John Rankine - Dag Fletcher 01
Page 17
He took Idron at her most defenceless. Her commander had belatedly realised that Alope needed help against the corvette. She was a hundred metres from the pad, still blind in wreathing flame, when Carrick raked into the narrow waist and settled her back in two broken cylinders that rolled in flaming cartwheels among the blast trenches.
Petrel blazed down on her old station. Grey coolant jetted out for a military planetfall. Before the gas had cleared, Carrick and his marines were out as a bridgehead, facing every quarter, with heavy calibre lasers at the aim.
Fletcher was calling the terminal. “I.G.O. command. Hear this. Any offensive action will be met by total devastation. Send out a hospital tender. Alert Kristinobyl General for Fingalnan casualty. Priority One.”
He took her in the tender himself, feeling her cold to the touch and knowing that he could be already too late.
To Cotgrave, he said, “Accept no orders from anyone. Not me. Not anyone. Blast anything that moves within a hundred metres of the ship. Signal Varley and tell him you are standing by.”
The streets of Kristinobyl were almost deserted and strewn with debris, as the tender swept through with two outriders, wailing their sirens in an unnecessary warning to traffic which was not there.
The hospital itself was busy enough, with a logjam of patient Garamasians waiting for attention at the street accident units. Black obsidian eye discs turned incuriously to follow him as he walked beside a wheeled trolley into reception. Whatever else, the xenophobic phase had burned itself out. Most looked bewildered, as though they had wakened from a confusing dream.
When he left her, with a full set of six doctors, fourteen nurses and an engineer to run an emergency power system, he felt suddenly out of programme. The heavy duty laser he had carried as additional argument was incongruous and he shoved it back in its clip. He paced about the small anteroom to the theatre, knowing that if he stopped or sat down he would have to give in to sleep.
A half hour passed and there was no movement from the closed door. Once he had thought he could hear her trying to say something, then it was gone.
A Garamasian orderly wheeled in a trolley with coffee and sandwiches and he realized it was a long time since he had eaten any food.
Then there was the noise of several feet in the corridor and a muffled argument in gobbledygook as though the medical staff were putting up a protest.
When the outer door sliced back, he expected a posse—remnants of Pedasun’s crew still acting out their brief. He stood balanced on the balls of his feet, willing up a reserve of energy. There was some truth in the old gag that those who lived by the sword perished by it. There was never a point in a vendetta when both parties were ready to call quits at the same time. But it was Yola with Termeron and an elderly mandarin type, dressed in an expensive-looking caftan with a round collar and a broad electrum belt.
Yola said, “We guessed it was you. I have brought my father, Kaalba, to meet you. There is no need to threaten the city with your ship. He is anxious to talk with you; but I must translate for him.”
Taken at one remove, Fletcher had time to study the Provincial Governor’s face, while he spoke and even before he had the meaning, he had judged that the man was sincere. Relayed by Yola in English, it came down to a policy statement that would please Duvorac for one, if he was still batting. The recent events had made it clear to senior citizens of all parties that government could not be left in the hands of politicians. A new National Front was proposed with good men of every party called in. Purposeful work and a programme of reform was to be the keynote. There was plenty to do and Garamasian traditional virtues were strongest when there was a hard furrow to plough. The abortive revolution had been a timely warning. He was thanked for his part in crushing it in time. Nothing was said of the sabotage to the ring.
But Yola herself was not entirely at ease. She at least suspected the truth, but was, maybe, prepared to list it as the ill wind and suspend judgement.
When they had gone, he sat down. There was no immediate threat. Tension had gone out of the situation.
How much later he could not say, there was a hand shaking his shoulder and a Raggedy-Ann in a white smock leaning over the chair. Outside it was dark and the hospital’s emergency lighting left a lot of shadow. The blaster was out and jabbing for the shroud before he was fully orientated and the nurse leaped back a full pace with a startled “Eek.”
Vision clearing, he said thickly, “Sorry about that. How is she?”
“You can see her for two minutes. Follow me.”
They must have wheeled her out while he was asleep. There was a short corridor to traverse and then a pause outside a door, before he was ushered through into a large room with panoramic windows showing like a dark star map.
Xenia was lying flat on a high bed and turned her head to follow him in, a small silver nude under a clear plexiglass dome. Her voice spoke directly into his head with the text pointed by brilliant green eyes, almost all pupil, “Harree, I have to stay here, five days. Then you weel be gone. But eet does not mattaire, does eet? I shall always remembaire you. Weell you theenk about me?”
She had accepted that they would go different ways. Now he knew that it was so. For as long as they held together in a human shell, they would be part of the texture of each other’s minds. But there was no ongoing future for them in any part of the Galaxy.
He projected back. “No, it does not matter. Yes, I shall always think about you. Relax, everything has turned out well. I’ll be in again to see you.”
Then the nurse was saying, “Time to go, Commander, she must not be over tired.”
Dag Fletcher had one more call to make, before he could return to his ship and set about a repair schedule. A V.I.P. shuttle took him to the I.G.O. complex and he found Duvorac sitting in his office as though he had not moved since the last call. He was looking greyer than ever under the temporary power supply and spoke in carefully husbanded bursts of energy.
“Commander. You have done well. The situation has stabilized. We can look forward to better days on Garamas. Your part will not be forgotten. I have spoken with your Admiral. He agrees with me that it would be tactless to bring the squadron in immediately. Give them time to organize. You are to stay here.
Four weeks to prepare your ship. You are confirmed in command of Petrel. The enquiry has come out with commendation for your conduct in the Terrapin affair. For the time being, you are the I.G.O.
Military Adviser for this sector. I hope I do not need to apply to you. Any questions?”
“Only one. What is to happen to the Fingalnan agent?”
“Xenia? When she is fit to travel, say in a month’s time, she will return to I.G.O. H.Q. for leave and later a new briefing.”
Riding back to his ship, Fletcher recognised her mind penetrating the night to speak to him. Tenuous at this distance, it was no more than an earnest of infinite good will, a frail human gesture, at this instant of time, against the cosmic backdrop of uncertainty.
Time anyway was still on their side. They had a month. When rightly considered, that was as far as any man would wish to see into the future.
He sent back as a signal, the single all-embracing service word for acceptance of the logic of any situation.
“Check.”
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
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