John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 01
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Varley said, “It would still have to get out—which is a slower process”—and regretted it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. The answer was obvious and the voice confirmed it.
“But then, Admiral, the defence installations are powered by the ring. Once it is broken, the ship will be in no danger. Except, of course, that it must withdraw without being identified. Otherwise O.G.A. could move on the pretext of protecting Garamas’s neutrality. Your Commander Fletcher has been studying the problem and will know where best to make a strike. At his next visit to this headquarters, he can report direct to you on this link.”
“He can do better than that. I’ll have him come out here with Petrel. This will be the last action before the squadron is relieved. Fix it with the port authority for her to leave. Destination Lados. I’ll intercept him as soon as he quits the gravisphere.”
“You will choose your own man, of course, Admiral. But if I may suggest it, Fletcher would be ideal for this mission. He is very resourceful.”
Varley looked at the time disk. Conversation, even on the scrambled link, had gone on over-long. Not a doubt that some monitor would have hooked on by now and no code ever devised could not be cracked eventually. He said shortly, “Thank you Commissar. Over and out.”
Frazer said, “He could be right. Fletcher might be the one.”
“That’s so. But give Duvorac half a chance and he’d run the squadron. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I was following his line. But Fletcher will do very well. Order general stations. Lift off in one hour. Move into a parking orbit outside interceptor range. Petrel could be out in twelve hours.
As soon as she rejoins wheel Fletcher in.”
The people’s choice opened his eyes to a dim light and looked up expecting to see the underside of a market stall. Whoever had followed him in had a rare bouquet of exotic perfumes; but taking up where he left off, he grabbed for a hold that would bring the body close in as a protective cushion.
Silky hair covered his face. Small, firm breasts shoved warmly at his chest. Xenia said, “Harree!” with what breath she could salvage for the chore.
Fletcher held on with one arm and cleared his eyes. There was a pink ceiling three metres off. The room was five metres by six with a concertina door directly facing him. Blue wash walls, a small balcony over right with a dressing chest beside it in bright yellow board and his own overnight bag standing beside it.
Orientation was rapid, thereafter. He was in his own pad, on his own bed and he was squeezing the pips out of his busy ally.
He released his grip with some caution. There was no knowing how she would take it. He half expected to find a knife in his throat.
For a count of three, she relaxed, letting gravity press her against him, then she moved like quicksilver, so that she was kneeling over him, knees under his arms, back straight, hands lightly on either side of his head.
“Eet is me, Harree. Aren’t you glad to see me?” Seen foreshortened through the slim parallel bars of her arms, her face was startling in its absolute symmetry. Electrum hair swung forward in an elastic cowl.
Eyes were grave, serious, evaluating what he was thinking.
Fletcher put his hands over hers and then worked slowly along until he was holding her shoulders. She was the prototype for Olympia, transmuted out of bronze into bird-frail flesh. Insubstantial as a dream figure.
She said, quiet as a shared thought, “Not so, Harree. You are not seeing me as I am. You are a romanteec. You project onto me something that ees een your head.”
Hands tightened on her shoulders. He bent his arms bringing her down.
She went along with it, moving her knees, until their heads were only centimetres apart. His hand moved under her hair, with nicely judged component orientation and brought her mouth to home on his own.
Very warm, very soft, an unexpected planetfall after a long mission in an empty quarter.
Then she had twisted free, whipped two metres off and was saying unsteadily, “Not so Harree. I theenk not at thees time. You have reservations about me. At the back of your mind, you remembaire the geneteec code of your organization. You would reproach yourself. I do not want that. Eef we are lovers eet weel be when you have no doubt left.”
Fletcher sat up slowly and shook his head from side to side as if to clear away a mist. She was right, but it was no catch to be so easily read. Also the moral line ought to have come from himself. He said,
“You’re a strange one, Xenia. But, for record, you’re the most beautiful girl I ever saw. Put me in the picture, then. How do I get to be here?”
“Duvorac was worreed about you. He ees a good man, that one. He peecked up the broadcast at hees console and knew you would be een dangaire. He sent me to warn you and gave me an escort to breeng you een. I.G.O. security uneeforms are very like local police. The crowd thought we were arresteeng you.”
It was a shorthand statement for what must have been a very dodgy enterprise.
“Why here? Why come back here?”
“The broadcast ees ovaire. People hardly remembaire what they thought. Though you must be careful to antagonize noone eet ees more eemportant than ever to see your friend Yola and have her group find these transmeetaires.”
“How has it worked out in the rest of Kristinobyl?”
“No problem. Only thees sector. Three of four squares only were affected. Two Earthmen and a Passalanian were keeled.”
“So. Nationals of I.G.O. planets. That figures. They’ll be satisfied with the trial run. One thing. How is it you resisted the suggestion? You might have been moved to stick me with that leetle knife you carry about.”
“For eet to work, there must be a desire een the mind to teenth that way. Thees ees reinforced. Now I am full of loveeng thoughts towards you. Also I understand mind control.”
Fletcher stood up and walked circumspectly round the room. Except that his head ached, he was okay.
Xenia’s last analysis had an edge she would not intend. He had been made critical of himself. That could only mean that there was a self-destructive agent in his own head waiting to be encouraged. It was not his Ego’s day.
A calling pinger started up on the table console beside his bed. It was a welcome diversion and brought him back strength nine, as an outgoing force.
He reached the table in two strides and pulled up a small video screen from its slot. It already had a Garamasian face on it as though the owner had been living there in the dark for some time.
Yola said, “I’m in the lobby. I got your room number from the letting board. Can we come up?”
“We?”
“I have some friends with me. We came separately. As far as I know nobody has been followed.”
“Surely come up.”
Xenia said, “That was fooleesh of them. Only one should have come. I weell have a car ready. As soon as you are through, we should leave here.”
“Do that. I’ll make it brief.”
Hand on the door, she said, “Remembaire, Harree, eet ees no good unless you have no reservations.”
She was gone before he had time to reply and he remembered too late that he had not even thanked her for bringing up the relief column.
But then, with her fingers in his head, she probably knew.
Yola’s group was five strong. Three young Garamasian men and another girl who had one arm strapped up inside her caftan, but was otherwise a carbon copy of Yola herself.
They sat in a half circle and Fletcher, as the focus of ten, unblinking, obsidian eye disks, felt like a corrupt elder betraying youth.
One, introduced as Termeron, was clearly the leader of the cell and was a tougher proposition than Yola had been.
He said, “What you say makes sense. But we must be cautious. Vida here is a testament to what can happen when we follow your suggestions. We know that changes do not come easily and that a revolution is not made without the shedding of much blood. That, we accept and will take our chance.
“For me, personally, nothing. The trial broadcast whipped up the foreign bogy and was against Earthmen.
That was only a start. Eventually, when the network is complete, they will dominate all thought on Garamas. Yours included.”
“That is possible. But if Garamasians are calling the tune, it might be a better one to dance to than one played by foreigners—even the Inter Galactic Organisation. We are working for certain liberal reforms; but we are Garamasians, we are not ashamed of our people. Also, we are not war-mongers. We believe that this planet should be neutral and work out its own salvation without reference to I.G.O. or O.G.A.”
The concertina door slid quietly back and Xenia joined the back row, identifying herself as
“Commandaire Fletchaire’s asseestant.” When the group reformed, the psychokinetic battery was reinforced by a pair of brilliant green eyes which were faintly mocking.
Fletcher was suddenly irritable, his head still ached and he reckoned he was listening to the peace-in-our-time bit, which had been a dangerous fallacy down the millennia. When you got right down to it, there were certain absolutes, precipitated out from the mental mush as a hard crystal core at the centre of the human mind. Put it at the least common denominator, there was an influence aboard which in certain moments could be recognized as good. The I.G.O. charter of human rights was in tune with it, even if it did not dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. O.G.A. was against it; a personification of the evil principle; a latter-day, graceless Lucifer.
He forgot diplomatic caution and began to speak of what he had seen. Level, even tones carrying conviction. He got round to his own part in it—a representative of the countless thousands who had accepted the draft and put in their years of service, policing the galaxy and keeping the sub-human cultures of the Rim, contained in their bleak quarter.
Yola was looking uncomfortable and twice tried to interrupt, but he went right on, “Never think you would be left alone to work out your own salvation. Garamas is too useful. Your own state police are gentle lambs compared with the crew you will get if O.G.A. takes over. Don’t deceive yourselves. All right. I tell you frankly that what I want you to do is in I.G.O. interest. But you are intelligent. You can see the difference. You must know that I.G.O. is only concerned to see a fair system running. Once it is assured of that, it remains only as an adviser and protector.”
Yola finally got in with, “You are making us ashamed. Of course, we know there are wider problems than our own. But we have worked for a long time to improve conditions here. Garamasians are not evil people, but bad traditions are hard to change. We have friends in all the engineering departments. We can find out where these machines are. Why could we not seize them and use them to propagate the opinions we hold?”
Fletcher thought wearily that he had wasted his time. But Termeron saved the day.
He said slowly, “As I understand the Earthman, that would not do. It might succeed. But it would not be right. In the last analysis, means are as important as ends. If we did that, we would be no better than the fascists. Men must be convinced and that is a slow process. Yes, we will work for you. You shall have the location of these transmitters. What then? How will you set about neutralising them? To inform the state police would be no good, they would not have got this far without protection, or at least passive support from men like Pedasun.”
Fletcher was tempted to give the whole story. He was asking them to put themselves in danger for something that might not be necessary, if the ring itself was cut. They deserved the whole truth. He reckoned that the political angle was shot through with cynicism. It was a continuing marvel that any good ever saw the light of day.
But whatever damage was done, the ring would be repaired. It would be easier to seize the stations while they were nonop. He had no brief to go farther. There was some force in the cynical dictum that too great a secret is soon widely known.
They were ready, however, to be convinced and he could say with frank honesty, “That, I do not know.
But you are not betraying your own people. These stations are manned by Laodamians or Scotians.
There may also be a hook-up with fascist cells working for a putsch. In any event, knowing what the machines can do, you have no choice.”
Last out, Yola hesitated at the door and gave him a long, straight look, Unsmiling and enigmatic, she seemed to have come of age over the last week. Xenia speeding the parting guests, got a special, deliberate stare. Then she was gone, after the others.
Xenia put on a false air of concern, “What have you been doing weeth that girl, Harree? You are geeving that tender conscience of yours a hard time. She ees jealous of me. Have you been geeving her presents too? You are a Bluebeard. But I must warn you. Eet ees dangerous on Garamas. Eef her father ees a tradeetionaleest he weell make you marree her.”
“Did you get that car?”
“Yes sir. Don’t worree, I weell not tell. As you say een your reedeeculous language—I weell keep eet under my bushell.”
“Don’t mess about Xenia. Just go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”
At the door, she dropped the act and said, “You deed very well weeth them. Eet was very empresseeve.
You really beelieve what you say. I hope you do not have any designs on that Yola or I might be tempted to steeck her weeth my useful knife. Be queeck. We should go.”
In the lobby, Garamasians who had been in the area during the broadcast looked more speculative than hostile. They were recalling that there was some reason for dislike, but could not precisely remember what it was. There was enough residual force in the memory to make them suspicious.
Without wanting to top a popularity poll, Fletcher reckoned that the role of public enemy would be one that he could not sustain over a period. It undermined confidence. No wonder minority groups were aggressive. They had to be or end up demoralized and hating themselves.
It was a silent ride, with Xenia deliberately avoiding meeting his eye and leaving half a metre of clear space between them on the squab.
At the I.G.O. penthouse terminal, she said, “Duvorac weell see us at 1600. I have work to do. See you then.”
Evidence that Duvorac himself had not been idle met him in the anteroom of the commissar’s suite. It was a large circular room, lit by hexagonal ports in a heavily decorated ceiling. Dominant motif was the opulent, baroque buttock, with the total effect that a mixed bag of nymphs, cherubs and satyrs had beaten gravity and were struggling to escape through the roof.
A half circle of bucket chairs round an information console had familiar occupants. Cotgrave, facing, as he came in, fairly leaped to his feet and came across to meet him. “Commander, glad to see you here.
Now maybe we can get a straight story. What goes on?”
They were all there, and the new interest had sharpened them up. In this environment, they hardly seemed to be the same men who had been a bad risk in the pen.
For one thing, they were now in full shore rig. White, round-collared uniforms with the I.G.O. blazon and rank flashes in gold pipe. Even Hocker got slowly to his feet, but prudently hung on to a tall green glass that he had just freshened from the bar dispenser.
Bennett as the next senior executive came forward with Cotgrave. “Any change from that dump can only be good, Commander; but we’ve been told nothing. An hour ago one of the goons told us to pack, then an I.G.O. shuttle picked us up. Are we to live here in the Consulate?”
Fletcher said, “It’s good to see you out. I’m as much in the dark as anybody. There’s a meeting with the commissar at 1600. Maybe we shall hear the score then.”
Hocker said, aggressively, “And about time, I’m sick to my stomach with hanging about on this beach.
Not a piece of tail in sight. Correction. Erase that. Score it out with a sinuous line.” Glass in hand, he was off across the parquet on a course North-East-by-North to where Xenia had ap
peared between two lotus figured columns in a crotch length apricot tabard and her hair in a shining, tulip cowl.
Fletcher had a momentary flash of intuition. He could see how it would be. They were pulled together for a purpose. This was likely to be his crew. The sooner he got Hocker sorted the better. Without wanting forelock-knuckling peasants in his team, he knew the score as far as discipline went. In a spacer, it had to be automatic. With a five second debate from a crewman, about whether he thought the order was a good idea to himself, a ship could be molecular trash.
Cotgrave said quickly, “Don’t take too much notice of Hocker just now, Commander. He’s young and I reckon the waiting has been heavier on him than the rest of us. But he’s a good engineer, I can promise you that. Put him to work and he’s a different man.”
Everybody seemed to be reading his mind these days, but it was no bad thing to have a co-pilot who could anticipate his reactions.
He said, “I understand that. The sooner we all get under load the better. 1600 coming up. Now we should know something.”
Slap on cue, a panel glowed over Duvorac’s lintel with the legend, “Commander Fletcher’s party enter now.”
Out of the corner of his eye Fletcher could see that Hocker was penning Xenia between her two flanking pillars. Whatever he was saying was taking time. Then she seemed to go along with it and he had a suspicion that she had caught him looking. Whatever it was, she put out a convincing giggle as though privileged to be chatted up by the conversationalist of the decade. Then she prodded the engineer on his sternum with a supple forefinger and drew his attention to the folk migration at his back.
It all looked like a case of instant friendship. Fletcher found himself thinking that he did not like it.
Duvorac’s first words, however, when they were all seated in a double row facing the plinth, gave him something else to play on his pianola.