Generation Warriors

by Anne McCaffrey

  "The clasp," she said, quietly, without looking up at Coromell. "It's the clasp. It's not the same."

  "Shall I?" he asked, reaching.

  She shook her head. "No. I want to see." Carefully, as if it might explode for she felt a trickle of icy fear, she took it up and worked at the tiny clasp. Most such things unscrewed easily, two or three turns. This one was stuck, cross-threaded or not threaded at all. She heard Coromell shift restlessly in his chair. "Patience," she said.

  Discipline focused her attention. The real join was not in the middle, where a groove suggested it, but at the end. It required not a twist, but a pull—a straight pull, pinching the last link hard—and out came a delicate pin with its tip caught in a lump of something dark. She pulled the pin free and held on her hand that tiny, waxy cylinder.

  "This has to be it. Whatever it is."

  What it was, she heard later, was a complete record of Diplo's dealings with the Paradens and the Seti for the past century: names, dates, codes, the whole thing. Everything that Zebara had promised, and more.

  "Enough," Coromell said, "to bring their government down . . . even revoke their charter."

  "No." Lunzie shook her head. "It's not just the heavyworlders. They were the victims first. We can't take vengeance on the innocent, the ones who aren't part of it—"

  "You know something I don't?" He was giving her a look that had no doubt quelled generations of junior officers. Lunzie felt what he intended her to feel, but fought against it.

  "I do," she said firmly, against the pressure of the stars on his uniform and his age. "I've been there myself. I've been to their opera!"

  "Opera!" That came out as a bark of amusement.

  Lunzie glared and he choked it back. "Their very, very beautiful opera, Admiral Coromell. With singers better than I've heard in most systems. Composed by heavyworlders to dramatize poems written by heavyworlders, and for all its political bias, we don't come off very well. Tell me! What do you know about the early settlement of Diplo?"

  He shrugged, clearly baffled at the intent of the question. "Not much. Heavyworlders settled it because it was too dense for the rest of us without protective gear. It's cold, isn't it? And it was one of the first pure-heavyworlder colony worlds. It still is the richest. " The lift of his eyebrows said so what?

  "It's cold, yes." Lunzie shivered, remembering that cold, and what it had meant. "And in the first winter, the colonists had heavy losses."

  He shrugged again. "Colonies always have heavy casualties at first."

  She was furious. Zebara had reason for his bitterness, his anger, his near despair! Coromell had no reason for this complacency but ignorance.

  "Forty thousand casualties, Admiral, out of ninety thousand."

  "What?" That had his attention. He stared at her.

  "Forty thousand men, who died of starvation and cold because their death was the only hope for the women and children to survive. And even so, not all of them did. Because no one bothered to warn the colonists about the periodic long winter cycles, or provide food for them."

  "Are you . . . are you sure? Didn't they complain to FSP?"

  "To the best of my knowledge, it happened, and what I was told, what I believe is also on that chip along with Paraden and Seti conspiracy, is why the FSP never heard about it officially. Major commercial consortia, Admiral, found it inexpedient to bother about Diplo. And then, because the colonists had turned in desperation to eating indigenous animals, these same consortia threatened to have Fleet down on them. Blackmailed them, to put it simply. The whole long conspiracy, the conscription of heavyworlders into private military forces by Paraden and Parchandri families . . . all that results from the original betrayal."

  "But why didn't anyone ever tell us? It's been decades . . . centuries . . . no one can keep a secret that long!"

  "They can if they're frightened enough. Once begun, it suited the power-hungry on both sides to keep Diplo's population convinced that the FSP would be nothing but trouble. Think of it. Those the consortia dealt with had power. Had that power as long as those they ruled believed no one else could intervene, or would intervene, to bring justice. These chose others, equally ambitious and unscrupulous, to follow them. It was to no one's advantage in the Diplo government or the guilty families to have Diplo citizens confiding in the FSP. No one could come out of the Diplo educational system believing FSP would do anything but interdict the planet for meat-eating and lack of population control." She paused, watching Coromell's face change as he thought about it. "Of course, they do eat meat, and they don't control their population." His eyes widened again.

  "You don't mean? You're serious! But that means . . ."

  "It means they remember that only meat-eating saved them, and that they'd promised the men who died to carry on their names. They are as serious, as devout, I suppose you'd say, as any upright citizen of FSP who gags at the thought of eating a sentient being. They've broken the law, and they expect all of us to despise them. But they see the law as a weapon which nearly killed them all—for some died rather than eat the muskies—and which we use merely to keep them down."

  "But not all the heavyworlder troublemakers are from Diplo."

  "No, that's true. Though I have no direct evidence, I would imagine that the one place the secret did get out was to other heavyworlders in the form of a warning. Some would believe it, and some wouldn't. And so you have Separationists, Integrationists, the whole complicated mess that we have here."

  "I think I see." He stared past her for a long moment. "If you're right, Lunzie—and I must say you present a compelling case—then we are dealing not only with today's conspirators, but with long-developed plans out of the past. If only Sassinak hadn't disappeared!"

  "And you still haven't told me how that happened."

  "Because we don't know." Coromell smacked his fist into his other hand. "I wasn't here and no one admits to knowing anything about it. She told her Weapons Officer that she had an appointment with me, that she was taking Aygar along, and, in essence, not to wait up for her. No one on my staff knows of any such appointment. She had been informed that I was on leave and was not due back for three more days. The last anyone saw—anyone whose accounts I trust—she and Aygar walked off the down shuttle and into the usual crowd at the shuttleport. Passed customs, their prints are on file, and then nothing."

  Chapter Thirteen

  FSP Cruiser Zaid-Dayan, FedCentral

  Sassinak frowned at the carefully worded communication. She did not need to consult the codebook to figure out what it meant. It was in the common senior officers' slang that made its origin very definitely Fleet. Almost impossible to fake slang and the topical references. She had used something like this herself, though rarely. Not something a junior would send to a senior but a senior's discrete way of hinting to the more alert junior.

  If she could believe a senior admiral would want a clandestine meeting, would return from leave early, this would be a likely way to signal the officer he wanted to meet. Padalyan reefed her sails, indeed! The reference to the ship she'd served on before the Zaid-Dayan almost removed her doubts. But it meant leaving the Zaid-Dayan again, and she had not expected to go back onplanet until Coromell returned just before the trial. There was nothing illegal about it, with her ship secured in the FedCentral Docking Station. She still didn't like it.

  If Ford had been here . . . but Ford was not only not here, he had not reported anything, anything at all. She should have heard from him by now. Another worry. It had seemed so neat, months ago, sending Ford to find out about the Paradens from a social contact, and Lunzie to Diplo, and dumping Dupaynil on the Seti. Her mouth quirked. She would bet on Dupaynil to come through with something useful, even if he did figure out his orders were faked. He was too smart for his own good, but a challenge would be good for him.

  She realized she was tapping her stylus on the console and made herself put it down. She could think of a dozen good reasons why neither Ford nor Lunzie had shown up
yet. And two dozen bad ones. She flicked on one of the screens, calling up a view of the planet below. The fact was that she simply did not want to leave her ship. Here she felt safe, confident, in control. Down on a planet—any planet—she felt lost and alone, a potential victim.

  Once recognized, the fear itself drove her to action. She wasn't a frightened child any more. She was a Fleet commander who would finish with more than one star on her shoulders. Earned, not inherited. And she could not afford to be panicked by going downside. Admirals couldn't spend all their time in space. Besides, she had promised to share her memories of Abe with that remarkable designer woman.

  Even after all these years, thinking of Abe made her feel safer. She shook her head at herself, then went to the bridge to give Arly her orders.

  "I can't tell you more than what I know." she said, keeping her voice low. She trusted her crew, but no sense in their having to work to keep secrets. "Coromell wants a meeting out of his office. I'm taking Aygar along as being less obvious than one of the crew. Don't know how long it will take, or when we'll surface, but stay alert. If you can, monitor their longscans. I have an uneasy feeling that something may be out there, 'way out, and if that happens, you know what to do."

  Arly looked unhappy. "I'm not breaking the Zaid-Dayan out of here without you, Captain."

  "Don't expect you'll have to. But it won't do me any good if someone slams the planet while I'm on it. I'll carry a comm unit, of course. Buzz me on the ship's line if Ford or Lunzie show up."

  "You're wearing a link?"

  "No! They're too easy for someone else to track. I know the comm's signal is hard to home on, but it's better than advertising where the admiral is, since he wants the meeting secret."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Sure enough to risk my neck." Sassinak glanced around the bridge, and leaned closer. "To tell you the truth, something's got my hackles up straight, but I can't tell what. Ford's overdue. Lunzie, too. I don't know. Something. I hate to leave the ship, but I can't ignore the message. Just be careful."

  "And you." Arly snapped a salute. Sassinak went back to her quarters and changed into civilian clothes, as requested. Another worry; in civilian clothes, she had no excuse for the "ceremonial" weapons she could carry in uniform.

  She was aware that her bearing would hint Fleet to any really good observer. Why not simply wear her uniform? But orders, assuming these to be genuine, were orders. She stopped by her office and picked up the things she could carry in one of the pouches currently in style. Aygar should be waiting at the access port. He, at least, had sounded eager enough to go back to the planet. Of course, he had spent only these few months in space; he was a landsman at heart.

  She was surprised to see Ensign Timran waiting with Aygar when she came into the access bay. She nodded in answer to his swift salute.

  "Ensign." That should send him away quickly. To her surprise, it did not. Her brows raised.

  "Captain . . . ma'am . . ."

  "Yes, Ensign?"

  "Is there any chance that . . . uh . . . that Aygar and I could . . ."

  Now what was this?

  "Spit it out, Ensign, and hurry. We have a shuttle to catch."

  "Could go downside together? I mean, you're going to be busy, and he really needs someone along who . . ."

  She saw in his face that her expression had changed.

  "And just how do you know that I will be 'busy'?"

  He reddened and said nothing, but his eyes flicked to Aygar. Sassinak sighed.

  "Ensign, if our guest has shared confidential information, you should have the wit to pretend he did not. You surely heard the announcement I made: no liberty, no leaves. Not my decision, but FedCentral regulations. They don't trust Fleet here. And, if by some mischance you did end up on the surface, that very distrust could get you in serious trouble."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Nor was I aware that you and Aygar were friends."

  This time Aygar spoke up, with almost Tim's eagerness.

  "He's stronger than he looks, this little one. We began working out in the gym together, at the marine commander's suggestion." Clever Currald, Sassinak thought. These two might even do each other good.

  "Even so, he can't come downside. Sorry. And you're going with me. You'll be busy enough yourself."

  Timran still looked disconsolate. Sassinak grinned at him.

  "Come now. I need the best shuttle-jockeys up here, just in case something breaks loose."

  He brightened at once and Sassinak led Aygar through the access tube toward the Station shuttle bay.

  They had met nothing to arouse suspicion, but Sassinak felt as tight-drawn as a strangling wire. Aygar had long since quit pointing out interesting shops or odd costumes. He'd lapsed into an almost sullen silence. Sassinak was more annoyed by this than she wanted to be. He was not, after all, Fleet. He could not be expected to react as a trained sailor or marine would.

  They had walked out of the shuttle port with no visible tail, into a stifling afternoon made worse by the stinging brown haze over the city. Sassinak was no expert but she had made full use of the gleaming show windows of the shuttleport shopping mall. No one seemed to be following them. No one paused repeatedly to look in the windows when she did. She had been downside with Aygar before. Unless someone knew specifically of the meeting with Coromell, this ought to look very much like the previous trips.

  She would be expected to take him to one of the monotonous gray buildings in which the prosecution attorneys were working up the case against Tanegli, or to Fleet's own gray precincts. Then on yet another walking tour of the sights, such as they were.

  She had started as if for the Fleet offices, then, as instructed, boarded one of the express subways bound for Ceylar East, one of the suburbs. None of those who boarded with them were still in their module when they got off and transferred to another line. They had zigged and zagged back and forth under the vast city until Sassinak herself was hardly sure exactly where they were.

  Now, only a short distance from the designated meeting place, she wished she'd been born a Weft, with the ability to make eyes in the back of her head. The hot sun and smog made her head ache. She wanted to call Engineering and complain. There. Eklarik's Fantasies and Creations. Its sign was purple curlicues on green with mythical beasts in the corners. Not the sort of place she would ever go on her own; a signal to any follower, as far as she was concerned.

  Did Admiral Coromell have a secret passion for historical costumes or antique musical instruments? She gave Aygar a nudge. His shoulders twitched, but he moved across the slideway traffic that way. Sassinak pushed aside the bead curtain and let it rattle closed behind her.

  Inside, the shop smelled of potpourri and incense. A thread of smoke rose to a blue haze overhead. Close on either hand were two suits of armor, one smoothly burnished as if it were but iron skin, and the other worked into fantastic peaks and points, decorated with red silk tassels. Racks of costumes, topped with what Sassinak supposed were the appropriate headgear. Floppy hats, spiked helms, flat straw circles, bonnets drowned in ruffles and bows, a row of tiny red enameled cylinders like oversized pillboxes.

  She took a step forward, kicked something that clattered, and realized that she had bumped a tall ceramic jar filled with swords. Swords? She lifted one, then realized it had neither edge nor point—a stage sword? It was not steel; the metal made a flat, unpromising sound when she tapped it with her finger. Cluttering the narrow aisles were toppling piles of boots, shoes, sandals; the footgear for the racked costumes, no doubt. Suspended overhead were masks, dozens—no, hundreds—in shapes and colors Sassinak had never imagined. She blinked. Aygar bumped into her from behind,

  "What is this?" he began, as Sassinak caught a glimpse of someone moving toward them from the back of the shop. She raised her hand, and he quieted, though she could practically feel his resentment.

  "May I help?" asked a breathy voice from the dimness. "I'm afraid Eklarik's not here right now, but if i
t's just normal rental?"

  "I'm . . . not sure." The message from Coromell had not specified whether Eklarik's shop assistant would do as well as the man himself. "It's about the Pirates of Penzance," she said, feeling like an idiot.

  Her knowledge of musical productions was small. She'd had to look up that reference, and although it told her Gilbert and Sullivan were contemporaneous with Kipling, she knew nothing of the work itself. Or what result should follow from the mention of it.

  "Ah," said the colorless little person who now came into view between another pair of mounted costumes, these obviously meant for the female form. One was white, a clinging drapery that left one shoulder bare; the other, a vast pouf of pale blue, heavily ornamented with bows, braid, ruching, buttons as if the maker had to prove that he knew how to do all that, bulged halfway across the aisle.

  The assistant, between the two, looked so meek and unimportant, that Sassinak was instantly alarmed. No one could be that self-effacing.

  "A policeman's lot . . ." said the assistant.

  "Is not a happy one," Sassinak replied dutifully, thinking the same thing about the lot of Fleet commanders stuck onplanet in civilian clothes trying to play spy.

  "You are the dark lady," said the assistant. Sassinak was still not sure what sex—and was beginning to wonder what race—the assistant might be. Short, slim, dressed in something darkish that rippled. "Your star is shining."

  That had to refer to Admiral Coromell. She opened her mouth to say something, but found herself confronted with a crystal sphere slightly larger than she could have held in one hand. The assistant had two hands under it. The crystal gleamed.

  "The star you follow," the assistant was saying in a tone that Sassinak would have assumed meant drunk, if one of her crew had used it. "It is dimly seen, in dark places, and often occluded by maleficent planets."