Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  The blip vanished and reentered. Half the outrageous speed and a good deal closer to Alpha still.

  . . . and his heart raced again.

  Half the speed and still too damn fast.

  “Shit,” he said, “is anybody alive on there?”

  Did it again.

  Dammit, how could any mind take that kind of reality-warp and stay sane?

  “Bot at helm, got to be,” someone said.

  “Or they’re fuckin’ showin’ off.” That from a Firenze. “Damn them!”

  Ross knew, rationally, that the mega-ships weren’t slower. Their oversized engines threw a lot of energy into the interface. They reputedly did things little ships didn’t. Couldn’t.

  His mind knew, but his nerves twitched. Reflexes trained for years said that things should be done at certain intervals. A regular hauler could take days coming in this close. You got to system, you dumped V, you settled in for a crew-change, drank stuff to settle your electrolytes and maybe had a sandwich. You then went face down on your bunk to let next-shift talk to station and the markets, all routine, plenty of time to do routine housekeeping and clean-up before the pre-dock.

  Sensible. Polite! Coming in at that rate didn’t give stationfolk the willies.

  Ross found himself gripping his beer mug white-knuckled. All they had for comfort was a distorted-scale schematic on what was ordinarily the arrival screen. They watched the numbers run, still damned fast. Another glance at Fallan found the old man’s eyes on him now, rather than on the readout. Fallan gave him that half-wink, a hint of a smile, before turning back to the screen, and Ross’s hand relaxed.

  They can’t be hauling, Ross thought, trying to think, not react. No way they were hauling. They couldn’t dump that much velocity at maximum mass. Not in real space. Not in time. And another part of him thought: God, what was it to sit as crew on that creature, throwing energy off that, if thrown toward station, would take them all out. Energy that, even slightly misdirected, could make the sun itself quake and maybe toss an ugly lot of mass.

  Spacetime healed itself. Had healed itself, when it spat that monster out into the nearest gravity well it could find.

  Plain old here-and-now space . . . was another matter.

  Rosie was still serving, still running tabs, all alcohol, nobody ordering from the kitchen, and new people, strays from off the Strip, shouldered their way to the bar and a view of the screens. Bodies pressed tight. Two Rights crew in blue uniforms, looking not much different from the blue-coated station cops and about as welcome in Rosie’s, kept together, prudently, near the door and not saying much, but watching the screen, the same as everybody.

  Also among the incoming were a handful of late-come spacer types in nondescript green and blue that were new to Rosie’s.

  “God,” somebody said, when new numbers flashed up and the blinking dot kept coming, scarily close and still fast, by the run of those numbers on the sidebar.

  One green and blue jacket said quietly, “She’s fine. No worry.”

  That pronouncement got a dozen cold stares. “Who’re you?” a Santiago asked. The jam was close, the lights were dim. Sleeve patches weren’t that clear, and the vid was delivering background chatter. The man who’d spoken had Asia somewhere in the ancestry, a ship-accent unfamiliar to Alpha.

  There were six of them in that dull green.

  “Little Bear,” the speaker said in accented Standard.

  “Wrong bar,” Santiago said. “Out!”

  “We’re under a shelter order,” Fallan said. “Give ’em grace, ’Rique.”

  “They can keep quiet,” Santiago said. “We got a damn fool headed at us.”

  “Only way,” another Little Bear said, “in a small system like this, that’s how the big ones come out. Deep in the well. No way not. But don’t worry. JR . . . he’s as good as they come.”

  “The hell!” someone shouted. “Friggin’ James Robert Neihart’s no different from the rest of us mortals, and that fuckin’ ship’s comin’ in with hell on its tail.”

  JR. James Robert Neihart. Finity’s Senior Captain. Like his ship, a legend before he was thirty. A legend named after a legend—the first ever starship’s first captain—a man bumped straight to Senior Captain of the newly commissioned mega-ship, because he’d been just that much faster, that much better than those technically seeded ahead of him.

  A part of Ross’s brain meanwhile wondered if the Little Bear was right, that this was how the big ships would have to come in, and his mind began to run the numbers, and felt a shiver just figuring the mass. Then he thought about the sim-trained Rights crew coming in like that and went icy cold.

  “Maybe we know, all right,” the first Little Bear began, and another Little Bear raised a hand to stop him.

  “Station order says go to shelter. So we come in where first we could. Didn’t have a sign out there saying who owns this bar.”

  “We own it,” a Firenze woman said. “And we’re full up. So take your business elsewhere.”

  “And get a red ticket out there? No, thanks, Alpha. Station calls a stupid take-hold, we take hold, so back off.”

  “What are any of you here for, anyway?” New voice in the argument, another Firenze, male. “One of your ships is an all-right, okay, no problem, two’s a coincidence, but three and now this? What in hell’s going on?”

  “Come on,” another Little Bear said, taking the first by the arm. “This take-hold’s nonsense in the first place. Let’s just go.”

  “Running?” Santiago asked.

  “Like hell!” First Little Bear took a pose.

  Just as the vid changed display and showed real-time, vid from the mast.

  “Hold, hold, hold!” Fallan said, and interposed an arm. “We got realtime up, here. Lay off! They can’t go out there! Vid is up—we got image, here!”

  Attention swung to the screen. For the first time the vid focused on a ship still moving fast.

  “Damn!” Ross breathed. Reason for the take-hold. The image came like a nightmare.

  “They brake,” one of the Little Bear crew said, a calm voice. “They brake.”

  And right then the image whited out, ghostlike.

  And reappeared closer.

  When the camera found focus again, Finity’s End appeared moving sanely as any ship, by the numbers on the side.

  “Told you,” Little Bear said. “About three more hours to dock. Everything fine.”

  “You smug sumbitch,” Santiago said. “Out!”

  It stung, that told you, from another small-ship FTLer, from one of the visitors who’d piled up over the last few days . . . a visitor who, contrary to report, suddenly spoke perfectly adequate Standard.

  And as quick as the thought, somebody at the bar had bumped somebody and somebody had shoved back.

  Barware flew—and bounced. Rosie’s stocked plastic mugs, not glass. Beer spattered, a plate hit the floor, and the whole bar became a heaving mass of bodies bent on ejecting the outsiders, who were bent on resisting.

  Ross had his own inclinations, but Fallan was by him, and Fallan was too old and brittle for what came next, which was short lengths of roller chain out of pockets and blood mixing with the beer.

  “Fal,” Ross said, heaved himself atop the bar, sitting, and helped Fallan up and over. Rosie himself, who massed about a hundred thirty kilos, braced himself between wall and bar, trying to keep the bar from being rocked off its bolts.

  No need to call the blue-coats. Two of them, those two Rights men, were already in the bar, involved in the mess. It was sure enough more were on the way; and equally sure other crews were getting the word same as the blue-coats.

  Without warning, the overhead lights started flashing, the door pressure-sealed itself, and the public address said: “You will cease and desist immediately. The door will open only when the incident stops
. At that time, officers will be at the door to take complaints.”

  “Hell,” Fallan said. “Damned fools.”

  Worse, they were upset fools. Real upset, not just at the insult, but at everything that had been going on, ever. Sol had built Alpha to be its connection to the stars, and Alpha was being left behind, laughed at because of a ship built on stolen plans that not only couldn’t do what that outsider ship was doing, it couldn’t even leave dock without a tug.

  But Rights wasn’t Alpha’s ship, not the way Galway and the others were. Rights was a newcomer. The others had history, had been loyal to Alpha, kept it alive. They deserved, dammit, respect.

  Hell, Ross thought, Alpha was still as fine a place as the First Stars had. Maybe not as big as Venture and its high ambitions, but still, Alpha was how Sol goods got anywhere, the sole link to the pushers. Alpha still had a lot of people. Goods moved to here and from here. They had a commerce here. They had a value to the universe.

  For now. And that was the true pain every spacer here felt. Because all that would change the day they found viable jump points to Sol—and if the useable point lay between Sol and Alpha, Alpha would survive. If it did not, if they found a jump-point that bypassed Alpha, to, say, Bryant’s or Venture, Alpha would become just one more isolated, insignificant First Star station, fading fast and doomed. Feast or famine, life or death . . . and it could happen tomorrow, or a hundred years from now.

  It was scary, and Ross wasn’t immune from the feeling that ship out there brought. The sense of being left behind, of being mocked for being loyal and honorable to the system that had made their lives possible. If not for Fallan’s presence to restrain him, he feared he’d be just one more damned fool.

  The chaos slowed, sorted itself out. The chains disappeared into pockets, and shouts became narrow-eyed glares. The blue-coats inside managed contact with blue-coats outside, and—finally—they began opening the doors.

  “Galway’s innocent,” Rosie muttered, standing beside them. “Onliest action from the Galways out there was trying to get to you two, and we got the Rights guys to witness it. Just stand pat till the blue-boys sort it out. You all right, Fallan?”

  “Fine,” Fallan said, but he was hurting a bit. Ross could tell, no matter Fallan was good at masking it. Fallan bruised easily—he’d probably gotten any number of bruises, being dragged across the bar, and Ross was sorry for that, sorry, and damned mad about it. You talked about the glory days, about the pusher-ships, and that was Galway’s Nav 1, his Nav 1. Fallan Monahan was off the old pusher Atlas, whose steel and fiber was the bones of Santiago and Qarib. Fallan had seen it all come down, and he was damned good, damned good at his post. Best navigator in the Great Circle, including whatever attitudinal ass was bringing that monster ship in too damned fast. Fallan didn’t deserve to see Alpha disrespected by outsiders bent on God-knew-what business.

  But there wasn’t a damned thing to do about it.

  Bottles had gotten knocked down. Empties had bounced all over the place. Somebody was going to get the bill. There’d be charges for cleanup and business interruption sent to every ship present.

  Ought to be a big one sent to Finity’s End, as Ross Monahan saw it.

  A really . . . really big bill.

  Chapter 1 Section ii

  “I said no citations, sergeant,” Stationmaster Ben Abrezio stared across his desk at his two unwanted visitors. Got a grudging nod from Hewitt as he talked to an enforcer on the scene. “Everyone’s upset, with good reason. Once it’s quiet, just let them out. Your chief is here with me and he concurs.”

  Assent from the far end of the com, and Abrezio sat back in his padded chair, trying not to show his concern.

  Alpha was under attack—not armed attack, but it was a message they were getting from Pell, no doubting it, and the repercussions had already begun.

  Andrew J. Cruz, Vice Admiral Andrew Cruz, Director of the EC’s mega-ship project, had messaged concern when the second Farther Stars ship had come into system. Cruz had phoned in that concern when Mumtaz had arrived, making it three such ships docked at Alpha.

  And Cruz had blazed a fast passage around to EC offices when they’d gotten the wavefront of Finity’s End entering system.

  His own fault, Abrezio supposed. He himself had panicked. He couldn’t deny it. But for good reason. For two agonizing minutes they hadn’t known what had entered, just that it was unexpected and large—and coming in on the FTL zenith vector with a hellish mass. He’d sent that initial data to Cruz, along with the emergency code that should have had Cruz and all Rights ops crew headed up the mast for Rights, prepping for possible evacuation of citizens.

  Instead, before that next wavefront had brought them Finity’s ID, he’d had not only Cruz, but Cruz’s second in command, Project Security Chief Enzio Hewitt, at his office door, Cruz demanding entry, demanding details directly from him, and Hewitt suggesting they all just calm down—damn the man’s arrogance—and shut down access to station control points.

  Hell if! Only a fool cut off all his escape routes.

  But these two didn’t think that way, not even after years of station living. Sol-system born, both of them—hell, Cruz could trace back to the first generation on EC’s precious number one: Earth-bound Sol Station itself. Worse, both had been personally appointed by the head office to handle anything and everything that had to do with Rights. Endorsement like that created at-ti-tude. Not to mention competition within their own elite position. Hewitt, latest come and determinedly staking out his territory, had pushed to extend his administrative functions outside A-mast and onto the Strip, as the place where ships’ crews could get rowdy and “foreign influence” could slip in.

  Endorsement notwithstanding, neither of these silver spooners had any inkling what kind of nerves were involved in what was happening right now. Sitting where Alpha did, near mysteriously abandoned Beta, at the mere mention of which spacers knocked on whatever was available and made whoever had mentioned the unlucky name go out of the room and come back again—Alpha had reason to dislike inbound anomalies.

  Like strange ships entering system with off-the-chart numbers.

  Rights of Man might have spent most of her life docked on A-mast, but she was crewed, she had had a shakedown, they thought they had identified the problem that had caused a premature end to that run, and she could launch—at least in-system—if she had to. The plan was, as Cruz damn-well knew, that if they saw anything, anything, that looked like doomsday arriving, they were to cram everybody they could into The Rights of Man and run like hell for Bryant’s, hoping that navigator and helm got it right this time and the FTL engines didn’t shut down or blow at their first real test.

  That measure wasn’t the Earth Company’s order. It was Ben Abrezio’s. Key personnel knew there was an outright evac notice ready and waiting to send at the push of a button, in a determination not to have his people end up . . . gone, the way Beta’s had disappeared. In Abrezio’s mind, in his occasional nightmares in this job, it was how he would leave this station—just load everybody on and jump for the nearest best hope—Bryant’s Star.

  As happened, it hadn’t been necessary. This time. Next time . . . next time the general alarm rang, if Cruz showed up in his office instead of on Rights . . . damned if he wouldn’t have the man arrested and abandoned on the station for whatever spook wanted him.

  Fifteen minutes, fifteen damned minutes of heart-racing alarm before that leviathan had announced herself as a known ship who didn’t damnwell belong here, a ship coming in hot—so damned hot he had, for the last half hour, still seriously considered issuing that evacuation notice.

  But Andy Cruz—after consulting with Hewitt, who had watched the telemetry in his office with great interest—had assured him it was within parameters, barely, and made it clear he had no intention of leaving this office, let alone evacuating.

  Arrogant. But Cruz’s attitude
was nothing, really, to Hewitt’s, who’d waltzed off Santa Maria seven years ago, and, EC orders in hand, ordered A-mast cleared and Rights to be brought into dock, as he assumed control of A-mast security, Strip security, and any other damn thing he’d decided might impact the safety of the Rights project. Hewitt hadn’t usurped Andy Cruz, oh no. He was just there to support Cruz, who was head of the project and administrator. Procuring materials, equipment, personnel and resources . . . Cruz did that very well.

  No, Hewitt’s ambitions lay elsewhere and Abrezio wondered, at times like this, did Cruz appreciate that? Hewitt had trained as helm on FTL sims all the way from Sol. Not enough to qualify him for a license: sims were sims, and they had none for a mega-ship like Rights—or Finity’s End. But ten years of sims had given Hewitt operational knowledge, knowledge he was more than happy to spread around, and now they had Hewitt lecturing Cruz on the physics of their small red star and bowshocks, and just how close that ship could cut it.

  Hard to tell how Cruz actually felt about that not-always-requested input. Cruz had sent Hewitt on the training voyage, in which Rights crew shadowed the boards of little Qarib to get realtime jump experience—which none of the trainees nor Hewitt himself had ever had, the former never having traveled anywhere outside the system, and Hewitt having come in on a pusher. One had to wonder, in retrospect: had that choice been calculated to bring Hewitt down a notch?

  Because it had not been a happy voyage, and Aki Rahman, captain of Qarib, had flatly said, Never again.

  Cruz, meanwhile, had used the months of Hewitt’s absence to make changes in operations, changes Hewitt was still trying to roll back to his rules. And Hewitt had been vastly put out when Rights’ problem-ridden shakedown cruise had not included the Project Security Chief. Cruz had taken personal control of that one—after ensuring a similar restructuring of protocols could not take place in his absence.