by Mike Moscoe
After upending the sack, the man spoke. “Henry, the dogs of this war you released are chewing up some very unhappy legs. Your President Urm has met with an accident.”
Henry’s usual aplomb vanished. His head jerked around to spear Trevor with hard, obsidian eyes.
“I have had nothing but normal reports about President Urm, sir.”
“When the general holding your security contract on Urm failed so miserably, Trevor,” Edward said, “he came looking for a new employer. We reached an agreement very quickly.”
Henry’s glare was for Edward, but there was enough heat along its edge to burn Trevor down to cinder.
“I must thank you, Henry. Your man in Pitt’s Hope has succeeded most admirably for me. By threatening all life on Wardhaven, he has driven the colonials to send emissaries, real emissaries with authority to negotiate. And by showing the planetary governments just how easy their own bureaucracy is turned against them, you have gotten their attention. Attention we do not want, Henry. None of us.”
“Governments are nothing!” Henry huffed.
Edward cut him off with a smile. “So you have said many times. We give the politicos money to buy the votes they need, but they still think those votes give them power. They are ready to turn that power to a scrutiny of us and this unpleasantness.”
“I can handle them.”
“Yes, Yes, you can. And we have decided to let you. But you will need time.” Edward sounded so solicitous. “With your many duties, you might have problems squeezing in the time you will need. So, Henry, we have decided that you should step down from most of your positions on boards of directors. If you do not, you will be voted out.”
“You can’t.”
“You will find in the next week that we have. Not all, Henry. I have gone out of my way for you. Two boards you will stay on. Ones I direct. It will be a pleasure to see you sit through meetings quietly listening while others hold the reins. Watch you squirm when you can’t get enough votes to even wipe your own ass. Yes, Henry, you will be an interesting diversion.”
“You have not seen the last of me,” Henry hissed, getting to his feet.
“Of that I am sure, Henry.”
Trevor’s ex-client stomped away. Only two guards departed with him—the two that had come with Edward.
“Would you like a seat, Mr. Crossinshield?”
Trevor stumbled his way around the bench and sat on its edge; it felt more like a collapse. He awaited his fate.
“I don’t hold Urm’s death against your general. Henry failed to see the pressure building. We don’t have nearly the power he thinks we have. You, however, are interesting. Initially, you provided Henry with information my own sources overlooked. That was good.” Trevor risked a faint smile.
“In the end, however, Mr. Crossinshield, you failed.”
“Words spoken, sir, are not always heard.” Trevor tried a gentle gambit.
The man sighed. “Yes, that is the problem. Whose words to believe, the ones you want to hear or the ones you need to hear? Damnably tough call.” For a long minute the man stared at the swans. “I will take you on, Mr. Crossinshield. At a reduced rate, mind you. We will all have to trim our budgets thanks to Henry. Some of your people are worth keeping.”
“Mr. Whitebred?” Trevor risked.
“Failed miserably,” Trevor’s new client snapped, then seemed to rethink himself. Was that a personal trait, or was today a day for second thoughts? Trevor would wait and see. “However, his heart was in the right place. Find a window office for him. Who knows, he may yet do us a service.” Then his brow darkened. “Those others, the ones who stopped him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We can not have people like that succeed, even in stopping Henry’s blunders. Sets a bad example. Find a hole and make them disappear.”
“Yes, sir.” The meeting was turning out far better than he had any right to expect. He hastened up the hill. He had work to do. It would be good to impress his new client quickly.
• • •
The fleet was gone by the time Mattim brought the Sheffield into orbit around Wardhaven. Shedding energy had taken them on a grand tour of the system. Repairs would take longer. Orbit was a wreck; the squadron had really shot up the place on its first pass. Parts of stations and ships drifted everywhere, but shuttles were already back, bringing workers, parts—and a station manager.
“Earthie Navy ship, respond.”
“Let me handle this one. I know Owen.” Mattim switched on his comm. “Owe, it’s me, Matt. Maggie D looks a bit different, but she’s still the same old girl under all this extra gear.”
“I don’t care who you are. While you wear that uniform, you don’t park there. Back off five hundred klicks. One of your boats is waiting for you.”
“Boss, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your bad breath,” Ding laughed.
“Can’t get no respect. Thor, what’s five hundred klicks back?”
“Old tub, looks rigged for passengers, but just barely.”
“Comm, can you raise a transport aft of us?”
“On the line already, Captain. Putting him through.”
“Captain Abeeb, I am ordered to relieve you of Captain Whitebred and Commander Stuart. I am also to take off your draftees and give them a lift home.”
“I figured we’d be going back to Pitt’s Hope together.”
“I don’t believe so, sir. My orders just relate to your junior personnel. I’ll transmit your orders, now, but the scuttlebutt is that the Sheffield is too banged up. She’s being scrapped.”
“Scrapped!” Sandy howled.
“You got to be wrong,” Mattim assured him.
“Could be, sir. They’re your orders. Read them.”
Mattim did. “He’s right. They’re scrapping the old girl.”
“Her engines are in great shape,” Ivan roared as he came on the bridge. “Call ’em and tell ’em they’re wrong.”
Mattim tapped his board. “Comm, get me the port master.”
“You got him.”
“Owe, this is Matt, I need to send a message to Navy Command, Pitt’s Hope.”
“Who’s paying?”
“Didn’t the squadron set up an account at the armistice?”
“Yeah, and closed it when they left. You want to make a call, get me your charge code.”
“You think they’d take a collect call?” Sandy asked.
Whitebred limped onto the bridge surrounded by three guards, including the tiny middie. “I want to get my personal effects. I understand there’s a liner here to take me home.” Mattim pointed to the transport on screen. “That? It’s no bigger than an admiral’s barge. Well, at least I’ll have it to myself.”
“You and three quarters of the crew.”
“What? I will not be surrounded by a sea of…of…” Whitebred quit hunting for words.
Mattim grinned as he sputtered down. “You’ll also go with only the brig suit ypu’re wearing. I’ve got your gear under seal until a criminal investigator goes over it. Security, get this man off my bridge.” They did, none too gently.
“Ding, pass the word to all hands. This may be the only ride home. Anyone wants on that transport, we will find space.”
That led to a lot of griping, from Whitebred, from the transport’s captain, and from the crew that got shoehorned into it. It took a day to load them all out. Zappa showed up halfway through the drill. “Sir, do we have to go?”
“May be the only ride for a while.”
“Yes, sir, but we’d like some time to look over our raw data on that little excursion. We got the fixings for some great papers. If we could take the time now, while we’re still together, to get everything in order, we could hit the journals like a ton of cement.”
So the Sheffield or Maggie D or whatever she was today settled down in orbit. Without a station to swing her, there was no way to put gravity on the ship. What was usually only a momentary inconvenience became the norm. To the old hand
s, both Navy and merchant, it was something to adapt to. To the kids, it was fun. Part of the ship took on the look of a university, though one run by the students. The rest did what needed doing to keep the ship going. To some she might be scrap; to her crew, she was home. She’d taken care of them through some rough times; they wouldn’t abandon her now.
SEVENTEEN
THE THIRD DAY, the port master called. “Hey, you squatter over there. We got orders to open that hulk to space and kill all the vermin. We’re sending a couple of shuttles to lift you out. Be packed and ready. And pack lightly, you hear.”
“Owe, this is Matt. You’ve inspected the Maggie D a dozen times. You never found one bug. Hassan’s baking up a batch of his focaccia bread. Come over for a loaf or two.”
“Hassan’s!”
“Yep. Even zero-gee baked, it tastes great.”
“Damn it, Matt, I got my orders. You folks got to go.”
“Can you give me an extra couple of days?”
“You really got some of Hassan’s focaccia bread?”
“Three loaves are yours.” Mattim rang off on that promise.
“What we gonna do, sir?” Ding asked.
“What’s the Book say?” he asked.
“Nothing in the Book, sir, about being marooned on your own ship as it’s going under the breaker’s torch.”
“Yeah.” They’d won their battle and their war. They were alive and in one piece. So why didn’t it feel so good?
That night, as had become their custom, all hands shared supper on a single mess deck. With mostly officers and chiefs left aboard, and the middies falling somewhere in between, there seemed little reason to keep the crew divided along arbitrary lines. The eviction was news to no one as they settled in to their meal. They chewed Hassan’s delicious rations and their future. The chow was good—the future lousy.
“We save the life of everyone on this planet and this is what we get?” seemed to say it for all. Finding a way home across half the galaxy was easy compared to finding a way through two bureaucracies bent on…what?
“What do they want?” Ding asked. “We’re here. We’ve got no money for food or fuel. We can’t call home. This is crazy. I always knew the ship I was on might be lost in battle, but lost in filing…”
“Matt, we got any credit on the Red Flag Line?” Sandy asked.
“Folks, Ding and I have tried everything, legal or no. We had some charge codes left over from our merchant days. Tried them. They’re not valid. Tried our navy charge codes. All canceled. I even tried my own personal charge accounts. Funds are unavailable.”
“I tried mine too,” Ding added. “Same answer.”
“We don’t exist,” Chief Aso said.
“You must have pissed a lot of people off—big time,” Sergeant Dumont put in snidely.
“Can think of five or fifty, but all of them getting together to get me…” The miner/marine Lek shook his head.
“You and me both, friend.” Mattim summed it up.
After supper, Mattim started an inspection walk; in zero-gee it was more a drift. He soon found Mary beside him. “I thought your marines would have headed back on the transport,” he said.
Mary laughed. “To what? Nobody wants us. Miners got no jobs. Dumont and his kids never had a decent one. Why go back? First day of shooting we were kind of hoping the colonials would ask us to surrender so we could get it over with quickly.”
“Did they?”
“Nope. Killed a couple of us, and that didn’t leave much room for talk. Listen, you were trying charge numbers. I got a couple with miner’s money in them. Can we check them out?”
They did. Nothing.
• • •
Ray collapsed on the blanket under the trees. He’d spent an hour on the bars and walked all the way out here, just him and the damn canes. Of course, the braces helped. He was starting to like them.
Rita was wearing that sundress. Rather, one of them. He’d had to marry her to discover she had half her closet full of sundresses. He wondered how long the dress would stay on, and quietly prayed it would for a while. He was exhausted.
The dress was halfway off when a voice called, “Daughter, are you decent? I have someone to talk with you and Ray.”
The dress came back on as Rita sat up cross-legged beside him. “We’re over here, Father, and yes, we’re decent.”
Ernest appeared a minute later. He and the spy each carried a pair of lawn chairs. It took a moment for them to arrange themselves, Rita in a chair beside Ray, her hem pulled down demurely below her knees. The industrialist and the spy master were directly across from them. “Colonel, I want to thank you personally,” the fat man began, “for saving all our lives. Earth would have pounded us, and Urm would have done nothing.”
“Colonel?” Ray asked.
“A well-deserved promotion on your retirement,” Ernest advised him.
Ray was familiar with “tombstone promotions”: he winced. “Santiago earned the promotion. He’s the one who saved us.”
The spy shook his head. “You had the invitation. You got the bomb past the guards. If we had not had your war wound to hide behind, and you willing to walk in front, the bomb would still be sitting in what was left of my office.”
Ray let that pass into silence. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about it all. For a long minute nothing was said. Then the spy master went on. “The government is in shambles as we weed out the worst of the Unity thugs. Wardhaven is better off than many planets. We still have much of the previous government in place. Still, how do we come to terms with the nightmare of the last two years?” Ray had no idea; why did he have a suspicion he was about to learn? The fat man went on.
“You, Colonel Longknife, are something rare today. As a soldier, you fought for us. And, as a soldier, you fought against Unity. That makes you special.”
“As a soldier, I lost my battle,” Ray growled.
“And we lost the war. Still, you fought honorably and are much admired. We need men like you in the government.”
Ray was shaking his head before the spy finished. “I’m a soldier. I fight an enemy. I’m not a politician. In case you don’t remember, the one time I met one, I tried to kill him.”
Ernest was grinning. “I told you he’d say that.”
The spy nodded sourly. “Yes, you did. But your daughter said he had his price. We just have to offer him the right bribe.”
“Wife,” Ray said, turning on his bride. She was grinning from ear to ear. “What did you tell them?”
“Just that the job had to be one you could sink your teeth into. One that would make for a better tomorrow for our child.” She played her ace, patting her not yet swelling belly. “One that would let you oversee the ships going out to explore the universe.”
“Colonel Longknife,” the spy began, “I have been asked by those who are forming the new government to ascertain if you would be willing to accept the post of Minister of Science and Technology.”
“Science and Technology,” Ray echoed. “Never heard of it.”
“A new position,” Ernest answered. “You can make of it what you want.”
“Think of it, Ray.” Rita was at his knees, hands playing along his thighs. Lately, he’d gotten feeling back there. “Science and Tech is our chance to get the rim worlds moving. No more waiting for Earth or someone else to come up with new ideas. Wardhaven is halving its defense budget. That money can go into R&D. Think of what we can do.”
Ray had the distinct feeling that he might be wearing the minister’s sash, but he knew who would be running his office.
“And we get ships,” she finished. “The new Bureau of Scouting and Exploration will report to us.” Her grin was so wide, the edges had disappeared around the back of her head.
“Think we can hire the ship that came back from the sour jump?” he asked her.
“Why not? It’s in orbit above us and its crew, or the best part of it, is still aboard.”
Long ago, Longkni
fe had learned not to accept gift horses. He turned to the spy. “What’s going on?” he growled.
The spy was a long time answering. He took out his sniffers and made a long show of confirming the area secure. “You recall the young woman who made your first briefcase go pop when it should have gone boom? Well, we have been looking into her employer very carefully. Especially since we intercepted a frantic call from a group of her comrades to the ship that was about to relativity bomb Wardhaven, asking to know where would be safe. Those who want money are frequently unwilling to die for an unspent bank account.
“We intercepted another hasty communication out of Rostock shortly after the President was pronounced dead. It seems that the head of his security detail was also double-dipping.”
“Earth,” Ray breathed.
“Not Earth government, or any other planetary government. Rather an association of likeminded power brokers.”
“I’ve dealt with some of them,” Ernest sighed. “Never knew it, but I was.”
“Urm was their puppet!” Rita was incredulous.
“No.” The spy shook his head firmly, “Urm created himself, and we cannot shirk our own responsibility for willingly selling our souls to him. We have no one to blame for this nightmare but ourselves. Let us say that Urm was greedy, and where greed rules, one is never sure who is leading and who is following.
“What matters to you is that the ship of exploration was to be the ship of our execution. And just as it refused to stay lost, it refused to slaughter us. Now, it is more lost, not in space but in a black hole of bureaucratic creation. Powerful men want it to stay lost. What do you say?”
“I say we’ve got a job for them.” Rita and Ray spoke in unison.
“Not wise, but then, I myself am feeding the information from my investigation back to Earth. It will be interesting to see how their elected officials react to it. With luck, our mutual friends will be too busy to notice one ship escaping from their black hole.”
• • •
They were halfway through breakfast when Zappa came flying into the mess deck, “I got e-mail from Mom,” she squealed.
