by David Drake
"As a matter of fact, I understand that all five of your Group Line Chiefs are supposed to join you." The Bunter set the clothes at the end of Fayrborn's bed. "But no one from the Semper Rigel. This isn't for their ears."
"That's peculiar," said Fayrborn as he lunged out of bed. He hated having his sleep interrupted; knowing that a messenger from the Hub was waiting made the whole thing less pleasant. And the more he thought about it, the less he liked the covert sense of the circumstances. "Why didn't they just zap the orders scrambled? One of the Group Line Chiefs could have handled them. Why send them hand-carried?"
"I don't know, sir," said his Bunter. "Perhaps it would be better to ask the messenger." It had a shower ready as Fayrborn stumbled toward the bathroom. "Don't take too long, sir," it recommended as it adjusted to the temperature Fayrborn preferred.
Fayrborn got in, letting the water wash over him. Sperking zamlots, he was tired. Worn out. More than that: he had run out of nerve, which he dared not admit to anyone. He made himself stand at attention in the warm water. He had no excuse to feel this way, only thirty-six years old, second-to-top in his Academy graduating class, and a native of Victoria Station, at that. He had no excuse for feeling like an exhausted old man—an exhausted frightened old man. He was a man who deserved adulation and respect. He was entitled to it. He reached for the soap and began vigorously to lather his chest, trying to infuse himself with renewed purpose and animation. When he finished his shower he was as tired as when he began. It was all he could do not to slight the messenger and go back to bed once again. It was maddening, having Kleesticks outlawed: he could use one about now, to soothe his nerves and help him concentrate. Thirty years ago everyone used Kleesticks, but no longer. It wasn't fair. And his own cache of them was depleted. He stepped out to the ministrations of his Bunter, grateful to the machine for its disinterested care.
Ten minutes later he strode into the conference room and found four of his five Group Line Chiefs waiting: Emmelien Goriz (Hartzheim) of the Reiwald, Hsuin Xanitan (Xiaoqing) of the Suidotal, Pahnahmah Praechee (Punaraj) of the Sakibuckt, and Apanali (Kousrau) of the Ikemoos. Only Leatris Sventur (Lontano) of the Daichirucken was missing, which was unlike her.
"Good morning," he said testily to the four, and received their disgruntled responses. "Sorry to get you up."
"You didn't do it," said Group Line Chief Hsuin, not bothering to cover his yawn. "That messenger did."
Group Line Chief Goriz nodded as she fussed with the horse-head tag on her collar. She was awake but she was grumpy. "And it doesn't help to blame him. He's a flunky. The Fleet Commodore sent him."
Before Line Commander Fayrborn could think of anything to say, the inner door slid open and Group Line Chief Leatris Sventur came into the room in the company of the messenger.
She looked around, pale and a trifle dazed. "Sorry. The news is about Lontano. Some of it concerns . . . my family." In the chain of command within the group, she was third from Line Commander Fayrborn, coming after Apanali and Goriz. She was also the youngest of the Group Line Chiefs—twenty-nine—by five years, a bronze-blonde woman with intense light-brown eyes, a lithe body and a relentless mind. She had finished fourth in her Academy class only because she constantly debated with her instructors; if she had been more deferential she would have been first.
The messenger looked troubled as he went toward the head of the conference table. "Line Commander Fayrborn?" he asked, offering a proper salute. "I'm Group Leader Gernold Willister, of Hub Command, Petit Division."
"Yes; good morning Group Leader Willister," he said, returning the salute lackadaisically; he barely noticed his Group Line Chiefs. "What's this all about?"
"A problem," said Group Leader Willister, formal and awkward. "On Lontano. It concerns the entire Magnicate Alliance, or so the Twelve have decided. The Emerging Planet Fairness Court alerted us to the . . . developments. They've given us permission for limited response."
"Oh, pog it," said Line Commander Fayrborn. "The Emerging Planet Fairness Court. What do they want?"
"The Uth-Mah-Dzern reported the possibility of invasion of Lontano to the Cyi and the Mromrosio just six days ago. They, in turn, reported it to us and the rest of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court. Your ships' Mromrosii will be notified by morning." Group Leader Willister stood at attention though Line Commander Fayrborn dropped into one of the chairs.
"I can't stand those Uth-Mah-Dzern," he muttered. "Say what you want, any species that looks like huge robot three-headed lobsters with built-on extra arms—"
"Line Commander," said Group Line Chief Sventur, cutting off his complaint.
Line Commander Fayrborn shrugged but made no argument. "All right. Carry on, Group Leader."
"There was an . . . incursion on Lontano. It is thought that the source of the problem could be the Basatan'gal. There isn't enough information yet. They—the Basatan'gal—have not agreed to any lasting treaty with any of the space-going species and the Emerging Planet Fairness Court has put them on notice that they are suspected in this action. The EPFC have not yet issued a general warning, but they are prepared to take action against the Basatan'gal if they continue their aggression, if that is what has happened here, as well as granting their support of the Magnicate Alliance making a response to the aggression. A part of your function on Lontano will be to confirm if the Basatan'gal participation is true."
"When you say action, what do you mean?" asked Line Commander Fayrborn, disliking the sound of the word.
"A partial invasion of Lontano or so we assume, in maneuvers designed to take advantage of the Colony's remoteness, and to sever access to the J'zmallir Trade Routes before other Magnicate Alliance planets are brought into them: that is the working supposition." Group Leader Willister glanced uneasily at Group Line Chief Sventur. "Some areas were very hard hit."
Group Line Chief Sventur drew a shaky breath. "They haven't totaled up the dead yet. Graves's Registration won't be able to get in for another ten days."
"Why is that?" asked Group Line Chief Apanali.
"The Ounou+iu have stated that they wish to conduct their investigation first. As members of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court, they're entitled to such." Which was The Hub's way of admitting that they had to cooperate with the Emerging Planet Fairness Court, like it or not.
"It's on the edge of Ounou+iu territory," said Group Line Chief Sventur, seeing two of the Group Line Chiefs bristle. "They monitor Lontano from time to time."
"How can you stand it?" Line Commander Fayrborn asked. "It's all I can do to endure our Mromrosii, and they're amusing. It's hard to dislike something that looks like an over-grown child's toy. The Ounou+iu, though—they're like big soft sacks with articulated rods sticking out."
"They've been very helpful," said Group Line Chief Sventur, flicking a look of annoyance at Line Commander Fayrborn. "Lontano wouldn't have been able to make it through the first century of Colonization without their help. I like the Ounou+iu. And I think they look like enormous, floppy-eared, inverted bagpipes, myself."
"So what does the Fleet Commodore want with us, and why not just zap us our orders?" inquired Line Commander Fayrborn of Group Leader Willister, unwilling to discuss the aliens any longer. "Why send you?"
"Because they are not to be seen by anyone but you and your officers," said Group Leader Willister, assuming his most official manner. "They are classified as Most Secret, and are cross-coded to your Most Secret cranial implants. Not even your Protocol Officers can read them."
"In other words, we're doing something the Emerging Planet Fairness Court as a whole or one of its six member species might not approve of," said Group Line Chief Praechee. "The Hub has plans of its own. But what about our Mromrosii? They're members of the EPFC, and they travel with us. They'll have to know what we're doing."
"I don't know anything about that," said Group Leader Willister. "I only know what I'm supposed to tell you and the written information I must hand to you for decoding by your cranial impl
ants, along with getting your confirmation of orders received. The ship will keep a register of the cranial implant activation and I'll require signatures and thumb-prints as well as voice register from all of you."
"So they'll know who to Court-martial," said Group Line Chief Hsiun. "Sounds good to me."
"Hsuin," said Line Commander Fayrborn, making it a rebuke.
"The Fleet Commodore wants you to know that the Grand Harriers have already been dispatched—"
This unwelcome information brought a groan of disapproval from the Group Line Chiefs; Goriz went so far as to make a disapproving face.
"What have they got to do with it?" complained Line Commander Fayrborn.
"They've been dispatched to monitor the situation. With alien races involved, it's necessary to have our diplomats ready to negotiate, and they require proper escorts, considering that Lontano is being classified as a conflict zone." With that preparation, Group Leader Willister activated the recorder. "This is an official procedure. File all responses and preserve here at the Semper Rigel or with the Semper Spica, if she's nearer, and dispatch zap copies to Fleet Commodore Grizmai at The Hub. No other files are to be kept of this discussion."
The recorder dutifully repeated the instructions and exposed finger-and voice-print monitors, saying, "Ready to record this official procedure. Cranial implant recognition registered."
Line Commander Fayrborn stared at the monitors. "Do we have to do it this way? Won't signatures be enough?"
"Not according to my orders," said Group Leader Willister. "Full cognizance records are required. Sorry." He took his stance at the end of the table. "Under the oath of Petit Harriers, you swear to keep secret the details and purpose of your mission, to reveal to no one but the Fleet Commander or his officially delegated deputy the action taken in accordance with the orders you are about to receive, subject to the full penalties for cowardice in the face of the enemy and/or treason."
"So swear," said each of the Group Line Chiefs, placing their hands on the monitors.
"So swear under duress," said Line Commander Fayrborn.
Group Leader Willister ignored this last. "You further swear that you will make no record of the action you take, nor will you report it to anyone except the Fleet Commodore or his officially delegated deputy for any purpose whatsoever for a period of not less than fifty Earth Standard years following the conclusion of the action, and that if any such report is made, you do so under the penalties already stipulated."
"So swear," the Group Line Chiefs repeated, hands still on the monitors.
"So swear under duress," said Line Commander Fayrborn.
This time Group Leader Willister looked disgusted but continued with his assignment. "I may now reveal the orders of the Fleet Commodore." He removed a platen from the front of his uniform and opened it, drawing out several copies of the document he carried. "Each of you must read this, and sign the copy provided you. I have to carry these back to the Fleet Commodore."
As each Group Line Chief was handed a copy of their orders, he or she began to read through the pages, their expressions grave, no one speaking.
"What does this mean—'In the event of discrepancies of purpose with other Magnicate Alliance authorities, these orders will be regarded as having precedence.' " Line Commander Fayrborn pointed out the relevant paragraph. Oh, Soko, for a Kleestick.
"I think it is sufficiently clear," said Group Leader Willister.
"It means that we might have trouble with the Emerging Planet Fairness Court," suggested Group Line Chief Apanali.
"You mean we might have trouble with the Grands, not the Emerging Planet Fairness Court," said Group Line Chief Goriz. "The EPFC isn't going to fault us if we make honest mistakes. The Grands will. They're the ones we have to watch out for."
"Aren't you being cynical?" asked Group Line Chief Praechee.
"Realistic," corrected Group line Chief Goriz, her features showing no sign of humor.
"Cut it out," said Group Line Chief Sventur. "Let's save that for later."
"Sorry," said Group Line Chief Hsuin. "Lontano's your home. It makes a difference." He finished his copy and set it aside, regarding Group Leader Willister patiently. "As I read this, we're being ordered to become a secret force for the Fleet Commodore. Which may or may not mean The Twelve. He doesn't have to tell us why we're doing this, just that we have to keep Lontano out of alien hands without getting into a war with the Basatan'gal. That about covers it." He looked over at Line Commander Fayrborn. "Did I miss anything?"
"I don't think so," said Line Commander Fayrborn, who had not finished reading the pages yet. "We're expected to protect Lontano, but not escalate the conflict." He set the pages aside. "Signatures." He took out his stylus and fixed his sigil at the top of each page, watching as the others did the same.
"Very good," said Group Leader Willister, his youthful face not yet well enough schooled to keep from revealing his thoughts. In this instance he was smug. "The Fleet Commodore will be grateful."
"If we win and live to report it only to him," said Group Line Chief Goriz.
"For fifty years," added Group Line Chief Hsuin.
"What if something goes wrong?" asked Group Line Chief Sventur. When there was silence, she prodded the young Group Leader. "What happens then?"
"I don't understand," said Group Leader Willister, pausing in returning the documents to the platen.
"What if we can't do what we're ordered to do. How do we reach the Fleet Commodore for new instructions?" She waited politely as the Group Leader pondered her question. "We can't just zap him and expect an answer, not with these orders. There is no one assigned for alternate authority in these orders. So how are we supposed to protect ourselves if things go wrong? It's possible they will go wrong, you realize."
"That's covered, isn't it?" Group Leader Willister asked after a short silence.
"Not what to do if we need new orders," Group Line Chief Sventur persisted. "If we act without being in accord with the orders, then we're going against our oaths. But there may be unforeseen hazards. We need some way to reach the Fleet Commodore, or his official deputy."
Group Leader Willister shook his head slowly. "That isn't possible." He fixed the platen to his chest once more. "Follow your orders. They cover the situation." He came to attention; the others stood.
"I want to register one official question," said Group Line Chief Sventur.
"For pogging sake, Sventur—" Line Commander Fayrborn began.
"Just one. If you'll be good enough to record it?" she said to Group Leader Willister, and waited while he activated the monitors once more. "If we're forced to take actions not covered in our orders, who will be responsible for the outcome?'
"That's a poggermox question, Sventur," muttered Line Commander Fayrborn, annoyed.
"Your question is recorded, Group Line Chief," said Group Leader Willister. "If there are no other questions?"
Line Commander Fayrborn gestured his compliance. "We'll be ready to depart at seven." That was too little sleep, he thought, but the orders stipulated the time. He longed for an excuse to refuse the mission, but none came to mind. "All six Glavus-class skimmers, on the most direct route to Lontano." To him his words sounded like the knell of doom.
Group Line Chief Sventur sat with Group Line Chief Goriz in the far corner of the Officers' Mess, steaming cups set on the table before them. The messenger Willister had left their conference less than half an hour before and the impact of his visit was still settling in. They all decided it was fortunate that there were few others in the Officers' Mess, given their new orders.
"What did you think of Fayrborn?' asked Group Line Chief Goriz, toying with her spoon, coming to the heart of the trouble.
"I think he needs more rest than a week or two on a Semper. I think he's up to something. And I don't think he's in any condition to go into combat." Group Line Chief Sventur's face was cool and her eyes remote, but her fingers moved restlessly over the surface of the table.
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br /> "No, he's not," Group Line Chief Goriz agreed. "And we'd better be prepared to deal with that."
"Yes," said Sventur.
Group Line Chief Apanali came up to the two women. "Is there room for me?"
Group Line Chief Goriz made a place for him. "We're worried about Fayrborn," she said without prefacing her remarks with disclaimers.
"We don't think he's in any condition to go into combat," said Group Line Chief Sventur.
"That's fairly obvious," said Group Line Chief Apanali. "Even that sperk from The Hub must have noticed it."
"I've put memos in with the others"—by which Goriz meant the other two Group Line Chiefs—"asking for a meeting before we leave the Semper Rigel. I don't know if they'll come."
"Let's hope they do," said Sventur. "If we have to fight, we need to be prepared." She tasted her xoclat, finding it still too hot. "The state Fayrborn's in, he—"
"He's been this way for months," said Apanali. "And he isn't getting any better. Two weeks ago he drew his tazer on Communications Leader Gaikhu: he threatened to shoot her. The Mromrosi stopped it from happening. Gaikhu agreed not to report it."
"He's taken to carrying a stealth saber, with the laser fittings in addition to the blade," said Sventur. "I saw him with it a few days ago. He was cleaning the blade and talking to it. He's in bad shape, and that's bad for all of us." She said nothing of the threat Fayrborn had made to her then—that he would gut and skin her if she complained to the Fleet Commodore about his behavior.
"He'll make it worse for us," said Goriz. "After what happened on Buttress, I'm worried about him."
"Small wonder," said Sventur. "Any officer who would want to wipe out a settlement because his translator wasn't working and so he decided that they were speaking against him . . . He was ready to give the order." She shook her head slowly. "We're lucky it didn't turn nasty."