Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  The ships already in dock had been profitable, so far as that went. The crews of those three ships ate, slept, drank, and minded their own business, excepting the fracas during the shelter-order, for which no citations had been issued—that, in the interests of peace, despite the damage. Finity’s contribution of goods into the system—not a full load, which might have overloaded the market and driven prices down—was evidently due to be completely minor, enough to cover her station charges and refueling, but damn little else, leaving the crew’s scrip the major gain station would have.

  Which posed a worrisome question throughout.

  Why? Why was Finity really here?

  He supposed they’d find out, eventually, and meanwhile . . .

  Meanwhile—they were getting, among the goods Finity was offloading, an influx of luxuries they didn’t ordinarily see at Alpha, including hisa artwork and textiles from Pell. . . . That capped all, for novelty. It was the sort of low-mass commodity that could see enough profit at Sol to more than justify a shipment taking a decade to get there, not to mention holding it in storage until there was a ship to get it there.

  Which opportunity might just come sooner than anyone outside this office could know.

  That was the thought dancing seductively in the back of Abrezio’s mind, the one bright spot in the problems the visitors posed, that if he spent personal credit to acquire that specific cargo, he could become bulletproof against any change in the economy that Sol-bound FTL might perpetrate on Alpha. Interest in that sort of goods would only rise, if FTL became the rule.

  He had a purchase order in the system, one that would put a hold on the goods for twenty-four hours. All it took was a button-push to confirm it. He owned a warehouse. It would lie there virtually forgotten, semi-cold and quite dark, until—until they either proved that jump point and made FTL contact with Sol, or, in the way of things, if they didn’t, and trade with Sol continued at sublight speed—it still maintained value. It was a prospect to fund his retirement, in the course of time.

  If, however, anything went wrong in this visit and investigators began to look for reasons—a large buy now and goods from Pell in his warehouse could look like a personal interest. It could be turned to look very bad, and he did not trust Andrew Cruz or Hewitt not to spin it that way in a serious falling-out. He didn’t trust anybody Sol sent here not to have ambitions, and a willingness to do anything to look good to those that sent him.

  Damned if he did and damned lot of regret if he didn’t.

  If it ever became an issue, he could claim the business deal was to give him reason for personal conferences with Finity’s captains. A convenient inroad into relations that might yield information.

  Which itself could look smart—or very, very wrong—depending on how the visit turned out.

  He hesitated over the file, and the button.

  He didn’t push it. Not this fast. Not before he had some small confidence he knew what Finity was up to.

  Chapter 2 Section ii

  Having done presence-vids and deepstudy on the layout of the station gave a person a niggling sense of deja vu on Alpha’s Strip. JR had insisted on it for everybody on the never-visited stations they’d called at on this run, not for convenience, but for safety—to be sure everybody knew where exits and accesses and takeholds were; where police might be, in case of need—or avoidance. In addition to that precaution, the senior-juniors, ages eighteen to twenty-two, were required to go in groups at least of three, and to keep coms live at all times, with instructions to stay within 200 meters of some sleepover access. That was actually a fair stretch of liberty on Alpha’s Strip. But it was not license to roam.

  In general, those under eighteen ship-years would not be out and about the docks at all. They would be in the sleepover with their assigned minders, midway between accesses, and far out of reach of casual disturbance. Junior-juniors could go on the Strip only with a senior minder escort, never solo, and never without a pocket com. Infants were in one room, toddlers in another, and for the dozen youngests, classes never let up. Instructors, however, did get free time, and bar time, as needed.

  What Finity did not mention in its disclosure list for customs was the force of twenty-odd Neiharts who were staying aboard Finity in mast-dock, and the fact that Finity’s passive sensors would be active and monitored during dock. It wasn’t that they expected intrusion or inquisitive visitations. It was that they were prepared—in case the Earth Company at Alpha decided to gather a little information, or do a little first-hand research into the nav systems of a ship very like their own.

  It was fairly certain that the station was similarly touchy about The Rights of Man, in dock up at the extreme end of A-mast, with no neighbors at all.

  Was there a lot of imaging and pinging going on? Oh, yes, on station’s side. On Finity there was a lot of passive recept going on, and every ping would be noted and logged as to origin, for whatever it was worth.

  Finity crew in general was under orders to speak only with other Finity personnel in the exit corridors of the sleepover; to smile and nod if smiled at, but not to talk in those corridors; to limit sleepover partners to Little Bears, Mumtazes, or Nomads—more onerously, to limit alcohol, go in pairs or trios, avoid conflict, walk away from fights, and avoid like poison being the reason a Finity captain had to go extract them from local courts.

  The rule applied to Finity captains, too. JR went with Madison, second shift captain, Hayes, the purser, and two of Hayes’ junior-senior aides, Parton and Brenda B, to visit station offices and present papers, which was to say, to show up with a copy of the log from last port of call to here, to sign and verify that nobody had tampered with Finity’s black box—that was the stupidest piece of the stupid red tape, but it had made some Pell legislator happy—and to swear that the crew debarked were all legitimate ship’s family, and that Finity did not bring passengers, non-irradiated foodstuffs, drugs, weapons, or explosives onto the station.

  JR filled out another screen of forms for ship status, and he simply entered NA for not accessible, which was the new form, since the ring-docks.

  No, Finity personnel would not be coming and going aboard the ship while at dock: that was the regulation here, and they could comply with it. Ring-dock was much more forgiving. The airlock corridor they used for ring-dock had a downside ops and executive office, as well as a general takehold, and provided comfortable quarters for everybody who needed to stay aboard. But they couldn’t use that airlock and corridor at Alpha. They had to exit via a tube—cold as hell’s hinges, the thing was; and station’s orders were—everybody off. The form noted: Customs officials may access, y/n . . . unfunny joke. By EC rules, the ship had no choice.

  JR typed N . . . and wondered how long it would be before that “N” was challenged.

  Meanwhile the twenty crew staying aboard would be as quiet about it as possible.

  It was an interesting visit to station offices, the junior clerks directly dealing with them being unnaturally bubbly and cheerful, darting nervous glances, while EC police and several dour-faced individuals prowled about the peripheries of the office on no particular business.

  “Sign, please.” It was a tablet, pinned to a stand. The somewhat more senior official spun it about.

  JR signed it, spun it back again.

  “No abbreviations.” The official spun it around. “Legal name’s James Robert.”

  “JR is my signature. Always has been.” His mother had laid the name on him, the only line of Neiharts that could attach that name to an unsuspecting kid. He wasn’t James Robert Neihart, who’d been Gaia’s first captain, the first captain to come back and tell the EC hands off their ship, the first star captain to make that claim for all time to come. “Don’t argue with a man what his name is.” He spun the tablet back. “Tell the stationmaster to ask me personally if he wants it different.”

  He got back a scowl. And tur
ned his back on the man and the official tablet.

  “Bitter beer,” was Madison’s remark.

  “Well, it’s not too surprising,” JR said. “We’re a big pill to swallow. Parton, BB, stay with Hayes. In case he needs a runner.”

  “We’ll do fine,” Hayes said. Hayes had the longer meeting there, and they left him to work out the banking and file the IDs for the several accounts, plus pick up personal cards of several classifications, for those who’d be given the use of them.

  There was an electronic download, advisable to read: the local list of prohibitions: prostitution and private sale of pharmaceuticals, sale of unlisted goods, hire of local labor, and offering ship-passage.

  Pretty well anything likely to involve a personal transaction with a station resident was illegal on Alpha. Anything ship crew wanted to do with crew of other ships was a ship problem and agreed not to lie within the purview of the EC, except prostitution, inciting a riot, action to deface station property, action to compromise station safety, or display or use of a weapon.

  Weapon was defined as edged metal or explosive or antipersonnel device of any sort.

  Edged or explosive. That was reasonable enough. No station had ever quite dared to ban the length of small gauge roller chain that some merchanters wore for a belt, some as a bracelet that could become a knuckle-guard, and that most ship crew just kept decorously concealed in a jacket side pocket. Having a handle on said chain was, curious regulation on Viking, banned. Not here, apparently. Or the idea of a handle hadn’t proliferated this far.

  Which was their bar? The information said there were three: Saturn, Critical Mass, and Outbound, each of the three shown on the chart as situated beside one of the three sleepover corridors they had at the Olympian. Please observe this assignment strictly, the note said, adding, which was ordinary, except if escorted by another ship’s crew.

  Alpha added: Your presence in an establishment not assigned above will automatically place you in legal jeopardy in the event of a disturbance. Liability will be assigned quickly and fines will be assessed accordingly.

  It did provide a list of establishments arranged by ship assignment, with a diagram.

  Convenient. The assignment of bars was not a universal matter. Venture, for instance, didn’t care where you drank, but they did hang up festive signs saying Welcome Finity’s End, or whatever ship was in question, over particular bars. There were no welcome signs evident on Alpha, and the frontages they had passed on their way here looked alike, which was not convenient.

  “Xiao’s assigned to Jupiter and Lucky Lily,” Madison commented, consulting his com. “We’re not sure who Lily is, but it says varied cuisines and free dessert with every meal.”

  “I’d bet on Lily,” JR said. Xiao was a man they needed to see. “If the dessert is decent.”

  Chapter 2 Section iii

  Xiao Min was waiting, having a table in the corner of Lucky Lily’s, with a cordon of three Little Bear tables around him. A fairly young fellow, Min: JR felt something in common with him. They had Mum, the Xiaos had Grandfather Jun, whose advice, like Mum’s, would be somewhere important in any transactions. But Grandfather, very elderly, and disliking the noise of the bars, held court in the Homeport sleepover. Grandfather Xiao Jun had forgotten—or disdained to use—anything but Little Bear ship-speak.

  Min himself was much more flexible—and they were old allies. Little Bear had come in all the way from the Beyond, one of the mid-generation haulers, older than Finity by a decade, shiptime, as Min had held his post that much longer.

  “Ni hao,” JR said, and “Ni hao,” Min answered him, followed by a hoist of his glass. “Local beer. Actually not bad.”

  JR sat down. Cousins Madison and Fletcher did, to courteous nods from Min’s company, Ma and Shen.

  “Good voyage?” JR asked.

  “No problems,” Min said. “Easy arrival. The Company was very accommodating, but increasingly curious when Mumtaz came in. Nomad caused great concern.”

  “You didn’t mention we were coming.”

  Min offered a gentle smile. “Given their nervousness about us, we thought it best not. In retrospect . . . perhaps not the wisest choice. You did make a commotion.”

  “We didn’t want to draw out our approach,” JR said. “And we’re sure they were taking notes. Hope so, actually. Nasty little system, this, and best they realize that before they destroy their own station with that ship. It didn’t break dock. We were very happy about that.”

  “They would not challenge you,” Min said. “Could not, in truth, and they are not anxious for you, above all, to know their problems. To date—” Min took a sip of beer. “All Rights has done is pulse the vanes, which did prove they work. But there was a shutdown. Auto, according to rumor. Definitely unplanned. They sit in an embarrassing position—can, or cannot; could perhaps, but won’t risk that ship. The Strip is not sure of the details. Sitting as it does—it is impressive for the locals, perhaps, but—” A lift of the mug. “Should we be impressed? We think not. So they sit. And they wish us to think they can move.”

  “Well, at least they didn’t,” JR said.

  “Have you talked to admin?” Min asked.

  “Not yet. I just filled out the forms. You?”

  “The same.” Min said.

  “We cleared our manifests,” Xiao Ma said. “We offloaded. Mumtaz and Nomad are waiting. We have declined cargo, as per agreement. Shippers complain. They fear we wish to drive down prices. We have said nothing, and trust they will turn attention back to their own ships. The economy here is beyond delicate. Finity has agitated them greatly.”

  “The other ships. Particularly those moved off to accommodate us . . .”

  “We have given gifts to Firenze,” Min said. “We have asked for a meeting.”

  “We’ll try to contact Qarib,” Madison said. “Are we ready, then?”

  “We have the local ships’ attention,” Min said. “Not to mention the station offices. Where shall we meet?”

  “They’ve assigned us Saturn, Critical Mass, and Outbound.” JR said, “the latter with a certain hope, perhaps. Do we have room enough in one of those? Or will we need to divide this up?”

  Min smiled a second time and traced a symbol in the water on the tabletop, one of his ship’s ornate script. “Let’s just say—in Critical Mass. That’s a big place, from what I can tell. Just reopened with your arrival. It’s near here, near Rosie’s, which covers the locals, and not too far a hike from Prosperity, where Mumtaz has assignment. Nomad shares second shift at Red Star. We can reach one another very easily. Critical Mass has room enough, at least for a first-shift meeting.”

  His finger retraced the symbol, and this time, JR caught it before it faded:

  Caution.

  “We’re on, then,” JR said. “1900 hours. Pass the word.”

  Chapter 2 Section iv

  It was standing room only in Critical Mass. The suggestion had been, in a quiet word or two from the newcomers to Alpha, that there should be a few attendees from each crew, to be respectful of all ships’ needs. But anxiety being what it was, and nobody having shut the doors, they had a lot more than a few. Galway’s senior captain Niall, Helm 1 Aubrey, and Nav 1 Fallan were there. But so was a cluster of more first-shift and a few of second, including Ross, who’d taken his standing orders to watch over Fallan as excuse enough.

  “You,” Niall said to Ross, drawing him over to a backless seat forced in next to Fallan. Mary T and Ashlan were there, half-sibs, inseparable, now Longscan 1.2 and Nav 1.2. And there was Pardee, Cargomaster, and Aymes, the purser, who navigated an equally vital set of numbers. They jammed in chairs and stools where they needed, never minding the rails and clamps, and a number of other Galways strayed in around the walls. They weren’t the only crew doing it. Facts had been scarce. Rumors were getting crazy, and everybody wanted the straight of it.

&
nbsp; Most recent rumor held that Finity had information on a jump point to Sol, that Sol was opening up at last, and trade routes were about to change—that was the maybe-good, maybe-bad news that was racing up and down the Strip; but some said no, that it was nothing that good. That coming from Pell, it couldn’t be. A lot of people were angry, really angry, that any ship from the Beyond was here, rumored to be holding out on cargo—playing games with the markets, some said, because they hadn’t offloaded but a fraction of what they could carry, and were buying nothing.

  Some said—naïve fools—that Pell was going to make amends with Alpha, that Finity brought engineers ready to help with Rights, and maybe work out deals to better the trade they had.

  Fat chance, people said to that hope.

  A darker rumor said that Cyteen was starting to play rough with Pell, and that Pell was putting out feelers toward Alpha and Rights in hope of checking them.

  Good luck there. Alpha couldn’t stop Cyteen. Alpha couldn’t fix the damn plumbing.

  So bets—bets such as optimistic people dared make—hoped like hell for the first rumor to be true: Alpha could not only survive if Earth and Sol opened up, it would thrive. And little ships would live. It’d be change, but they could find a way. That was the hope running the length and breadth of Critical Mass.

  Maybe James Robert Neihart was here with that news—that was the fingers-crossed hope, as they all waited for him to show. James Robert Neihart, bit of a dark-haired pretty-boy, reports said, who shunned cameras, but who, at twenty-five, had been handed senior command of the newest, fastest, largest purpose-built yet constructed, by vote of the whole ship’s family—Gaia’s family. When others of the old sublighters had been beached and broken, the families had been broken, too—because the first purpose-builts, like Firenze, Santiago, and Qarib, hadn’t been that large—and families had sadly fractured, even taking different names, over time.