The Alliance

by David Andrews

  “From Dael too?”

  “She says, no.” Anneke shook her head to reinforce the point.

  “Do you know what he’s doing there?” Jack searched for information.

  “Watching his funeral.”

  “Oh.” Jack understood his aunt’s concern.

  * * * *

  They were making a big thing of it. Riderless horse with boots reversed in the stirrups, flag-draped catafalque on a gun caisson topped by a velvet cushion bearing his decorations, the complete military ritual. It was understandable, he supposed. He’d been the recipient of the highest awards for personal valor in two countries and the last survivor of Black Jack Pershing’s doughboys. It gave the present incumbent of the White House a free photo shoot with no political downside.

  Peter tried to be cynical. Being here proved he had no personal connection to the body lying within the coffin. Like the medals, the name, the sword, it had once been his, but not now. Yet the familiar ritual had the power to draw him back across the void and make him assume a parade stance in a final tribute to the man he once was.

  * * * *

  “Jean-Paul’s back.” Anneke’s announcement was a conversation stopper. It was a hundred years at least since Peter and Dael’s youngest child had left, deliberately disappearing without a trace. “He appeared at the beach Camp, gave Dael a hug, and sat down to demolish everything Peter could cook.”

  “How did Peter react?” No one in the family could understand Peter’s lack of concern for his son, or his absolute prohibition on anyone searching for Jean-Paul.

  “He made a remark about the fatted calf and continued cooking until Jean-Paul was satisfied.” Anneke smiled. “The three of them walked along the beach together afterwards and I came to see you.”

  “Does Karrel know?”

  Anneke nodded. “He and Gabrielle were at breakfast. I suspect my older brother has secrets from the rest of us. He didn’t seem surprised.”

  Jack nodded. Peter and Karrel shared things beyond the rest of them, probably because of common memories shared during Peter’s rescue from Earth, or perhaps something more. Jack didn’t know. He and the others encountered this bond very rarely and its nature was beyond them.

  “Has he changed at all?” Jean-Paul was only slightly older than Jack. They’d grown up together, relationship notwithstanding.

  “Not that I noticed.” Anneke’s brow furrowed. “Yet, there’s more of the quietness in him. He seems one step removed from me.” She laughed. “Nothing’s changed, he always was.”

  It was Jack’s turn to nod. Karrel and Anneke were indisputably Peter’s children. They thought like him, acted like him, bore the same responsibilities for the world they inhabited and acted. Jean-Paul was Dael’s son. He’d inherited her compassion and acceptance. He disagreed with his father’s assumption of responsibility for the world and took no part in the Alliance’s crusade against the Federation. There were no arguments, no friction between them. Both had measured the other’s thoughts and accepted their differences. Jean-Paul’s departure had not been a rift. He’d gone to see what existed outside the galaxy dominated by the Federation. “I’ll look forward to seeing him.”

  “He asked about you. Don’t be surprised if he turns up.” Anneke seemed to hear a secret summons. “Bye. Gotta go,” she said, and disappeared.

  Jack washed her mug and cleaned up the galley. He kept the flyer on standby for emergencies and was meticulous in having it prepared for immediate instant lift-off, and he had an hour’s work in post-flight checks and refueling before he could leave.

  Jean-Paul’s return was great news. His uncle was in Dael’s womb when Gabrielle swapped places with Feodar.

  * * * *

  Rachael woke feeling great. Her sated body might nag gently for attention, but that was nothing to the euphoria of Jack loving her so well. She needed movement, action, but, most of all, Jack.

  He insisted she return to the compound for the remainder of the night, holding out as her demands became entreaties and finally degenerated into pleading.

  “For both our sakes, this needs to be managed. We don’t want the Federation to recall you because it feels you’re compromised, and I have to convince my people you are more their heroine than Federation ambassador.”

  He was right, but she held out for as long as she could, sitting cross-legged on the pilot’s seat turned bed while he prepared food in the galley, sitting shoulder to shoulder while they ate, and lying body to body, using every means she knew to distract him, while he argued his case.

  Once clear of the aircraft she’d sought to punish him by avoiding all contact, but found it a two-edged sword, the need to touch him and be touched in return the sweetest of agonies. Their farewell at the compound gate had been formal, a brief touch of hands, nothing more, and Rachael had stood politely as he walked away, battling the urge to run after him.

  “Good morning.” Jenni came into the room, bright and punctual as always, the perfect PA.

  “Good morning, Jenni. What do you have for me today?”

  “Coffee first. Will you eat here, or in the dining room?”

  “Is there a staff cafeteria?” Rachael had a vague memory of having seen one.

  “Yes.” Nothing surprised Jenni.

  “Are they there, or have I missed meal time.”

  Jenni didn’t need to glance at her watch. She was in perfect personal assistant mode. “They drift in and out from seven thirty till eight forty-five. You have fifteen minutes to dress and I’ll ask them to set up a table.”

  “I’ll take twenty minutes and don’t set up a table. I want to mingle naturally. Have you eaten?”

  “I had a light snack two hours ago.”

  “Would you care to join me?”

  “Of course.” The perfect personal assistant could make no other response.

  Hasten slowly, would have been Jack’s advice. She could almost hear him in her mind, but Rachael had to persevere. “That was a personal request. One I have no right to make. Join me only if you want to and it is convenient.”

  “I want to and it is convenient.” Jenni’s head nodded in confirmation and Rachael had to be satisfied.

  The cafeteria was busy and Rachael led the way to a round table already half-full, seating herself without ceremony and catching two of the occupants in the midst of a conversation.

  “Are you sure he was on Altair IV? That’s fifty years ago.” The speaker was an assistant in the Trade Department.

  “Check the video.” His companion, from the security detachment, gave a reference number. “You’ll see for yourself. There’s hardly any change and I ran a facial characteristics scan as backup. It was him.”

  “We’re talking about the President,” Rachael broke in, shocked out of politeness, but remembering in time to attempt amends. “Pardon me for interrupting.”

  The table had gone still. Altair IV was not a Federation triumph. The Alliance had disrupted a sweetly running operation by a series of brilliant coups, leaving the local administration looking foolish. The Federation forced the ambassador to resign and all the senior staff suffered career setbacks.

  “Yes.” The man had enough sense to realize this was informal.

  “Do you remember the details of his involvement?”

  He paused, marshalling his thoughts, deciding how much to share. “I was researching the details for a case study, part of my promotion course, when I noted his face in a crowd scene. There’s no mention of him in any of the official reports at my level of security. I ran a scan through all the available material and he appears at every important event in the CCTV coverage. He was a spacer then as well, same Christian name, different identification.”

  “What’s the life span of the Elite? It’s greater than the commoner’s.”

  “About two hundred standard years, twice ours.”

  She nodded. “It’s possible then.” The others nodded their agreement, some more doubtfully than others. “I’d like a copy of your case stud
y when it’s complete.”

  “Of course.” He could say nothing else.

  Rachael turned to Jenni. “Mention it in today’s summary and give the credit to…?” She looked questioningly at the security man.

  “Richard Smith, ID No. 144767SR.”

  “Well, Dick Smith, what do you recommend from the menu? I thought I’d grab a seat before they were all gone.” She signaled her official interest had ended.

  “Stick to the local dishes. The cook’s from here and I think he adds things to the standard items to discourage us from eating them.”

  “We have local staff?” Rachael didn’t remember what the situation had been when she was at the palace.

  “Yes. They downgraded us after the Pontiff left. We rely on the local recruitment for everything except the core functions. Your predecessor protested, but they were unmoved. It usually means this is considered a backwater job, little chance of success and less of promotion.” He seemed to realize the reflection he was casting on her appointment and his voice trailed away over the last sentence.

  “I’m sorry for the rest of you, but I’m very new at this. I’m quite happy to blood myself somewhere safe. Who knows, we might be able to surprise them yet and grab some glory for our careers from this backwater.” There was a polite murmur of assent, but she’d convinced no one. “In the meantime, I’ll get my breakfast.”

  Jenni accompanied her to the service counter. “That was useful,” she said. “It gives us a clue what they’re thinking.” She didn’t say to which they she was referring, but Rachael didn’t think it was the Federation hierarchy.

  “Yes. You seem to have made a poor career choice.” Jenni’s resume had been stellar to this point and her references ecstatic. Rachael had been surprised when she accepted the position as her PA. A new ambassador didn’t rate highly in the Federation hierarchy.

  “I have no cause for complaint.” Jenni seemed unwilling to discuss the subject so Rachael dropped it.

  “What are you having?”

  “Dick Smith’s advice is good.”

  They returned to the table with laden trays and Rachael’s presence caused only minor disruptions to the chitchat between people long accustomed to each other. Apart from Jenni, they were all permanent staff here, appointed to Feodar’s World and relocated with their families until they retired or completed their training obligations. The Federation had tried many systems since the introduction of instant transport across the galaxy before reverting to their original scheme of permanent appointments for everyone except ambassadors and their personal staff. Probably some accountant in head office had crunched numbers to make the decision. No one really cared. It was the malaise common to all large organizations.

  “Good morning. See you tomorrow.” She said farewell to the last of their companions, sipping the refilled coffee cup Jenni had provided. Tomorrow she would make a point of refilling Jenni’s cup. She must convince the others she was here by choice.

  “What’s the rest of our program?”

  “The President has advised an official welcoming dinner in the Grand Hall on Thursday. He’s sending a guest list later and suggests a party of eight would be appropriate—the department heads and their wives, you and I usually.”

  Rachael nodded. “What else?”

  “Departmental briefings this morning and early afternoon, and it’s usual to make some form of policy speech shortly after taking up the post.” Jenni paused, waiting for a response.

  “We’ll wait a week, have our meals in the cafeteria and then tell them what they already know.”

  Jenni nodded. “There’s nothing scheduled after three.”

  “Keep it that way. I’d like to slip out and check some old contacts later.” Jenni looked doubtful. “They were personal ones and won’t be compromised.”

  Jack had suggested the stratagem and given her the names. It was a way of meeting unobserved.

  “He doesn’t look like someone in his mid-seventies.” Jenni had gone back to the revelation of the President’s involvement on Altair IV, Rachael following the leap only because she’d been thinking of Jack. “The records make him twenty-six at the time. I’d have thought him in his mid thirties, forty at the most.”

  “If we equate seventy-six to two-hundred and then to our active life span of a hundred, you’re not far wrong. He’s the equivalent of our thirty-eight.” She’d not thought of his age since her early misconception Jack was one of the Alliance rather than just an agent. He had the knack of appearing the same age as his companion of the moment.

  A valuable attribute for an immortal?

  The thought slipped into her mind and was hard to dispel. Perhaps she’d been right. Perhaps he was more than just an agent. The possibility chilled her.

  Rumors abounded where the Alliance were concerned and, although Rachael discounted many of them, there was an essential core to them. They were a separate race led by a family of immortals. Their home supposedly lay on the far fringes of the galaxy. Some said it was from another galaxy entirely, the first touch between two separate entities in the broader universe. Theories grew with each new encounter. One even suggested they were mere projections of some greater mind. Rachael shook her head at the nonsense some people thought. What they knew about the Alliance was daunting enough.

  Did it really matter if Jack were an immortal?

  Rachael wished she could say no.

  In the short term, it wouldn’t, but she would age and he would remain forever young. Eventually, pity would replace love, something she wouldn’t be able to bear. He would have the strength of will never to show it, but she would know.

  “Is there something the matter?” Jenni’s question brought her back to the present. “You look quite ill.”

  “I ate too fast and I’m no longer used to the local fare.” It was the best she could think of at short notice. “A touch of indigestion.” It was true. She’d been swallowing something unpalatable.

  “Oh.” Jenni was unconvinced, but too good a PA to push the issue.

  Rachael ploughed on with the day’s agenda, department heads’ briefings, drinking endless cups of poor coffee, nodding wisely in agreement where it was called for, and shaking her head in amazement where appropriate. There were no surprises. Head office knew the incumbents better than they knew themselves.

  Every clock teased her by stopping the moment she took her eyes from them. She swore some of them even ran backwards for a while. Minutes became hours and hours turned into eternities as she waited for three o’clock to free her. She wanted Jack. She needed him, and she needed him now.

  Yet the time came and she felt reluctant, standing at the trade entrance in the long flowing dress of an Elite matron, her damning auburn tresses concealed beneath a matching shawl, afraid to take the first step lest all her fears be true.

  “What time should we expect you?” Jenni stood at her side in the concealing shrubbery on the left side of the door.

  “I’m not sure. It depends on my contacts. If I’m back before midnight, we must count it a failure.” Its hidden truth should have amused her, but she couldn’t even smile.

  “Good luck.” Jenni sounded as if she meant it.

  Rachel stepped forward, striving for the characteristic stateliness of an Elite, head held high, and expression placid. No heads turned, not even those of the children. She was carrying it off.

  The village was her target, but a commotion in the market drew her off course, and she mingled with the others drawn by the fuss.

  “She cheated me,” a portal trucker, a Federation employee by his uniform, said. “I want my money back.” His voice sounded strident, the words slurred by alcohol.

  “I sold him nothing.” The woman’s voice sounded quieter, a calm statement of fact. “The drunken fool fell and smashed my wares. His credits flew from his hand and I returned them to him.”

  “Less fifty. I had two hundred here.”

  “Is this yours?” her guide, the former priest, asked. He
held a fifty-credit chip toward the trucker.

  “Yes.” The trucker snatched at it.

  “Good.” The priest avoided the grasping hand. “The value of the broken items, mistress?”

  Rachael watched avarice battle common sense in the vendor’s face and felt pleased when the latter won. Her loyalties had shifted.

  “Less than twenty credits, Father.” Old habits died hard.

  “Here’s twenty credits, child, and an extra ten for his bad manners.” The priest smiled as he gave her the chips from his purse. “You, sir,” he turned to the trucker. “Come with me. You’re not drunk enough to excuse your actions. We’ll use your fifty credits to rectify the case.” He applied a casual hammerlock to the man’s right arm and forced him away, tightening his hold each time the spacer tried to protest. “You’ve disgraced yourself in front of your ambassador.” Rachael heard him say. “Be grateful she decided not to intervene.”

  Everybody turned to her and she laughed, throwing back her shawl. It was too hot anyway and completely wasted. Her undercover days were over.

  A small hand grasped the little finger of her right hand and she looked down at a boy about five years old. A brown face beneath a mop of tight black curls looked up at her as he held a finger to his lips and then pointed.

  “You want me to go with you?”

  An emphatic nod answered and he took off toward the village, his grip on her finger urging her to follow. A lane of smiling faces opened to give her free passage and she followed him from the market and down the main street of the village. At the central well and drinking fountain, they turned right toward the sea.

  “Hello.” Jack waited, standing just above the high tide mark.

  The grasp on her finger slackened and disappeared. She turned, just in time to see a nimble figure disappear around the corner of a house.

  “Don’t worry. He understands your thanks.” Jack’s voice held amusement…and something else. Wariness perhaps? “I found any attempt at concealment wasted here. We are the centers of interest. All we can hope for is to not make it too obvious to the Federation.” He paused, studying her. “You wear Elite dress well. It suits you. Gabrielle’s the same.”