Ring of Garamas
by John Rankine
Golden Apple, Wallasey - Science Fiction
Golden Apple, Wallasey
www.goldenapple.u-net.com
Copyright (C)1971 by John Rankine
Chapter One
Fletcher reckoned it was none of his business. Sitting with his back to a plushy red reredos, he watched the developing scene through a long gilt mirror at the closed end of his alcove.
Dog eating dog. Let them get on with it.
He had never liked the Garamasians. Maybe only men like himself, who were actively engaged on a stint with the Galaxy’s peacekeeping force, could see the folly of playing both ends against the middle. For the rest, Garamas was working a very smart operation; keeping out of commitment and running a high level economy at the expense of both sides.
Plumb on the frontiers of I.G.O. space, Garamas was courted by both the Inter Galactic Organization and the Outer Galactic Alliance. So far, its government had refused to come off the fence. I.G.O., respecting the processes of law, used diplomacy and trade as levers to keep her in their sphere of influence. O.G.A. suited the Garamasian national character which leaned to the military-style junta governments of that group. Historically, Garamas belonged with Lados, which although not one of the hard-core O.G.A. planets, had satellite status and binding treaty obligations.
Something was definitely in the wind. O.G.A. could be moving to a definitive trial of strength and Garamas was a natural spring board into I.G.O. space.
Secret police in any culture had a family look; but Fletcher saw the four who had moved quickly into the bistro as prototypes of the genre. Garamasian physical architecture was right for the illusion. They were tall, hitting the two-metre mark, narrow and high shouldered with long arms and legs. Heads balanced symmetrically on short necks, were almost perfect spheres. Eyes, which were lidless, seemed flat set, as though pasted on; black disks of polished obsidian. Head to foot in black, with calf-high, laced boots and yellow arm bands carrying the three intertwined rings of Garamas, they looked like vultures.
Except for the piped music, which was currently set for a sentimental ballad, out of key with events, the whole place had gone quiet. Two policemen had stationed themselves expertly where no one could pass.
The other two were taking it slowly, one on either side of the aisle checking out the clientele.
Fletcher’s own face was set bottom right of the composition like an inset on a scanner. It was a long, Indo-European job, heavily tanned from the last mission, left eyebrow given a quizzical twist by a thin, radiation burn. A hard face, with grey eyes that gave nothing away. His expression did not change, when pneumatic pressure built up against the back of his legs and a long slim hand appeared on the table top beside his own.
There was a quick-spreading pollen cloud of verbena, a muted sigh effort and a Garamasian citizen hauled herself out of the void to take the neighbour seat on his bench.
She was young. Not more than twenty at a guess, though estimates of age for other ethnic groups was liable to surprising error. The female of the Garamasian line was more sympathetic than the male. This one looked like a Raggedy-Ann doll, and was clearly working hard to fight back fear. Her left hand, still clutching the table top, had picked up a small muscular tremble and she covered it with her right to make it behave.
It was a gesture that made more impact on Dag Fletcher than any number of words. At first, he had meant to play it out after the Garamasian pattern of neutrality. But any human being fighting fear needed an ally. He said, “Are they looking for you?”—using the basic speech-tone code which was the lingua franca of the galaxy.
The girl answered obliquely, anxious to save face before a stranger, speaking in English in a husky, vibrant voice. “Do not think that I am afraid for myself. But I know my limitations. If I am taken, I shall be forced to talk. That will involve others. There is only one safe way.”
It was an open confession, that was dangerous enough in itself. But the ongoing action aimed to take the risk element out of it. The move to the end alcove had been made to gain time for a definite purpose. She stretched over, picked a tooth-edge steak knife from the cutlery rack and, without a pause, began to saw at the inside of her left wrist.
Fletcher had a split second to make a decision. A man or, in this case, a women, had a right to decide when the life situation was untenable. It was a choice he was prepared to make for himself. Indeed, every deep space operator, military or civilian, carried an oblivion capsule to make such a choice possible, when circumstance turned sour—a statistical possibility that they learned to live with.
But that was when human endeavour had gone to the limit and was still not enough. Here, there must be a chance for life. He grabbed for the knife and stopped its movement.
The nearest guard was two alcoves away, haranguing a countryman in high-pitched Garamasian.
Fletcher said, “Your name. Quickly. Your name.”
“It is Yola. Please allow me to continue. You do not know what you are doing. Please.”
“I am Fletcher. Commander Fletcher, I.G.O. corvette Terrapin. You are attached to me as interpreter.
Do you understand?”
It was unlikely that anyone on Garamas would know that Terrapin was a burned-out wreck on a cinder heap and that just now, waiting for a new posting, her one-time commander was in a limbo with no official status, until the enquiry court made the formal announcement that his conduct of the engagement had been free from negligence.
“It will not work.”
“It will work.”
Black disk eyes held his for a second, and he saw himself reflected there, in duplicate, as though he was trying to convince himself.
Yola drew down the cuff of her blue and white shirt to hide the raw cut and said heavily, “I do not know why you should try to do this for me. But you do not understand the seriousness. If you fail, you will be implicated and I.G.O. will not help you. This is a neutral country.”
Fletcher stood up and shoved his hat on at a piratical angle. Male-Female relations on Garamas tended to be basic and brutal. Only pressure from I.G.O. had brought a measure of freedom to the women in the main centres. In up country areas, they still tended to be counted with oxen as useful to husbandry.
Following the culture pattern, sure that he was heard by the guard at the nearer door, he said, curtly,
“Hurry Yola, I do not have all day to wait.”
Without checking that he was being followed, he walked straight for the exit.
He was a metre from the guard, before the man moved and could hear the girl’s sandals flip-flopping behind him. He had banked on the impact of a uniform and unfamiliar rank insignia which could mean anything.
Certainly the I.G.O. shore-going rig was impressive, brilliant white, with a sunburst blazon left of centre on the chest and green and gold rank tabs on the epaulettes.
Fletcher leaned on the Garamasian passion for neutrality. They would not go for a showdown with an I.G.O. official without serious reason. In this case, if they were looking for a Garamasian, it was obvious that no amount of disguise would turn him into an Earthman.
Face had to be saved, however. As he stepped aside, the guard shot out an arm to block the way for Yola.
Fletcher was round, in a turn that brought him face to face with the security man. He said harshly, “What is it? What do you want with my interpreter?”
“Do you know this girl?”
Fletcher looked at her as though forced to acknowledge that a convenient piece of equipment had a separate entity and a name, a nice mime, lost to the boards.
“Of course. She has worked with me since my arrival
a week ago. Now we are expected at a conference. Let her pass.”
At the same time, he took the extended arm in a double grip above and below the elbow and returned it to vertical.
Yola, no slouch at seizing an opportunity, went ahead. The door was two metres off. She could have been through. But she stopped and waited.
It saved the day. In the guard’s book, any guilty party would have been out and away. Except for the high-handed action of the Earthman, there was no problem. He said, “I will check with your organization.
I hope, for your sake, it is as you say. You may go.”
Outside, Fletcher called an auto shuttle and dialled for the Space Centre; but it was not until they were in a screened interview room in the Earth Planet Consulate that he spoke again to Yola.
The Garamasienne said, “You were very wise, Commander, all the auto shuttles are tapped. In fact, even to speak near them is to invite an eavesdropper. The monitors run a sampling service, you understand, four times out of five all would be well; but it is never safe. I must thank you for your help and now I will go. There is no longer any danger. If I had been questioned just then it would have been fatal. But now the group has had time to disperse.”
“Not so fast. That guard is going to check through. We have to fix your cover. I can do that; but you must leave your address and registration details for the record. I suppose you don’t want to tell me what it was all about?”
“I regret that I cannot. You must understand that many others are involved. But be sure that I shall report your action. Perhaps it will be possible to repay. Who knows how the wheel of fortune may swing.
Meanwhile, I will do as you say.”
Fletcher pushed over an ivorine memo tablet and Yola scribbled industriously in a round, feminine hand.
But she made no query about the lay out. When the tablet was passed back, Fletcher saw that the detail was meticulously spaced for scanning by a computer. The girl was familiar with sophisticated equipment.
The detail told why. She was a final year student at the Kristinobyl Polytech. One of the few women to penetrate the thicket of higher education.
He said, “Fine. Now I think you should come back here each day for a little time to give the cover a chance. I expect to be on my way soon. But the next two or three days for sure. Ask for me at the desk.”
When she had gone, Fletcher talked to the Earth Consul. Frank Yexby, soured by a ten year stint on Garamas, was critical. “You took a chance, there, Dag. If they’d picked you up for aiding and abetting, I couldn’t have done a thing about it. You’d have been inside for God knows how long. They’re touchy about interference. Do you know how many foreigners they have interned here? It’ll surprise you.
Intelligence reported over ten thousand at the last count. They even have a round dozen ships impounded at this time for minor breaches of the neutrality regulations. Usually they’re cleared in a few weeks, but they’ve had two O.G.A. military units on ice for the last six months. Just to show impartiality. Though my guess on that, is that they don’t mind having two Scotian frigates held here. Once the crews were back on board, they’d be in business. It’s a counterweight to I.G.O. patrol visits. I reckon Varley’s playing a variant of that game with the corvette he left behind.”
“Petrel?”
“That’s the one. Supposed to be held up for spares, but I have doubts. There’s something brewing up here.”
“What’s this girl been doing?”
“God knows. There’s a whole raft of small political groups. Votes for women, more than likely. They get very emotional. Probably there was very little to it, but she’d worked herself into a death before dishonour state. You’re lucky she didn’t chain herself to your leg.”
“It’s serious enough for her to be ready to kill herself.”
“They’re a funny lot. I don’t pretend to understand them. Half the time, you’d swear they hadn’t a human emotion. Then something comes up and a character you’d believed was pig iron all through, turns out as neurotic as a flea. I can tell you, the present government is only in on sufferance. It’s a coalition of moderates, represents a minority overall I would say. Given any external threat and the backwoodsmen would be in at full strength. Then there’d be a resurge of traditional habits. Your friend Yola would be back pulling a plough before you could say universal suffrage.”
“Can’t I.G.O. do anything about it?”
“It suits to let things ride. Garamas is a clearing house for all sorts of information. Too much pressure would give the extremists a lever on a national pride ticket. Don’t worry. Human life has been with us a long time. You have to think in millennia. Not easy for the military mind.”
Dag Fletcher reckoned that he was getting training in it. Making his daily report visit to the I.G.O.
complex, he got the stall he had been given for the last seven days. No posting through and the official report on Terrapin still not published.
That was an odd one. He went back in his mind over the session in Varley’s command cabin on the squadron flagship Europa. There has been no suggestion that it was anything other than an open and shut case. There had been four officers on the board; Admiral P. J. Varley in the chair with Group Commander Frazer, captain of Europa beside him. Then Cameron, Commander of Hawk and Cooper, Commander of Drake both involved in the action. The decision to sacrifice Terrapin had been at squadron level. She had been damaged beyond repair in the engagement. Fletcher and the surviving members of his crew had been brought off by Hawk within minutes of the escalating power pack passing a point of no return.
At the Tribunal, there had been an air of simple formality. They all knew the score. Terrapin had been spearhead in a complex and difficult manoeuvre, for the corvette screen that had intercepted a roving, free-lance cruiser, long a menace on the shipping lanes and brought her to bay, until Europa herself could come up with the final solution.
Ever sensitive to his rating in his own and other people’s estimate, Fletcher had been sure in this case that his handling of the corvette could not have been faulted. Cameron, Commander of Hawk, had said,
“Bloody marvellous, Dag. But I thought you were a goner for a sure thing. We’d never have held the bastard, if you hadn’t gone in close. Varley ought to give you a medal. Which is not to say that you still won’t get a raspberry.”
Well, maybe that was it. Now the detail was blurred and the action cold, he was less sure that he had done all he could to save the ship. A delayed raspberry might be filtering through the channels.
When it came, it took a form that he did not expect. The I.G.O. official pushed over the signal with a social smile, but there was a definite temperature drop in the plushy office.
The form of words was civil enough. “It seems Commander, we are to have the pleasure of your company for some time yet. I am to inform you, if there are any local duties which you can carry out.”
The signal itself was brief enough. “Commander D. Fletcher. Release of findings of tribunal on loss of Terrapin is postponed pending further enquiry. Await posting instructions in Kristinobyl.” It was signed by the Officer Commanding the Rim Task Force of which Varley’s squadron was a part.
What had begun as a prudent exercise to regularize Yola’s cover, was continuing because Fletcher was getting interested in the Garamasian scene. She knew the Kristinobyl that the tourist did not see and it gave him a new slant on the national character.
It was another proof of the basic truth that the longer you could defer judgement, the more likely it was to be accurate. But it also brought in another bit of philosophic lore in that the more sides of a question you see, the less likely you are to form any opinion at all.
Fletcher was used to making snap appraisals of groups that he saw briefly and would not see again. The silvery people of Fingalna were immediately sympathetic, the bulky jingoists of Sabazius were not.
Maybe if he had done a study in depth, he would have found that the latter were way ahead on
soul.
Here, he had been ready to write the planet off, while it caught up with his preconceived notions of a cultured state; but Yola opened his eyes.
Listening to voices and following the cut and thrust of argument, he began to see them as people in their own right and not as an odd variant of what the true flower of homo sapiens should be. Even by Earth standard, the women in Yola’s circle had a certain kinky charm. Hands and feet were very slender and elegant. Hair was jet black, very fine with a shiny liquid flow when they moved. Dress was always plain and severe as a uniform as though they knew they were on sufferance in an all-male reservation; but perfume was an extension of personality. Every last one was her own alchemist, brewing up olfactory harmonies for the noa noa.
Technically, they were abreast of most planets on the Rim. One single feature would give them a niche in the hall of fame. For many years they had been using an unlimited power source which was brilliant in its simplicity.
A continuous land mass girdled the planet on its equatorial line. With incredible labour, a continuous conductor had been built to ring the globe smack on its zero latitude. Planet spin, combined with a daily drift of magnetic field back and forward across the line, generated more energy than could be used in the foreseeable future, at a give-away price.
It was an exercise that had suited the national character. Ant-like labour gangs had toiled through deserts, lakes, mountain ridges and every obstacle that an engineering project ever met.
Ironically, it had broken the government that conceived the plan and forced it through. A backlash reaction from the patient masses that had borne the heat of the day and suffered untold, unrecorded casualties had toppled the junta to put in a short-lived popular front.
This flowering of genius exhausted the tree. No comparable development followed in any field. Except for the paradox of having the cheapest power system in the galaxy Garamas remained three-fifths backward. Social organization trailed badly. It was a feudal system with neon-lit battlements and a power drive on the iron maiden.
John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 01 Page 1