Starhold

by J. Alan Field

  “May I offer you something to drink, Minister?” asked Stavrianos as he headed toward a small fridge situated discreetly in the corner.

  “Well, it’s a little early for me, General.”

  “Juice, Minister, I was speaking of juice. Or perhaps a milk?”

  “Oh, no thanks. That’s right, you don’t drink do you?”

  “Never developed a taste for the stuff,” Stavrianos replied, as he poured himself a tall tomato juice. “Interesting that you should know my teetotaling ways Minister Siebert. I’d wager you have considerable knowledge about a great many peoples’ personal habits.”

  “As Home Minister, it’s my job to know certain things, General. Let’s just say I know what I need to,” Siebert said smugly. “It’s just that, we were at a party together about a month ago, the one at the Galbanese embassy. I noticed you didn’t partake. You know, I think I will take that milk.”

  As Siebert wrapped his plump fingers around the glass, the General sat down in a chair opposite him. “I don’t ever remember you visiting me here at my office before. To what do I owe the honor?”

  Siebert took a slug of milk as if he were fortifying himself with a shot of whisky and then placed the glass on the table next to him. “It’s the Pan-Union Cup, General. I just wanted to stop by and personally thank you for the army’s assistance in security arrangements. The constabulary division of the State Security Bureau simply doesn’t have enough people to handle the job. Without the army’s help, I’m afraid we’d be quite overwhelmed.”

  The Pan-Union Cup was a quadrennial affair, easily the most important sporting event in Sarissan culture. The winners of football associations on each of the Six Worlds competed to make it to the championship match, held in Boutwell’s Century Stadium. Thousands of supporters poured into Sarissa’s largest city for the game and its associated festivities. Tomorrow, the Harlee Hammers would face off against Villanueva United, from planet Quijano. Harlee was a municipality about six hundred kilometers west of Boutwell, and their fans were already storming the city. Moreover, about ten thousand Villanueva fans had made the journey to attend the game as well.

  “Certainly, Minister Siebert, the army is always happy to cooperate with the Home Ministry,” assured General Stavrianos.

  “You don’t know how happy I am to hear that,” replied Siebert, who grabbed his milk for another drink, then sat for a time saying nothing. Stavrianos had work to attend to and was losing patience but remained an accommodating host.

  “While I appreciate the courtesy call, Minister, I’m sure you have a million things to attend to, what with tomorrow being the big day,” the general prodded, “and I don’t wish to keep you from your duties.”

  “Of course, of course,” Siebert responded but made no move to leave. “Just out of curiosity General, what do you think about tomorrow’s match? If you had to bet on someone, which side would you take?”

  Stavrianos loved football. Hard to tell from looking at him now, but he was on the Army Academy team—captain, in fact—for the class of ’27. He always followed his hometown club of Nerrezo, but unfortunately, his beloved Catamounts hadn’t won a title of any kind in nearly two decades.

  “Well, I think you’d be crazy to bet against Harlee in this one,” he chuckled, “after all, the Hammers are the three-time defending Sarissan champions.”

  “I understand they’re the heavy favorites. Nobody seems to be giving Villanueva much of a chance,” agreed Siebert. “But in sports, as in life, favorites don’t always win, do they?”

  “No, I supposed not, not always.”

  “I mean, for instance, if the underdog had a very good game plan, one their opponents didn’t see coming, that would make a difference wouldn’t it?” Siebert locked eyes with Stavrianos, giving him an intense look. The general found it all somewhat disconcerting. Was Siebert trying to talk him into placing a bet?

  “I suppose that would be a factor, to be sure,” Stavrianos answered. “Sounds like you may have some inside information on tomorrow’s match, Minister.” The Army Chief of Staff sipped his tomato juice, wondering where this was going.

  “Maybe, General. Mostly, I was just thinking out loud. I mean, if the underdog had a great game plan and an excellent striker, someone who was sure to score at least one goal, maybe even two, would you consider betting against the champions then?”

  Stavrianos studied the portly man for some seconds and then let a smile spread across his face. “Perhaps, Minister. But I would have to be convinced that this underdog team of which you speak,” he paused to finish his juice, “I would have to be certain that they actually had a chance of winning the game. Taking the lead is one thing, closing out the match and being victorious is quite another.”

  “General, I am absolutely certain that if you follow the game carefully tomorrow, you will see for yourself that the underdog not only can win, but they will win. All you need do is to sit back and enjoy.”

  Siebert gazed at the general and then reached over, extending his hand. “Thank you for the milk, General Stavrianos. As you say, I have a lot to take care of before the big day tomorrow.”

  Stavrianos shook the Minister’s hand as the two men rose from their seats. The corpulent Siebert was about halfway into standing when he started to fall back into the chair and the general pulled him upright. “Careful, Minister, you don’t want to fall,” said Stavrianos.

  Stone Siebert straightened himself. “I’ll be careful. Give my regards to your wife.”

  “I certainly will. The Colonel will see you out,” Stavrianos beamed and opened the door, closing it as soon as Siebert passed through. He stood in place for a minute, collecting his thoughts, processing the conversation that had just taken place. After a while, he beckoned Colonel Hinojosa back into the office.

  Luis Hinojosa was Stavrianos’s senior aide. From troop dispositions and officer promotions to which sugary treat his commanding officer wanted for his afternoon snack, Hinojosa handled it all. He was the general’s trusted subordinate and confidant.

  “Did your meeting with the Minister go well, sir?”

  “Yes, I think,” Stavrianos answered in a tentative voice.

  “If I may be so bold, sir, what did he wish to discuss?”

  Stavrianos walked to the window and stared outside, ignoring the colonel’s question. Hinojosa understood the general’s mannerisms well and knew to say nothing.

  “We discussed football… I think,” he finally answered. Turning back to Hinojosa, his voice was more decisive. “Luis, I’m invoking Directive 402. Make it go by this time tomorrow.”

  The normally unflappable Hinojosa was taken aback. “Sir, are you sure about this?”

  “Yes.”

  Hinojosa swallowed hard. “Twenty-four hours isn’t very much time, sir.”

  The chief of the Union Army gave his aide an impatient expression. “And the longer you stand here dumbfounded, the less time you’ll have—now go!”

  Stavrianos turned back to gaze out the window again, remembering something he’d learned from his football playing days: either you’re in the game, or you’re sitting on the bench.

  13: Shadow

  Pontian ore miner Ortelli Maiden

  Surface of moon Ellyett

  Alpha Centauri system

  “I don’t know, Cap, it just gives me the creeps,” muttered Roberto. “Even before we came out here, you know, I kept hearing weird crap about this region.”

  Captain Sevastyan Kulakov grunted. “The only weird crap I hear is comin’ outta your mouth, Roberto. Just do your job and stop your bellyaching.”

  The Ortelli Maiden had been resting on the surface of the airless moon for almost a standard week now. A large deposit of samarium had been detected under the surface by an Ortelli Group scout robot and the multi-world mining firm had sent one of its vessels to work the site. Rumors of odd occurrences and old wives’ tales about Earth didn’t disturb the Ortelli Group. Smaller, independent operators increasingly avoided this reg
ion, not just because of superstition, but the huge, multi-world corporations were finally moving into this area of space, squeezing them out.

  The Ortelli Group was big, but there were bigger. Soon CMC, the Commonwealth Mining Combine would arrive. Then Stellar March from Sarissa, and the Jangsu company, GeoSun, and more. Before you know it, anything worth taking out of the ground will have been taken. That’s why Ortelli decided to move first. They had never mined in the Alpha Centauri system before, but the rich vein of samarium was a good incentive to start.

  Sevastyan Kulakov knew about the plight of the independents, the small mining companies that used to call the ‘mom and pops.’ He used to own one of them, until Ortelli bought him out and made him a mining captain. On the one hand, he felt a little dirty that he’d given in, but he was making more money now than he’d ever made and with a lot less hassle. Still, he sympathized with the small operators. Under current conditions, they’d just have to move farther out to make a living. It wasn’t fair, but what is?

  It also wasn’t fair that Kulakov was stuck with this joke of a crew. At least when he operated his own business, he controlled the hiring and firing. The Ortelli Group obviously wasn’t that picky, considering the chuckleheads they’d stuck him with this go around. Just four more months until retirement he kept telling himself. After seven days on the surface, he was surprised half the crew hadn’t managed to kill themselves. The captain figured he had maybe ten good men out of fifty, bad numbers for a two-month mission. The ground supervisor, Savelli, was good at his job, as long as Kulakov kept him away from the hard stuff. The pilot Mundy was fine. Roberto—Kulakov could never remember his last name—was all right, just too young, and a real blabbermouth. Then there was the Mystery Man.

  The guy was working on the other side of the bridge. He stood just under six feet tall and sported a jet-black goatee to match his short haircut, both always neatly trimmed. The grooming screamed ex-military but Kulakov only knew what he had seen in the company files. Massimo Ferraz showed up on Pontus just over a year ago and applied for a work visa. The thirty-three year old claimed to be from the planet Sarissa. He’d invoked political refugee status—maybe he had been on the wrong side in that trouble the Union had last year. Ferraz had worked on several Ortelli ships as a geo-sonar specialist until he found his way aboard the Maiden two months ago.

  Sevastyan Kulakov didn’t usually pry into other people’s business, but he had to admit that Massimo Ferraz interested him. Did he serve in the Union military? Was he deserter? Maybe he was a criminal on the run and just using the political story as a cover. Whatever he was or wasn’t, one thing was for sure—he was quiet. He kept to himself almost to the point of being creepy, but there was more to it than that. Ferraz carried himself differently than the rest of the slugs in the Maiden crew. He was educated, polished, and self-assured. What the hell was he doing on this tub?

  The current estimate was that it would take around two months to mine most of the samarium. The miners were actually extracting a phosphate mineral called monazite, then separating the samarium from the monazite inside two temporary processing plants they had set up. The samarium would be stored in large holding bays and in about a month, a lifter would arrive from Pontus to carry off the first load. About a month after that, a second lifter would show up to collect the rest.

  Captain Kulakov supervised the entire operation from the bridge of the Ortelli Maiden. From there, he watched over ground operations, mining ops, processing plants, local space monitors, system space monitors—wait, what the hell? Kulakov trooped over to system space observation, one of Roberto’s duty stations.

  “What’s goin’ on over here, Roberto?” bellowed the captain.

  “I dunno, there a problem, Cap?” the thin youngster said as he slid over on his chair.

  Kulakov rolled his eyes. “I dunno, problem Cap?” he mimicked the kid, then reached out with his right hand and smacked him on the back of his head. “You’re s’pose to be on watch, so watch! What’s that?” the captain demanded, pointing reproachfully at one of the displays.

  Roberto squinted and stabbed at a few keys on the console. “Looks to be six ships near the primary. Funny, they weren’t there a minute ago.” The half-dozen vessels showed up on the scanners just over forty million kilometers out from Alpha Centauri A, the larger of the binary suns.

  “I knew it!” Kulakov growled. “I told those morons back at company HQ. I told them we should’ve hit this sector earlier, like a year ago, but they wouldn’t listen. Now we got competition, and looks like plenty of it.”

  The Mystery Man had wandered over from his station. “Ferraz, shouldn’t you be at your post?” challenged the skipper.

  “The computer’s running an analysis on that last core sample. Me standing there’s not going to make it work any faster,” Ferraz explained. Kulakov might have taken that remark as insolence from any other crewmember, but he knew that kind of attitude wasn’t Massimo’s style. “Mind if I take a look?” asked the Sarissan. The captain had never seen Ferraz display this much interest in anything that wasn’t directly related to his particular job. It was an outright eruption of curiosity on his part.

  “Knock yourself out.”

  Ferraz looked at the data and worked Roberto’s console. He obviously knew what he was doing. At one point, Roberto started to protest, but the captain shut him down with a quick look.

  Kulakov didn’t need Ferraz or anyone else to tell him what was happening. It was a mining fleet from one of the big boys—GeoSun or, Gods forbid, CMC. Ortelli dispatches one mining ship to a job and those people send fleets. Curious though, because Alpha Centauri wasn’t a particularly rich system and a fleet seemed like overkill.

  After a few minutes, Ferraz shrugged and moved back to his station, checking the progress of the program he’d left running. The six ships just sat there, and so Kulakov went back to his tasks with instructions for Roberto to keep a close eye on the unknown vessels.

  Later that afternoon, Ferraz rapped on Captain Kulakov’s stateroom door, which always seemed to be open. As curmudgeonly as he seemed, the crew knew it was an act. The captain actually enjoyed conversation, hence the open-door policy.

  “Boss, sorry to disturb you, but I need to tell you something.”

  “Sit,” the captain motioned to a seat next to the small table where he was having a snack. He noticed that Ferraz always addressed him as ‘boss,’ instead of ‘captain’ like everyone else. Kulakov had the impression that the man didn’t like using military-style titles, mostly because it fit into his theory that Ferraz was a deserter from the Union Space Force.

  “You say you need to tell me something, so tell me,” Kulakov said as he placed part of an oat roll into his mouth.

  “Those six ships, they’re Gerrhan.”

  Kulakov slathered cyraxan honey over the remainder of his oat roll. “OK, they’re Gerrhan. Why didn’t you tell me that on the bridge this morning?”

  “If I had, the whole crew would know by now. You tell Cline, you tell the crew.”

  Kulakov looked puzzled. “Cline?”

  Ferraz couldn’t help but grin. “Roberto. Roberto Cline.”

  “Ahh. Well, I appreciate your,” Kulakov searched for the word he wanted, “your discretion, but it don’t matter. CMC comes into this sector, nothing we can do to stop them. I got four months till retirement. Way I figure, it’s the company’s problem, not mine.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s not CMC.”

  “But, I thought you said they was Gerrhan?”

  “They are. The scanner signatures are military. They’re Gerrhan warships.”

  The captain stopped in mid-chew, then swallowed a bigger piece than he intended to. Quickly reaching for a glass of water, he managed to get out “You sure?” before washing down the roll to keep from choking.

  “Boss, in another life, I was trained to look for Gerrhan warships. I’m sure.”

  Kulakov looked at the mysterious Ferraz, oddly thinking
for the first time that Ferraz might not even be the man’s real name. Reaching over to a comm unit on the bulkhead, he activated it. “Roberto, you on the bridge?”

  “Right here, Cap.”

  “What’s the sitch with those six vessels out by the primary?”

  A moment of silence passed as the youngster checked his readings. “They’re just sittin’ there. Oh, hey wait. Cap, now there are twelve of them.”

  * * * *

  By the next day, there were seventeen. The captain let the crew know that the ships were Gerrhan to ease fears of a pirate attack, but he didn’t tell them they were warships. Sending Roberto on an errand to get him out of the way, Kulakov and Ferraz studied the scanning data in more detail.

  “I make it two cruisers, six destroyers, six frigates, and a couple of oilers,” appraised Ferraz in a low voice. Oilers were refueling tankers, a term left over from the days of ocean going navies on a fossil fuel world.

  “Six and six is twelve, thirteen, fourteen,” Kulakov counted not so silently, “wait—that’s sixteen. I thought we counted seventeen.”

  “This lady,” pointed Ferraz, “is a battleship.”

  The captain gave a low whistle. “You think they’re on maneuvers or something?”

  The goateed man shook his head. “I’ll go with the ‘or something.’ Nobody goes on maneuvers nine parsecs from home.”

  “Well, thank the Many Gods I’m retiring in four months,” the captain said, as if he’d never shared that information with anyone before. “There’s a big storm coming and I don’t want to be out here when it hits.”

  Roberto returned from his meaningless errand, knowing it was meant to remove him from the bridge while the adults talked. That just made him more anxious, and the more uneasy he felt, the more he yakked.