Generation Warriors

by Anne McCaffrey

"Two," she said crisply.

  "Y'all come on outa there, then," said the voice.

  The light withdrew just enough to give them room. Sassinak slid through feet-first, and found herself coming out of a waist-high hatch in a horizontal tunnel. Aygar followed her, his tanned face pale around mouth and eyes, and dripping with sweat. Carefully, as if she were doing this on her own ship, Sassinak closed the hatch and pushed the locking mechanism.

  Facing them were five rough-looking figures in much-patched jumpsuits. Two held obvious weapons that looked like infantry assault rifles: one had a long knife spliced to a section of metal conduit and one held the light that still blinded them. The last lounged against the tunnel wall, eyeing them with something between greed and disgust.

  "Y'all rang the doorbell, up there?" that one asked. The same husky voice, from a stocky frame that might be man or woman—impossible to tell, with layers of ragged clothes concealing its real shape.

  "Didn't mean to," said Sassinak. "Got a little lost."

  "More'n a little. Douse the light, Jemi."

  The spotlight blinked off, and Sassinak closed her eyes a moment to let them adjust. When she opened them again, the woman who had held the spotlight was stuffing it in a backpack. The two rifles had not moved. Neither had Sassinak. Aygar made an indeterminate sound behind her, not quite a growl. She suspected that he liked the look of the homemade spear. The person who had spoken pushed off the wall and stood watching them.

  "Can you give me one good reason why we shouldn't slit and strip you right now?"

  Sassinak grinned; that had been bravado, not decision.

  "It'd make a big mess next to the shaft we came out of," she said. "If someone does follow down here . . ."

  "They will," growled one of the rifle-bearers. The muzzle shifted a hair to one side. "Should be goin', Cor . . ."

  "Wait. You're not the usual trash we get down here, and there's plenty of trouble up top. Who are you?"

  "Who are the Pollys?" Sassinak countered.

  "You got the Insystem Federation Security Police after you, and you don't know who they are?"

  A twin of the jolt she'd felt hearing Parchandri's name went down her spine. Insystem Security's active arm was supposed to confine itself to ensuring the safety of governmental functions. She'd assumed their pursuers were planet pirate hired guns, or (at worst) a section of city police.

  "I didn't know that's who we had after us. Orange uniforms?"

  "Riot squads. Special action teams. Sheee! All right. You tell us who you are or you're dead right here, mess and all."

  The rifles were steady again, and Sassinak thought the one with the spear probably knew how to use it.

  "Commander Sassinak," she said. "Fleet, captain of the heavy cruiser Zaid-Dayan, docked in orbit . . ."

  "And I'm Luisa Paraden's hairdresser! You'll do better than that or . . ."

  "She really is," Aygar broke in. The other's eyes narrowed as she heard his unfamiliar accent. "She brought me . . ."

  Sassinak had a hand on the hatch rim; a distant vibration thrummed in her fingers.

  "Silence," she said, not loudly but with command.

  All movement ceased. The silence seemed to quiver.

  "They're coming. I can feel a vibration." The one who'd spoken growled out a low curse, then said, "Come on, then! Hurry! We'll straighten you later."

  They followed along the tunnel, a bare chill tube of gray-green metal floored with something resilient. Under that, Sassinak thought, must be whatever the tunnel was actually for. She was aware of the man behind her with a rifle, of Aygar's growing confusion and panic, of the ache in her own legs.

  She quickly lost track of their backtrail. They moved too fast, through too many shafts and tunnels, with no time to stop and fix references. She wondered if Aygar was doing any better. His hunting experience might help. Her ears popped once, then again, by which she judged they were now deep beneath the planet's surface. Not where she wanted to be, at all. But alive. She reminded herself of that; they might easily have been dead.

  Finally their captors halted. They had come to a well-lit barn-like space opening off one of the smaller tunnels. Crates and metal drums filled one end to the low ceiling. In the open space, ragged blankets and piles of rags marked sleeping places on the floor; battered plastic carriers held water and food. Several huddled forms were asleep, others hunched in small groups, a few paced restlessly. The murmur of voices stopped and Sassinak saw pale faces turn toward them, stiff with fear and anger.

  "Brought us in some uptowners," said the leader of their group. "One of'em claims to be a Fleet captain."

  Raucous laughter at that, more strained than humorous.

  "That big hunk?" asked someone.

  "Nah. The . . . lady." Sassinak had never heard the word used as an insult before, but the meaning was clear. "Got the Pollys after her, and didn't even know what an orange uniform meant."

  A big-framed man carrying too little flesh for his bones shrugged and stepped forward. "An offworlder wouldn't. Maybe she is . . ."

  "Offworlder? Could be. But Fleet? Fleet don't rummage in the basement. They don't come off their fancy ships and get their feet dirty. Sit up in space, clean and free, and let us rot in slavery, that's Fleet!" The leader spat juicily past Sassinak's foot, then smirked at her.

  "I suspect I know as much about slavery as most of you," Sassinak said quietly.

  "From claiming to chase slavers while taking Parchandri bribes?" This was someone else, a skinny hunched little man whose face was seamed with old scars.

  "From being one," said Sassinak. Silence, amazement on those tense faces. Now they were all listening; she had one chance, she reckoned. She met each pair of eyes in turn, nodding slowly, holding their attention. "Yes, it's true. When I was a child, the colony I lived in was raided. I saw my parents die. I held my sister's body. I never saw my little brother again. They left him behind. He was too young . . ." Her voice trembled; even now, even here. She forced steadiness into it. "And so I was a slave." She paused, scanning those faces again. No hostility now, less certainty. "For some years, I'm not sure how many. Then the ship I'd been sold to was captured by Fleet and I had a chance to finish school, go to the Academy, and chase pirates myself. That's why."

  "If that's true, that's why the Pollys are after you," said the group's leader.

  "But how can we know?"

  "Because she's telling the truth," said Aygar. Everyone looked at him, and Sassinak was surprised to see him blush. "She came to my world, Ireta. She brought me here on cruiser for the trial."

  "And you were born incapable of lying?" asked the leader.

  Aygar seemed to swell with rage at such sarcasm. Sassinak held up her hand and hoped he'd obey the signal.

  "This is my Academy ring," she said, stripping it from her finger and holding it out. "My name's engraved inside, and the graduation date's on the outside."

  "Sas-sin-ak," the leader said, reading it slowly. "Well, it's evidence, though I'm not sure of what."

  Sassinak took the ring back, and the leader might have said more, but a newcomer jogged into the room from the tunnel, carrying a flat black case that looked like a wide-band communications tap. Without preamble, he came up to the leader and started talking.

  "The Pollys have an all-stations out for a renegade Fleet captain, name of Sassinak, and a big guy, civilian. They've murdered an Admiral Coromell . . ."

  The leader turned to Sassinak. The messenger seemed to notice them for the first time, and his eyes widened.

  "Is that true?"

  "No."

  "No which? You didn't murder anyone, or you didn't murder Coromell?"

  "We didn't murder anyone and the dead man isn't Admiral Coromell."

  "How do you—oh."

  Sassinak smiled. "We were there, supposedly meeting Admiral Coromell, when someone of his age and general appearance sat down with us and promptly got holes in the head. We left in a hurry, and trouble followed us. Whoever killed him
may think that was Coromell. It'll take a careful autopsy to prove it's not. Or the real Coromell showing up. I don't know who sent us a fake Coromell, or why, or who killed the fake Coromell, or why. Unless they just wanted to get us into trouble. Aygar's testimony, and mine, could be crucial in the trial coming up."

  Blank looks indicated that no one had heard of, or cared about, any trial coming up.

  "His name Aygar?" asked the messenger. "'Cause that's who they're after, besides Sassinak."

  Now a buzz of conversation rose from the others; no one would meet Sassinak's eyes. She could feel their fear prickling the air.

  "You mentioned Parchandri," she said, regaining their attention. "Who is this Parchandri?"

  To her surprise, the leader relaxed with a bark of laughter. "Good question! Who is this Parchandri? Who is which Parchandri would do as well. If you're Fleet, and have never been touched . . ."

  "Well, she wouldn't, if she'd been a slave," said the big man. "They'd know better." He turned to Sassinak. "Parchandri's a family, got rich in civil service and Fleet just like the Paradens did in commerce. Just like takin' bribes and giving 'em, blackmailing, kidnapping, slicin' the law as thin as they could, and pilin' the profits on thick."

  "I know there was a Parchandri Inspector General," Sassinak said slowly.

  "Oh, that one. Yeah, but that's not all. Not even in Fleet. You got three Parchandris in the IG's staff alone, and two in Procurement, and five in Personnel. That's main family: using the surname openly. Doesn't count the cousins and all who use other names. There's a nest of Parchandri in the EEC, controls all the colony applications, that sort of thing. There's a Parchandri in Insystem Security, for that matter. And the head of the family is right here on FedCentral, making sure that what goes on in Council doesn't cause the family any trouble."

  His casual delivery made it more real. Sassinak asked the first question that popped into her head.

  "Are they connected to the Paradens?"

  "Sure thing. But not by blood. They're right careful not to intermarry or anything that would show up on the computers. Even though they've got people in Central Data. Say a Paraden family company wants to open a colony somewhere but they're down the list. Somehow those other applications get lost, or something's found wrong with 'em. Complaints against a Paraden subsidiary get lost real easy, too."

  "Are other families involved?" Sassinak noticed the sudden shifting of eyes. She waited. Finally the leader nodded.

  "There have been. Not all the big families. The Chinese stay out of it; they don't need it. But a few smaller ones, mostly in transport. Any that gets in a little ways has to stay in for the whole trip. They don't like whistleblowers, the Parchandri. Things happen." The leader took a deep breath. "You're getting into stuff I can't answer unless I know . . . something more. You say you were a slave, and Fleet got you out so you joined Fleet . . ."

  "That's right."

  "Well, did you ever hear, while you were a slave, of a . . . a kind of group? People that . . . knew things?"

  Sassinak nodded. "Samizdat," she said very softly.

  The leader's tense face relaxed slightly.

  "I'll chance it." A broad, strong hand reached out to shake hers in a firm grip. "I'm Coris. That was my wife who speared you with the spotlight." He grinned, a suddenly mischievous grin. "Did I fool you?"

  "Fool me?"

  "With all this padding. We find it useful to disguise our body outlines. I've been listed in official reports as a 'slightly .obese middle-aged woman of medium stature.'" He had reached under his outer coverall to remove layers of rag stuffing, suddenly looking many pounds lighter and much more masculine. Off came a wig that Sassinak realized looked just like those in the costume shop, revealing a balding pate. "They don't worry as much about stray women in the tunnels. Although you, a Fleet commander, may give them a heart attack."

  "I hope to," said Sassinak. She wasn't sure what to make of someone who cheerfully pretended to be the opposite sex. "But I'm a little . . . confused."

  Coris chuckled. "Why wouldn't you be? Sit over here and have some of our delicious native cuisine and exquisite wine, and we'll talk about it."

  He led her to an empty pile of blankets and gestured. She and Aygar sat. She was glad to let her aching legs relax.

  "Delicious native cuisine" turned out to be a nearly tasteless cream-colored mush. "Straight from the food processors," someone explained. "Much easier to liberate before they put the flavorings or texture in . . . nasty stuff, but nutritious." The wine was water, tapped from a water main and tepid, but drinkable.

  "Let's hear your side of it," suggested Coris.

  Sassinak swallowed the last of the mush she'd been given and took a swallow of water to clear her throat. Around her, the ragged band had settled down, relaxed but alert.

  "What if they are searching for us?" she asked. "Shouldn't we . . . ?"

  He waved his hand, dismissing the problem.

  "They are looking, of course, but they haven't passed any of our sensors. And we do have scouts out. Go on."

  Sassinak gave a concise report on what had happened from the arrival of Coromell's message. Highly irregular, but she judged it necessary. If she died down here, not that she intended to, someone had to know the truth. They listened attentively, not interrupting, until she told about entering the pleasure-house.

  "You went to Vanlis?" That sounded both surprised and angry.

  "I didn't know what it was," said Sassinak, hoping that didn't sound critical. "It was the nearest door, and she helped us."

  She told about that, about the woman's reaction to Fleur's name. She felt the prickling tension of this group's reaction. But no one said anything so she went on with the story until the group had "caught" them.

  "Trouble, trouble, trouble," muttered Cons, now far less cocky.

  "Sorry."

  And she was, though she felt much better now that the tasteless food, the water and the short rest had done their work. She glanced at Aygar, who was picking moodily at the bandage on his face. He seemed to be over his fright.

  "You're like a thread sewing together things we hoped they'd never connect," Jemi said softly. Coris' wife was a thin blonde. She looked older than either Sassinak or Coris, but it might be only worry. "Eklarik's shop . . . Varis' place . . . Fleur . . . Samizdat . . . they aren't stupid, you know. They'll put it together fast enough when they have time to think. I hope Varis has warned Fleur. Otherwise . . ."

  She didn't need to finish that. Sassinak shivered. She could feel their initial interest fading now into a haze of fear and hostility. She had endangered their precarious existence. It was all so stupid. She had suspected trouble, hadn't she? She had known better than to go haring off into the unknown to meet some Admiral whose staff insisted he was off hunting. And because she'd been a fool, she and Aygar would die, and these people, who had already suffered enough, would die. And her ship? A vision of the Zaid-Dayan as it hung in orbit, clean and powerful, filled her eyes with tears for a moment. NO.

  She was not going to die down here, not going to let the Paradens and Parchandris of the universe get away with their vicious schemes. She was supposed to be a Fleet commander, by Kipling's corns, and it was about time she started acting like it. The old familiar routines seemed to waken her mind as she referred to them, like lights coming on in a dark ship, compartment by compartment. Status report: resources: personnel: equipment: enemy situation . . .

  She was not aware of her spine straightening until she saw the effect in their faces. They were staring at her as if she had suddenly appeared in her white battle armor instead of the stained civilian coverall. Their response heightened her excitement.

  "Well, then," she said, the confidence in her voice ringing through the chamber. "We'd better sew up their shrouds first."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dupaynil stared at the bulkhead across from his bunk, and thought that luck was highly overrated. Human space aboard the Grand Luck meant this tiny stateroom
, adjoining plumbing that made the Claws spartan head look and feel like a spa, and one small bare chamber he could use for eating, exercise, and what recreation his own mind provided. Most people thought the Seti had no sense of humor; he disagreed. The Commissioner's comments about the humbleness with which he would travel argued for a keen sense of irony, at the least.

  He had had a brief and unhelpful interview with the Ambassador. The Fleet attaché lurking in the background of that interview had looked unbearably smug. The Ambassador saw no reason why he should undertake to have Fleet messages transmitted to FedCentral when Dupaynil was headed there himself. He saw no reason why redundancy might be advisable. Was Dupaynil suggesting that the Seti, allies within the Federation, might interfere with Dupaynil's own delivery of those messages? That would be a grave accusation, one which he would not advise Dupaynil to put in writing. And of course Dupaynil could not have a final interview with Panis. Quite against the Ambassador's advice, that precipitous young man had already departed, destination unknown.

  It occurred to Dupaynil that this Ambassador, of all the human diplomats, surely had to be in the pay of the conspirators. He could not be that stupid. Looking again, at the florid face and blurred eyes, he was not sure. He glanced at the Fleet attaché and intercepted a knowing look to the Ambassador's private secretary. So. The Seti probably supplied the drugs, which his own staff fed him, to keep him so safely docile.

  And I thought my troubles were over, Dupaynil thought, making his final very correct bow and withdrawing to pack his kit for the long trip. Not surprisingly, the Fleet attaché insisted that anything Dupaynil asked for was unavailable.

  And now he had the leisure to reflect on the Ambassador's possible slow poisoning while the Seti ship bore him to an unknown destination; he did not believe for a moment they were really headed for FedCentral. He forced himself to get up and move into the little exercise space. Whatever was coming, he might as well be fit for it. He stripped off the dress uniform that courtesy demanded and went through the exercises recommended for all Fleet officers. Designed, as he recalled, by a Fleet marine sergeant-major who had retired and become a consultant for adventure films. There were only so many ways you could twist, bend, and stretch. He had worked up a sweat when the intercom burped at him,