by David Drake
"Excellent," said Grizmai, and stared hard across three dozen light-years to Fayrborn. "Well, Line Commander, you have a great deal to answer for."
"Only because I didn't succeed," said Fayrborn, determined to brazen it out. "If I had succeeded, I'd be getting a medal."
"I am afraid not," said the Mromrosi nearest him.
"You were observed," said the other.
Fayrborn gestured as if to push the fluffy, curly aliens aside. "You pogging pests! You make sperks of all of us!"
It was difficult to tell if the Prussian blue the two Mromrosii turned was out of distress, anger or insult, but it was clear that they were mightily displeased. They both turned their single green eyes on him, and one of them hopped into the air—for once it did not seem amusing.
"You are a bigot and a fool," said the Wammgalloz from the rotunda, the sonorous voice of the translator making these condemnations sound less dire. "No force in space can afford such an attitude toward other species."
Fleet Commodore Grizmai looked very displeased, and he addressed the aliens at once. "Gentlem . . . gentlebeings, I ask you not to regard what Fayrborn is saying as anything more than an indication of his overwrought nerves."
"Pogger all!" shouted Fayrborn. "Pog you and The Hub and The Twelve for pandering to these . . . these monstrosities!" He flung the insult at more than the Mromrosii and Wammgalloz in the Elegante Bianc. "And pog you"—he directed this as Sventur—"for your frapping sense of duty. You don't know when to quit." He spat and turned away from her. He wished he had brought a supply of fantod gas with him. It worked once. He might have a chance with another canister of fantod gas.
"You'd better control yourself, Line Commander," warned Spiknard. "You are in no position to make threats."
Gilyard Fayrborn laughed aloud, and the sound was only marginally less unpleasant than the sound of Wammgalloz speech. He glared at the screens, crossed his arms and looked persecuted.
Deputy Flotilla Master Lore was embarrassed by this display and showed it by going a shade of red any Mromrosi would envy.
"From what I have been able to discover thus far," said Fleet Commodore Grizmai, "you, Fayrborn, were contacted by certain high-ranking members of the Grands—your distant relatives, so I gather—for the purpose of gaining control of the access to J'zmallir Trade Routes with the intention of parlaying that access into a power base that would eventually shift the governing power of the Magnicate Alliance from The Hub to the Grands."
Now Fampsin and Spiknard were incensed. Fampsin uttered the ultimate Standby curse—"Hooch palsy and an endless losing streak"—under his breath while Spiknard gathered his hands into fists and pressed them together.
"It will take a while before all the participants in this despicable plan are rounded up," said Grizmai, "but thanks to Sventur's warning, we have a chance to stop this before it gets started."
Warning sirens went off throughout the Elegante Bianc, and now everyone looked around, including those three attending the meeting by vid, though with a nine-second delay.
The three Bastan'gal ships were like half-risen piles of yeast dough. Pale grey in color and with few external markings they came up to the Elegante Bianc sporting yellow-and-white negotiating lights on. They set down on the landing field downslope from the hotel and at once land-craft looking like huge armored moles left the ships and headed up the mountain.
"So," said the Wammgalloz with deep satisfaction. "The matter nears conclusion."
"The Bastan'gal might not agree," said the Mromrosi who was chrome-yellow.
"They were Warned," said the Wammgalloz.
"Yes," agreed the Mromrosi who had turned deep thalo-green.
Sventur listened to this, hoping she had misunderstood what she had overheard, but equally certain she had not.
Fayrborn had become vociferous once more. "I resent this treatment. I do not recognize any authority of the so-called Emerging Planet Fairness Court, and I refuse to be bossed around by things like you." He pointed at the five Wammgalloz, then at the two Mromrosii. "It's a sign of our weakness that we let you gain the influence you have. We ought to have stopped it at the beginning."
"Line Commander Fayrborn," thundered Fleet Commodore Grizmai—though some of the impact was lost through the nine-second delay—"you are under arrest, and your associate on the crew of the Yamapunkt is also under arrest. You are to be placed in formal detention and delivered to the Marshalls-in-Chief of the Petit and Grand Harriers."
Deputy Flotilla Master Lore coughed delicately. "Fleet Commodore, who aboard the Yamapunkt are we to detain? Who is the accomplice?"
Grizmai achieved a tight smile. "Ask Sventur."
Sventur looked horrified, and then realized that she was not implicated. In the same instant, it occurred to her that she knew precisely who had helped Fayrborn, who had the knowledge to alter the codes of the Bunters, who could block zaps and vids and other transmissions, who had to be the Line Commander's accomplice. She was very composed. "Detain Communications Leader Gara Gaikhu," she said.
This revelation brought consternation to all the Harriers, Petit and Grand, in the hotel and on their ships.
"It's never Gaikhu," insisted Group Line Chief Goriz from the Reiwald.
Protocol Officer Diam Bontorn of the Yamapunkt issued several sharp orders, and then announced, "Communications Leader Gaikhu has been apprehended attempting to flee the ship."
One of the screens that had been blank until that moment now came to brilliant life and revealed Gara Gaikhu restrained by two of the Protocol Officer's staff. She stared defiantly outward. Even angry she was stunning. "You'd better listen to him. He's right. If you arrest him, it won't matter—"
Fayrborn swore savagely.
"—because he will be a martyr and the people of the Magnicate Alliance will flock to his cause. We will not be the pawns of alien martinets."
"Hardly martinets," said one of the Mromrosii.
Sventur looked at the screen where Gaikhu was, trying to puzzle out what had happened to her that she had become Fayrborn's tool. She took a few steps forward. "Gara, how could you . . ." She cleared her throat. "You killed your fellow-Petits. You were prepared to let Lontano be destroyed."
Gaikhu shook her head violently. "They aren't my fellow-Petits. How can you think I'm like you? Gilyard, he understands. He knows what it is to be kept out of the Grands on a technicality. He knows how humiliating it is to be at the beck and call of those disgusting EPFC species. It has to change, Leatris. It just has to. Can't you see that? What's one out-of-the-way planet, compared to the sovereignty of the Magnicate Alliance."
"Nothing, probably, except it's my home," said Sventur very quietly, and turned away.
Line Commander Fayrborn fixed her with an unrelenting stare. "You have a lot to answer for," he warned her.
One of the Mromrosii bounded over to Sventur's side and rubbed her side. "Don't worry. The Emerging Planet Fairness Court knows what you've done, Sventur."
"Good," said Sventur quietly. "I wish I did."
By the time the Bastan'gal arrived, Line Commander Fayrborn, along with Communications Leader Gaikhu and Flotilla Master Badiban had been taken aboard the Rekvald, all under orders to be brought to The Hub by the fastest and most direct route. They had been guaranteed an escort of Scimitar-class skimmers to head off any rescue attempts.
The Wammgalloz had changed the translator to the voice of the Bastan'gal, and so Sventur required the Mromrosii to provide her a translation for the proceedings.
"In the presence of witnesses not members of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court," the purple Mromrosi said as the Wammgalloz translator rendered squeaks, scratches and yips into low howls and gurgles, "we inform you that you and your entire species are to be placed in Quarantine for your continuing abuse of species other than your own and your illegal exploitation of the J'zmallir Trade Route through piracy and planetary invasion. You were warned two hundred thirty-two years ago and have not heeded our Warning."
&
nbsp; The tawny-grey Mromrosi took over the chore. "Therefore you are to be isolated on your forty-six worlds, each population confined to its own world for a period not less than thirteen hundred years. At the end of that time, your situation will be reviewed but not necessarily rescinded."
On the screens Fleet Commodore Grizmai looked distinctly uncomfortable as the Wammgalloz turned their attention from the Bastan'gal to the humans. The translator returned to the deep, melodic voice it had had before.
"There have been offenses on your part, as well. But as the crimes were confined to a small group of rebels within one particular service, you are not yet subject to Warning. However, if the abuses continue, then the Magnicate Alliance will face Warning and Quarantine. For the time being, the actions of your Harrier force, especially the division known as the Grands, will be subject to frequent review and inspection. If at any time it becomes apparent that malfeasance is being tolerated in that force, the possibility of Warning will increase greatly."
The Petit Harriers had gathered together to hear this, and now Ancelott whistled in appreciation.
"You think that would stop the Grands?" asked Godwendo in disgust.
"I hope it would," said Lauy-Rei.
Mondragon watched the Wammgalloz with growing curiosity. "I can't helping wondering if we look as weird to them as they do to us, you know?"
The Wammgalloz was continuing. "Our records will show that your own forces contained the problem before we had to intervene. In fact, the wise precautions of your Group Line Chief Leatris Sventur have done much to mitigate the stigma that would otherwise attach to your species. Your agencies would do well to find more officers like her." The Wammgalloz drew in all but one of its telescoping arms. "It was very well done, summoning us here, Group Line Chief Sventur." It made an attempt to use its one free limb to touch the opposite shoulder, and almost strangled itself in the effort.
Sventur, coming to attention, returned the salute sharply, but out of the corner of her eye she watched the Bastan'gal retreat to their land transportation. In spite of everything, she felt sympathy for them and their plight. She could not read their features but she knew they had to be in profound shock. How would any species react, condemned to isolation on a single planet. She could not imagine living under the terrible conditions imposed on them by the Emerging Planet Fairness Court.
How could anyone, she asked herself, confine themselves to one world, no matter how perfect, and be satisfied?
Mission of Mercy
Christopher Stasheff
Thunder cracked as an energy-bolt cleaved air. The blast lit up the port half of the canopy and rocked the ship. Lieutenant Ikeyumi hit the stabilizer sequence, and the shuttlecraft righted itself even as he sent it rocketing back into the stratosphere, swerving in a zigzag path that would have given a nautch dancer a sprained sacroiliac.
"What happened?" Doctor Infarus stammered, pulling himself through the hatchway.
"Some Farmer seems to resent our coming in over the countryside," Sarben answered from the co-pilot's seat. "Must think we're with the Bankers' army."
"You were ordered not to aggravate hostilities!"
"Wrong," said Ikeyumi. "The Commandant ordered us to go down to the Lincoln spaceport and bring back a shipment of pharmaceuticals. He didn't say anything about the hostilities."
Of course, Ikeyumi had known about the war. Lincoln was an agricultural planet in the throes of early industrial development, financed by a consortium of off-planet bankers. Their local representatives were less than scrupulous about how they acquired mineral-rich real estate and land for their factories. The Farmers, who were losing their land as a result, were openly resentful. Very openly, but the Bankers had imported a mercenary army to restrain them. Unfortunately, the Farmers refused to be restrained, and had turned themselves into a top-notch militia.
"Doc," Ikeyumi said between clenched teeth, "get back into the passenger compartment. You're supercargo. Not allowed on the bridge."
"I have a right to know what's going on! I have a duty to the Grand Harriers!"
"Sure, because you are one—but I have a duty to the Petit Harriers, to keep this ship intact. I also might mention something of an obligation to the dozen Petit Harriers aboard this ship."
"The people on New Czerno need that shipment of antiagathol to stop their epidemic! You can't cancel the mission!"
"Oh, can't he?" growled Sarben.
"Can or can't, I won't." But Ikeyumi wished devoutly that he could. "A million people dying from an alien plague is a bit much for even my capacious conscience to hold. But I warn you, Doc, Grand Harrier observer or no, if anybody else shoots at me, I'm going to burn them out!"
"I'm not an observer—just a volunteer! And you can't fire back on them—you'll make the whole civil war flare up again!"
"So let it flare," Ikeyumi growled. "Why're you so big on holding fire, Doc? You've been hinting about it all the way down from orbit."
"Because the Bankers currently hold the spaceport!"
"I know that." Ikeyumi frowned, nodding. "They've announced an embargo, said they'll shoot down any ship trying to land. You mean to tell me they wouldn't even let in a mercy mission?"
"There's a chance they will, a bare chance—but not if you shoot at them."
"If I don't shoot back, I'll come falling out of the sky. But there's more to it than that, isn't there, Doc? Whose side are the Grand Harriers on, anyway?"
"Nobody's side! We're trying to make peace!"
"But just the same, you don't want us to land at the spaceport."
Dr. Infarus turned and looked out at the sky. "The Farmers have an artillery line a mile from the spaceport. If the Bankers let you land, the Farmers will assume you're an enemy. . . ."
"And shoot us down without asking." Ikeyumi turned away. "No contest, Doc. We'll land five miles away and come in by tank."
"It's more complicated than that." Infarus held up a hand. "If you fire on the Farmers, you'll give them cause to start the biggest battle of the war."
"True," Sarben seconded. "They haven't wasted the cease-fire. They've moved up, and their guns are already in place, just waiting for the Bankers to break the truce so they can start shelling the city."
"Why should the Grand Harriers care?" Ikeyumi frowned. "I thought the peace conference was just days away, and both sides were sick of fighting. Okay, so maybe there will be one more battle, but they'll start talking peace again soon enough."
"Maybe," Sarben said. "But if there's one last big battle, it will give the Grand Harriers the chance to appear as the peacemaker and end the war."
"In the Grand Harriers' favor, of course," Ikeyumi grunted. "Of course, the serum and this Petit Harrier expedition will both be lost, but who cares? Not the Grands."
Infarus reddened. "Anyway, you see why it's so important that you not fire."
"No, I see that if I don't, my ship, my crew, and about a hundred thousand New Czerno citizens will die. Yes, Doc, I'll land five miles away and roll in. No, Doc, I won't hold my fire. Any fool that fires on me, is getting my fire back—and if he thinks he can outgun a Petit Harrier, let him try."
They landed in a field five miles away, near a road. Energy bolts exploded near them as they started to descend.
"Fire!" Ikeyumi snapped.
The ship rocked with recoil. An energy bolt exploded a copse at the edge of the field, sending up a fountain of dirt and tree trunks.
"Target neutralized," the gunner reported.
"Going in," Ikeyumi told him.
The Petit Harrier sank toward the field.
A gout of flame blossomed from a rocky outcrop below them.
"Missile coming in," Sarben reported.
"Missile?" Ikeyumi stared. "What's next? Stone axes?'
"Do I fire, Lieutenant?" the gunner demanded, his voice strained.
"Too right you fire!"
A bolt sped out from the ship. Smoke erupted in mid-air, shot with flame, as pure energy met pure foolishness.
More flame blossomed from the outcrop.
"Fire!" Ikeyumi snapped. "And take out the launcher!"
Smoke roiled in mid-air; then the rocks blew apart in a granite rain.
"Hope the artillerymen weren't near their launchers," Dr. Infarus said in a hollow tone.
"Not likely, Doc. Missiles are remoted. Landing gear out!"
Everyone sat in strained silence for a moment. This was the most vulnerable moment—as the ship touched ground. A shell or bolt now would topple them, and it would take long minutes to right the ship. Shells and bolts could rain on them in those minutes, reducing their ship to scrap.
The ground jolted under them.
Ikeyumi sighed. "Secure braces!"
"Secured," Sarben responded.
"Okay." Ikeyumi released his webbing. "Krasno and Belichnai, stay and guard. Everyone else, into the tank. Except you, Doc."
"But I have to come! How will you know which crate to take?"
"I assume it's labeled," Ikeyumi sighed, "but you're right—it might be camouflaged. Okay, let's go."
The ship's side dropped down to form a ramp, and the tank trundled out.
An energy bolt exploded against its port side, rocking it back on one tread. For a moment, it hung balanced.
"Fire port!" Ikeyumi snapped.
The portside cannon snarled, and the recoil knocked the tank back onto its treads. The men inside jolted; then Ikeyumi snapped, "Take out the jughead who shot at us!"
"Targeting," Sarben reported. The tank vibrated as the main gun traversed and elevated; then they all rocked as the cannon spat. Ikeyumi glanced at his viewscreen and saw the gout of earth out near a creek bed. "Got him!"
"Yes, sir." Sarben was grim.
"All right. Up on air, and forward."
The tank filled with thrumming as the huge fans beneath raised the gargantuan machine up a foot off the roadway. There was no sensation of movement, but the scenery began to stream past in the viewscreen.
"Well, we're down and off," Ikeyumi said. "They might be able to assemble more fire power than we've got, or they might not. Not that I care—a plague on both their houses, if they won't let us stop a plague on New Czerno."
