“Terreneuve,” I gulped.
“No matter, I suppose. What does matter is that we are suspected. And we are guilty of sedition and conspiracy. Governments don’t voluntarily let individuals make foreign and military policy. When you don’t call in tomorrow, the Council will alert the Fleet, and we’ll be arrested for investigation. “
Torskov swung about. To the massed horror before him he shouted, “Unless we leave now! It’s our single chance. Are you with me?”
The first faint responses strengthened. Soon they roared. Vosmaer let go of me. I stood head bowed, in the winter wind of their hatred, and sought shelter among my memories.
The prairie had billowed silver-green under a springtime breeze when we again walked from Aubourg, hand in hand beside the river. There bluefruit trees grew. They shed petals onto us, and the nesting flutewings sang.
“I missed you,” I said frankly.
“And I you,” Torskov answered. “I thought more and more about paying a return visit here.”
“Until a practical reason decided you.”
“I would have in any case.”
“Eventually, perhaps. Jerik, let’s not play games. I’m glad you want me for something I can actually do. Afterward ... we’ll see.”
His grin was rueful. “Good Lord, but you have a way of taking a man aback.” Drawing breath: “All right. I’ve come from a stay on that planet I mentioned to you last time, Procrustes. A tragedy is about to happen there. I’ve been talking to people, including one top-ranking officer. He and I have groped our way to an idea of what might be done about it. But we’ll need outside help, an agent who can’t be identified locally. It strikes me you are just the sort.”
“Just crazy enough, hm?” Tiny lightnings went along my backbone. “Well, tell me.”
—And in my hotel room in Alison, while dusk stole in the windows to veil a sweet chaos:
“They’ll be several hundred, Valya. That many can’t conspire. You’re a journalist; you know how a leak is absolutely guaranteed. Somebody will disapprove or hope for an advantage and tell on us. Or if, miraculously, that doesn’t happen, how do we coordinate such a movement, how do we herd those natural-born nonconformists off without anybody noticing?
“Unless we’ve gotten them together for what they think is a meeting to discuss grievances, and then spring an opportunity on them, and straight afterward a crisis, with no choice left them but to move at once.”
My cabin has a small viewscreen. I sit on my bunk and watch Procrustes as we orbit it. The planet is blue-white, like incandescent steel, in the light of its brilliant sun. Here and there, uplands thrust darkling out of the clouds.
The door opens. Jerik steps through and closes it behind him. “Time to go,” he says dully.
I jump to my feet. “Already?” rips from me.
We hold each other close, as we haven’t dared on the voyage. “ ‘Fraid so,” he sighs into my ear. “The Fleet ship has called us. She’ll rendezvous in an hour.” He attempts a chuckle. “And we won’t have the dissenters to guard anymore while they gorge themselves on our rations.”
Dissenters—it took repeated ferryings to bring all those people aloft. Anyone who had meanwhile boarded the next railcar to town could have informed the police that this was not the collecting of plants for a botanical garden on another world that the Landholder’s son had described when he filed his operations plan. More than one would have informed, in fear or greed or indignation. Therefore the majority compelled the minority to come with them, adding kidnapping to their crimes. Jerik had programmed his home phone to tell the depot command of the situation after three days, when we’d be uncatchably distant. The message ended by requesting transport back for our prisoners. And the government spy, of course.
I shiver in his arms. “Are you sure that isn’t an armed vessel that will open fire on you after the exchange has been made?”
“I’ve told you before, dear worrywart. Our troops are on the planet. Destroying this ship would be a pointless evil and antagonize the whole Alliance. Old Jiao knows his Fleet psychology.” Jerik pauses. “You’d better spend your mental energy rehearsing the story you’ll have to tell.”
That I had in fact been conducting surveillance, for pay and for the thrill of playing detective, but that I had been misled to believe it was on behalf of the Council of Magnates, whereas actually my employer was another younger son of a Landholder, with hopes of making a politically powerful name for himself. Jerik’s cousin doesn’t mind that he’ll seem a bit foolish. What he really wants to do is anthropological and xenological research, and Procrustes will be a unique field for him.
I press against the hard-muscled form. “Must I really wait two years before coming back?”
“Minimum.” Jerik’s lips brush over my cheek. His hands tighten on my waist till they hurt. I don’t complain. “When they’re preoccupied, busy, the grudge nearly forgotten. Then they’ll accept that Admiral Torskov couldn’t get the beautiful enemy off his mind and finally, letters going back and forth, has gotten her to pay him a visit, which leads to—” Again he chuckles. It sounds a little forlorn. “Let future scholars figure out what rascals we actually were, you and I.”
My look goes past his shoulder, to the world that crouches waiting. It isn’t mine. Human and nonhuman, those are not my people. Will they suffice me for the rest of my life? Will he? “Be careful, darling, darling,” I beg him. “Stay alive.”
“Just who are you?” Kanard asked pointedly, but only after he had finished the file on Procrustes.
“Captain Sein, Intelligence.” The answering voice was level, almost a monotone.
“Look, I’m not here to play games,” Gill protested. He hadn’t slept well since this assignment had come down, and was both tired and annoyed. If Intelligence wanted to play games, let them do it with the Khalia.
“I assure you, Lieutenant Commander Kanard, I am not playing a game.”
There was what seemed to Gill a long period of silence.
Finally Sein spoke again.
“Admiral Fleisher’s request put me in an awkward position. To carry it out I have to give you access to Intelligence files, trusting in your judgment. This has already cost me a good deal with those in my department less aware of the importance of your task.”
“And what will this cost me?” Kanard was more than suspicious.
To Gill’s surprise Sein laughed. It was a short, but friendly laugh and the smile returned to his eyes.
“You impress me.” He paused and chuckled again. “If you ever want to transfer to Intelligence, look me up.”
“Price?” the PR officer insisted, refusing to be diverted by compliments.
“No price,” Sein assured him. “Someday I may need a favor for an equally good cause. Then, only if in your judgment you can, you may return this one.”
It sounded harmless to Gill, but this was Intelligence. He made what was meant to be a noncommittal grunt and was frustrated when Sein took this as agreement.
“I have a hero you can use here,” the Intelligence officer added smoothly. “The situation has almost all you need. A valiant battle against impossible odds, a sacrifice—two, actually—and a happy ending.”
“What’s the catch?” Gill asked, noting a peculiar tone in Sein’s voice.
“Well, I doubt you will be able to use any visuals of the hero,” was the enigmatic answer.
Gill, admitting he was hooked, turned back to the console.
WITH THE SORT OF bad luck which has dogged the Alliance lately, escort and convoy came back into normal space in the midst of space debris.
We came from the queer blankness of FTL drive into the incredible starscape of that sector, so tightly packed with sun systems that we had had to re-enter far sooner than the Admiral liked, considering nearby Khalian positions. But we had no choice. We had to leave the obscurity
of FTL in relatively “open” space. It would take nearly six weeks to reduce our re-entry velocity of 93%C to one slow enough to make an orbit over the beleaguered world of Persuasion, our eventual destination. We also were constrained to reduce that tremendous velocity before nearing the gravity wells of such a profusion of stars or the Fleet could be disrupted, or worse, scattered to be easily picked off by any roving Khalia. The Admiral had plotted a brilliant two-step braking progress through the gravity wells of nearer star systems to “lose” speed. So we emerged from FTL, nearly blinded by the blaze of brilliantly glowing stars which was, as suddenly, obscured. Then WOW! Every alert on the Dreadnought Gormenghast went spare.
Considering my position, attached to a landing pod, slightly forward of the main Bridge Section, I immediately went into action. Under the circumstances, the faster we could clear the junk the better, because 1) many of the supply pods towed by the freighters could be holed by some of the bigger tidbits flying around at the speeds they were moving and 2) we were awfuldam close to a colony the Khalia had overrun three galactic years ago. If they had set up any peripheral scanners, they’d catch the Cerenkov radiations from our plasma weapons. So everything that could blast a target throughout the length of the convoy was!
Me, I always enjoy target practice, if I’m not it, (which in my line of work as pilot of the Admiral’s gig is more frequently the case than the sane would wish). Against space debris I have no peer and I was happily potting the stuff with for’ard and port side cannon when I received an urgent signal from the Bridge.
“Hansing? Prepare to receive relevant charts and data for Area ASD 800/900. Are you flight ready?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said, for an Admiral’s gig is always ready or you’re dropped onto garbage runs right smart. I recognized the voice as that of the Admiral’s aide, Commander Het Lee Wing, a frequent passenger of mine and a canny battle strategist who enjoys the full confidence of Admiral Ban Corrie Eberhard. Commander Het has planned, and frequently participated in, some of the more successful forays against Khalian forces which have overrun Alliance planets. Het doesn’t have much sense of humor; I don’t think I would either if only half of me was human and the more useful parts no longer in working order. I think all his spare parts affected his brain. That’s all that’s left of me but I got spared an off-beat but workable humor. “Data received.”
“Stand by, Bil,” he said. I stifled a groan. When Het gets friendly, I get worried. “The Admiral!”
“Mr. Hansing.” The Admiral’s baritone voice was loud and clear, just a shade too jovial for my peace of mind. “I have a mission for you. Need a recon on the third planet of ASD 836/929: its settlers call it Bethesda. It’s coming up below us in a half a light-year. The one the pirates got a couple of years back. Need to be sure the Khalia don’t know we’ve passed by. Don’t want them charging up our ass end. We’ve got to get the convoy, intact, to the colony. They’re counting on us.”
“Yes, sir!” I made me sound approving and willing. “You’ll have a brawn to make contact with our local agent who is, fortunately, still alive. The colony surrendered to the Khalia, you know. Hadn’t equipped themselves with anything larger than handguns.” The Admiral’s voice registered impatient disapproval of people unable to protect themselves from invasion. But then, a lot of the earliest colonies had been sponsored by nonaggressives long before the Alliance encountered the Khalia. Or had they encountered us? I can never remember now, for the initial contact was several lifetimes ago, or so it seems to me, who has fought Khalia all my adult life. However, it had been SOP to recruit a few “observers” in every colonial contingent, and equip them with implanted receivers for just such an emergency as had overtaken Bethesda. “Het’ll give you the agent’s coordinates,” the Admiral went on. “Had to patch this trip up, BiI, but you’re the best one to handle it. Space dust! Hah!” I could appreciate his disgust at our bad luck. “You’ve got a special brawn partner for this, Bil. She’ll brief you on the way.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. But time was of the essence if the Admiral had to prepare contingency plans to scramble this immense convoy to avoid a Khalian space attack. Somehow or other, despite modern technology, a fleet never managed to reassemble all the original convoy vessels and get them safely to their destination: some mothers got so lost or confused in the scramble they never did find themselves again. Much less their original destination. Merchantmen could be worse than sheep to round up, and often about as smart. Yeah, I remember what sheep are.
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said crisply and with, I hoped, convincing enthusiasm for the job. I hate dealing with on-the-spots (o.t.s.): they’re such a paranoid lot, terrified of exposure either to Khalian Overlords or to their planetary colleagues who could be jeopardized by the agent’s very existence. Khalian reprisals are exceptionally vicious. I was glad that a brawn had to contact the o.t.s.
Even as I accepted the assignment, I was also accessing the data received from the Gormenghast’s banks. The computers of an Ocelot Scout, even the Mark 18 which I drove, are programmed mainly for evasive tactics, maintenance, emergency repairs and stuff like that, with any memory limited to the immediate assignment. We don’t know that the Khalia can break into our programs but there’s no sense in handing them, free, gratis, green, the whole nine metres, is there? Even in the very unlikely chance that they could get their greasy paws on one of us.
The mortality and capture statistics for scouts like mine don’t bear thinking about so I don’t think about them. Leaves most of my brain cells able to cope with immediate problems. Brawns have an even lower survival rate: being personalities that thrive on danger, risk and uncertainty, and get large doses of all. I wondered what “she” was. What ancient poet said The female of the species is more deadly than the male? Well, he had it right by all I’ve seen, in space or on the surface.
“Good luck, Bil!”
“Thank you, sir.”
Admiral Eberhard doesn’t have to brief scout pilots like me but I appreciate his courtesy. Like I said, the mortality for small ships is high and that little extra personal touch makes a spaceman try that much harder to complete his mission successfully.
“Permission to come aboard.” The voice, rather deeper than I’d expected, issued from the airlock com-unit.
I took a look and damned near blew a mess of circuits.
“She” was a feline, an ironically suitable brawn for an Ocelot Scout like me, but she was the most amazing ... colors, for her short thick fawn fur was splashed, dashed and dotted by a crazy random pattern of different shades of brown, fawn, black and a reddish tan. She was battle lean, too, with a few thin patches of fur on forearm and the deep ribcage, which might or might not be scars. At her feet was a rolled up mass of fabric, tightly tied with quick-release straps.
I’d seen Hrrubans before, of course: they’re one of the few species in the Alliance who, like humans, are natural predators, consequently make very good combat fighters. I’m not poor-mouthing our Allies, but without naming types, some definitely have no fighting potential, though as battle support personnel they have no peer and, in their own specialties, are equally valuable in the Alliance war with the Khalia. A shacking goo, as the man said.
This representative of the Hrruban species was not very large: some of their troops are BIG mothers. I’d say that this Hrruban was young—they’re allowed to fight at a much earlier age than humans—for even the adult females are of a size with the best of us. This one had the usual oddly scrunched shoulder conformation. As she stood upright, her arms dangled at what looked like an awkward angle. It would be for the human body. She held herself in that curious, straight-backed, half-forward crouch from her pelvis that Hrrubans affected: the way she stood, the weight on the balls of her furred feet, thighs forward, calves on the slant, the knee ahead of the toe, indicated that she stood erect right now, by choice, but was still effective on all fours. The Khalia had once been qu
adrupeds, too, but you rarely saw one drop to all fours, unless dying. And that was the only way I wanted to see Khalia.
“Permission ... ,” she began again patiently, one foot nudging the folded bundle of fabric beside her. I opened the airlock and let her in.
“Sorry, but I’ve never seen an Hrruban quite like you before ...” I ended on an upward inflection, waiting for her to identify herself.
“B’ghra Hrrunalkharr,” she said, “senior lieutenant, Combat Supply.”
And if survival is low for brawns, it’s even lower for Combat Supply personnel. If she had made a senior lieutenancy, she was good.
“Hi, I’m Bil Hansing,” I replied cheerily. Ours might be a brief association but I preferred to make it as pleasant as possible.
She flung a quick salute with her ‘hand’ turned inward, for her wrist did not swivel for a proper Navy gesture. Then the corners of her very feline mouth lifted slightly, the lower jaw dropped in what I could readily identify as a smile.
“You can call me Ghra, easier, than sputtering over the rest of it. Your lot can never get your tongues around ‘R’s.”
“Wanna bet?” And I rolled off her name as easily as she had.
“Well, I am impressed,” she said, giving the double ‘S’ a sibilant emphasis. She had lugged her bundle aboard and looked around the tiny cabin of the Ocelot. “Where can I stow this, Bil?”
“Under the for’ard couch. We are short on space, we Ocelots!”
I could see her fangs now as she really smiled, and the tip of a delicate pink tongue. She quickly stowed the bundle and turned around to survey me.
“Yeah, and the fastest ships in the galaxy,” she said with such a warm approval that my Iiking for her increased. “Mr. Hansing, please inform the Bridge of my arrival. I take it you’ve got the data. I’m to share the rest of my briefing when we’re under way.”
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