Downtime

by Cynthia Felice

  Marmion nodded. “The ranger reports say the count goes down each year. They speculate that it has to do with migratory patterns being disrupted by the reversal process of the magnetic poles. And could be, too, that they’re experiencing unfavorable mutations because of the constant cosmic ray zapping. Whatever the reason, the rangers have recorded a noticeable drop in the danae population three years in a row. So, better we get our hunting done this year while there’s still something left to hunt. You with me, Calla?”

  “No,” she said slowly, remembering Old Blue-eyes and Tonto with wings like prayer scrolls. Even stronger was the image of Jason smiling for the first time in thirty years, smiling because the danae were nearby. “Marmion, you saw them. They’re exotic, so beautiful. Could you really kill one of those creatures?”

  Marmion shrugged. “The ranger-governor set up some regulations. He said in the reports that he couldn’t stop it, so he was going to control it. Some people would shoot their mothers for a lot less . . . or their governor. See you at dinner, Calla.”

  Calla tightened the connector on the back of the lamp. It flashed on and she righted it. She looked at the tunnel entrance where Marmion’s big frame was silhouetted now against strong sunlight. He was a factory man, not given to hunting for thrill or sport. He wouldn’t even consider hunting for mere pocket change. No doubt every man and woman in her contingent knew the real value of the danae’s gall, except her. She got to her feet to go back to the shuttle, determined to lock herself up with Jason’s reports again. And this time she wouldn’t skim over the dull stuff.

  Chapter 3

  The overhead lights in the comm-room were dimmed; light from the flatscreens silhouetted the comm-tech ranger in the duty chair. His back was to the transparent door.

  “Open,” Jason said. As the door whooshed, the ranger turned to give him a grin.

  “It’s good to see a ranger uniform come through that door for a change,” the comm-tech said. “Hasn’t been anything but Praetorian guards since morning.” The flatscreen beeped for attention. The comm-tech rolled his eyes and turned around. “More bills of lading from the Belden Traveler,” he commented, “and still no newsbean. Two full days and nothing for us, yet.”

  Jason glanced quickly at the traffic register, noticed that the shuttle had been cleared to land three times during the shift. A typical supply ship would have shuttled goods only once per rotation, its crew using the ground time to gossip with the rangers and miners about interesting asides that weren’t in the newsbeans and to do official and unofficial bartering. No announcement had gone out over the airwaves to the miners this time, for Belden Traveler was strictly a military transport and its holds would be empty on the return trip to the Hub. He wasn’t surprised that the newsbeans hadn’t been brought down yet, not with Calla’s communication restrictions. Her people hadn’t taken over the comm-room yet; the newsbeans wouldn’t be sent until they did.

  There was nothing requiring his attention in the traffic register. Jason picked up the danae observation notes. Those he read with interest.

  Again more danae than usual were present in the terrace garden, some feeding on the tidbits provided by the Round House kitchen, others observing all the unusual activity the shuttle landings had caused. The comm-tech noted that all the danae seemed spellbound by the shuttle flights, eyes turned skyward even before the official landing request appeared on the flatscreen. A bonded pair were sighted gliding the thermals toward the Amber Forest, a pair that hadn’t been seen since fall when they flew south. Jason hoped a few more danae of the Amber Forest population would yet return now that winter was truly over.

  He kept count of the returning migration; last year seven danae failed to return. The miners complained that the returning migrations of the unprotected danae seemed more scant every year. That worried Jason a great deal. He feared they were dying out, no more able to cope with the increasing cosmic rays than humans would be without stellerators. Or it could be that the incomplete reversal of the magnetic poles had disturbed the migration pattern, which might be even more devastating. There wasn’t enough information to determine if either assumption was correct. He shook his head and put down the notes.

  “Did you know that there are civilians assigned to this Praetorian research team?” the comm-tech asked him. The screen was gray now, audios silent, too.

  Jason nodded. “If you saw the roster, there’s only a handful of Praetorian guards.”

  “Rumor has it there’s a full crew of comm-techs,” the ranger comm-tech said. “That can only mean they plan to man the watches.”

  “Rumor?” Jason said with some amusement. He’d probably scrutinized the personnel data lists when they came in on the flatscreen, just as he had the bills of lading, looking for the newsbeans.

  Before the comm-tech could answer, the voice synthesizer at the door started announcing entry requests of two Praetorians. One of them bore the name of Jason’s new second, Marmion Andres Clavia. With the ranger comm-tech, Jason looked through the door. The man with chief brass on his collar was a big, dark-haired fellow. The tech with him was a tiny blonde woman. “As usual the grapevine is right,” Jason said to the ranger. “I think this is your relief now.” To the door, he said, “Open.”

  The Praetorians saluted snappily, and Jason returned the greeting. There was no need to exchange names; criers and nomenclators were already at work.

  “These are the inspection reports of the research facility construction,” the chief said to Jason as he handed over scrolled plats. “I’ve taken the liberty of recommending the required corrective actions. If you agree, you can just initial them.”

  “Correctives?” Jason said, snapping open the first plat. “What sort of discrepancies did you find?” Before the chief could answer, Jason read the first item and shook his head. “These pipes weren’t in the specifications.”

  “They are now, sir. Commander Calla ordered them this morning.”

  “You’re not going to show them as spec discrepancies,” Jason said, crumpling the plat between his fingers. “Write a formal spec change, get Calla Commander Calla to approve it, give my people sufficient time to respond, and then we’ll talk about discrepancies.”

  “The spec change authorization is in her comm-queue. She left orders not to be disturbed. She will sign it, of course, since she ordered it. I had hoped to save time with corrective action orders, which you can sign.”

  Jason frowned, less because of what the chief was saying than the odor he was emanating — esters. The smell was beginning to fill the comm-room. The Praetorian comm-tech had started edging away from him, as if she were curious about the communication console. “Chief, how did you manage to acquire the stink of esters?”

  “Sorry, sir,” Marmion said, his big face growing red. “It’s the danae.”

  “I know where it comes from. I asked how you acquired it.”

  “An accident. I guess I startled them, and . . .”

  “Accident? Were you armed?”

  “No, sir. I was on an inspection tour with Commander Calla, and . . .”

  Jason waved off further explanation; he knew what happened when danae were startled. So did the ranger comm-tech, who was grinning. Jason smiled, too. As long as the danae weren’t hurt, he, too, could see the humor in the situation. “You’ve probably fouled the shuttle’s waste collector. You used sonics to wash off the shit, right?”

  “Yes, sir. It seems not to come off easily.”

  “Blowers on full,” Jason said to the room-tender. Jelly beans brightened in the nitrogen tank as the overhead vents started to pour in fresh air. The Praetorian’s face reddened even more. “Relax, Marmion. I’ll take you back to my quarters and give you some lye soap and the use of my shower. That will take it off. Sonics aren’t good enough.”

  “Lye?” Marmion said, his eyes widening.

  “Door open,” Jason said to the room-tender. He gestured for Marmion to follow him. The chief glanced back at his comm-tech as if he wanted
to say something. “It’s all standard gear. She’ll figure it out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marmion said, and followed Jason out the door. The comm-room was on the terrace with the offices and private quarters to make shorter wire-runs from hardwired equipment to surface structures. Jason’s room was only a few doors away.

  “Open,” Jason said. “Admit two.” His room-tender made no assumptions on how many might enter or exit as did the tenders in general duty rooms. He put the inspection reports on his desk, went into the bathroom and pulled a rough-cut bar of lye soap from the cabinet. He went back into the main room, handed Marmion the soap, and pointed toward the bathroom. “I’ll look over the other inspection reports while you clean up. There’s a clean set of fatigues on the shelf; they’ll suffice until you get back to Red Rocks.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Marmion said, but he seemed terribly embarrassed.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Jason said. “Almost all of us have had similar experiences. There’s lye soap in almost every ranger’s bath. Just remember to keep your eyes closed while using it. You’ll find out why if you forget.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marmion said with a wary glance at the soap.

  He disappeared into the bathroom, and Jason went to read the reports.

  There were a few real discrepancies, some troughs not quite correctly inclined and wall thickness outside the tolerances. All appeared to be correctable by refinishing with a laser-saw, which Marmion had recommended, and Jason duly initialed each item.

  Marmion came out of the bathroom with his uniform bundled under his arm. He filled Jason’s fatigues to their limits, but actually looked good in ranger-green. He no longer reeked of esters, but there was still a trace coming from the bundle of clothes. Jason gave him a synthetic sack to put them in.

  “Not a very auspicious beginning,” Marmion said, sealing the sack. He looked at Jason. “I can imagine what you’re thinking of me as a second. But I’m grateful for your help and that you didn’t let me go around smelling like a fool before all your rangers, at least no more than I already had.”

  Jason nodded. The laugh the rangers would have had at the expense of a Praetorian guard chief had tempted Jason only briefly. It wasn’t worth alienating someone Calla had called “a good man,” especially a good man who would also be his second, even if not second by choice. He wondered if Calla had told Marmion enough about him for Marmion to know that if given this same opportunity to humiliate a high-ranking Praetorian, the man Calla had known thirty years ago wouldn’t have hesitated.

  “I’ll just take the reports now, sir . . .”

  Jason realized he’d been staring at Marmion. “Not yet,” he said quickly. “Sit down for a minute and tell me how you plan to hold down two jobs.”

  “Yes, sir.” He waited for Jason to seat himself first.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “My people usually call me Jason, unless I’m angry.”

  “Yes . . . Jason,” Marmion said, looking relieved. “Commander Calla’s orders are quite specific. I’m to provide coordination between the two groups and act as liaison as necessary.”

  “Why did she think a go-between would be necessary? She outranks me, is known for her directness.”

  “Commander Calla can rattle off more orders in one breath than most people can think of in a day. I’m sure she didn’t want the ranger-governor having to spend most of his time carrying them out, especially those that are routine. This is an unusual circumstance; a formal liaison such as myself is also well-placed to notice any friction that could arise between the two groups.”

  “The natural friction that happens when snobs and slobs rub shoulders?” Jason said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite that way.”

  “I’ll bet Calla did. And everything you say makes sense, except for knowing that Calla’s behind it. She wouldn’t tolerate the snob-slob petty antics, and it would stop instantly. She never needed a go-between to make her wishes known.” Jason leaned back in his chair. “No, either you’re second because I’m no more than a figurehead, or because she didn’t want to deal with me herself.”

  Marmion frowned. “You’re not just a figurehead.” He hesitated. “If I may speak frankly . . . Jason?”

  Jason nodded, wondered if he really would.

  “I gathered that Commander Calla and you knew one another long ago. The relationship was, I believe . . . close. I think I’m here in this specific position to save either of you possible . . . pain.”

  “I expected you to say embarrassment,” Jason said, feeling bemused.

  “She’s not easily embarrassed,” Marmion said. “She’s far too thick-skinned for that, and I think she likes being a wise old woman.”

  “Proud of it, I imagine.”

  “I can tell you knew her quite well.” Marmion grinned openly, and there was nothing in his tone to indicate he was faulting Calla’s pride. Jason was beginning to like Marmion. Then Marmion’s smile disappeared and he cleared his throat. “I risk overstepping, but pride and thick skin aside, she has limits. I don’t think she wanted to test them, nor yours.”

  Barriers. First of time and distance, then her gold worlds of rank. Now human ones. Jason shook his head. He wondered if she really believed he’d respect any of them but the gold. “Thanks for the information, Marmion. No offense intended, but I won’t be using you as a go-between. I’ll deal with her face-to-face whenever possible, at whatever price.”

  “Yes, sir,” Marmion said uneasily.

  There wasn’t anything Jason could say to ease the man’s discomfort. He didn’t know himself what would happen next. He sighed. “Are you holding up the newsbeans? My rangers are getting impatient.”

  “Now that we’ve taken over the comm-room, I’ll see they’re on the next shuttle.”

  “So you’ve cleared the content already?” And when Marmion nodded, Jason leaned forward. “What’s in them? What news of the war?”

  “Oh, the usual . . . “ He saw Jason start to frown, and he shrugged. “The big news is that Dvalerth has sent a strike force to Cassells Solar System to punish the Tagax pirates.”

  “Pirates, eh?” Jason said, unable to restrain a smile. “Is that what they call them now? Tagaxans used to be called insurgents when Dvalerth sent strike forces in the past. It seems to me that they’ve always been at war.”

  Marmion considered. “Yes, that’s true. Dvalerth has waged war against the pirates or insurgents many times. Dvalerth’s an old world with powerful legions. Dvalerth always won, and the contraband seizures died down for a few years. But this time Dvalerth was wrong. The Boscan Cassells joined Tagax, and what the old worlds persist in calling pirates have formed a fleet mighty enough to escort invasion strike-ships through the star lanes to Dvalerth.”

  “Right into the Hub?” Jason was astonished. “What happened?”

  Marmion shrugged. “I don’t know. We left before they reached Dvalerth. I know that attempts to bring it up in the Council of Worlds failed. It was being described as a local matter.”

  “And council accepted that explanation while knowing there was a strike force on the way to the Hub?”

  “Yes. I heard — now this isn’t in the newsbean and it’s not official — I heard that council wants to stay out of it because no action keeps the imperial legions out, and that minimizes the risk of escalation. Council is far more concerned with the elixir reapportionment problem, and there’s speculation that the Decemvirate would appreciate having something else on its agenda, like a local war, so they could delay the elixir decision.”

  “It doesn’t take decemvir genes to know that it’s all one problem, that the Cassells-Dvalerth war is just the first symptom, or perhaps one of many small, similar symptoms.”

  “How’s that?” Marmion said, puzzled.

  “While there’s war, Dvalerth won’t permit any of its elixir to be shipped to the Cassells. But since elixir distribution is a Decemvirate responsibility and the Decemvirate can bring in the imperial
legions to enforce the distribution requirements, the only reason council could possibly be leaving the Cassells-Dvalerth war on a local level is because they can’t agree among themselves on who will win. They don’t know who’ll win the war, they don’t know who will win the distribution question. Wars aren’t fought when everyone is certain of the outcome.”

  Marmion raised his brows. “Sir, your crier broadcast does you an injustice. It led me to believe you would have no understanding of why wars are fought, let alone be able to articulate the reasons.”

  Jason smiled. “We can’t update restricted crier data on downtime worlds. I haven’t been back to the Hub since I left. It hasn’t mattered since I got my silver moons. Until you and Calla arrived, no one’s had sufficient rank to receive it.”

  “It’s not very flattering, and certainly not accurate. I could arrange for an updated one to be sent on the next supply ship if you’ll permit me to get the forms filled out for you.”

  “No thanks.”

  Again Marmion’s brows shot up.” You like being put at disadvantage by your own crier?”

  “The disadvantage is not always mine.”

  “As you wish.” He seemed to be mulling over Jason’s reply, perhaps also the speculations he’d offered. Jason could only hope that he wouldn’t regret them.

  “Here’s the inspection reports I’ve okayed,” Jason said, picking them up off the desk. “I don’t mind using the system for expediency,” he said, tossing the crumpled one into the waste chute, “unless expediency makes my rangers’ performance look bad. If you find another way to get those pipes laid tonight, one that reflects true ranger excellence, I’ll sign it. Otherwise it will have to wait until the specification is formally changed.”

  “I understand, sir . . . er, Jason.” Marmion took the scrolled plats from him and stood up. He saluted smartly.

  “Good evening, Chief,” Jason said, returning the salute. “Open,” he said to the door, and watched Marmion leave. “You can interrupt for Chief Marmion anytime,” he said to the room-tender. “Extend him full courtesy when he’s here.”