Voyage Across the Stars

by David Drake

  “Succinctly put,” Nivelle said. “But may we all sit down, please? There’s less chance for actions being misunderstood if—”

  “I’ll stand!” Ayven said.

  Lissea pulled her chair out and seated herself. Ned, Tadziki, and—a half-beat later—Carron followed her lead.

  “Master Del Vore,” the mediator replied, “I would be most appreciative if you would sit down as I requested you do.”

  It occurred to Ned that Nivelle considered his position here to be as much arbitrator as mediator, and that the Celandine certainly had the force to back up his will. Ayven must have realized that too, because he suddenly dropped back into his seat beside Nivelle.

  The prince was an extraordinarily handsome man. The flush on his cheeks complemented his blond hair.

  “Master Slade,” Lissea said in the tense silence, “will you run the first set of clips, please?”

  Ned switched on the hologram projector in his briefcase.

  “This was assembled,” Lissea explained to Nivelle and the Pancahtans as the equipment warmed up, “from the helmet recorders we normally wear—and wore throughout our stay on Pancahte. The full texts from which the clips were taken are available, sir—”

  She nodded to Nivelle—

  “—Should there be any question about the authenticity of the excerpts.”

  A view of the throne room in Astragal hung above the center of the table:

  “The tanks—” Lon Del Vore’s image boomed from his throne, while the image of Ayven stood beside him and nodded agreement “—they’re an irritation. If you can destroy them, then I’ll let you have the capsule you claim.”

  “Yes, I accept,” said an image of Lissea in profile, viewed from the recording lenses in Ned’s helmet.

  The view cut quickly to a figure—Ned, though the view was from behind and the resolution wasn’t very good— running toward one of the Old Race tanks. The figure patted at the concealed latchplate and the hatch opened to him.

  From the recording, it looked as though Ned had known what he was doing. His guts knotted as he watched the scene, recalling how utterly lost and alone he’d been at that moment.

  The view shifted again: Ned, helmetless, staggered toward the viewpoint against a landscape of magma and hellfire. In the background was the tank he had abandoned in the last seconds of its existence. Armor slumped, and the gun’s long barrel hung askew because the mantlet could no longer support the weight.

  The image panned too fast for good resolution. The recording viewpoint, Lissea, looked back over her shoulder. The tank she had crewed against the alien starship was dissolving in a pool of yellow-white rock.

  The demonstration clip ended with a silent pop of light. Ned switched off the projector.

  “Fulfillment of the agreement is the basis on which we removed the capsule,” Lissea said. “Although the capsule is itself Telarian property. As a matter of fact, it was the coffin of my great-granduncle. We carried out the Pancahtan terms to the letter. Despite the fact that the Treasurer and his son here concealed the existence of—”

  “We concealed nothing!” Ayven shouted as he jumped halfway from his seat.

  A burly Celandine put a hand on the prince’s shoulder and pushed him straight back down. Two soldiers started to rise and thought better of it when they noticed the guns pointed by other security men.

  Nivelle’s mouth curved in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Thank you for your forbearance, Master Del Vore,” he said softly. “Let me remind you all that my instructions from the port commander are to remove this problem by any means within the laws of Celandine. The force that will be used to suppress, for example, the felony of assault and battery would achieve Commander Flamond’s desires.”

  He looked from the Pancahtans to Lissea. “Will be used,” he repeated. “And as for you, Mistress Doormann . . . I would appreciate it if you avoided the use of loaded terms yourself. They won’t advance the discussion.”

  Lissea nodded. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, sounding like a good actress pretending to be contrite. “I might better have said that disabling the tanks as requested brought my crew and myself into dangers that we had no reason to expect.”

  Ned’s fingers moved, cuing another chip while he continued to watch the eyes of the Pancahtan contingent.

  “That ship was your doing!” Ayven snapped. “You used it to cover your escape with what you’d stolen—and with my brother who helped you steal it.”

  Ned switched on the projector. The image began with the dumbbell-shaped starship, half-risen from the shaft in which it had laired for centuries or millennia. Tiny figures of men ran toward their vehicles. The gigantic ship continued to rise.

  The notion that the starship was somehow a ruse of Lissea’s was so ludicrous that even the careful Nivelle smiled. Aloud he said, “I think we can dismiss that, Prince Ayven, since you’ve already stated that you’re willing to forego damages caused during the incident in question. And—”

  His tone hardened, though the mediator hadn’t raised his voice at any point in the proceedings. Ned switched off the projected image.

  “—it appears to me that Captain Doormann has made an unanswerably strong case for her continued possession of the capsule. That leaves the other point.”

  Nivelle eyed Carron with the expression of an inspector viewing a quarter of beef. “The request for extradition of your brother here.”

  “No doubt Celandine honors the principle of asylum?” Lissea said coolly.

  “Celandine has enough problems of its own without our feeling the need to import troublemakers from outside the polity,” Nivelle replied. “We certainly do not grant asylum.”

  He turned like a bullfighter between two animals to face Ayven again. “Nor, I might add, do we extradite to other states as a matter of right.”

  Ayven’s face had remained set in anger during the exchange. The smiles of several of his subordinates wilted like frost-killed flowers.

  “What Celandine will do,” Nivelle continued, “is to view evidence presented by the state desiring extradition, and to make a binding decision whether or not to extradite. What evidence can you provide, Prince Ayven?”

  “He stole a thing, a device, from our father,” Ayven said, coldly precise. “I saw him give it to her.”

  He glared at Lissea. “That was why the tanks didn’t kill her: that theft. Carron is a traitor and has been convicted as a traitor on Pancahte.” He nodded, terminating his statement.

  The trial Lon gave his younger son had probably taken all of thirty seconds, Ned thought.

  Carron stared at Lissea. He reached sideways to take her hand. She twitched it away without looking at him.

  “Yes, that could constitute a serious charge,” Neville said. He tapped Ned’s briefcase with the tip of his index finger. “But what evidence do you have, Prince Ayven?”

  Tadziki drew Carron close to him and whispered into the younger man’s ear. Lissea continued to watch Ayven and the mediator, as though no one else in the open room existed.

  Ayven flushed again. “It didn’t occur to me,” he said, clipping his words in his cold rage, “that I would be treated with such disrespect by bureaucrats.”

  Nivelle nodded calmly, protected from insult by consciousness of his absolute authority. From what Ned had seen of Celandine thus far, it was a place with common-sense rules and very good people enforcing them.

  “However,” Ayven continued, “we have recordings just like they do.”

  He flicked his chin in the direction of Ned and the hologram projector. “I watched Carron hand over the device, and my suit recorded it. The recording itself is on Pancahte, but you have my word of honor that it exists.”

  Nivelle nodded again. “Mistress,” he said, “gentlemen, I’m going to propose a course of events. You’ll have time to consider it, the remainder of the five days. And while I can’t compel agreement—”

  He smiled to underscore the patent lie.
>
  “—if one party agrees and the other does not, it’s likely to affect Commander Flamond’s further actions. Is that understood?”

  “Get on with it,” Carron Del Vore rasped. His fingertips were pressed tightly together, and his eyes were on the center of the large table.

  “First,” Nivelle said, “the capsule in question remains the property of Captain Doormann.”

  He looked at Ayven. “‘If you wish to press your claim for it, you may do so through the judicial system of Telaria.”

  “Go on,” Ayven said, his voice a near echo of his brother’s.

  “Second,” Nivelle continued, facing Lissea. “Carron Del Vore will remain on Celandine at his own expense for five tennights to permit the Pancahtan authorities to provide evidence substantiating their demand for extradition.”

  “No!” said Carron. Tadziki dragged him back down into his seat before a Celandine security man did.

  “If evidence isn’t forthcoming within that period,” Nivelle continued, “or I deem the evidence insufficient for the purpose offered, Master Del Vore will be free to go or stay as he desires. If, however, Pancahte meets its burden of proof—”

  He smiled again. “—in my sole estimation . . . then Master Del Vore will be handed over to the Pancahtan authorities.”

  “Lissea,” Carron cried, “you can’t let them do this to me! I—”

  Lissea turned like a weasel striking. “Carron,” she said, “if you can inform me on how your situation would be improved if the Swift and everyone aboard her were blasted to plasma, then do so. Otherwise, please shut your mouth!”

  Carron swallowed.

  Lissea stood up slowly and easily. The mediator wagged a finger to warn off his security men before one of them reacted. “Master Nivelle,” she said, “I’ll take your suggested procedure under advisement. I’ll have a response for you shortly, certainly before the deadline.”

  Nivelle nodded. “I understand that you’ll want to consider the matter privately, mistress,” he said. “But as you no doubt realize, the matter is absorbing Celandine state resources to very little state benefit, so a prompt response would be appreciated.”

  Lissea walked out of the gazebo. The three men got up and followed. Tadziki gripped Carron’s shoulder in what could have been a comforting gesture.

  The Pancahtans scraped back their chairs. “I’d appreciate it if you gentlemen stayed with me a few minutes,” Nivelle said with his normal bland insistence.

  Tadziki put Carron into the dropshaft, then took the next disk himself. As Ned waited with Lissea, he heard Ayven Del Vore snarl, “I suppose you think you’ve got me over a barrel, don’t you?”

  Lissea stepped off.

  “Yes, Prince Ayven, I do,” the mediator agreed. “But it doesn’t affect my judgment on what would be a fair result.”

  The mechanism swung Ned into the dropshaft. He didn’t know that he’d want to live on Celandine. But he respected the people who did.

  Lissea and Tadziki, with Carron between them, were already striding to the temporarily private bar. Mercenaries cheered as Lissea opened the door. The sound was so viciously bloodthirsty that several of the security men in the lobby reached beneath their tunics.

  Ned smiled with cold reassurance. “Not a problem,” he murmured to the nearest Celandine. “They’re just happy.” He closed the door behind him.

  Lissea waved a hand for silence, but the men had already quieted. They weren’t tense, exactly, but none of them were so drunk that they didn’t realize the importance of the meeting that had just concluded.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, “Tadziki has booked a corridor of rooms for you at the Sedan House a block west of here. Anybody who wants to stay at the Massenet is welcome to do so, but I believe the comfort range of the Sedan House is more in keeping with your requirements.”

  “They’ll cater liquor and girls at the Sedan,” Tadziki amplified. “Or you can bring your own.”

  “That’s my requirement!” Deke Warson shouted.

  “We’ll continue with two-man anchor watches,” Lissea said. “Westerbeke and Slade, you’re on in an hour and a half. You’ll be relieved in another eight hours, but if you’ve got anything urgent I suggest you take care of it fast.”

  Ned met her eyes without comment.

  “I’ve got some decisions to make,” Lissea continued, “and I’m going to make them alone. I don’t want to be disturbed, and I won’t be disturbed. Do you all understand?”

  “I understand I’m going to be too busy to worry about anything but where my prick is in about three seconds flat,” Westerbeke muttered, shaking his head with irritation at where his name appeared on the duty roster.

  “Tadziki, do you have anything further?” Lissea asked.

  “Toll and Deke, I need to speak with you,” the adjutant said. “Nothing beyond that.”

  “Dismissed, then,” Lissea said. She turned. Ned opened the door for her.

  Carron Del Vore caught up with her in the lobby as the mercenaries spilled out, heading for the street door. “Lissea—” he cried.

  “Carron,” she said as Ned and, from within the bar, Tadziki and the Warsons watched, “if you lay a hand on me, I’ll turn you over to Nivelle right now. I doubt he’s left the building yet. Is that what you want?”

  “But—”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Carron walked toward the street door. He hunched as if he’d recently had an abdominal operation.

  Ned left the Hotel Massenet through the door at the far side of the lobby. He thought he’d have a drink, but not here.

  Part of Ned didn’t like what he’d just seen done to Carron Del Vore. That same part didn’t like the other part of Edward Slade’s mind, grinning gleefully to have watched Carron’s humiliation.

  Josie Paetz waited with Yazov just inside the entrance to Hangar 39. They wore their commo helmets and there was no access to the Swift except past them, but it seemed to Ned that the two men were jumping the gun on their liberty a little.

  Paetz regretfully unfastened the pistol belt with twin right-hand holsters and handed it to Ned. “See you, then,” he said. He seemed keyed up—and happier than prospects for a drink and a woman would have made him. “Lay it on my bunk, okay?”

  The heavy door was beginning to close. Paetz jumped out to avoid pushing the call button so that the police guards outside would open the hangar again. Yazov followed.

  Ned opened his mouth to say that one of the pair ought to wait until Westerbeke arrived to fill the minimal anchor watch. He suppressed the words. There was no real risk and anyway, Paetz and Yazov weren’t going to pay the least attention.

  Westerbeke and Carron Del Vore leaped into the dock an instant before the door slammed.

  Westerbeke looked at the gunbelt Ned held. He raised an eyebrow. “Expecting trouble?” he asked.

  Ned shrugged. “They’re Paetz’s,” he explained. “In his terms, he’s just thinking positively.”

  He thought about the attitude of the men he’d just relieved and added, “They were acting . . . as if they expected to land hot. Does that mean anything to you?”

  Westerbeke looked in the direction Paetz and his uncle had gone, though there was a massive door panel between them by now. He shrugged in turn and said, “Tadziki called them after he’d grabbed Deke and Toll. Maybe they’ve got something up, but they haven’t told me—”

  He grinned brightly. “Which suits me just fine. I pilot spaceships. I always figured ‘When bullets fly, I don’t,’ was a curst good rule to live by.”

  Ned didn’t comment, but he remembered Westerbeke’s flawless extraction from Buin and his landing at the same point an orbit later. Like many (though not all) other members of the Swift’s complement, the pilot chose to downplay his accomplishments rather than boasting.

  “Westerbeke,” Carron said, intruding with the air of a man committing to a high dive. “I’ll take your watch. You can go back and . . . and—whatever you want to do. I need
to talk to Slade.”

  “I don’t think—” Ned began with a frown.

  “You know, that suits me too,” Westerbeke said. He reached for the call button.

  Ned caught the pilot’s hand. “I don’t—” he repeated.

  “Slade,” Carron said, “I need to talk with you. It’s critically important. All of our lives are at stake.”

  Westerbeke’s eyes bounced from one man to the other. The pilot looked more entertained than concerned.

  Ned scowled, then came to terms with his own jumpiness. There was no way into Hangar 39 except at the will of Celandine spaceport police; and if he couldn’t handle Carron Del Vore by himself, then he deserved whatever happened to him.

  “All right,” he said, pushing the call button for Westerbeke. It was mildly amusing to note that he’d assumed control, and that neither of the other men had attempted to argue with the assumption.

  He looked Carron over without affection. “You’re here for the full eight hours, Prince,” he said. “You don’t get another chance to change your mind.”

  The door rumbled open. Outside, artificial lights supplemented the rosy sunset. A policeman stood beside the weapons detector with his pistol drawn. Westerbeke gave Ned a three-fingered salute and sauntered out for renewed liberty.

  An armored conduit snaked across the concrete between the Swift and a junction box near the door. The walls were thick enough to swallow radio and microwave signals. The vessel had to be patched into the planetary system in order to communicate beyond Hangar 39.

  Ned waved the Pancahtan toward the Swift ahead of him. “What is it, then?” he demanded. “That you need to say to me?”

  “You know that my brother can’t be trusted, don’t you?” Carron said.

  “I think that a number of people in your family,” Ned said, “feel they have a right to do anything they bloody well please.” Until he heard the venom with which he spoke, he hadn’t realized how much he hated Carron.

  Ned’s tone didn’t seem to concern or even affect the Pancahtan. “If you turn me over to Ayven,” Carron said as they walked up the boarding ramp together, “he’ll still hunt down your ship and destroy it. You made fools of him and my father. We made fools of them. They’ll never forgive us.”