Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  Put Cruz in charge after him? God help humanity.

  Damned right he’d fight to hold Alpha and keep Sol from making its habitual mistakes. He’d reached that conclusion long since.

  Now—it was beyond any change of mind. The data had flown. But that decade it might take Sol to get that message and respond . . . still gave Cruz time to solve the problem of that ship and get it in operation.

  If only, he’d begun to think last night, there were a faster way to get that information to Sol. If only that route were operational, he could get Sol in here in about a year, and have himself clearly the hero of the operation. End speculation, put power solidly in his own hands, in the hands of someone who could administer Alpha sanely—someone who could deal with Pell rationally and keep everybody safe.

  And he’d realized, last night, there might be a way . . . for a high, very high-stakes gambler.

  “Early, sir.” It was Ames arriving at his usual time.

  “Had some thinking to do.”

  “Tea, sir? Breakfast roll, maybe? Missed breakfast, myself.”

  “Tea,” he said. “Just tea, for me.” A breakfast roll meant a trip down the lift to the service bar, but Ames wasn’t essential for the upcoming meeting with Niall Monahan. And on that thought, he added: “Go get a decent breakfast. Take at least an hour.”

  Chapter 10 Section iv

  “So,” Monahan said, when he’d accepted the cup of tea and settled opposite the desk. “Your message.”

  “Yes,” Abrezio said. He pushed the buttons that locked the door and cut off communication with Ames’ desk: Ames, if he did come back inconveniently, would see a clear do not disturb.

  “So is there a problem?” Monahan asked.

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Monahan took a sip of tea. And looked quizzical.

  “This is in strictest confidence,” Abrezio said. He set his cup down. “Can I rely on you?”

  “We made the choice to be Alpha-based, though we’ve had opportunities elsewhere, and overall, have no regrets. You’ve treated us right over the years.”

  “You’ve been honest. And reliable. We’re grateful for the loyalty, and we hope if there are any negatives, we’ve dealt with them.”

  “So far, yes, sir. We have no grievance with station.”

  Plain man, a plain answer. There was always, always stationer and spacer, and that was a wide gulf. But not nearly so wide as the gulf between himself and Andy Cruz. Monahan was not Andy Cruz, nor anything like him. He’d be proud to share a history-making moment with Niall Monahan.

  “Captain, I want you to understand, before I say anything, that you do not have to hear this information—but that if you do—you will not divulge it. You will not share it with fellow captains or family until I give you clearance. I am about to make you an offer requiring absolute discretion—” It was formula, a legal notice; he had rarely applied it, but he knew it by heart. “If you do not wish to hear that offer, refuse now. If you violate the order of silence you and any persons receiving or believed to have received that information in any form will be placed in isolation until the situation you could affect resolves itself. And the situation could be of long duration. I can say that there is great advantage to you and your crew in your hearing it. But once you do, consider yourself locked into a contract of silence, breach of which or suspected breach of which, will place you beyond the reach of civil law or legal relief. Violate that trust in any regard and you will, in effect, be detained and isolated. Understand that if you do accept it—you will be given favored status. In effect, we need you. We are willing to reward your ship extravagantly. And it involves a voyage of considerable risk.”

  Lengthy pause this time. Monahan took down the tea sip by sip. Down to empty.

  “I’ll hear it,” Monahan said, “if you’ll answer one thing in advance. Does it route us to Pell?”

  Guessing, beyond that route, and that contact, was not hard.

  “If I answer you yes or no, you’re legally committed. Do you want to walk out now?”

  A lengthy pause. A sip of tea, and a moment of thought. “I’ll hear it.”

  “Sol,” Abrezio said. And Monahan didn’t flinch.

  “You have the coordinates?”

  “We have. As yet, they’re untested. It’s a risk. It’s also the most lucrative run you could ever make.”

  Deep, deep breath. Two of them. “Well,” Monahan said. “How solid is the information?”

  “We think very solid.”

  “You think. There’s been a probe?”

  “No,” Abrezio said. “It’s untested. If it works, you’ll be back inside a year, year and a half.”

  “Assuming we get back.”

  “It’s a double risk. A two-hop.”

  “But you think it’s good.”

  “A scientist thinks it’s good. And from the first hop, you may be able to get optics on the second. His note, not mine.”

  “Assuming no glitches on the other end. Assuming Sol doesn’t think we’re a spook from Beta and blast us into the hereafter. We can’t warn them we’re coming. Also assuming they won’t have a long debate about it all and want to hold us ten years for information.”

  “They have FTL in theory, have had since Pell passed the specs on. It’s only logical to think they’ve been building something. Probes . . . without question, to be ready to test any potential jump points they find. Ships most likely, whether mega-ships based on the Finity blueprints or something to their own design using the theory. What they don’t have is information. And the really critical lack—they don’t have a crew that’s not just passenger load on a bot.”

  Monahan was quiet for a moment, staring into space. Then he leaned back. “Understand, if we take this on, we’re not going to do it for free, and we’re not going to be held there teaching them what we know. Just like Gaia, we’re not going to have them messing with our ship or our crew . . . not going to have them boarding us.”

  “I can’t guarantee anything the Sol office might take into their minds to do, but you will be the ones with those coordinates and if they want them, they’ll have to deal with you. You can pick your time to tell them anything and you set your conditions. I’ll be honest with you: I’ve transmitted the data, but you’ll beat the message and be back here before they get it. You can also tell them, and I’ll be sending communications with you to this effect, that there are serious problems here, with the station and with the project and with the personnel they sent, and we need communication, back and forth, them to me, to knit up what’s not been connected in a long, long time. As is, you’re how they’re going to get that message. You’ll be the only ship that can assuredly get back, and you can tell them with some authority that you’re their only source of FTL instruction, which can only be done at working boards, in transit, and by working crew. Am I accurate, since sims have not rendered Rights crew competent to manage even a little ship like Qarib?”

  Monahan’s right brow lifted—at that statement, from him. But he wasn’t oblivious. He’d heard the talk. Besides the fact that Qarib had refused to sign the papers for Hewitt’s crew, which pretty much said it all.

  “You would be accurate, sir. Sims can keep experienced crew in shape, but first few runs, they’d be safer with a bot in charge. Untrained perception can really mess with your mind and your common sense.”

  “You’ll go with a complete report on the Qarib debacle, and on the situation with Rights, and with Admiral Cruz, and Hewitt, and the delicacy of our dealings with Pell, not driving them into the arms of Cyteen—no credit to Enzio Hewitt. Confidentiality is expected on that report, as well. It’ll be under my executive seal. Electronic transmission: you won’t have any responsibility for delivering it personally. They may ask you your opinion. My advice to them is—deal carefully and respectfully with Pell. They don’t want the consequences if it goes
the other way. And you can express that in plainer terms with my blessing.”

  “I haven’t said I’ll go.”

  “If I weren’t quite certain of your answer, I’d never have asked you here.” He paused, then: “That’s not quite true. I hope to God I read you correctly. I’m desperate, Captain. I’m responsible for the lives and well-being of everybody involved on Alpha and beyond. I’m prepared to do what I have to do to protect them from the future men like Andrew Cruz will bring them. I have one shot and this is it. If not Galway, then another ship, and until that’s settled, I’m sorry, but deal or no deal, I’d have to keep you in isolation until that information has succeeded—or failed. I had rather you have this opportunity, and succeed at it, and get us an understanding at least as far as Gaia got out of Sol. I trust you. I have confidence in you. I had rather have you on your way, and untouchable. In all the risk in this, that is a certain safety . . . granted the data is sound.”

  “I could leave here. Never come back. Sell the information you’ve already given me to Pell.”

  “And without the coordinates, it’s just one more rumor, and you won’t have those until you board your ship.”

  “Nothing to make me use them.”

  “Except your honor. Your curiosity.”

  “Quite.” A slight, humorless smile. “And the compensation?”

  “Immortality. Reputation. History. You’ll be the ship that got through. And in financial terms you’ll write your own ticket, for modernizations, cargo, you name it. You’ll be our favorite and only son. I know Finity’s offering you a deal. I’m offering you a riskier one, and I think a better one, with an everlasting name to go with it.”

  “Everlasting glory. Or its reverse, in some eyes. Supposing we survive the trip.”

  “If those numbers are good, Captain, it’s already inevitable that Sol will come. The information will get there, down the Stream. The question is—whether Alpha gets to receive a response during my tenure. I’m not young, and I believe Admiral Cruz sees the entire station as nothing more than the support frame for that damned ship, while Hewitt—is on his own mission. Six-plus years is a long time to keep a secret on Alpha. You understand. If it becomes known, it may become known in such a way that all sorts of political forces get into play, not to the good of this station, which is my deepest concern. Once it hits the Strip—all bets are off, and our ships and our supply and the willingness of Pell to supply us all become a question. I want it done, I want it done fast enough that I will still be sitting here to advise what comes back to us. I want a responsible crew to be able to inform whatever Sol sends us that there is a lot to learn, that we look forward to close and frequent contact, and that we have experience and contacts useful to them.”

  “And that you aren’t Cruz,” Monahan said grimly.

  “Is that meant positively?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. Entirely positively. You aren’t Cruz and you aren’t Hewitt.”

  “Will you do it, Captain?”

  Monahan stared into his teacup. Finally: “If I say yes, I’ll be wanting something stronger than this. I’ll be a fool. But I’m a fool for sitting here in the first place.”

  “Essential crew. I wouldn’t ask anything else.” He wanted to plead. He would plead. But Monahan was balanced on a thin edge, yes and no. And the only recourse he himself had was unacceptable—to hand the data to Finity’s End and Pell and only hope the Konstantins decided not to destroy every station between them and Sol, ripping up the whole ancient pathway simply by withholding supply. And only hope that the knowledge didn’t immediately tip Cyteen into bitter rivalry with Pell. It was all so delicately balanced. It all depended on a set of personalities in positions to know things, make decisions, and send the whole human race on a course of live and let live, or send it down the old, cold path of suspicion and violence.

  “Essential crew only. My shift. I’ll expect all the Monahans to be kept here at no charge, and to be sent on to Venture, if we don’t make it. We’ve got contacts at Venture. We have some history there.”

  “You’re a brave man, Captain.”

  Monahan shrugged. “I’m none of that until I talk to my Family. Them, I’ll have to tell.”

  Abrezio took in a breath.

  “Mr. Director, sir, if they won’t back me, that’s that. Do what you like to us all, and we’ll all take a pusher-trip to Sol, if that’s your solution—but I’ll tell you my terms. I’ll do it because it’s what has to happen. I’ll tell my whole Family because that’s the way we are. My Family will keep the secret till I’m away because that’s who we are. And I’ll do it the way you ask, jump with one shift, keeping the secret tight until we leave, because it’s asking enough to risk some of us: none of us would risk all of us being shipped out to Sol. Anybody can follow us if they like. But we’re already fueled: it’s the outsiders that have stalled our final process. We’re carrying cargo, but it’s low mass and that’s to the good, on our journey. We’ve food for the entire family for Alpha to Bryant’s to Glory and back, which is also to the good. Should we encounter problems, we’ll have enough to keep us until we find a solution. We can be out of here and on our way tomorrow, and nobody to break the secret before we go. Our own won’t betray us.”

  He hadn’t been prepared for Monahan to revise the terms on him . . . but Alpha had history with the Monahans, and they’d been honest all the way. Telling the whole Family—as the man said: it was their own safety potentially at risk if word got to wrong places. And shipping a hundred fifty-odd unwilling people on a pusher for a decade was—beyond unmanageable.

  “I won’t want to be walking around with the coordinates in my pocket,” Monahan said further, “and I do want a meeting with Finity. I want you to know it. If worst happens and we don’t get back—Finity’s the one doing this insurance. I want to sign with them, up front and plain. I want my Family inside that agreement—so if we don’t get back, there’s a means to get them on to Venture that won’t depend on charity and won’t rest on whatever situation might develop at Alpha once Galway’s mission goes public. I can’t justify my doing this otherwise.”

  That was an immense risk—any contact with Finity’s End; but it was a few days; it didn’t involve possession of the coordinates; and if it got Galway away and beyond reach—hell, there were worse risks to his administration, and the chiefest one was Cruz, with Hewitt close behind. Put the coordinates and the mission beyond Cruz’s reach, and he could sleep at night.

  “Agreed,” he said. “Agreed, Captain.”

  “Then I’ll take that shot of Scotch, sir. I’ll be honored to share one with you.”

  “Liquid breakfast for us both, captain.”

  “Not my first,” Monahan said.

  “Nor mine,” Abrezio said. “And having agreed, I may take the day off and go home and sleep, which I didn’t do much of last night. I’ll do no more important business today than this. None in my whole tenure, for that matter.” He got up, went to the buffet, and brought back two whiskeys, handing one to Monahan and resuming his desk chair. “To our agreement, Captain. To honesty. To the Monahans, one and all.”

  “To you, sir, in all respect.”

  “I’ll draw up agreements and a report you’ll carry. With any luck you can be back in a little over a year, covered in glory. Probably they’ll be sending some EC staff that you’ll have access to for the duration of the voyage. Give them a good impression of us. Bring them here in a helpful frame of mind. Get them to understand what’s gone on and convert them. I hope you will.”

  “We’re a persuasive lot,” Monahan said. “We’ll do our best.”

  He had a good feeling about Monahan—an understanding of the needs that drove him. The notion of involving the outsiders—he would have refused, except he trusted that what he’d feared at first, that Pell had somehow found out they had the coordinates—wasn’t the case. Cruz didn’t know, and if nothing
had leaked on Alpha, it was reasonable to think that nothing had leaked outside Alpha. Finity’s purpose seemed this notion of insuring the Families . . . and it did make sense.

  FTL had changed things, sped up voyages, created a multitude of ships that flitted in, drank, caroused, and went their way again without a care in the world for the stations that they visited; and no close relations with stationers at all. Sleepovers between crew produced offspring who could only say their fathers were probably of a certain ship but not necessarily know a name. Stations held to things like marriage, and property, and such—the old values. FTLers owed some of their loose ways to the pusher crews, who were free and easy once they docked; but these matrilineal spacer Families were overall a rougher lot. No respect for anything, stationers were wont to say of them. Morals of a spacer was an insult.

  But by their own rules, spacers were honest, and they did look after their own, and in this situation he was more ready to trust the Monahans than some born and bred stationers he knew, for both honesty and common sense.

  As for some committee straight from Sol, with all their assumptions of entitlement—

  Having Sol come charging in full-scale, with no good concept of the delicate relationship between the Konstantins of Pell and the Emorys of Cyteen—with all the stations dependent on them . . .

  Sol had no concept.

  With the well-spoken Monahans breaking it to them gently over the course of the voyage that the colonies and spacers had different ways, but were good people—that was not a bad thing.

  Reliable trade with Sol, with its resources . . . that was going to send shockwaves through that delicate relationship, but prosperity would follow. As JR Neihart had said in that first meeting, these spacers . . . these rowdy merchanters . . . might well be humanity’s best hope for a peaceful existence in space.

  He began to see the true value of the proposed alliance of merchanters—beyond the obvious value to the merchanters themselves. Properly handled . . . the stations would benefit as much as the ships.