Moments later, the bridge printer poured out 11 yellow CIN reports.
"Launch'Il be in two hours, Physic. Better get those to the crew and secure your sick bay."
"Yes, sir," Physic said, scooping up the reports and sliding her chair back from the navigator's station so Deep Six would be able to reach it in his rollerchair, "Hey, Physic."
"Hmm?"
"You talk to your husband since last week?"
Physic smirked.
"I tried to talk to him yesterday. His secretary told me he was away—in his yacht—and wouldn't be back until tomorrow."
"Jeez. If you'd told me, I could of tried to patch you through."
"Ain't nothing I've got to say to him, Red Sun. Thanks anyway."
Coeur nodded.
"Affirmative. Carry on, Physic."
# * *
Two hours later, RCS Hornet rose from her berth on a field of contra-grav lift, nosed around in the morning wind, and blasted into the sky on a tail of glowing blue plasma. Fifteen minutes later she had cleared Aubaine's dense atmosphere, and five hours later she was in jump space—bound for the stars.
Just as in her commercial days, Hornet would maintain artificial gravity and G-compensation through every leg of her journey, from launch to landing, yielding an environment that could fool any passenger into thinking that he'd never left the ground. Marines and Arses knew better, but even so, a week in the jump hole resembled a week's stay in a hotel more than anything else; there was nothing to see on sensors, no way to safely leave the ship, and little to do except routine preventive maintenance.
But there would be no rest for Hornet's engineer, or his two assistants on 24-hour jump watch. Day and night, Crowbar, Scissor, and Gyro planned to keep at least one set of eyes on fuel flow to the jump governor—a job too delicate even for a triad of TL-14 computers. It was rough and exacting work—more work than some people wanted—but Hornet didn't have any of those people aboard.
"Nice insertion, Deep Six," Crowbar called from the engine room, a few minutes after the jump field had stabilized.
"I credit the excellent sensors of the vessel the navigator answered, "Sensors, hell," Coeur said, from her seat opposite the navigator's. "He cut that one as clean as they come."
"Well, anyway," Crowbar said, "my compliments. The governor's purrin' along like she knows where she's going."
"Clad to hear it," Coeur said. "Think you'll need any help back there?"
"Negative, Scissor. Gyro, and I can handle the rotation."
"Roger, Crowbar. Out."
just outside the bridge window—a sweeping panorama in normal space—was presently nothing, just a blackness across which played the jump fire, discharges of static electricity between the ship and the jump field. Keeping an eye on those discharges was the only essential work for the bridge crew during jump, for—though the correlation was hardly precise—alterations in discharge patterns were often the earliest warning of an imminent misjump.
"Want to take the jump watch?" Coeur asked Deep Six.
"Affirmative. It will offer me the opportunity to refine my jump plot-"
"Deep Six, we're already in jump. You don't need to work on the jump plot any more,"
"Nevertheless," Deep Six said, waggling the four sensor whiskers around his streamlined head, whiskers he used to manipulate the sensor panels circling his chair, "it is never good to be too sure of one's calculations. One can never be certain when a crisis will arise and test one's preparedness."
It's a good thing we finished his tank, Coeur thought. All the work he does, he'll need the rest Then again, i wonder how good a jump he would have plotted if he were in my place on Alnitak, Well, with any luck we won't have to find out.
"Very good," Coeur said. "You take the first watch."
Phoebus was not a large planet, as worlds went— about the same size as the Terran moon Coeur remembered from her youth—but her high density allowed her to retain a heavy atmosphere and abundant water. Combined with her close proximity to Aubaine, these qualities made her a popular layover point for coreward expeditions, though a pilot was apt to care less about the scenery than the advantage of her tiny size: Hornet, for instance, could anticipate a surface-to-jump point transit of under three hours.
"Elan Diego Control sends permission to land," Deep Six announced.
"Roger that, Signal all hands secure for landing,"
"All stations send secured for landing. DZ in 37 minutes."
Elsewhere in the ship, though, were people without immediate duties, and therefore time to reflect upon the darker side of Phoebus, "If it were up to me," Drop Kick told his three Marines and Physic, strapped into seats in the galley, "I'd skip this dirt ball altogether."
"Why do say that?" Physic asked.
"You must not get out much," Mercy said. "They're all Centrists down there. Like us about as much as a fart in a closed room."
"Oh, come on. It can't be that bad."
"Mercy may be exaggerating," Drop Kick said, "but not much. The planet's an aristocracy, see, and they don't like democracy. Last I saw, they were driving oxcarts and muskets were sophisticated weapons, but they still didn't want any help from us."
"How long ago was that?"
"Four, maybe five years ago."
"Well," Physic said, "there you go. I'm sure the Coalition has got relief missions onto the surface since then."
"Maybe," Drop Kick said, "but I'll bet most of the relief is coming from Oriflamme."
"Oriflamme is a member of the Coalition," Physic said- "Really, they're the largest member of the Coalition, at least in human population."
"Maybe so," Drop Kick said, "but the way I see it, all bets are off when we start answering to some F-tech feudal lord. I've seen enough of that crap in the Wilds,"
Elan Diego was a city of 5000, 60% of Phoebus' entire population clustered around the wreckage of a Class A starport. Bringing Hornet down into one of the starport's grassy fields on a sunny afternoon, Coeur could almost imagine what that complex must have looked like in operation—starliners alighting on contra-grav, and wealthy passengers discharging through a bank of gleaming white terminals. Today, all was wasteland, and the whistling of wind through gutted structures.
"Hornet is down," Deep Six reported, as the hiss of the landing gear shock cylinders filtered up to the bridge. "All
sections report secure."
"Looks better than the last time I saw it ' Coeur said, spotting a large corrugated metal warehouse through the viewscreen. "Last time they didn't even have a shed."
"Yes, sir. Starport Control indicates that warehouse Is our fueling vendor; the Royal Aircraft Company."
"Suppose they have a radio?"
"Starport Control indicates negative."
"Fine. Flag Gyro and Physic to go buy us some fuel."
"Affirmative."
Several minutes later, the ship's laser gunner and medic strolled down the front ramp and, after a glance around the crumbled perimeter of the field, walked off toward the open front of the only standing structure in sight. The sign above the small front office door—partly hidden from Hornet's perspective by the wreck of a grav bus—did not hold the promise of sophisticated facilities.
ROYAL AIRCRAFT COMPANY
BALLOONS, DIRIGIBLES, FUEL & MAINTENANCE
"Gyro," Physic said, squinting at an oblong shape hovering inside the 50-metenlong warehouse, "are my eyes going bad, or does that sign say 'dirigibles'?"
"We should be charitable. Steam-driven dirigibles are an achievement for this tech level."
Ah, good, Physic thought, a diplomat.
Letting themselves into the office, the Arses caught a balding man in grimy coveralls looking out the window toward Hornet in amazement, but he pulled himself back behind his counter in an effort to appear nonchalant.
"Greetings, Manager Villam," Gyro said, noting the man's name from the tag on his uniform. "We've been informed that starship fuel is available here."
"Yes, ma'am. Is
that your ship over there?"
"Yes, sir, RCS Hornet. I'm her XO, and this is our doctor."
"Out of Aubaine?"
"Yes, sir," Physic said, "Does that matter?"
"Oh, heavens no," Villam said. "Lord Regent Garett has instructed us to serve all of our customers equally."
The gunner and medic exchanged curious glances.
"So why did you ask?" Physic said.
"Oh, I was just noticing what a fine looking ship you have there. Wondered where it was from."
Hmm, Physic thought wryly, a jump-2 trader isn't going to be coming from Orilfamme any time soon, buddy.
"Thanks," Gyro said, "I assume you can process a standard credit voucher."
"Oh yes," the Phoeban said, pulling a laptop computer out from behind a computer. Beside a mechanical calculator and kerosene lamp, it did not appear to be of native manufacture.
"Here then," Gyro said, handing the manager a plastic voucher card. "We'll take enough fuel to top off the tanks—say, 800,000 liters."
Evidently not wishing to damage his priceless computer, Villam punched up a rough estimate on his calculator.
"That'll run ya. Say, 6000 credits."
"A little steep for plain water," Gyro said, "but all right. Any idea how long it'll take?"
"Maybe four hours."
"Very good. I'll inform the captain."
Moments later, Coeur relayed her okay over Gyro's wrist communicator, and an unexpected request.
"The lord regent wants to see us, sir?"
"That's affirmative, Cyro. Said he'd like to see someone in command and an engineer. I figured you were both of those,"
"Yes, sir!" Cyro said, poorly concealing her pride.
"The palace is a little ways off," Coeur went on, "maybe 30 klicks, so I'll have Snapshot lower the air raft for you."
"Will all three of us be going?" Physic asked, into her own communicator.
"No, I'd rather not lose that many important people in case there's an accident," Coeur sent, "but all the same, four ears are better than two. Just try not to start a war while you're over there."
Royalty was rare in the RC, and 22-year-old Gyro had little time to study its antecedents in history, so she was better prepared to converse with a Hiver, Schalli, or Ithklur than a hereditary noble. Though she relished the chance to practice her social graces, it could not help but trouble her that she was flying into the seat of the strangest form of government she could imagine.
"Ever met a noble?" she asked Physic, raising her voice above the rush of wind in their open-topped air raft.
"Actually, Garett's not a real noble. His position is regent of Phoebus for the absent duke of the subsector."
"But there is no duke of the subsector. Not for the last 70 years anyway."
Physic shrugged.
"Who knows. I just wonder if we'll have to bow and curtsy."
"Well, whatever they do, let's try to be polite."
Seconds later, striking Stonecurtain Keep came into view as the air raft crested a low hill. Set on a table mountain with only a small road for access, the ferroconcrete structure had probably been built with the help of grav vehicles before the Collapse, but the remote location was not as much a clue to its antiquity as its peculiar architecture; its needle-like towers were densely packed in a cluster that covered all the hill top and afforded no comfortable perch for jump troopers assaulting from space.
"'It's a good thing there aren't many Teddies who know about that trick," Physic said, towering her voice as Gyro lowered their speed, "But where do we land?"
"There's a ledge by the front gate," Gyro noted, "and someone waving to us. I'll put down there."
Whether by design or an oversight of the architect, the ledge was very small—probably not enough room for a 1O-tonne truck to turn around in—but Gyro set down safely, without crushing the little man in brightly colored robes, or the twc guards with halberds, who were waiting for them.
"I was told you were coming," the man said to Physic, stepping forward even before the thrusters had shut down. "Please, go ahead and pull your vehicle into the palace."
"Are you the lord regent?" Gyro asked.
The fellow seemed vastly amused by the question.
"Oh, heavens no! I'm Rikart Orlaf, his lordship's major- domo."
"Charmed," Physic said, shaking his hand.
"We'll just pull in," Gyro added, turning the vehicle slightly and easing toward the gate a guard had since swung upward.
A moment later she grounded the vehicle in what appeared to be a giant conelike stable—full of animal odors and stalls for horses and oxen. Since this was a palace, she assumed that another formal entrance existed, but this was probably the only one that could be reached without an air raft or dirigible, And God knows what it would be like flying a dirigible around those spikes.
"So, my dear ladies," Orlaf said, as the women debarked and the guards withdrew behind the closing gate, "I assume you are the master and engineer of your starship "
"Not quite," Gyro answered. "I'm Johanna Solomon, executive officer of RCS Hornet, and this is Orit Takagawa, our surgeon."
"Well, I suppose that will do."
"Do, sir?"
Suddenly, Orlaf became silent and glanced around as if wary that someone was overhearing their conversations, The guards at the gate, for their part, did not look much more interested than the animals.
"His lordship has summoned you with a very special request Orlaf said quietly. "He would like you to fix his air raft."
"He'd like what?" Physic asked.
"Please, I know this must sound petty to starfaring people like yourselves, but it is a matter of the highest importance. Balthasar Victrix will be bringing a delegation from Oriflamme to Phoebus later this month, and his lordship will be most distressed if his royal carriage is not in service at that time. As the manager of this estate, I can assure you that our compensation for your assistance would be more than generous."
"Clarify something for me," Gyro said. "Aren't there already technical recovery teams on the planet that could help you?"
"Well.. .yes," Orlaf said, "but that's a sensitive issue, (f his lordship asked them for help, he'd have a constant reminder around him of his dependence on Aubaine, Of course, you're also from Aubaine, but you're transient and wouldn't be around afterward as a symbol of that dependence."
To her credit, Gyro stifled the rude comment that came immediately to mind.
"Master Orlaf, would you give us a minute to discuss this privately?"
"Certainly."
Cyro and Physic then retreated, behind uneasy smiles, to a point where their whispers were out of Orlaf's easy earshot.
"Cyro, the man's an ass."
"Maybe, but we still have to make a decision."
"I say we tell him no. If he wants help, he can ask the people who are already here."
"I'm tempted to agree, except for two things: the strain it could put on planetary relations, and the payment he's offering."
"Gyro, are you serious? We can't take his money!"
Gyro sighed.
"Physic, I know we can't take his money. But he might have something else we need, like information, or some key piece of intelligence. It wouldn't hurt to ask."
"All the same, I think we should ask the skipper before we do anything."
"Agreed."
The women then returned to Orlaf.
"Master Orlaf," Gyro said, "we've considered you're request, but before we commit to anything, we'd like to know exactly what you can offer as compensation..."
Three hours later, a purple air raft with burgundy stripes sat hovering above the marble floor of the south veranda of Stonecurtain Keep, a seemingly magical miracle beside the ornamental iron weapons and chest plates of the two guards attending it.
"Nice work," Coeur said.
"Actually, it was just a busted graviton flux inhibitor," Gyro said.
"Yeah," Mercy seconded, "they probably could've fixed it themselv
es if they read the manual."
"Not so loud," Coeur said, jokingly, "you want to give away all our secrets?"
But just then, a commotion of clattering boots behind them alerted the Arses to turn around- Approaching through a gold-trimmed double door, and attended by six more guards and the fawning Rikart Orlaf, was Lord Regent Delvin Garett. Though not a huge man, Garett dominated the room as soon as he entered, with a self- possessed bearing and a dress uniform that glittered with garish gold and silver filigree.
"You see. Master?" Orlaf said, "The carriage was repaired in only two hours."
"Obviously," Garett said, coming to a stop before his three guests, "since they had time to retrieve their captain. Orlaf, guards, leave us."
The order was obeyed with remarkable haste, and all eight guards removed themselves from the chamber in scant seconds, with Orlaf at their rear.
"Maybe you'd better join them," Coeur suggested to her mates.
"Roger," the gunner and medic answered, before making their own, but not quite as brisk, way out of the veranda.
"It goes without saying," Garett said, once he and Coeur were alone, "that I am grateful for the assistance of your crew."
"On their behalf, I accept your gratitude. However, you must know that we're not going to keep it a secret that we fixed your air raft,"
"I hadn't thought you would. That, however, is a trifle."
"You told my associates that your payment was information—information that would be useful to a starship captain. I assume that's the reason we're alone here."
"Perhaps my concern is excessive, but I don't believe so. I can't be certain how powerful are the enemies I might alienate."
"Enemies, your lordship?"
"Let me explain. As you know, Phoebus has few sophisticated sensors, like other worlds of the Coalition, and so relies on good faith for vessels to report their movements through the system. The navy deters most smugglers and pirates with regular patrols, but as a practical matter, some do get through.
"While this objectionable situation is not condoned by myself, it has come to my attention that certain villages, deep in the southern hemisphere, have harbored smugglers who will endure the hardship of ocean refueling."
"Go on."
"One of these village leaders—a thug really—caused a commotion recently, when he sailed out to rendezvous with one of his regular contacts, a refueling starship. Apparently, the starship refused to acknowledge him, so he opened fire with cannons and was sunk. Our navy recovered his survivors."
The Death of Wisdom Page 6