by Rick Shelley
“We don’t have ten tries, Arch. We only have one.”
“I know, Captain. Believe me, that hasn’t been out of my mind for a second.”
“I’m going to want to see all of your notes and calculations, Arch, and I’m going to need to have you with me to explain things when I get out of my depth, which will most likely be very quickly. Let’s go to my day cabin.”
Louisa Barlowe lay in her berth, straps at knees and chest holding her in position. She stared at the overhead without seeing it. She has listened to the engineer’s explanations, gone through every equation and note, asked questions at every point, sifting through Billingsley’s complicated explanations with the patience of a barrister. Afterward, she had said that she would let him know as soon as she reached a decision about whether or not to try his jury-rigged Nilssen generator.
I really don’t have much choice, she conceded. Whether I want to or not, I’ll have to go ahead with this … “kludge,” he called it. If we do nothing, the end result is obvious. We’re all dead, but we might take a hundred days or more to do it. There’s absolutely no chance of another ship coming into our piece of Q-space. That’s a physical impossibility. If we’re going to get out, we have to do so on our own. In the opinion of the most qualified officer aboard, this is our best chance, maybe our only chance. If it doesn’t work, and it doesn’t kill us outright, the other alternative, using the last MR to blast out of the bubble, is more likely to kill us than free us.
She saw no alternative, from the start, but that did not stop her from taking six hours to look for other possible solutions, from waiting that long to finalize her decision. When she finally did, she unstrapped herself and returned to the bridge. As soon as she was strapped into her seat at the command console, she said, “Sound ‘Call to Quarters.’ “
Every man and woman aboard HMS Avon was at his or her duty station, waiting. Captain Barlowe spoke to the crew, explaining the ship’s situation and the measures that were being taken to get them out of it. She explained what had been done with the message rockets, and why—as if the rumors had not been flying since the work had begun. While she did not lay out the odds that the chief engineering officer had suggested, she did not try to minimize their plight.
“There is no guarantee,” she said. “We are taking desperate measures because those are all that remain. We do not know if any other ship has ever found itself in similar straits.” Certainly no ship has even come back from a situation like this to tell us how to deal with it. “There is no manual on how to deal with these circumstances. If we win back through, our actions will write that manual. If not … it has been an honor to be your captain. I commend all of you on a job well done.”
Louisa turned off the shipwide broadcast and looked around at the other people on the bridge. Although his normal duty station was nearly two miles aft, Commander Billingsley was present. The controls for the jury-rigged Nilssens had been linked to the navigator’s console. Billingsley stood next to the navigator, his hand over the pair of switches that would—probably—decide the fate of Avon and everyone aboard her.
For a protracted moment, captain and engineer stared at each other. There were questions, but they would not be voiced.
“Navigator, you have the course laid in?” Barlowe asked.
“Aye, Captain, based on what little we know or can guess.”
“If anyone has any last-minute prayers they want to get in, this is the time.” Captain Barlowe said one herself, then looked around the bridge again, her gaze finally coming to the engineer.
“Whenever you’re ready, Commander Billingsley.”
Archibald Billingsley flipped the first switch. In every compartment aboard the ship, the standard announcement sounded: “Prepare for Q-space transition in thirty seconds.” A countdown showed at the top of several monitors on the bridge. The engineer hesitated before depressing the second switch and sliding it forward. He could do that anytime before the expiration of the countdown. The relay would not be completed until the timelines reached zero.
“Quartermaster, prepare to engage both main drives as soon as we emerge from Q-space,” Barlowe said. “On my command.”
Then the final seconds were gone. A muted hum seemed to vibrate through the decks and bulkheads, felt more than heard, higher-pitched than the vibrations that the ship’s own
Nilssens produced when they cycled up for a Q-space transit.
Everyone on the bridge strained with the most intense—and futile—mental efforts, trying to force Avon to exit Q-space by dint of willpower. People leaned forward, as if the addition of some small human momentum might overcome any deficiencies in the jury-rigged generating system. Perhaps the ship itself strained in empathy with her occupants.
The uniform gray of the Q-space bubble seemed to brighten, almost to glow, for just an instant. And then …
The black of normal space appeared on every monitor that showed an outside view.
There was no excited bedlam on the bridge. Someone—no one was ever certain who—said, “Thank God.”
Captain Barlowe took a deep breath, then closed her eyes for an instant, echoing the sentiment. When she opened her eyes again, she said, “Quartermaster, engage main drives. Navigator, I want to know where we are, right now. Engineer … well done, Arch. Now go check on your invention. See if the MR Nilssens have anything left to give. We won’t take a chance of going back through Q-space with them, but if you can coax a little gravity from them, it would be a nice bonus.”
Tears were running down Billingsley’s face. “I’ll see what I can do, Captain.”
Part 4
14
The Dirigenters had no hesitation about showing Ian Shrikes the military establishment that drove their world. He had plenty of invitations to visit, tour, inspect. And Ian found himself with plenty of free time to accept those invitations. Prince William only required Ian’s presence during the formal negotiating sessions, and those took up little enough time—perhaps two hours in the late morning and another two to three hours in the afternoon. Ian considered much of that time wasted. As far as he could see, absolutely no progress was made in the first three days. Neither side budged from its initial position. There was other work going on in addition to the plenary sessions, though. Smaller working groups from the two delegations met—always with the inclusion of Dirigent officials as mediators—attacking each aspect of the overall problem.
“You might as well see whatever our hosts are willing to show you while we’re here, Ian,” Prince William had told him when Ian received an invitation to dine at the senior officers’ mess after the first day. “Cultivate your brother officers. A chance friendship struck now might have unimagined dividends in future.”
That dinner had proven to be a more relaxed affair than Ian had anticipated. The senior officers, majors and above, from all fourteen regiments were the only members of the mess. The food and service were as good as in any deluxe hotel. Away from enlisted men and junior officers, the leaders of the Dirigent Mercenary Corps (DMC) made themselves comfortable. They were off duty. There were cocktails before the meal, wine with it, and a broad assortment of beverages available after the majority of the diners moved to the upper story of the building. That had the appearance of a fine private club—library; bar; snooker, billiards, and pool tables; a small theater; music room.
“Nice digs you have here,” Ian told his escort for the evening, Colonel Joseph Marinetto, commander of 15th Regiment. They were watching a snooker game.
“We think so,” Marinetto said.
“I don’t want to be impolitic,” Ian said, “but there is a question I’ve been dying to ask since we were introduced.”
“Shoot,” Joseph invited.
“You command 15th Regiment, but I understood that the DMC only has fourteen regiments. Am I missing something?”
Just for an instant, the smile faded from Marinetto’s voice, but it returned before he spoke. “There is no 9th Regiment. That’s part of o
ur ancient history.”
“Something you don’t talk about?”
Marinetto shrugged. “We all learn the story in our cadet days, if not long before. The 9th was sent to do a job on a frontier world, and managed to get itself destroyed in circumstances that did not cover the regiment with glory. It was a commission that should not, in retrospect, have been accepted in the first place, and following that mistake, the planning and execution were execrable. A lot of good soldiers paid for mistakes that should never have been made. The regiment was disbanded, with the survivors transferred to other units or released from the corps. That episode is featured strongly in our training courses.”
“I suspect that if my background were military rather than naval, I might know of the engagement already,” Ian said.
“The world was Wellman. I believe that it has since joined your Commonwealth.”
Ian nodded. “I recognize the name, but I can’t claim to know anything about it.”
“I’d have to look it up myself to learn anything of the modern world. Even today it’s not a planet that we’re likely to have dealings with.”
“Some peoples have long memories,” Ian agreed.
“Still, in the long run, I suppose that our disaster on Wellman helped rather than hurt us. It certainly prevented runaway arrogance over our abilities. Our Council of Regiments was much more careful about subsequent commissions.”
“That’s the true test, isn’t it? Being able to learn from one’s mistakes?”
“That’s what we’re told, about our second day as cadets. Come on. Let’s see if we can find some fresh drinks.”
Since that evening, Ian had visited the academy where the DMC trained its officers, observed a field exercise, and met scores of officers—most of whose names escaped him fifteen minutes after the introductions. He had inspected a Dirigent combat shuttle and come away impressed. Dirigentan shuttles were armed, unlike those that the Commonwealth and Federation used, with machine guns, cannon, and rockets. And he had an invitation to visit one of their ships if the opportunity presented itself.
“Those shuttles are something else,” Ian told the prince the evening after he came back from that tour. “It’s really something the Commonwealth should look into.”
William just smiled. Ian was puzzled, and his face showed it. Finally, the prince laughed.
“There are some things that we should not discuss here, even with our privacy insured by our own equipment.” He pointed at the electronic disrupter on a table, a piece of gear supposed to reliably protect against any variety of electronic eavesdropping. “But I have been here before, you might recall.”
• • •
Their fourth morning on Dirigent, Prince William’s first words to Ian, other than “Good morning,” were “If everything goes as scheduled, our friend Spencer should be having his reunion within the next dozen hours or so if I’ve got the time conversions right in my head.”
“I dare say, sir. I had completely lost track of time. Going from one world to another does that to me. I get in one way of thinking about time and forget the rest. I do hope David concluded his business successfully before the reunion. He hates to leave things undone.”
William nodded. “I’ve been thinking a lot on that myself, Ian. Seven years. It’s impossible to tell what seven years can do to people. They can be like strangers.”
“Even family.”
“Yes, indeed. By the way, an MR has come in for us from Buckingham. It should be noonish before we know what’s in it. The Dirigenters had to physically retrieve the MR and carry the message chip in for us to view.”
“Were you expecting anything, sir?”
“No, certainly not this soon. It’s as much a mystery to me as to you. The only clue is that Colonel Tritesse mentioned that a Federation MR arrived in-system less than an hour after ours.”
“Interesting.”
“Quite. It is rather a coincidence. I think we may safely hypothesize that—one way or another—both messages will refer to the same subject.”
That morning’s plenary session was called off at the request of Secretary of State Ramirez. He gave no explanation, but everyone assumed that it was because he wanted to learn what message the Federation MR might be bringing him. Prince William offered no objections to the postponement.
“I’m more than a little curious myself,” he told Ian while they finished a late breakfast. “I would be even if only the one MR had arrived, but with two coming in so close together, from opposite sides”—he smiled as heshook his head—”I am seething with great ferment.” He did not, of course, show that ferment. His demeanor was as relaxed as it normally was.
“If it were just the one, I might think it could be something about David,” Ian suggested.
William shrugged. “That was my first thought as well. Henry might well have decided to notify me as quickly as possible, especially if the news were good. The more so since we might be here for a considerable time. But even if it were not for the synchronicity, I think I would quickly have decided that it has to be something else. It’s far too soon for the other, even for someone with such sterling qualities as David Spencer.”
“Ah, I see what you mean. Then we’re left to merely cast webs of possibility until the chip arrives?”
“If you like, you can take the morning to visit your new friends,” William suggested.
“I couldn’t take it, sir, not this morning. All I’d be doing is thinking about what might be in that MR chip.”
William laughed. “I suppose a game of chess would be no good either, then.”
“I think a few miles of pacing are more in order for me.”
The morning seemed endless. Prince William made a pretense of reading, but did very little. Ian did his pacing, sometimes in the central room of the suite but more often retreating to his bedroom, away from the prince. The two had lunch brought into the suite, though neither had much appetite.
“Do you think it’s too soon to ask how much longer it will be?” Ian asked halfway through the meal.
“It will be too soon right up until the second when it arrives, Ian,” William said. “We mustn’t show our impatience.”
“I haven’t suffered so much waiting for a message chip since I was courting my wife.”
William smiled. “I guess you’re just out of your elementwith no subordinates to put on a show for.”
That calmed Ian for a moment. “I know what you mean, sir. Putting on a stoic persona, laughing in the face of danger, all of that command mystique.”
“Even when everyone knows that that is what you are doing, it has the intended effect,” William said. “Generally,” he amended. “But it shouldn’t be all that much longer, I think.”
Twenty minutes later Colonel Tritesse arrived, carrying a small package. “The message chip from your MR, Your Highness,” Tritesse said when Ian led him in to the prince.
“Thank you so much,” William said, rising slowly from the sofa where he had been sitting. “Ian, if you would take it off of the colonel’s hands?”
Ian accepted the package—the chip was in a small cloth bag with the letters DMC embossed on it—and set it on the end table, as if it were of no particular importance.
“Will the afternoon session begin on schedule?” William asked.
“I’ve not been told any differently, sir,” the colonel said. “If there are any changes, I’ll make certain that you learn of them immediately.”
“Ah, thank you, Colonel.”
“Will there be anything else?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment, Colonel. We’ll see you when it’s time to leave for the session?”
“Of course, sir.”
Ian showed Tritesse to the door. They said farewells there. Prince William did not move from where he had been standing until Ian returned from the door.
“You’ll set up my complink, Ian?”
“Of course, sir.”
There were large complink console
s in every room of the suite, but William and Ian each had portables that they had brought with them. Anything that might be—in any way—sensitive, they reserved for one of those two machines.
“Just form, Ian, and I apologize for the slight,” theprince said before he inserted the message chip in the reader slot, “but until I know what this is about, I suppose you should stand on the other side, where you can’t look at it.”
“Of course, sir. I should have thought of that myself.”
Ian moved away from the prince, with the complink between them. He could not see the screen, but he watched William’s face closely. Almost at once, Ian could tell that the chip had come programmed with the highest level of security. After the prince entered a passcode, he was asked for simultaneous finger- and voiceprints; then he had to enter a second passcode after his identify was confirmed. Prince William leaned close to the monitor. Then, after only a few seconds of reading, he leaned back and laughed.
“Come on around, Ian. There’s only the one classified message, and you might as well read it for yourself. The rest is routine blather for everyone.”
Ian moved around so that he could look over the prince’s shoulder. The message was very short.
“4TH & 7TH MARINE REGIMENTS REPORT COMPLETE SUCCESS”
“All the expense and bother of an MR for that?” Ian asked.
“And the other things, but this is the important information. It might well affect our work here.”
“I can tell that it refers to a victory of some sort, sir, but I wasn’t aware of what those units were doing.”
“There’s no time for a full accounting of their orders, Ian, and this isn’t the time or place for a discussion of that nature in any case.” While he was talking, he took out a pen and a scrap of paper and wrote one word—SHEPARD—and underlined it twice. William grinned when he saw Ian’s mouth drop open.