by Mel Keegan
“Nothing we can do,” Bronhill was saying, “will stop the battle group heading into the Velcastra system, intent on wreaking maximum damage, with the object of setting an example to Jagreth, Borushek, and several other worlds which are watching keenly.” He paused, took a long breath and looked sidelong at his XO, whose face was like a granite mask. “But we can subtract the Chicago from the battle group, which means there’s three squadrons of Murchison F-109 Scimitars, six gunships, an armed tender and an armored engineer’s tractor, and six companies of marines you won’t be fighting. Even so, you’ll have your hands full with four cruisers, six frigates and six gunships in your airspace. But after your performance at Ulrand, you might be able to handle them.”
Not a single expression passed across Liang’s or Shapiro’s faces. “And the Chicago?” Shapiro asked. His voice was curiously bland. “Where will it be while all this is going on?”
“In the outer system.” Bronhill sat back, locked his fingers around one knee and studied them. “I wish I could speak for the commanders of the capital ships, but I have no influence over them, and even the attempt to widen the company of officers who’ll accept no part in the proposed rape of Velcastra, and who are offering this alternative, will only place all of us in danger. What we’re proposing makes almost the entire command corps of the Chicago criminal in the eyes of Fleet.”
Liang’s eyes were wide, not even blinking. He leaned forward over the desk, intent on Bronhill. “And the deal you’re placing on the table, Colonel? What exactly are you proposing?”
To his credit, Bronhill did not hesitate, nor did his face or voice betray the dread underlying his words. Marin saw it only in the lines of his body, the clench of his back, heard it in the tiny breaths he took in odd places. The art of reading truth, lies and emotion was a Dendra Shemiji art as old as the Resalq.
“Conditional defection,” Bronhill said smoothly. “As I’ve indicated, all but two of my officers are agreeable, and they have offered to accept custody and repatriation when the opportunity arises.”
“Defection.” Shapiro seemed to try the word on his tongue. “You have us interested, Colonel! And, the conditions?”
Now, Bronhill’s shoulders lifted in a shallow, expressive shrug. “You could predict them. No harm will befall my crew. The Chicago will not be turned on worlds of the Middle Heavens and Near Sky, much less the homeworlds, where all of us have families.”
“So do many of us.” Shapiro gestured at Travers and Vaurien. “Captain Vaurien is from Earth. Colonel Travers is a native of Darwin’s World. And you can believe us when we say we have no interest whatsoever in assaulting any world, for any reason.”
“I can’t imagine you would,” Bronhill admitted. “The conditions are a mere formality. My crew, from the command corps down to the bottom of the crewdeck, is made up of conscripts and re-enlisters from the Middle Heavens. There’s been a mutinous feeling aboard, General, since we shipped out for the Deep Sky. Everyone knows why we’re coming here. They’re expecting orders to turn their guns on cities like Elstrom and Westminster, with the object of turning them into fields of smoking rubble like Hydralis.” He shook his head. “Service discipline would make them do it, of course … there’s nothing like the threat of a heavy flogging or a firing squad to make a man do as he’s ordered. But the officers and master sergeants have been offered the alternative, and most of them are agreeable.”
“Most?” Alexis Rusch echoed. “Forgive me, Allan, but I’m in a somewhat similar position. The Kiev is still on the blockade, and we’ve known for almost a year now, we could be ordered to set the sky on fire over Omaru, tear the atmosphere off the planet, destroy the world as well as the republican ‘criminals.’” She took a long breath, exhaled it as a sigh. “There are just enough officers on the Kiev who’re loyal to the Confederation to make disobeying the order to terminate Omaru damned risky. Not that the Kiev wouldn’t follow the Chicago! What you’re doing here can be done at Omaru. Controlling the risk was always my concern, because we were always surrounded by the battle group.”
“Meaning, ten capital ships,” Bronhill agreed, “the officers of which might be eager to win Confederate approval by betraying you.” He nodded deeply. “This is why my officers and I haven’t approached the command corps of any of the ships in our battle group. The risk is untenable. Those officers will have to make their own decision when the time comes. I’m afraid I don’t know any of them well enough to predict which way they’d move, and I fear Velcastra will be facing a very nasty battle.”
Liang stood, hands clasped at his back. “We’re prepared, Colonel. I can tell you no more than this. If you recall Ulrand, you’ll know we’re hardly defenseless, and you should know we would never have declared the sovereignty of Velcastra without being sure we could defend it.”
Bronhill appeared far from convinced, but Liang seemed only to have strengthened his resolve. “All the more reason to strike a bargain between us,” he said in steely tones, “because if you are as prepared as you like to believe, my ship and crew are at jeopardy. I don’t want the Chicago to go the way of the Shanghai and the Intrepid before her. Damn, what a loss. The Intrepid was the last of the old carriers, Mister President. They’ve passed into history, but they were magnificent – the Valiant, the Dauntless, the Fearless, the Dominant. They were the five super-carriers which were designed and built to protect humanity in the Deep Sky, not to subdue and murder your people and mine. The Shanghai, the Kiev, the Chicago, the London, the Tokyo – these are also magnificent ships, but they’re tainted. The mission has changed, and the spirit of the ships, the crews, is changing along with it. The super-carriers come here, now, for slaughter and obliteration, and I’m ashamed to say, it’s easy to find commanders in the homeworlds who’ll take the orders and execute them.”
“But not us,” Valerie Sung breathed. She gave Vidal a plaintive look. “We’re dinosaurs, Michael. This is what it comes down to. People like us, like you and Colonel Rusch – we’re the last of a line that’s going extinct, and if we don’t get the hell out and burn the bridges behind us, well, the history texts will be describing us as dangerous fringe lunatics.”
Vidal made a quiet sound of humor. “Dangerous? Damned right. Some of the most dangerous people of our era are in this room. Most of the others are on this ship … and we know where the rest are.” Arms folded on the midnight blue silk of his tunic, he turned toward Rusch and Liang. “Alexis? You know these people. I don’t know Colonel Bronhill, but I do know Valerie, from way back.”
“Patience, Michael,” she said softly. “Robert?”
The cogs and gears of Liang’s brain were almost audible. Marin was sure he was listening to the man think as Liang paced slowly between the idling threedee and the autochef. Shapiro watched him for some moments before he stepped away from the desk and beckoned Marin. Curtis and Neil followed him into the furthest corner of the office, and Shapiro’s voice was a bare whisper.
“What do the Dendra Shemiji arts tell you? What would Mark Sherratt see, hear?”
“You mean, are they on the level, telling the truth?” Travers was still frowning at Bronhill and Sung. “Mick’s convinced. So’s Colonel Rusch.”
“Michael and Alexis were never trained in arcane arts,” Shapiro said deliberately. “Curtis?”
And Marin nodded. “Colonel Bronhill believes every word he’s saying. If anything nefarious is going on aboard the Chicago, it’ll come from his command corps, not from the man himself. When the time comes, if he’s wrong about them, Harrison, he’ll take a knife in the back, and he knows it. When the battle group commits to the action at Velcastra, he’ll certainly hold the carrier out of it, parked in the outer system, while the capital ships run the gauntlet of the defenses Chandra Liang has already warned him about. If he’s mistaken about his officers, there’ll be a coup on the Chicago. He and Sung will die for their time and trouble, it’s as simple as that.”
“Yes.” Shapiro turned a frown on Bronhill. “T
hat was my reading of them and the situation, and I’m glad the professional agrees with me. Best case scenario – Velcastra comes out of this with a super-carrier for its defense Not,” he added, “that she needs it! Worst case scenario – there’s a coup on the Chicago, command passes into the hands of Confederate loyalists and after the battle, if anything is left of the ship, which I doubt, it’ll follow the Shanghai to the wrecking yards.” He gave Marin a faint smile. “Thank you.”
As he spoke, Chandra Liang came to a halt behind the desk and beckoned Shapiro closer. What they said, Marin could not even guess, but Vaurien was in earshot and his expression remained neutral, accepting, until Liang turned back in Bronhill’s direction.
“You offered to strike a deal, Colonel. A deal implies two sides in a mutually beneficial arrangement. The conditional defection of the Chicago certainly benefits Velcastra! You haven’t outlined what you want, aside from a guarantee of the safety of your crew, and our assurance the ship won’t be turned against other worlds – both of which are granted without hesitation.”
Bronhill came to his feet, though Sung remained in the chair by the desk, content to listen. “My officers will take complete responsibility for the defection, but most of my crew is going to want to go home. Repatriation is part of the deal, and until it’s feasible to return them to Middle Heavens ports, I want your absolute guarantee that they’ll be treated well. I don’t ask for their liberty, because you might assume they pose a security hazard if they were loose on Velcastra in time of war. God knows, you could be right! But they’ll be treated well, kept in comfort, and allowed to communicate with their families, though messages will obviously be vetted.”
“Done,” Chandra Liang said at once. “And what, Colonel, for yourself and the Major?”
“We … can’t go back,” Bronhill said darkly. “Ever. For myself, I’ve faced the probability that I’ll be severing all ties with Earth. I have no doubt my family will consider me a criminal, an enemy, even a madman. I’ll be content to settle on Velcastra, but I’ve no desire for an early death, and I imagine the Confederate government could easily locate me, and assassinate me. I’m requesting a new identity, and then I’ll slither into the Velcastran population and vanish. Valerie?”
“The same,” Sung said darkly, “with another offer, if you’re interested. I have a double doctorate in gravity and temporal studies. All my life, I’ve wanted to get out here, into the Rabelais Drift, get into the heart and soul of Hellgate. I don’t know how much research will be going on under the new Velcastran administration, but if there’s a vacancy in a lab or on a science ship, I’d like to throw my hat in.”
A chuckle escaped Vidal. “You have no idea.”
She gave him an odd look. “I just said that.”
He wiped the smile off his face. “What you need is to shake Ernst Rabelais by the hand and have him tell you the stories of how he rode the timestreams, fetched up in a lagoon suspended between gravity fields ...” He let the words tail off when he found her glaring at him.
“Don’t you dare mock me, Michael Vidal. You’re a – a bloody-damned fighter-jockey. You don’t have a scientist’s bone in your whole body!”
“No, I don’t,” Vidal agreed, “but –“
“Michael.” Rusch’s voice stopped him. “Everything in its own time.”
He caught her meaning at once, and shrugged. “As you like.”
“And yes, Major Sung,” Shapiro was saying, “you’ll be extremely pleased with your assignment. You’ll find yourself … well, let’s just say you’ll be where you’ve wanted to be since before you decided to have Fleet fast-track you there.”
Sung peered at him, and then at Vidal. “There’s a lot you’re not saying. Michael?”
“Not now,” Vidal said in obvious amusement as he drifted back to Travers and Marin, and stood with his shoulder against Neil’s chest, as if he needed the physical support. He was exhausted, white about the mouth with fatigue, and Travers rested one hand on his back, between the shoulders, moral support. “As Alexis said – everything in its own good time.”
“And we,” Bronhill added, “have a thousand details to thrash out before we return to the Chicago. Might I ask for dinner, General? And our clothes, perhaps?”
“Of course.” Shapiro touched his combug. “Jon, would you bring our guests’ clothes to the office? Richard, if we could commandeer the ops room crew lounge for the rest of the day –?”
Vaurien was already moving. “I’ll leave the details to you, Harrison. Signal the ops room when our guests are leaving, and I’ll have the pod brought back into the hangar. Do you need security any longer?”
“I don’t think so, Richard,” Liang said quietly. “Not on this ship, among this crew. This is the most secure place I know. I feel safer here than in my own house on StarCity.” He graced Bronhill and Sung with a genuine smile. “Now, allow me to show you a little hospitality. We have a great deal to discuss.”
The details were dizzying, and Marin did not envy Liang and Shapiro. They would be in conference for hours, before Liang would return to Velcastra and the monstrous task of coordinating a battle, the timing of which he would know down to the last minute.
They were in the passage, following Vaurien to the elevators, when Vidal faltered, stumbled. Travers caught him quickly, and Vaurien shouldered the rest of his weight. “Infirmary?” Richard wondered.
But Vidal’s head shook a terse negative. “Anywhere but. I need a drink, but I can’t have one.”
“You need to sleep,” Travers hazarded.
“Rest,” Vidal allowed. “Do me a favor. Don’t tell Bill.”
“How’s he supposed to get you fixed up, if you don’t tell him?” Travers demanded sharply. “You’re being your own worst enemy! All right, Richard, leave him to us.”
Vaurien stepped back with a doubtful expression. “You want a meddrone, if not a doctor? A shot of something?”
“Bourbon, over ice,” Vidal muttered.
“Vitamins and minerals.” Marin slung Vidal’s right arm over his shoulder and took his weight. “You better lie down.”
“Our quarters are closer.” Travers hit the call button for the lift and gave Vidal a nod. “I know what he means. Grant’ll have him back in there, full of tubes and wires. I wouldn’t want it any more than he does.”
But Marin was less certain. He held his silence until the door had slid closed on their stateroom, and Vidal was sprawled in the middle of their bed, one arm flung over his eyes. The lights were low, the cabin almost silent. Marin sat on the side of the bed, watching Travers fetch a damp cloth and a glass of water.
“Mick, what is it?” He took the cloth from Neil, used it to wipe the film of sweat from Vidal’s face. “You’ve had new test results, haven’t you?”
With a groan, Vidal forced open his eyes. “The pancreas is fried, the liver isn’t repairing properly. I’m holding together on a cocktail of nano. I’m toxic, and I’m going to get a lot sicker before I get better.”
“Damn,” Travers whispered as he sat on the other side of the bed. “Christ, Mick, I’m so sorry.”
“No shit,” Vidal said philosophically. “Bill’s cloning organs for me.”
“How long?” Marin wondered, thinking back on his own treatment.
“Four months for the pancreas, six for the liver.” Vidal glared up at the ceiling. “He says he’ll transfer the culture vessels to Lai’a, I can get the surgery in transspace.”
And the prospect filled him with dread, Marin realized. He wondered if it were the surgery that distressed Vidal, when nothing on the Omaru blockade – nothing in transspace – had terrified him. He set a hand on the bony chest, and a shiver rippled through him as he felt ribs, like the forming spars of a machine, where he should have felt a man’s solid muscle. “Bill’s one of the best. Trust him.”
“I do.” Vidal’s eyes closed. “I’m being a bastard. Ignore me.”
“Mick, if you don’t say what’s wrong,” Travers said in
exasperated tones, “how the hell are we supposed to help?”
“You can’t help.” Vidal tried to push himself up on his palms, but Marin held him down, and he seemed content to surrender.
“You need to talk to Mark,” Curtis told him.
“Mark’s not a medical doctor.”
“No, but he knows Resalq techniques that’ll turn a man’s mind inside out,” Marin added. “He offered to suppress the memories that drove Teniko right over the edge. The little fool wouldn’t let him, but the offer was made. What Mark would have done for Tonio, he can do for you. He can cloak the memories that are eating you alive.” Vidal stirred in surprise, looked up warily at Marin. Curtis shrugged. “We’re not blind, and I was trained in a lot of the Dendra Shemiji arts. Not all of them, but enough to read more in a man’s face and body than you can get out of what he says.”
The blue eyes transferred to Travers, and Vidal seemed to wrestle with his own ambivalence for a long moment before he spoke again. His voice was a thin rasp. Marin could only guess what it cost him to allow the memories to reach the surface, and give them substance by speaking them.
“Mark explained the things I saw – they’re memories from the parallel timestreams that diverge from the moment I was suspended in, in the field on the edge of the place where the wrecks wash up. The junkyard at the end of the Odyssey Tide. They’re valid memories, valid timestreams, and when time is slowed down a thousand times by the event horizon, you can see them in snatches, glimpses.” His eyes closed, his brow furrowed. “I went down in Hydralis after a big fight on the blockade. A breakaway cell from the militia had me for months. They did things.”
“Not Alec Tarrant’s people?” Travers was rubbing Vidal’s shoulder.
The contact seemed to connect Vidal to reality. His hand closed over Neil’s as he hunted for words. “Not Tarrant’s group. It was Tarrant that traded me back to the Kiev when they found me, but by then I was busted up so bad, there wasn’t a lot the CMO could do. Three major amputations, the canoe job – nano support and prostheses, biocyber garbage, like Roark, while I waited years for cloned limbs and implants.” He shook himself hard. “Four years of my life, I spent in one institution or another. They sent me back to Velcastra, the Fleet orbital docks, then … another year in rehab, getting the cloned limbs to work properly, trying to figure out why cloned gonads weren’t coming online the way they should, and why a dick grown in a culture tank doesn’t feel anything, when it’s supposed to be the same damned hunk of flesh you were born with, before the bastards –”