Return to Camerein

by Rick Shelley

  “I have the nagging feeling that I missed something important,” Ian said as soon as he and the prince were alone. “Did we really just end the war that quickly?”

  “So it appears,” William replied. “One might be tempted to keep one’s fingers crossed until the agreement is signed and dispatched, or even until word comes back that fighting has indeed been halted on all fronts.”

  “I was prepared for this to carry on for weeks or months.”

  “As was I,” the prince said. “It must be the news we both received. To the best of my knowledge, there are currently only two worlds in the hands of the other side, perhaps only one now, if Spencer’s regiment has completed its work. They had one world of ours and we now have one world of theirs, and the Federation obviously prizes Shepard more than Camerein. Making that demand allows them a way out that their propaganda artists will be able to fully exploit at home, I think.”

  “Speaking of home …” Ian let that stand alone.

  William grinned. “Once we have a signed treaty, even if it is expressed simply as an indefinite truce, our work here is concluded—at least for the present.”

  • • •

  The cease-fire documents were signed at 1720 hours, local time in Dirigent City. Message rockets carrying the news were fired toward Buckingham and Union eight minutes later.

  22

  HMS Avon was drifting. The ship was not within a dozen light-years of any inhabited world. It wasn’t within four light-years of any star. But the ship’s charts and equipment had been equal to determining Avon’s position. Once that was known, the last operable message rocket had been sent to Buckingham, with full particulars of what had happened to the ship and how she had managed to survive.

  After that, there was little for the captain and crew to do but wait. The engineering department was managing to keep the linked Nilssen generators from the MRs that had been used to extricate the ship from Q-space functioning well enough to provide the crew areas of Avon with twenty-two percent of “normal” gravity. That was enough to give people some feeling of weight. The emotional benefit was greater.

  “It staves off the sense that we’re in a helpless hulk just waiting for space to finish the job on us,” Captain Louisa Barlowe had told the chief engineering officer.

  “It’s the best we can do, Captain,” Commander Billingsley had replied. “I might be able to coax another three or four percent from the system, but I would hate to push it that far. We could end up with nothing instead.”

  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, Arch. You’ve already performed miracles. There’s no need to worry because we want a little cream to pour over our strawberries.”

  Barlowe had gone farther in her praise of Archibald Billingsley’s actions. One of the dispatches carried by the MR launched toward Buckingham had contained her recommendation that he be awarded the Second Commonwealth’s highest medal, the King’s Cross. The concluding lines of that recommendation had read, “I do not think that it is possible to overstate Commander Billingsley’s courage, intelligence, and resourcefulness. He saved this ship and her crew. He provided new knowledge that is likely to prove invaluable in the future and which might save the lives of many other crews, and save their ships. A medal would be scant reward. If it were in my power, I would also recommend that he be promoted immediately and knighted.”

  The MR had been dispatched before she could recant the effusive lines and recast her recommendation in the more spartan style that the CSF favored.

  Thirty hours after sending off the MR, there was a reply, an MR sent to intercept Avon‘s course. The important part of the message was news that a tug was being dispatched to bring Avon in. There was also a note signed by both the First Lord of the Admiralty and the Chief of Naval Operations offering a “Well done, exceptionally well done” to all hands.

  Captain Barlowe read both messages to the crew.

  It was another twenty-seven hours before HMS Land’s End rendezvoused with Avon. The spacegoing tug—”utility repair and recovery vessel,” on the Royal Navy’s rolls—was an extremely ungainly-looking ship. Skeletal in appearance, Land’s End was nearly a mobile construction dock. The ship’s control and engineering departments, main drives, Nilssen generators, crew quarters, and workshops were spread along the outside of what was basically the hinge to a C-clamp a mile and three quarters long. The clamp was a series of girders, a framework without sheathing. It could attach the tug to any ship in the CSF’s inventory.

  Like a carnivorous plant, Land’s End allowed Avon to move slowly into position and then closed its clamp around her. Prior to that, there had been an hour of constant communication between the two ships, often on several channels at once. As soon as the docking was complete, with airlocks mated, the skipper of Land’s End crossed to pay his respects to the skipper of Avon.

  “You can’t imagine how happy we are to see you,” Louisa Barlowe told her opposite number. Land’s End was commanded by Captain Morris Freleng.

  “The feeling is mutual,” he assured her. “The skippers of the other two tugs that were in port hate me. They wanted the honor of this mission.”

  “Honor?”

  “You’re a bloody miracle, Captain Barlowe—you, your crew, and this whole bloody ship. You’ve done something that supposedly couldn’t be done.”

  “That’s an honor I could have gone an entire career without,” Louisa said. “Can I offer you tea?”

  “Let me get this operation under way first. I’ll have my people take a look-see and talk with your engineers. I suspect that we’ll simply haul you in as is. We have one replacement Nilssen, but installing that would be a three-day job, and the Admiralty wants you back on Buckingham as quickly as possible.”

  “It would be nice to return under our own steam,” Barlowe said, “but I’m too thrilled to be returning under any conditions to make a fuss. But if we’re going back mated to your ship, can you at least provide us with full gravity?”

  “Aye, we can do that.” Freleng grinned. “Once we get the links complete, it’ll be as if our two ships had become one. Now, there is one favor I would like to ask.”

  “Anything.”

  “I want to meet the engineer who managed this bleeding miracle.”

  Four hours later, the two ships had been intimately linked. Avon once more had full gravity. Her own power plant wasturning out only enough juice to keep life support and ancillary systems on line. Everything else was being provided by Land’s End.

  “You wound up far enough from anything that we can make the return in two easy Q-space transits,” Captain Freleng told Avon’s skipper, who had joined him on his bridge for the first of those transits. “Even with all the fancy work being done now, we remain very cautious towing another ship. If you had ended up much closer to a star, we’d have done three standard jumps, with several hours between Q-space transits, time to perform a full suite of tests to make certain we hadn’t jarred anything loose.”

  “You’ll get no complaints from me,” Barlowe told him. “I’ve taken all the chances I ever want to experience. I’ve a feeling that I’ve used up about all of the luck anyone can expect in a single lifetime.”

  Louisa Barlowe had made thousands of Q-space transits in her naval career. There had only been difficulty on one of those. But she was almost unbearably tense as Land’s End made its first jump with Avon attached. She held her breath. At her sides, her fists were clenched so tightly that her fingernails drew blood from the palms of both hands. The black of normal space was replaced by the pearlescent gray of Q-space. Routine status reports came in. There were no difficulties.

  Each subsequent jump, out or in, was just as harrowing for Captain Barlowe. I’ll never view it the same as before, she thought. When Buckingham appeared on the bridge monitors after the final exit from Q-space, she felt suddenly weak in the knees, as if she might collapse.

  23

  There was no time to pamper the civilians. Moving west after the firefight, David Spe
ncer pushed the pace as hard as he dared through the remainder of the night. Their only hope for safety lay in moving farther and faster than the Federation troops who would be looking for them could believe possible.

  The battle did make the people from the Commonwealth Excelsior quieter, as well as more willing to do whatever the commandos demanded of them. They exerted themselves, taking what little help the Marines could provide. There always seemed to be someone close enough to keep a civilian from falling, to help them through the rough spots, to offer encouragement.

  Twice during the night they heard shuttles passing above. Those were enough to give the group an extra burst of speed. But willingness and fear could only carry the civilians for so long. Stumbles came more frequently. The pace slowed. Clumsy movement made the march noisier. Half an hour before dawn, Spencer finally had to concede more than a five-minute break.

  “We’ll take an hour, if we can,” he told the civilians. “Eat, then get what rest you can. We have to keep going,

  keep pushing for as long as we can stay on our feet, until we hear from the fleet or we get away from the Feddies.”

  “As long as we can stay on our feet” won’t be much longer for some of these people, Prince George thought as he sank to the ground. An hour’s rest won’t give them more than two or three hours on the march, if that. I’m surprised there haven’t been dropouts already. He was certain that he could keep going longer than any of the others from the hotel, perhaps almost as long as any of the Marines. He would not permit himself to give up.

  The prince adjusted his position, keeping his shotgun where he could grab it and bring it into action with one fluid motion if he had to. Only when he was satisfied with that did he pull a meal pouch from his pack and start eating.

  George hated rushing a meal. Dining leisurely was a mark of gentility. It calmed the soul and gave time for reflection. But he had rarely been half as hungry as he was now. He ate steadily, not quite bolting his food. He was also tired, and every minute spent eating was a minute less he would have for sleep—if he could manage any of that. Captain Spencer was certainly not likely to change his mind and delay the resumption of their trek simply because the prince had not yet had enough rest.

  He did not waste time wishing that he had wine to go with his meal. A few mouthfuls of tepid water sufficed, most of them postponed until the food was gone. Then, without ceremony, George lay back, adjusted the position of his shotgun, and shut his eyes. He was asleep almost at once.

  Shadda Lorenqui did not expect to sleep, despite his exhaustion. He went through the motions, lying back and closing his eyes after a meal that had been consumed rapidly. Slumber never came easily to Shadda. The more spent he was, the longer sleep seemed to take—and he could scarcely recall the last time he had been this exhausted. Nor was there privacy. He could not exorcise his personal demons secure in the knowledge that no one else could see his pain. He had to restrain himself, and that alone promised wakefulness.

  The next time the enemy catches us up, they’ll bring in more than enough soldiers to make certain that they can do the job, he thought. I don’t know why they would send in so few the first time. Don’t they have any idea how many of us there are?

  Shadda had some minor experience at fighting, in his youth, but not of the sort he had witnessed the evening before. On his travels he had occasionally worked as a mercenary, never for long, never against trained opposition. He had protected miners—and raided other miners. Keeping body and soul together had often meant tackling whatever work was available. He had never been too particular about what jobs he would accept.

  I suppose it will come back to that if we ever get out of this mess. He sighed, almost silently. There had been times during the last seven years when he had almost managed to forget his history, when he had thought that he might make a career out of what he was doing, even when normalcy returned to Camerein and the rest of mankind’s portion of the galaxy.

  If we get off of Camerein. That seemed infinitely less likely than it had when the first Marines had appeared—as if by magic—in the dining salon of the Commonwealth Excelsior. Then, Shadda had dared to hope that the ordeal was over. But if we do get off, maybe I can hitch a ride to Buckingham. I’ve never been there. There might be opportunities for me yet.

  Marie Caffre slept a deep, dreamless sleep. She had collapsed as soon as Spencer had called the halt—as soon as she saw The Windsor sit—and would have been asleep before Spencer told them how long they were staying if not for her husband. Henri had forced her to eat first, had threatened to force-feed her if she did not eat on her own. He only relented after she had eaten half of a meal pouch.

  “You can finish it after you’ve slept,” he told her, as gently as he could. “Sleep now, while you can.” He finished his meal, watching his wife sink quickly into oblivion. His sleep, when it came, was not nearly as peaceful. Those who were close heard several low moans from Henri Caffre.

  Dead men waded through waist-deep snow. The fires that spewed at them from every direction did not melt the snow or burn the moving carcasses. With each step the cadavers became less opaque, more translucent. Soon, Mai McDonough could see the skeletons inside, and rotting flesh dropping from the bones even though it could not escape the sacks of insubstantial flesh that refused to lose shape. In turn, the seven corpses each downed a bottle of whiskey—including, at last, the bottle. Mai felt her mouth water, then turn desert-dry. The fire in her stomach increased, bringing real pain. She reached out toward the dead men and begged for a drink. The corpses showed no hint that they were aware of her presence. As she slept on her side, a trickle of sweat reached the corner of Mai’s mouth. Her tongue licked at it greedily, trying to take ease from the salty moisture.

  Mai could not explain when the nightmares had started, or why. It might have been two years earlier or six, or anywhere in between. At first, they had been rare, but they had started to invade her nights with increasing regularity. The only way to escape had been to numb her brain, to drink until sleep was a thick porridge, drowning any possibility of dreams. Enforced sobriety had not ended the nightmares. At times it had even permitted them to invade her waking mind. There had been no escape, no escape at all.

  Mai tossed and turned as she slept now, thrashing about on the ground. But even that discomfort did not wake her.

  An hour’s break for the civilians meant a half hour for each of the Marines. They were put on half-and-half watch, fiftypercent sleeping while the rest ate and stayed alert—as alert as they could. Walter Kaelich counted himself lucky that he had been in the first half to get to sleep. Thirty minutes. He thought that he had managed to sleep through twenty-eight of them. But when he was awakened, he remained sluggish. He ate, though he could not have said what he had eaten thirty seconds after he finished. He looked out into the jungle, the double images of his night-vision systems showing nothing out of the ordinary as the morning’s first light struggled to penetrate the forest canopy.

  Walter was far from being perfectly alert. His eyes remained open, but even as he scanned his section of the jungle, he was only a step from sleep, almost in a trance. Like the rest of headquarters squad, he was posted near the civilians, away from the perimeter. If any enemy appeared, others would see or hear them first. Walter reminded himself of that each time he felt a twinge of guilt for not being at his peak. He looked around at each of the sleeping forms he could see, then scanned farther off. He looked up into the nearer trees, moving to keep from falling back into sleep. He stifled yawns. It was more difficult to stay awake than any time he could ever recall.

  Court-martial offense to sleep on duty, he reminded himself. In a combat zone at that, and with his nibs not four feet away. He looked at the sleeping prince. George was snoring softly. Like he hasn’t got a care in the universe. Walter shook his head. The snoring was making him more sleepy than ever. He looked away. He tried to force himself to concentrate on other things, to shut out the soft sounds of sleep.

 
Can’t be much time left on this break, he thought. He had not noticed the time when the captain called the halt. It wasn’t vital; he didn’t need to know. Someone would tell him when it was time to get up and start moving again.

  Kaelich started to drift back into the trancelike state that was not quite sleep. His eyes remained open. He was, in some fashion, aware of what he was seeing. His head even moved from time to time, scanning. But his senses weredulled. He did not notice that the prince’s snoring had stopped, or that George was moving—and moving quite rapidly. Walter wasn’t even aware of the abrasive sounds being made by birds in the forest canopy, almost directly overhead—and he certainly could not have known that those birds were called cachouris.

  Prince George stood, bringing his shotgun up as he did. He pulled the trigger five times, scattering birdshot around the canopy.

  The first gunshot, scarcely a yard behind his head, almost put Walter Kaelich into cardiac arrest—figuratively if not literally. The shock stunned him so completely that he could not move until several more shots had been fired. Finally, Walter turned and lunged at the prince, coming up from his knees and knocking George to the ground, trying to wrestle the shotgun away as he did. Lead Sergeant Naughton was standing over the two of them then, and took the weapon.

  “It’s okay, lad,” Naughton said, putting a hand on Kaelich’s shoulder. “I’ve got the gun. You can get up now.”

  Spencer came running over. Although he had not traveled more than ten yards, he seemed to be out of breath.

  Prince George got to his feet casually, brushing at his clothing as if trying to rid them of a few stray specks of dust. He did not seem at all discomfited. He did not particularly look at any of the others. His gaze seemed to go through them, or around them.

  “What in the world was that all about?” Spencer demanded, beyond thinking of protocol, politeness, or the political faux pas of castigating a member of the royal family. “Are you trying to bring the Feddies down on us?”