Believe it or not, it took us seven days to get back home! Now you know just how piss-poor Retaliation’s tractors are. It was more than a rough week with all those civilians aboard. Some of them were females, and a close watch had to be kept on randy spacer and horny grunt alike. We finally made it, safe and sound. The prize was put into orbit over Patrick Henry, so the whole city could look up at night and see it glittering above and feel good. Retaliation had lived up to her name. A swarm of small, private vessels were warned off by Planetary Guard cutters, and a whole raft of officers and scientists were soon aboard the Khalian ship to trivid, search, and study everything, outside and in. Most of it was all finished when a pair of Fleet destroyers showed up to join in the party.
Were those martinets mad? Does a griscat hate tokeweed? They came storming down planetside, demanding to know how we had managed to beat up and capture a Khalian raider equal to a light cruiser in terms of Fleet classifications. Admiral Thrushwaite, bless his iron spine, asked the off-world delegation for their permission to land on Freeborn. The ranking martinet started to snap something which might have been a denial of such necessity, then thought better of it and clamped his thin mouth shut. Having forgotten all about such petty formalities, the ships of the Fleet were technically trespassers at best, and could be brought before the Alliance. Whether in judicial or diplomatic terms, the Fleet had stepped into it deep. The angry officers beat a hasty retreat to their ships and lifted off to take up stations around Freeborn while one of their little courier vessels ran off to Tau Ceti to report this flaunting of disobedience of “authority.”
There was actually quite an uproar on Freeborn too. Some of the hotheads thought we should declare war on the Fleet for their invasion. Some idea, that. Imagine the results of hostilities. A week after they began, our planet would have been a lifeless ball circling old Brigit. It was decided, however, that no real information or cooperation would be given. Retaliation was stowed away in an underground hangar and carefully shielded against any probes the Fleet might use. Then we concocted a story of what we had done to capture the Weasels’ vessel. It wasn’t really believable, but so what? Our government didn’t report to anyone. As a member of the Alliance, Freeborn is an autonomous partner, not a subject—especially of the Fleet.
Eventually, one of their Star Admirals showed up, the formalities were conducted with rigid exactness on both sides, and then an inquiry into the matter was held. Freeborn didn’t actually have to allow it. We could have withdrawn from the Alliance. That was virtually unthinkable. We depend too much on off-world trade to dissociate ourselves from the rest of humanity. Then again, Freeborn had been saved from a major invasion by the Khalia once. The government chose a sort of middle road. We flat out lied about the action. The Concentonated Defense Force was adamant. Vessels of the Planetary Guard attacked the raider as it attempted to approach our planet, they claimed. In a running battle, the swarm of light craft managed to break through the fire and screens of the Khalian vessel, boarded it, and successfully captured the alien ship with heavy losses. There were bits of spaceships out around Luga even now to prove it. There were also several breaches in the Khalian ship’s hull to show how small cutters had managed the operation. The Fleet didn’t have any real choice.
“The blatant disregard of Freeborn’s Government for veracity and proper authority leaves grave doubts in my mind as to the continuing possibility of that world’s full membership in Our Great Alliance,” Star Admiral of the Fleet Kestobor wrote gravely. “It seems evident that Freeborn has flaunted their violation of Alliance restrictions regarding armed warships and then engaged in a planetwide conspiracy to conceal their criminality,” he went on. “If such behavior is allowed to go unchecked, unpunished, then it is only a matter of time before every separate government in the Alliance will build a navy of their own. At the first sign of possible disagreement between Alliance Policy—that which is deemed most beneficial for all planets as a whole, not the special interests of the few—and local desires, then the armed vessels of dissident worlds will be sent forth to enforce such special interests’ selfish aims. Hostilities will become rife. There will be rebellions, wars, and all of their attendant woes.
“In order to check such insurrection, to nip it in the bud, I urge that the Fleet be granted permission to cordon off the Brigit system. I respectfully request that we be further authorized to declare the planet Freeborn under Martial Law, so that the Fleet may land in force upon the offending world and conduct an exhaustive search of Freeborn to discover the extent of that world’s criminal activity. If, as I suspect, the depths of their traitorous activity are such as to require, I further request that the Fleet be allowed jurisdiction as to punitive measures, including the removal of all political authority on Freeborn, replacement with Fleet provosts, and the establishment of Fleet Protectorate status in place of the current Full and Equal Planetary Membership now held by Freeborn, until such time as the citizens prove they desire and deserve such privileges again.” You could almost hear the thunder in Star Admiral Kestobor’s voice by reading the last. The good man was certainly full of righteous indignation. Someone had dared to question the rights and prerogatives of the Holy Fleet.
Unfortunately, about two-thirds of the other planets in the Alliance were prone to accept the Star Admiral’s statements. They thought as he did. Fortunately, the Alliance is pretty loose, and the debate over the matter went on for weeks and weeks. Meanwhile, our few friends and allies went to work with our own Delegates, and the process of defusing the bomb began. Someone asked if the steps the Fleet wanted to take weren’t the same thing as Star Admiral Kestobor was warning against. Another world’s delegation thought that it would open the door to tyranny. Yet a third proposed simple expulsion of Freeborn, while a fourth thought a Special Committee should be formed to investigate the matter more fully before any action was decided upon. To show our own good will, the Freeborn Delegate offered not only to deliver the captured Khalian raider to the Fleet Headquarters at Tau Ceti, but also to allow a Special Committee full authority to visit our world and investigate to their heart’s content at the expense of the governments of Freeborn. The other Delegates liked that, naturally. What politician isn’t up for a junket?
The sop of the captured raider was good enough. The Fleet got that and nothing else. A month later a group of twenty Delegates and ten times their number of assistants, aides, and other functionaries were roaming all over Freeborn, from Patrick Henry’s red light district to the wilds of the Verge on hunting expeditions. There was actually quite a bit of probing during the weeks that followed. In the end, the Special Committee determined that we were not only blameless but good, solid members of the Alliance. The Fleet had no recourse or comment.
Retaliation had long gone. She went to Nuada in the belly of a big old freighter. She’s still there, serving as a model for the two larger frigates being laid down there now. There’s a little corvette being built too, so pretty soon Freeborn will have a real navy. It won’t be any match for the Fleet; not in size it won’t, but ship for ship, and in spirit, I think it will be a hell of a lot better. Freeborn is also building solid planetary defenses now, so that if the Khalia ever decide to come at us in force we’ll have something to make them sorry. It’s a foregone conclusion that we’ll never get anything but sweat and regret from Admirals of the Fleet. They visit the Brigit System, of course; frequently so, but they blink in and out only to see what we’re up to. If the aliens came tomorrow with a whole invasion force, I do believe that Star Admiral Kestobor might volunteer assistance for the Weasels’ attack. He’s a bitter man, that one.
Yes. Freeborn did pay the Fleet tribute. We gave them the Khalian vessel, a prize that rightfully belonged to us. So what. It bought us time, and anyone you might care to ask about it on Freeborn will give you the same assurance. It won’t happen again! There was more than enough time for us to take the Weasel ship apart, study her, and put it all back together again
. The experts on Tau Ceti’s Fleet Headquarters complex got her then. They’ll learn how to go as fast in FTL drive as the Khalia do ... just like Freeborn’s own navy can right now. One nice thing about a thousand-year-old organization: being ancient and tradition-bound, the Fleet will take a decade to get around to upgrading its ships to any new technological development. Its bureaus put the B in bureaucracy.
Another couple of years and the Freeborn Flotilla should be making ports of call on its first interstellar cruise. We’ll have to withdraw from the Alliance of Planets, but what the heck. It is high time for that anyway. Although most of the habitable worlds belong, there are a few outside the Alliance who will trade and recognize us as a sovereign planet. Sure, some are ruled by despots, and most of them are peanuts compared to the Alliance. At worst it will mean Freeborn won’t have as many luxuries, but there’ll be no more taxes to Terra, and the Fleet, either. No more tribute either.
Me? The field promotion was approved, and I’ll be commanding the marine contingent aboard Liberty, sister ship to Freedom. Captain Downing is Major Downing now, and he’s the senior officer of Marines assigned to the Flotilla. We’re heading for a nearby system to explore a planet which might be suitable for Terraforming—or Freebornforming, I mean. It seems that the publicity we received from our little fracas with the Fleet roused a lot of interest on many of the worlds belonging to the Alliance, even on old Terra. Brigit is swamped with applications to immigrate, and being as we are, the government can’t very well turn ‘em down. Elbowroom is growing crowded these days, so there’s nothing else to do but look for another planet to settle on. We’re naming it Liberated, of course, whether it happens to be the one we visit first or another we locate later. By the time we get through with our first cruise, I hear there will be over twenty million citizens on Freeborn, and that will mean we’re just about out of space for folks to live in. If that doesn’t give our mission impetus, I don’t belong shipboard.
If you’re one of those who are sick and tired of regulations without reason and conformity to compress your consciousness, you’re a prime candidate for Freeborn Citizenship. One thing though. You have to remember that independence requires vigilance, and the price of liberty is always paid in the blood of those who would be free. The Khalia are bad, but they’re aliens. Perhaps they just don’t know any other ways. The Fleet? It is a tyrant and the tool of those who wish to make you conform to their own mold. Individually, its officers and men might be sterling examples of homo sapiens, but as an organization, it leaves a whole lot to be desired, if you ask me. Hell, if you’re Freeborn, you can take up arms and handle things for yourself. If not, well, you can always accept the yoke and rely upon others to do your fighting for you ... maybe.
Gill looked up and found Sein was watching him. For the first time his smile extended into his eyes. The PR expert nodded his head in agreement. There wasn’t much he could do with the heroes on Freeborn. They shouldn’t have won and letting anyone know they did would only encourage similar, but probably less lucky, activities elsewhere.
“I’ve got some real heroes for you,” Sein said and broke the silence. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to use them either.”
Curious as to what a chief in intelligence would describe as a hero, Gill smiled his agreement and turned back to the screen.
The label on the file was MOST TOP SECRET/NO ACCESS BELOW FLAG RANK. He glanced inquiringly at Sein. Was this a trap to see if he would read the file or not? Was Intelligence playing a game with him?
Even as he watched the screen, Sein entered his personal code. A few more commands and Guilliame Kanard was included on the list of those cleared for the report.
He had already begun reading when Gill realized that Sein had to be more than just a captain in Intelligence. Mere captains do not have the authority to reclassify clearances on Flag Rank documents.
THEY CAME FOR me at my hotel shortly after dark, as the video-blanked call had said they would. There were two of them, both male, alike drably clad, hulking and heavy-boned as Procrustes had made so many of their kind. Geno Deledda I know, though a respirator covered much of his leathery face. The whirr of the air compressor on his back sounded louder than it really was in the stillness that suddenly brimmed my room. The other man was black—not by birth; the eyes looking out of that skin-doctored obsidian hue were gray and his hair was straight. It was nearly white on top, brown at the roots, growing back to its natural shade now that yonder sun no longer bleached it.
After a moment I blurted, “Oh, Geno, you’re not having trouble breathing again, are you?”
His voice came muffled by the mask: “Yes, missy. Oftener and oftener, worse and worse.”
My indignation was genuine. “How much longer will they keep you waiting? Damnation, you’re Fleet!”
He shrugged. I knew it wasn’t actually neglect. Transport from outlying regions like this had gotten sparse, now that the battle of Target was intensifying. Not only such Khalia as operated away from that planet, but other breeds of skiprunner were taking advantage of the Alliance preoccupation to raid around, and this in turn tied up human forces on widespread counteraction duty. And no doubt casualties were swamping medical facilities, even the specialty shops at Port Tau Ceti. It does take highly specialized people and gear to restore to Earth-normal function a body—organs, biochemistry, everything—modified to fit an environment never meant for our kind of animal. The effort isn’t always entirely successful.
“I still get by without apparatus, most of the time,” Deledda said. “No matter now. Uh, this is Jarlath Vosmaer. Sir, let me, uh, introduce Valya Monier.”
The black man and I shook hands. His palm was hard and dry. “Well met, my lady,” he said, and I knew immediately we weren’t speaking his mother tongue. Where might he be from? The accent suggested New Idaho on Christopher, but I wasn’t sure. Not even a journalist is expected to know all the ways and byways of well over three-hundred-odd planets, human and nonhuman. Doubtless his origin made no difference. It sufficed that he had obviously served in the uplands of Procrustes, as Deledda had done in the lowlands.
(Uplands, lowlands, stormlands, drylands, sealands, as if that planet, an entire world, were a single country! Which uplands? Kazir of the winds? Ure’l, where the barbarians howled and loosed their arrows as they galloped up out of the cloud deck? Holy Indalag? Or some outpost I never heard of, enduring what I never imagined?)
The paleness of Vosmaer’s gaze, in the midnight of his visage, made it feel doubly sharp, probing me. “Please take a moment to think before we go,” he continued. His tone was dispassionate. “You may prefer not to come along after all. At least, you must assure us that your absence for a period that may stretch into days will cause no concern.”
I decided he’d been an officer, quite likely high-ranking.
Deledda was just a marine sergeant, combat engineers. He’d happened to be the one I got friendliest with in the course of gathering my material. That material included a lengthy interview with him. He was a natural, articulate in a bluff and earthy fashion, angry but basically amiable. Vosmaer was wary of me.
Best meet him head on. “May I ask your rank, sir?”
Slightly surprised, he replied, “Why?”
“I’d like to know the form of address to which you’re entitled.”
“Colonel—um, Third Eridanian Division. If that means anything to you,” he finished with a snap.
“It does,” I said. “Imperatrix Gloria’s Own. You moved around in the mountains, but mostly you held Ure’l.”
That disarmed him enough, I suppose, for his mask to dissolve and let the bitterness through. “What does it matter? I am detached—inactive. We all are, waiting to be taken back. Some will be discharged, some will serve out their terms on duty almost as empty. I intend to resign my commission.”
I saw him realize he had shown himself vulnerable and start hastily putting on a
new mask, and I pursued my advantage while it lasted, my words quiet, swift, and hard.
“You are still Colonel Jarlath Vosmaer, Marine Corps of the Alliance Fleet, with all your honor. Well, I am freelance telejournalist Valya Monier, and my kind has its honor too. You know I’m working up a story, a program, on the veterans of Procrustes; and you know, or ought to, that it’ll be sympathetic. What are you wondering about?”
He had recovered. His own voice came impersonally polite. “Well, this meeting will be rather special.”
“I’ve had foreshadowings of it,” I said.
He nodded. “I know. Then we hope you understand that what will happen is unforeseeable. It could be misinterpreted. We may have to ask that you keep silence, perhaps stay for a while, until we have resolved any problems.”
“Uh, begging your pardon, sir,” Deledda put in, “what the colonel means, missy, is we got some hotheads amongst us, and they might say what could be taken wrong. We can cool them down, but we don’t want stuff reported that could get them in trouble.”
I laughed. “Is that all? Why, I expected as much.” Turning to Vosmaer: “Colonel, we haven’t met before—several thousand of you veterans—so you may not be aware that I am my own boss. If you care to wait a minute, I’ll cancel a couple of appointments and be free to disappear for any number of days. “
I’d smiled my warmest as I spoke. The black man finally smiled back and said, “Thank you, my lady.” It’s often helpful being a smallish brunette with regular features and a reasonable figure.
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