IronStar

by Hallman, Grant

  As though reading her mind, Lord Tsano answered, “If that is what we must do to benefit from your people’s creations, Madam Taggart, then we have been advised by our friend and Warmaster that that is what we should do.” Looks of relief began to creep into the faces opposite.

  “Of course,” he continued, “we would then expect the same protection from Reg’num law for our ideas, any small novelties or creation we may have to trade, yes?”

  “Well naturally,” Madam Taggart replied, waving her hand dismissively. “D.R. protection, mutual D.R. protection, would be an essential part of our trade agreement, is that not so, Dr. Pennington?”

  “It would be challenged as unjust in Regnum courts, otherwise,” he replied. “Probably successfully.”

  “Then we are agreed on this matter?” The chorus of ‘yes, absolutely’ replies was duly recorded on Elizabeth’s RegNet pickups as well as every wristcomp in the room. Lord Tsano turned to look at Kirrah, and Dr. Pennington and Admiral Dunning, who had both played their fair share of poker hands, looked up alertly as Kirrah accepted the ball.

  “Now that that’s clearly understood, Madame Taggart, there is another item we would like to offer for your consideration as trade, as ‘fruit not seed’. Specifically not seed.” Now the entire Regnum contingent was fully alert to the ‘simple people in a primitive economy’.

  “Admiral Dunning, would you please give your best estimate of this woman’s age and general health?” Kirrah rose and stood behind Delima. “No need to underestimate for politeness’ sake, age is not a stigma.” The Admiral considered a moment, and replied:

  “I would say first, I have no idea how quickly humans age on this world. Her health appears quite good. If I were to meet her on a non-tech human world I might estimate sixty Standard, that would be …forty-three local years? If we met on Trailway where Regnum health care extends lives, I might say one-fifty Standard, say one-ten local years. I’m sure we are all now very curious, Kirrah Warmaster, why you make a point of this.”

  “Delima Guildmaster, would you please tell our Reg’num guests your age?”

  “Of course, Kirrah Warmaster. I am one hundred five winters. We live to about one hundred fifty.”

  Madame Taggart tapped her wristcomp and turned to Kirrah. “And I suppose you are now going to tell me, Ms. Roehl, that this incredible two hundred eight Standard year lifespan is due to the salutary effects of some agricultural product, whose gene-rights I have just unwittingly negotiated away?”

  “If such a thing exists, Marissa,” interjected Dr. Pennington, “you know you could never have gotten away with it. I would have taken the Talamae case myself, and the negative publicity alone would have cost UniDom rather more than they would choose to bear. And they would have lost.”

  “I know, Garth, and for that reason and more, the United Dominion Board would never have tried it. But I’m just not expecting to be outmaneuvered so easily. Was I, Ms. Roehl?”

  “I confess,” Kirrah replied with a grin. “Not knowing exactly how Regnum law would handle it, when I discovered this plant’s effects, I advised my new friends to play it a little close. My field analyzer was unable to solve the biochemistry of the phenomenon, but the benefits are undeniable, epidemiologically. You just don’t see sick people here. What do you suppose the right to this product would be worth, after your teams have had a chance to study and enhance its effects?”

  “Assuming it’s relatively straightforward to synthesize, and passes Dee-of-Ag approvals, I should think you could buy your own Navy and fund a fully-owned asteroid mining company, just for starters. My, my! What, may I ask, is the source of this marvelous effect? A local herb? A rare fungus? Some obscure single-celled organism?”

  Now it was Kirrah’s turn to look sheepish. “Even easier, Madam Taggart, it’s a simple, prolific, locally grown fruit. Um, you know those fruit pastries everyone likes so much? They’re called glatha-buns…”

  “Why… you mean you… right under our…” spluttered the other woman.

  Admiral Dunning broke in, “I hereby declare the official First Contact scores now stand at ‘Military: win-win’, and ‘Trade: Local planet One, Regnum No Score’. By the way, Ms. Roehl, what is the name of this planet? The local name, I mean - we can’t keep calling it ‘S22041-II’, you won’t get any tourists with a name like that.”

  The floor seemed to drop out from under Kirrah at the question. It felt like reaching to scratch her nose and finding her arm missing. The name! How could I have spent five month here and not asked what the name is! She looked helplessly at the puzzled Talamae beside her.

  “Lucinda Fleetmaster compliments our negotiations, and asks the name of this world. I never thought to ask! I feel like an idiot! Would someone please tell me the being-name, not the object-name of this world?” More mystified looks, then Slaetra said:

  “Why would we name our world? We only know of the one…” Into the awkward silence, somewhat to everyone’s surprise Ensign Auracotta spoke up tentatively.

  “To a Contact Specialist, many races name their world after the name for soil, or rock. Sometimes water. Does that help?” Issthe, for the first time, spoke at the meeting:

  “It would seem strange to be known to the rest of the Civi’lium as ‘sand’ or ‘dirt’, a thing to be removed in washing. But during the training of a priest, we learn to align our ath'la with the sky-ath'la, which we call shu’kaetha, ‘one-whose-father-is-strength’, and with the earth-ath'la, called sho’ito, ‘whose-mother-is-wisdom’. Does that suggest a Reg’num name to Kirrah, who knows us best?”

  Kirrah paused, a few fingers in front of her mouth, cocked her head to one side. “Then it would seem as though ‘Sho’ito’ is the natural name. When a Regnum citizen hears this name and learns that it means ‘child of wisdom’, they may think of Athena, a human goddess who was old before the Reg’num, before we humans rose from our cradle-world. Her mother was Metis, the original goddess of wisdom for that ancient people. Athena herself was known for her wisdom as well as her success in battle, and her ability to repel unwanted attention. Does this association seem acceptable?” Cautious nods of approval followed, from both sides of the table.

  “Both images seem appropriate,” Issthe replied.

  “Sho’ito. I like it. Any problems, Garth?”

  “None I can see, Admiral. It is, after all, a native term.”

  “Good, I shall instruct our Navigator to make the entry. Well, since everyone seems to be getting along nicely, I believe I shall excuse myself and return to my taskforce where duties await. Kirrah, you have my comm-ident, let me know of any developments. Starting from dawn tomorrow, Warmaster, my shuttle is yours for the transfer of the O’dai wounded, conditions as specified. And good work, Lieutenant!” Kirrah returned the crisp Navy salute with one of her own, then on impulse replied with the Talamae fist-to-throat equivalent. Which, rather to her surprise, the Admiral returned as well. Well, that pretty much expresses my divided roles, she concluded wryly. Ok, back to business…

  “Now let’s see if we can’t find agreement about some other trade areas. For example, I believe RegNet News would profit from 3V rights on the planet’s surface. I’m sure Ms. Einarson appreciates how valuable the first close-up images of a new manhome would be, back in RegNet. RNN’s ratings would absolutely spike, don’t you agree? What do you propose would be a reasonable royalty if, for example, we were to give you sixty-day exclusive video rights on the planet?”

  Chapter 41 (Landing plus one hundred thirty-eight): O'dakai

  "To have a right to do a thing is not at all the same as to be right in doing it." - G. K. Chesterton, op. cit.

  “I imagine this is not so impressive in daylight, after you’ve seen it a few times,” Kirrah commented to no one in particular. Although it appeared nothing could keep her companions away from the shuttle’s windows, even for this short hop across the river to pick up the O’dai wounded. The eight Talamae and three Wrth allies were glued to the view outside, and even Iss
the was looking raptly out one of the side windows as the shuttle drifted across the two-kilometer-long jaunt on its belly thrusters. All passengers were wearing the light, flexible Regnum combat armor and, except for Issthe and another healer, armed with Marine field knives. Kirrah also wore the same beamer she had transferred from her old survival suit, and Peetha carried her prized Kruss blade.

  A supply of longbows and various arrows for the Talamae archers made a bizarre contrast with the heavy beamers and sidearms carried by the eleven-strong Marine guard under Lieutenant Warden. The Marines were lounging in the center seats, indulgently leaving the windows to the ‘tourists’. Closely watched in a right-side window seat was an unarmed and unarmored Fleet-Captain Schmado, the O’dai Admiral who had lost his fleet on the river to Kirrah’s new weapons. He was present as backup translator and guide through the culture and city streets of the O’dai capital.

  Peetha and Captain Og’drai had begged jump seats in the cockpit from a sympathetic flight crew. Especially the pilot, Ensign Piersall, Kirrah grumbled slightly. Margaret was ‘way too eager to please, although she had certainly done a good job two nights ago, and seemed to be a skilled pilot.

  In just a few moments, they settled to a noisy but feather-light landing inside the Marines' perimeter-post fence, beside the field hospital set up for the O’dai casualties. Kirrah, Irshe, Peetha, Captain Og’drai, Kirrah’s bodyguard Corporal Mastha’cha, and four of the archers trooped down the ramp following six of the Marine squad, and began arranging for the most severely injured POW’s to be transferred to the shuttle’s forward compartment. The others remained aboard to reconfigure the shuttle’s forward seats to accommodate the injured, or went into the hospital tent to prepare the casualties for transport.

  A few enquiries revealed that Prince Paedako was likely in the largest, brightest-colored tent a hundred meters to their east. It figures, she thought with growing distaste. Signaling Irshe, Peetha, Captain Og’drai and four of the largest Marines to follow her, she strode up to the tent and stopped before the unarmed O’dai guard there.

  “Tell Prince Paedako his ride home is here. Kirrah Warmaster requests his immediate presence.” As Og’drai repeated the words in the O’dai tongue, the man started, but bowed and disappeared into the tent. In a moment the blond man who had spoken for the Prince at their earlier meeting, came out. He too bowed, and said:

  “His Exalted Personage Prince Paedako regrets to inform that he is presently indisposed.” Kirrah replied:

  “Tell His Exalted Personage that Kirrah Warmaster allows him one half bhrakka to become ‘disposed’ and appear, without being disgraced before his men. By mid-morning, all O’dai who can walk will be on their way home. I will tolerate no argument in this.” The blond man, looking very uneasily at the Marines, disappeared back into the tent.

  A minute passed. At ninety seconds, Kirrah drew her sidearm and set it to a low-power cutting beam. At two minutes ten seconds, with no Prince apparent, she thumbed the beam on, and lowered the thin incandescent line in a vertical arc onto the top of the tent canopy, which promptly split down the middle in a trace of smoking fabric. The guy ropes pulled the two halves of tenting, roof, walls and all, in opposite directions. Between two heaps of collapsed tent was revealed a litter of still-damp carpets, cushions and camp chairs, a rather startled coterie of sycophants and officers, and to one side on a heap of cushions, her objective. The young man leaped to his feet, calmed himself with an effort, and stood while his blond spokesman hurried to intervene.

  “You!” Kirrah barked at the hapless blond mouthpiece. “You’re fired! Out of my way!” A combat-armored Marine stepped in front of the man, his heavy beamer across the O’dai’s chest.

  Kirrah rounded on the Prince. “Prince Paedako. Because you do not understand the seriousness of your crime, your ‘curse of heaven’ trick has not resulted in your immediate execution, although it would be fully justified. My patience with your childishness, however, is past its end. I am placing some of your wounded on that shuttle. In a few bhrakka, I shall transport them to O’dakai. You will accompany us.” Wrapping his largely imaginary dignity around him, the young man pulled himself to his full height and said disdainfully:

  “I am not wounded. I do not travel with wounded.”

  “Peetha!” Even in the combat-armor fabric, the Wrth girl moved like a gymnast, or a coiled snake. “This fool complains he cannot travel with us because he is not wounded. Remedy that for me, nothing incapacitating.” Before her words were fully out, Peetha’s Kruss blade was in her hand. Glaring at them, daring them to touch him, Paedako crossed his arms and stood, feet planted. Marines moved to block any of the other O’dai from approaching, although none appeared especially eager to do so.

  Peetha stepped up to the Prince like a lover cutting in on a dance floor, her blade low in her right hand. Chest to chest, her left arm reached around the man’s lower back, almost like an embrace, and her right hand moved closer. Her right wrist twisted, just a little, and the Prince’s face lost all its color. She twisted a little more. His lower jaw started to tremble. More twisting. Suddenly he shrieked, throwing himself backward and landing spread-eagled across several cushions, blood staining his groin and running down his leg, sobbing like a baby. Kirrah felt nothing but contempt for the pride-driven bravery and poor judgement the youth was displaying.

  “Bring him,” she ordered two of the Marines. “Anyone who troubles us further, shoot them in the knees, ten percent power. We should have a regen tank working in another couple of months, they can wait their turn.” She switched unconsciously back to Talamae.

  “Captain Og’drai, translate to these prisoners, anyone who does not obey will have their knees broken. Tell them to prepare to leave in a takka. They will be escorted to their own border, on foot. They may carry food and cooking utensils only. No horses, no weapon, no armor, not even a small knife. No tents - everything else stays here. If one of our healers says they are too injured to walk, we will provide a ride on one of our steamships in a few days. Tell them if their King allies with me, in two years they will be rich.”

  The Marine guards half-carried the sobbing Prince toward the shuttle and hustled him into the field hospital tent, where he was quickly treated for a minor but embarrassing knife wound. His anonymous blond servant followed, hovering anxiously, but was stopped at the tent flap by Marine guards. When the last of twenty wounded O’dai were loaded and secured in reclining seats, Kirrah’s party, including the bandaged Paedako, boarded and settled themselves into place.

  Kirrah had to politely ask Peetha to sit in the passenger compartment so she could occupy one of the two jumpseats behind the pilot, Captain Og’drai’s presence as local guide and navigator in the other seat being essential. The pilot and engineer ran through the ritualized duet of their checklist with swift, practiced efficiency, a shortened version of the one they had meticulously gone through thirty minutes earlier on the far side of the river:

  “FB-1 on-line, check”

  “Confirm, hot’n’green.”

  “FB-2 standby.”

  “One per, nominal.”

  “Propellant main full, aux one through four full, feed one and four, pressure green.”

  “Check”

  “Guns?”

  “On line an’ warm, Marg,” a different voice, from the gunnery control officer in the cramped lower deck.

  “Mac, you ready?”

  “Green to go, Marg,” another voice, poised, no doubt, over the temporary sensor suite in the aft compartment that was the covert reason for their flight. Kirrah appreciated the casual way the crew was protecting her from ‘knowing’ about it in the official voice log.

  “Sensor feed On, remote latch Standby, outside clear, confirm.”

  “Confirm area clear,” from the gunnery position with its wraparound sensor view.

  “V-thrust, ignition.” A pump whined somewhere beneath Kirrah’s feet, and something made a soft whuff-sound as a thin stream of water sprayed int
o the ignition chambers of the four belly thrusters. A wash of dense plasma from Fusion Bottle One raced down four magnetic conduits and flashed the water into steam, then atoms, then plasma, then kicked the plasma temperature through a million degrees Kelvin. The violated fragments of atoms were gripped by powerful magnetic fields and channeled out the exhaust nozzles at speeds measured in hundreds of kilometers per second. A low rushing-wind sound penetrated into the cabin.

  “Argosy, Shuttle One, Ensign Margaret Piersall commanding, departing Roehl One for Oh-die city, VFR, note-only.”

  “Shuttle One, Argosy, acknowledge. Visual Flight Rules? Margie, you cowboy!” The raging-wind sound built rapidly to a muted roar. Outside, Kirrah could see bits of soil and debris flying out from under the craft. The pilot continued her banter as the eighty-tonne craft lifted smoothly into the sky. Gasps of fear and wonder from both O’dai and Talamae came through from the passenger compartment behind them.

  “Hey, gimme a break, Bobby! We don’t know exactly where we’re going, it’s an eyeball approach! T-thrust, ignition. Gear up.” Nimble fingers stroked another set of switches. Another pair of soft explosions and a building roar from aft, deeper and more muted than the belly thrusters. A servo sang as the heavy landing gear cycled up into the belly of the shuttle; another, higher note as the outer doors closed over the wheel wells. A series of solid clacks as various clamps locked home. Three small lights on Margaret’s console changed from green to yellow to blue.

  “Shuttle One, Argosy, confirm sensor feed, confirm remote latch. Switch to one-three-alpha. I think you just like to fly low, cowboy!” said the controller’s voice from three hundred kilometers straight up. To Kirrah, he sounded as young and brash as Margaret. They began to build up forward speed, moving out over the river and gaining altitude.