Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  “You don’t ask,” Fletcher said, “if you don’t want the answer.”

  “Seen a food lab once,” Boz said, down the table. “Put me off my food for days.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Madison said.

  “It’s—” Boz began, and voices from all the tables in range shut him down.

  “Boz never missed a meal in his life,” Kate said, and Mum:

  “The pancakes are lovely, aren’t they?”

  Com unit gave a distinct quiver in JR’s pocket. He put down his fork and took a look.

  W, it said. 42. And: 80 of 100. The first letter identified the source: Walt, aboard Finity, at dock.

  The second message meant, Pretty well what we expected. And the last was, Customs attempting access.

  “Well,” JR said. “Customs inspectors have shown up at the lock. I may need to cut breakfast short.”

  “Oh, finish your tea,” Madison said. “They’ll be arguing back and forth for an hour at least.”

  “Probably I should call Abrezio’s office.”

  They weren’t supposed to have crew left aboard. Alpha rules did advise that station customs might pull a random inspection. Given that Alpha had its own version of Finity at dock on A-mast, it was a fair guess certain people were dying to have a look inside the original, and random had nothing to do with it.

  The on-board crew was using their own communications to reach them at the moment, a convenience that could be shut down once station figured out there was someone aboard. Station might notice that little blip of contact—if they were monitoring just about everything going on with Finity, which was highly likely.

  Alpha wasn’t supposed to be bugging the sleepovers, either, but they’d found and disabled a few fairly old-fashioned units. They’d warned the minders not to let the children mention certain topics, and the minders understood the seriousness of it all. They’d also doubled up on minders to keep the junior-juniors in line, a much harder proposition: they were keeping the kids confined, which they didn’t like, but so busy with games and new distractions their heads must spin, and Little Bear, Mumtaz, and Nomad were doing much the same. It wasn’t saying somebody might not slip, in one of four ship crews, but not spreading information to all ages and levels in the first place was the best security.

  “Bet’s on,” Fletcher said, “that station admin calls before mainday lunch.”

  “Well,” JR said, and topped off his cup, “I may start my watch with station offices. Or not. I think I’ll give them just a while to figure it out.”

  Fletcher said: “You’re not going anywhere solo, Senior Captain, sir.”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” JR said, “but then I’ve been surprised before. Same for all of you—nobody goes anywhere alone.” Sip of tea. “Abrezio’s coming on watch. Give him at least time to have his morning tea. And we have a meeting I don’t want to postpone.”

  That reaction last night had been . . . unexpected. They’d known the EC was strong here, stronger even than it had been on Bryant’s, possibly as strong, if the blue-coat numbers were any indication, as it was reported to be on Glory, which was really nothing but an EC outpost now, maintained only at direct EC orders. Venture maintained an uneasy supremacy of its station administration over the EC offices, while Pell had outright put its EC office on notice that another incident, no matter how minor, would see the EC not only kicked off Pell, but very likely off Venture as well.

  Getting rid of them here . . . would be a much harder effort.

  But that wasn’t their concern. Stations would do as they pleased.

  As long as that pleasure didn’t include invading a Family ship.

  Chapter 5 Section ii

  The message had gone out. Finity’s End was standing off the customs people. But that was not what brought in, at a casual stroll, Xiao Min of Little Bear, who, passed at the door of the Zenith, settled at the same back table as Finity personnel, and ordered tea on his own tab.

  Asha Druv of Nomad followed, a woman of middle years, who wore fairly conspicuous flash—a purple jacket that sparkled, Mariner-style. Min, by contrast, was all black satin.

  Then there was Sanjay Patel, who had a taste for gaudy electronics; and the Mumtaz crew jackets were embroidered in floral magnificence.

  Not the least conspicuous company ever to assemble.

  And Sanjay brought with him a stout, grey-haired woman in silver studs and black denim, red ship patch with a white fleur-de-lys: Giovanna Galli, she was. Of Firenze. Madison and Boz cleared chairs for Sanjay and the Firenze captain. JR rose from the table. So did other Finitys, a courtesy to a newcomer, who bobbed a responding courtesy.

  “Finity,” Galli said. “You’re JR.”

  “I am, ma’am. You’re Giovanna.”

  “Yes, sir, that I am. My ship’s been screwed up, down, and sideways by Alpha admin, and I’m taking a raw edge of a chance coming here. I had to get five of mine out of detention yesterday. But I don’t see the situation for us can get much worse.”

  “If all goes as we hope, it will get much better. —Please, have a seat.”

  “Yeah, well. We’ll see.” But she did sit, accepted the tea someone passed her, as everybody sat back down.

  “You can talk here in relative safety,” JR said. “The local coverage has been . . . temporarily disrupted . . . and I’m fairly certain the blue-coats will be busy elsewhere.”

  “The 42,” Min said from down the table, meaning the coded alert from Walt aboard Finity. Warning about the attempted boarding.

  “Yes,” JR said. “It’s not critical yet. Won’t be unless they bring a cutter. Give the waiter a moment.” A young man was bringing a rolling tray with refills, and he stayed to clear breakfast dishes. “Second and fourth shift can go off if they want.”

  “Hell, no,” Mum said, clearly set to stay. She snatched her cup out of the waiter’s reach and held up the empty tea caddy. “Fill, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the answer was, and the waiter took it, replacing it with a full one from an adjacent empty table. Mugs followed. The tea caddy went the round, a new full water-pot chased after it, and, for Giovanna and Madison, the sweetener.

  The waiter left.

  “Customs just made a try,” JR said. “We got the signal via the bundle, no problem. We’re just waiting for the complaint.”

  “No movement against our ships,” Min said.

  “Us either,” Asha said. “But they’re dying to get a look inside Finity.”

  “Well and good, but they may try you next,” JR said. “Just to see if they can, if nothing else.”

  “We are ready,” Min said. “We anticipate it.”

  “You locked out customs?” Giovanna asked.

  “We have our protocols. Their form had a polite yes/no about access. I checked no. I believe we all did.”

  Nods up and down the table.

  “So we did tell them,” JR said quietly, “and one hopes they’ll enter quiet discussion about it.”

  “Ha,” Min said.

  JR shrugged, and addressed himself to Giovanna. “We don’t allow inspections at any other station, either. Customs is welcome—if they observe restricted areas, only goods destined for offload. No wandering at will, and they go accompanied by a crew member who’s empowered to say no.”

  “I hate to say,” Giovanna said, “but access is not exactly an issue for us, since some very large ship moved in and bumped us off the mast.”

  “We do apologize for that. We hope to make it up to you.”

  A bitter laugh. “We have to get a special pass and hire a runabout to get aboard our own ship right now, and scheduled work’s stopped. Last try was a bust, and nobody knows what the schedule will be. Listen, this isn’t Pell. It’s not even Bryant’s. Things wait. If you’re not in their face complaining, you get nowhere, and now that we’re out there under bo
t control, we’ll wait. We got a free push out. Bastards will probably charge us for pushing us in when you leave. You take up a lot of room, Finity. In all senses.”

  “We’re aware of that.”

  “And you being what you are, the law doesn’t apply, does it?”

  “Customs has no need to wander through your ship. What comes off your ship, yes, but not what’s staying on it.”

  “Like I said—you being what you are, Captain. And ring-docking’s not happening here. Hell, we can’t even repair what we’ve got. We got that black hole on A-mast. Until that ship goes jump, and probably after, good luck to us: Glory’s the bag end of the universe, and we’re the next stop up from them.”

  “Stations have obligations to us,” JR said, “Conditions they have to maintain. Among other things.”

  “Good luck with that here.” Giovanna drained her tea. “If that’s all you wanted—”

  “It’s not. One understands you’ve had an ongoing nav problem.”

  “One would be correct,” Giovanna said, scowling. “One would be damned correct. For the last five years, our ship has been in Alpha’s hands more than ours. Perpetual repair job, which they keep patching. And we’re delayed again.”

  “You need,” JR said, “a repair they haven’t been willing to give you.”

  “Repair, hell, I need a whole damn system. First engee’s told them time and again, and instead of listening to him, they just keep patching it. And patching it. And patching it.”

  “If it’s ghosty on entry, it’s probably physical in origin, probably happening on a quantum level and likely involving the sensors,” Boz said from down the table. “Programming’s not the fix. Your engineer’s right.”

  “So he’s right. But we got no choice. Yeah, sure, we need a new system. It’s damned scary making jump when the damn unit may or may not drop you out where it’s supposed to. Last breakdown, it took us eight months—eight friggin’ months to limp back in. Who wanted to trade with us, then? Who’ll trust us for the next run, when we know damn well we can’t guarantee anything like a delivery date? We have to set it wide and hope it doesn’t get generous and drop us into the star.”

  “Terrifying,” JR said, and meant it.

  “Tell me so. I got a hundred forty-seven crew and two kids, who put their lives in my hands every time we leave port. I don’t get a helluva lot of sleep on that thought. I don’t want to take those mamas and kids out again.” She shoved her chair back. “Excuse me.”

  Next to her, Madison put a hand on her arm. “We do have an answer, Captain.”

  “Answer? What friggin’ answer?”

  “A fix,” JR said. “I’m not leading you on. Listen to me. Alpha hasn’t the capability of fixing Firenze. That’s why I wanted to talk to you ahead of all others—and ahead of Abrezio. Hold here for a fix. Stay at Alpha until the ship is safe.” Giovanna started to protest the obvious and JR lifted a hand. “You can’t go out again the way you are.”

  “So what can we do? What can anybody do?” The stress showed, long-held and desperate. “Where’s a fix? Where’s a new system going to come from?”

  “We’ll get it.”

  “Like it magically appears.”

  “We can get it. Yes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “We. We . . . who?”

  “Merchanters. There are sixty-three Families, of which you’re one, and four more sit at this table. Station provides for its two pusher-ships. Free board, free room, free stay, free fuel, and free service. But we’re FTL. We haul for ourselves. We make profit. And we take losses.”

  “Tell me about it,” Giovanna said between her teeth.

  “Any of us can have a run of bad luck. Alpha itself has had no favors, in that ship build up on A-mast. But cargo has to move, and stations can’t wait a decade on a pusher arrival. The old Gaia Agreement applies to the pushers, not to us. But it can be adapted to us. There are sixty-three Families, and we’re obviously faster. We meet needs, and it takes all of us, of whatever size, to keep modern stations going. Healthy stations mean healthy trade and healthy industry, which means prosperity for all of us, merchanters and stationers alike.”

  “Yeah. So. We’re little ships. We’re an old ship, broke down at a station that can’t help us. One of your precious sixty-three Families is going to end up doing bit-work and scrub on Alpha if Alpha can’t get us running. And if we break down again, maybe we can limp into Bryant’s, who can’t fix us, either.”

  “Venture could. There is a way the sixty-three can get you running. Will you hear me out?”

  She shrugged, mostly looking at the table. “As long as you’re paying for the tea. I can’t afford this place.”

  “It’s our tab, Captain. Please. Just hear me out.”

  Giovanna still wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t for the last while. She took a clean cup, dropped in a tea packet, poured hot water from the pitcher, and added a packet of sweetener.

  “I’m listening,” she said, still not looking at them. “Surprise me.”

  “It’s like this. A few pushers are still working. But in the spirit of the old agreement, stations have built us ships—at their own expense—and with very few strings attached.”

  “Yeah, well, and first you have to get approved, and the waiting list at Venture is five decades long, station time. We age fast, ashore.”

  “A fix is shorter.”

  “But they don’t hand that out for free.”

  “Hear me out. The old compact still does have a moral force. In your case, Alpha’s failed you. They’re pouring everything into this Company ship that sits useless at dock, while you build up station charges and risk your lives every time you leave dock, bringing them goods and keeping them alive. Yours isn’t the only ship in difficulty, but yours is the most egregious case we’ve run into.”

  “Yeah, well. Small consolation.”

  “Our interest is in not losing one of the sixty-three. And if stations can’t do it—if a ship is needed for a Family to expand, or an existing ship needs repair . . . we’re the bank. We can make a loan—and you’re running again.”

  “There’s got to be a stinger.”

  “Payback, as you can.”

  “We are so deep in debt as is. Station can’t carry us.”

  “And won’t defy the EC to deal with Venture for the parts you need. The group I’m with doesn’t intend to have the system go down to sixty-two Families. So some of us have gotten together with the intent of taking care of our own.”

  She frowned into her tea. He gave her time to parse that. Finally:

  “Bloody hell. How? And what’s in it for you?”

  “How? Sixty-three Families helping each other. A mutual fund into which everyone pays . . . when they’re able. What’s in it for us? We help you now. We pay for the repairs and for the station charges, get Firenze running. Once your ship’s healthy, and you’re running in the black, then you pay in.”

  A short look up. And at the teacup again. “That’s too good to be true. What’s the hook?”

  “Sixty-three of us paying in, sixty-three of us negotiating prices, and leaning, however gently, on a capable station to perform in a timely manner regarding one of our members. That keeps everyone’s equipment in top shape, modernized as needed, and stations learn they have to prioritize our needs, no matter what idiot orders come out of Sol—or Pell, or even Cyteen. Just the cost of doing business. It means no more bottom of the priorities. No more eight months out in the range, limping in and lucky to have made it that close. We can help you. Not charity. Mutual support. Interest-free. We’re not making a profit off each other’s bad luck.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  Giovanna took a sip of tea and her hands shook. “Is that what you come here selling?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re here to sell.”
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  “Even interest-free, we couldn’t pay it back. You’ve seen Bryant’s. You’ve seen here. The trade’s too small.”

  “More ways than credit to pay back. Helping you, frankly, who are in deep as you can get, makes a statement, not just to the ships who haven’t yet signed on, but to the stations as well. There will be standards of maintenance. You can call on other ships if you’re in trouble, and if a station messes with one of us, things will not go smoothly. Let me add the other things we’re asking. Sovereignty. No inspections. What comes off the ship is all customs gets to see. What’s on the ships, or who’s on the ships, is that ship’s business. No law on our decks but the law we make. A ship’s reputation is our consideration. A ship’s viability is our consideration. In the long run, if all goes as planned, the First Stars will become far better off than they’ve been in generations. And if a Sol trade develops, and you need longhaulers here—those ships should be yours. Not the EC’s.”

  “Not for me. I saw you lot come in.” The voice was shaky, between laughter and emotion. “But—bucking the EC—”

  “The EC bucking all the merchanters, everywhere, wouldn’t be the best idea they ever had.”

  “You made the point yourself. There’s some thought they’re building their own ships at Sol. That they’ll come in and we’ll be—” A shrug. “–done.”

  “If our agreement stands, no hired crew will be welcome beyond Venture, especially if half their cargo is blue-coats and their crew is sim-trained stationers. Pell’s not fond of the EC. They haven’t got a good name at Mariner, Viking, or points beyond. Cyteen certainly won’t deal with them. And it’s worth noting, even Cyteen, with all its other notions of upending nature, and with all its resources, works with Family ships as a matter of policy. They don’t compete with us. They have a deal with Pell: trade works, they get what they need, when they need it. They’re happy. We’re happy. We’re pleased to oblige, but we’re not obliged to please. We do not run scared of them.”

  “How do you arrive at that? Power, we haven’t got.”

  “Bottom line, we serve all stations without criticizing their politics, so long as their politics keep hands off our ships. The EC’s a weak threat outside the Alpha-Glory-Bryant’s triangle. Here, thanks to all those blue-coats, maybe the EC rules prevail, but at Venture and beyond . . . they’re pretty well ignored. Sure, some FTL could show up from Sol, any day, any hour. We take that as a given. But before that happens, before the EC shows up and tries to give orders, we want a fundamental principle established, in writing, with all the sixty-three Families—we want our system working, and our sovereignty established. That’s what we’re here to get—a signature from every Family here. Simply put, any station that won’t deal fairly with one of us will be cutting itself off from the rest of us, and good luck moving cargo or information without us.”