The picture rose, looking out over miles and miles of barren sand.
“Where the horde has passed,” the Gerson growled, “nothing remains; all life is erased.”
The screen darkened; Globin moved his joystick to show him all four aliens again. The fluting voice of the Silber said, “We four races have joined together to protect our worlds. Together, we halted the Ichton advance, but only at grievous cost in lives and resources. We knew we could not hold them off for long without assistance—so we dispatched dozens of ships like this one, each with environments for representatives of each of our four species, to seek out aid for our home worlds and colonies. The Ichtons seem to have realized our goal, for they pounced on our ship as we fled our home planet. The battle was short and vicious, and our ship was damaged in the course of it, but we won free, and have come to you from the Core in only four months.”
“Four months?” said Plasma. “Was their drive damaged, that they could not shift in weeks?”
“I think not,” said Globin. “They seem almost to boast, as though they think four months to be excellent time. It is only conjecture, but I think their FTL drive is very primitive. After all, stars crowd densely at the Core; what need for a sophisticated FTL drive when you need never travel more than a few light-years?”
“We ask your aid,” thrummed the Ekchartok, “not only for ourselves, but also for you. We believe that the Ichtons have conquered all the habitable planets of their spiral arm; if they conquer the worlds of the Core, they will begin to move out into other spiral arms. It may take a century or a millennium, but they will find your worlds, too—and then they will be virtually unbeatable; there will not be billions of them, but billions of billions. We appeal to you to fight this cancer and excise it now, while it is still far distant from you—and in the process, to aid four species who have been long blessed with peace, and have ceased to study the ways of war.”
But the humans and Khalia had not succeeded in studying war no more, Globin reflected. Far from it.
He didn’t bother following the debate that ensued in the Alliance Council; it had a foregone conclusion. So he was not at all surprised when Plasma burst into his office three days later, crying, “Globin! It is war!”
Globin stared, frozen for a moment. Then he snapped, “The screen! At once!”
“At once, Globin!” Plasma ducked back into the outer office, and the screen lit up with a view of the Alliance council chambers, with men in grim and very orderly debate.
“The Senate met in executive session as soon as the preliminary reports had been presented,” the commentator said. “In view of the sufferings and peril of the Core races, they have decided to lend what aid they can against the Ichtons.”
Globin smiled a small and cynical smile. “It is scarcely sheer altruism,” he said.
“Truly,” Plasma agreed. “Who does not know that the Fleet, idling in peacetime, is not always the best of neighbors? I certainly would not care to have a base on Barataria, with Fleet law virtually excluding our own government.”
“Never,” Globin agreed, “though we have more reason to dislike the notion than most. And there is a burden of support that accompanies a Fleet base—not to mention making your world a target for enemies, if war comes again.”
“But what can they do?” Plasma wondered. “They cannot release millions of personnel into the labor force; that would cause a depression that would drain the Alliance’s economy even more than the expense of maintaining the hundred thousand ships of the Fleet. They are allowing attrition to reduce the size of the burden, by refusing to replace ships that wear out, and refusing to replace personnel who retire or die—but they cannot forget that they came close, very close, to losing their war with us!”
Globin nodded. “It was almost impossible to supply so vast a force, so far from its base.”
“What can they do, then?" Plasma wondered. “Create bases in the Core?”
But an admiral was standing before the Assembly, resplendent in battle ribbons and braid. “We propose to build a number of mobile bases. Each base would be capable of repairing, maintaining, and even constructing warships, on a limited basis. They would be moved by the most massive warp engines and gravitic drives ever built, and would be capable of accelerating at nearly half the speed of a destroyer. Their mass would allow them to pass through gravitic disruptions such as stars, while still in warp. Disruptions of this magnitude would tear apart a smaller field. Such battlestations would be so large as to form their own ecosystems, making them self-sufficient for food and water, and their closed environments would be capable of sustaining their inhabitants indefinitely.”
“He speaks of artificial planets!” Plasma murmured in awe.
But a Senator was on his feet already, interrupting the Fleet spokesman. “That would be prohibitively expensive, Admiral! Just building such a battlestation would be a horrible drag on our already sagging economy—and maintaining it would bankrupt the Alliance!”
“The station would be self-sustaining, as I’ve said, Honorable,” the admiral answered, “not just in material resources, but economically. Raw materials would be obtained locally by merchant corporations. To accomplish this, sections of the stations would be leased to mercantile corporations, and even to independent traders.”
“Globin!” Plasma cried, and Globin stiffened, feeling the thrill pass through him.
“We would construct only one battlestation at this time,” the admiral was saying. “It would be the prototype, and we would dispatch it to the Core, to aid these embattled species who ask our help. We would equip the station with a hundred ships and all their crews, plus the crew and support personnel necessary to operate the station itself. Existing, but aging, spacecraft could be cannibalized for the construction of the mobile base. Current Fleet holdings in the Alliance worlds would thereby be diminished by nearly ten thousand ships and twenty percent of total personnel.”
A murmur passed through the hall, as politicians glanced at one another and calculated how much of the problems caused by the peacetime Fleet could be alleviated—and how many jobs the building of the station would supply.
“The enemy would be defeated far from home,” the admiral concluded, “and an Alliance presence established among friendly species in the Core.”
The Assembly chamber disappeared from the screen, replaced by the commentator. “The Privy Council continued in emergency session,” he said, “and the president came forth today with an astounding conclusion.”
A picture of the president of the Senate replaced that of the commentator. He was standing in front of the titanic surrealist sculpture that housed the Alliance’s civilian government, its lighted windows refracted through the waterfall that covered the front of the building. It was an extremely dramatic background for announcements, as Globin suspected it had been intended to be.
“We have determined to respond to the Core’s plea for help,” the president said, “but in moderation—we will send only one mother ship.”
Globin frowned. A token indeed.
“But that ship,” said the president, “will be the size of a small moon, and will contain half of the current Fleet personnel. It will also house a substantial proportion of the Fleet’s smaller vessels.”
Globin’s eyes fairly glowed.
“Such a vessel will of course have to be built,” the president responded. “It will be named the Stephen Hawking. The cost will be as astronomical as its destination, but the Alliance government will pay only a fraction of it.”
Globin noticed that he didn’t say how large a fraction he had in mind.
“Many universities have already petitioned the Council to find room on the Fleet ships for their astronomers, physicists, and xenologists,” the president went on. “They have indicated a willingness to assume the cost of their support.”
Of course, most of those universities were supported at least partly by government funds, one way or another—but Globin nodded; the Alliance wou
ldn’t have to contribute anything additional. The universities would take the money out of their research funds. They would ask the Alliance for more money, of course, but they were very unlikely to receive it.
“However, we anticipate that the major portion of the funding will come from mercantile companies,” the president wound up. “The galaxy is huge, and may contain many new and valuable commodities; merchant companies will wish to explore and exploit. Several of the largest companies have already been in touch with the Alliance, asking for rights to exploit new goods the Fleet may discover. The Alliance has refused, of course, since we are committed to free trade—and therefore, no monopolies will be granted. But any merchant company that wishes to lease space on the new supership will be allowed to do so, though the rate will be very high—and from the proceeds, we anticipate being able to finance the greater portion of the cost of the expedition.”
“Should we be interested, Globin?” Plasma asked. When there was no answer, he turned, demanding, “Should we show an interest?”
He saw Globin sitting frozen at his desk, eyes huge and glowing, lips slightly parted.
The Council of Barataria was in an uproar. Half of them were on their feet, gesticulating wildly. The other half were making more coherent demands, some of which Globin could actually hear from his seat at their head.
“What do you speak of, Globin? How can you resign completely from the Council?”
“How can the Council function without you, Globin?”
“How can Khalia endure without you?”
Globin sat still, trying to keep his face from showing how touched he was, reminding himself that the Council had become a prison to him. When they quieted, he began to speak, some inconsequential remarks at first, but they all quieted completely as he began to speak. Then, more loudly, he said, “It is not easy for me to leave you, my friends, but it is necessary. The glory of Khalia must be increased; the prosperity of Barataria must be continued. As you all know, our trade with Khalia has become a major element in their economy; without us, they would suffer economic disaster. But Barataria cannot merely continue as it is—it must grow or diminish, for all things change, and a people, like a single life-form, must build or decay. If other companies gain access to new resources and new markets, and Khalia does not, we will lose our share of the Alliance’s commerce; our trade will eventually die.”
“Surely, Globin! But does not this require that you continue to lead us?”
“Other leaders have grown up among you.” Globin could see the gleam begin in the eyes of the party leaders. “The old must give place to the young—and it is for the old to lend their vision and experience to the beginning of new ventures. It is my place to lease factory and offices on the Stephen Hawking, and to organize and equip the exploration party that will travel aboard it, to walk new worlds and gaze into new skies—and discover new and precious substances.”
The clamor began again.
When it quieted, they tried to talk him out of it, but Globin remained firm—and bit by bit, he caught them in his spell, communicated his zeal, his fascination to them. First one caught fire with the wonder and challenge of it, then another, then three more, then a dozen.
In the end, they voted unanimously to accept his resignation, call for elections, and invest in the Stephen Hawking.
“I don’t like it, Anton!” Brad Omera, the civilian administrator of non-Fleet personnel, glowered at his military counterpart. “They can call themselves merchants if they want to, but if you scratch a Baratarian, you’ll find a pirate!”
“That may be true, Brad,” Commander Brand allowed, “but they pay good money, and they’re hardy explorers. On a mission like this, I’d rather have a Baratarian pirate beside me than a squadron of Marines.” He didn’t mention that he’d far rather not have that pirate against him.
“But the Globin, Anton! The Globin himself! The arch-villain of the Alliance! The Pirate King!”
“He’s a former head of state of a member planet.” Brand put a little iron into his voice. “And he’s a human.”
“Human renegade, you mean! He’s a traitor to his species, and he always will be!”
Brand didn’t deny it; he only said, “He’s a very skillful leader and an excellent strategist.” But inside, he was fiercely determined to make sure Globin stayed in his own quarters.
It was two years between the vote in the Senate and the day the Baratarian liner matched velocities with the completed battlestation, coming to rest relative to the huge maw of the south pole port. It drifted up into that vast cavern and over near a boarding tube. It stopped itself with a short blast from the forward attitude jets. The tugs answered with brief blasts of their own, bringing the mouth of the tube to fasten to the coupling around the liner’s hatch.
Inside, Globin watched the process on the ship’s screens, and his lips quirked in amusement. “How fitting! The back door!”
“I see no ‘back door,’ Globin.” Plasma frowned. “It is the southern pole of a huge sphere, nothing more.”
“The huge port in the south pole, yes! The back door, for tradesmen!” Globin chuckled, aware that long ago, he would have been hurt and dismayed by the discourtesy. Now, though, it only gave him amusement, and aroused a bit of contempt for the Fleet officers who governed the ship. He knew his own worth—and had a notion of how quickly the Fleet’s men would come to value their Khalian bedfellows.
The hull rang with the coupling of the huge boarding tube, and a voice from the Stephen Hawking advised them, in carefully neutral tones, that air was filling the lock at the end of the tube, which would soon be ready for their new passengers.
Globin rose and stretched, scarcely able to contain the excitement bubbling through him. He felt as though he were thirty again. “Tell the captains to prepare to disembark, Plasma. We’ve come to our new home.”
With his hundreds of eager trader-warriors in their quarters, and their titanic stock of provisions, Baratarian gems, and electronic components stored, Globin was ready to face the necessary ritual of greeting the Stephen Hawking’s commander. Of course, many of those gems and electronic components could be fitted together to make devastatingly powerful weapons, and each Khalian had his own arsenal among his personal effects—but the Stephen Hawking did not need to know about that, and Globin felt no need to mention the issue in his upcoming conference with Commander Brand.
He was vastly amused at the size of the sign on the door that led to the lift tube that communicated to the world outside the decks leased to Barataria, Ltd. In Terran Standard and Khalian script, it warned Authorized Personnel Only.
Plasma frowned at the inscription. “Do they think we cannot read their words?”
“For myself, I have no trouble,” Globin assured him. “Loosely translated, it means ‘Pirates Stay Out.’ ”
The door irised open, keyed by his thumbprint—he was the only Baratarian who was authorized—he stepped in with Plasma only one step behind him. As they rode through the light show adorning the walls of the tube, Globin found time to wonder if the humans had already christened his decks “The Pirates’ Nest,” or if that was yet to come.
They stepped out into a reception that was so stiff and cold, Globin wondered how long it had been dead.
“Chief Desrick.” Commander Brand bowed—at least inclined—his head. “I greet you in the name of the Stephen Hawking.”
Behind him, his first officer glowered, simmering.
Globin blinked in surprise; it had been so long since he had used his human name that it took him a moment to realize the man was talking to him. He noted the Khalian idiom “I greet you,” though, and chose to take it as a compliment, though he knew it was intended as an insult—he was pointedly not being told he was welcome. Slowly, he returned the bow, actually tilting his torso forward an inch—not enough to honor the admiral as his senior, only enough to show him how it was done properly. “I greet you, Commander Brand. We of Barataria are honored by our place in the Steph
en Hawking.”
Anton Brand understood the rebuke, and reddened. He looked as though he would have liked to refute what Globin had just said, but every word had been technically correct—the Baratarians did have a physical place in the Stephen Hawking, though not a metaphorical one. Instead, Brand only said, “I do not think we will have occasion to meet very often, Chief Merchant, barring incidents between personnel.” His tone implied that Globin had damn well better make sure there were none. “So let us agree that you will work only within the framework of the Stephen Hawking’s mission, and will give advice only when it is asked.”
“Indeed,” Globin murmured. “Such were the terms of our contract, and we will of course abide by them.”
“Then we need speak no further.” Commander Brand gave him a curt bow. “May you fare well on the journey, Chief Desrick.”
Globin returned the bow in millimeters, stifling a smile. He turned away, trying to catch Plasma’s eye, but failing—the warrior was staring at the first officer, his lip twitching as though he were fighting the urge to smile.
“Plasma,” Globin murmured, and the Khalian broke his stare reluctantly and turned to follow Globin to the drop shaft, every muscle stiff with the suppressed urge to fight.
The lift shaft doors closed behind them, and Globin began to chuckle. The light show gave an eerie cast to his features as they sank down, and the chuckling swelled into full, hearty laughter.
Plasma stared, scandalized. “How can you laugh, Globin? When he has virtually insulted you!”
“No, he has not quite,” Globin gasped, letting the laughter ease away. “No, he meant to, I am sure—but he succeeded only in showing what a boor he was. Let it pass, Plasma—he has little understanding, and less true honor.”
Plasma stared in bewilderment as Globin, smiling, shaking his head, chuckled again. He was thinking of the upcoming, and no doubt similar, meeting with Administrator Omera.
Battlestations Page 6