Starhold's Fate

by J. Alan Field

  Pettigrew drained his glass. Carr leaned forward to refill it, but the admiral waved him off before continuing.

  “Speaking strictly off the record, this war has gone better than we ever dreamed possible. According to all our intel reports the Massang are falling apart. In the last four standard months, they’ve done more fighting among themselves than they have against us.”

  “Chaz, the Massang—are they really the Adversary?” asked Sanchez. “Are they the enemy the New Earthers fled from?”

  “Everything indicates that they are, but with one key difference. Remember that when the New Earthers crossed over, they not only traveled across dimensions, but across time. They moved three-hundred years into their past to arrive here. Luckily, we’ve come across the Massang before they became the powerful entity they were in the Otherverse.”

  Carr poured himself another. “So, you’re saying we can beat them. What is it they call the Massang back on Sarissa—Pumpkinheads?”

  “I don’t much care for that term,” Pettigrew said sourly.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Carr raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Actually, neither do I.”

  “Forget it. I’m sure the word is pretty common around here.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Sanchez corrected. “And they don’t say Massang either. It’s as if the very word itself would conger up an enemy battleship out of thin air.”

  Carr rattled the ice in his glass. “The New Earthers say Adversary and nothing but Adversary. It’s like the older folks need to remind themselves of the pain. Of course, many of the kids were born here on Earth. The only thing they know about the Otherverse is what they’ve learned in school.”

  “I suppose we could call the youngsters the Newest Earthers, huh?” Pettigrew quipped, trying clumsily to return to the lighthearted tone of earlier in the evening.

  Carr stood to gather up the dessert plates and cutlery. “Do you think this new EarthFed titan will be joining the fight?”

  “I doubt it,” Pettigrew said as he joined in clearing the table. “EarthFed likes to keep its ships close to home. If the people around here are as skittish as you say they are, I can see the political wisdom in that. Make no mistake, I would love to have that ship in my fleet.”

  Sanchez kicked her feet up on the edge of a nearby chair as her face assumed a devilish expression. “Chaz, I noticed that Fleetmaster Rhaab seemed to enjoy your company very much today. I think she likes you.”

  “Is that so?” Carr asked with a smile.

  Pettigrew nodded. “Maria Rhaab and I go way back. Her and I have a history.”

  Carr froze holding a tray he was about to carry off to the kitchen. “Really?”

  “Not that kind of history,” Pettigrew said grinning. “I’ve known Maria—professionally—for a while now. Back in my captain days, Tempest was stationed here in Sol for over a year.”

  The mention of Tempest dampened what remained of the evening’s cheer. As Carr moved inside with the dirty dishes, Pettigrew sat down next to Sanchez.

  “Didn’t mean to bring that up,” he said, wishing for one more whiskey.

  She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Chaz, after this war is over, why don’t you follow our lead?”

  Pettigrew looked at her, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

  “After the war, after you’ve given more than any man should to his starhold and his people, you should resign your commission,” she said getting up and moving to a nearby table. There, she poured out one more whiskey—a small one.

  “Why would I do that?” he asked, accepting the drink as she sat back down.

  “To do what Frank and I did… to join the Return.” It was what the rush of settlers to Earth was being called, a kind of ‘counter-Diaspora’ that had been going on for the past several years.

  Sanchez looked at him intently. “Everyone on Earth is here to live a second life. It’s a rebuilt world for rebuilt people.”

  Pettigrew leaned back into his chair and held the whiskey glass aloft, staring into the rich brown liquid. “Not sure I have enough courage to start a whole new life.”

  “Starting a new life isn’t as hard as it sounds,” said Carr as he reappeared from the house. “The difficult part is walking away from the old one.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, Carr and Sanchez were already eating breakfast when Pettigrew appeared in the dining room, travel bag in hand.

  “Help yourself, Chaz,” Etta said between sips of coffee. Knowing her, Pettigrew guessed she was already on her third or fourth cup. “Eat hearty. You don’t want to travel on an empty stomach.”

  The sideboard was crammed with delicious items. It was one of the best things about being dirtside. The food in the Space Force wasn’t as bad as most made it out to be, but it wasn’t exactly gourmet either, even with the privileges of an admiral. He lifted two fresh duck eggs onto his plate, along with a couple of sausages and a pinecherry scone. Pouring a tall glass of apple juice, Pettigrew joined his hosts at the table.

  “In your early departure, don’t forget the goodies,” said Carr.

  “Got them in my bag.” Pettigrew had always loved the oldies—bygone music, videos, and programming from what the ancients called movies and television. For years, Carr had been tracking down the stuff and forwarding the media to him for a modest fee. It was part of the hobby that Frank had parlayed into a full-time job with his antiquities recovery business.

  “I’m really looking forward to hearing those Maxine Sullivan tracks.”

  “Very hard to find,” said Carr, putting down his juice glass and reaching under the chair. “But not as difficult as this.” As he produced a small box and placed it on the table in front of Pettigrew, a huge smile broke over Sanchez’s face.

  “A going away gift,” she said. “But you only get it if you promise to come back soon.”

  Pettigrew stopped eating, wiped his hands with a napkin, and opened the small container. Inside was a vacuum-pack, which he lifted carefully out of the box. Wrapped neatly in transparent material was a book.

  “Footsteps to Arcadia,” Pettigrew said, reading the title aloud. “Landis Farrell’s last novel. How did you get this? This has to be one of the last paper books printed before the end of the Diaspora, right? Twenty-two seventy?”

  “Seventy-one, and by the way, that’s a first edition,” Carr pointed out. “We were in Old London working on a library and found this sealed in the private safe of the Head Librarian. I’m guessing he may have stolen it from the library collection.”

  Sanchez stood, going for another cup of coffee. “We searched the arkship records and found the man’s name on a manifest. He probably meant to take it off-world with him.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t?”

  “The records show he never made it off-world,” answered Carr. “He died a week before his arkship launched.”

  Pettigrew looked over the near mint-condition book, wondering if he dared to remove it from the protective pack. “But, I can’t accept this. It belongs in a museum.”

  Carr chuckled. “It was in a museum, for all the good it did anyone. Earth law says anything we uncover is ours, otherwise no one would do our kind of work. I own that book and I’m giving it to you. Now you own it.”

  Pettigrew was sure he was wearing a dumbfounded expression. As he was considering just how to show his appreciation for an incredible gift, the door chime rang.

  “Who could that be this early?” asked Carr.

  “It’s probably Voss,” said Sanchez as she moved off into the living room. “He was going to drop by to pick up those spaceport vouchers.”

  “Well, next time just let him download them. The last thing I need to see this early in the morning is Voss’s ugly face.” shouted Carr while wearing a wide grin. “Hope he heard me.”

  “Seriously, Frank,” said Pettigrew looking down at the book in his hand. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. You know that Farrell is my favorite author.”r />
  “Of course, I do. I’ve been finding you his books for years. That’s why you were the first person I thought of when this gem fell into our lap.”

  Carr swallowed the last of his juice. “C’mon, Voss!” he yelled in an annoyed voice toward the living room. “Either come in and have some breakfast or—”

  Pettigrew had never met Carr’s foreman Voss Mumphrey, and it seemed he wasn’t going to get that pleasure today either. Sanchez had a sheepish look on her face as she ushered a slim young man into the dining room. He wore a familiar yet out of place uniform—the maroon colors of a Kaskian Guard, personal bodyguard to Her Imperial Majesty Ardith, Empress of the Sarissan Empire.

  “Boys, this handsome young man is Lieutenant Hawkins,” began Sanchez, whose introduction made the stranger blush ever so slightly. “Of course, you recognize the uniform.”

  “You are a long way from home, Lieutenant,” said Carr. As the younger man began to speak, Carr added, “and way out of your jurisdiction.”

  Hawkins was maybe around twenty-seven years old, but looked more like seventeen. Because of his youthful appearance, he was probably used to being talked down to. It wasn’t like Carr to kill the messenger, but for whatever reason it seemed he couldn’t help himself.

  The younger man cleared his throat and tried again. “I’ve been sent here by Her Majesty, Major Carr.”

  “Oh, ‘Major,’ is it?” Carr chided. “My boy, I haven’t gone by that title for years.”

  “Well, get used to it—Major,” wisecracked Sanchez. “Dear husband of mine, you know exactly why the Lieutenant has found his way to our doorstep. Ardith is calling in our debt.”

  Pettigrew wasn’t sure what that meant, but as the color drained from Carr’s face, it was obviously not welcome news. Thinking he might be helping, Pettigrew tried to put a good spin on the situation. “I’m not sure what this is all about, but the Empress must have a good reason for calling on you two.”

  Sanchez giggled. “Oh, she does—two-hundred thousand of them, to be precise.”

  “When?” Carr asked the nervous Kaskian officer.

  “Immediately,” the lieutenant replied, adding a belated “sir.”

  Trying to stay composed, Hawkins plowed ahead. “It is Her Majesty’s request that you meet with her in the capital, ASAP. I have an Imperial cutter standing by at the Bakkoa Spaceport. Once in space, we can Gate directly to Sarissa.”

  The dining room was quiet for a few seconds. Sanchez seemed resigned to whatever was going on. Carr—not so much. The Kaskian lieutenant was the easiest person in the room to read. The young officer just wanted to get this over with.

  “Well, Lieutenant, err, Hawkins, was it?” said Pettigrew, breaking the awkward silence. “I don’t suppose you have room on your ship for one more, do you?”

  Hawkins was confused. “Sir, I’m not sure you understand…”

  Sanchez turned to face the young man, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving him a friendly pat. “No, Lieutenant, it’s you that doesn’t understand. Look at our guest again—closely.”

  It didn’t take long. “Admiral Pettigrew, sir!” choked out the stunned Hawkins as he snapped to attention. “Sorry, sir, I didn’t recognize you in civilian clothes.”

  “Stand easy, Lieutenant, stand easy. Your cutter will make a much more comfortable ride back to Sarissa than a commercial starliner. I ask you again, do you have room for one more?”

  “For you, sir—absolutely!” Hawkins said with gusto. Perhaps he thought he had gained an ally, that this was all going to go easier now. The Admiral could persuade his friends to come along quietly… or something along those lines.

  Pettigrew did, in fact, turn to his friends. “Mind if I ask what this all about?”

  A perturbed Carr crossed his arms and shrugged dismissively.

  “We will fill you in on the flight, Chaz,” answered Sanchez. “Suffice it to say that we have just returned to the service of Her Majesty, at least for the time being.”

  Lieutenant Hawkins tentatively addressed Pettigrew. “Admiral, will you be going directly to the capital as well?”

  “No,” he answered, his thoughts drifting back to his own problems. “You can drop me off in Boutwell. There’s something I need to do there—someone I need to visit.”

  4: Bond

  City of Boutwell

  Planet Sarissa

  Pettigrew was still wearing his civilian clothes as he walked through the corridors of the hospital. Unlike the young officer of the Kaskian Guard from earlier in the day, most of the staff and patients in this place recognized the Admiral even without a rank insignia pinned to his collar.

  The Boutwell Space Force Medical Center sat in the middle of a sprawling campus situated on the south side of the planet’s largest city. The location between Old Towne and the Arts District was one of the most coveted pieces of real estate on the planet. Years ago, developers tried to persuade the government to shutter and sell the facility. Entrepreneurs like Roman Zevkov argued that the hospital was too large and too expensive to maintain, promoting that falsehood in hopes of securing the valuable property for themselves. Today, with a constant flow of war casualties into the hospital, Chaz Pettigrew could only thank the Many Gods that the land vultures didn’t get their way.

  As he passed room after room of wounded spacers, he considered looking in on a few of them—perhaps it would lift their spirits. On the other hand, the last thing doctors and nurses needed to deal with was some do-gooder admiral rambling around. Brass often had a way of making things worse instead of better. Best to stay the course. This visit was aimed at one particular patient.

  The door to Sunny Nyondo’s room was already propped open, so he slipped in quietly. An attending nurse recognized him and quickly came to attention, but Pettigrew waved her back to work.

  “What are you reading?”

  The sound of his voice prompted Nyondo to look up from her datapad.

  “The book you’ve always wanted me to read.”

  “That narrows it down to a few hundred.”

  “It’s the one about the kids and their dad—the lawyer. I’m just getting to the trial.”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird. It’s a classic. Oh, nurse, please close the door behind you.” The retreating attendant nodded and Pettigrew pulled up a chair alongside the hospital bed. “How much longer are you in for?”

  Nyondo placed the pad down beside her. Her right arm was in a sling and she had a hefty bandage across the right side of her forehead. “I’m sort of day-by-day,” she said, looking to the ceiling and closing her eyes.

  It was an awkward moment. For a second, Pettigrew thought she had fallen asleep and contemplated leaving. As he rustled in his chair, her eyes suddenly opened—damp eyes.

  “I lost her,” she said in a blend of remorse and anger. “I lost Tempest.”

  “It’s not like you lost her on purpose. You do realize that the Battle of Serrat IV was an unqualified victory—your victory. I’ve gone over the reports and can’t find anything that should have been done differently. The Massang surprised you by masking that first battlecruiser with some sort of new stealth ability. Next time we’ll be prepared, and we will be ready because of the data your people collected.”

  Nyondo pushed her able hand into the mattress and squirmed to reposition her body. “Computer, raise my headrest ten degrees,” she called out, returning her focus to him. “If you’ve come here to comfort me, I appreciate it—but your time would be better spent consoling the families of the crewmembers that died under my command.”

  “I’m glad you’re comforted, but that’s not why I’m here.” Pettigrew had seen this before in captains who had lost a ship, and he didn’t want to feed the torrent of self-pity. He knew it must be difficult for her, but a great many ships had been lost during this war. As personally close to Nyondo as Pettigrew was, he had neither the desire nor luxury to treat her special.

  “I spoke with Paruzzi.”

  On those words, Nyon
do visibly tensed. “How is Rico doing?”

  “He’s headed back to Rusalka for some well-deserved time with his wife and all those kids of his. Lucky thing for you he made one more sweep of the bridge before heading to the life pod that day. Paruzzi told me that he found you at the helm station. He said you must have passed out from pain and lack of oxygen.”

  “Yeah, that must have been it,” she agreed, avoiding eye contact. “He carried me to a life pod and saved me. You’re right—I am lucky. Paruzzi is a good officer.”

  Pettigrew gave her a crooked smile. “Paruzzi’s a very good officer, but he’s never been a particularly good liar.”

  Nyondo closed her eyes again. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to her friend and former commander.

  “Look, I did something dumb. I popped a bunch of pain-killers Doc had given me and I passed out. It was stupid and I’m not proud of it, but it was an accident.”

  Pettigrew hadn’t come here for a confrontation, but he needed to know what really happened to satisfy both his personal and professional curiosity.

  “You’re positive about that. Sunny, look me in the eye and swear that’s all it was—just an accident.”

  She glanced quickly at him and then away again. “It was… I’m sure it was. I was hurting and tired—very, very tired.”

  Nyondo balled her left hand into a fist. “Paruzzi and I watched her go, Chaz. We watched Tempest die. I regained consciousness for a few minutes after he got me off the ship. We could see it all on the pod monitor. There wasn’t a big blast like I thought there would be. It was a bunch of small explosions, and with each one, the old girl tried to hold it together. She tried so hard… It was like Tempest was fighting for survival, as if she wanted to live for just a little bit longer. But in the end, she just couldn’t hang on.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I think she was tired, too.”

  This was harder than he thought it was going to be. Pettigrew had been through this with grieving captains before, but never with someone so close to him, and never regarding a ship he had known so well.