"Is this it? Just three of them?" Marshall whispered.
Nodding, the trader replied, "Each of them speaks for a flotilla. Rare we can get all of the captains together, certainly not at this notice." He gestured at the mainmast, a long, thin aerial strapped to it. "The others are being kept informed." Looking around again, he said, “I'm on your side, Captain, but I need to appear neutral in all of this. I have to live with these people after you've gone.”
“I understand,” Marshall said. Looking across at Cunningham, he nodded. "Wish me luck, John."
"I just hope you don't need it."
With long strides, Marshall walked over to the table, trying to blot out the messages he had just received and the murmuring of the cloud. The sun was beaming down on the deck, glistening off every surface, and his long shadow blended into those of the masts as he stood in front of the table. No chair had been provided for him; he presumed that was all a part of the act.
"Identify yourself to the Council," Pemberton, standing nearby, said.
Turning to the three of them, trying to make eye contact with each of them, he said, "I am Lieutenant-Captain Daniel Marshall, captain of the Triplanetary Battlecruiser Alamo currently in orbit over this planet." This was the time for a grandiose act, he decided.
"You know me, Captain," Pryce said. Gesturing to his right, he said, "This is Ted Miller, captain of the Neptune's Gift, and," turning to his left, "Lester Thomas, master of Albatross. We are here to discuss the arrival of your starship at Jefferson, and more to the point, to ask you about what you intend to do while you are here."
"Are you going to annex us?" Thomas barked at him. "I warn you, you'll face a fight you'll never forget."
"I've fought one war in my life, Captain Thomas. I don't have any wish to fight another," Marshall replied. "We're not here to conquer you, annex you, or do anything other than help you. We have driven the Legion into the jungles, and our forces are currently engaged with them."
Rubbing his chin, Miller said, "So, you want us to help you fight your war?"
Eyebrows furrowed, Marshall replied, "It is not our war, Captain. We're helping the people of Yreka, but as far as I can see, you both have the same enemy."
"So we have a war, whether we like it or not, then," Pryce said.
Slamming his fist on the table, Miller said, "No. We still have a choice. We could reject this man, make a deal with the Commandant ourselves, and let the Yrekans play in the jungle. Not our problem."
"You'd hide behind the people of Yreka?" Marshall said, hoping he had judged his man correctly.
"I won't hide behind anyone," Miller said through grinning teeth, "But I've been a Captain long enough to know when someone is trying to play me. I'd advise you not to try it again."
"Captain Marshall, we have had a rather different relationship with the Legion than your friends," Thomas stressed those two words, "at Yreka. Here they were an inconvenience, but one we could live with. Are you proposing that we ally with the Yrekans against the Legion? Or a full-scale planetary government?"
"Why not?" Marshall said.
"Allow someone at Yreka to dictate our affairs?" Miller said.
"Let them join us," Thomas replied. "I'd give them a seat on the Council. That seems more reasonable."
The crowd were getting rowdy, and Marshall stepped forward, "They have ten times your population..."
"And we're the ones who are exploring this planet. We've been to places they have never even seen, trade across half a hemisphere. We're the future, Captain. Not they."
"Captain Thomas, Alamo is going to have to leave in a week." He looked up at the sky, shaking his head, "There's an enemy ship coming, and my ship was damaged sufficiently when we freed your planet," he paused for emphasis, "that we cannot fight them off. We'll be back, though, and in force. This planet is too important to the future of mankind." He looked around. "You realize what you have here is the most suitable planet for humanity to inhabit that we have ever found, or are ever likely to. That's a precious resource."
"Why should we share it?" a voice from the crowd yelled.
"When you run away, we're stuck with the war you started, is that it?" Miller pressed. "So you start a war and then run away before it is finished."
Pryce was banging his club on the table, and no-one was paying any attention. The crowd's voices surged like the sea, waves washing over him, and finally something snapped inside Marshall. Taking four strides forward, he clambered up onto the table, turning his back on the council and speaking to the assembled crews.
"Look at yourselves!" he shouted. "Look at what you have been given. Paradise. We had that on Earth once, a long time ago, and petty fighting and wars destroyed it. It'll never be the same again, because of people like you. Like all of you. Not willing to share, only greedily holding onto what is yours – not caring about the future."
He looked down at Thomas. "You talked about the future. You want to see the future? Industrialized Yreka eventually deciding that enough is enough, that those seafarers need to be brought to heel. War. Or one of your successors deciding that those islands you trade with need you, that you have to secure your interests. War. Nation-states, that specter risen from the dead once again."
Sweeping his gaze around the now silent crowd, he continued, "That won't necessarily happen. If the United Nations finds out about this planet, they'll send in a task force and start shipping in settlers by the thousand, by the million! They'll build the largest ships ever built and stuff colonists in like cattle, and you'll have to kowtow to their Governor. Or one of our corporations – I won't pretend to scruples we don't have – will try and move in."
"You've got to protect this planet. You didn't do anything to earn it, you stumbled across it. You want to know who has earned it? Senior Spaceman Kenner, Spaceman First Class Ostrowski, Spaceman First Class Dobson. Three of my men who died fighting the Legion yesterday. We found their bodies hanging in a clearing. They're dying for a world that isn't theirs, because the pursuit of freedom is the right thing to do. Don't pretend that the Legion – or the Cabal behind them – are benevolent. You just never felt their full force."
He turned back to the Captains, kneeling to face them, "You will, though. Say the Yrekans win, by themselves. Say that happens. Why would they fight for you? They'd just drive the Legion away from their city, their towns, and leave you to rot. Fighting today is in your best interests tomorrow, and only if you form a planetary government afterward do you have a chance of protecting this freedom of yours."
Standing up again, he turned to the crowd, focusing on the man who had shouted earlier, "I won't lie. I'd like to see this planet join the Confederation. We'd be good for each other, and I think you'd find we had similar ideas about freedom. You offer us paradise, we offer you the stars. That isn't a bad trade. But the decision must be yours. Don't let hatred and fear make it for you."
Jumping down to the deck, he walked towards his cabin, not turning back. Cunningham turned to follow him, patting him on the shoulder as he walked beside his commander. The crowd began to mumble, talking among themselves; he couldn't work out how they felt.
"Captain Marshall," Thomas said, "We still have questions."
Briefly turning, Marshall replied, "I've said everything I have to say. The specifics will only matter after you have made a decision. Just make the right one."
The two of them walked down the corridor towards Marshall's cabin, ignoring the growing tumult behind them. Kicking the door closed, Marshall sat down on the hammock and began to laugh.
"You enjoyed that," Cunningham said.
"Damn right. For once I got to tell someone what I actually wanted to say, what I think they needed to hear. No bullshit, no tricks, just the truth."
"A novel idea." Cunningham grinned, "Perhaps you should think about a career in the Senate when we get home." He paused. "It had to be said, though, and you said it well. I hope they listen."
There was a sound of hasty footsteps outside, then
a heavy knock on the door. Pulling himself to his feet and carefully adopting a more serious, measured expression, Marshall walked towards the door and opened it; Pemberton was standing outside.
"Captain Marshall, the Council has decided."
Cunningham's eyebrows rose, "That was quick."
"We don't mess around when it is important," the gruff voice of Miller said. "Anyone who can out-talk that windbag Thomas is worth talking to in my book." He smiled, "I just wanted to know if you were a captain or a politician. You answered that question for me. The vote was two-to-one to help you. All the way."
"All the way?" Marshall said.
"We'll join your war, provide you with troops, ships and intelligence to fight the Legion. We'll even send a delegation to Yreka to see if we can come to some sort of arrangement. Frankly I'd be tempted to just drag into that Confederation of yours, but I doubt your politicians have your ability to outshout the idiots."
Sighing, Marshall replied, "I meant what I said. I think Jefferson would be a good fit."
"You were nervous as all hell, weren't you," Miller said. "It didn't show."
"It isn't supposed to. Not when you are out on the deck."
Clapping him on the back with a blow that almost knocked the wind out of him, Miller said, "See, I knew you were a Captain. We're sailing back to your shuttle, I'm coming with you to talk to those windbags at Yreka. Might be able to pound out some sort of a deal."
Cunningham's eyes narrowed as a smile played across his face, "You just want a ride in the shuttle, don't you."
"Hell, I'm hoping to convince you to let me have a tour of that ship of yours." He looked at Marshall again, nodding, "We'll get them, Captain. And hold them until you get back."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The monitor was showing the live feed from the helmet cameras of the crew working on the moon as they cleared away the last of the rockfall. Caine watched eagerly; they'd managed to break through twenty-four hours earlier than had been hoped, the approaching spacecraft – presumed approaching spacecraft, she corrected at the back of her mind – proving a spur to faster work. Two days were gone, only six remaining, and while Quinn was still working miracles, there was only so much that even he could do.
"Don't forget you have a radio, Chief," Ryder said from her shift commander's chair.
"Sorry, Sub," Washington said in between grunts. "Scans have us with just a few meters to go, we're clearing the last of the rubble by hand. I'm pretty sure that they're working the other side, but I haven't heard anything yet."
Turning to Weitzman at the communications station, she asked, "Anything from the Captain?"
"Heading for Yreka, the scenic way. Apparently he's putting on a show for some local dignitary, but he just called us. He'll be on the deck in about twenty minutes.
"Keep listening out." She heard a faint crackle over the speakers. "What was that?"
"Didn't come from us," Washington said, "but I heard it a lot louder."
"*****tre****edic***ergency," rattled over the speaker.
Caine leapt to her feet, "I got that last word."
Preempting her next order, Washington said, "We're going as fast as we can...I think...yes, I can see their helmet lights. Lieutenant Dietz?"
Coming though clearer now, Caine could hear the voice – but it wasn't Dietz, it was Spaceman Prentis, one of the technicians who had accompanied him. Suddenly she had a very bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if a black cloud was beginning to descend upon her.
"Chief! Thank God," he said, a desperate raggedness to his voice. "Thank God."
"Alamo here, Spaceman. What's happened to Dietz?"
"Lieutenant?" Prentis seemed distant, his voice almost lost, "He's back down in the caves. Olsen is with him. I came up to try and clear the fall."
"What happened?" Caine leaned forward in her chair.
"He saw...something. We reached the artifact, and he went into the chamber first," the words babbled across the channel, almost incoherent, "There was something down there. I only caught a glimpse of it, but he staggered out and collapsed. We can't wake him."
"Damn," Caine muttered. She turned to Weitzman, "Get Duquesne up here now. I don't care what she is doing, we need her up on Alamo. Tell her we have one serious xenopsychosis case, long exposure."
"On it, ma'am."
"Washington, you'd better get the others back as fast as you can. And collapse that damn tunnel behind you again."
"Ma'am?"
"I don't want anyone going down there without proper safeguards. Collapse the damn tunnel!" she shouted into the speaker, all eyes on the bridge focused on her. She remembered her own case of xenopsychosis, a few months ago. She still had nightmares of those moments, still woke up screaming sometimes. Likely she always would. Looking around at the bridge, she turned to Ryder.
"You have the bridge. I need to speak to the Captain."
She rose from the command chair, and carefully drifted around the bridge to Marshall's office. Ryder looked after her for a second, then started organizing the departure from the moon. Before the doors closed, she heard Weitzman speaking to Duquesne; she seemed to be pressing the technician for all the details he had. They could deal with that, they were a good crew, but her safety net was gone. Sitting down in the chair opposite Marshall's, she punched for a channel to the surface.
"Caine to Marshall." She'd scrambled the frequency; this needed to be secret.
After a slight delay, the line crackled, "Marshall here. Ryder just called me, told me about Dietz."
"It looks bad, Danny."
"We've both been there."
"There was a medic with the right drugs moments away when it happened to us. Dietz has been like this for hours, maybe days. Prentis looks like he's had a touch of it."
Sympathy crossed through the speaker, "It wasn't your fault, Deadeye. Hell, you argued against it. Dietz and I overruled you. Guess we should have listened." He paused for a second, "He'll have the best of care, and they can do amazing things for xenopsychosis now. It isn't like the early days. Give it a month or two, and he'll be back on duty."
"It should have been me. I'm the one with the degree in archeology."
"Then I'd be having this conversation with Dietz, and nothing else would be different. He wanted to go, Deadeye, he volunteered."
"I heard about the three on the surface. This planet's a jinx, Danny. How many more are we going to lose here?"
She waited longer than the speed of light gap for a reply, "Do you want me to send Cunningham up to take over?"
Letting go a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, she replied, "Yes. Or you."
"I can't be spared for the moment; I think we're actually making some progress down here. All I have to do is bash a few heads and we might get some sort of sanity out of the local political climate."
"Sanity out of politicians would be a nice miracle in itself. When can he get here?"
"You are eager, aren't you? Shuttle's going to need a quick service when we get down, so probably a few hours. I understand the Doc's on her way up now."
"First thing I did."
"Saved me the trouble, anyway. I'm sorry I put you through this, Deadeye." He paused again, background crackle filling the gap. "I shouldn't have put you through it."
"I figured it was one of your little schemes," she replied, almost smiling.
"Better break off now – believe it or not I'm standing in the toilet. Don't want any of the local dignitaries to hear, I don't think this is something they need to know right now."
The door slid open, "Lieutenant," Weitzman said, "We've got a problem."
"So do I, Danny. Have fun with your politicians."
"I'll call later. So we can talk."
She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "Looking forward to it." Closing the channel, she looked up at the spaceman, drifting in the doorhole. "What is it?"
"I just had a signal from Acting Ensign Varlamov, up at the desert spaceport." Another memory
to send a shiver up her spine. "Lieutenant Mulenga's overdue on a check-in. More than three hours."
"Three hours? That isn't like him."
"I've tried to contact him myself, ma'am, but no luck."
"Can we get a scan of the region?" she asked, pushing out of her chair and swinging back onto the bridge. Ryder looked up at her, then back at her station as she made her way over to the sensor station. Bryant was poking at the computer, trying to coax more focus out of the system.
"See anything, spaceman?"
The silver-haired technician looked up at her, "Our observation satellite's overhead now, we caught a lucky break. I'm just trying to get the useless piece of garbage to work."
Over at the flight engineer's station, the gruff Makala said, "I spent a day on that, Bryant."
"Should have used something other than a hammer to calibrate it." She smiled with satisfaction. "Got it. Focused image of the ruins." Her smile quickly faded as she looked at the image; a pair of dead bodies on the ground, tracks everywhere, including several wheel tracks heading towards the jungle.
"Follow the tracks, Bryant." She turned to Weitzman, "Get back to Varlamov, we need his boys in the air now."
"We can't," Ryder said, sighing. "Their shuttle's just left atmosphere with the doctor. They haven't got any other transport."
"How fast can they be moving?" Caine said. "Tell Quinn I want the fastest turnaround of a shuttle in the history of the service."
"Tracks lead into the jungle, about thirty miles away. I can't see anything beyond that, but the river is pretty close by."
"How close?"
Punching up a satellite map, Bryant replied, "Maybe half a mile."
Frowning, Caine replied, "Call the Captain. Right now."
"He'd be about down on the deck by now," Ryder said.
Weitzman was back at his station, talking into an earpiece, manipulating controls, shaking his head. "I can't get through, ma'am."
"What?"
"Not a thing."
Turning back to Bryant, "The satellite?"
Battlecruiser Alamo: Tip of the Spear Page 11
