Generation Warriors

by Anne McCaffrey

  "They said that?" With astonishment came the sudden piercing loss. Where was Sassinak? In prison? Surely not dead! He realized that he did not want to deal with a world that had no Sassinak in it, not anywhere.

  "They said it's worse than that. The Insystem Security officer I spoke to had been thrown off the Zaid-Dayan. By Wefts."

  "But I've got orders. I've got to get this information down there in time for Tanegli's trial."

  Killin shrugged. "Feel like space-swimming the last kilometer? And then I doubt they'll let you go down in a shuttle like a nice, harmless civilian."

  "Why are they scared of you? They don't know you've got a deadly Iretan survivor with you."

  Killin looked startled. "I forgot. You were there, weren't you? Snarks, if they figure that out . . ."

  "We don't tell them. We don't tell them I have any connection to the Zaid-Dayan or Sassinak. I'm just a humble courier, carrying a sealed satchel from Sector HQ to FedCentral's Justice Center."

  "I didn't pick you up at Sector HQ."

  "And who knows that? Got a good reason for turning me over to these idiots?"

  Killin shrugged. "No. But that still doesn't get you into the Station. If they relent . . ." He broke off as his comm unit blinked at him and he cut the volume onto the cabin speakers.

  ". . . assurances that no member of your crew was at any time on the proscribed planet Ireta, which is believed to be the source of a plague affecting mental capacity, you will be allowed to dock and proceed with normal business."

  Killin winked at Ford and spoke into the com. "Sir, this ship has never even been in the same sector as Ireta. We're a scheduled courier run between Sector Eight HQ and the capitol. We have a courier onboard, with urgent sealed messages from Sector to the Justice Center, as I believe your stripsheet will show."

  A long pause, then another voice. "Right, Captain. You are on the sheet, listed as courier, with one passenger carrying papers under diplomatic seal. Is that right?"

  "Yes, sir. The rest of the crew hasn't changed since the last run."

  "Do you . . . ah . . . have any knowledge of the Zaid-Dayan's crew? If any debarked at Sector HQ?" Killin raised his eyebrows at Ford, and Ford shook his head quickly, then scribbled a note to him. Killin began drawling his answer as he read.

  "Well, only what we heard, you know, back at Sector. Whole crew was ordered to appear here as potential witnesses or something, is what I heard. Certainly didn't hear of anyone leaving the ship there."

  Killin's grin at Ford was wolfish. He didn't like to lie, but this was not a lie. What Ford had told him in the week they'd been together was entirely separate from what he'd heard at Sector. More interesting, too.

  "Very well. We will proceed with docking." Killin clicked the com off, and shook his head at Ford.

  "You're going to have to be lucky to get away with this. And that captain of yours shouldn't be so trigger-happy. Admirals! I've known a few I'd like to blow away, but actually doing it gives such a bad impression to the Promotion Board."

  Ford maintained the cool reserve expected of a courier all the way through Customs, an ordeal usually reserved for civilians, but in this instance imposed in its full rigor on every Fleet member. He gave his name, his rank, his number, and his current posting: special orders to Fleet Headquarters, FedCentral.

  "Last ship posting?" This was almost a snarl.

  Ford allowed himself a feint, sad smile. "I'm sorry to say, the Zaid-Dayan. I understand it's been a problem to you?"

  He dared not try to conceal this, any more than his real identity. But the Zaid-Dayan had arrived in port without him, with someone else listed as Sassinak's second-in-command. He had a slight chance.

  If the Insystem Security officer had had movable ears, they'd have pricked. He could feel the interest.

  "Ah. And you served with Commander Sassinak?"

  "Some time back, yes."

  His tone indicated that the further back in time that association slipped, the happier he would be. The Security officer did not relax, but his eyelids flicked.

  "And have you had contact with Commander Sassinak since?"

  "No. I had no reason to contact the Commander once I left her . . . command." Nothing so blatant as open hostility, just a chill. He had been glad to leave her command, and no backward glances.

  "I see." The officer looked down at a datascreen Ford could not see. "This was before the Ireta incident?"

  Ford nodded, tight-lipped, and muttered, "Yes."

  They would have his files, but were unlikely to have the personnel history of the Zaid-Dayan.

  "We show no ship assignments after that."

  "I had special duty." It had indeed been special. "Plainclothes work; I'm afraid I cannot comment on it."

  "Ah. Duration?"

  "Nor that, I'm sorry." Ford's regret was genuine. He'd have liked to tell someone else about Madame Flaubert and her lapdog. "Some months, I can say."

  "And you've had no contact with Iretans since that assignment?"

  Really it was too easy, the way the man asked all the wrong questions. He didn't even have to lie.

  "No. I reported directly, got my orders and boarded the next courier."

  "Very well, then. Well escort you to the next shuttle and to the Fleet offices. There's been some unrest because of the . . . unfortunate incidents."

  Ford gathered the details of the unfortunate incidents, at least as they were known to the press, on his way downside. His escort, nervous at first but increasingly relaxed as Ford showed no inclination to leap up and act crazy, filled in what the news reports left out without adding any real information.

  Sassinak had been onplanet and had killed someone. They were now fairly sure it was not Admiral Coromell. Ford let his eyebrows rise. She and the native Iretan had then disappeared, and nothing had been seen of them since.

  "Dear me," he said, stifling a yawn. "How tiresome."

  His escort delivered him safely to the front door of Fleet offices. Ford noticed that civilians did veer away from him, as if he might be contagious. The marines on guard at the door saluted briskly and let him inside. So far, so good, although he had no real idea what to do next. Still playing innocent courier, he reported to the officer on duty and mentioned that he had important evidence for the Iretan matter.

  "You! You're from her ship! How in Hades did you get through?" The duty officer, a 'Tenant, had spoken loud enough to turn heads. Ford noticed the quick glances.

  "Easy, there," he said quietly, smiling. "I broke no laws and created no ruckus. Shall we keep it that way? And how about announcing me to the Admiral?"

  "Admiral Coromell?"

  "That's right." He glanced around and saw the eyes fell before his like wheat whipped by wind. Something wrong in this office, too. "I believe Commander Sassinak would have told him I was coming."

  "N-no, sir. The Admiral's been offplanet, hunting over on Six. That's why we thought at first . . . why what they said . . . but the dead man wasn't Coromell . . ."

  This made little sense. Ford tried to hack his way through the verbiage.

  "Is the Admiral aboard now?"

  "Well, no, sir, he's not. He's en route, I've been told. No ETA yet. He was out hunting at the time of the—of whatever happened. That's why no one could reach him, you see, and . . ."

  "I see." Ford would gladly have choked this blatherer, but he still had to find someone to share his information with. "Who's in charge, then?"

  "Lieutenant Commander Dallish, but he's not available right now, sir. He was up all night, and he . . ."

  Ford thought sourly that Dallish was probably a passed-over goofoff, lounging in bed in midafternoon just because he'd been up all night. Coromell had a good reputation, but if this office was any indication, he had quit earning that reputation some time back. He realized that the day's fatigues and surprises might have something to do with his attitude, but the planetside stinks had given him a headache. He wanted to hand over his highly important information, en
joy a decent fresh-cooked meal, and sleep. Now he could foresee that he was going to have to wait around for a lazy brother officer who would want to sit up and gossip about Sassinak. No. He would not play that game.

  "Could you tell me where the Prosecutor's office is, then? I've got a hand delivery there, too."

  The Tenant's ability to give clear directions met Ford's expectations, which were low. He accepted the offer of a marine guide and escort, and refused the suggestion that he would be less conspicuous in civilian clothes. He would take his evidence to the Prosecutor, he would find his own way back, by way of a decent restaurant. Surely the Prosecutor's staff would know of some.

  By then, surely this Dallish would be awake, and if not . . . There was always a bunk in the Transient Officers Quarters. He had the uneasy feeling of being watched as he and his escort stepped onto the slideway, but shrugged it off. Of course he was being watched. The news had everyone paranoid about Fleet officers. But if he acted like a big, calm, bored errand-boy, nothing should happen to him.

  Lunzie recognized his retreating back, but couldn't get Coromell's attention until Ford was out of sight.

  "Who?" Coromell said, peering at the crowded slideway.

  "Ford!" Lunzie was ready to cry with sheer frustration. It was impossible that everything could go so wrong. "Sassinak's Exec, from the Zaid-Dayan. He was here!"

  "Omigod!" Dallish slammed his hand onto the window-frame. "It's my fault. You'd told us he was coming, but I was still thinking he'd report to his ship first. He must've gotten to the Station after . . ."

  "We'll find him. Just call down and ask the duty officer where he went."

  But although he told Dallish where Ford was going, they could not find him again. All communications to the Prosecutor's office were blocked.

  "Lines engaged. Please call again later" in muted synthetic speech so sweet Lunzie wanted to gag.

  "There's got to be a way," she said. "Can't you break into the line?"

  "I'm trying. We don't want anyone to know the Admiral's here yet," Dallish said, "so I can't use his special code."

  By the time they did get through, it was after hours as the computer's secretarial function insisted. When they worked their way through the multiple layers of authority and back down through the same layers trying to find the person to whom Ford would have reported if he'd been there, he'd already left. Without an escort. No, nobody knew where he'd gone. He'd been asking around for good places to eat, and the speaker thought he'd talked most to someone who had left even earlier. Sorry.

  "He'll come back here," said Coromell, without much conviction. "It's standard procedure."

  "Nothing in this entire situation is standard procedure," Lunzie said. "Why should he follow it?"

  It came out sharper than she intended, and she realized all at once that she was hungry again and very, very tired.

  Despite his confident insistence that he could certainly get something to eat and find his own way back to the Fleet offices, Ford was not entirely sure just where he was. After a long wrangle about what he considered minor matters, he had left the Prosecutor's office. It wasn't anyone's business but his captain's exactly when and where he'd left the Zaid-Dayan to visit his great-aunt. They'd had his original taped deposition; he hadn't wanted to repeat it.

  The Prosecutor's staff gave him the distinct impression that Sassinak's disappearance with Aygar and Lunzie's non-appearance were somehow his fault. At least he was there to be griped at. He had pointed out that since the first report that the dead man was an admiral had been wrong, the report that Sassinak had anything to do with the murder might be wrong, too.

  And where was she? he was asked, and he replied, with what he thought of as massive self-control, that he had no earthly idea, having arrived only that afternoon. He had parted from the staff in no mood to take the precautions they advised. It had been his experience on dozens of worlds that a confident walk, clean fingernails, and the right credit chip would keep him out of avoidable trouble, while good reflexes and a strong right arm would get him out of the rest. So he had walked along, working off the irritation until the right combination of smells led him into a dark little place which had the food its aroma promised.

  Hot food, a good drink, and he felt much better about the world. He let himself wonder, for the first time consciously, where Sassinak was. What had really happened. He could not believe she was dead, stuffed in a trash bin down some sleazy alley. He wondered where Arly was going with the Zaid-Dayan, and what Sassinak thought about that, and if Timran had been piloting that shuttle, and who else might be in it.

  Thinking about these things, he'd paid his bill with a smile and gone out into the darkening evening where the streets looked subtly different than they had in the sulfurous light of late afternoon. Of course he could stop someone and ask. Or he could go to any of the lighted kiosks and find his location on the display map. But he could always do that later, if he turned out to be really lost. At the moment, he didn't feel lost. He just felt that he wanted a good after-dinner walk.

  When he realized that he'd walked far beyond the well-lighted commercial district where he'd had dinner, it was dark enough to make the next lighted transportation access attractive. Ford had walked off most of his ruffled feelings. He realized it much smarter to take a subway back to the central square. He was even pleased with himself for being so careful. Only a few dark shapes moved to and from the lighted space above the entrance. Ford ignored them without failing to notice which might turn troublesome as he rode the escalator down.

  For a moment, he considered continuing to the lowest level, and seeing if he could find out anything about Sassinak. Every city had its denizens of the night, usually easy enough to find in tunnels and alleys at night. But he wasn't dressed for that. He would hardly fit in, and if Sassinak had plans of her own going forward, he would only get in her way.

  At the foot of the escalator, he stood at the back of the platform, waiting for the next train to come. Only a small group, men and women both, who eyed his Fleet uniform and gave him room. When the train came in, he checked the number to be sure it would take him all the way in without a transfer, letting the others crowded into the first car. Ford shrugged, and stepped into the second without really looking. He had seen only a few heads in the windows. He was all the way in and the doors had thumped firmly behind him, when he realized what he saw. Thirteen Fleet uniforms, and two very nervous civilians who sat stiffly at one end trying to pretend they saw nothing.

  "Ensign Timran," Ford said, as if he'd seen him only a few hours ago. And in a way, he had. "You do get around, don't you?" He let his eyes rest a moment on each one, and did not miss the very slight relaxation.

  Whatever they were up to, he had been instantly accepted as a help. Fine. When he found out what they were supposed to be doing, he would help. In the meantime . . ."'Tenant Sricka, I presume you're in charge of this little outing?"

  A quick flick of eyes back and forth made it clear what part of the problem had been. Timran, in command as long as he was piloting a ship, had not been quick to relinquish that command on the ground. Sricka, a tactful Weft, had not wanted to risk confusion by confronting him: not on what might be enemy territory, in front of the enlisted marines. Ford acknowledged that tact with a quirk of his mouth. Even Timran wouldn't argue with the Exec of the Zaid-Dayan, a Lieutenant Commander's stripes on his sleeves.

  "Suppose I fill you in on a slight change of plans," he said. "After you fill me in on a few necessary details, such as where you left the shuttle and how many you left with it."

  Timran leaned forward, keeping his voice low. Ford, who had been unconvinced of Tim's reformation after Ireta, approved.

  "Sir, it's under shields on the replanted end of the landfill. Tenant Sricka recommended that site because it was remote from the city center but near a subway line. We left no one aboard, because we . . . I . . . we thought that we might need everyone to help the captain. Sir."

  Which meant Sric
ka had tried to explain the stupidity of taking that many uniformed men into a situation where Fleet uniforms might precipitate panic, but Tim hadn't listened and now wished he had. Typical. Ford shifted his gaze to the Weft.

  "Do you know where she is?"

  "I believe I can find her, sir, given a chance to shift. It's easier that way."

  "For which you need privacy, if we don't want to scare the horses. Right! Let me think." He tried to remember how many stops he'd passed during his walk. If only those civilians hadn't been in this car! They'd probably report this concentration of Fleet to someone as soon as they got out. That decided him. "We're getting off at the next stop. Just follow me."

  He didn't know where the civilians would get off, but they didn't move when Ford stood and led the others off at the next stop. This one was no larger than the other, with only a narrow bridge to the outbound platform, and no privacy whatever. But if he led them all up to the street, they'd be just as noticeable. Unless, of course, he could get those uniforms out of sight. He got them all as far from the others on the platform as he could and explained.

  "You marines are MPs, and I'm your commanding officer. These dirtsiders don't know one uniform from another. At least the civilians don't. These others are belligerent drunks that we're trying to get back to the city as quietly as possible."

  The Wefts, consummate actors, nodded and grinned. Timran looked both worried and stubborn. Ford leaned closer to him.

  "That's not a suggestion, Ensign; that's an order. Now say 'I'm not drunk' and take a swing at the sergeant there."

  Timran said it in the startled voice of one who hopes it's not true, swung wildly, and the sergeant, grinning, enacted his role with vigor.

  "Don't you bother 'im," Sricka said, tugging ineffectually at the sergeant's arm. "He's not drunk, it's just his birthday!"

  "Happy birthday to him!" shouted the other Weft, entering into the game gleefully.

  The marines grappled, struggled, and started their drunken charges up to street level with difficulty while Ford, still spotless, apologized coolly to the civilians on the platform.