And a second voice: “But what do we do to stop it?”
“We stand together,” JR shouted, “we lay down our rules, and we make our own deals with stations—if stations want cargo from places we serve more than they want enforcers out of Sol, which I think they will—they’ll deal with us, who know their history, their needs, their leadership, and their people. We have to play fair with the stations: they need us and we need them. What we don’t need is Sol coming in here and telling us their rules.”
“So what’s Pell going to do for Alpha?” came the same voice, from a knot of Firenzes.
“Nothing,” JR said flatly. Pell probably wished Alpha would fold up and quit existing, which was the Konstantins’ opinion of everything Sol-ward of Venture, but he wasn’t about to say that now. “Stations take care of themselves, not other stations. But they’ll trade with us, with merchanter ships, with alliance ships, and we’ll get that cargo to Alpha, because Alpha staying in business is good for our business. You signed with us, and that gives you rights to trade where you damned well please to trade, and to be backed by the whole rest of the alliance if any station including Sol—or Pell—wants to tell you you can’t. We’re not a Pell organization. We’re merchanters. We deal for merchanters.”
That got a cheer. And the banging of mugs on tables.
“You want to deal with Sol and the EC, you’re free to go there. That’s your choice. You’re still in with us. That’s how it’ll work. Any ship is free to do what it wants unless the alliance for some good reason declares an embargo on a station. Then we ask every ship stand by your allies, supply each other, and hold trade from that station until we say trade. Any station we have to reason with collectively will talk to us collectively until the problem is solved.”
That was more than they’d ever said on Alpha. And it met sober faces and quiet while people thought that over.
“We have enforcement means of our own,” JR said. “We can help a station out—or we can withdraw long enough to make a reasonable agreement logical. And if all of us are signatory, including the stations, we’ll reason with the stations and they’ll reason with us and we’ll both get what we need.” He paused, to let that sink in. Then: “The EC’s had its day, and these are our principles.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, station authority can inspect the hold, but it stays off our decks.”
A cheer for that one.
“Second: We plot our routes. We go where we choose, not where some EC official says to go.” Silence. Not disagreement, just a lot of hard listening. “Most importantly: We lay down the law on our decks according to our customs, we operate each ship as a sovereign nation, we keep records as we see fit, and we don’t turn them over to customs.”
“Yes!” came from a number of voices. And from others: “Hell, yes.”
“If Sol wants more of us to come there, Sol has to bargain to get us, just like any other station. The merchanters’ alliance is no one ship, no single rule-making body of individuals. Any alliance ship may make requests and ask cooperation from ships in its vicinity. A ship will not make rules and exceptions except by consensus of all ships in reach; three or more ships constitute a local decision-making body, which should simply consider the best interests of merchanters as a whole. If you all agree, there will be procedures to notify the stations and to notify the rest of the Families. If you have an egregious situation, word will flow, and the alliance as a whole may choose to act. Whoever you want to take into your Family is yours, and that’s that. When Sol trade comes in, we’ll trade with Sol, we’ll back Families that do, if that’s their choice. But we’re advising stations beyond Alpha not to accept hired-crew ships. What Alpha does will be by vote of the ships that trade here. You locals have kept this whole region alive. It’s your routes, your votes, and those of us from outside will accept your decisions and work with you, but it’s my sense of things that that ship holding all of A-mast has done no favors for Alpha or for your trade. Do we on Finity’s End view that ship as good for us? We aren’t directly interested. Do you view that ship as good for you and Alpha?”
“No!” was the resounding answer.
“Then there being a quorum of local trade, we accept that view,” JR said, “we’ll report it along our route, and we’ll hope that the first FTLer to reach Sol will be Galway, under the Monahans—”
A cheer for that, loud and clear.
“The Monahan Family, meanwhile, is signatory to the alliance and the alliance will stand by them, looking for the return of Galway, and fair dealing from all parties. The Monahans have trusted us, and we’ll stand by them for whatever it takes. Captain Owen Monahan, sir, you and yours, we’ll be talking with you, and taking account of specifics, whatever we need to do. We’ll be meeting with all captains before we leave Alpha, and asking advice from the Families who know this region better than anybody. On the current situation out there, we don’t know more than we’ve told you. We’ve got our own observers on Finity who will tell us when Galway jumps, and we will pass that word on. Godspeed to her and all the Monahans.”
“Let’s hear it for Galway,” Diego Rodriguez said, banging a fist on the bar. “Cheers for the Monahans and hell’s coldest pit for Andrew Cruz!”
That let loose the commotion, banging of glasses and shouting. JR stepped down and let it run.
Owen Monahan found his way to the back of the bar.
“Buy you a drink, sir.”
“JR to my friends,” JR said. “And I’ll gladly take it.” He wasn’t sure how much Niall’s Second knew about Niall’s intentions, whether the Monahans in general had all the knowledge Ross Monahan had relayed. It wasn’t certain Ross Monahan himself understood all of it.
Two years, delaying out there, whatever was going on aboard—granted that first point itself was not a disaster.
He had to be honest with this man, in due time. Expectations of a return couldn’t be ratcheted up and let down again so suddenly. Soon enough that information would leak, and eventually the whole station would find out, stationers as well as spacers.
But full disclosure to the rest of the Monahans had to come after the ship had left the system, and in private, he said to himself. It was not news for family to hear shouted across a bar.
If they survived the first jump point, they’d try to take control of their ship, and if they succeeded, Fallan Monahan would put in the right coordinates for the second jump.
If they didn’t succeed—Fallan had a choice to make. Galway could sit still, with both Monahan navigators refusing to jump back to the known coordinates of Alpha station. He could sit there for two years, with EC crew aboard threatening to take matters into their own hands, and probably not a one of them confident enough to do it. If it got uglier than that—Fallan might make a small adjustment to the second jump coordinates, and they wouldn’t survive.
It was going to be ugly, no matter how it went. If the information was wrong—or if Cruz was a total fool and put his own crew in—Galway might not survive the first jump, might not survive the second, and the third itself was no cinch. Sol’s relative position and motion might be known, but first time to a point of mass, even with solid readings, was always risky: you didn’t want a novice on nav and you didn’t want a novice on helm. No way.
So was there reason to hope? There was. Cruz could not be that stupid. Fallan would be perfectly willing to take them to the first jump point.
But one way and the other, it would be years before any news of Galway got back to Alpha.
Chapter 15 Section iv
Not the most dignified mode of travel, but, given the dizziness with colorful storefronts and animated displays reeling past, Jen was right to make him take it. Ross concentrated on Jen, walking beside the rolling vehicle, and let the rest go hazy. He wasn’t the only passenger. Madison and Fletcher had gone on ahead somewhere. But one Finity security guy rode, one walked on the other side.
Oh . . . and a hospital toiletry kit.
That was it. He’d have to float a loan for the cleaning. Not that Mum or Peg or anybody would begrudge it. It was just—
Just the coming back with nothing. Having lost his whole shift, and Niall, and everybody, and worrying about stuff was just—easier than wrapping his mind around losing people.
Jen said Galway hadn’t gone yet. It was still in shakedown. Might be for days and days, getting far from Barnard’s mass. On a chancy run, that was a good precaution. He hoped after the initial set-to that the blue-coats settled down and figured out that this wasn’t a sim, and that real stars had their ways. Getting them a little scared—yeah, his team knew how to do that. Get them to realize what they weren’t trained for, and to figure it out, that their lives didn’t ride on Andy Cruz’s judgment, for which they could be soundly grateful. He’d had Fallan’s cold dose of reality on some of his own mistakes, not meant to scare him—Fallan had no nerves. But scared, yes. Damn right.
He had a glimmering what Fallan might do, on that first jump. Just a glimmering. And it could give those blue-coats religion real fast.
God, he didn’t want to think about it. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn’t seeing the storefronts or hearing anything but the muddled echoes of people on the Strip. He was seeing the nav screens, and watching the lines and knowing the sensors were always lagged, and you had to know how lagged and react . . .
Noise. Lot of people.
“You awake, Ross?”
“Yeah. Thinking.”
“We’re nearly there. Your head was down.”
“I’m awake.” He blinked the haze away, looked beyond Jen and saw familiar frontages, turned his head in the direction they were going and saw Rosie’s . . . and a crowd of people, the biggest crowd he’d ever seen in his life, so many they were jamming the doors at Rosie’s and spilling out onto the Strip, a lot with drinks in hand, and impeding the progress of the trolley, not in an aggressive way, just too many to make room. It was a mixed lot, a scattering of Firenzes, Qaribs, Santiagos, Little Bears, and Mumtazes, a couple of Finitys and then a younger cousin, Allie, with them.
“That’s Ross!” she said. “Ross!”
“Wait,” he said, and reached out and took Allie’s hand. “The rest of us inside?” he asked her, and meanwhile the crowd surrounded the trolley, a friendly crowd, and one offered him a drink, which wasn’t supposed to be out on the Strip.
“He shouldn’t,” Jen said. “He’s got a knock on the head. Ross, a sip, that’s all.”
He took just a sip and handed it back, hoping he actually said thanks, not just thinking it. It was Rosie’s cheaper brew, but it tasted good after all the disinfectant smells and the condition of his clothing. Somebody laid a hand on his outstretched arm, and others did, not pushing him, just touching.
“My family’s in there,” he said to Jen. “I can make it all right.”
“Here,” she said, and offered her arm. “Help him down, all right? He’s a little wobbly.”
A number of arms assisted, including Allie and Jen, and he was doing fine until the public address sounded a siren and a voice saying, “This gathering is an unlawful assembly in violation of liquor regulations and safety regulations. Disperse. This is your only warning. Stragglers will be charged with criminal endangerment.”
The crowd was not in any mood to disperse. That was clear in the reaction.
Jen stopped, with a firm grip on his arm. “Ross. We’ve got to get you out of here.”
“No way,” he said. It was a visceral reaction, just one push too many from blue-coats and the EC. “No.”
“Ross,” Jen said, and about that much before the siren sounded again and the edge of the crowd met the blue-coats. “Tom! Give me a hand here.”
“Not going,” Ross said. “No.” He hadn’t thought there was a charge of adrenaline left in him. But there was.
Then a rush of Finitys and Little Bears and Santiagos made a wall around them, jostling them in the process, but chains were coming out, wrapping fists at the moment, there being no room to swing, and the blue-coats would be using whatever they’d brought.
“Damn disaster!” Jen swore, and pulled out her pocket com. “This is Jen Neihart, Captain-sir, outside Rosie’s. We’ve got blue-coats and there’s chains out.”
It didn’t take ten seconds before an angry rush poured out of Rosie’s and swelled their numbers from maybe fifty to way more than that. Tasers snapped. But the blue-coats weren’t charging in, not now.
Then the public address cut on again, with, “This is Director Benjamin Abrezio. All Rights personnel are ordered to proceed immediately to the nearest A-mast access office. This is an immediate boarding call for Rights of Man. All Rights personnel, proceed immediately to A-mast. Do not stop to gather personal items. Enzio Hewitt, proceed to assume command of Rights personnel at A-mast access One. Secure the ship immediately. This is an emergency.”
God, were they launching Rights after Galway?
“Yeah, you bastards!” came a shout in the first edge of silence. “Get the hell out of our faces! Sneaking cowards!”
“Shut it down, there!” That was Owen. Adrenaline ebbed. Ross sucked in a deep breath, thinking now that staying on his feet was a hard job, when a moment ago he’d been ready to light into EC Enforcement bare-handed.
Jen took his arm, quick as a thought. “Yeah,” she said. “Stand easy, Ross. We’re right with you.”
“Going to talk to Owen,” he said.
“All right,” she said. “We’re with you. Let us stay with you. Don’t hurry.”
Jen had firm hold of his arm, lending equilibrium. Ross moved, headed for Rosie’s door, which he could see, thanks to people moving out of his way. His balance was unsteady, but a little of the adrenaline came back, now that he had the door in view; and people were getting out of his way. He heard a strange thing. “Ross Monahan,” voices said, hushed in the ringing quiet. “That’s Ross Monahan,” as if that were something unusual.
It was fairly surreal. He headed for Owen, and saw cousins, and Peg. Peg touched his face and said, “Oh, honey, how are you?”
“A little wobbly. Peg, this is Jen. Jen, I want a beer. A little one.” It struck him he’d been signed out of the bank and had no scrip whatsoever. “You’re buying, right?”
Chapter 15 Section v
“This is Director Benjamin Abrezio. Alpha Captains, please cooperate and comply with instructions. Other captains, please preserve order on the Strip. No charges of any sort will be filed against ship’s personnel. Enforcement will stand down immediately in deference to ships’ executive officers. Deputy Chief Jameson, contact my office immediately.”
The wonder was, it was working. He’d waited to put that message out. Waited until he’d been sure Hewitt wasn’t going to counter his orders. But Hewitt’s people were safely inside A-mast and loading onto Rights as fast as their cards could swipe the security reader.
Recalling the man to his own power base was step one.
Then step two. The great prize, Hewitt’s dream on a stick: command of Rights. Abrezio was handing that prize to him, along with an emergency call.
What emergency? had been Hewitt’s texted response, and he’d answered in a single word: Finity. Nothing more. Hewitt’s suspicious imagination could handle the rest, and all interpretations, to that suspicious mind, led to one result: Finity was making a takeover attempt on Rights. They needed to defend the accesses.
Urgently.
Whatever got Hewitt and his people off
the Strip. And if Hewitt did decide to move Rights, judging by its last less-than-glorious performance, it would take the better part of an hour just getting the fourteen lines and the magnetics all uncoupled.
Trying to move Rights out of dock risked damage to A-mast, but hell with the risk: station hadn’t had commercial use of A-mast in years, and risk to the station itself was minimal: the mast connector assembly was designed to give, to cave in rather than disrupt station stability. Of course Rights could get afoul of one of the visitors, which was far more serious, but below the great ring of the station, and its spokes, B-mast wasn’t remotely in reach by simple drift. Just detaching and proceeding backward, upward, or sideways would get Rights clear of station, and that danger out of the way.
Still . . . Abrezio sent an order to ops, simply: “If Rights requests to uncouple, refer it to me. They’ll need my express clearance.”
“Yes, sir,” ops said. That was Giorgio Varese who answered. Chief of ops. And not one of Cruz’s people. And since the Glory Rebellion centuries ago, one of Sol’s own ideas, uncoupling hadn’t been solely under any ship’s control.
It risked Rights breaking away and damaging its berth on A-mast, but if Hewitt did that, he’d set himself up in violation of EC rules. And he’d be under arrest with the full weight of station outrage against him.
“Mr. Varese. Report Rights activity directly to my office. Don’t deter the crew. Don’t inform them you’re watching. Track check-in. Let me know when they’re all aboard and use the cameras to make sure no one sneaks back out the lock.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ames flashed the com. “Sir. Chief Jameson’s here.”
“Good,” he said, and a moment later Bellamy Jameson walked in.
“I’m here, sir. Sorry about that mess down at Rosie’s. Hewitt’s goons bowled over us. Wouldn’t listen to me.”
“We’ll take care of that now,” Abrezio said, and handed him a new-minted ID, with a potent load of access codes. “Cruz has left, Hewitt’s on his way to take command of Rights, and you’re Director of EC Security on both sides of the wall. As of this moment, you’re in command of Strip security as well as residential areas, and all Security personnel including any stray Rights of Man crew are under your orders. Anybody who contests those orders is to be put under lock and key until we have a chance to sort this mess out. We’ve got some justifiably upset spacers who’ve just seen one of their sister ships forcibly coopted by the EC, not to mention the Monahans themselves present. I don’t want a riot and I don’t want them thinking I put that arrogant bastard up to it.”
Alliance Rising Page 42