Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  “Beta,” Jen said, with all the callous assurance of the young.

  “You book-know it. But you don’t life-know it, niece. It’s important here. Things flowed from that incident.”

  Jen shrugged. “Beta Station went silent. Next ship in found it deserted, everything left in place, just no people. The ship spooked out of there, reported it. Nobody’s been back—not being stupid.”

  “Alpha and Glory sit right near it. And ever since, this station has been Sol’s only link to the star-stations. Still is. But the pushers are down to only two. And one of those two is . . .”

  “Santa Maria—who was the one that carried the news about Beta. I know that.”

  “Santa Maria cycles between this station and Sol, keeping that history vivid, every couple of decades. It owns this sleepover that nobody uses except them and Atlantis, when they come in. And now they’ve had to open it up for us. Biggest and best to give the pusher crews a special welcome—an exotic, all-out luxury break from ten years of isolation. A special honor for the crews who’ve sacrificed the most to keep Sol connected to what Sol made possible. Touchy point, that. Tread lightly and respect the favor they’ve done us. Pushers aren’t ancient history here. Sol isn’t ancient history here. Us being here, in this sleepover, which is theirs when they’re in dock . . . that’s going to rankle with some.”

  “Noted.”

  “Don’t just note it, respect it. Got it?”

  She blinked. Her lips pressed tight. But she dipped her chin, once. He rarely had to take the tone with her, but it was important. And she would remember, he had every confidence. She was just tight-focused on the image of young Monahan, getting only-she-knew-what from every twitch he made.

  “The possibility exists that, if Sol is building a longhauler like ours . . .”

  “It could decide to use Beta as a jump point,” Jen said in clipped tones. “I’m up on all that. But nobody’s that stupid. Whatever happened at Beta wasn’t natural causes and nobody in their right mind would risk spreading whatever happened there.”

  “Nobody on this side of the pusher route, but Sol doesn’t have the perspective. For Sol, the ‘Beta incident,’ as they call it, is going to be, at best, ancient history, at worst, a bogie tale from a ship in a hurry to get out of there. What Sol might do, in their frustration to escape the bottle they’re in, is something this young man has every reason to fear.”

  “Idiots,” Jen said.

  “Idiots who might draw whatever took out Beta to take out the station this young man’s ship depends on. That’s what he lives with. Sink into that mindset. Fear’s real here.”

  She tapped to pause the vid, and twisted her head to look at him, a slight, worried frown line between her brows. “Some folk back on Mariner say that would be a good thing. That we ought to just close Alpha and Glory down, leave a nice big buffer around Beta, and just go on developing in other directions. That if Sol wants to get out, they should be looking for a route direct to Pell and leave the Centauris alone.”

  Problem was, between Sol and Pell was a very nasty little flare star, UV Ceti. It was a damned inconvenient place Sol occupied.

  “This is an EC station,” JR said. “And yes, you’ll hear Mariner natives say, forget Sol. But Sol won’t let that happen. And in real life, people know Sol won’t let that happen. And Alpha and Glory, sitting out here, closest to Beta and all that went wrong there, depend on Sol. Emotionally, that’s their lifeline—because they know the deep Beyond would cut them off in a heartbeat. Only thing they know about Mariner is that the EC never authorized its construction, and that Pell and all the stations that came after destroyed their way of life.”

  “Well, they’d be all right if dealing with Sol didn’t mean dealing with the EC. That lot’s rich, they’re crazy, and they want to run things. Look at that ship up there—when this whole place is run down and falling apart.”

  “A ship that’s a threat, niece. A threat in more than one way. You’ve seen it: closer to Alpha we’ve gotten, the more blue-coats we see, and this is the mother lode. Young, mostly male, and trained to fight, make no doubt. Bet on it: that ship is no merchanter and it never intended to be. It’s designed to move enforcement to Bryant’s, to Glory, to Venture—wherever the EC wants them.”

  “If it could move.”

  “Possibly. But even if it shut down on that trial . . . that ship will move someday. And when it does, when Sol breaks out—we don’t know that that’s the only longhauler Sol’s building, do we? They have resources. Once they know how, they could send ship after ship filled with blue-coats. Earth’s had wars from way back, people taking what they want by force—because their mindset’s all about shortage, in spite of all those resources. It’s something we’ve left behind. You can’t draw borders in space. Freight has to move. We know it. We need the stations, they need us, and if we don’t agree we settle it with a barroom brawl and shake hands after in the infirmary. But that’s not the thinking the EC will bring. I don’t think all these centuries have told them you don’t own a moving rock. They’re going to bring their rules, they’re going to bring more people than we’ve ever seen, and they think they own all the rocks they can find. Territorial notions spreading at FTL speeds. We can’t let that happen.”

  “They say that’s why Cyteen is manufacturing people as fast as their machines will make them.”

  “Which—listen to me, Jen—is why we’re doing what we’re doing, trying to make certain it doesn’t end up with station-folk and planet-folk deciding all the questions. Which is why you, if you do this, have to use your head, and remember that this isn’t Pell, this isn’t Mariner, and you can’t take chances.”

  “I get it that Alpha’s different. And I have to adapt. And that you really don’t want to have to get me out of lockup.”

  “Get it that, if you let something slip, it could be expensive. Real and lastingly expensive.”

  She turned at that, head tilting on its palm-prop to corner-eye him. And shrug. “Expensive enough you wouldn’t bail me out?”

  “Expensive enough you’d be famous for it forever. And so would I, for sending you. Not in a good way.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Soberest look he’d ever seen on Jen’s face, even sidelong. “I really will. I do get what you’re saying. I don’t figure what these people think, staying in this place. I don’t get what they want to fight over. I’m a little scared.”

  From Jen, that was major.

  “Stay that way. Shorthauler, Jen. Alpha hauler. Not a trace of the Beyond in their thinking. Half the time they and the stations out here think in pusher time. Major, major factor in their thinking. They’re in a very little bubble where time moves very, very slowly and things don’t change much. Supplies, orders, trade choices . . . all need a built-in two-decade lag.”

  She turned completely from the screen, squatted, leaning against the desk support, to look up at him. “Why? Why do they stay here? I mean, I get that the small ships couldn’t be competitive in the Beyond, but they could get in queue for new ones at Venture.”

  “It’s a long queue. A real long queue. These ships weren’t lucky, Jen. They were in the wrong place when the purpose-builts began to be handed out. Venture doesn’t just give the ships away out of the goodness of their hearts but on the reasonable expectation that they’re going to get a return on the investment, with the ships they build carrying trade to and from lucrative markets.”

  “And the Hinder Stars . . . aren’t lucrative.”

  “Not any more. These ships were operating here on a small, low-mass trade in luxuries. You’re too young to remember when exotics came on a regular basis from Sol. One shipment could provide enough to keep these local ships in the black and Alpha in good supply. But FTL just slowly changed things. And then those stolen plans made their way to Sol and it was all material for Rights, from then on, no concern for the local ships, except from Alpha
and the stations they keep alive.”

  She glanced up at the screen, frozen on the moment where he’d said Rights should be given to one of the Alpha Families, and on the hungry look on young Ross Monahan’s face.

  “Earth’s still real to this lot, Jen. Real—in the perpetual hope that they’ll find that route and have all the luck Pell had. There’s a mother lode of trade, just waiting, on the far side, if Sol finds a jump point that leads to Alpha and not to Pell.”

  “What are the chances?”

  “Astronomers think decent, at least. But it’s not a certainty.”

  “They could shift base to Venture, get real ships. And still reach Alpha.”

  “No point, really. It’s only for these older ships that the Hinder Stars make sense. This lot . . . for them, everything, every hope, every reward comes from the EC. And only from the EC. They’re stuck. So don’t speak too hatefully of the Company. They may hate it more than you, but they’ll resent your saying it.”

  She grunted. “They’re still Family ships. Can’t tell me they aren’t just a tad bit jealous of Finity. Can’t tell me they don’t want out of here.”

  She reached up, zoomed in again on that one face that did, indeed, stand out from the rest. The old man next to him—that look was unfathomable. Those eyes had seen things a lot older than his current ship. But the young one was wide open. No way that young man didn’t dream of having a longhauler’s capabilities at his fingertips. The sleeve patch, below the tangled knot of Galway, was the compass rose: Nav-track. A tighter zoom brought up the 1.3—which on a two-by ship wasn’t seated crew, just trainee, but—

  Bright young man. To be first-shift nav trainee at his age—even on a ship Galway’s size—meant a quick mind and a spookily good memory. But that young man would know only a narrow set of routes to and from Alpha. Calc that changed, but not that much. Not that demanding. The fire, however, the interest—

  Galway would have seen Rights growing year by year on A-mast, fast forwarded in time-dilated leaps of assembly, from girders to a massive new reality.

  Salt in a small ship’s wounds, that would be. JR felt sorry for all of them.

  Pell was worried—slightly—about this reported mega-ship.

  To his observation, Pell didn’t yet grasp the half of it. The ship itself wasn’t what they should be looking at.

  Run-down also didn’t describe that situation on Alpha. By the look of things, the bar menu, and the response of the market to their cargo—Alpha’s ship-building thus far had gained Alpha nothing other than a lot of EC enforcers. Police. No station-folk idly passing an evening on Alpha’s Strip—an iron separation of stationers from merchanter areas, fines and arrest threatened. A dearth of shops and trinkets. Entertainment offered here might have value as antiques, but some of it wasn’t working.

  Galway’s captain, not that old himself, had just shaken his head and glowered—no such wild thoughts in that one. The old one, Nav 1 by his sleeve, was impossible to read.

  But the young man, one life away from a seat at Galway’s boards, might dream, if only for a moment.

  “Galway’s Venture-built,” he said to Jen. “Modern, compared to the other ships based here: the best they’ve got as a regular. I’ve tried to get history on her—why she ended up Alpha-based; but I think it was favor-trading, EC at Venture helping out the EC at Alpha. The old man beside him—I’m pretty sure that’s Fallan Monahan, one of the real old-timers, off the pusher Atlas. And that, mind you, is another very different attitude. Different. Just different mindset.”

  “Like Mum.”

  “Mum actually knows this man.”

  “Really?” Jen rolled the scene back, focused in a bit closer on the old man. “Not like Mum. He looks ancient.”

  “Mum minus a lifetime serving Alpha. A long time ago. Real long time.”

  “Before us.”

  “Definitely before us.”

  “Could Mum talk to him?”

  “Maybe. But right now—you picked out the one who’s talked to us. This young man . . . Ross Monahan: He talked to Fletch after the lockdown. He’s curious. He’s the kind of ambitious individual that could get tracked into Rights, if they could ever wash the Family loyalty out of him. Nav 1.3, trainee in a two-by, four-shift ship. Came over for a near-beer, introduced himself politely, talked to Fletch, who told him there’d be more at another meeting, at which point young Ross shut up and sensibly sat with two of his cousins until the place opened up again, listening far more than he talked. Which is saying don’t sell him short. He may be looking at us.”

  “How’s his dockside record?”

  “Next to yours, immaculate.”

  Jen mock-scowled at him.

  “Clean,” JR amended. “One disorderly connected with a birthday party. The lad’s a saint. That’s it.”

  “Preferences? Pairings?”

  “No record. This crowded a dockside . . . that’s unusual here. Three ships overlapping is rare. It’s a real small inbred circle, Alpha, so inbred you’d better exchange genealogies with your potential partners. And you don’t find stationers mixing here. So it’s possible there’s nobody he’s tied to.”

  “Mmm.” She tapped the screen off and stood up, putting on her jacket. “You want him, Uncle, sir . . . you’ve got him.”

  “Don’t get cocky, young lady. Remember what I said. Watch yourself. Keep us posted where you are. Don’t assume anything. Don’t assume he’s not looking for information. Don’t assume station isn’t.”

  She turned and her face now was anything but coy or smug. “I absolutely know what’s at stake. I do know. And this is absolutely not the place I want to get stranded.”

  Chapter 3 Section iii

  Rosie’s traffic was low for the hours between dinner and sleepover, those hours when crew on liberty either had hooking up or serious gaming to do. There was a fivesome in a dice game in one corner and a couple of determined drinkers with Firenze patches—things hadn’t gone well for that ship today: test power-up of the cranky nav system had completely failed. Two crew had gone out to Firenze today to try a programming fix. Two had come back in deep disappointment.

  Ross . . . was just sitting. Waiting.

  Things weren’t going outstandingly well for Galway, either, or for any of the regulars up and down the Strip. The blue-coats had made no friends tonight. Sullen groups gathered . . . in various places a little less monitored . . . grumbling among themselves, waiting—as the captains sorted out what they did know.

  Galway hadn’t called a crew meeting yet, for one very major thing: because senior captain Niall had gotten a see-me from station admin. Whether other captains had gotten the same, Ross was hesitant to ask, figuring the less ships looked askance at each other or passed fragments of information, the better for junior officers who should not be letting confidential bits of business slip into the rumor stream.

  He wished Fallan would contact him. He’d heard nothing since he’d been released from Critical Mass’s front door. But there was nothing, and so he sat with Mary T and Ashlan, nursing one of Rosie’s specials, waiting for news, radiating a warn-off to cargo-ops cousins who drifted in, seeking answers he didn’t, at the moment, have.

  Yes, he’d been at the meeting. Yes, he’d stayed inside Critical Mass after the blue-coats locked the doors. Yes, he’d heard what the Neihart captain had to say, and no, he left opinions about that and about the blue-coats to the senior officers for right now. Fallan had gotten roughed up, had gotten slammed around in the melee, it wasn’t clear whether it had been the blue-coats doing the shoving, but yes, he was damned mad about that. How was he not? How was any Galway crew not mad about it? You didn’t shove an old man into a wall, whoever you were, but until he heard from Fallan what had happened he wasn’t expressing an opinion to anybody.

  Didn’t mean he didn’t have one. The blue-coats had gotten too damned excited a
bout shutting them in, and the crowd had gotten way too excited about getting out before they got written up and before ships got fines. But fact was, station authority had gone way over the edge, and if the blue-coats were going to shut the doors, they should have shut them fast, not waited till there was a jam in the outlet.

  Sure, there was a lot for station to quarrel with in what JR Neihart had said, but that didn’t make it illegal. The station could claim Neihart was creating unrest. But if the station tried to make it illegal to say that sort of thing, if it was illegal even to say that maybe Alpha ought to do what Pell and Cyteen had done, and give the ship Alpha had built into Family hands—that was just an opinion, wasn’t it? Opinions weren’t illegal.

  And it wasn’t threatening riot. Was it? Certainly there’d been no riot . . . not even raised voices . . . until the red lights had begun to flash.

  Give Rights to the Alpha Families, JR Neihart had said, and then, as if those words had been a trigger, blue-coats had swarmed the meeting, and as everybody jumped for the exits, they’d shut the doors, trying to trap those present.

  It had gone absolutely crazy from there.

  It was only natural. Escape was what people did when there’d been a bar fight and there’d be charges to settle.