“I’ll see what I can do,” Schiller said at last, his eyes flashing with anger. He smiled a tight, humorless smile of his own. “But it won’t be easy. There aren’t many of our people who count you as a friend. And you’re not exactly making yourself seem trustworthy.”
Hollenbach chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll do your best. Especially when you consider that the alternative is letting Sarkisian run our defenses further into the ground. Remember, he doesn’t have to call another general election for six years, and you’ll never gain enough seats in the regular biennial elections. Not with the current combination of safe, Federalist seats and contested Tory districts up for grabs as far as the eye can see. If you and your friends want to help that silver-haired Demetrian nitwit take over, your only chance is a no-confidence vote—and you fools will need all the help you can get.”
The cold rain outside obscured the view of the river. Schiller pushed his food around his plate aimlessly with his fork. He had quite lost his appetite. Soon, the waitress approached with the bill, summoned by an ebullient Hollenbach.
“Is it afternoon already?” Hollenbach asked, with mock incredulity. He downed the last sip of his wine with a practiced flair. “Well, Sally—I must say you’ve been a delight. And patient to a fault, with three old men sending you this way and that. Oh, and give the bill to Mr. Schiller. He’s buying today.”
* * *
Far to the east, along the Terran frontier, the cold Ishtari winds buffeted the concrete bunker that housed the Veshnan consulate.
“Tell the Ambassador that I welcome his candor, and that he may rest assured that nothing that we discuss will be revealed—except, of course, directly to the head of my government.”
Seated in a dimly lit room in ambassador’s sitting room, Jonathon Osborne Grant waited as the lone translator, a Veshnan female he knew as Munshi, translated his remarks. Gazing into the eyes of his counterpart, Grant looked for a glimmer of anything he could recognize as empathy, but saw nothing. The Veshnans, he knew, had as full a range of feelings as any human, but their facial expressions seemed lost in the milky whiteness of their skin, and he found himself unable to fathom the workings of an alien mind. Even an alien reputed to be as intelligent as Zatar, he found, seemed unable to grasp the simplest nuances of human emotions. All their races really had in common, it appeared to him, was the bareness of sterile logic, and common self-interest.
Grant had labored long and hard during these talks, reading everything about the aliens he could find. Still, there was much that baffled him. There were suggestions that the Crutchtans enjoyed limited telepathy, but that hadn’t prevented misunderstandings from nearly sinking his mission. And he simply could not understand why, given the pronounced matriarchy of the Veshnans, they had chosen a male to lead their delegation. Beyond this were all the questions about the alien Consortium itself—how it was organized, its power structure, how so many diverse cultures had been able to resolve so many questions touching the vital interests of all with no appreciable conflict for countless millennia. Most puzzling of all, the Consortium had existed when Man was still living in caves on Earth. How in God’s name could Terra have pulled almost even with them in so short a time, and what did that imply for the future of the human race?
Grant was so lost in thought that he almost missed the Veshnan ambassador’s reply.
“Zatar says that he welcomes the opportunity to discuss matters frankly, without the need for the niceties of form. Among our people, it is well recognized that delicate matters are best handled by those who are not—as Terrans often say—playing to an audience.”
“We seem to make progress only to see it stall. Whatever direction we take, we find obstacles that seem more formidable as we discuss them. It has become apparent to me that the Crutchtans are disinterested in reaching a quick agreement. What I have to know is whether there is a reason.”
“Such as?”
Grant smiled. “If I knew that, we wouldn’t need to be discussing it, would we?”
From Zatar’s immediate response—an ominous, choking sound that he had come to recognize as alien laughter—he could tell that Zatar was following portions of the conversation. He never knew how much of the language his opposite had mastered. But however much it was, Grant thought ruefully, the Veshnan’s knowledge of Terran language and culture far surpassed his own meager insights into the alien’s mind.
“Zatar asks if you have a specific question.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed, and he looked directly into Zatar’s. He had long noticed that the aliens would all avert their glance if a Terran met their eyes. Apparently, Zatar had noticed the same thing, for the Veshnan continued to smile and return the stare until this time it was the Terran’s turn to blink.
“Are the Crutchtans planning for war?” he asked at last. “Is that why they are reluctant to sign an agreement?”
The question seemed to provoke a lively exchange between Zatar and Munshi. Grant could follow none of it and found himself speculating about what it all might mean. He was oddly reassured when the answer finally came, apparently despite the translator’s better judgment.
“Zatar remarks that your question is most ironic, for it is one which the Crutchtans themselves have often asked about Terra. As to the thrust of your question, Zatar has instructed me to tell you that war is the last thing the Crutchtans desire.”
“What do they want, then?”
Munshi smiled blandly, as Grant had learned that Veshnans did whenever they knew they were about to say something that made little sense.
“The Crutchtans wish only to be left alone.”
“But— ”
“To be left alone,” Munshi interjected, the slightest edge to her voice. “Nothing more, and nothing less.”
***~~~***
Chapter 9
“WHERE IN BLOODY HELL....”
From his seat at the forward control panel, Mason McGee listened to his brother’s voice trailing off into the distance and breathed a sigh of relief. Their ship was big as brigantines go: fifty meters long, with the central hallway stretching from the bridge past the living quarters to the rear decks. Offshoot hatches allowed access to the holds on either wing, and Mason was wondering whether it mightn’t be wise to tend to the cargo, now that his brother was on a rampage.
He looked out the porthole. The stars hung like silent beacons in the distance, and a glowing nebula lighted the skies toward the galactic center. As much as he loved space, with its eternal calm and limitless vistas, he always hated coming to Ishtar. They needed someplace to sell their ore, that was true, and the heavens knew that they could use the change in scenery. But every time they headed back home he swore that he’d rather take the lower prices of the outpost stations and be overcharged for their provisions than watch the wretched planet take its toll on his brother.
Cyrus was ornery and mean by nature, thought Mason— independent to a fault, and hard enough to live with in the open reaches of space. Bring him to Ishtar and he lost what little sense he had in the first place. The woman they shared at home was nice enough; she might not be much to look at, but she was a good worker and a source of comfort who never caused them grief. But come to the Wasteland, where the women were just as ugly but twice the trouble, and Cyrus lost all sense of proportion. Between the free-flowing liquor and the overpriced whores, his older brother never failed to leave the planet bloody and out of control. It would take Cyrus a week to dry out, another week to reconcile himself to his gambling losses, two weeks more to come to what remained of his senses. In the meantime, Cyrus would rage like an ion storm in full fury, all because of some barren hunk of sand and rock that was better left alone.
Suddenly, the door flung open. Cyrus stormed into the room, almost tripping over the below-deck hatch. His eyes, wild with drink, flashed with anger.
“You!” Cyrus screamed, wobbling as he stood and reeking of drink. “You’re the one who’s been inna my provisions. You took my fligh’gear, and you wer
e th’one who tried’a talk me into sleeping away half the return trip.”
Mason put the ship on automatic pilot, then stood to face his brother.
“Get off the bridge, Cyrus,” he said slowly enough so his words would register in his brother’s rum-soaked brain. “I didn’t touch your provisions and wouldn’t want to anyway, even if you are too drunk to know the difference.” He pulled a handblaster from the side console and set it on heavy stun.
“Get off the bridge,” he repeated.
Cyrus reeled, the weight of comprehension proving too much for his dulled senses. After a few moments his rage receded, and he turned slowly and made his way back into the main hallway. Quickly, Mason secured the door. Breathing a sigh of relief, he returned to the controls.
Two more weeks, he thought. Two more weeks before they got home. He hoped Cyrus would calm down by then. He usually did, once the store of rum ran out. All the same, he pressed the buttons on the internal control panel, locking all doors and hatches but the one to Cyrus’ quarters, and to the kitchen. Mason would keep them locked until they arrived home.
* * *
Some distance away, in the shipping channel between Ishtar and Demeter, an old man yawned, struggling to stay awake. The instruments whirred and clicked, and near the end of his turn at the wheel the sounds always lulled him to sleep. But it was no matter. He’d made the run hundreds of times, and the stars never changed. There was still the huge, glowing cloud abaft and to port, where the mining colonies were as thick as the whores on Ishtar. Ahead, the cloud dissipated, the reddish glow turning a wispy blue. And as the radar kept sounding, his thoughts turned to the greeting that awaited at the end of the run.
Blip.
It should be summer along the Demetrian Riviera when they arrived, he smiled. The girls would be prettier, but Demetrian whores were fussier. Less likely to indulge a withered old spacer—at least, not for less than a premium price. And a lot more trouble, what with their fancy clothes and all. Not like the spacer’s girls on Ishtar.
Blip.
In the back, he could hear Shamus stirring. It was nearly his time to take the chair. The two of them had roamed across half the galaxy, he smiled, thinking back to their younger days. Made it far into alien skies, too. Lots farther than most.
Blip.
Of course, that was before they knew about the aliens. Or, at least, about how close the lizards were venturing west. Now, the spacers all had to keep to this side of the Hodges System. And it was a pity, he thought. Some of the prettiest skies were east of Hodges.
“Damnation!” cried a voice from the ramp.
The old man turned around to see Shamus, his partner, whose eyes were wide with fear. “Ye dodd’rin’ old fool!:” Shamus screamed. “Ye can’t hear the radar a-soundin’ trouble?” He dashed from the ramp, heading straight for the ship’s radio.
Turning back to his instruments the old timer finally saw it, clear as the heavens.
There were three of them.
At this distance the ship’s computer couldn’t identify them, but both men recognized the readings at once. And they knew they’d never be able to change course in time.
Brigantines.
Shamus tuned the radio to the emergency channel, hoping he’d entered the right password and trying to keep his voice calm. It wouldn’t help them if nobody could understand the message.
“This is Freighter-9042, call name Demetrian Mist. We have a Code-One emergency in this sector. Repeat—Code One emergency. Over.”
“This is Ishtar Command,” came a woman’s voice over the radio. “We read you, Demetrian Mist. State the nature of your emergency.”
“We’ve spotted pirates. And they’re heading right for us.”
Too impatient to tolerate his partner’s sluggishness, Shamus shooed his old friend out of the pilot’s seat and began trying to change their heading. Lugging a half-dozen cargo trailers in tow, the ship would take at least ten astrokilometers to slow and come about, and the pirates looked to be forty klicks away. If help didn’t come soon—
“Freighter-9042 to IshCom, status inquiry.”
“Roger, Demetrian Mist. I’m checking for ships in the vicinity. Keep this line open and start transmitting a distress beacon.”
“Roger, IshCom. Please hurry.”
Shamus turned from the helm console to the trailer controls, on the left-most panel, and began to enter the security code to jettison their cargo train. He hated the thought of decoupling. The payday that awaited them on delivery would have left them sitting pretty for half the year, and given them plenty of cash to spend on Demeter once the paperwork cleared. But if it came down to their hides, they’d leave the cargo for the pirates and be off, as quick as a Ceresian gigolo.
* * *
As the tramp freighter struggled to free itself from its cargo, at a dry dock back at the starbase an alarm tone exploded deep inside the cerebral cortex of CosGuard’s newest captain. Struggling toward consciousness, Cook groped to shut it off. His head was a symphony of pain, repaying him dearly for the hours of abandon he shared with the crew on his full last day commanding the Constantine. The clock by his bed read 350 Hours; he’d slept half the day—nearly five cosmic hours—and vaguely recalled that he still had a lot to do. He couldn’t remember what any of it might be, but he knew he had a full day in store. And he had the sinking feeling that in his stupor he’d quite forgotten to call Vera, his old classmate, to tell her that he was in no shape to leave the ship and wouldn’t make it back to her place until today. Actually, he slowly realized, he hadn’t called her at all since the day he’d learned of his promotion, when he felt the need for an old friend’s company, and invited himself to her place to celebrate.
Still clothed in his standard blues, Cook staggered to the shower in his cabin and fumbled at the activator until the warm water began to flow. He leaned against the stall, grateful to have mastered his first major task of the day. Gradually, he shed his clothing, leaving it in an inert pile in the corner of the shower, and stood transfixed by the streams of water from the dual nozzles. After what seemed like several hours he opened the hatch, dragged himself back into the cabin, and fell onto his bed, face down and dripping wet, where he remained until his yeoman came to call him to duty.
“Commander—I mean, Captain Cook,” said the startled young woman. Tactfully, she tossed a bedsheet over his bare bottom before gently shaking his shoulder to wake him. As Cook began to stir she took to tidying the room a bit, throwing soiled fatigues and socks into the laundry shoot.
“You’re needed in security,” she said, as matter-of-factly as she could. “Some of the redshirts got rather out of hand last night, you see, and Lt. Moll would really like you to conduct the captain’s mast. You know...before you turn over the ship to Mr. LaRue.”
Cook grunted an acknowledgment of sorts, his groggy mind fighting its way toward consciousness. As his yeoman chattered merrily away, reminding him of the duties of a outgoing skipper, his two major tasks of the day gradually began to crystallize in his foggy brain.
First, he told himself, he would speak to Mr. LaRue about overdoing discipline upon assuming temporary command. This was a good crew, and good crews need nurturing, not an iron fist. The sooner LaRue understood this, the quicker his own command would follow. He started to sit up until he was interrupted by his giggling yeoman. Her face flushed beet red, as she quickly turned her eyes toward the far wall.
“Wrong again, Cook,” he smiled at her wearily, too tired to care about his loss of dignity. As carefully as he could, he leaned over to recover the fallen bedsheet.
“The second thing I’ll do is see Mr. LaRue.”
After a tasteless breakfast in the cafeteria, Cook made his way from B-Deck to Security, where he declared an amnesty for all infractions of the day before. The cheers still ringing in his aching head, he went down two more levels to Engineering, to say goodbye to Chief Engineer Seth Montgomery. The old-time Cozzie had been a favorite of Cook’s, with a Dem
etrian’s contempt for pomp and an endless supply of stories. The two had passed many an hour sharing a whiskey bottle and bemoaning the luck of the draw that had infected the ship with such a stickler of a first officer. They’d had a falling out the past few months as Cook’s personal life intruded upon their friendship, and Cook wanted to square things before he left. But Monty interrupted Cook’s apology with the observation that real friends had little need of such formalities, and such things were usually understood. “Especially,” Monty said, his eyes twinkling, “when the insulted friend is proven right.”
Cook laughed along with his friend, hoping that Monty wouldn’t be too disappointed when he learned that CosGuard’s newest starship skipper still had a few blind spots in affairs of the heart. He declined the offered drink; his head was still recovering from the last batch of “one more rounds” he’d had the previous night, and his stomach was already having trouble adjusting to the near-zero gravity that Monty kept in the engine room to make traversing easier. Instead, Cook spent his time listening to his friend tell about the starship skippers he should watch out for.
“The sorriest batch of losers in the heavens,” the engineer snorted, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Egos a parsec wide and mouths to match. Particularly that jackass from Demeter.”
“Jones?” smiled Cook. Jefferson McKinley Jones, the senior wing commander at DemCom, was reigning champion at the semi-annual maneuvers six times running. Cook’s sole encounter with the man—Jones literally patted him on the head after the Constantine had staunched a Red Fleet breach that would have cost Blue the encounter and Jones his sixth gold medal—had not endeared the esteemed Commodore Jones to the young Isitian.
“That self-important twit was a squirrelly frigateer when I knew him, befuddled as a fly in a glass ball. His idea of battle is two ships dead in space, firing amidships until someone’s shields buckle. The pompous bastard couldn’t tell his butt from a black hole then, and I hear he ain’t changed much since.”
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