With a sigh, Salazar said, “We're not in the business of taking sides, and we're certainly not in the business of putting a slave-holding society in charge of anything. Not that I particularly like the way the Council operates, but from what I can see...”
“We've had to survive!” she yelled, slamming her fist on the desk. “We had nothing, nothing at all, when our world died. A few leaky domes, a handful of sailships and a missile defense network that didn't work. With that we built a civilization, one based on freedom and liberty...”
“Which appears to be dependent on slavery to keep itself going.”
“That,” she said, “is nothing more than a temporary exigency caused by the war. Those we capture are offered the chance to work their way to citizenship. The guard who brought you here was born on Skybase.” Looking up at the ceiling, she took a deep breath, then continued, “What are your plans in this system? Why are you here? Or is that too dark a secret to share.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Alamo is on a mission of exploration.”
Raising an eyebrow, she replied, “She seems extremely well-armed for that. And I note that your first action upon entering the system was to launch an unprovoked attack against one of our ships.”
“Put yourself in our place. You enter a new system, and the first thing you see is an armed ship attacking an unarmed vessel, one which is sending out a distress signal. What would you do?”
She paused for a moment, then replied, “There is some merit to what you say, I admit, which is why we are willing to start from scratch. I ask again, what are your intentions?”
“Somewhere beyond this system is a hostile race, an evolutionary offshoot from humanity. They've launched several attacks on our outposts and stations, and claim their goal as the conquest of the entire human race, potentially its extermination. All we know is that their homeworld is somewhere vaguely in this direction.”
“And you're hunting them down.”
Nodding, he asked, “Have you seen any signs of their presence?”
“No,” she said. After a moment, she continued, “Maybe. A year ago, we did detect a reading of a ship in the outer system, well away from any installations. We assumed that it was something to do with the Council, a long-range probe, but at the time I don't think any of us accepted that explanation.”
“Then they've already visited the system,” Salazar said. “Presumably they decided that you weren't a threat to their plans, and that you could wait until they had dealt with greater threats. There are other major powers in this part of the galaxy, several of them moving into this region.”
Folding her hands together, she replied, “That implies that someone might offer us a better deal.”
“Were they to arrive today, the United Nations would annex you, install a Governor, and likely indenture your entire population in order to pay for the supplies they would claim you need. You'd never be permitted to work off the debt. Perhaps a handful would be placed as puppet leaders, but I expect they'd use the Council for that. The Lunar Republic might be similar, but they're our allies these days. The Cabal, I suspect, would be worse. You'd be settled on Arcadia, stripped of your technology, and left to sink or swim. They discourage rival spacefarers, even on worlds they control.”
“Whereas your Triplanetary Confederation is so much better,” she said with a sneer.
“Better than anyone else you are likely to encounter.”
She paused for a moment, then asked, “Long term, what can you give us? What sort of help, aid, assistance?”
“As I've said before, the Confederation will not negotiate for our release. The best deal you'll get is amnesty, and potentially normalized relations.”
Turning away from the desk, she said, “I'm not talking about bartering for you.” She sighed, and said, “None of us are blind about the reality of our situation, Sub-Lieutenant. We're on the edge, out here, and we've staked everything on our next offensive. If it works, then we can survive. If it fails, we die. Or worse.”
“I suppose you won't tell me what you are planning,” he replied.
Stepping over to him, perching on the edge of her desk, she said, “There's one piece of information that I must have, Sub-Lieutenant. Will your commanding officer intervene to support the Council? Will she stop our forces again, as she did with the first attack on the Twenty-Two?”
He paused, then replied, “I can't answer your question, and you know it.”
With a smile, she said, “I suppose that if I was in your position, I'd would respond just as you are. The fortunes of war, I suppose. It's a pity that it looks as though we are on opposite sides.”
“Are we?” he said.
“If you are not with us...”
“You are against us. That philosophy was tired centuries ago. There are always alternatives to fighting, especially when you have so little left to fight for. Are you going to carry on until the last two people are throwing rocks at each other?” She looked down at the deck, and he could tell his attack had hit home. “Build something new, something better, something stronger.”
“Every time we tried, the Council stopped us.”
“And, I'm guessing, every time they tried, you stopped them. A vicious circle that can only have one end.”
“We'll see.” Looking down at her desk, she continued, “You did guess right, by the way. I have no intention of assigning either you or your companion to manual labor, or anything that will expose you to undesirable elements. Instead you will be kept in close confinement until further notice. I trust that you will make no foolish attempts to escape.”
“And then?”
She paused, then replied, “We're not fools, Sub-Lieutenant. I know the power that your ship possesses. Perhaps if it was up to me, we would return you to your people. Maybe when all of this is over, we'll be able to do just that. Until then, we must have some sort of security, a guarantee that your people won't launch an unprovoked attack against us.”
“That we will never do.”
“With the fate of what is left of our civilization resting on it, would you take a chance?” She tapped a control, and the door opened. “You can, I think, make your way back to your cell without restraint. It isn't as though you have anywhere to run to.”
Outside, Tarak was waiting, stoically standing in the corridor, arms crossed, nerve gun in easy reach. It would have been simple for Salazar to rush him, to try and take the weapon, but it would be pointless. Valya was right. There was nowhere for him to run, no chance of escape. With a smile on his face, he stepped out into the corridor, the door closing behind him, and walked towards his cell.
“Did you have a useful conversation?” asked.
“What business is it of yours?”
“I told you that my grandfather was Earth-born. That gives me every reason I need to side with the Coalition. The Council have given me nothing other than pain and misery. The future of this system is right here.” He paused at the entrance to the cell. “I trust that in time, you will come to realize that. And to learn that not everything is as it appears to be.”
He pulled a lever, and the cell door slid open, Harper still sitting cross-legged where she had been before. As Salazar walked in, Tarak pulled a pair of flasks from his pocket, placing them on the floor by the entrance, both filled with the same purple liquid as before. He looked up with a smile, hand purchased on the door controls.
“Have faith. Everything will work out for the best. Trust me, I know.” With a tug, the door slid shut, and the two of them were alone. Salazar reached down for a bottle, opening the top and taking a swig. The juice was growing on him, and he drained it down in half a dozen gulps.
“Well?” Harper asked.
“The Coalition is about to do something very stupid, but I don't think we're going to be here to see it.” Looking at the door, he said, “Tarak's a double-agent. He's worki
ng for the Council. I'd bet my life on it.”
Harper shrugged, and replied, “I have a horrible feeling that you are.”
Chapter 11
Orlova stepped into the sensor room, technicians everywhere taking measurements and adjusting their readings, Powell presiding over the affair like the ringmaster of a circus, the beaming smile on his face confirming that he was in his element. The holotable flashed from one planet to another, the new data updating each time, building a larger picture of the system. For a few moments, she let it all wash over her, brilliant images of tumbling rocks, swirling gas giants, and crimson-hued worlds passing by her while she watched.
Belatedly, Powell looked up, realizing that she had arrived, and ushered her into his cramped office. The room was filled with charts, maps and documents, a shelf of old paper books on one side, and an old brass orrery carefully mounted on the desk, strapped down to make sure that it could not fall. It hadn't taken him long to make the office his own.
“Victorian,” he said. “Three hundred years old. Accurate, according to what they knew in those days. The universe has certainly expanded a lot since then. I take it you are here for my report into this system.”
Nodding, she replied, “Have you seen the data Ensign Cooper submitted?”
“It matches the overall picture,” he said. “And I'm afraid it is not a promising one. As far as I can see, spacefaring civilization in this system has perhaps thirty years of life remaining.”
“So little?”
“The determinant factor is that ultimately, there is an inhabitable planet left to flee to. Without such a haven, I would estimate more like eighty years, but I can't see everyone waiting to die on deteriorating space stations and outposts. I should stress as well that there is a substantial error margin built into my calculations. With so many critical systems operating with improper backups, that timeframe could be considerably advanced.”
“Thirty years, then,” she said. “What happens next?”
“A reversion to barbarism, if they are fortunate. One moment.” He leaned out, and yelled, “Sanchez, get in here, will you?”
A young man, one of the few wearing a uniform, stepped into the room, and asked, “Problem? I'm still integrating the new data.”
“This is Technical Officer Sanchez, Captain. Don't be deceived by his youthful appearance, he already has advanced degrees in sociology and mathematics.”
Sanchez shrugged, and replied, “You'd be surprised how often the two work together.”
“The Captain wants your assessment on the future of this system.”
Shaking his head, he replied, “I hope you're in the mood for some bad news. As far as I can tell, there's an excellent chance that everyone on the colonies will be dead in forty years. From the interviews we've obtained, they'll stay in their artificial environments until the last possible moment, without making any preparations in advance. That means dumping a few thousand refugees in a hostile environment, who have no training or knowledge of the terrain. They'll die like flies. If the local population doesn't kill them first.”
“There are people on the planet?” she asked.
“Oh, almost certainly. I doubt the war killed them all off.”
“War?”
Sanchez glanced at Powell, who replied, “We haven't finished gathering our data yet, but it seems pretty clear that their Cataclysm was artificial. They did it to themselves.” He paused, then said, “I suppose it is possible that they were attacked by some sort of interstellar civilization, but I would expect to find more evidence of that.” He tapped a control, and an image of Arcadia appeared over his desk. “Nuclear war, Captain. Almost certainly.”
Nodding, Sanchez added, “We've identified the sites of worst damage, and there is a remarkable correlation to the areas where you would expect cities to form. Natural river crossings, harbors, sites of valuable resources. All wiped out in the war.”
“They must know,” Orlova said. “Why not tell us?”
“Maybe they're ashamed of it,” Powell said. “I would be.”
“Or perhaps most of them aren't aware of it,” Sanchez suggested. “This would hardly be the first culture to suppress information regarding its origins. With selective education of the next generation, they could wipe out all knowledge of the war.”
“Ancient enemies,” Orlova muttered. “Something in Cooper's report. One of the underground figures he met told him that the pirates were their ancient enemies.”
“There you are,” Powell said, thumping the desk. “Two sides in a war, and the survivors of both factions are still fighting the same battles, all these centuries later. If you want some good news, then Arcadia is thriving. The biosphere is recovering nicely from the damage undertaken, as far as we can tell from orbit. I'd expect far lower genetic diversity than you would otherwise expect, but that isn't a game-changing problem. Indeed, we might be able to help there, bring in breeding stock from Jefferson, or even Thule.”
“And the genetic issue?”
“Part of the same problem. A small number of survivors might breed prodigiously, but the limitations of that small pool will get you in the end. It's definitely a contributing factor, Captain, though ultimately failing equipment will finish them. If that UN ship hadn't turned up, then they might already have died out.”
“Solution?” Orlova asked.
Powell glanced at Sanchez, and said, “Ending the war would certainly help. This is a resource-rich system, and they've not really begun to take advantage of that. There's no evidence that they've ever visited any of the other planets in the system, for a start. No sign even of probes or satellites. Our geological team has already identified numerous possibilities for prospecting.”
“And the planet? You said there were survivors?”
“Almost certainly,” Sanchez said. “We've run projections based on studies from Earth, from the 21st century, and it's surprisingly hard to wipe out every human from a planet.” Gesturing at the map, he said, “This northern continent didn't sustain anything like as much damage as the rest of the planet, for example, and there are a number of islands. Even without the space stations, human life isn't in any danger of becoming extinct.”
“That's theory, of course,” Powell said.
“I disagree,” Sanchez replied, shaking his head. “Look at the location of the ground station. Right in the middle of an undamaged area. I'd bet they have contact with the survivors on the surface.”
“Perhaps.” With a frown, the old man continued, “Ironic, isn't it. They had the war that we managed to avoid. During our Third World War, less than five percent of humanity's nuclear arsenal was used, and it was enough to damn near precipitate a new Dark Age. Here, I'd say they released everything they had. Thousands of detonations, all across the planet. A nuclear winter, ozone depletion, the whole catalog.” Sighing, he added, “We could have done this to Earth, all too easily.”
Nodding, Sanchez said, “If things had gone a little differently, it might be an Arcadian starship orbiting Mars, right now, picking over the remnants of our civilization. Strange to think, isn't it.”
“Do you have any recommendations?” Orlova asked.
“We're still gathering data.”
“That's not good enough, gentlemen. We can continue to harvest information from our probes for weeks, months, but we haven't got the time to waste. I need some sort of a plan, something I can use, and I want it in the next twenty-four hours.” Turning to Powell, she said, “This is the largest science team that any military starship has ever taken on an expedition, and I want to see that resource exploited to the full. I need an alternative for this system, and I'm counting on you to give it to me. Understood?”
“It isn't as simple as that,” Sanchez said. “If we make a mistake...”
“I would suggest that you don't,” Orlova said. “Tens of thousands of lives are at stake.”<
br />
“We understand, Captain,” Powell said. “It should be quite a challenge, but I'm confident that my team is equal to the task. What do you propose to do with it, though?”
“That depends on whether I can talk any sense into the Council. In a few…” Before she could finish, a siren sounded, the ship being called to alert status, and her communicator beeped.
“Nelyubov here, Captain. We need you up on the bridge on the double, ma'am. A fleet of sailships is heading towards the ice extraction outpost on the innermost moon, and the Council has formally requested our assistance in fighting them off.”
“Set a course for the moon, Lieutenant, but stall the Council for the moment. I'll be along in a few moments.” Turning to Powell, she began, “I'll want a full...”
“Report on the moon and the settlement,” he said. “It'll be waiting for you on the bridge.”
“Good,” she replied, turning to sprint for the nearest elevator, the door waiting for her. She jumped in, slamming her hand on the control, sending it flying through the decks to her destination. Anxiously, she waited for the doors to open again onto the bridge, tapping her foot on the floor in frustration. The decision she had hoped to postpone was forcing itself upon her. At some point in the next few minutes, she'd have to choose a side.
Finally, the door opened, and she raced over to the holotable, looking at the tactical display. Five ships, heading directly for the moon, on a course that would take them into synchronous orbit. It didn't seem likely that they would be able to launch an invasion, but that might not be their goal. In that position, they'd be able to hold everyone on the surface hostage. Powell's promised data package flashed up, and she started to skim over it. No chance that they would be able to do anything to help themselves, only very limited defenses at their disposal. They were wide open.
“Eight minutes to target, ma'am,” Foster said. “We'll be there one minute before the enemy vessels, in a perfect position for a strike.”
Battlecruiser Alamo: Triple-Edged Sword Page 10