by Ben Jeapes
Your precious oath is condemning your people to life under those two, Gilmore thought. God, I hope you can live with yourself.
There was a speech, but Gilmore wasn’t listening. March Sage Savour addressed the onlookers. Historic moment, committing the welfare of our First Breed to you, culture of our world in your hands ... Maybe it would have made more impact if March Sage Savour had sounded like the dying leader of a dying race, but its voice was just the same as any other voice filtered through a translator unit.
The document was produced and passed through a miniature airlock into the sterile interior of March Sage Savour’s globe, for the One Who Commands to make its mark. Then it was passed back out again and placed on the table in front of Ranjitsinhji and Prince James, who put their signatures on either side of March Sage Savour’s glyph. And that was it.
“It is done,” March Sage Savour said. There was no applause, no reaction from the humans. The moment was too big: handing over planet and the rule of a race was a moment that didn’t deserve to be lessened by acclaim or applause. “You are the new Ones Who Command,” March Sage Savour added. “Look after our First Breed well.”
“The First Breed do not accept these humans as our Ones Who Command.”
Ranjitsinhji had opened his mouth to speak. He shut it again. Now the audience did begin to murmur and there were ripples of movement as everyone, including Gilmore and the two on the dais, looked around for the solitary speaker. It had been a Rustie: there was no mistaking that voice.
And then Gilmore noticed it, and one by one some of the others noticed it too. Iron Run was wearing a translator unit.
March Sage Savour had definitely noticed. It said something in fulltalk.
“Our human guests deserve to know what is happening,” said Iron Run, “so I am using mouthtalk. I respectfully suggest you do likewise, my master.”
“You are the Senior of the First Breed-” March Sage Savour said. Iron Run interrupted.
“I respectfully must contradict you, my master. As Senior, I have sworn to obey you and always will, which is why I have passed on my role as Senior to another.”
“To whom?” March Sage Savour demanded.
“To me.”
All eyes turned to the group of Rusties that had entered as attention centred on Iron Run and March Sage Savour. Iron Run’s entourage – his former entourage – and-
“I am Arm Wild Timbre Grey Wood Temple Southern Plains,” said Arm Wild, “and I have been chosen by the Seniors of the Clans to lead the First Breed nation.”
Gilmore’s mouth was the only one not hanging open. It was too taken up in a massive grin that was spreading from ear to ear. As Senior, Iron Run could not approve the plan ... so Iron Run gave the job to someone who could. It was a consistently Rustie way of doing things.
“You are not a Clan Senior!” said March Sage Savour. “How can you be Senior of the nation? Now, end this nonsense and obey your Ones Who Command!”
“I am not a Clan Senior,” Arm Wild agreed, “but I am a diplomat, accustomed to dealing with the humans, and the Clan Seniors felt I was best able to accommodate to the new way of thinking. As to your second point, I respectfully declare that you are no longer the Ones Who Command: you said so yourselves. And we do not accept the humans as your replacements.”
“I know you, Arm Wild. I know that you, too, swore an oath. Your oath was to follow the rules of the Convocation exactly.”
“As I have,” said Arm Wild. “As have we all. But the Convocation is over.”
“You-”
“With respect, my former masters, we wish you no ill will,” Arm Wild said firmly. Unlike a human, Arm Wild could say ‘with respect’ and mean it. “You created us, and much more. You created the culture of this world and we have no wish to humiliate you. I ask you to give us your blessing. Let this be the natural finish to the old order and a graceful start to the new. Be in control as you hand over to us, because the alternative is to go down kicking and screaming and letting a million years of history come to an ignoble end.
“The fact is, we simply do not want to be slaves again. It is in our nature to be slaves to you but to no others. We will be the equals of the humans.”
“Ridiculous!” For the first time, a human butted into the conversation. Ranjitsinhji was on his feet. “We have no intention of making you slaves!”
“Your government’s record on your own world suggests otherwise,” Arm Wild said.
Prince James, too, stood up and bowed slightly as he addressed Arm Wild.
“Our government operates on strictly democratic principles,” he said. “We have guidelines to ensure that no one is enslaved or coerced. You would be safe with-”
“Vast spaces, vast natural reserves ... the UK deserves this place.” It was still the prince speaking, but his mouth wasn’t moving. The words were amplified and only Gilmore recognised them immediately. He had supplied the recording to the Rusties, courtesy of Plantagenet. A week ago, as Ark Royal first orbited the Roving, the prince had told his AI to record the images of the world below for his personal records. But Plantagenet had recorded more than just images.
“Seven thousand people would rattle about a bit, sir,” he heard himself say.
“Pah! Do you think we’ll keep it all to ourselves? Of course not. There’s millions, billions on Earth who’ll be queuing up for a chance to come here and start again, and we’ll be in charge of it. We’ll clean up, Captain!”
“We are not impressed with your sincerity, Prince James,” Arm Wild said.
There was more toing and froing, more verbal sparring, but gradually the reality of the situation sank in. When the Clan leaders each stepped forward and declared their support for Arm Wild, that was all but one of the nails in the coffin of the Convocation and the authority of the former Ones Who Command. The final nail was when the Senior of the orbiting battle fleet radioed in its support for the new order.
It was a coup, but entirely bloodless, peaceful and dignified. A group of armed Rusties turned up but held back discreetly in the entrance to the chamber.
“My former masters,” Arm Wild said, “you will respectfully be taken from this place and returned to your quarters in the Chambers of Command. Facilities are being prepared for you on the island of-” His translator made a noise, presumably an untranslatable place name. “-where you may live the rest of your lives in peace, with every want and need supplied.”
March Sage Savour glanced at the escort party, then back at Arm Wild. Then it conversed with its fellows for a moment, before finally turning again to the new Senior of the First Breed.
“Arm Wild,” it said, “you have surpassed yourselves. We are proud of you.”
The Rusties were silent and bowed their heads in respect as their former masters were led from the room. Finally, Arm Wild looked up at the humans.
“We ask all save the delegates to withdraw,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
- 28 -
25 May 2149
Gilmore was surprised it took the prince so long to get in touch. He was already back in orbit with five minutes to go before rendezvous with Ark Royal when the call came through.
“If there is the least suggestion that you had anything to do with this, you’ll face a charge of treason,” the prince said without preliminary.
“I’m recording this, sir, and even heads of state aren’t immune against charges of slander,” Gilmore said. “Be very careful what you say.”
The prince simmered for a moment.
“We all heard your voice on that recording. You were there too. If it should come out that you were bugging me-”
“As I recall, sir,” Gilmore said, “the scene was being recorded by your personal AI at your own command.”
The prince didn’t say anything: he just cut the call.
Treason. Gilmore felt cold. No one liked a traitor and that was one reason he had made sure that whatever he had done, it wasn’t treason.
*
&n
bsp; “Negative. I say again, negative.” Peter Kirton sounded more annoyed than Gilmore had known he was capable of.
“But-” said a voice from the console.
“That AI is undergoing rigorous testing on board this ship. It is under my authority and I am not able to release it. Ark Royal out.”
Peter sat back, then looked up at his captain entered the flight deck.
“They’re persistent, sir,” he said.
“Just refer them to me if they cause any trouble, Lieutenant,” Gilmore said. Assuming my word is any good in the Royal Space Fleet for much longer. Gilmore had taken care to protect Plantagenet from the prince’s reprisals: the best way was to get Peter to run tests. “Tell me, what’s the procedure if an AI is thought to have gone bad?”
Peter thought. “There’d be a hearing-”
“A full one? In public?”
“Why, yes, sir. A panel of judges, witnesses, evidence-”
“Does the AI get to testify?”
“Absolutely, sir. It’s also entitled to a full psychiatric evaluation to determine its motivation, and-”
“Thank you,” Gilmore said. It was a weight off his mind. Plantagenet could hold his own in any court: for every fact the prosecution brought against him, Plantagenet could produce three or four that the prince would not want aired in public. He didn’t see Prince James pursuing the matter that far.
Of course, Plantagenet might well be barred from the UK-1 network, which raised the interesting question of where the AI could go from now on.
“By the way,” he added, “you can let Plantagenet out. I’ll guarantee his good behaviour.”
*
The picture in the display was several centuries old and one of his all-time favourites. In a blaze of sunset reds and browns the ghostly ship of the line, stripped down but still proud and erect and noble, was towed down the river by a steam tug a fraction of its size. Turner’s representation of the fighting Temeraire, veteran of Trafalgar and one of Britain’s mightiest warships, tugged to her last berth to be broken up, 1838.
That was both him and his own ship, a vessel that Turner could never have imagined. Where could he go now? The rest of the crew would go on to greater and grander things, their records glowing with the endorsement of being on the Ark Royal; but as far as Gilmore was concerned, it was official Fleet policy that Michael Gilmore Was No Good, even if he had wanted to work for Prince – no, King – James any further. And why should any other line take on the man who (rumour said) threw over his country?
There was that word again. Treason.
“Captain.” Peter Kirton’s voice sounded on the intercom. “Prince James would like to speak to you.”
Here it comes. “Put him through,” Gilmore said.
The prince’s face replaced the Turner on the wall display. He seemed half amused, half annoyed. From the twist of his mouth and the tone of his voice, it was impossible to tell which.
“You did this, Gilmore,” he said. “I know it. I know you’re involved, somehow, and I’ve been told by my people that you’re blocking access to that bastard Plantagenet.”
“Did you actually have a reason for calling me, sir?” Gilmore said.
There was a murmur off screen, and though Gilmore couldn’t hear the words he recognised the tone of a translator unit. The prince glanced down, then back, visibly controlling himself. He was being used as a messenger boy.
“We’ve all been in talks with Arm Wild and reached certain agreements,” he said. “One, the First Breed want to establish a human point of presence on the Roving right now. The vast majority of them have never met a human and most don’t know what to expect, and we also have to learn a lot from them. We’re leaving behind scientists to study their records, planners to develop the new human zones downstairs that have been allocated to us ... and that’s where you and the other captains come in. Arm Wild has chosen to honour all the nations that took part in the delegation by having each ship volunteer a crewmember to sit on a committee whose job it will be to name places.”
“Don’t they already have them?” Gilmore said dryly.
“Not usefully,” the prince said with a hint of impatience. “Most locations on the Roving are unpronounceable to us and only a few place names can be changed into another language. How would you translate ‘London’ under similar circumstances? And when there’s a non-verbal component to the language as well-”
“Point taken,” Gilmore said.
“Good. Each ship is to submit a crewmember by 17:00 Capital time tomorrow.”
“And the second point, sir?” Gilmore said.
The prince paused. He glared at Gilmore and the way his jaw wobbled suggested he was grinding his teeth.
“To thank you, Captain. In a couple of days the delegation fleet will return to Earth and UK-1 will go with them, though we plan to return. We’ve got seven thousand people on board and not all of them will want to move to a new system. A lot needs to be settled back home so it’ll be some months before we come back; though when we do, it will be to stay. It appears that as a result of a conversation you had with Arm Wild, the First Breed intend to use UK-1 as the port of-”
“-entry to the Roving,” Gilmore said, saying the words at the same time as the prince. He fought back a grin: he had been careful to include the idea in his talk with Arm Wild and Spar Mild, stressing the ways Earth’s various governments could offer different services to the Rusties, but he had had no way of knowing how much of it had stuck.
James frowned, but perhaps remembered what Gilmore had said earlier about slander charges.
“Well ... guessed, Captain. A port of entry for the Roving. They will pay us for our services, naturally. This gives us an advantageous position. Of course, I would have proposed it to him if you hadn’t already.”
“Naturally, sir,” Gilmore said. “You’re the negotiator, after all. Is there a point three, sir?”
The prince gazed thoughtfully at him. “Unless you’re happy to stay a commander for the rest of your natural life, resign now,” he said quietly – murmured, almost. “Your little tinpot ship is to be scrapped and you’ll get no further advancement in the Fleet. Out.”
Charming man, Gilmore thought, as blanked the display and the Turner painting reappeared in its place, but then he threw his head back and laughed. That dealt with the treason possibility, anyway. UK-1 had the most advantageous deal it could hope for, short of actually re-establishing its ruler’s former empire on a new world. And he, Gilmore, had been publicly credited with it.
He stood and stretched, and reached out for the comms panel. “Will all hands please meet me in the wardroom?” he said. He looked around and his eye rested for a moment on the Temeraire. His fingers brushed the bulkhead as he left.
“Me, sir?” said Julia. He could tell from her expression that he wasn’t going to get much argument.
“There’s more to naming a place than giving it a label,” he said. “You need to capture the spirit of the place, the essence. Give the Roving names that the future Roving nation will be proud to own, and remember that the place originally belonged to the Rusties and the Ones Who Command before them, so try and avoid New Somewheres.”
“I’ll be glad to, sir!”
“And make sure that you name an outstanding natural feature after Ark Royal.” He looked round at the four smiling faces and wondered where they would all be in a year’s time. A lot could happen in a year. Not so long ago, humanity was confined to the solar system, there was no step-through and the UK was a joke kingdom out in the asteroids. Now ...
Assuming Hannah didn’t leave the Fleet in disgust, she would get the ship she had already earned, and not before time. Doubtless she would end up commanding starships around the galaxy.
Wherever she went, Samad would be there too. He was young and flexible enough to come to terms with the new technology. Or perhaps he could move into command. He would manage.
Julia? It was up to her. She now had the opportunity to pursu
e her private agenda with Leaf Ruby, and what she did with it was her concern.
Peter? Like the others, a rising star in the Fleet, even if (as he had always said was the case) he couldn’t claim credit for Polyglot. No problems there.
And Michael Gilmore? Good question.
“The prince has decreed that Ark Royal is to be scrapped,” he said. “Our journey home will be the last in this ship and I expect our last together. So.” He raised the glass in his hand. “Our first toast will be, to Ark Royal.”
“To Ark Royal,” they said, and drank.
“I wish you all well in your futures,” he said. “I only hope that you don’t get dragged down by association with me. So let’s remember an officer who didn’t have time to get dragged down by anyone. To Mr Nichol, and absent friends.”
“To absent friends,” they agreed.
“We’re going to need a new officer from UK-1,” Hannah said thoughtfully.
“Later, Number One, later,” Gilmore said.
The toasts went on, and in the midst of all the merrymaking Gilmore’s aide announced that Arm Wild was trying to contact him. He went out of the room to take the call.
“Prince James has never grasped the pick-up range of our translator units,” Arm Wild said. “I believe I heard him advise you to resign.”
Gilmore smiled. “You heard correctly, Arm Wild. However, I’d already sent in my resignation. I’ve reached the stage where wild horses couldn’t keep me here.”
“That is an interesting expression but I believe I register the sense of it. You have developed a pronounced antipathy to the Royal Space Fleet?”
“On the contrary, Arm Wild, some of my best friends and my happiest memories are with the Fleet. I just recognise that it’s now best for both of us if the Fleet and I go our separate ways. By the way, congratulations on your, um, promotion.”
“I thank you, and I hope we will see more of each other,” said Arm Wild.
Gilmore cocked his head to one side, suddenly wary. “Oh?”
“Let me make you an offer,” Arm Wild said. “Prince James mentioned our need to familiarise our two species with one another. We also want a small party to stay behind to make a proper assessment of First Breed space technology and to work out how our skills can combine. Essentially, I am talking about drawing up a blueprint for the entirely new combined spaceforce that we are going to need. The successful candidate will have administrative ability, a detailed knowledge of human space technology and the breadth of mind to see the new potentials. An ability to relate to the First Breed is an advantage. I would like to offer you that job.”