Alliance Rising

by C. J. Cherryh

  Lines were continually adjusting on the overlay. Change and no-change, calculations down to the last hope of avoidance. Firenze’s progress was inexorable. Rights’ progress was a slowly moving number. Giovanna Galli’s mouth was a thin line, her face and her Helm’s both frozen, stolidly watching.

  Come on, JR thought. Finity would have sounded an alarm, he would have entered an override, and Helm would have reacted with a solution.

  But Finity would never be in this situation. That hard burn . . . damn, what the hell had Helm been thinking?

  There was a blue line. Rights’ track, and a red one, Firenze’s, They were headed for intersect, past and present solid color, showing no future course for either ship past intersect, but transparent circles that could be rebound, and wreckage.

  Then the redline, Firenze’s track, turned yellow, and a yellow line sprang into existence. Perspective shifted. Yellow was continuing now, and blue advance slowed drastically

  “It’s a miss!” Asha said. “She’s going to miss!”

  Giovanna and her Helm grabbed each other’s arm, hoping.

  “The clearance,” ops’ cold voice said, “will be one point three-seven meters.”

  A cheer went up. It was still to prove—it was tight. There was a little tractor effect. But ops’ computers handled that sort of thing.

  “Firenze is clear,” ops said finally. “Rights is braking. Ops will prepare a tanker to overtake and refuel the parking-bot, and return Firenze to a safe position beside Qarib.”

  “Mr. Director,” JR said, above the murmur in the room. “Suggest you move Rights out to park. They may try to contact Galway in hopes of a fix for the shut-down. If they get one, we may have them yet to deal with.”

  “Captain.” That was ops. “Galway has jumped. She is no longer in the system.”

  The room fell quiet.

  Stayed quiet for a long moment.

  Chapter 17

  Section i

  When that yellow line had continued, and Firenze sailed clear, for a moment everything had been all right. It drew a huge cheer in Rosie’s.

  The image lasted a full minute. Then the image shifted back to the schedule board. The Rights of Man was listed as Departed, but instead of a destination it said Mechanical Hold.

  And right under it, Galway was listed as Departed System and the destination said Sol.

  Ross read it. Took pains to keep expression off his face. Jen was by him. Nearby, Owen Monahan, Second Captain, was getting a call, and nodding solemnly. Every Galway face in Rosie’s, by ones and twos, turned toward Owen, who listened intently, and a silence fell. Laughter still drifted in from out on the Strip, but there was none inside Rosie’s, now.

  “Good luck to them,” Jen said under her breath. “Fallan’s no fool. Nor’s your captain. He’ll be rid of them first chance.”

  They’d hoped, through the hours, that somehow they might get a call from Galway that it was all settled, that they’d gotten the better of Cruz and his blue-coats. But that call hadn’t come.

  They’d just gone. Early.

  It was even possible they’d gone without telling their passengers to belt in, trank down, take precautions. If so . . . it wouldn’t be pretty on the far side.

  Adrenaline was still high. Ross’s heartbeat was heavy and felt slow. Or time was out of sync for him, and things were drifting past, surreal.

  Jen’s hand was on his. Somebody else’s rested on his shoulder, some cousin, he thought, somebody who wished him well.

  He couldn’t feel lonely, where he was, among Family, and with friends. But he could feel—left. Lost. And apt to stay that way, maybe for a lifetime. He kept seeing the bridge, and Cruz, and Niall and Fallan, and the blinding red brightness and absolute dark outside the hull. He still coughed, and it still hurt like hell, and he had a sip of beer to try to stop the feeling.

  Peg sat down by him, said, “You did right, Ross. You did everything you could. Now it’s their turn. Just wish ’em well.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and looked again at the uncompromising screen. “Yeah.”

  Chapter 17 Section ii

  “Paperwork.” Funny how, even though hard copy was virtually nonexistent now, the term for filling out forms remained.

  And for the Senior Captain of Finity’s End, ensconced now in his sleepover office, the pile-up was considerable, after recent events.

  Little Bear had left. She’d kite through Bryant’s, stay for conference at Venture, and dispatch news for Pell via courier.

  After which—

  JR still asked himself whether Cyteen had always known the route Galway was following. But Cyteen still had to be told, and meanwhile Finity had to get signatures, virtual or otherwise, on agreements—in which endeavor they had to deal with their opposite number, Dublin.

  They had Alpha’s agreement to the Alliance, made in full disclosure of Galway’s revised mission and Alpha’s commitment to nudge Glory and Bryant’s Star into joining. Not too curiously, Abrezio had seemed relieved at the longer time frame. The more time to get the station in good order and the Rights crew sorted out, so he said.

  And he was committed to that course. He’d explained everything, and handed over the coordinates minutes after Galway jumped. Never mind they already had those numbers thanks to Fallan’s quick thinking and Ross’s courage; it was an act of faith and good will JR could appreciate.

  The standoff of the big ship was working better than they’d dared hope. An in-depth examination of the operational manuals had revealed there was no override built into her systems. The stolen plans predated Finity’s actual build. And there was nothing in the build notes to imply the local engineers and programmers had yet considered the possibility they might need to argue with the ship’s alarms and clearances— Rights was, granted, still in testing, and her crew was still in training. And she was stuck.

  He’d had the dubious pleasure of sitting in on the teleconference with Rights’ acting captain, who had been willing to talk—at length. The man did have a slick tongue. If one believed him, Hewitt had noticed the meeting between Abrezio’s office and Galway, and when the entire Monahan Family had gathered in a secure meeting room in station offices, Hewitt had known it and made the leap of logic as to what those private meetings had entailed. He’d gone to Cruz, and Cruz—obsessed, so Hewitt claimed—with his place in history, had made the decision to board Galway and take personal command of the mission, leaving Hewitt in charge of the Rights program.

  One could imagine exactly how that conversation had gone, and who planted the idea in whose head.

  Hewitt explained the illegal pull-out as a choice necessitated by the position Abrezio had put him in. He’d believed Abrezio’s advisement that Finity was going to move against Galway and Cruz, and now he understood that Abrezio had both distrusted him and misled him, and he was very sorry Abrezio had felt compelled to do that. He now understood what Finity was about, Hewitt said, and he wished he had known from the outset, because he would have done differently. His trainee crew aboard were good people, and they were suffering and they wanted to come home.

  He would work with Abrezio in the hopes they could present Sol, when Sol did arrive, a healthy merchant trade. He would truly hope, given that Abrezio had a working relationship with Finity, that he might even get information from Finity, possibly the help of Finity’s captains, in ironing out Rights’ problems and getting her safely into operation.

  He would welcome Finity engineers aboard. Rights would, after all, be Abrezio’s success as well as his and Cruz’s.

  And he would appreciate it if Rights were moved back into dock.

  Perhaps, JR had thought, looking at the complete disgust on Abrezio’s face, it would be.

  When hell froze over.

  Abrezio and his staff had begun interviewing offices Hewitt dealt with, and the inquiry, now that Hewitt was contained,
was getting a very different story from the one Hewitt told. Seasoned enforcement officers and a vice president of the station bank were now talking about reprisals, inappropriate information-gathering and, not too surprising, exchange of favors with a construction firm, soon to be under investigation.

  Hewitt and his crew were to stay indefinitely on Rights of Man, parked where Firenze and Qarib had been parked. They had rotation, but no override code. So Rights sat, with a machine’s patience, completely stalled and calmly awaiting a code to end the shutdown, which was likewise not in Hewitt’s manual. Meanwhile there was food, there was water—Rights was amply supplied from her intended run to Bryant’s.

  And there was an understanding given, that if any enforcement personnel could muster an appeal from someone on Alpha, like family willing to take on legal responsibility, they could be extracted and offered a chance to leave the service for other employment.

  And Abrezio, so he said freely, began to hope for at least three years before Sol EC invaded his station . . . that information had breathed life into the man, who began to have plans, definite plans, and who wanted to talk to other stations and to the Konstantins, who wanted time to greet the future as a partner, not a servant.

  Finity made a commitment to watch the situation. There was a time-within-which Galway was likely to return if she could return: first if they were in safely at the first jump-point but had reason to doubt the next one was safe; and second, if they made it all the way to Sol and came back with mission accomplished.

  Finity added Alpha-Bryant’s-Venture to her schedule, with a promise of raw materials destined for station repair, goods high on Abrezio’s requests in return for his signature on the Alliance agreement. And Finity’s mission back through the strand of stars was to negotiate a station-rights agreement with other stations and sign them up as alliance-compliant stations before he approached Pell for the Konstantins’ signature.

  The Monahans were well set at Alpha, determined to wait for Galway’s return—and to deal with what fell out. Alpha was, in ways still not completely within a Beyonder’s emotional makeup, their home port, a term almost as potent with them as ship.

  The Gallis were doing well enough—heroes of the action against Hewitt. Firenze was back in dock . . . on A-mast . . . and a thorough examination by Firenze and Finity engineers had created a sizable purchase order that Finity herself would see filled at Venture and Pell.

  It was, overall, a good result. Even Rosie’s plumbing, according to a cheerful message from Jen, had been fixed. He could only hope Dublin was having equal luck. Two or three years, station time, was a scary-short window before things might begin to happen.

  “JR?” came over his earpiece.

  Fletcher was back. He touched a button on the device. “Did you find him, Fletch?”

  “Right here.”

  “Send him on in.”

  “Not alone.”

  Why was he not surprised.

  “Just him, please. Tell her I promise not to bite.”

  “She’ll object.”

  “And he doesn’t need her doe-eyes on him while he’s thinking. She’s a persuasive little rascal.”

  “That she is. Sending him in.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door slid open, and young Ross Monahan stepped through. Jen was right behind him, but stopped at the threshold, under JR’s warning glare.

  The door slid shut and JR waved a hand at the second chair in the room. “Have a seat.”

  “Sir.” Ross sat . . . on the edge.

  “You’re looking better. Memory back yet?”

  “Solid, sir.”

  “Excellent. Thought as much. Got a copy of your full account.” He picked up a data-stick. Laid it down again. “You’re a hero, Ross.”

  He squirmed. “No, sir. My shift . . . they’re the heroes.”

  Not comfortable with the word. That was a good sign.

  “We’re set to leave in four days.”

  “Jen said. Sir.”

  A little wistful, for all he tried to hide it.

  “Miss her, will you?”

  Ross met his eyes squarely. “A bit.”

  “Cocky.”

  “No, sir.” Except he wasn’t. The two had been pretty much inseparable for days now. Their relationship had become open season for ribbing. He’d met JR’s query with the response it damnwell deserved, and JR liked that in him.

  “So . . . what will you do? Got a bit of a wait ahead.”

  “Try to keep sharp. Those sims you gave us will help. We’re very grateful.”

  “When Galway gets back, she’ll be getting a refit. New engines. The works. You’ll be one up on your team.”

  His brow twitched. “Not by choice, sir. And I won’t replace Fallan or Ashlan. No way I’ll step up.”

  “They’ll welcome the knowledge. You know they will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He moved his fingers, taking the sheet of paper with it.

  “Sims aren’t as good as the real thing.”

  “Better than nothing.”

  “And if I were to offer you an alternative?”

  That got him a look. Straight and narrow-eyed.

  “How would you like to shadow the boards on Finity . . . until Galway returns?”

  Eyes widened. Temptation. Oh . . . the temptation. Then squeezed shut.

  “No, sir. I need to stay with the Family. We’ve got to weather this together.”

  “Understand, you’re not the only one I’m making the offer to. Just the first. Because, no argument, Ross, you have earned favor-points on this ship. And there’s one of us would be particularly happy if you spent a while.”

  He sat still, just staring into space. Then: “Does Jen know about this?”

  JR shook his head.

  “That’s why you didn’t want her in here.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m tempted, sir, I won’t deny it. But . . . I can’t see myself going off even for a year. Family needs us right now. Needs to know we’re together. And my ship-time . . . if something happened to set me at a gap . . . bad enough my shift going clear to Sol and back without me. There’s people right now old enough—they might not be there when I got back.”

  “Understood. Were our positions reversed, I’d be thinking the same. But we owe you, Ross. We all do. Think about it. It’s a gift we can give Galway—ahead of that refit. And above all else—don’t let Jen make the decision for you. You know how she’d vote. And she lives a lot in the now.”

  Ross attempted a small laugh. “She’s persuasive and she’s got an argument, I’ll grant you that.”

  “And you, sir, have only glimpsed her talents.” JR stood up, held out his hand. Ross stood up and met it, a firm, dry grip. JR picked up a tag, held it out. “Key to Finity’s lock, if you will. Take it. Discuss the terms with whoever you want. Make your decision what’s best.”

  Ross took it and slipped it into a pocket. “Thank you, sir. I will.”

  “This offer isn’t for Jen’s sake, understand that. And it’s not because your presence as eyewitness to what happened on Galway won’t be useful, though it might well. Don’t know how you are on nav, but Fallan picked you, and for nerve that drives the luck, you’ve got it. You proved that several times over. Our nav look forward to working with you. So: it’s an honest offer, but you do what you feel right doing.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He lifted his chin toward the door. “Go now. Before Jen breaks the door down.”

  Chapter 17 Section iii

  It was an undock party unrivaled even, Rosie’s waitstaff said, by Santa Maria’s or Atlantis’ departures.

  Finity’s End was heading out, with Mumtaz and Nomad following within hours. Santiago was preparing to leave in two more days. The bright lights and the music were all shutt
ing down, employees of various sleepovers and eateries going back to other jobs until—well, whatever happened next. The Olympian was shutting down. So were smaller sleepovers, including the Argent, which had housed Santiago crew.

  But not all the bright lights were going. The Fortune was staying open for the Galways, and the Opportunity, for the Firenzes, though the Qaribs were soon to leave.

  There was a sadness about it, the quiet settling in again, but not entirely this time. This time there was something different. There was anticipation for the future—for ships coming back. For change and supply finally coming in.

  There was difference for a few Monahans, too—who were packed up, because they were going with Finity for a run out and back, Finity promising to bring them home better than they went out, trained for systems Galway didn’t have yet, but would. Ross wouldn’t be alone—Ian was going, Helm; Connor Dhu and Netha were going, two of their engees. And they’d get home again: Finity promised it. Ross had had to buy everything. His duffle was aboard Galway, an inconsequence, against everything else that traveled with that ship. He had new clothes, a jacket with the Galway patch . . . and a lot of personal stuff that people chipped in to give him. Most precious thing, his crew ring. That had never left his hand.

  So he was on the other side of matters, saying goodbye for a time—goodbye to Peg, and his mother, his aunt, and a flood of cousins. Goodbye to Owen and everybody he meant to see again in not so long.

  Finity was here, their own sleepover and its bars and restaurants holding their own undock party, but Finitys strayed in and back and forth as they pleased, along with the Mumtazes and the Nomads, so the party in Rosie’s spilled over and out the door and freely mingled with parties up and down the Strip. Blue-coats weren’t highly visible the last number of days, and the Strip got along right well. Officers were still in short supply—mostly it was crew celebrating at this point, while formalities got done and signatures and scrip were accounted for.