Micah sighed. “The biggest problem is the captains of the ships. We need the support of the officers down on Thaeron Base, but without loyal captains to command the ships, we’re bound to lose.”
Van-Lyn nodded. “You can’t just relieve them without some obvious cause. Their orders come from Headquarters on Prime. They'd simply demand hearings and courts-martial.”
Micah frowned. “But I must have captains that I can control! Could we use our, uh, ‘business associates’ to frame some of them?”
Van-Lyn winced, and then shrugged. “Maybe one or two. But the frames would have to be airtight — they’ll be reviewed at HQ.”
Micah echoed Van-Lyn’s shrug. “Not until after this fracas is over. I need people I can trust in there now. Who cares if HQ reinstates them two years later?”
Van-Lyn winced again. “Sir, you're talking about excellent officers, some of the best in the Fleet. You could destroy their careers.”
Micah slammed a ham-sized fist on the desk again. “I don’t care!” He shouted, “It’s them or us!” He glared across the desk. “Damn it, Jamin, d’you want to spend the rest of your life on a prison planet? Or take a blaster bolt to the back of your head? I don't!”
Van-Lyn fidgeted, and his eyes dropped. “Well, we don't have to worry about Bon-Lor of Relentless or Gyles of Dauntless. Both of them are in this as deep as we are. That means that you control two of the three cruisers.”
Micah nodded. “True. I’m worried about Vidsen, though. The man’s Fleet through and through, and straight as an arrow. I doubt we could even get away with framing him. We may,” he continued thoughtfully, “have to arrange an accident for Captain Vidsen. I need every battle cruiser I’ve got. I can’t leave one in the hands of an unreliable captain.”
Van-Lyn's face tightened and he leapt to his feet. “I've gone along with some terrible things these last few years,” he said with massive dignity, “But I will not go along with the murder of one of the best captains in the Fleet. If you’re going to resort to murder,” he continued contemptuously, “You’d better begin with me.”
“Sit down.” Micah demanded; then, more forcefully, “I said, ‘sit down’”
Van-Lyn slowly resumed his seat. “You fool!” Micah roared, “I don’t mean to kill him! I just want him injured badly enough to incapacitate him for a while. Once I get him off Fearless and in the base dispensary, I can appoint an interim Captain, and hold him incommunicado for as long as necessary.”
Micah’s scowl faded, and he relaxed slightly. “You know I’m not a killer, Jamin. I'm surprised you’d think that of me.”
Van-Lyn looked unconvinced, but somewhat mollified. Micah cursed silently. He wanted to jump up and yell, “Of course I’m going to have him killed, you idiot, just like the four others so far!” But knowing Van-Lyn, he restrained himself and forced patience into his tone.
“Don’t you see, Jamin,” Micah continued, “That may be the only way to get Vidsen out of the way?” He chewed his lip. “In fact, we may have to take similar steps with Jamro of the Harpy.”
Van-Lyn stared at Micah morosely. After a long moment, he said quietly, “Do you have any idea how much I regret ever getting involved in this with you, Admiral?”
Micah relaxed, and settled back in his chair with a chuckle. “I think I do, Captain. But I think the . . . what; seven million you have stashed on Beulahland will help ease your conscience."
Van-Lyn shook his head. “I doubt it. Oh, I thought it would. Once my grandson was out of trouble I thought it would be nice to have a nest egg when I retired next year, and it didn’t look as though anyone would be hurt. I was wrong. People have been hurt, and more will be hurt. I think I’d almost welcome that blaster bolt.” He rose and shuffled out.
Micah stared at the door. Something would have to be done about Van-Lyn, and soon. The man was coming apart.
Micah sighed. There was no time. He’d just have to keep cajoling the old man until this was over. Until he no longer needed him, he amended. When this was over, well, even dreadnought captains could have accidents.
He dismissed Van-Lyn with a shrug, and returned to his planning. He controlled Van-Lyn and thus Nemesis, of course, and two of the three cruisers.
None of the five destroyer captains in his flotilla was part of Micah's organization, but he thought he could control or bully three of them, and perhaps a fourth. Jamro, of the Harpy, admired and emulated Fearless' Captain, Rence Vidsen. If he could remove Vidsen from the picture, he should be able to control Jamro. Micah wasn't very impressed with Jamro anyway. He was a typical outerworlder. Coarse, no polish, and no respect for the finer things. A bumpkin. Jamro’s crew seemed to like him, though.
That damned Bendo. Running off to Cord with one of his destroyers! Micah sighed. It was too bad. The lad had potential. He was quick-witted, and his apple-cheeked boy appearance made him easy to underestimate. Micah could have used a man like Bendo, if he hadn’t bought all that Fleet propaganda.
Part of the trouble was he'd been hanging around with that damned Marine . . . what was the name . . . something odd . . . Oh, yes, Tor. Major Wil Tor. Ridiculous name. Outerworld, of course. He shook his head. Typical Marine.
He might be an officer, but Tor was certainly no gentleman. A barbarian who didn’t belong in civilized society. No wonder he'd been sent to the rim.
If Bendo hadn’t been hanging around with Tor, Micah might have tried recruiting him. However, there’d been no way he could trust someone who’d associate with a ruffian like Tor.
He shook his head. Marines! They were a constant irritation. He'd never really understood any of them. All that rah-rah esprit de corps nonsense and that ridiculous honor they were so proud of. He’d never understand it.
He shrugged. Well, now that he thought about it, he guessed they needed something to get men to obey orders they knew to be suicidal. But he still didn’t understand people who’d volunteer to let unfriendly strangers shoot at them. He shook his head again. Oh, well, for the most part they had their uses. But their hardheaded pride and honor could be damned inconvenient.
Then, of course, they also had no polish. Oh, the more senior officers could at least be trained to wipe their muddy boots before entering a building, but their manners were never better than the bare minimum required by fleet regulations. They couldn't be made truly civilized. They always managed to convey the impression that a wild animal lurked just beneath their surface.
Ever since he’d attained senior rank, he’d had to learn to tolerate Marine orderlies. However, he'd never been comfortable with an escort of killers.
He shook himself. He shouldn’t be daydreaming. He had too much to do.
All right, he’d have to arrange an accident for Captain Vidsen of Fearless. Preferably a fatal one, despite what he’d told Van-Lyn. Only a fool left live enemies and witnesses behind him, and Micah was no fool.
Van-Lyn would be upset, of course, but Micah could simply tell him the killing was accidental. With Vidsen dead, Van-Lyn would have no choice but to accept Micah's version of events. And if he didn’t, well, Micah still needed the old man, but only because Nemesis’ Executive Officer wasn’t part of Micah’s organization. If Van-Lyn became too much of a liability, though, Micah was sure he could think of something.
With Vidsen out of the way, Micah could make an emergency appointment of one of “his” officers, bypassing Vidsen’s Exec. That wasn’t exactly routine, but was within Micah’s discretionary authority.
Vidsen’s death would also give Micah a chance to gain control of that Jamro boy commanding Harpy. The boy had a serious case of hero-worship for Vidsen. Vidsen’s death would be a shock. Jamro’s defenses would be down, and Micah could move in with a mixture of sympathy, understanding, and authority. In a month or so, he could probably replace Vidsen in the boy’s eyes. After all, the kid couldn’t be very bright if he could have such exaggerated respect for someone Micah considered an unoriginal, by-the-book officer.
He really didn�
��t like having people killed. It offended his sensibilities. But better that than to take a blaster bolt to the back of the head. He shuddered again.
Chapter VI
The woman who entered my office was indeed striking, in every sense of the word. Her delicate features were black as space, and framed by fine, loose hair that was as white as her skin was black. As Jax ushered her in, it was obvious he was smitten; she tolerated his solicitude good-naturedly.
“No purple fur, Commodore, and only two legs, but I’m a damned good Astrogator!” She said with a smile that was a flare of white teeth
I flushed. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I didn’t know you were within earshot.” I was relieved to note that she had a sense of humor.
I was having a bit of trouble concentrating on business. Nearly two meters tall, slim, and full-breasted, she was female perfection personified.
I placed her immediately. She was a native of Freja, a planet that was an anomaly. Scientists figured the planet had been a wandering rogue that had been captured by a blue giant. The planet orbited more than four A.U. from its primary, and had somehow given birth to life. The original colonists had nearly been wiped out by the sun’s actinic light. A significant percentage of every generation still died of skin cancers.
I read something once that said man had originally come in a variety of skin colors. They called them tribes, or races, or something like that. Evidently, these physical characteristics were the cause of a great deal of suffering early in man’s history.
Now, of course, we are for the most part a light brown. Over a period of time, the groups had interbred until this ‘tribe’ thing was little more than a legend.
There are exceptions, though. Frejans are black as space. On the other hand, Twilighters are an almost ethereal white. In both cases, the skin color was due to their physical environment. It isn’t just skin color, either. Heavyworlders tend to be small and compact, and heavily muscled. On Otarn though, a gravity of only 1/3 G has resulted in people who are unusually tall, thin, and lightly muscled.
I knew about Freja only because I’d been there. It was one of the few places in the Empire where the color of one’s skin mattered. Over time, the colonists’ bodies had adapted by producing large amounts of melanin, while the actinic glare bleached all color from their hair.
This woman’s space-black skin and white hair identified her as a “firster,” one of the planet’s elite, a descendant of the original colonists. On Freja, to have a light skin means taking extreme precautions against the sun, and is a mark of inferiority. Frejans are known empire-wide as bigots, and it was rare to see one of them off their planet.
I realized the silence was becoming oppressive and flushed again. I rose, and ushered her to a seat. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Ursulas Fjolking, but she asked me to call her “Suli.” Her handshake was firm. “I find myself in an unusual position,” I began. “I’m a trader, Captain of the Valkyrie. She’s a military surplus DIN-class Combat Resupply ship. My Astrogator chose to sign off here on the rim, and as you know, out here Astrogators qualified to conn a ship larger than a rim tramp are rare. So, I need an Astrogator that I can sign on for shares aboard a freelance trader.
“On the other hand,” I continued, “The Viceroy has recruited my ship and crew to help him resist a coup d'état. Therefore, for the moment, I’m a Commodore looking for an Astrogator to conn a Command and Control ship that might see combat. If I’m satisfied with your qualifications and credentials, I’ll be able to offer any of several arrangements.
“First, I can sign you on for the duration of the emergency, and offer you generous wages and a free trip to another, more populous sector afterward. Second, I can sign you on for shares to conn Valkyrie after the flap is over. However, that would involve sitting on a planet until this whole thing’s over, and the possibility that I might find and sign on another Astrogator in the meantime.
“Finally, I can sign you on for shares now, which means you’d conn Valkyrie from now on. While we’re in the Viceroy's service, you’d draw Lieutenant Commander's pay, and when it’s over, you’d revert to the usual shares.”
She’d listened carefully, and now she nodded soberly. Gods! She was spectacular looking. Now, she reached into the small bag she carried, and produced her logbook. “I think you’ll see my qualifications are excellent,” she said.
I ran through the entries. She was well qualified. After excelling in Astrogator training, she’d served on a laundry list of ship types. Last on the list was a Beta class freighter, the one she’d left on Gamma. The Captain’s evaluation entries were carefully neutral where they weren’t complimentary. The same seemed true of most of the entries throughout her ten-year career.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Now tell me what’s wrong with you.”
“What?” That had shaken her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen and written enough of these evaluations to know when something is being very carefully not said. Is it that you’re Frejan?”
“No!” She exclaimed. Then, looking abashed. “I . . . I mean, you know about Freja?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been there. Once.”
She nodded uncomfortably. “And you didn’t enjoy your visit. Well, you are a bit pale . . . But, no, that wasn’t the problem. At least, I don’t think I’m color-conscious. It’s just . . . well . . ." finally the wall of reserve broke down. “If you must know, I get tired of fighting off captains and crewmembers who think they’re the universe’s gift to women. That’s why I had to leave my last ship ‘way out here. The Captain had about six hands, and thought that command of the ship gave him command of the crew!” It came out in a rush. Obviously, it had been building for a long time. “Honestly, Captain . . . uh . . . Commodore, if an Astrogator is what you’re looking for, I’m an excellent one. If you’re looking for a bedmate or someone to pass the time with, I’m not what you want."
I nodded. Time for a change of subject. “So,” I asked, “What’s a nice Frejan girl like you doing in a place like this?”
She burst into laughter. “I told you . . . Oh, you mean, why would a Firster leave Freja to wander around the universe on freighters?” I nodded and she shrugged, creating serious distractions for me.
“Actually, it’s all I ever wanted to do. Sure, I could have sat around my family’s stead, and married some other Firster and had a bunch of Firster kids. But I wanted more. I wanted to see other worlds, other ways. Everybody told me I was crazy, but I studied and studied, and got into the Astrogator’s Academy.” She smiled wryly. “That was an experience! The first time I came into contact with the fact that almost everybody was a paleskin! It was . . . it was hard to deal with, at first. But I did it!” Her voice firmed up. “I did it,” she repeated grimly. “I made myself one of the best Astrogators in space. And if you’ll leave me alone, I’ll be that good aboard your ship!”
“I’m not too pale,” I said quietly. “Our Engineer, Hari Carlon, is paler than I am. Jax . . . well, you’ve met Jax. He’s not quite as pale as I am.”
“I’ve met . . . Oh! You must mean the puppy outside!” She grinned, but she was obviously trying to avoid the subject. I remained silent, and finally she sighed. “Captain, I won’t try to lie to you. You’ve been to Freja. You know how I’ve been raised to respond to pale skin. I find it . . . well, repulsive. That’s one reason I’ve had so much trouble. The idea of that pale, fish belly flesh touching mine . . .” she shuddered. “But I’ll say again, if you and the others will leave me alone, we can get along fine.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Mistress Fjolking. A four-person crew is too small to accommodate isolation, voluntary or not. Frankly, I’m not as concerned about others bothering you as I am about you bothering others.
“Yes, you’re a gorgeous, exotic woman. But I’m too old to be letching after someone who’s disgusted by me. Hari . . . well, Hari wouldn’t be interested unless you had an engine. As for Jax, I’m sure you could handle a case of puppy
love; you’ve had to handle worse. But I won’t subject myself and my friends to a crewmember who regards them as inferior, or treats them that way.”
She frowned. “I don't . . .”
I interrupted her. “Yes, you do. I could see it in your attitude toward Jax when he showed you in. You’ve tried to control it with me, but it’s there. For instance, you’ve used the term “paleskin.” Most people who haven’t been to Freja wouldn't notice. However, I’m well aware that to Frejans it’s an insult; and I suspect you use it as a way to exploit their ignorance. Poor paleskins, too stupid to know when they're being insulted.” I shook my head. “If you’ve managed to hang onto those prejudices for ten years, there’s not much chance you’ll ever get rid of them.
“I need an Astrogator very badly, both for the counter-coup operation and as a crewmember afterward. But I don’t think I can use you. A crewmember that’s disgusted by her mates . . . well . . .” I shook my head.
The result of my refusal of her services startled me. Those magnificent shoulders drooped, the gorgeous head sagged. She sighed deeply, and I could tell she was fighting off tears.
After a long moment, she raised her head, and her eyes met mine. They were proud, those eyes. She’d been battered, as much by her own prejudices as by others’ lechery; but she was strong, and she wasn’t giving up. For the first time, something besides Ursulas Fjolking’s remarkable appearance impressed me.
“Captain,” she said quietly, “I need a berth as badly as you need an Astrogator. I’ve never thought of myself as being prejudiced, but maybe I just can’t see it. However, since you seem to think that I am, perhaps you’ll understand how hard it is for me to say this: Please, Captain! Please sign me on. You’re my only chance to get off the rim and back to civilization!”
I thought for a moment that she was going to break down, but then she straightened. “You’re a trader, Captain. I’ll offer you a deal. Sign me on for the duration of the emergency on salary. When it’s over, if you’re not satisfied, I’ll sign off with no argument. If you are satisfied, you sign me on permanently.”
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