“Wholly hot, as you say. Completed. We can expect visitors anytime at all.”
“Shall I carry on?”
“Do that. And pass the word to all hands that they’ve done well. One other thing.” Fletcher paused and looked out through a direct vision port into the grotesque confusion of the gorge. It was no time to tell men who had sweated their guts out that they had wasted their time.
“Commander?”
“Drop everything at eighteen hundred. Every man to report to the control cabin.”
“Full gear?”
Again Fletcher paused. They might as well go out in full regalia, a working unit, striking a hazard. “Full gear.”
He stopped off at the command cabin and found Ledsham doing a duty stint at the main scanner.
“Nothing moves, Commander. But there’s bad screening. I only get fifty kilometres without the probe.”
“Hold fast on that. It would be seen by more than it would see. As soon as anything crosses into range sound General Stations. Anything at all.”
“Check, Commander.”
He moved slowly towards his cabin. Fifty kilometres. The very fastest atmosphere craft on Garamas would take four minutes to cover that. There was time to get to the command island from any part of the ship, and pull the plug that would bring the walls of the gorge in on Petrel and bury her atomised fabric in an instant crater.
Or should he do it now and be sure? No pilot could fail to identify an Earth rocket ship. Whatever gain there was to be in the enterprise could be lost by a count of seconds.
Xenia met him at the hatch, as he slid it away; hair brushed down straight in an elastic cowl that rested silkily on her shoulders. With a rare flair for improvisation, she had turned a piece of fine steel chain into costume jewellery and having no costume had snapped it on at skin level.
It slanted across her hips with the free end dangling down the right thigh emphasising that pose which had occupied sculptors through the millennia; a pleasing swing of the hip, weight taken on the right foot, left leg bent as if to move. She did not in fact move and Fletcher had to stop or knock her down.
The hatch slid closed behind him; but he was looking into vivid, green eyes, that were not making any effort to seek out motive or probe into his own thoughts. She knew what was scheduled for eighteen hundred and was leaving the action to him.
It was a blank cheque to be filled out for any sum.
She did not move, except to tilt her head back when her breasts were nudging pneumatically against his coveralls. Then her hands travelled up his arms and linked at the back of his neck.
Sophistry told him that with dissolution coming up on the clock, the rule book could hardly apply. Then he faced it honestly. Rule book or not, it was a moment out of a lifetime which stood on its own logic.
Very gently, he put a hand on either side of her head under the warm bell of hair.
She said, “Harree,” neither as a question nor as answer, but as a statement of faith.
Chapter Nine
For centuries, Power Control in Kristinobyl had kept an emergency plan on file. From time to time, it had been taken out and dusted off. Even, on rare occasions, a keen, new administrator had tried out a dummy run. But over the years, solid efficiency of the ring system had come to seem like an immutable law of nature. It was inconceivable that its power could be withdrawn.
Consequently, Pedasun had some difficulty in getting anybody to tell him a plain tale.
He was as guilty as the next man of putting his faith in the public service and found that the security communications net on emergency power could only guarantee a reach of fifty kilometres round Kristinobyl itself.
Troubles, following precedent, did not come singly. A sweating guard mounted the long spiral staircase to the penthouse to tell him that some of his key internees had made a jailbreak and had taken a security shuttle from the pound.
The messenger had been drawn by lot and expected a vindictive counterstrike. He was agreeably surprised, therefore, when his chief did no more than slash the back of an office chair and ask a question on a different tack.
“Is there a long distance car on the pad?”
Relief was so great that he hardly understood and was within a touch of getting the cane across the face.
“Do you hear, you fool? Is there a long-distance car?”
“Oh. Yes. Yes, Excellency.”
“Have it fuelled. Six men and a pilot. Stand by as of now.”
“Certainly, Excellency.”
“Get on with it, then. Move.”
Pedasun walked twice round his room and the exercise seemed to clear his head. Coincidence was out by a sea league. The break had been deliberate. He grabbed up the video and put it down without making a call.
No good. The prisoners still below would have no knowledge of it. No Garamasian would have done it.
Certainly not a Government faction. That would be psychologically impossible. They lived by the power of the ring, its technology was their life’s blood.
Scotians could do it. They would need no motive and could not be trusted to see long-term interest against the present pleasure of devastation. But they were thin on the ground. All accounted for. No. It had to be I.G.O. The strategy of it would fit well enough. Set Garamas a local problem. Reduce her main asset of abundant cheap power to make her less attractive as an O.G.A. base. Even without knowledge of the right wing coup.
Where did that put himself? Not so differently. They had miscalculated. The only loser would be the liberal government. They would figure in the public mind as too feeble to maintain order. The average man would turn to Hablon’s party. National pride would look for a scapegoat and also want to see a political leader who could repair the damage.
Hablon should come in now and take over at the height of the confusion. It was a message that nobody else could take. He would go himself and be seen from the beginning as one of the leaders of the movement.
But first there was a local piece of business. He picked up the video once more and called the I.G.O.
Consulate with a personal request for Commissar Duvorac.
There was some satisfaction in seeing the Venusian under strain. Duvorac’s emergency power supply was not as flexible as the city main and his elaborate life maintenance systems had been thrown out of kilter.
Eyes half-closed, face grey as ash, he said wheezily, “What can I do for you, Colonel?”
In so far as he appeared to be moving well in that direction, there was no advantage in saying “Drop dead”—so Pedasun got to the point. “You have already done a great deal. This sabotage of the ring will not advance your cause. Be sure the people of Garamas will be told whom they have to thank. By breaking the non-intervention status of a consulate, you have torn up any claim to diplomatic immunity.
You may or may not know it, but I have a military ship positioned above Kristinobyl. It will depend on your actions whether or not a selective strike is made on the I.G.O. complex. We have every right to take retributive action.”
If he expected Duvorac’s heavy face to mirror guilt, he was disappointed. There was no visible change, as the Venusian said, “You assume too much. Before you do anything so foolish, think what you would say to the task force that would surely bring you to account. Do not think either that O.G.A. would be easy partners. They want Garamas for their purposes, not yours.”
“How does that differ from I.G.O.?”
“To a man who does not see the difference, explanations would be useless. What else do you have to say?”
“Only this. Until you have clearance from me, all I.G.O. personnel are confined to the perimeter of your complex. No signals outside Garamas are permitted. Breach of either of these orders will be regarded as a hostile act.”
“How long is this veto to operate?”
“In the first instance for one week. Then it will be reviewed.”
“Has the President been informed of this?”
“Commissar, let
us not be naive. Before the week is out there will be a new government and that government will negotiate with you.”
Pedasun picked up his peaked cap and stick, fished in a closet behind his desk and came out with a heavy service belt that held a blaster and a pouch of fuel clips.
When he was ready to go, he called in his adjutant and spent ten minutes on detailed instructions for the on going scene in Kristinobyl. He finished with, “I am going to Velchanos. Accept no orders from anyone except me, or General Hablon in person. Is that understood?”
“Certainly, Excellency.”
“Garamas for Garamas.”
“Ring of Conquest.”
First in Petrel’s command cabin, Dag Fletcher took his seat on the command island and looked bleakly round the familiar set. Many ships, many actions and they had all brought him to this point in time. The sky had been good for flying.
Xenia, anonymous in a bulky suit, clipped herself in at the communications desk, but used E.S.P. to speak directly into his head. “What weell you tell them, Harree?”
Physical contact had finally put him on her wavelength and he could say through the same medium, “The truth.”
“There ees truth between us.”
“Yes. Of a different kind.”
“There ees only one kind of truth.”
Cotgrave came in, followed by Engels. Hocker, Ledsham and Johnson came in as a group. Bennett and Sluman were the last of the crew. A week ago, he had not known they existed, now they were people looking out at the world from an individual point of view as he did himself.
The marines settled in and Carrick called through from his post on the first step, “All set Commander.
Listening.”
It was seventeen fifty-five. Fletcher flipped on the log for the last record he would make and needed no one to tell him it was a waste of time.
But it was usage. And only usage would get him through what he had to do. Run it as a standard count down with oblivion as the pay-off.
He said harshly on the general net, “Commander to all hands. I don’t have to tell you the state of the ship.
You’ve done everything a crew could do, to put her in operational trim; but we can’t make the deadline.
Ordinarily, I’d take a chance, there’s the slimmest possible hope that we’d clear the gorge, before she began to break up. But this isn’t an ordinary mission. More hinges on this than you know. There’s no margin for error.”
Fletcher shifted the small command island in a slow sweep, so that he faced every executive desk in turn.
“If we miss the scheduled time, we cannot avoid being seen by some searching craft. If we wreck Petrel the effect is the same, she will be identified. I don’t have to tell you what the Garamasian government would make of that. Or what O.G.A. would make of it. It must never be known that an I.G.O. military craft carried out this act of sabotage. Orders are clear and inescapable. I am charged to disintegrate the ship.”
There was no sound on the net. The command cabin had gone still. Each man in his capsule digested the edict according to his nature.
Having lived with it for twenty-four hours, Fletcher recognized he had an unfair advantage. On the other hand, it was a daily condition of service. Every mission was an act of faith in a million components that could fail at any time. Every planetfall was a bonus and a flouting of all statistical probability.
Cotgrave said, “How long have we got?”
“No time, I’ll run it as a countdown from eighteen hundred.”
“Some personnel could get clear.”
“In fifteen minutes, the heat would get them. Then identification would follow. Not possible, Captain.”
Hocker began to swear in a monotonous stream as though he did not realize that he was speaking aloud.
Cotgrave said sharply, “Hold fast on that Power Two. Has anyone any useful contribution to make?”
Fletcher said evenly, “Thank you. I record formally that all hands have carried out their duty in exemplary fashion. Count down as of now.”
He selected a small key from the array on his console and shoved it over. A panel slid clear in the desk top and a set of micro switchgear extruded itself on a spring-loaded platform.
The controls duplicated in miniature the standard items already in view. Operation was parallel, but using this set, the reactor was overfed and turned itself into a runaway pile.
As the sweep second hand of the chronometer above the main scanner homed on eighteen hundred, he pushed in the activator. Muted bleeps on orchestral A sounded out every fifth second.
Hocker, overloud, so that his voice vibrated round every visor asked, bitterly, “How do you pin a gong on ectoplasm.”
Fletched emptied his mind. All the fragments of present time had imploded into this one. And there was no use to be made of it. Only to endure, without movement, for the short time it would be. Stillness to merge into stillness. It was not heroic. It was not anything.
Xenia was there with him, another silent, accepting mind, moulded from an alien substance, but basically the same. All conscious life had the same qualities. That was a truth he was late arriving at and could not be filed for future reference.
A voice on the net was irritating him. Why couldn’t they take it in silence?
Ledsham was saying urgently, “Commander, I have a message. Very faint. I.G.O. call sign. From Kristinobyl. Calling Petrel.”
For a nanosecond, he wanted to ignore it Another count of five and the procedure would be over the top and irreversible. But habit died hard. While it was still in one piece, his ship had to answer on the command link. He moved deliberately and broke the auto chain.
When it was done, he found he was sweating with relief and had to steady his voice before he could speak.
“Print out.”
Every head turned to the main scanner and Ledsham presented the text as a running strip, a caption to a still picture of the darkening desert.
“I.G.O. corvette Petrel. Suspend action. Await new orders. Acknowledge.”
“I.G.O. corvette Petrel. Suspend action. Await new orders. Acknowledge.”
It was starting its third repeat before the full meaning had gone home. Fletcher said, “Answer that, Communications One. Brief as you can. Tell them we’re standing by.”
On the general net, he said, “There may still be a use for Petrel. But she must be ready to go. Captain Cotgrave, all hands on the repair detail.”
Fletcher received the call three hours later. Suspended in hot darkness above the tripod jacks and nudging a new cladding plate, a centimetre at a time, towards its niche, he found Xenia projected in his head like a pearlescent statuette and was inclined to be irritated.
Her voice, not using the communications net got as far as “Harree,” before he snapped back, “Not now, Xenia. Save it.”
“There’s a long message. Ledsham has eet een the decoder.”
Ledsham’s voice took over on the mechanical link, “Commander, instructions from I.G.O. consulate.”
“Hold it. I’ll come aboard.”
Printed out on an official blank, it was Duvorac’s swan song. “No further transmission is possible.
Screens are being sited round the I.G.O. complex. Government has collapsed. Military Junta known to be ready at Velchanos. Leaders will leave there at first light to bring military forces into Kristinobyl. Use Petrel to search out H.Q. and present I.G.O. veto, without delay. Threaten instant destruction. Believed to be sited in farm commune at 039716. Scotian frigate Alope in parking orbit over Kristinobyl. Ongoing action at your discretion. I.G.O. authority vested in you. Good luck. Out.”
Ledsham said, “It was very faint, Commander. Local jamming on. But that’s the text.”
Thinking aloud, Fletcher said, “It’s not on. We can’t move her before dawn. Not even then, the way things are going. We’ve handed it to them on a plate.”
Visor hinged back, face grey with strain, Cotgrave hauled himself through the hatch and stood l
eaning against the bulkhead. Xenia looked from one to the other, seemingly out of programme.
It was up to him at every level and he was tired of making decisions. Now Duvorac had given him carte blance. The signal he was holding cleared him of all previous commitments. Petrel would not be ready in time. He could hang on, repair her, then blast off to hell out of it. Rejoin the squadron and report the situation. Varley might belly-ache; but he could not go beyond the Commissar’s writ. If that was the action which seemed to him best, he was entitled to take it. The situation on Garamas had developed differently from what had been expected. O.G.A. were in, it could not matter whether Petrel was identified or not.
But it did matter. It would matter to him for the rest of his life. There had to be something he could do.
How long in the car to Velchanos? Seven hours, pulling out all the stops? Make it just before dawn.
Delay them, one way or another, until Petrel could be brought up with armament that could devastate a province?
Xenia had been keeping out of his head and beamed in with the equivalent of hand clapping and timbrel beating. “That’s eet, Harree. I was begeening to theenk I deed not know you at all. I weell come. I know thees place. We weell throw an ultomato een their works.”
Aloud Fletcher said, “That should make anybody think twice. I’ll take Carrick, Hocker, one marine—Adams. Travelling light we might just do it.”
Cotgrave said, “Sorry, Commander, have I missed something? What have you in mind?”
“Break out the car. I’m going to Velchanos. Bring Petrel along as soon as she can move. Low trajectory, there’s a Scotian up over Kristinobyl. Drop on this reference. If I’m not there, take off and rejoin the squadron. Those are your orders.”
Xenia on the E.S.P. link was fighting for feminists everywhere. “You are aiming to leave me behind. You cannot do that. I am not a domesteec cow to be left in the laager weeth the non-combatants. I have thees feeling. You weel need me on thees enterprise. Beside, I can guide you. Eet ees too eemportant for personal judgements. I promeese I weel not eenterfere.”
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