by Chris Bunch
“RAFET approved acknowledgment of challenge response. They’ve gone back home.”
“Anything else out there trying to eat us alive?”
Silence, then a storm of negatives.
“Seven minutes to next launch,” Liskeard said. “Don’t relax.”
Capella
“Stand by for reentry,” Liskeard ordered. “If they’ve got anything that’ll come after us, let’s try to get a jump on ‘em. That last was a little bit close for me.
“Four … two … we’re out!”
They entered a system with a medium main sequence sun, five planets within habitable range, one too close in, three farther out.
“Capella,” somebody breathed. Garvin thought it might be him.
“Anything?”
A string of negatives.
“There’s got to be something out there standing guard,” Liskeard said.
“Maybe they’re saving their surprises for when we’re on the ground,” Njangu said.
His throat was very dry.
CHAPTER
27
Capella/Centrum
Njangu’s worries didn’t last long.
As they closed on Centrum, the com officer made the standard arrival notice/request for landing instructions on one of the watch frequencies.
It was as if he provided a reveille call.
A slow reveille call, for it was on the third repetition that Centrum Control snorted awake and informed Big Bertha to take a parking orbit, and stand by for clearancing.
Froude shuddered a little.
“Clearancing, eh? Well, whatever happened, we can assume the teachers of Common were the first to go under.”
“I think,” Njangu said to Garvin, “you and I had best get flashed up.”
They dressed in their conservative best, but could have taken their time, because it was three ship-hours before the watch frequency came alive, advising the ship Bag Berna to stand by for boarding and inspection.
The ship approaching them was identified by their Jane’s fiche as unknown, which Njangu assumed meant built less than eight years ago, when their latest copy of Jane’s had been sent off to the far frontiers.
“Destroyer class, it appears,” Liskeard said. “Zoom me in closer if you can.”
A tech brought up a screen with a realtime visual, zoomed in until the destroyer appeared no more than half a kilometer distant.
“Interesting,” Liskeard went on. “It’s spent a lot of time in-atmosphere … not hangared … look at the corrosion on the outer hull. Not drydocked in a while. Not very shipshape, my friends.”
He watched the ship’s approach. The destroyer killed its secondary drive and braked into a parallel orbit two thousand meters away from Big Bertha. Mag-couples shot out. One missed, the other clanged against Big Bertha’s hull, and winches brought the two ships closer.
“Sloppy piloting,” Liskeard assessed. “I would have horsewhipped myself for something that ground-pounder.”
Space-suited figures swam across emptiness, into Big Bertha’s main lock, were cycled into the main hold.
There were a dozen of them, and, already waiting, were Garvin, Njangu, Monique Lir in spangles, Froude, not in his clown outfit, Alikhan, and Ben Dill in a muscle outfit, very picturesque and harmless.
The Confederation men and women didn’t wait for anything like an atmosphere check, but evidently assumed since most of their greeters looked human, they must breathe something close to E-normal.
Helmets were doffed. A man, not much more than a boy, looked around. “Sheesh, what a goddamned big ship,” he said, audibly.
Monique Lir started to frown at this indiscipline, hid her reaction.
A long-haired woman stepped forward.
“I’m. Haut Fenfer, of the Thermidor. Welcome to the People’s Confederation.”
Garvin noted the change in the name.
“And I’m Garvin Jaansma of Circus Jaansma. These are my staff members.”
“Your homeworld?”
Garvin decided to answer carefully, and make no mention of Cumbre.
“Garibaldi.”
“I’m not familiar with that system,” Fenfer said, and somebody in the ranks snickered.
“Your purpose in entering the Confederation?”
“To entertain the people of Centrum and this system’s other worlds,” Garvin said.
Fenfer hesitated. “You’ll have to bear with me a bit … you’re the first ship I’ve ever cleared.”
Njangu kept his poker face firmly in place.
“Did you, uh, have any problems approaching Capella?” she asked.
“None,” Garvin said.
Fenfer looked perplexed.
“That’s good. Uh, do you have any contraband aboard?”
“This is the first time we’ve visited Capella,” Garvin said. “What is contraband?”
Fenfer took a list from a pouch, began reading:
“Weapons-grade fissionable devices … subversive propaganda … narcotics not permitted by the Confederation …” The list went on. At its end, Garvin shook his head solemnly.
“None of the above. Except for dangerous animals, which are part of our show, and are always properly caged and watched.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“I guess the animals won’t be a problem,” Fenfer said. “Would you object to an inspection?”
“Of course not. My staff will be happy to escort your people around.”
Fenfer turned to her team.
“Very well. You have your instructions.”
“Assuming there are no problems,” Fenfer said, “I have orders to escort you, Gaffer Jaansma, as commander of this ship, to Dant Romolo, on our fleet’s flagship.”
“I would be honored,” Garvin said. “Shall we get the inspection out of the way? I don’t want to keep Dant Romolo waiting.”
Fenfer passed Monique Lir, gave her a meaningless smile.
Lir responded in kind, didn’t wrinkle her nose.
Either Fenfer’s suit needed decontamination, or else the woman could use a bath.
• • •
Fenfer’s ship, the Thermidor, wasn’t that clean either, Garvin thought. The bulkheads and decks had been mopped and swept, but here and there he spotted patches given a lick and a promise.
Similarly, the crew members were sloppily dressed, some wearing bits of civilian clothes with their uniforms.
They didn’t have what the military called, in a word Njangu always hated, “smartness.”
Yoshitaro never gave a damn whether a trooper had her/his nose spit-shined, but knew a well-trained grunt moved with a certain snap, had an easy familiarity with his/her duties.
Not the women and men of the Thermidor.
They behaved, Njangu decided, like sailors who were two weeks or less short of discharge and simply didn’t give much of a tinker’s damn.
Garvin thought it a bit odd that the Thermidor’s Commanding Officer didn’t bother to come down from the bridge to the compartment he and Njangu were held in, close to the airlock, out of curiosity if no more.
He chanced asking their guard, a friendly-faced Dec who’d told them he was one of the ship’s quartermasters. As part of the “search” team, he’d been infinitely curious about the circus and how it operated, and said, wistfully, that he hoped he’d get ground leave before they left.
Garvin scribbled out an Annie Oakley, said he hoped to see him there and he’d personally give him a tour of the midway, clown alley, and the tops.
He chanced asking why the quartermaster’s CO hadn’t come down and introduced himself.
The quartermaster looked up at the wall speaker, which Garvin thought interesting in itself, then said, in a low voice:
“He doesn’t know what to think about you yet.”
“Why doesn’t he come down and get some input to make up his mind?” Njangu asked.
“No, no,” the man said. “He hasn’t been told what he t
hinks yet.”
He refused to elaborate who would be the one who’d dictate opinion, and was relieved when the speaker beeped and announced they’d be closing on the Corsica in zero-seven minutes.
• • •
The Corsica was huge, a battleship more than two kilometers long, bristling with missile stations and chainguns for secondary armament.
It was also very smart, indeed, overheads, bulkheads, decks gleaming, uniforms spotless, their wearers moving with snap and panache, saluting officers with a greeting and a slogan that must have been changed regularly.
This one was “train hard, fight easy,” one of the oldest and most deceptively false saws in the book. More realistic, Njangu thought, would be “train hard, fight hard; train easy, fight harder.”
Njangu thought the ship and its crew were perhaps a little too nit and tiddy.
An aide, who didn’t introduce himself, ushered them through an outer office with busy yeomen into Dant Lae Romolo’s cabin, which was rather sparse, with computer projections hung haphazardly here and there on the walls. The only holo was that of a rather severe woman.
From Cumbre on, Garvin had the rather romantic dream that all this sneaking and subterfuge would end with him being able to stand at attention in front of a high-ranking Confederation officer, salute him, and report as he should:
“Caud Garvin Jaansma, Commanding Second Infantry Regiment, First Brigade, Strike Force Angara from the Cumbre system, reporting in to the Confederation, sir.”
But now he thought better of the idea.
Dan Romolo was a fairly small man, with a round face, thinning hair he clearly didn’t have the vanity to have revitalized, and the beginnings of middle-ages spread.
This did not mean Romolo was, in any way amiable-looking or soft. His face was prematurely lined, comfortable with command, and his cold eyes stared hard.
Njangu was reminded of the late dictator Redruth, and didn’t like the hint at all.
“Welcome to the People’s Confederation, and its capital system,” Romolo said, and there was a slight, possibly sarcastic, emphasis on “People’s.”
“Your home world is Grimaldi.”
“Yes, sir,” Garvin said.
“My star charts show that as a barely colonized world,” Romolo said.
Garvin was surprised.
“It’s been settled for at least four hundred years, sir, as a base for traveling circuses like mine.”
“Don’t be surprised,” Romolo said. “During the course of … shall we say, change, in the Confederation, many records were either destroyed by accident or mislaid and have yet to be recovered.”
“Change, sir?” Garvin said. “All we know … all the worlds we come from or landed on … is that the Confederation has fallen out of contact with its systems.”
“Also, none of the military units we encountered have been in contact with Centrum,” Njangu chanced. “Sir … what happened?”
He heard honest plaintiveness in his voice.
Romolo took a careful breath.
“The Confederation Parliament went through a sea change, very rapidly, after a long period of stress, a few years ago.
“The new members of Parliament have been forced to spend all their time rebuilding the homeworlds, bringing order, and unfortunately haven’t been able to provide the Confederation with leadership or security.
“It’s truly unfortunate, and all of us hope the situation corrects itself within the next few years.”
Garvin knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but couldn’t. This was, after all, the culmination of everything.
“Sir … what we’ve just gone through, getting here, which was always my dream … well, it’s pretty close to pure chaos out there. We need the Confederation.”
Romolo’s lips thinned, and he nodded sharply.
“I’m not surprised. Let me ask you something … I believe you prefer the title of Gaffer … did you have any difficulties in reaching Capella?”
“We had to evade some people who called themselves the Confederation Protectorate a few jumps back,” Garvin said. “And some of the worlds we attempted to perform on weren’t that friendly.”
“But nothing else?”
“Not really, sir,” Garvin said. “What, specifically, did you have in mind?”
Romolo was silent, thinking.
“That’s interesting. Very interesting. I think it might be valuable for us to examine your logbooks.”
“With our pleasure, sir.”
“That can be done later,” Romolo said. “I’m sure you’d like to make planetfall as soon as possible.”
“It’s been a long series of jumps, sir,” Garvin said.
“I’ll happily give you a release to land where the People’s Parliament allows, with my recommendation that you be permitted to perform as desired and given the full freedom of Centrum. You’ll be assigned a pilot within the ship-day to ensure you make proper landing.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you’ll find the time to be our guest.”
“Unlikely,” Romolo said. “I find that my duties here, away from the comforts of Centrum, take up all of my time.”
He didn’t sound like he was sorry about that.
“A circus,” he said, pretending sociability. “I remember, as a boy, my mother taking me to a circus. That was in the old days, when there were things like circuses, and entertainment that wasn’t always supposed to be good for you.
“There were monsters and animals and people doing amazing things. Amazing.”
Then he dropped the effort, came back to the present.
“Very well. That’s all.”
“Sir?” Njangu asked.
“Would it be possible for me to inquire as to whether anything is known about one of the Frontier Worlds? I had a brother … I hope I still have him … serving with the Confederation forces …” Njangu tried to sound worried.
“My writers in the compartment outside have access to all Confederation records,” Romolo said, a bit impatiently, too big a man to worry about small things like brothers. “You’re welcome to ask one of them before you transship.”
Garvin tried to keep from saluting, from doing a smart about-face, from looking like a military sort, and they went out.
• • •
“What was the name of this world again?” the yeoman asked.
“Cumbre,” Njangu said. “D-Cumbre. All the worlds of the Cumbre system had letter-names, my brother said.” He spelled Cumbre carefully.
The woman tapped sensors, shook her head.
“Nothing at all on Confederation Main Records or our star charts. What about the name of the unit, although it’s unlikely there’d be anything under that listing.”
“Uh, the last note I had from him said it was, uh, Strike Force Swift Lance. Its commander was named Williams.”
Again, sensors were touched.
“I’m sorry. Perhaps you’ve got the unit name wrong, in which case you should check with Confederation Military Records once you’re on Centrum.”
“Son of a bitch,” Garvin said, as Big Bertha’s lock cycled, and they pulled their helmets off.
• • •
“Son of a bitch indeed,” Njangu said.
“I think we need a drink.”
“Several. And get Froude and Ristori’s asses for chasers and consultation.”
• • •
“I’m making some very interesting, very tentative theories,” Froude said. “You, Jabish?”
“I wouldn’t use interesting so much as astounding, preposterous, absurd,” Ristori said. “Perhaps I should pour this fine engine-room juice back in the snifter.”
“Uh-uh,” Njangu said. “I want you to keep up with us, and what you’re coming up with can’t be any weirder than what Garvin and I are probably thinking.”
“Then talk to us, Gaffer Jaansma,” Froude said. “You’re the CO, so we’ll let you be the first to dangle it out there.”
“ ‘Kay,” Garvi
n said. “This stress Romolo talked about. I’d guess that must’ve been the riots we heard about when we passed through Centrum as recruits.”
“Maybe,” Njangu allowed. “Or maybe the stress was worse. Like uprising, maybe. Or riots that never stopped.”
Froude looked at Ristori, and both nodded tentative agreement.
“So when things fell apart, they really fell apart. I don’t have any idea what this frigging People’s Confederation is, or this People’s Parliament,” Njangu went on. “But this thing about records being lost lets me get very, very weird on what might’ve happened.
“Maybe,” he went on, carefully not looking at the other three, “in this period of stress somebody blew up the Military Records Division.”
“That’s reaching,” Ristori said.
“Besides,” Garvin said, “there’s always backups.”
“Yeh,” Njangu agreed. “And lemme stretch some more. Not only were the central records blown all to hooey, which I can see a mob doing who’s been shot up a few times by folks in uniform, but maybe the backups are either on other worlds or some of those sets of records nobody seems to have located.
“Shitfire, if they could lose any reference to Cumbre — ”
“And have Grimaldi’s records a few hundred years out-of-date,” Garvin interrupted.
“Why the hell couldn’t they forget about a few thousand grunts called Strike Force Swift Lance?” Njangu finished.
“Not enough,” Froude said, although Ristori, stroking his chin, was shaking his head in disagreement. “Why haven’t they sent anybody out to start touching bases?”
“I’ll give you the easy answer,” Njangu said. “And the hard possibility.
“The easy one is that if everything turned to shit on Centrum, everybody with any kind of authority was busy trying to keep his own ass behind the firing squad instead of in front.
“Think about it, Danfin. Everybody we know who comes from one of the Confederation worlds who got interested in politics has said they’d been sort of ignored for a long time before the bottom fell out. For some worlds it was five years, for some twenty, some even longer.”
“True,” Froude said. “I can remember trying to communicate with colleagues in other systems who’d done interesting papers, and never being able to make contact.”