloud formation far to the west. That formation, shown as small storms, dispersed into a weak trough, then . . . the trough joined a small storm, which merged with a larger which . . . stopped about where Number Three began.

  "My current model," Brunner said, "is Number Three. On screen to the left is the model that pred
icted the current positions within this—" a touch on keypads, a screen tap, an overlay. . . .

  The images were not identical by any means, but on a gross scale storm overlaid storm, calm highs overlaid calm highs.

  "Ah," said the Scout, executing a small bow.

  "My model works from the assumptions my predecessor made initially, modified to reflect my conclusions that we have here in Klamath a planet acting more like a gas planet than a core planet, a planet whose weather is not only driven by surface and near surface conditions but by core convection and other inconvenient energy sources such as groundswell tides and the like."

  "So there might be a paper in this for you? A publication is always good for the career!"

  Brunner shook his head, his attention still mostly on the screen and the predicted, coming storm.

  "I am not so sure," he said to the Scout. "The information may be owned by my employer, after all. If they care to admit that it exists. At the moment the chief is broadcasting my real-time information, but uses the old model for the official predictions he broadcasts."

  The Scout raised his hands, palms up.

  "Chief Thurton values the neutrality of the station high, does he not?"

  Brunner sighed. "Staff is under orders to write a letter of dissent to your involving the mercenary unit in our work. I am to report any actions I perform under your orders or in your name."

  "Yes," said the Scout, who was pacing the long axis of the room almost as if he were at exercise. "You must, of course, follow protocols. My orders to this point amount to you doing your work, making your predictions, and sharing that information with interested parties. My actions are the same; report them as you must. In the meanwhile, you must be aware that your communications with those on the surface may be public."

  Now the scout favored him with a bow of direct instruction.

  "As I understand matters you are from time to time in direct contact with the party carrying your monitor. Continue that association, and share with that group your exact forecasts. You are to make the fullest use possible of the Stubbs unit. Read the manual thoroughly, and forward information as may be required to maintain the unit's performance. Report and forecast the weather accurately. I do not require you to seek out other interested parties to share your predictions with: simply make them, forward them to your party on the ground and to the control room where Chief Thurton must see the information shared."

  He spun, standing ready on the balls of his feet, as if he expected to need to run, or leap—

  "Understand me, Brunner. In so far as you are able, insure the continued performance of the Stubbs unit. That serves the purpose of the organization which hired your company and it serves my needs as Scout-in-Place. As to the needs of the group carrying the unit . . . inform them that I have forbidden landings by unaccredited spacecraft, and that ongoing scheduled unmanned replenishment may go forward. I have broadcast a request planet-wide that civilian populations not be targeted and that I will permit landings on my approval only and by agreement of locally recognized authorities."

  Brunner bowed in receipt, and considered his latest predictions.

  "Then I am to suggest to . . . Corporal Robertson . . . that the Stubbs should be on a protected elevation away from rivers within three Standard days and that wind speeds of up to one fourth the speed of sound are probable?"

  The Scout bowed his assent.

  "You are so instructed."

  * * *

  "Brunner, you guys are life savers!"

  "Please, if you are in a secure location do not leave it! You are only in the eye!"

  A very slight delay and then:

  "Oh boy, aren't we. This has gotta be the best weather we've seen on this place. Feels great. Even smells Okay, kinda like ocean!"

  Yes, of course it smelled like ocean. . . .

  "Redhead, you are not in the center of the eye—this lull is very glancing. Mere moments. Eat something! And I must say it is very dangerous for to move during the storm. Please do not do it again unless threatened . . . You are already. . ."

  But there, he hadn't thought to start a threaded conversation, and the delay was small, so a thread was not really required . . .

  "Are you crazy? I was hunkered right down here the whole time. Haven't moved a bit except to empty water out of my boots!"

  Not moved? But, the instruments were quite clear, and quite accurate!

  "Say again?"

  A sound: footsteps behind him. He waved for quiet.

  "I said I haven't moved!" Redhead repeated. "I felt like I was floating a couple times but there's no water here that didn't drain off! We're tucked in a grain storage ranch with everything made out o' crete! But the rest of your info is right, hey? Been working out for you?"

  Indeed, the rest of the information was useful—treasure beyond price. And her report of floating; the fact that the unit reported it had moved by nearly a meter! That required study.

  "It is excellent," he told her. "You have done well, and I am very pleased!"

  "Good. I'm gonna grab something to eat! Liz says a spotter claims to see a wall o' clouds. Out."

  "Out," said Brunner, but she had already gone. He sighed and turned away from the monitor.

  The Scout stood nearby, smiling.

  "The young Terrans, they are amazing. One can hear the excitement in their voices . . ."

  Brunner frowned. Was it possible that the Scout did not know? "Terrans?" he murmured.

  "Brunner, for this, yes, Terrans. Jack asked me . . . but no matter. Liz vouches for the child as from Surebleak. Liz is from Surebleak. Surebleak is Terran."

  Brunner bowed in acknowledgment, allowing irony to be seen, and turned back to his equipment.

  "Your point, Tech Brunner," the Scout murmured, perhaps amused. "In the meanwhile, it may be well for you to produce both local and regional forecasts, as usual."

  "I have been remiss," Brunner said, without looking around. "In yestermorning's recorded note from our galandaria was this message, which you have perhaps not heard." He touched a key.

  Flat silence except for the sussuration of the room's air moving equipment, then Miri Robertson's steady voice, "Liz ain't too happy about these new landing regs. Says it sounds iffy as all get out. Wants to know if I can pinbeam a voice message outta here to Merc Headquarters if things get tight. Dunno what that might do to the power supply and your info." A slight hesitation, as if she was listening, then: "Liz says relay to the Scout that any merc transport should be passed, no questions."

  Brunner looked at the Scout.

  "I have not answered."

  "I hear this." The Scout sighed.

  "Ah. Well, hear also that the girl holds the master key. When she is bored she reads the manuals."

  The Scout glared—and then laughed, fingers dancing out an unread phrase.

  "Yes, of course! All honor to you. Were I on a strange world which is doing its best to rid itself of humankind, encircled by enemies who are trying to kill me, I would also need light reading. Liz Lizardi hires quality help. I hear this, too, Weatherman."

  * * *

  No matter how engrossing the work, a man must sometimes tend to other necessities. Brunner acknowledged that he was becoming a danger to the data when he caught himself reviewing the same data loop for the fifth time.

  Dragging himself to his quarters, he fell fully dressed into his bunk, plummeting instantly into sleep.

  "Ichliad Brunner! Report to the meteorology lab!"

  The words reached him in the dreamless depths, senseless as stones.

  "Ichliad Brunner to the weather deck, pronto. Ichliad Brunner—-"

  That voice roused him, and he pushed upright, still more asleep than awake. The weather deck . . .Yes, surely! He had told her to call for him by name—

  "Ichliad Brunner to the weather-deck, pronto!" Again came the demand in Jack's big voice; the speaker at his bedside taking up the cry; echoing those in the hall outside his quarters. The door buzzer gave t
ongue, followed by pounding.

  Brunner threw himself across the room, slapped the door open and stepped back as Jack all but fell into the room.

  "You're needed. Sorry to wake you."

  Brunner stared. "What can possibly be worth all this—"

  "Under seal," Jack interrupted. "We'll talk when we're private."

  * * *

  His lab room was hardly private. The planetologist's intern huddled near the real-time monitors, openly weeping. Brunner stopped, horrified. Why had she not been given the privacy such emotion required? He looked 'round to Jack, but that noisy person had stepped over to the aux monitors, toolbelts silent, for a wonder, as if he wished not to be noticed.