Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Mum’s got her ways, and she’s on his case. Come on. My room this time. We’re right down the hall. Sort of.”

  For a half-cred bet he’d tell her off and leave. But one part of him wanted to stay tagged to Fallan, in case; one part wanted to know what the inside of the Olympian looked like; and there was Jen holding his arm in case he’d forgotten the night he’d spent with her in a cheap one-night room near the clinic—Jen, who’d just said things that, if station police had been listening, and well they might, might just slip it into a file and wait.

  God. Stay with him, Niall had said. That was his rule.

  Find out what Finity’s up to. If he believed Jen, Jen had laid it out for him. However it added, Abrezio wasn’t going to like it, among others.

  He went, passed the door, Jen’s hand linked comfortably with his arm, two spacers headed for a night of doing what spacers did, behind two others.

  Probably the police were listening. And watching. And he hadn’t been thinking about that when they’d sat down to dinner.

  Chapter 8

  Section i

  Buzzer went. JR reached for it, remembered where he was, where the bed was. “Lights,” he said, one of the Olympian’s useful amenities, and lights came up to dim, medium, and full as he found his wristband and punched in.

  W42, it read. 4/13. And 90/90/5. Then: 1.

  Damn. Damn. And damn.

  JR hoisted himself upright against the headboard, keyed 222, and 9090.

  Damned right, 9090. Standing orders. Nobody who got into Finity got out with anything they had brought in.

  Customs agents had got in, this time. At least they had gotten as far as the number 1 e-hatch, in hardsuits. He had no idea what the full story was. But the security team had them, wouldn’t be letting them go without a search, and it was very likely he’d be hearing from somebody on this one.

  Rapid knock and the door opened. Fletcher was there in a bathrobe, and Madison was right behind him.

  JR didn’t bother to key out. If there were more messages, he wanted them. And it was very likely not going to stay as quiet as the last attempt.

  “We’re secure,” he said to his brother captains. “Tell Mum stay with her guest; it’s all right.”

  “They’re persistent,” Fletcher said.

  “Give them that,” JR said wryly. He slid on the wrist unit, sent his own advisement to Mum. “Fletch, Madison, you can probably go back to sleep.”

  “Hell, no,” Fletcher said. “not til we hear the rest of it.”

  “I’m hoping there won’t be a rest of it,” JR said. “And I’m somewhat betting Abrezio’s sound asleep and actually innocent. If you want a job, send runners over to Min, Sanjay, and Asha, and tell them we have an ongoing situation.” The time was 0418. “I’ll meet you in the breakfast room. Let’s not wake the whole hall. We have to trust Walt to handle this.” That was their senior security aboard. “He’ll use his ingenuity. We’ll just cope with it. The only thing I told him was not to hold them longterm: we don’t want any side negotiations with admin.”

  “Walt was saying he wanted a souvenir from Alpha. Worrying about being away from the action.”

  “He’s got his wish,” JR said, reaching for his shirt. “Bring the gear: we’re going to set up for a command conference. Our allies need to be realtime with this.”

  “We’ll be there,” Fletcher said. “Does Mum know?”

  “She’s not in need-to-know this watch; she’s got a guest. I’m sending her a stand-down, along with everybody else.” He was keying as he talked. “We’ve got two Galway crew here tonight and if there’s trouble, I don’t want it to land on them.”

  “This is likely to get noisy before it gets better. Inside, were they?”

  “No question. Walt’s got ’em, checking them for implants and pocket coms.” Those were the standing orders for intruders. “Station is not going to be too happy right now. Account for all crew, no exceptions.”

  Chapter 8 Section ii

  Jen had sat up, Ross realized: he propped himself on an elbow and watched Jen watching something handheld. Pocket com, likely. And in the waking muddle of sleep, he knew he was not in his own room, nor close to it: that he was in the heart of Finity territory, and so was Fallan some ten doors down. Meanwhile something was going on that had Jen sitting on the side of the bed consulting the com.

  “Something wrong?” he said quietly.

  “Not that bothers us,” Jen said.

  “Fallan’s all right.”

  “I’m sure he’s all right. Order is to stay put.”

  The hell, he thought. He swung his feet over his side of the bed and started feeling after clothes.

  Jen leaned across the mattress and put an arm on his shoulder. “Ross, it’s Finity business. If we’d been ordered out, we’d all go, but they won’t want a guest wandering around out there.”

  “Something to do with station?”

  “Something Galway may not want to be tagged with.”

  “You know more than you’re saying.”

  She was a shadow in the dark. A breathing presence. “I’ll tell you the truth I think I know.”

  “What?”

  “Customs tried earlier. They didn’t get in. I think they’re back. Trying to get aboard our ship.”

  “It’s the rules. You leave the mast-access accessible.”

  “For a visit on alterday shift?”

  It was odd. So was anybody locking customs out. “Rules say—you leave the ship open. No layovers aboard. It’s that way. It’s that way everywhere.”

  “Our deck, our rules.” Her arms came about him. “Last thing we want is Galway getting into whatever trouble happens out there. But our rules say: customs—or Rights personnel or whoever—is not going to get access to Finity. No way.”

  “They’ll raise a fuss.”

  “Probably.” Jen’s arms came about him. “It’s cold. Come on, Ross. Back to bed. They won’t tell us a thing. But it’s pretty sure there’s going to be a lot of people yelling at each other come mainday. We’ll just go to breakfast and ignore it. Not your fault. Not Fallan’s. Senior Captain will sort it out. And I assure you we won’t do anything to harm the station. Not our purpose here. Asserting ships’ rights—is.”

  Ships’ rights. Damn. What did that even mean?

  It was cold, outside the covers. He pulled the blanket up and settled down, chafing Jen’s chilled arm, his imagination going out to the mast, to the dark and the cold out there, where you went up to your ship via a lift. Cargo, excepting delicates, moved by utility pusher, out in the uncompromising cold and dark. Finity and two of the outsiders were set up to receive cargo differently, by a process he’d seen only in diagrams. Finity could kick cargo out a hatch, for the little bots to grab and move, and apparently had done, but there was a whole corridor designed for ring-dock operations that by all he could figure wasn’t even hooked up to the station. Ops supposedly went on there while the ship was docked. Executive offices were there.

  “You’ve got people aboard?” he asked.

  “Might have.”

  “What are they going to do if customs forces that lock? And which lock?”

  “The tube-exit we used for egress to the mast, likely. We really hope they won’t do that. Or try any of the e-hatches. That’s all I can say.”

  “You think somebody could get hurt in this?”

  “Possibly.” She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Breakfast with me is optional. If it goes badly—you may want to slip out of here before maindawn, in case station sends in the bluecoats to arrest the lot of us.”

  Slipping out was not his notion of how to handle whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into. Pride was in it. And a lifelong reluctance to run scared of stationers with notions of importance. Jen, while being the trouble he’d gotten himself into, was properly warning him, a
nd it might be smart to get Fallan and get out. She was the assignment Niall had set him, but so was, above all, Fallan’s safety. If it came to a push-shove between Finity and EC Customs, he had choices to make, and priorities to sort, and getting Fallan hurt in a literal push-shove between the outsiders and the station bluecoats was not an option.

  “I might do that. Leave near maindawn. Take Fallan with me. I won’t go without him. And he’s apt to tell me sit down and have breakfast like a proper fool.” He turned over and stared at the invisible ceiling, sprinkled with faintly glowing stars. The Olympian was something. Bed that could sleep six, destined for one. Bath that spent water like it was nothing. Comfortable chairs in two rooms, a computer desk, and a separate room for the bed and lockers. It was truly, truly something. Breakfast probably would be, too, and he was almost resolved to stay and wait for the explosion.

  And for that push-shove . . . EC Customs was no spacer’s friend. If they did decide to give your stuff a going-over, they were guaranteed to leave it a mess. Sometimes they’d hold you up at the lift, accuse you of bringing stuff in to sell, and they might just confiscate personal stuff that might get administratively “lost” when you were headed for boarding on a tight schedule and applied to reclaim your item.

  No, if Finity really was going to take them on, Finity could sell tickets for that match.

  Fallan would buy, he was fairly well sure.

  He heaved a deep sigh.

  “You upset?” Jen asked.

  “No. Just thinking about breakfast, and what would be smart.”

  “Just ride it out here. Finity’s not going to buckle, I’ll guarantee you that.”

  He wished he could be as confident about Galway’s situation. Ships were signing with Finity. Galway was the only one that hadn’t. And now what?

  JR Neihart had opened with a pitch for Rights to go to local spacers. And now he was butting heads with the most disliked of EC institutions. Which was all well and good until somebody went a step too far and the chains and the tasers came out. They had one hell of a big ship and its allies hard-docked on B-mast, Rights on the A-mast, and if, God forbid, one of the two mega-ships decided to assert itself . . .

  Forced boarding . . .

  Finity had tube-docked here, she’d said. Flimsy old-fashioned tube-dock to a small forward airlock, the way they still docked at Glory. Scary place for Customs to use cutters, if they thought they’d get access the hard way. And if not through the hatch . . . how?

  There were other ports on a ship. There sometimes needed to be. And the cargo portal. Ships were vulnerable that way. No emergency hatch was ever locked. So if customs wanted in really badly—there was actually nothing stopping them, on any ship he knew.

  He’d never seen a ring-dock. Or the apparatus that linked to it. He wanted to ask Jen how Finity actually did dock at such places. A technical question. But under the circumstances, it was probably too sensitive a question.

  It might not be just a customs inspection at issue. Given the design of Rights and the nature of Finity, more than customs undoubtedly wanted inside. That was not a thought that led back to a quiet sleep.

  Their deck, they said. Their ways. Their rules. And he had no doubt now that there were Finity personnel still aboard who weren’t going to let customs—or anyone else—in. So he and Fallan could be sitting here with some sort of messages getting to the crew here in the Olympian, all waiting for an EC try at taking the ship.

  And what did he do and what did Fallan do, being where they were, with what was going on?

  If he and Fallan headed for Niall now—from here—they carried the problem with them.

  Stay put, he thought, and recalling the Finity crew quietly playing cards in Crit Mass while the world outside rumbled—Stay put, stay quiet, and if somebody official noticed, well, they’d try to be dignified, business as usual . . . at least until all hell broke loose.

  “I think we’ll stay for breakfast,” he said.

  “Good,” Jen said, and hugged him tight, head under his chin. “That’s probably smart. Get some sleep. You and me, Fallan and Mum, nobody heard a thing.”

  Chapter 8 Section iii

  Calls at 0430 hours were never good news. Abrezio felt after the com on the nightstand.

  “Ben?” Callie asked.

  He found the unit, pushed the buttons in succession and got, in text, “Customs entered ship Finity’s End at 0349. Violations found. Communications out, agents’ situation unknown. Situation ongoing.”

  “Ben?”

  “I don’t know,” Abrezio said. “I don’t damned well know. Customs! Damned idiots! Lights!”

  “Ben—”

  Abrezio threw himself out of bed, grabbed his robe. “I’m going to the office. Go back to sleep, if you can, Callie. It’s nothing you can do.”

  He headed for the bathroom and the closet, in that order, com in his pocket, dreading another beep. He didn’t shave. He had a razor in the office. He flung on clothes, proper suit: if he had to knock heads, he couldn’t do it in casuals.

  “Should I worry?” Callie called forlornly.

  “Honey, I don’t know.” He came back to the bedroom, shrugging his jacket into order. “I told Cruz to hold off. Diplomacy’s in serious jeopardy right now, and I need to talk to the Neiharts. There is something you can do. Call Ames and tell him get to the office. I need him.”

  “I’ll do it,” Callie said, and emphatically, as he turned for the door: “Call me if there’s anything else I can do. Promise. I’m up.”

  He lifted a hand, silent thank you, and left. No breakfast, no tea, no waiting for information to get to his private com. He flipped to his office mode and the stack of messages arriving was scrolling off the screen as he hurried out the door, and down the corridor, headed to the office, trying to control his breathing, not to arrive in evident distress.

  Ames wasn’t there. Security was. The officer scrambled to his feet.

  “Sir. There’s something going on in B-mast.”

  “I believe there is,” he said calmly, then palm-printed the lock on the executive section. “My secretary will be coming. Advise me of anybody else who shows up.”

  He kept walking. Lights came on, presence-activated. He opened his office, shivered in the slight chill the place acquired in alterday, and sat down at his desk. The computer came on automatically, showing 122 in the message-waiting overlay in the corner.

  He didn’t want to wade through them. No way. “Computer. Christophe Mabele,” he said to the system. That was the alterday B-mast security head, and presumably in charge. “Location. Status.”

  “Christophe Mabele. B-Mast office.”

  “Contact Christophe Mabele. Visual up.”

  Stupid machine. Stupid system. It couldn’t tell him Mabele’s situation. He had a vid image of a desk, police moving about, a computer voice calling on Mabele. Mabele’s face appeared, unhappy man, with the ceiling lights in the background and a number of people shouting in the vicinity.

  “Mr. Mabele,” Abrezio said. “What in hell’s going on?”

  “Sir.” Long pause. Mabele was unshaven. And sweating. “We have lost contact with the team. We’re trying to learn their status.”

  “Start at the top, Mr. Mabele.”

  “I’m trying to get the facts myself, sir. Finity’s End has a locked hatch. They’ve refused access.”

  Finity’s End was not a name he wanted to hear in a crisis. “I’m aware. What team and why are they missing?”

  “Customs team went out the B-mast main lock, sir. Toward Finity’s End. With a utility pusher.”

  Ship’s emergency accesses were the only logical objective. “Who authorized that?”

  “Director Maclean, sir.”

  Maclean was alterday Customs Director. “Put him on.”

  “He’s out of contact, sir. I think he’s suiting up
to go out there.”

  “Nobody’s suiting up until I get an explanation. Tell whoever’s with him stand down, stand off, and tell me who in hell suggested they should use an emergency hatch?”

  “I’m trying to find out myself, sir.”

  “Get to it. Stop Maclean. Get me an answer. And nobody goes outside until I clear it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He clicked out. Saw, by the green telltale on his desk, that Ames was at his console, outside.

  “Ames!”

  “Sir?” Ames appeared in the open doorway.

  “If I have a call from JR Neihart I want to take it. Has he called?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Put him through if he does. I’ll take calls from anybody that’s got information on Finity’s End and the Customs Office.”

  Ames stared a moment as if he had a question, then, as if he decided against asking, left the doorway.

  The multiple messages backed up in the phone queue were from Maclean, Mabele, and the alterday Cargo Office, probably regarding a utility pusher, whose proper job was snagging zero-cold cargo and shifting it to a mast portal. It was not a transport device for customs agents deciding to violate the emergency hatches of a politically sensitive visitor. And who had roused out a customs team at this hour, with no new ship in?

  He wanted a drink. It wasn’t the hour or the situation that made it any sort of good idea. His gut hurt, and that was unmitigated tension.

  He decided on strong, sugared tea. He made it for himself, letting Ames stay at his post, fending off what needed diversion, monitoring the security sifter channel for any surge in any topic in the regular areas of the station as well as the Strip. “Finity” was a word bound to surge once information got out.

  He waited. He had word from Mabele that Maclean was coming to the offices, back into the station ring. He had word that there was still no communication with the team, but that the utility pusher was still grappled to the safety bars beside Finity’s personnel emergency hatch.