by Timothy Zahn
McPhee shrugged. "I'm working under the auspices of the NorCoord Parliament. I thought you knew that."
"Yes, I did," Holloway said, gazing at the other's stony expression and wishing he'd been able to get here before the two groups arrived. In the first surprise at being brought face-to-face with Dr. Cavanagh, McPhee's expression might have been interesting to observe. "But so far all you've given us have been vague generalities. Let's hear some specifics. Who and from where?"
McPhee's face hardened a little more. "I don't care much for your tone, Colonel," he said.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. McPhee," Holloway countered. "I don't care much for civilians who illegally use facilities at a Peacekeeper weapons platform."
"Weapons platform?" Takara asked. "Where did he do that?"
"At Granparra," Holloway told him, watching McPhee closely. If the other was worried, he wasn't showing it. "He got his ship refueled and serviced at the Myrmidon Platform. I just found out myself a few minutes ago."
"What makes you think it was done illegally?" McPhee asked.
"You're a civilian," Holloway said. "On civilian business." He held up the card he'd just finished compiling. "I have a list of the regulations here. They're very clear on such matters."
"There are exceptions."
Holloway leaned back in his chair. "I'm listening," he invited.
McPhee dropped his gaze, and Holloway caught his surreptitious glance to where Melinda Cavanagh was sitting quietly taking it all in. His lip twitched once; and when he raised his eyes again, they were unexpectedly burning with an icy anger. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Colonel," he said. "But as it happens, I have full and total authority to requisition any Peacekeeper facilities, equipment, or personnel I want. Up to and including you and your garrison."
"Impressive words," Holloway said, an odd feeling starting to tingle against the back of his neck. "You have any substance to go along with them?"
"I think this will suffice," McPhee said, pulling a card from his pocket. "Even for you." With careless accuracy he flipped it through the air to land in the middle of Holloway's desk. "You're welcome to check it, of course."
Holloway picked up the card. "A NorCoord Parliament carte blanche," he commented, trying to keep his voice casual. So Melinda Cavanagh's story had been true all along. These people really were involved in some top-secret under-the-counter operation.
And if this Parlimin Jacy VanDiver - or Admiral Rudzinski himself - chose to be upset that an overzealous lieutenant colonel on a minor-colony world had stuck his nose into the matter...
He pursed his lips. No. First things first. "Thank you, Mr. McPhee," he said. "I believe we'll do that." He glanced at his desk, at the spot where his terminal had been before being moved out to Site A an hour ago. "Fuji, get out to the sensor center and check this out," he said, holding the carte blanche out to Takara. "You know how to do it?"
"Yes, sir," Takara said, suddenly sounding crisp and formal as he bounded from his chair and took the card. "I confirm the overall form and style of the text, then locate and compare the confirmation encoding that'll have been buried in the standard data file updates within forty-eight hours of issuance."
"Right," Holloway said. "Make sure no one looks over your shoulder while you're doing it."
"Yes, sir," Takara said, and headed out at a brisk walk.
Holloway watched him go, noticing that Duggen and Spaulding had suddenly become Peacekeeper recruits again, standing with a parade-ground stiffness that was usually dispensed with in the garrison's more informal surroundings. Apparently, even a distant whiff of that carte blanche was potent stuff. "At ease, gentlemen," he suggested. "We're not passing in review."
The Marines shifted into at-ease position, Spaulding reddening slightly as they did so. "An intriguing situation, Mr. McPhee," Holloway said, turning back to the other. "It's rare to see a parliamentary carte blanche these days."
"Save your breath, Colonel," McPhee advised coldly. "And your excuses, before you bother making any. Whatever fallout comes from this, it's going to land squarely in your face."
Holloway locked eyes with him. "If I were you, Mr. McPhee," he said quietly, "I wouldn't be too quick to start shoveling blame. People who suddenly appear in a war zone with absurd cover stories shouldn't be surprised when they attract official scrutiny. Whatever this imagined fallout of yours might be - "
"Imagined fallout?" McPhee cut him off. "You know, that's just the sort of asinine statement that shows you really haven't the faintest idea what's going on here."
"I'm acutely aware of that," Holloway countered, trying hard to hold on to his temper. He could put up with politicians who fumbled around in military circles without a clue what they were doing. Politicians who insisted on frosting their ignorance with arrogance drove him nearly homicidal. "I trust you are aware that if you'd presented your credentials at the outset, my officers and I would have made every attempt to cooperate with you."
"Oh, certainly," McPhee shot back. "Present my credentials, and have the whole garrison buzzing with rumors. That would certainly have been helpful."
Holloway took a careful breath, putting all his strength into not saying what he so badly wanted to say. To suggest that his men had nothing better to do than sit around discussing what some hotshot data-pusher from Earth might be up to... "If you don't mind," he said, "I think we'll put the rest of this conversation on hold until Major Takara has finished his examination of your credentials. I'm sure Parlimin VanDiver would prefer we handle things by the book."
McPhee didn't answer, but the look on his face promised that he would remember this when the time came for reprimands. Sitting in the middle of a war zone, Holloway found it difficult to care.
The awkward silence seemed much longer than the few minutes it actually took Takara to return. "It's genuine, sir," he told Holloway, handing the carte blanche back across the desk. "There are five separate confirmations; all five checked out."
"Thank you," Holloway said, resisting the temptation to flip the card back across to McPhee the way the other had thrown it to him. "All right, Mr. McPhee, you are who you say. Now, what exactly is it you want from us?"
"What I wanted was for you to stick to your own work and leave me alone," the other said stiffly. "But since you've now effectively shredded my mission, I'll just have to settle for your confiscating that Counterpunch and fueler out there."
Holloway threw a glance at Melinda Cavanagh, sitting there quietly, her face unreadable. "I don't understand."
"What part didn't I make clear?" McPhee asked sardonically. "The part about confiscation, or the specific ships involved?"
Takara half rose from his seat. "Colonel - "
Holloway waved him back down. "Just a minute, Major."
"Colonel, this is important - "
"You heard the Colonel," McPhee snapped, throwing him a glare. "Shut up." He swiveled the glare onto Holloway. "I was ordered by Parlimin Jacy VanDiver to look into allegations that the Cavanagh family was conspiring to commit illegal activities. I'd originally hoped to ferret out what specifically they were up to, but thanks to your meddling that chance is gone. Still, illegal possession of Peacekeeper property ought to be enough to put the whole bunch of them under arrest."
"It's not Peacekeeper property," Melinda Cavanagh spoke up, her first words since the meeting had began. "Both ships and all the supplies are privately owned."
"What about the Corvines on their way in?" Holloway asked her.
"Corvines?" McPhee demanded. "Where? How many?"
"Colonel, they're gone," Takara called, clearly determined this time to make himself heard. "Both of them."
"Both?" Holloway frowned. "I thought there were six of them."
"Not the Corvines," Takara gritted. "Cavanagh and Quinn and their ships. They lifted while I was checking Mr. McPhee's credentials."
For a heartbeat McPhee just sat there, his mouth half-open. "What?" he breathed.
And then, abruptly, he bo
unded from his chair. "What?" he all but screamed. "What blithering - ?" He jabbed a finger at Holloway. "Get them back. Now."
Holloway had already keyed his comm. "Gasperi, what's the status on that Counterpunch and fueler that just lifted?"
"Lift was clean, Colonel," Gasperi said, his gaze flicking across the status board outside the range of Holloway's display. "No problems."
"Are you in contact with them?"
"No, sir, they've already cleared the horizon. Should be back in range in about an hour."
"What about the Corvines?" McPhee demanded at Holloway's side. "Can you raise them?"
"No, they're also out of sight line," Gasperi said, frowning uncertainly at McPhee. "Colonel, Major Takara okayed the lift."
"Yes, I know," Holloway assured him, thinking hard. "What about the incoming skitter? Is it in sight line with either the Corvines or the Counterpunch?"
"Not sight line, no," Gasperi said. "Might have enough diffraction bend to get a signal to them, though."
"Give it a try," Holloway said. "Have them inform Commander Quinn and Aric Cavanagh that they're to bring their ships back to ground immediately and to make themselves available for questioning."
McPhee snorted. "You don't really expect them to comply, do you?"
Holloway ignored him. "And get Number Two crash-prepped to fly. I want it in the sky in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir," Gasperi said, keying in the order. "Sir, we've also just picked up a new tachyon wake-trail coming in toward the system. Baseline identifies it as an Effenzeal-Royce star yacht. ETA about two hours."
Holloway looked at Melinda Cavanagh. "Yours?"
"My father's."
He nodded and looked back at the comm. "Keep an eye on it," he told Gasperi. "And get that skitter in the air."
"Yes, sir."
"You'll be wasting your time," Melinda Cavanagh advised as he keyed off the comm. "They'll be gone before the skitter can reach them."
"It's our time to waste, thank you," Holloway said. "I take it there's not much chance we'll find Wing Commander Bokamba aboard that ship?"
She shook her head silently. "Terrific," Holloway growled, keying the comm back on. "Gasperi, what's the status on that skitter relay?"
"Sorry, sir," the other said. "There's no response. The signal's probably not getting to them."
"What about Number Two?"
"Still being prepped, sir. It'll be another few minutes."
Holloway clenched his fist beneath the desk. "We may not have a few minutes," he said. "Move it."
"Yes, sir," Gasperi said, starting to look a little frazzled. "I'll have the - "
He broke off, turning his head to the side. Another voice said something, and Holloway saw Gasperi wince. "What?" he demanded.
"Sorry, sir," Gasperi said, turning back. "The fueler's just meshed out. From the wake-trail it looks like the Corvines went with it."
"And the Counterpunch, too, no doubt," Holloway sighed. "All right. Secure from launch prep on Number Two. Everyone back to normal."
"Yes, sir."
Holloway keyed off the comm and turned to Melinda Cavanagh. "Congratulations," he said, hearing an edge of bitterness in his voice. "You and your brother seem to have gotten away with it. Whatever 'it' is."
He had the minor satisfaction of seeing a flicker of pain cross her face. "I'm sorry, Colonel," she said. "Our intention wasn't to get you or anyone else in trouble."
"Well, you've succeeded in that, too," he told her. "Under the circumstances I think you owe me an explanation as to what's going on."
"Again, I'm sorry," she said, looking at McPhee. "Under the Official Secrets Regulations I'm not allowed to talk about it." A faint smile twitched at her lips. "All I can say is that you're partly to blame for getting the whole thing started."
Holloway frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"That's enough," McPhee said sharply. "Colonel, I don't know what's going on, either. But if she's not lying - if this does come under the Official Secrets Regulations - then the conversation is now over. Just lock her up somewhere until I get my ship ready, and I'll take her off your hands."
Holloway looked up at him. "I'm afraid you're jumping the gun a bit. If you want her arrested, you'll have to wait until we've done a proper interrogation."
McPhee's eyes narrowed. "Are you deaf, Colonel? I said the conversation was over. You're officially out of the circle."
"I suggest you brush up on your military law, Mr. McPhee," Holloway said, standing up and looking McPhee straight in the eye. "This woman is on my planet. She's in my garrison. She's under my jurisdiction. If I want to interrogate her, I can do that."
McPhee glanced at Takara, the first signs of uncertainty beginning to crack into that arrogant surface. "You're exceeding your authority, Colonel."
"On the contrary," Holloway said. "In case you missed it, we're in a war zone here. I can declare full martial law anytime I choose; and the minute I do, your magic carte blanche becomes nothing but a moderately interesting souvenir."
"Are you declaring full martial law, then?" McPhee demanded.
There was a beep from the comm before Holloway could answer. Leaning over, he swiped at the key. "What?" he demanded.
It was Gasperi again... and his face had gone white. "Colonel, we've just picked up a new group of wake-trails," he said, his voice hoarse. "Same baseline as the others. The first ones."
Holloway felt his stomach tighten. "You're sure it's not a resonance between the fueler and that incoming yacht?"
"I'm positive, sir. It's the Conquerors."
Holloway glanced at Takara. He couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but it was clear from his expression he'd already guessed what was happening. "How many?"
"It's hard to tell," Gasperi said. "Looks like five. Maybe six."
And it had taken only four Conqueror ships to demolish the Jutland task force. "And they are incoming?" he asked, just to be sure.
"Yes, sir," Gasperi breathed. "I think so. I'd say two hours before they hit the system."
"Understood," Holloway said. "Give the colony-evacuation order. All ships and vehicles to be prepped at once; senior officers to meet me in the command room in five minutes. And start prep on Number Two again. When it's ready, get it out to Edo with the news."
"Yes, sir."
Holloway keyed off the comm. "The Conquerors?"
Takara asked, his voice sounding like someone walking through a graveyard.
Holloway nodded. "Two hours out. Five ships, maybe six." He looked at McPhee. "The answer is yes, Mr. McPhee. As of now, Dorcas is under full martial law."
16
The last red light on the fighter-status board winked orange and then turned to green. "This is Shrike," a heavily Russian-accented voice came over the fueler's speaker. "I show positive docking."
"Confirmed," Quinn said, glancing at the course setting and then at the status boards. "Final check; all fighters."
One by one the six pilots checked in. "Acknowledged," Quinn said. "Stand by for mesh-out."
He keyed off the intercom. "All right, Max," he said. "Let's go."
"Yes, Commander," the computer answered. "The Peacekeeper base appears to be attempting communication. Do you wish an orbit plot that will bring us into full contact range?"
"Negative," Quinn said. "We don't have the time. Kick it."
"Acknowledged." There was a flicker from the boards, a creak of metal from some uncompensated stress line, and they were off.
Aric took a deep breath. "Well," he said. "Here we go."
"I guess so," Quinn said, doing something with the board. "You ready for this?"
In the distance, from all around them, came a series of dull thuds as fueler/fighter interface hatchways were sprung. "I hope so," Aric said. "You're Hydra and I'm El Dorado, right?"
"Right," Quinn nodded. "When I was a pilot, fighter crews always used tag names when they were together and away from other personnel, which would mean pretty muc
h from now on. I suppose that could have changed in the past few years, though. Masefield will introduce us to the others; listen to see what he calls them and take your cue from that."
There was a flicker of a shadow outside the control room, and a slender young man with close-cropped sandy hair appeared at the doorway. "Commander Quinn?" he said, offering his hand. "I'm Tom Masefield; Clipper. Good to meet you, sir."
"Same here," Quinn said, taking the other's hand. "This is my tail, Cavanagh - El Dorado. I'm Hydra."
Clipper cocked an eyebrow. "Really. I understood it was Maestro."
Quinn glanced at Aric. "It was. Once. What else did Bokamba say in that private message?"
"Not much," Clipper said, giving Aric a speculative look. "All I know is who you are and that Bokamba has transferred this command to you. Unofficially, I presume?"
"Quite unofficially," Quinn agreed. "Did he say anything about the mission?"
Clipper shook his head. "He just said to trust him. And you."
He broke off and moved aside as a second man, dark in hair and complexion, floated into view beside him. "Hydra, El Dorado, this is my tail," he introduced the man. "Lieutenant Sieyes; Delphi."
"Honored, sir," Delphi said, offering his hand to Quinn. "I noticed on my way in that the others were assembling in the wardroom."
"Good," Quinn said. "Let's go get acquainted."
The last of the other ten men were squeezing their way in as Aric and his group arrived. Even empty, the wardroom had always struck Aric as being pretty small. With fourteen men filling it from floor to ceiling, it was long past the borderline into claustrophobic.
"All right, men, dress it up," Clipper called, easing past Quinn into the wardroom as the others deftly repositioned themselves to line up with their commander's definition of vertical. "In descending seniority order. Khirkov and Asquith: Shrike and Crackajack. Bethmann and Marlowe: Jaeger and Watchdog. Vanbrugh and Hodgson: Wraith and Augur. Atkinson and Young: Paladin and Dazzler. And Kempis and Savile: Harlequin and Bookmaker. Don't ask about that last one, by the way. Gentlemen: this is Quinn, our temporary commander, and Cavanagh. Hydra and El Dorado."
