Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  “And we do maintain that bargain—with our pusher ships. FTL merchant traders are another sort of creature.”

  “We agree. Absolutely. Gaia delivered EC cargoes to Alpha for no charge, and Alpha sent them on to other places, maintaining, fueling, supporting and supplying the pusher crews. You still have that relationship with Atlantis and Santa Maria for supply of all sorts of goods—not unique in this day, but certainly of longest standing. The advent of FTL, the proliferation of ships, the development of companies not within the EC, plus the ability of ships to purchase their own cargoes, in part—all this has complicated the situation for both stations and ships.”

  “And makes impossible the relationship merchant ships used to have with the station. A station has its own needs.”

  “I agree, sir, Perfectly well understood. In the days of pushers, maintenance and updating was relatively straightforward. For the First Star ships, much of the refurbishing could be done at Sol and for the rest, those who no longer made the Sol run, the necessary equipment could be brought from Sol. But when an FTL ship needs extensive repair—or specialized updates—who does it? Who pays? The ship? Her station of registry? The stations she serves? Stations are no longer all things to all comers. Stations specialize. And it’s not extraordinary that a ship has a problem its primary station can’t solve.”

  “You’re referring to the Galli ship.”

  “It’s an example, yes, but by no means unique. The Gallis get the dregs of cargo because their timely arrival—in fact their arrival at all—is by no means guaranteed. At this rate, the ship and its Family are destined for bankruptcy, or worse, if that nav unit finally fails completely. What they likely need is a completely new nav system out of Venture, who built her in the first place. A system it would take a year to manufacture, customize and calibrate, and another half year to ship. Cost would, of necessity, include the travel, lodging, and return of personnel expert in its installation. The ship in question can’t afford it. Few ships could. But can you afford the loss of one of your two large ships, sir? Not to mention the human life if the old system fails?”

  “We have had the ship under repair. We will redo the work.”

  “You have done. Several times. It’s obvious there is an ongoing problem that may lose Alpha a ship.”

  “Is that the reason for your visit here, Captain? The reason for four ships arriving here at the edge of everything? To force Alpha into covering this economically ruinous overhaul?”

  “In some degree, sir, though we had only caught the rumor of the Gallis’ situation as we passed Venture.”

  A decided frown. “And how is it Venture’s concern?”

  “We heard of it there. Scuttlebutt on the docks. If it’s not an official concern for Venture, it may become one—for merchanters as a group.”

  “Is this a threat, Captain?”

  “Not at all. As a group, sir, as an organization, we’re offering to support Firenze on station hold, and to put several engineers on the problem to analyze it. If it’s what they think, our first question is—can Alpha replace the nav unit and sensor array?”

  “No. We can’t.”

  “Can you build a new ship for them?”

  Lengthy silence. Obvious evidence was riding atop A-mast. But so was the fact the resources were unavailable. And so was the fact that the only FTL ship Alpha had ever built was the monster on A-mast. And it had failed its first attempt at jump.

  “No.”

  “I will point out, sir, there is a large ship available.”

  “I will point out, Captain, that that ship will not come under discussion.”

  “Understood. Entirely understood. So, with that option officially off the table, the alternative is to seek resources available at Venture, a new nav unit and array to be shipped here, along with personnel to install and test the system.”

  “And you’re prepared to engage those resources. You. Personally.”

  “Not me, personally. We, collectively.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Merchanters, Mr. Abrezio. Merchanters.”

  “Merchant spacers. Backed by Pell? Or what?”

  “Backed by no one but ourselves. Collectively, the sixty-three Families who move goods between stations. All stations.”

  He left a silence. He let Abrezio think, and think twice.

  “All stations.”

  “All stations. Venture. Pell. Viking. Mariner. Cyteen. And farther on. Sixty-three Families who don’t want to see it reduced to sixty-two. We will pay all charges for Firenze crew to layover here at Alpha, as long as it takes for an order to get to Venture, for Venture to manufacture the components; as long as it takes to bring technicians to Alpha to install the system, and to get Firenze back in ordinary operation—at which point Firenze will likely convey the technicians back to Venture, and begin paying back an interest-free loan of whatever magnitude it has to be. We expect to agree on a set price for their sleepover costs per seven maindays, and we expect basic services and meals on a per diem rate. And likewise for the technicians when they arrive, which we expect would be in a bit over a year. When Firenze goes back on the schedule, her first run will involve cargo for Venture, to provide transport for the techs. Once we know the extent of the problem—and our engineers are going out today to make that inspection—we’ll negotiate a settlement of past and future charges with you, figure the design specs, and send out an order to Venture.”

  A moment more of silence.

  “And the funds?”

  “Will materialize in the form of credits at Venture, which I think you would prefer to Pell, and shipping and labor at the market rate current at time of purchase. It’s good business for everybody.”

  “Including merchant spacers?”

  “It prevents any of us from getting into the Gallis’ situation. Ever.”

  Abrezio frowned. “It requires a dent in your profits.”

  “What did Gaia ask, in lieu of everything Earth offered? Maintenance of the ship, and comfort of its crew. Our ship is everything. Money is nothing—unless we can’t obtain enough of it to solve a problem. That’s the way it’s always been.”

  “You—who have no want of luxuries.”

  “We transport them. We enjoy a few. But we don’t always have them. There’s always next run.”

  “This organization of yours. It stretches—how far?”

  “Wherever merchanters go, sir.”

  “Including Cyteen’s territory.”

  “There, too.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  JR shrugged. “Not yet. Our turnaround is Mariner. But we never say never.”

  “There’s political power—where there’s money.”

  “There’s not a lot of liquidity—so to speak—in our funds. And we’re not interested in controlling anything other than our own ships. We have our principles, same as before. Maintenance of our ships. Freedom of movement. Regarding which, sir, we don’t admit customs to our deck.”

  “Our regulations demand inspection. You chose to dock here. No one forced you.”

  “There is a regulation dating from the establishment of Bryant’s Star Station—which requires that no ship may be denied service, supply, fuel, or station access, whether by direct link or transport.”

  “I am perfectly aware. However, no station is obliged to provide these gratis, and no station is obliged to admit persons to freedom of the docks if they are disruptive, violent, or threatening same. Station integrity is the paramount rule.”

  “As is ship integrity.”

  “You are, at this moment, Captain, on Alpha’s deck.”

  “And we are enjoying your hospitality, sir, under the Bryant’s Star Accord. While here, we observe your rules. Our rules begin at our hatch. We have offloaded certain goods, which passed customs inspection on arrival on your deck. We have re
ceived credit, which we have spent in your facilities. You do not have the right to inspect what is not arriving on your deck. If you have particular concerns, we will be happy to admit customs to our hold, under the watch of our own people, but not to our ship’s ring and not to our downside deck. That is our regulation. And it will apply to every merchanter in our organization.”

  “That will pose a problem, Captain.”

  “I understand your concern. But we are not an EC entity. Atlantis and Santa Maria are EC built, and your rules may apply. Where the EC maintains its own ships—it may ask access to them. Where merchanters maintain their own ships—the EC has no right of access. By freeing stations of their ancient obligation to maintain our ships, we are declaring ourselves independent sovereign states. Each ship. Each Family. But we are signatory to a common agreement of principle, and that is one of them. Our decks—our rules.”

  The frown never ceased—a perplexed frown and a troubled one. “I am not prepared to agree.”

  “You are, however, hospitable and reasonable.” JR lifted the half-empty glass. “And we respect your rights on your own deck. If you wish us to withdraw and stand off, we shall, but I hope we can simply ignore the issue—as you have with three of us you have not apparently tested.”

  “I’d like to know how you know we tried entry, Captain.”

  “I’d rather not explain that. It would be inconvenient to have an argument.”

  “Then I do know.”

  “We still needn’t have an argument. We’d much rather extend some help here, which would include getting one of your ships back in good running order, which could bring you more frequent calls at Venture—and better supply.”

  Abrezio wasn’t entirely happy. That was a given. “Sixty-three sovereign states, is it? Chaos.”

  “‘Our decks, our rules’ binds all. Even us. We want to fix Firenze. She’s too new to go to the breakers. You’d benefit from her repair, her custom, her service. On the other hand, we can transport the Gallis out of the Alpha Reach, and you’d be a ship short. So will you be if they fail a jump, which is a real and present danger until that system is replaced. So it’s much the same for you—give or take the matter of conscience. I’m asking—asking for your help, Stationmaster. You have a good reputation. I hope you’ll give that help.”

  “A good reputation, give or take the presence on A-mast.”

  “I’m not mentioning that.”

  “Except to a bar full of Alpha merchanters.”

  “As a principle, Stationmaster, nothing more. That ship is part of the agreement you have with Sol EC. It’s nothing to us, other than a real and present safety concern. I don’t know why that ship aborted its run. If it was unexpected, I’d suggest you get another batch of techs to go over systems, concentrating on the vane alignment. That’s my opinion.”

  Very guarded expression, that. “Concern for our welfare, Captain?”

  “Concern for human life, sir. If it wasn’t a planned shutdown. Safety systems could be suspect. But I’d look at the vanes first, then the nav sensors.”

  “I’ll relay your concerns. Remembering how you came in here.”

  And there it was. He drew a long, slow breath and let it go. Reports had said that entry had set a few alarms off. “A safety measure, among other things.” Well that someone here, he thought, see a longhauler in operation. But he didn’t say it. Abrezio had his limits. A proud man in a bad position, who’d been handed a number of unpleasant things to swallow. “I think we’ve expressed our concerns, each.” He finished the glass. “I do mean my observation on the shutdown, sir. I know the type, to say the least. But I won’t stress the situation further. I’m not going to agitate against station authority. The EC isn’t my target. In point of fact, I’m not for shutting down any station: they’re our livelihood, too, and your health is our health. You have your agreement with the EC. I’m asking you to consider another with us, to the benefit of all parties involved.”

  He stood up and set the glass on the metal strip at the edge of the desk, offered his hand. Abrezio considered a split second. And took it.

  “I’ll appreciate your cooperation, Captain, and your discretion. I don’t want a repeat of the incident at Critical Mass.”

  “Nor do we, sir. We’ll do our best.”

  He took his leave, exited the office, and gathered up Fletcher, who was waiting in the outer office. He kept a pleasant expression.

  He didn’t change that until they were well out of the executive offices, and through the section door that led onto the Strip and its gaudy neon.

  “We talked,” he said to Fletcher. “Fairly frankly. He reacted moderately—not happy. I didn’t expect that, considering he has to explain to Sol. But he discussed. We discussed. He didn’t like us dealing with the Gallis. He certainly didn’t like the independent states concept. The organizational concept has him just as worried . . . justifiably, in all logic. If we meant harm, we could do it. Believing we won’t—is a bit of a stretch for him.”

  “You think he’s giving all the orders?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think he’d have tried the hatch entry, among other things. He’s got a lot of other points of trouble to worry about. As I read him, Rights is an albatross hanging about his neck and likely has been ever since his first days in office.”

  Since those early Finity plans had landed on Abrezio’s desk, the man really had had no choice in the matter, not on this station. Billingsly, the man who had stolen the plans, had been vocal enough about what he’d done, long before he hit Alpha’s dock, and he’d left on the next pusher back to Sol, where he was reportedly some kind of hero. Abrezio had had no choice but to transmit those plans on to Sol.

  “If Abrezio didn’t order the inspection,” JR said, “it had to be Vice Admiral Andy Cruz.”

  Fletcher gave a derisive snort. “What’s there to be admiral of, I’d like to know.”

  “Precious little—at the moment. Buzz on the Strip says he’s ultimately in charge of the station police.” It was a question: Fletcher’s crew had been busy checking the local security.

  “Not the civilian side,” Fletcher said. “Civilian side is a Bellamy Jameson. Cruz’s authority is anything to do with that ship. It’s that other Earth-born import: Hewitt. He’s Cruz’s chief of project security. Came in on the last pusher. Hewitt runs project security, and he’s coopted control of security on the Strip and A-mast. Cruz is in over-all control up there. Something like the action at Crit Mass could have gone from Cruz to Hewitt without going through Abrezio’s office.”

  “The outcome of which seems more than a potential problem, I think. And Cruz’s ship isn’t working.”

  “Not a happy man, that.”

  “Definitely. Abrezio seems to have a problem—and we don’t want to make it worse.”

  Chapter 6 Section iii

  A new rumor ran the Strip full-force. Rosie’s was full of it.

  Fixing Firenze was the heart of it.

  And Firenze’s signing with the visitors . . . in return for it . . . was a subject of intense debate, not greatly helped by a handful of Firenzes drunk an hour and a half after maindark. “We’re alive,” was one recurrent theme; and a staggery thank you was scrawled in maintenance marker paint on the decking outside the Olympian and the Prosperity, the Red Star, and the Homeport, across from each other, which housed the visitors.

  Station maintenance was busy scrubbing the illicit marker paint, but the word was out, the outsiders were going to pay for Firenze’s repairs, and Firenze was going to stay parked until they rebuilt the whole sensor array, inside and out, and completely replaced the nav system.

  “God, who’d they sleep with?” was one comment.

  “Is station going with it?” was another.

  Galways gathered in some numbers, not in the restaurant attached to the sleepover, but in the back corner of Rosie’
s, which they held as Galway territory. Ross was there, having a sworn promise from a junior runner to notify him if Fallan stirred out of his room.

  “So what’s this story?” Ross wanted to know, and Ashlan elaborated, much as they had, which was that the outsiders were here to pay Firenze’s bills and see her fixed.

  It was good news—sort of.

  “What are they asking?” was the logical question. Jen hadn’t said anything about it, but then Jen would say it wasn’t her business to talk for her captain.

  Fair enough. But—that question was major.

  “Rodriguez senior is talking to them now,” the word came back. “He’s a harder sell.”

  Definitely that. Santiago would be asking how Firenze got an assist and how Santiago, which ran in the black most times, now had to compete against a ship with newer systems . . . it wasn’t all that charitable, but it was a question, and Diego Rodriguez was the hard-nosed type to ask it. It underlay, certainly, the thoughts in Ross’s head. Do we now have to contend with a Pell-funded competitor? Is it a move to divide us?

  Niall didn’t look that happy today. He sat with Owen O, second-shift captain, and the two of them had their heads together, nobody questioning them, since there seemed to be no answers.

  Then Niall tapped his mug with a spoon, getting attention, and said, “Station’s likely to have a word about this. Somebody go feed the music box.”

  The harmonium was cheap—took chits you bought at the bar, and sometimes got for free with a big bill. The chits were the way it worked, mostly, Ross had always thought, to prevent bar fights: if your chit was in first, you got your selection, and most of them were loud for a reason, guaranteed privacy at every table near a speaker if you kept your heads down and didn’t encourage lip-readers.