Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Geary struggled through the crowds, looking for his two missing sailors, and finally spotted what he thought was Chadra and Riley. The two were close together, apparently either making out or trying to strangle each other. “Hey!”

  The two broke apart with panicked expressions, bobbed in place for a moment like frightened squirrels, then dashed inside the nearest bar.

  Which happened to be the Jungle Bar where the Marines were forted up.

  Geary was still several meters from the entrance to the bar when Chadra came flying out the door as if he had been launched by a catapult. A moment later Riley followed, her body tracing a similar arc before landing in the street near Chadra. Both sailors groaned, proving that neither was dead. “What happened?”

  He received a couple of bewildered looks in reply. “We weren’t doing anything!” Riley protested.

  “You were supposed to stay with me. Why did you run when I called you?”

  “We thought we were in trouble!”

  “So you ran into a bar full of Marines?” Geary rubbed his mouth as he looked at the door to the Jungle Bar. No matter what Chadra and Riley had done earlier, there was no doubt that while members of the shore patrol they had been assaulted. Which meant he had to do something.

  Chadra and Riley had gotten back on their feet, their expressions changing to alarm as Geary took a step toward the door of the Jungle Bar.

  “Don’t go in there, sir!” Riley called. “It’s full of crazy rah-heads.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Geary assured her, aware of the many drunken sailors in the street watching him, clearly wondering how the officer would handle this. About all he could be sure of was that failing to do anything would destroy what little ability he still had to try to control things.

  “But they said they’d kill the next space squid who came in there!”

  Geary hesitated, remembering some of the stories he had heard about Marines on liberty, but also thinking of all the eyes on him, waiting to see if he would back down, or stand up for his sailors. “I’ve got a job to do. Wait out here this time.” Taking a deep breath, he went into the bar. “Who did that?” he asked of the nearest Marines.

  One of the Marines squinted at him, trying to focus. “Did what, sir?”

  “Assaulted those two sailors.”

  “This young officer wants to know if anybody has seen any sailors in here,” the Marine shouted to his comrades.

  A loud chorus of “No, Sir!” echoed off the walls of the bar.

  Geary exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. He threaded his way to the table where the Master Sergeant and Gunnery Sergeant had been sitting.

  Both were still there, face down on the table, its surface now littered with empty shot glasses. One was snoring.

  A nearby Marine spoke mournfully, her eyes brimming with tears. “If only you’d seen it, sir. A mighty battle. A heroic struggle. Look at all the ordnance expended!” she added, pointing to the shot glasses. “Neither one would surrender. Both fought to the end, not yielding a centimeter. Heroic, I tell you, sir!”

  “They’re dead drunk,” Geary said.

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I said, sir.”

  “Who’s in charge in here now that they’re both out?”

  The Marine pondered the question, looking at her nearby comrades. “Corporal Windsock!” one cried.

  “Corporal Windsock!” the cry went up.

  A Marine corporal was shoved up to the table, saluting Geary with a grin as she wavered on her feet. “Corporal Wysocki, sir. What may I help you with, sir?”

  “I need—” Geary’s next words were cut off by an eruption of sound near the door.

  “Save Mr. Geary!”

  “We’re coming, sir!”

  Drunken sailors from the Redoubt began pouring into the bar, led by Geary’s shore patrol, their sheer mass shoving aside startled Marines. “Space squids!” the Marines shouted, rallying and charging to reclaim the lost ground. Within moments the bar was full of individuals packed together, struggling to fight even though they were having trouble getting enough space to move their arms and legs.

  “We’re here for you, sir!” Seaman Alvarez cried as she somehow wriggled through the mess until she was close to Geary. “No rah-heads are going to get—”

  A wave of bodies slammed into them. Geary lost sight of Alvarez as he fell. Forcing his way up again to a sitting position, he saw a Marine next to him on the floor choking Demore. “Stop!” Geary yelled, but the Marine either didn’t hear over the noise or was too focused on his task to pay attention. Geary’s fist bounced off the Marine’s shoulder with no apparent effect.

  His other hand, still on the floor, closed on a strip of leather. One end of the strip had a weight sewn inside.

  Demore’s face was going slack.

  Swinging the weapon against the Marine’s head, Geary heard a thunk. The Marine went limp. Geary pried his hands off of Demore’s neck just before several more furiously entangled sailors and Marines fell on both of them.

  * * *

  “I think it was about then that the police arrived,” Geary told the captain.

  “You think?” Captain Spruance asked.

  “I was a little dazed, sir.”

  “So I understand. The ship’s doctor diagnosed you with a borderline concussion.” She leaned back in her chair, eyeing Geary. “You certainly put a lot of effort into failing in your duty.”

  “I was doing my best not to fail, Captain.”

  Captain Spruance dropped a dark leather object onto her desk, one end clunking from the weight sewn into it. “Does this look familiar?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “The police report said it was among your possessions.”

  “It isn’t mine, Captain! I… I picked that up, as I said, because Petty Officer Demore was being choked and—”

  “Do you know what it is? They come with a variety of names, but this kind is usually called a blackjack. It’s not yours?”

  “No, Captain!”

  “That’s good, because it’s illegal to possess a blackjack on an Alliance fleet ship.” Spruance leaned back in her chair again as she looked at Geary. “What should I do with you, Ensign Blackjack? These charges normally call for some fairly serious punishments. But before you answer, it’s only fair that I tell you a few things. Every sailor on liberty last night as well as your four shore patrol have been interviewed, and none of them can recall you doing anything even remotely contrary to regulations. Apparently, you were a paragon of proper behavior and an inspiring leader.

  “The Marines involved in last night’s incident say that you demonstrated great resolve in trying to prevent trouble,” the captain continued. “The master sergeant was not yet awake when they were interviewed, but the gunnery sergeant insisted that it was good liberty and a by-the-book and per regulations good time was had by all. She had no explanation for the arrests of so many sailors and Marines, saying it was an overreaction on the part of the local police.”

  Spruance paused, tapping her desk again to bring up another document. “The aerospace pilots who were also involved in the events of last night all claim that no drinking and no street strafing took place. They credit you with offering a ‘good example.’ Based on these testimonials, if you and a good part of the crew hadn’t been arrested, I’d probably be putting you in for a commendation.”

  Geary stared at the captain. “I… have no idea what to say.”

  “Maybe saying nothing else would be a good idea. The only real evidence I have against you is what you’ve just told me,” Captain Spruance concluded. “And I’m not really allowed to use your own testimony against you unless I first warn you about that.”

  How had the captain made that mistake? Geary wondered.

  Had it been deliberate?

  Spruance shook her head. “You do realize last night was a no-win situation for you, right?”

  “Yes, Captain, I did get that impression pretty quickly.”

  “But you appear to have done every
thing you could, anyway. You didn’t give up just because the situation was hopeless from the start. And you tried to succeed in a manner that earned the collective silence of the sailors who could have tossed you out the airlock with their testimony if they’d wanted to. Even the Marines and pilots who could have helped hang you were willing to keep quiet. For whatever reason, they all respect you, and that’s important. You did something right. So here’s what I’m going to do, Ensign Blackjack. I’m going to forget that last night happened. Officially, there’s not going to be any record. I’m also going to tell you that it would be a very good idea for you to not leave the ship again while we are orbiting this planet. I’m sure that you have plenty to do aboard ship.”

  “Yes, Captain,” Geary said, unable to believe his luck. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Get back to work.”

  Geary left the captain’s stateroom, still dazed, to find Ensign Daria Rosen waiting, worried. “How bad is it?” she asked. “Court-martial?”

  “No. I’m just confined to the ship for the rest of the port call. Nothing official, though. Nothing on the record.”

  Before she could reply, the captain stuck her head out of the hatch to her stateroom. “Hey, Ensign Blackjack, the supply officer’s locater is off again. See if he’s in the wardroom and tell him I need to see him right away.”

  “Yes, Captain!”

  “Ensign Blackjack?” Daria asked, grinning. “It looks like you did pick up a nickname.”

  “I hope not,” Geary said. “I’d hate to go through my life with a nickname like Blackjack following me around.” In years to come, as Black Jack came to be part of his official identity, he would sometimes recall those words and wonder just how loudly his ancestors were laughing as he said them.

  “I’ve got shore patrol duty tonight,” Daria said. “Any advice?”

  “Hide somewhere on the ship until we leave orbit.”

  “I’m serious! You ended up in jail and still came out on the captain’s good side. What can I do?”

  John Geary thought about it, finally shrugging. “Don’t give up. And look after the crew and the others on liberty in Barcara as best you can. If you do, they might look after you when you need it.”

  “Uh huh,” Daria said. “Got that. Anything else?”

  He tried to remember everything that had happened last night. “One other thing. Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Thanks, Black Jack!”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  When On Basilisk Station was published in 1993, it launched one of the longest running, most beloved space opera series of modern times, popularly known as the “Honorverse” in recognition of its most famous occupant, Honor Harrington. In our final story, David Weber writes an untold story set twenty years before the events of that opening book, about how Eloise Pritchart—the first president of the restored Republic under the (restored) old Constitution—became a member of the resistance to the Legislaturalists who had subverted and destroyed the old Constitution. Pritchart becomes a key politician in the People’s Republic in later times, but here’s how it all started for her.

  OUR SACRED HONOR

  DAVID WEBER

  “I wish you wouldn’t read that, Eloise,” Estelle Pritchart said. Her striking topaz eyes were more than a little worried as she ran the fingers of her right hand through her long, platinum hair. “If InSec realizes you’re reading proscribed material they’ll make your life—our lives—a living hell.”

  “Well, they aren’t going to find out,” her sister Eloise replied, looking up from the old-fashioned, bootleg hardcopy. “That’s why things like this get passed around on something as archaic as paper, Stelle.” She smiled more than a little crookedly. “InSec’s street agents aren’t really all that smart, you know. How smart do you have to be to break heads? And the people who run their surveillance systems count on their InfoSys backdoors and hacks, not hawkeyed agents reading paper over someone’s shoulder. If it’s not electronic, it doesn’t count as far as they’re concerned.”

  “That’s not what you told me the other day,” Estelle pointed out. She jabbed an index finger at her sister. “You told me they have audio and visual pickups hidden everywhere!”

  “Which provide electronic data, not printed,” Eloise riposted. “And what I said was that they had them hidden everywhere in public, which they do. That’s not the same as saying they sort all that take effectively, or even try to. All those petabytes of audio and video are useful as hell after something else points them at a specific subject or group, but I doubt many of their investigations start there. Oh, they do catch an occasional activist malcontent by straining the data, but mostly they only pick up on people stupid enough to vent in public.”

  “And how is it you know that?” Estelle asked.

  “Because I am a wise, insightful, perceptive, and observant individual,” Eloise told her with a smile. “And I’m also twice your age, so I’ve been around the block a time or two.”

  Estelle rolled her eyes, although it was true enough. The two of them could almost have been taken for twins, but in a society with prolong that didn’t mean what it might have in an earlier century. In fact, Eloise was almost fifty and Estelle was only twenty-three. There were times when the gap between their ages and their life experiences seemed even greater than the two T-decades which actually separated them, but physically it would have been difficult to estimate which of them was the older.

  “You worry me sometimes,” Estelle said much more seriously. “InSec and the MHP don’t fool around with anybody they even think is a malcontent, and you know it! One of these days you’re going to slip up. That’s what I’m afraid of. And you’re all I’ve got, Eloise. The only person in the world who I know loves me. Can’t you just… leave well enough alone? If anything happens to you, it’ll just kill me!”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me.” Eloise laid the hardcopy aside and crossed to enfold her sister in a tight hug. “I promised Mom I’d take care of you, and I will. I always have, haven’t I?” She squeezed even tighter for a second, then stood back, her hands on her sister’s shoulders and shook her gently. “This isn’t the safest stuff I could possibly be reading,” she conceded, twitching her head in the direction of the hardcopy, “but I’m staying well away from anybody like the Citizens Rights Union or any of the other lunatic, hard-line organizations. Besides, this one isn’t even officially proscribed.”

  “Only because they haven’t gotten around to it,” Estelle muttered. “I’ve only taken a couple of peeks at it, and even I know that much! Agit-prop, that’s what they’d call it, and you know it.”

  “You’re probably right, but it was still there in the library’s public files, without any warnings or censorship notices. And I printed it out on one of the library faxes using a general patron ID, so unless they had one of those cameras reading over my shoulder as the pages came out of the hopper, they don’t have a clue that I have it.”

  “But why do you read this stuff ?” Estelle demanded plaintively. “It’s not like it’s going to make any difference, and it’s all ancient history, anyway. You can’t change things any more than I can, and if I can’t change them, I’d rather not spend my time wishing I could.”

  “There’s something to that,” Eloise admitted after a moment. “But that’s Mom’s fault, too. She’s the one who got me started reading this kind of stuff when I was about half as old as you are now. And I think sometimes that if more people had read it before the old Constitution was scrapped, it wouldn’t have been.”

  Estelle’s worried expression tightened at that, and Eloise shrugged.

  “I’m not going to stand on any street corners—or even hide in any dark alleys—and tell anyone else anything of the sort, Stelle. I’m older than you are; I’m not senile. But it’s true. That’s another one of the things Mom taught me. I wish you’d had longer to know her.”

  “I do, too… even if you do scare me to death when you start talking about all those thi
ngs she told you.”

  Eloise chuckled a bit sadly, but it was true. And, if she was going to be honest, the way their mother had died had quite a bit to do with her own dissatisfaction.

  Gabrielle Pritchart had been from Haven’s last pre-prolong generation. Oh, if she’d been fortunate enough to have been born into the family of one of the Legislaturalist dynasties or one of their uppercrust allies she could have had prolong, but the rot was already setting in by then. The infrastructure to support first-generation prolong had been expensive, and only the wealthy—or citizens of star nations whose governments had cared enough to invest to subsidize it as a public health service—had been able to afford it. The Legislaturalists hadn’t. Of course the costs had come down steeply as the therapies matured and spread, but not quickly enough for Gabrielle’s generation. By the time they’d come down to something the Legislaturalists were prepared to bear for the rest of the PRH’s citizens (propelled in no small part by increasing unrest from below), Gabrielle had been too old for it. Which was particularly (and bitterly) ironic, given that the daughter she’d borne at only thirty had received the second-generation therapies as part of the Basic Living Stipend guarantees. And Estelle, who’d been born when Gabrielle was fifty-six, had actually received the third-generation treatments.

  Still, Gabrielle would have been only in her eighties today, which was scarcely decrepit even for a pre-prolong individual, given modern medicine. Assuming all the benefits of modern medicine had still been available to all of the People’s Republic’s citizens. They hadn’t been, but it didn’t really matter, because she’d been only sixty-one, less than thirteen T-years older than Eloise was now, when she’d died. She wasn’t one of the people the Legislaturalists’ security forces had simply “disappeared,” but if the agencies charged with maintaining Nouveau Paris’s infrastructure had done their jobs, the high-speed transit tube wouldn’t have malfunctioned and driven Gabrielle Pritchart and three hundred and twelve other citizens into the Bichet Tower station’s braking buffer at just over one hundred and eighty kilometers per hour.