by David Drake
The Harriers exchanged anxious looks, but the Mromrosii leaped and bounded around the Wammgalloz, the colors of their masses of curls changing rapidly as they did.
"Well," said Sventur, uncertain how to continue. "What do we do now?"
The nearest Wammgalloz bent down so that its tremendous eyes were nearly on a level with her. A terrible scraping sound came from its mouth, but its translator said, "We have summoned all the participants, as you recommended. Now that we have arrived, they should be here shortly."
So that was why it had taken so long for anyone to respond! Sventur could not conceal her satisfaction. "Great. That's great." The translator turned this into a series of high grunts.
After that, no one seemed to know quite what to do.
Foscar tried to fill in by explaining he had nothing in his stores that he supposed the Wammgalloz would want to eat, and even if he had, he had no notion of how to prepare it.
The Mromrosii took over, sashaying between the Harrier and the Wammgalloz, attempting to explain to the five tremendous aliens how they came to be here, starting with the arrival of Group Leader Gernold Willister at the Semper Rigel.
"It seemed a fairly simple matter of ending the invasion of a Magnicate Alliance planet," said one of the Mromrosii, curls brightening from mauve to ruddy gold. "The orders were clear enough and well within the rules of the EPFC."
The Wammgalloz listened diligently as the Mromrosii unfolded the story, taking turns and inserting comments in one another's narratives.
"So," the Mromrosi who was green at the moment finished up, "it was discovered that the killer of the Petit Harriers were their own trusted Bunters, acting on their basic codes. They had been persuaded that the Petits had rebelled against the Grands, which is treason in the Magnicate Alliance, and therefore had to be stopped. We have recall files to prove this."
"An excellent source," said the Wammgalloz who had addressed Sventur; she decided that it had to be the leader of the group, if there was a leader.
"And since it appeared that the Bastan'gal were being protected by some means, we did not know if there would be a way to stop them. But Group Line Chief Sventur has hit upon something that may work. Yes." The Mromrosi bounded into the air, slapped six of his eight feet and landed with a bounce. "Of course," he added as he went from gaudy crimson to forest green, "it won't save the Bastan'gal. But they were Warned."
"Yes," said the apparent leader of the Wammgalloz, "they were Warned."
"Warned?" Sventur echoed, not liking the tone of the word.
The Wammgalloz lowered its head once more. It spoke, like a rake over gravel. The translator said, "The Emerging Planet Fairness Court only Warns once. If the Warning is not heeded, we take the necessary action."
She knew it was very impolite to ask, but Sventur could not help herself. "What action is that?" She could feel the rest of the Harriers listening intently, anticipating a description of annihilation.
"We Quarantine them," explained the Wammgalloz. "None of the species in our sphere of influence are permitted to deal with the Quarantined in any way. No commerce is allowed. No studying is allowed. No exchanges of any land are possible, direct or indirect. No contact is allowed. If there is contact, then those breaking Quarantine share the fate of the Quarantined. They are contained as well."
"For how long?" asked TeRoumei, his bafflement shared by the rest.
The Wammgalloz pondered its answer. "Going by your Earth Standard units, the period is no less than thirteen hundred."
"Days?" asked Sventur hopefully, already guessing the answer.
"Years," said the Wammgalloz.
Now that the questioning had begun, the Harriers could not stop. "But why do your . . . sphere of influence planets obey you?" asked Ancelott. "According to the Mromrosii you haven't had a war in thousands and thousands of years."
The Wammgalloz scratched and buzzed among themselves, and then their spokesbeing said, "We do not interfere with what you do among yourselves. That is a matter for the tribunals and customs of the Magnicate Alliance. But when other species are brought in, such as the Bastan'gal, then it is our province. Most of the species in our sphere of influence would rather have an occasional Quarantine than face interstellar warfare. Before the EPFC that happened regularly. Every new species had to battle and claw its way among the other species, and everyone suffered for it. Thousands of planets and systems were wiped out or collapsed. Whole species vanished through aggression and foolishness. The EPFC ended that."
"But if the Quarantined got together—" began Parkerman.
"How?" asked the Mromrosi currently a deep raisin color. "They are blocked from all communication and approach. They are isolated. Even planets within a Quarantined group are not permitted any communication."
"You mean every planet is on its own?" demanded Lauy-Rei.
"Precisely," said the other Mromrosi.
"Even planets in the same system?' asked Godwendo, having trouble grasping the magnitude of Quarantine.
"Even them," said the grey Mromrosi.
"And there has never been a rebellion against this?" asked Duykster, aghast.
"Not recently," said the Wammgalloz, appending, "Not for a very long time."
The Harriers were silent at the thought.
"You force them into isolation? For thirteen hundred ES years?" asked Miya Maht in horrified disbelief.
"Or longer," said the golden Mromrosi.
"Some remain Quarantined for millennia," said the green one. "There is one species, with over two hundred planets in its federacy, that has been Quarantined for nine thousand ES years now, more or less."
"Each planet is isolated from the rest," said Godwendo, to be sure.
"Completely isolated," the gold Mromrosi assured him. "Disruptor beacons are placed in overlapping high orbit around the Quarantined planets. Nothing gets in or out. The beacons are maintained by the Uth-Mah-Dzern and the Ghethept, as they have been from the first."
The enormity of such a sentence was staggering. Even Ernan Radame Foscar was shocked by it.
Finally Sventur asked another question. "How often have you done this—Quarantined a species?"
"In the last eleven thousand years?" replied the Wammgalloz. "Seventeen times."
"You could make it stick?" asked Mondragon, awed.
"Oh, yes," said the Wammgalloz calmly.
"And there was never any trouble about it?" asked Hoad incredulously.
"Not that lasted very long," said the Wammgalloz.
"And no war?" Ancelott inquired.
"Not beyond the species, no," said the Wammgalloz serenely.
Once again the Harriers were silent.
"That is why we have observers on all your ships, as we have on every species' ships with whom we deal," said the Wammgalloz, waving one of its long, telescoping arms in the direction of the Mromrosii. "So that we will have an accurate report on you, and will be able to assess the danger you represent."
Both Mromrosii lolloped down the length of the lobby, their green eyes glowing and their curls a pristine ice-blue.
The Harriers remained silent.
And in that silence an alarm sounded from the central function room where all the vids and surveills had been set up.
The Harriers sprang into action as if freed from a spell and grateful for something to do.
"Parkerman, Ammir, you take charge of communications. Ancelott and Godwendo, guard duty. Crozzer and Porree, I'm assigning you to Foscar, so he won't have to use any of his staff for this. Get to work." It felt good to be giving orders once more, but under the huge eyes of the Wammgalloz she could not help but imagine herself a child in a playground instead of an officer on the eve of what might be a truce.
The Mromrosi who was fading from blue to ecru came up to her, his green eye bright with excitement. "Did you see? The Grands are coming."
"I saw," she answered, her face hardening. Line Commander Fayrborn was on that Petard, the Mon Droit Cassiopeia. She was torn by
wanting to confront him and by wanting to avoid any confrontation while the fate of Lontano was in dispute.
"What now, Group line Chief?" asked Thorgemann, who had not risen when the rest did on account of his injury. He was still weak and his complexion pasty, but his eyes were alert and bright.
"I suppose we have to wait," she said, and fixed her eyes on the approaching ship.
Flotilla Master Dunmar Badiban was from Hathaway and proud of it; he was a third son of a second son, but still in the aristocracy and possessed of a tide when at home. He had been in the Grands for thirty-two years and was itching for one more real promotion before he retired, one he could parlay into political clout at The Hub as well as on Hathaway. He regarded the group of Petits in the lobby with something close to disgust. "Why have you summoned me here?" he asked, addressing his question to the Wammgalloz as a group.
"There is someone aboard your ship we wish to speak with," said the Wammgalloz's translator. "And there are some questions we wish to ask you."
Badiban contrived to make himself even straighter. "In front of them?" His eyes flicked toward the Petits and then away.
"Certainly," said one of the two Mromrosii.
Seeing Badiban's reluctance, the other Mromrosi said "They already know what is going on, Flotilla Master. There is no reason for you to remain silent any longer."
Badiban's cheeks went scarlet but his manner remained unchanged. "I suppose you think you know what you're talking about."
"Yes, we do," said the Wammgalloz. "And so does the rest of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court." The huge creature bobbed toward Flotilla Master Badiban. "If you will come into the . . . what is this place called?"
"It is the main function room," said Foscar after he cleared his throat.
The main function room, where the screens are," said the Wammgalloz helpfully. A slow, majestic cocking of its head was enough to impel Badiban forward. "We will sort things out."
Most of the screens were blank, but on one there shone the huge, craggy features of Fleet Commodore Grizmai, who, like most Boreas men, wore a short beard.
There is a nine-second delay on zaps," explained Communications Leader Parkerman for the benefit of the aliens.
"That is satisfactory," said the Wammgalloz spokesbeing.
"As soon as the others arrive, we will begin," announced the Mromrosii, more or less in unison. They were both a caramel-brown.
"What others?" Flotilla Master Badiban inquired sharply.
"First, your associate Fayrborn, then the commanding officers of the Bastan'gal forces," said one of the Mromrosii, as if the answer were obvious to everyone.
Flotilla Master Badiban was looking seriously displeased. "Whatever for?" he asked, attempting to disguise his apprehension with bluster.
"To answer some questions," said the Mromrosii together. One of them came skipping over to Sventur. "Don't worry," he said quietly, "we'll have this underway shortly."
Since Sventur was not entirely sure what the Mromrosii were up to, she could think of nothing to say.
"You might as well let your Petits relax," the Mromrosi went on. "This isn't official. No need to stand on ceremony for us." He waggled one of his little feet toward the five Wammgalloz and turned a delicious shade of plum. "Most of us don't understand your ceremonies, in any case. We Mromrosii find them amusing, but the rest of the EPFG . . . well, their sense of humor is different."
Sventur would have liked to know what the Mromrosi meant by that but decided she might not like the answer. She folded her arms. "We'd feel better if we continue to stand on ceremony."
The Mromrosi made a gurgling sound, then turned a shimmering acid green. "Whatever you prefer," he said, and capered off in the direction of the other Mromrosi, changing to a rosy shade of apricot as he went.
On the screen next to the face of Fleet Commodore Grizmai there now appeared two of The Twelve—Gueiwan Fampsin of Standby and Chapdean Spiknard of Victoria Station. Both men had well-used, crafty faces and eyes like lancets. Aside from the stamp of their distant ancestries—Korean and Tasmanian—they were as interchangeable as twins. As high-ranking members of the Council of the First Fifty-Six, they had both been born to power and manipulation and by now for both of them the machinations of their high office were as automatic as breathing.
"Will someone explain why we're here?" asked Fampsin, his voice fuzzed with the problems of plus-light transmission.
The Wammgalloz spokesbeing turned to Sventur. "Will you tell them, Group Line Chief? You're the one who arranged this." The translator made this statement seem quiet and polite, but Sventur was not reassured.
She moved forward. "We're not all here yet." She coughed. "You have the zaps I sent?"
In the nine-second delay, she had plenty of time to regret her actions and to convince herself that her actions were bound to fail.
"We have the zaps," said Spiknard. "But they do not entirely explain what is going on there. What are you Petits doing out there in the first place? And why is Flotilla Master Badiban there?"
The silence was longer this time, and finally it was Fleet Admiral Grizmai who answered. His big face was grim but without anger. "I sent them—the Petits—under most secret codes."
This shocking announcement took Fampsin and Spiknard by surprise and earned a high, squawking yelp from the Wammgalloz which their translators expressed as "Oops" or "Yipe."
Fampsin was the first to recover, for like most Standbyers he prided himself on his inability to be shocked by anything, even if it was very, very odd. "Why did you do that?"
Grizmai mumbled, then hitched his shoulders. "I had to do something. The Marshall-in-Chief of the Grands had been moving ships without informing me, or informing me after-the-fact. I was concerned. I had to know what he was up to."
"So you sent the Petits on a . . . spying mission?" demanded Spiknard.
The Harriers listened, and filled the empty moments between transmissions with whispers.
Flotilla Master Badiban stood rigid, his expression fixed in disbelieving offence.
"On a fact-finding mission," corrected Grizmai when the total eighteen seconds had elapsed. "Unfortunately I chose the wrong unit. I didn't know about Fayrborn's ambitions. They had been removed from his records." His eyes darkened. "I don't know how that happened, but I will find out."
None of the Harriers—Petit or Grand—doubted him.
"Aside from Fayrborn, this was one of the best squadrons of Petits in the service. They were ideally suited to the task, and I knew they would do the job right." He gave a rueful sigh. "I didn't realize the trouble with Fayrborn, or the trouble his associate would cause."
Sventur had been listening attentively but without shock to what Fleet Commodore Grizmai said. But this brought her head up sharply and she gasped. "What associate?"
Flotilla Master Badiban held his breath.
"The review we have given the zaps and the recall files have shown there had to be an accomplice still in the squadron. Someone had to program the Bunters and maintain the program while the mission was in progress." Fleet Commodore Grizmai paused, and went on carefully. "If Group Line Chief Sventur had not sent those zaps, we would never have known what was going on. Fayrborn's associate had been stopping all transmissions back to us. Until yesterday I was totally in the dark about the status of the mission. Then a zap arrived from the Suidotal. Sventur sent it. I understand," he went on somberly, "that the Glavus-class skimmer Suidotal was destroyed shortly after the zap was sent."
"It was," said Sventur.
"That is all very shocking," said Spiknard when the eighteen seconds had elapsed. As a native of Victoria Station he was expected to be shocked.
Those gathered in the lobby and function room of the Elegante Bianc could only agree.
The Petard Mon Droit Cassiopeia was now quite near the Wammgalloz ships, and the signal from the bridge over-rode the plus-light transmissions.
"This is the Grand Harriers Deputy Flotilla Master Edman Lore of t
he Mon Droit Cassiopeia, responding to orders from Fleet Commodore Grizmai. I have Petit Harrier Line Commander Gilyard Fayrborn aboard." This was Badiban's second in command, a high-born lout from Drought Central.
"We would appreciate it if you would both attend, Deputy Flotilla Master," said the Wammgalloz spokesbeing.
"If that is necessary," came the answer, and then a buzzing of the communications systems as if some interference had been detected.
Two Glavus-class skimmers were approaching out of the west: the Yamapunkt and the Reiwald.
From the bridge of the Mon Droit Cassiopeia Lore could be heard ordering the Petits to stay away.
"Belay that order," Fleet Commodore Grizmai, his transmission at last cutting into the communications between the three ships. "Group Line Chiefs to report to the meeting at once. Deputy Flotilla Master Lore, present yourself with Line Commander Fayrborn. Immediately."
There was no arguing with the Fleet Commodore, and no chance to deny receiving the order.
"Should we have the Mromrosii, as well?" asked the Wammgalloz of Group Line Chief Sventur.
It astonished her to be consulted, but she answered, "Not yet. But have them present you with reports, or whatever they do." She had not yet figured out how it was the Mromrosii relayed their material to the Emerging Planet Fairness Court.
"That is understood," said the Wammgalloz, and rose upward into the rotunda, straightening its back. "Pardon me," its translator remarked. "Bending down for so long is very fatiguing."
"I can imagine," said Sventur, not at all sure this was true.
A few minutes later, Gilyard Fayrborn strode defiantly through the main doors of the Elegante Bianc. He squared his chin and looked at the small group of Petit Harriers who had gathered to watch him. No one saluted.
Beside him, Edman Lore stood with his eyes resolutely forward and his gaze fixed in the middle distance. He slapped his right hand to his left shoulder in the direction of the screens where Grizmai, Spiknard and Fampsin were. "Reporting as per your order, Fleet Commodore," he said, trying not to sound too sycophantish.
