Greg thought for a moment and said, “I didn’t think I was that good.”
Blondie smiled and said, “You are, and you will be supporting a good cause.”
“Is that like saying ‘God is on our side’ or something?” Greg asked.
Blondie laughed. “I think we would rather be on God’s side like Abraham Lincoln said.”
“You know I have never believed that the size of one’s military or the quality of one’s tacticians had anything to do with the rightness of one’s cause,” Greg ventured.
Brownie asked, “How so?”
“In the American Civil War the North won, but the central cause of the war, states’ rights, was never resolved.”
“What about World War II?” Brownie asked. “Didn’t the right side win?”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Greg answered. “The Russians won, and the Americans won. Clearly the German genocide was wrong, but it’s not as if the Americans won the war by brilliant tactics. They won it with the mass of their manufacturing capacity and blunders by the Germans.”
“Such as?” Blondie asked.
“Invading Russia and not invading England. Russia would have stayed out of the war. Without England to use as a staging area, America could never have amassed the force necessary to attack Europe. Look at the American Revolution. It’s not so much that the Americans won it as that the British lost it due to arrogance and stupidity. Once America became a world power, their cause became known as the right one, but was it? As a colony of England, did they not owe allegiance to England?”
“Yes,” Brownie answered, “but if the government is corrupt what do you do?”
“You change it from within. Look at Canada and Australia. They stayed loyal to England.”
“That doesn’t always work,” Brownie observed.
“Nothing always works, but the quality of one’s military does not guarantee the rightness of one’s cause.”
“I still don’t get it,” Brownie stated.
“I have a library of war games. I’ll use them to teach you tactics and strategy. In each game, you will play the ‘good guys’ and I will play the ‘bad guys’ so we can see who wins most often. Oh, and one last thought, the death of a soldier is just as painful to their family regardless which side of the conflict they are on.”
Katherine asked, “If the quality of one’s military is irrelevant to the rightness of one’s cause, how does a just cause win?”
“By winning the spirit of the people and bringing them to recognize the rightness of what you say and do. No military solution will last if there is no cultural solution to back it up.”
“Could you initiate a cultural solution without a military one?”
“Absolutely. It’s really the best way and the only way that will last.”
The people on the flight deck pondered the implications of what Greg had said.
HOMESTEAD - CHAPTER FOUR
“GREG?” BLONDIE HESITATED after breaking the silence, her nervousness showing in the trembling of her hands, needing to change the subject. “We have something we need to tell you.” She hesitated until she was sure she had his attention. She fidgeted in her seat fearful of his reaction. “Not only are you carrying live cargo, but we are carrying live cargo on our ships.”
Greg raised one eyebrow, but otherwise showed no reaction. Blondie wondered if that meant he was getting ready to spring at her or if he really had his emotions that tightly controlled. Her courage returned as did the color in her face.
“The containers on our ships are mobile homes each with a person and all their worldly goods.”
Greg’s face remained an impassive mask as she continued to speak.
“The occupants are refugees from persecution by the Swordsmen.” She attempted to assess his reaction. She was bothered by the fact that his face revealed none of his thoughts. “I would like permission to bring them on board this ship.”
“How many are there?” he asked almost too calmly.
“Twenty-four.” She desperately tried to figure out what he was thinking, but his face gave no clue. “Twelve on each ship. We can use the flight decks of our ships as bunk space,” she blurted out, “but you have the only galley. I know this is a huge imposition, but we needed to take them with us.”
Greg amazed himself by holding his temper. “Are your cargo holds pressurized?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Can you safely get these people out of those containers?”
“Yes.”
Greg shuddered, showing emotion at the news for the first time. “We can’t leave them there. What a horrible thought.” He shook his head as some disturbing memory crossed his mind. “Three months in solitary confinement on a cargo ship bound for a destination that may or may not be what it was reputed to be.”
“I hoped you would see it that way.” Blondie brightened. “This ship has six single passenger cabins and the engineer’s cabin. With our two flight decks, if we hot bunk, that’s enough space for everyone.”
Greg looked skeptical. “And what do people do when they are awake?”
“They can tend to the animals, or play war games, or I don’t know. I never thought about it.”
“Twenty-nine people who have not been subjected to psychological profiling for compatibility in close quarters for three months are a ticket for disaster if not properly regulated.”
Blondie looked abashed. “I never thought about it that way.”
“You’ve never been aboard a small ship for a long time without outside contact. Bring your people into the cargo hold common area. We need to figure out how to make this work. Oh, and remember, I am the Captain. I retain command. Understood?”
All four women responded, “Yes, Sir!”
They departed to extricate the passengers from their temporary prisons.
Two hours later, Greg surveyed the refugees and the shuttle pilots seated on the floor of the common area between the cargo containers as they stared back at him. As he evaluated the people, Greg wondered about the future. For the next three months they would live in a tightly confined space under adverse conditions with no way to escape contact with each other. He wondered if by being with them for this extended period of time, whether he would or would not become one of them. He pondered the psychological and emotional barriers separating their futures. Not the least of these barriers was the fact that as long as he had a ship, he could fly and they could not. The importance of the distinction was an open question.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am Captain Greg Solomon Federation Space Force inactive reserve. I claim those rights and duties appropriate to the captain of a space vessel as specified in the laws and regulations of the Federation and its military forces. We will be living in close quarters for three months. Therefore, we must agree to basic rules of conduct. Three months of enforced boredom produces its own problems. Conflicts will arise. I am the final arbiter of all conflicts. Punishment, should it be necessary, will likely involve confinement to one’s cargo pod.”
“Captain, sir?” An elderly gentleman stood. “Joseph Miller, sir, large animal veterinarian.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Greg said.
“Sir, we have given considerable thought to what we would do if or when this day came. This is not a journey we take lightly. We respect your authority and trust your judgment.”
A murmur of agreement circled the room.
“We are grateful for the risks you are taking to help us in our time of need. Whatever unknown hazards we might face where we are going will certainly be less than the known hazards we lived with before we left. We have been recruited individually, and we each have a place in the plan. I was banned from my veterinary practice by the Swordsmen after disputing their claim that Mad Cow Disease was a punishment for selling beef to unbelievers. I have seen the horrors of religious warfare. I have seen innocents killed and wounded. I have spoken out and been threatened. I know there is nothing I could do where I was. Maybe in our
new home, we can make a difference. I intend to try.”
Several of the others voiced their support.
“For the immediate future, I know sleeping space will be hard to come by. I would be happy bunking with my four footed friends here in the hold if you think it’s safe.”
“You are more than welcome to bunk here if it suits you,” Greg said.
“How many animals do you have on board?” Dr. Miller asked.
“The cargo is 100 colts, 200 calves, 50 baby camels, 50 baby buffalo and a couple hundred tons of animal feed. I have more such friends where we are headed.”
Without being prompted, a pale young lady with long thick black hair stood. “Captain, sir, I am Stephanie Remington. I was a gourmet chef. I tried to divorce the son of a church executive because I was tired of being a prisoner in my own house forced to perform as a short order cook for his surprise guests. If I tried to use any of my better recipes, he would beat me and lock me in the kitchen. If it pleases the group, I would be willing to help prepare the meals.”
Jumping to her feet, Samantha King shouted, “Help in the kitchen! Yes!”
Stephanie brightened and said, “I promise to make the food as tasty as I can with the ingredients we have. I understand flight rations are not exactly the most inviting meals.”
The shuttle pilots nodded in agreement.
A stout middle aged woman stood. “I am Gloria Sanchez. I taught popular culture at the Federation’s Central University of Arts and Letters. I published a literature textbook in use by several Federation colleges. I was fired over my belief that restrictions the Swordsmen were placing on artistic expression were harmful to society. I challenged the administration’s rulings and took my case to the press. Suddenly there were strange men following me. I fled to a shelter for abused women. They brought me here.”
A short stocky man with blond hair cut in a flat top stood. “I am David Schultz. I was a metal worker until I made the mistake of telling a safety inspector about problems in our plant.”
“A plant owned by a Swordsman?” Greg asked.
“How did you guess? I had a couple too many brushes with accidental death, so I packed everything I could in my van and left in the middle of the night. Several of their enforcers followed me and jumped me when I stopped for gas. Fortunately, some highway patrolmen were nearby arresting a car thief. They rescued me from the thugs. After my attackers fled, I told them my story. One of them gave me a business card for a drug rehab center. He told me to wait there for instructions. A couple of months later I started the trip that brought me here. When we arrive at our destination could we form a band? I brought my drum set and would love to play with any of you that is interested. My favorite is retro heavy metal, but I can play anything.”
A tall dark haired muscular woman standing against the opposite wall dressed in black leather knee high boots, black skin tight imitation leather pants and a tight bustier that left her midriff exposed said, “I am Helen Frankel. I was a martial arts instructor until I kicked the crap out of this pushy little snot who tried to convert me. The cops came after me, and I headed out of town. I was teaching in a camp for children with terminal diseases when I was asked if I wanted to join this group. David, I’d love to play guitar in your band.”
A lanky man with long arms and strong hands stood. “I am Chris Harrison. I have a PhD in plant sciences. I taught at Federation A & M. When we arrive at our destination, I hope I will see all of you planting and helping grow the food we will need to survive. The Swordsmen did not like me teaching subsistence farming to students from countries where the Swordsman religion was banned. They never actually threatened me, but when the agent recruited me, I was happy to go.”
“I’m Cyrus Johnson. By trade I’m a carpenter, but I can build anything with the right tools. I play keys, but not very well. Two goons tried to beat me up when I refused to stop working on a Buddhist Shrine. I put one of them in the hospital. I didn’t hang around to see what was next. I spent a couple of years bouncing from job to job watching my back. One night in a bar a woman approached me and asked me if I wanted to go away. I am glad I listened.”
“I’m Diane Nelson. I am a computer programmer. I specialize in graphics for sex themed computer games, and I write electronic music of all types to go with the games. I’m not sure the Swordsmen know who I am, but they sabotaged the offices of the company I worked for. I joined a feminist commune for a while before being asked to be part of this adventure.”
“My name is George Davis. I play percussion, keys and winds.” His long bright red hair and flowing beard moved in rhythm with his words. “Do you remember the theme song for the ‘Space Pioneers’ video series? I wrote it. Do you remember the show that parodied the Swordsmen called the ‘Sweetmeats’? I wrote that too. You can guess what happened next. I noticed strange men hanging around my house. I called the police. They told me I had nothing to worry about. Whatever it was they would take care of it. When I saw the police bringing drinks to the men on the street I knew it was time to go. One afternoon I left the studio like I always did only instead of stopping at the bar, I hit the road. What’s left of a lifetime of work is stored in a container on that shuttle.” He paused and smiled wistfully. “What’s past is gone. We are here now. I am thrilled to be in such exciting company.”
“My name is Linda Danvers. Until six months ago I was a successful film maker. I made the documentary about what really happens in a Swordsman rehab center. I hadn’t even finished it when I started getting threats. A friend hooked me up with some people who hid me for a while and then brought me to the marshaling point for this trip. Mr. Davis, I am a fan of your work. It will be an honor to work with you. I have a small studio’s worth of cameras and gear in my container. My friends said I would need it. I had no idea how right they were! I look forward to getting back to work.”
“I am Dr. Michelle Turner. I am an epidemiologist. That means I study infectious diseases. I have an MD in family practice medicine, so I can also deal with most health related issues. What made the Swordsmen mad was my lectures on sexually transmitted diseases. Sexually transmitted diseases are not punishment for sins, and the people who have them should be treated like people with other diseases. The Swordsmen abandon their chronically ill to die on the streets or pack them off to quarantine camps to die out of sight. I look forward to being your family doctor, although I trust I can count on Dr. Miller’s assistance should the need arise.”
“Certainly, it would be my pleasure.” Dr. Miller replied.
Each of the others stood and introduced themselves, welcoming and being welcomed in turn. They had varied skills that would be important to the establishment of a settlement on a new planet. Greg marveled at the level of thought that had gone into selecting these people.
After completing the first round of introductions, the refugees continued to explore commonalities. Each one reached out to the others to develop connections to make them feel less alone and more part of the group. All of them had suffered at the hands of the Swordsmen. Many had left behind friends and loved ones they would never see again. They passed around hope in the future, but it was tinged with a sadness for the lives they had once called their own. As they continued the introductions, Greg noticed a pattern. Not only did everyone have a specific skill like metal working, electronics, agriculture or plastics, most were either musically or artistically talented. Myra had recruited a diverse group of people who had multiple skills. Only the epidemiologist was without artistic talent, but she was clearly to be their doctor. She had been especially interested in Greg’s description of their new home and the mysterious demise of the large animals.
The sedatives began to wear off of the animals in the containers, and Greg went to tend to them. Dr. Miller, Gloria, Timmy, the former rodeo rider, and Lonnie, the former nurse, went with him. With the five of them doing a job he normally did by himself, they finished quickly and returned to the group bringing a few of the horses with them.
; Even as each of the passengers tried to appear as normal as possible, Greg noticed a common inability to fit in, a reluctance to go with the flow. Each person was determined to stand out, to stand up and be noticed. This did not bode well for a cohesive community. There were reasons these people did not meld into the communities they had left behind.
After assimilating the biographies of his passengers, Greg was left with an overarching concern. The planet would need to be defended against attack by either pirates or the growing Swordsmen military. There were no military personnel among the refugees. Was he to defend the planet by himself with a virtually unarmed cargo ship and without his Pirate Interdiction ship? For the first time in as long as he could remember, he missed his P I ship. It was a source of power and of freedom. It was not hard to think of that ship as if it were a person. With his warship, he was a valiant fighter making space safe for innocents. Without it, he was simply another lonely military brat wandering between planets. Was it possible Myra planned on defending the planet by herself? Blondie and Katherine seemed likely candidates to pilot combat ships, but there were no combat ships to pilot. He was the only person with combat experience. Myra had her ship, but he suspected the controls had been modified to accommodate her stature and doubted anyone else could fly it. Then again, with Myra supposedly obsessed with revenge, there was no way to know what she was thinking.
Greg noticed that all but one person volunteered an introduction and description of themselves. He addressed the young man huddled against the wall. “You have not introduced yourself.”
The young man was embarrassed. “I don’t know why I am here.” He looked down avoiding everyone’s eyes. “I have no skills. I can’t play music. I can barely sing. I am no value to the rest of you. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll go back to my container so I won’t bother anyone.”
Solomon Family Warriors II Page 4