by Jim Rudnick
"Midway, Ma’am." Provost Marshal James Whitlaw nodded and looked carefully at the corporal in front of them. Here in the large cargo bay that they were using as a parade grounds, the three rows of EliteGuards men stood at stiff attention during the Baroness's inspection. The light within was sufficiently bright enough to show the corporal had put the lowest edge of the chevron only about an inch too far down the forearm sleeve but that was enough.
"Staff, mark this Guard as deficient and assign him watch duty—three sessions ought to do," he said to the other member of the inspection group who was going down the line of Guards. Behind him a sergeant made a note on his PDA and was about to click his submit button when the Baroness chimed in.
"Let's make that five, shall we? We can't allow any of my EliteGuards to be improperly uniformed. Ever. Make a note too that the Guard in the previous row is to also do five extra duty watch shifts ... I will brook no such sloppiness with my own Guards. Take note of that, Provost ..." she said as she finished the end of the final line of Guards and turned back to the cargo bay exit.
She left quickly and was followed by her own two EliteGuards men, her constant companions no matter where she was on board the Compass, the Barony destroyer that was her own personal ship. Moving to the lift, she went up to Deck Two and to her quarters and reflected on the EYES ONLY call she had had only a few hours ago with her stepdaughter, the Lady St. August.
Entering the china blue door to her staterooms, she went immediately to the lounge area and sat heavily on the divan. Her legs were crossed and her right ankle bounced with a regular rhythm as she considered what to do.
She clapped her hands once, and the steward showed up in a few seconds.
"Bring me one of those nice Quaran wines, the Chablis, please, and make it the '07," she said. While the Quaran planet was alien, those lizards could surely make wonderful wines, she thought, and the '07 was to die for.
"Order more too, let the Chief Steward know I want 100 cases brought in ASAP!" she said and smiled as the glass in front of her was now properly poured, and she sipped and smiled. Perfect, she could almost taste the sunshine in the glass, and the smile was a welcome change from how she felt.
Turning to her left, she looked at the view-port and wondered where exactly the Compass was at this moment. With Neres just a day back, she knew it'd take about another thirty or so days at normal TachyonDrive speed to reach Juno ...
She turned back to the issue of the aliens and her Barony world of Throth and what that might mean for the fortunes of the realm. For one thing, it would put the Barony up to being the second most-populated realm with ten worlds, second only to the insect aliens of Alex’n, and for them she had only mild disgust.
Ten worlds would mean too that she would be able to now demand more by finding a way to take the Chair of the Financial sub-committee, and that would mean much to ensure the long-term growth of the Barony.
She knew the loss of the mine over on ITO had been both a financial nightmare and yet a boon. The fact that the Pirates had crashed into the mine and it was now too radioactive to use was costing the realm revenues; the fact that it also erased her own complicity in the whole Pirate fiasco saved her. All dead and the hostages were still on Eons, in the hands—healing hands it was said—of the Issians. She was positive no one would ever look at the Barony as the cause of the taking of those hostages via any evidence of her involvement. But one was never sure ... and the ore they had been secretly mining, Argosenium, was not stable enough under real usage by the TachyonDrives.
And if her stepdaughter had her way, this would somehow be the vehicle to end the career of the Marwick’s Captain Scott. Once and for all, and she smiled as she had another sip of her wine. He had to be taught, she knew. She also wondered with more than a passing interest, what it would be like to have him in her Navy ... and whether or not the drinking could be curbed. Managed. Handled. She didn't know, but she did know that such a move would drive quite a stake into her stepdaughter’s psyche, so she held that thought for a moment before she filed it away under future ammunition for the next stepdaughter fight.
She tossed off the last of the Quaran Chablis, clapped for a refill, and took a fresh sip in moments.
So, if Throth goes to the aliens, the Barony grows. Her position on the Confederacy Council would be strengthened. And only ten thousand aliens to make into new Barony citizens. She nodded. This was a solid winner as far as she could see.
Costs, however, were still unknown. There would be medical costs and clinics for all the Sleepers; children she understood would need everything from babysitting to schools to homes ... and all cost money.
But if she offered the full weight of the Barony to this, if she presented it as a fait accompli even, she would appear to be a true Confederacy Council member who wanted only to help, to make the aliens a home, and at her cost.
She nodded, tossing off the last part of her glass and didn't clap for more.
Plans to make, she thought as she stood to go down the corridor to her study and the console back to Neres. She had some EYES ONLY to make and she meant to get the plan underway. Today.
#
On board the Gillmarten, Tanner chafed at the boredom of watching the Z'Lundom slowly make its way out of Earldom space, and he hoped that the Agamemnon would be back from their week of leave on time.
He knew the turn-around of the aliens had gone badly when Captain Grayson had to tell them they would not be allowed to maintain their vector to Eldirol; they had to turn around. He related the story to the support ship captains as only he had been tasked to do the deed. Tanner had asked if the aliens offered up any kind of suggestion or compromise, but Grayson said no. However, they reminded him that the Sleeper roster contained doctors and engineers, entrepreneurs and business types—that such a group would be a bonus to any world. Grayson gave no quarter and the meeting took hours, he said. Sad ... mournful in fact ... they reminded him that for over 200 of the past years, they passed not a single world that they could return to. They seemed to give up at the end, he said. They argued and they fought, but in the end, they were resigned to their fate ... they'd leave the Earldom and find somewhere else to settle. Somewhere far, far away.
Tanner shrugged and thought, Once Captain Donnell shows up, it'll be our turn for the week off to take on supplies on the Niher dockyards, and the crew could have their leave time too. He wondered if the same bar he liked over on that island still had the surf rolling right up under your stool and if the beers were still as cold. If the Agamemnon came late, it'd mean just a slide in the scheduling but then again, Captain Donnell ran things so much by the book that the schedule would probably remain in effect. Each of the two consort ships had to take turns, one week following the Z'Lundom and then one week off on Niher.
"Helm, exactly how far have we come since turnaround," Tanner said as he wondered just how far they'd managed to tortoise along over the past two months.
"Sir, since then it has been ... fifty-eight days, and we've traveled about nine days at our normal TachyonDrive FTL speed." He looked out, as did everyone else, at the view screen and the Z'Lundom that was to port.
Its large bell-shaped hold held almost 7000 Sleepers—refugees from the Taylor Wars of half a millennia ago. Until the TachyonDrive’s invention, ships all moved at a maximum speed of less than ten percent of the speed of light, and the aliens had that kind of speed as they moved through the Niher system toward the inward boundary of the Earldom. They had passed the planet a few weeks back and were now skirting the system sun to make the shortest distance of the remaining days to clearing Earldom space.
"Ansible, Sir ... the Agamemnon is half a day out, Sir," Lieutenant Switzer said, confirming that their relief was on time to spell them, and they'd be on Niher in less than a day.
The bridge crew maintained its normal duty and the day slowly marched on. Tanner had to visit the ship's quartermaster to see if he could help find out where some of the shortages had occurred in their s
tores. He did get the supplies worked out, and the notice that the Agamemnon dropped out of hyperspace came as he was in the lift going back to the bridge, and he acknowledged same on his wrist PDA.
"Captain on the bridge," someone said as he exited the lift and went to fix himself a coffee. A nice big double-double, he thought and sat moments later in the captain's chair.
"Sir, the Z'Lundom is ... well, I guess she's making a course correction, Sir ... but that's—good Christ, Sir ... they've made an error," the Helm said and punched some rocker switches on his console as his screen flickered brightly with a warning buzzer.
In front of them all, on the view screen, the ship barely had moved, slightly to port and toward the sun that lay less than ten days away, the screen said in the left-hand sidebar.
"Um ... Helm, compute again and put it up," Tanner barked.
"Sir, incoming from the Agamemnon, they ... they indicate that the latest course correction will take the Z'Lundom too close to the sun ... well, at least using our own specs on ship cooling and insulation, Sir," Lieutenant Switzer said as he punched up more buttons and new data appeared on the screen.
"Helm, Sir, confirming. They're going to brush the corona—that's certain, Sir, and that by our reckoning is certainly going to be fatal—for the crew and the Sleepers, Sir," he said and looked back at Tanner.
Wondering what had prompted the change in vectors, Tanner ordered that query be asked of Captain Donnell, and while he waited for the answer, he turned to his XO.
"So ... can we change that course for them—presupposing that they meant to make it and the worst case is they've decided not to leave Kinross alive?"
The gasp from some of the bridge crew was loud, but not surprising, Tanner thought. But the only excuse he could think of to support such a change in course would be that the aliens were playing their final card—either let us stay or we're sun-bound and that would be on you.
"Sir," his XO said, "far as we know, they control their own engineering; we have no way of making a change to same remotely, unlike our own AI abilities. So unless we board and take over, they're on their own—still heading inward though, Sir, as if that matters to us. They are following our orders—well, sort of ..."
Tanner took the news that the Agamemnon knew no more than they did and was able to say in all honesty that no, there had been no exchanges or communications with the aliens since the Agamemnon had left for Niher a week ago. Donnell asked again if he had any idea as to why, and he repeated his lack of knowledge as to why the aliens had vectored the way that they did. Further conversation revolved around the fact that they would need to contact Juno with the news, and Captain Donnell offered to make that Ansible EYES ONLY to the admiral.
Tanner sat and watched the not distant sun and realized that in about ten days, either his Earldom capitulated or the aliens would be committing suicide. Great card to play, he thought, but only if it worked. He gnawed on the heel of his thumb passing the time until he heard back from the Agamemnon. It took only a few minutes more, and his Ansible officer nodded when Tanner said "screen her," and the forward view screen lit up with the image of Captain Donnell.
"Admiral admitted that it sure was a great way to get our attention, but he had to contact the Earl himself with this news, and the Earl is off on that trade mission over off Akafar, the heavy manufacturing world with all those unions. And those talks are supposed to take days, still," she said.
"Did Admiral Canton have any word for us—what're we to do?" Tanner said.
"Sit tight and wait—" she began and the Helm broke in.
"Sir, Captain ... they've added more of a course correction ... but ... good Christ, they're now aiming directly into the Niher sun ... ETA is ... nine days, Sir, Ma’am," Lieutenant Switzer said, and the screen showed a green arc that vectored into the heart of the sun. There was no mistake, no equivocation, and no other way to think about this—the aliens were making their needs known. And that was very apparent.
Later in the Officers’ Mess, the table was quiet and yet the beers still came and went. Tanner and the XO sat quietly and talked seldom as there was really not much to say ... the aliens were saying we either get to stay or we choose to die ...
#
On Juno, the Council Majordomo re-measured the placement of each of the forty desk mats and was finally satisfied that each was exactly the correct distance from the edge of the table and that they were all identical. No variations, no differences, all exactly the same.
"Fine, Chief Steward, now on to the pads and styli," he said, and they returned to the start of the horseshoe-shaped council table to once again lay out the items each of the Confederacy Council members would find at their places when they met later today. Each pad was identical, each placed in the exact same spot on the desk mats, and each stylus measured to the millimeter for its placement too.
Council Hall was soon to be set for the emergency meeting that would discuss only one item today, the appearance of the Sleeper ship. Chairs were aligned for each of the Council Members who could sit, slings for the Elbo contingent, native water tanks for the DenKoss members, and even a perch for the Djarreer member so that they too would be comfortable.
"Agendas, finally, Chief ... let's see if we can get them exact right off the bat, shall we?" the Majordomo said nicely, but one could hear the tone of no nonsense just below the words. Hands clasped behind his back, the Majordomo followed his Chief Steward as each single piece of paper was positioned on top of the pad of paper—aligned, measured, exactly placed—and only three were discarded as they had slight imperfections in the printing.
"Majordomo, I believe we're done, Sir," the Chief Steward said and stepped back for the final pass. Stepping back to the far end of the U-shaped table, he looked at each of the place settings as he made his way all around the table, checking for any variances and found none.
"We're ready. Thank you, Chief. Well done. Let's lock up and await the arrivals ... about two hours or so should do it," the Majordomo said, and the two men left the cavernous Council Hall and locked the door after they'd left.
Neither really noticed but seated in the anteroom was the RIM Navy Admiral, Admiral McQueen, who had some papers spread out on the bench beside him and appeared to be arguing with someone on his wrist PDA. He nodded to the two staff members who had just left, but they didn't acknowledge him. He turned back to his documents to dig a page out to study as he went back to his conversation.
"Agreed, Rear Admiral Conway, I understand, but you know as do I that we do not have a seat on the Confederacy Council—I sit behind the table, Sir ... so while I appreciate your input, I cannot offer up anything, only answer when asked." He knew the admiral knew that, but his forcefulness in trying to get him to put forth a "book no nonsense and take them over" strategy wouldn't fly ... not with some of the Council Members and their beliefs on civil autonomies and the rule of law. No way that will fly, he thought, glad that he at least had some recent feedback from the Marwick to rely on when he'd be asked to speak on same.
He fielded three more PDA calls from other ranking Navy officers. Only the call from Admiral Childs, currently the head of the Naval Academy over on Eons, resulted in a yelling match. Childs wanted the Sleepers allowed to go straight through the RIM, i.e. do nothing and let them go out into the blackness that enveloped space beyond their galaxy. McQueen again tried to remind the admiral, who had run the RIM Navy for twenty years and whom he had replaced, that the mere fact that the Sleepers would be in the RIM territory for more than 240 years would be a problem that would never go away. Someone next month, or next year, or next century, would take it into their heads that they wanted that ship, or those Sleepers, or even just to salvage the ship after removing the awake crew, methods unknown. This was a sword hanging over the RIM that wouldn't go away for hundreds of years ... so an answer was needed now. Today. And yet the sound of the call ending with a slam still rang in McQueen's ears. He busied himself with routine paperwork for more than an hour and
actually got some work done.
Less than an hour later, McQueen realized that the staff had come and opened up the large double doors to allow the Council Members to access the Hall, and he gathered up his papers and stuffed them into his leather bag to stand. He was about to move toward the door when the DenKoss contingency arrived just ahead of him.
Pushing three tanks, large enough to hold one each of the aliens, the staff jockeyed the first tank through the doors with some room to spare and the other two followed suit. Moving ahead then, McQueen noted there were now eight staff members who were all opening the first tank that probably held the DenKoss member himself. Or herself because the alien DenKoss race looked alike when it came to gender and coloration, scales are scales after all. Each of the eight staff members carefully lifted the alien using the handholds, and they slowly moved her—it—from the mobile tank to the water tank that sat at the DenKoss place at the Council table. Minor drips and sloshes occurred, of course, but the Chief Steward and his staff mopped those up, almost before they hit the floor ...
The clicking that he could hear as he moved by was brittle sounding, but then his PDA translator clicked in. He got the gist of what they were saying, and he too wondered if the Agendas at their place were ”waterproof."
While he had to sidle past the large group around the Quaran table and overheard the talk about vines and oenology and rain, he learned that the vintage for the yearly harvest would be spectacular. At least if one listened to the Quarans who were always optimistic for lizards. Nodding to the Duke d'Avigdor for whom he had great respect, he glanced directly across the table and noted the Baroness staring at the Nerian Caliph, with a look of what he'd call anything but friendliness. He ignored her and made his way farther around the large table.
At the head of the U-shaped table lay the Chairman's position, and just to the left and rear lay the RIM Navy table where McQueen dropped his bag. He noticed that at his place the Agenda lay askew and the desk mat wasn't aligned either. He smiled and wondered if the Council Members cared, but then he remembered they had little time for anyone and anything but themselves.
