One of the human servants held up a mirror of polished ice. Fortin checked the set of his saucer hat, adjusted the brim slightly, and stepped into the discontinuity around which the central hall of his palace was built.
On the other side of this twig of the Matrix lay a swamp shadowed by giant ferns in the plane which his ancestors—
—his mother's ancestors—
—inhabited. This time, however, Fortin's destination was not so much a part of the Matrix as apart from it. For a moment, Fortin heard the boom of something in a warm pool swelling its throat in a mating call, while his eyes were still locked with those of his servant, impassive until the Master was well and truly gone.
Fortin let his mind step sideways . . .
And his feet were on solid ground, beneath the sullen sky of Ruby. A company of soldiers in battledress stood at attention before Fortin. The guns of a dozen huge armored vehicles were trained on him without even a vague attempt to be discreet about their caution.
A communications specialist stood beside the officer in command of the drawn-up company. The officer keyed the handset flexed to the com-spec's radio and said, "This is Bonecrack Three. The Inspector General has arrived. Out."
The officer stepped forward and saluted Fortin sharply. "Sir!" he said. "I'm Major Brenehan, in charge of your escort. We're very glad to have you with us again."
Fortin responded a deliberately languid salute which he knew would infuriate Brenehan—infuriate anyone in Ruby, with its total dedication to precision and lethal efficiency. He wanted their help, but he couldn't keep from insulting them. It made him hate himself—
But then, Fortin hated himself anyway, most of the time. At least most of the time.
He smiled at Brenehan, flicked a non-existent bit of dust from the breast of his uniform, and said, "Very good, Major. I wish to confer with the High Council at their earliest convenience."
"Yes sir," said Brenehan. "At once, sir."
The major took the handset again and began speaking a series of codewords into it. The infantrymen remained at attention.
The tanks continued to point their main guns at the spot where Fortin had appeared, and where he continued to stand.
There was a pause in the radio conversation.
"You're very security conscious," Fortin said with a smile.
Brenehan looked as if the visitor had commented on the fact that they didn't smear their faces with pigshit. "Yes sir," he said guardedly. "We are. Of course."
The radio chattered to Brenehan. He replied in a series of precise monosyllables, his eyes on Fortin. Finally he nodded and returned the handset to the com-spec.
"Very good, sir," the major said. "If you'll come with me, we'll take you to the meeting site."
The infantry fell out of formation in response to an order Fortin didn't notice. Brenehan nodded toward an armored personnel carrier grounded behind the troops, then began striding to the vehicle without looking around to see if the visitor were following.
"What if I wanted to meet the Council at General Headquarters?" Fortin asked, speaking louder in order to be heard over the rising note of the APC's lift engines.
"I don't think that will be necessary, sir," Major Brenehan said.
He offered Fortin the jumpseat near the door, where the commanding officer usually sat. A platoon of infantry piled aboard the vehicle behind them. The remainder of the company loaded onto the other three APCs. They took off with a roar of fans even as the last trooper slammed the door behind her.
There was a joystick attached to the seat. Fortin gripped it and toggled the switch that should give him a full holographic display—where they were, where they were going, and maps of any other region of Ruby he chose to view.
Nothing happened. Very security conscious, even with the Inspector General. . . .
"But if I did want to visit General Headquarters?" Fortin pressed, knowing that it was his self-destructive impulse working again.
"You'd have to take that up with the Council itself, sir," said Brenehan. He stood beside the seat which would normally have been his, bracing himself against the armored ceiling as the vehicle pitched and bucked. The soldiers facing outward in a double line were robotically impassive as they checked and rechecked their weapons and other gear.
Fortin smiled at him. "I'm impressed by the way you always pick up my arrival," he said.
"Well, sir," Major Brenehan replied with a smile of satisfaction, "any disruption to Ruby is a potential threat. And even you, sir, if you'll pardon my saying so . . . are a disruption."
The flight to the rendezvous point took twenty minutes, but Fortin suspected that part of the time was spent in direction changes which only security required. The instant the car touched down, its sidewalls hinged flat with a bang/bang and the platoon of infantry lunged out with their rifles and multi-discharge energy weapons pointed. The accompanying APCs had also grounded and were disgorging their troops.
They'd landed on a volcanic plain, patterned in grays and greens by lichen. Other troops were already in position, nestled into crevices between the ropes of cold lava. Fortin noted that the waiting troops were equipped with crew-served weapons as well as the lighter hardware which his escort/guard carried.
There was no sign of the Council, just troops.
Fortin rose with dignity and walked toward the other position. Brenehan's men—the Inspector General's men—ported arms and fell in to either side of him. Some of the devices being pointed at Fortin were scanners rather than weapons, peering into the visitor and his equipment to make sure no threat was intended.
There was no question about where the priorities in Ruby lay: the Council was greater than the Inspector General—but Security was greatest of all.
A colonel stood, gestured Fortin within the perimeter, and spoke into a radio like that which followed Brenehan. Then he saluted Fortin and said, "Good to have you with us, sir. It'll be just a moment more."
There was a heavy drumming from the western sky. Another squadron of armored personnel carriers swept in low and fast. Most of the APCs landed in the near distance, but one crossed the perimeter and dropped only meters from where Fortin stood. Its fans blew hot grit across his face and uniform.
A door in the side of the vehicle opened. The uniformed woman within looked like a hatchetfaced leprechaun. "Sir?" she said. "We've brought a mobile command post. If you'd care to join us?"
Fortin stepped inside and met the stares of the five members of the Council who waited in a formal at-ease posture around a central table/display console. The ceiling of the command-post vehicle was twenty centimeters higher than that of a standard APC; even Marshal Czerny, as tall and thin as North himself, bent forward only slightly.
Marshals Czerny, Kerchuk, Tadley—the tiny, sharp-featured woman—Moro, and Stein. They wore the gorgets of their supreme rank, but their camouflaged battledress contrasted with the pearl gray of Fortin's parade uniform.
The arrogance of those in Ruby amused Fortin—and frightened him. If you'd care to join us? after they'd danced him to their tune—and would continue, in one way or another, no matter what the Inspector General said, to do whatever they felt was necessary.
He could order the Council to commit suicide now, in front of him without explanation—and they would obey. But if his orders threatened Ruby, or might threaten Ruby—if the Inspector General absolutely required to be taken to General Headquarters . . . then obedience would be very slow indeed, and all possible administrative means would be taken beforehand to limit the potential damage.
Arrogance, but the arrogance of duty. Nothing came before that: not life, and certainly not the Inspector General. The folk of Ruby believed with a frightening intensity, while their visitor believed in no one, in nothing, except perhaps in his own godlike cleverness.
"Sit down, comrades," Fortin said, gesturing his hosts to the seats around the display but continuing to stand himself. "I have a technical problem for you."
He smiled with chill humor. "I think you might find it amusing."
Czerny nodded sharply, part agreement, part prodding.
"Let us postulate for the moment," Fortin continued, "that Ruby is a segment of phased spacetime in a larger universe—"
"Yes, yes," Stein murmured. "We accept that."
"—but that you are balanced within the matrix of that universe with a precisely opposite bubble universe."
Moro's chubby fingers were gliding across his keypad. The air before him quivered with a holographic display, intelligible only from the aspect of the intended user's eyes. "Balanced in what sense, sir?" he asked/demanded briskly.
"In every sense, Marshal Moro," Fortin replied.
"Our military equals, then?" Tadley said.
"Quite the contrary," said Fortin, reveling in the glow of interest replacing caution in the eyes of those watching him. "Your opposites in the arts of war. Your perfect balance."
A gust of wind traced across the lava flats, curling fiercely enough to make the vehicle tremble. Wisps of air with a sulphurous tang crept through the vehicle's climate control.
"So . . . ," said Moro, his fingers still, then dancing again. "So. . . ."
"If such a target existed," said Fortin, "how would you go about attacking it?" He smiled again.
"A number of the possibilities which occur to me now . . . ," said Kerchuk. His voice was rich and cultured in contrast to his scarred, brutal face; he had only one arm.
". . . would involve support for the operation from outside Ruby," he continued. "Are we to postulate that, sir? And if so, what are the param—"
"Under no circumstances are you to postulate outside assistance, Marshal Kerchuk," Fortin said sharply. "This operation is to be planned for execution by resources available within Ruby alone."
"On the face of it," said Moro as he stared at his display rather than the visitor, "an impossible task. The operational unit's first requirement, of course, would seem to be exiting from Ruby—from the universe."
"And even if that problem could be solved—" said Stein.
"It can be solved," interjected Tadley. "A way can be found."
Stein looked at her. "Your confidence does credit to your optimism, Marshal," he said caustically. He raised his eyes to Fortin again. "Even were that problem solved, if we and this postulated target are truly in balance—"
"Then it will flee through general spacetime at precisely the rate at which our operational unit pursues," said Kerchuk with a broken-toothed grin. "An interesting problem indeed."
"There's also the difficulty of locating the target," Stein mused aloud.
"No difficulty at all," Tadley snapped decisively. "If they're really our—other selves, shall we say—then locating us locates them as well."
Even Stein and Moro nodded agreement with that.
"If I may ask, Inspector General . . . ," said Marshal Czerny in a voice like stones rubbing. "What is the purpose of this proposed attack?"
Fortin hesitated a moment. "The total destruction of the objective," he said crisply.
"Yes," said Czerny, licking his lips. "I supposed it might be that."
"This will take study," Tadley said. "We'll refer it to Contingency Planning and see what they come up with."
"I think," said Marshal Czerny, "that the matter will go directly to the Battle Center rather than Contingency. Although we will treat it as contingent unless and until we receive an execution order."
He raised an eyebrow toward Fortin.
Fortin smiled again. "Yes, that will do quite well," he said. "I'll return to see what you have determined."
He paused. "It's necessary to identify all potential threats in order to defend against them, of course," he added.
"Of course," murmured the voices around the display.
All of them were grinning like sharks. All six of them.