Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Passed out, maybe,” he heard, and: “Faceplate’s a mess. Get him into the warm and let’s get him out of that rig.”

  “Cruz,” he said again, on a liquid breath. He wasn’t sure if they heard him. He thought, dimly, that they hadn’t.

  They towed him through the inner hatch, and he had the drifting, streaked view of an overhead light, a wall, bodies around him. Somebody steadied him, and somebody worked with his suit to get the helmet up and back.

  He saw light and faces then. “Get a towel,” somebody said. “Hell, get a towel.”

  Dark beads were floating around him, escaped from him, from the helmet, he wasn’t sure. “Catch that,” somebody said. “Here. It’s mostly clean.”

  They applied pressure to his forehead. It hurt. Felt raw.

  “Cruz,” he said, clear as he could manage. “Andrew Cruz got aboard.”

  “Aboard Galway? You Galway, kid?” And to the side: “What’s it say on the suit?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Galway’s outbound. To Sol.”

  “Good lovin’ God,” one said. “Call JR.”

  “Yes,” he said, trying to nod his head. “Call. Help. Tell JR . . .”

  Somebody left, sailing off elsewhere.

  “Are you bleeding anywhere else?” one face asked him.

  “Dunno,” he said at first. Then, as he thought back: “No.”

  “He’s been breathing it into his lungs,” somebody else said. Female voice. “Get him out of that.”

  “JR,” he said, fighting to hold the thought, as another coughing fit threatened. “Got a message for the captain.”

  “Call’s going out.” Sam was the name on his work blues, and he held the towel to Ross’s mouth until the fit was over. “Easy, kid. Easy.”

  Hands worked to get him out of the hard-suit, piece by piece disassembly, no automation here, wherever “here” was.

  Ross shut his eyes a moment and mustered the sense to say, “I’ve got the numbers. Nav 1 gave me the numbers.” He had an arm and chest free. He patted his jacket, felt the presence of the paper, the paper on which so much depended. “Got it. Got to tell—”

  “That’s happening right now,” Sam said. “Come on, just leave that rig.” And as the cloth on his forehead lifted: “Damn. That’s clear to the bone. Let’s get him up to the offices and get some gel on it. Needs a medic, soonest.”

  Chapter 14 Section v

  Galway was moving out, hard burn, and the first cluster of Monahans was back on the Strip, calling for a transport for their senior-seniors and youngests.

  And answering questions. Why? What had happened?

  And the simple answer they gave was, in some instances, cheerfully, in high spirits, “They’re goin’ to Ireland,” and in others simply, “First shift’s going to Sol. They got the numbers.”

  Word of that flew by runner and pocket com, like a fire loose on the Strip.

  JR’s com had messages backed up from Little Bear, Mumtaz, Nomad, Santiago, Firenze, and Qarib. But the one from Finity’s End, all numbers, prioritied its way in.

  The codes said major trouble, Galway, and security emergency. Send crew.

  Damn. No idea what that was.

  “Fletch,” he sent the call out. “Go to the mast. Code red. Scramble ten.”

  Then he called Abrezio’s office.

  Chapter 14 Section vi

  “Captain Neihart is on one,” Ames said, regarding the call.

  Abrezio sat at his desk, staring at the wall, thinking about the bottle of Scotch in the cabinet and telling himself recourse to it was the stupidest response he could make.

  There was flatly nothing—nothing—to do, except to try to minimize the shock to Alpha’s two constituencies, to keep everybody calm, assuring them it was a known situation and they were working on it.

  He’d had calls from ops, calls from scheduling, upset that Galway was not observing the schedule. But news was already loose on the Strip, the happy version, that didn’t involve Andy Cruz. That was also the version that was hitting the stationer channels so far as he was able to tell.

  But Neihart calling—Neihart having his own observers much nearer Galway than he was—he feared that was not going to be the happy version.

  He picked up. “Captain Neihart?”

  “Serving notice we’ve had a code red scramble to the mast. Something Galway’s done has involved our ship, and Finity security is en route. Request station not interfere.”

  God, had they clipped Finity on pull-back? What in hell was going on?

  “Acknowledged, Captain. I’ll personally see to it. Immediately.” Cruz had hijacked Galway, done God-knew-what, and Galway had the coordinates. Cruz was going to come back as Sol’s golden boy, granted anybody ever came back. And when he did . . .

  He had maybe a year to hold office. Minimum. A year to find a way to counter whatever mess Cruz brought back with him.

  Give the coordinates to JR Neihart? Right now?

  He needed to think.

  “Give me a call when you know something,” he said. “Keep me informed. Please.”

  Chapter 14 Section vii

  Coughing wouldn’t stop. Sam had looked it up and said he should cough, having breathed in what he had, but every coughing fit made Ross’s head throb, and made him lose track of what he needed to say. They’d applied gel to the wound and a gauze wrap, which didn’t stop the hurt, but it stopped the blood running down into his eyes. They said it was nasty. They said he needed a scan and a medic, and they said they were sending him down the mast.

  “Got to talk to your captain,” he protested. “Got to.” He didn’t know what Finity could do, fast as she was. There was no way to stop a ship without killing people. And he wasn’t sure he was making sense to anybody, but getting back to the Strip and getting to Finity officers—that was at least the right direction.

  “Should we clean him up?” the dark man asked.

  “Evidence,” Sam said. “Whatever happened, for the record, let ’em see. C’mon, Galway, let’s get you down to help.”

  “Jen,” he remembered, as they slung arms about him and towed him toward the exit. “Jen Neihart.”

  “There’s four Jens, two Jennies and a Jennifer,” one said. “You got a specific?”

  “Security Jen.”

  “Allie’s Jen. Little Jen. Yeah, they got a security unit coming. She might be with them.”

  “Wrap him up. It’s colder ’n hell’s hinges out there. He’s already shocky.”

  He didn’t have a say in it. They put a thermal blanket around him, arms, head, and all, and he just let go and let them, drifting, sheltered in the dark of the blanket, dark as space. In intermittent moments he thought he was there again, but he heard their voices, and reminded himself, past the beat of his pulse in his skull, he was going the right direction.

  “All right, Galway, we’re going to move now. We’re orienting your feet to the lift, got it?”

  “Yeah,” he said, and with a crash and a thump, the lift engaged, and there was floor under his feet. He wasn’t doing well at balance, but they were holding him. He wanted to see where he was, but it was bitter cold, and the blanket actively gave him warmth—it was all right. A long ride, the whole length of the mast, and a sensation of rising.

  Until it stopped, and doors opened, and he needed to walk. He tried, and a helpful hand pulled the blanket from around his face so he could see where he was going. Sounds came and went strangely. Echoed in his head. There were moving figures, a blurry wall of them. His eyes were watering.

  “Ross!” a voice said, and it was Jen, right near him. “God, what happened?”

  “Cruz,” he said, one word that explained everything. “Got to tell your captain.”

  Arms came around him, blanket and all, not enough to hold him up, he didn’t think, and he was starting to need t
hat. “Coordinates,” he said, and the cough took over. He patted his chest, where they rested. “Here.”

  Another arm took him up, strong and able. “Get him to the Olympian,” a man said, “and don’t answer questions. Get him on the trolley. Move.”

  Hadn’t used the trolley since he was a junior-junior. They brought him to it, he shed the blanket, grabbed one of the poles, and sat on the edge of it and Jen sat with him, while the others stood, holding to the uprights. It spared him questions—but not stares. The bandage was conspicuous. His jacket was bloody. He was. His hair was sticky with it. But the trolley outpaced onlookers—dizzying ride, it was. He gripped the stanchion hard, let his eyes shut when the dizziness hit.

  Concussed, he thought. Very likely. Lot of blood. He didn’t know how much had gone into the hardsuit. He was eyes-shut and wobbly as the trolley braked to a halt and Jen urged him to get up. Somebody else said hold the entry and don’t let anybody in.

  That was all right. He was having trouble enough staying on his feet. A little motion-sick, he thought. And the hall was tilting alarmingly. But there was a down, which was better than none at all, and there was air and light, and somebody was saying Finity’s medics were going to have a look at him.

  “JR,” he insisted, and Jen tightened her arm about his ribs and said, “First thing. Hold on, Ross, don’t pass out on us. We’re nearly there.”

  Chapter 14 Section viii

  It was still not too late to scramble a crew to Finity and interfere with Galway. They were that much faster. They could, a fact they preferred not to give out, considerably overjump another ship in transit.

  Was it a risk they wanted to run, on untested coordinates—if they could get the numbers out of Abrezio—and get them accurately?

  There were pros and cons, very serious ones on both sides of the balance.

  Galway had sent them, evidently, a message, in the battered person of their first-shift third nav—and seeing him guided into the makeshift office and set into a chair, the question of next moves was in the balance.

  “Cruz,” was the first thing Ross Monahan said. “Got aboard. Blue-coats.” Coughing convulsed him, painfully so, and Jen hurried to get him water. He spilled a deal of it, drank, got the coughing quiet. “Sir. Fallan said—bring you the paper.” He handed the cup to Jen, reached into his inner jacket pocket, fished deep, and came up with a paper, crumpled and blood-smeared. “Coordinates. Sir.” Then: “Fallan said—you’ll get your two years. Whatever that means. He said—they’ll be slow out of jump. There’s two jumps. And if there’s no choice, Fallan said—he’ll screw the entry. This paper—it’s the numbers. It’s what we’ve got—” Coughing took over. Water quelled it. “Fal said—we own all the buttons. Said—if he has to do it—he’ll screw a decimal.”

  Others had come into the room. Madison. Johnny. Mum. They stood quietly to hear what Ross Monahan said.

  Mum folded her arms, took a deep, steadying breath, “He’d do it,” Mum said. “Won’t write those coordinates down, no. He won’t need to.” There was a trail of moisture down mum’s cheek, nothing in her expression. “They’d be fools to mess with him. Or Galway’s Senior Captain. Fallan says he’s smart. Station-born crew—never jumped? They’ll be puking their guts out.”

  Silence, then, except Ross’s attempts to quiet the cough.

  JR looked at the paper. Blood had gotten onto it, but the numbers were clear. He folded it, pocketed it. Finity’s nav team could check it out.

  The balance was tipped. Finity wouldn’t break dock. Galway’s crew was alive. Was going to fight as canny spacers fought—and do some desperate, very nasty fighting when they came out of jump, while the mental fog was still thick. If Galway’s crew won the fight—they’d see each other again. If Cruz and his trainee crew lost Fallan, and thought they were going to jump Galway back to Alpha, when they hadn’t managed Rights or, equally notoriously, Qarib, nobody would hear from Galway again. An unkind universe didn’t give special leeway to fools.

  “The question is,” Fletcher said, “where does Abrezio stand in all this? Was Galway double-crossed?”

  “We’ll find out. He didn’t hesitate when I asked for security clearance for—” JR lifted his chin toward young Ross, who was trying hard to keep his eyes open and focused, but those eyes shifted to him, nonetheless, squeezed tight, and opened again. “You think it was Abrezio?”

  “Don’t know, sir. Cruz. Hiding back in the crew lounge, what I think.” His brow twitched and he winced. “Guns. Came from behind us.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” JR set a hand on the bowed shoulder, pressed slightly and felt it heave, then relax as Ross’s eyes drifted again.

  “We’ve got the numbers,” JR said to his crew. “We could catch them, we could try to clip a vane, but that’s risking us and them, and God knows what Cruz would try. My bet’s on Galway crew.” Alby had shown up, Finity’s surgeon, with staff. They were waiting. They didn’t have facilities in the sleepover for more than sprains and bruises. But they could take privileges at the clinic down the Strip. “Ross.” He pressed again, getting the boy’s attention. “I have a deal with your senior; and indirectly, with your Nav 1, and we owe you—we owe you and all the Monahans beyond telling, right now. We promised Niall we’d look out for you; and we will, whatever it takes. I want to send you down to the station clinic with our med staff. I’ll be calling in the Monahan captains and telling them what’s happened, and keeping promises, top to bottom. If there’s anything we can do for you else, we’ll do it—but best we just get you looked at soonest.” Shock was evident, and the bandage was turning pink with blood the gel wasn’t quite stopping. “Jen. Go with him.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jen said. “Mike. Lucien.”

  They got him up. They got him to the door, but it was clear Ross wouldn’t be walking to the clinic.

  “Get a trolley,” JR said.

  “We have one waiting,” Fletcher said, as Ross and company cleared the door. Fletcher lingered. So did Madison and Johnny and Mum, who quietly took seats.

  “Two years,” Mum said. “Fallan’s got a plan. Depend on it.”

  “We’ve got time—I hate to say, whether or not they make it,” Madison said. “It won’t be any one-year trip.”

  “He’ll do it,” Mum said, arms folded, jaw set.

  “I’m hoping, with you, these are good numbers. First well’s a bit scary—too many unknowns in there—but should be doable. Sol’s going to get them in six years, whether or not. But we’ll figure two years. And that will be enough. When word goes out Sol’s coming—be it in two or three years, or twice that, once we can give them the expectation and the facts, the Beyond will start believing it. And we’ve got a potent argument for preparedness.”

  “Rights,” John said, “is a potent argument for preparedness. No merchanter, no station, can look at that ship’s configuration and say it’s been built for cargo. There’s no more someday, no more wait and see how it shakes out. It’s shaken. It’s on us. We organize, or not.”

  “What’s just happened to Galway will tip any sane merchanter over the line.” Madison said. “No one, no one wants to live with the threat of EC pirates commandeering their ship. Infuriating as it is, win or lose on those numbers, she’s got her place in history, and it’s not to the EC’s credit.”

  “Right now, we have work to do,” JR said. He glanced at Mum, who didn’t want to discuss things, not right now, maybe not for weeks, and at Madison and John. “I have to talk to the Monahans’ acting senior, first off and personally. He needs to know, from us. Call Min. He can pass the word where it needs to be, and we’re going to have to keep the lid on crews’ reactions. I also need to talk to Abrezio. About in that order. Use this office and the adjacent.”

  “I’ll take Min,” Madison said.

  “Firenze,” John said.

  “Mum, can you take the conn?”

 
Translation: handle every loose end, deal with the unexpected. Mum gave a nod, neat and sharp. Stab in the heart, that news from Galway, but Mum prioritized. There had been days as bad. Some worse. There was still hope in this one.

  “I’m calling Owen Monahan,” JR said, “and I’ll be meeting with the Family. Rosie’s is their turf; I’ll go there. Then I’ll be seeing Abrezio and asking questions. If I don’t like what I hear . . .” He looked at each in turn, and didn’t bother completing the sentence.

  “We’re on it,” Madison said.

  Chapter 15

  Section i

  They had one Galway crewman in the number one clinic, with a Finity medical crew insisting on taking over—it was their right with their personnel. It was another issue, treating a Galway crewman, but: “Don’t argue with them,” Abrezio answered a doctor’s query. “This is politics and it’s touchy. Only person with more right of way is a Galway captain.”

  “We have one coming,” was the answer. “Burning a trail coming here.”

  “Don’t argue, don’t get in his way and don’t do anything but provide them what they need.”

  The Scotch bottle was looking increasingly attractive. Galway was out of dock, blazing a trail only pushers took, the Strip was a ticking bomb that alcohol could not improve, but shutting their bars down was against custom, against what spacers called their rights, and the last thing Abrezio wanted to do was bring a squad of EC enforcers in to confront the situation.

  Galway hadn’t gone for jump yet. Ships long at dock did careful shakedowns before that operation, and in that much, Galway was behaving normally.

  Nothing else was.

  He was rid of Cruz. There was that one bright spot. Unfortunately he was not permanently rid of Cruz, and there were a handful of individuals left here that posed immediate problems.

  He had not heard from JR Neihart, beyond the code red that had sent Finity security to the mast entry, to return with one Galway navigator, and there was no more information beyond the fact that the navigator was now in the clinic—a situation with troubling echoes of the prior incident at Rosie’s. And at Rosie’s, Galway personnel were assembled, a gathering that was no longer happy in the least.