Not disaster, deliverance!
The news about this gate wasn’t bad, it was good beyond hope. He had been right about the difficulties of mounting an invasion across the Rift using starships, so right that his enemies would not even attempt it. It was impractical and impossible—without the gate. Without the gate! The gate was the key to this. With it, the World Stealers would pour through and there would be no stopping them. But if the gate was destroyed…
He rose from his seat and went over to a viewport. He shaded his eyes from the inside glare and stared out into the blackness. He could faintly make out the circle of the Newcomers’ gate. It was enormous, and from what he’d been able to learn, immensely strong in construction. But such a sophisticated device must have delicate components. It did not have to be completely destroyed, just rendered inoperable. It’s possible, yes.
But he could not do it by himself. He would need the warriors of his clan, possible of several clans. It probably would not be difficult to convince Herren Caspari to lead the Clorindans in such an attack; he was burning to strike at someone in revenge for his sons. But if they were going to recruit other clans—and he suddenly realized that they had to do this since wrecking the gate would then leave them facing the angry and desperate Newcomers who would be stranded here—he would need proof of the enemy’s hostile intentions.
He still had no proof. And he remembered with fear and anger the reactions of the others when they learned of the gate. All the fools could see was their own greed. Didn’t they realize what this meant? Men such as those would not be easy to convince. And the Newcomers would certainly conceal their true intentions until it was too late. They would speak soothing words about trade and friendship until their gate was finished and defenses were in place to protect it. And then, then their people, people capable of annihilating entire worlds and killing trillions of their fellows, would pour through. No, he could not allow that to happen.
But where could he find the proof he needed? He rather doubted that he would find any convenient files labeled: ‘Plans for the Conquest of Refuge’ lying about. Nor could he expect any of the Newcomers to tell him the truth. He supposed it might be possible to kidnap and question one of them, but the low-ranking people he could easily get at probably knew little or nothing of their leaders’ plans. And the high-ranking ones were too hard to get at.
The woman. The woman in chains in the boy’s memory. Some instinct had told him that it would come down to her. She clearly was at odds with the Newcomers’ leader. She might be able to give him the proof he needed, and he had a good idea where she was being held. During a tour of the ship he had been able to study a schematic layout and he’d spotted the area called ‘Security Detention’. She was probably there. If he could just get to her.
But how?
* * * * *
“And just what the hell am I supposed to do here?” demanded Charles Crawford, sweeping his arm to take in the flag bridge of the battlecruiser, P.N.S. Indomitable. Petre Frichette shrugged and looked sheepish.
“Uh, take command of your squadron, sir?”
Crawford snorted. “Oh, well, if all I have to do is say: ‘Crawford to Squadron: attack and destroy the enemy’ then that’s okay. If you’re expecting anything more detailed than that, then you’re in trouble, Petre!”
“Well, sir, it might not come down to a whole lot more, if we are lucky. We are trying to put together some battle plans that will not require too much high level oversight.”
“Great, so what the deuce do you need me here for then?”
Frichette glanced around, but they were currently alone on the bridge. The hatch to the Combat Information Center was open, but from the amount of noise coming in from there, it was unlikely that anyone could overhear them. “To provide a solid chain of command, sir. Yes, we could probably appoint some quick-witted chief petty officer to be the acting commodore and sit in that chair, and he might even do a good job, but he would not have the confidence of his subordinates because everyone would know that he had no right to be there.”
“Right? Well, what right do I have to sit there?”
“The governor has made you a peer and you already command thousands of workers. You have the right to command. People will believe that and follow.”
Crawford shook his head. “This is still crazy.”
“A couple thousand of your people will be helping to man these ships. They’ll be laying their lives on the line. They have the right to have you here leading them. Sir.” A note of anger had crept into Frichette’s voice and it stabbed through to Crawford. He suddenly realized what he’d been saying: ‘let my people fight, but I want no part of it,’ and he blushed.
“Sorry. Sorry, that was damn stupid of me, wasn’t it? And to be saying that to you! You’ve got this whole bloody fleet to worry about, not just one squadron.”
“Yes, sir, and it would be a lot lighter load if I had you around to carry some of it, sir.”
“Okay, you got me. But why do you keep calling me ‘sir’? I should be calling you ‘sir’.”
Now it was Frichette’s turn to blush. “Just force of habit, I guess. Tell you what: I’ll call you Charles if you call me Petre.”
“Deal. Now that I’m done bitching, can you explain some of this to me?” He waved at the rows of displays and instruments.
“Yes, s… Charles, the big one is the main tactical display. This will show the overall situation, it will display the positions and vectors of all friendly ships as well as any enemy ships we have data on. This smaller one is your squadron display, it will show the position, formation, and status of your own ships in more detail. Most of these others are communications stations.”
“Uh, where are the helm and the weapons stations and such?”
Frichette blinked and looked startled. “Oh, uh, I guess I was getting ahead of myself. You… you really don’t know anything about this, do you, Charles?”
“No, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
“All right,” said Frichette, taking a deep breath. “Maybe we better start from the beginning. This is the Flag Bridge, Charles. You command your squadron from here. You don’t command the ship, that’s the captain’s job and he does that on the main bridge.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Crawford with feeling. “So I don’t have to worry about driving the ship or shooting the weapons or anything?”
“No, you will give general orders to your squadron about where to go and what to shoot at—based on my orders for the whole fleet—but the ship captains are responsible for carrying out those orders. And once we get you a staff put together, they will man all these stations and take care of all the incoming and outgoing communications. Of course, you can configure the displays to allow you to look over your captain’s shoulder if you want…”
“No thanks, I’ll leave that all to him. Now what’s this thing over here?”
Crawford could scarcely believe the time when he checked next; an hour had gone by of Frichette running him through the purpose and operation of the equipment on the flag bridge. Or at least as much as was possible; an alarming amount of it wasn’t working. The computer technicians were still trying to get around the code lock-outs and it looked like they might have to purge the computers and reload everything.
“What if we can’t get it working in time?” asked Crawford after yet another piece of equipment failed to respond.
“Then we are in serious trouble. If we have to rely entirely on manual controls, the enemy will be able to pound us to bits at long range and we won’t even be able to fire back. Heck, without the automatics on point defense, we wouldn’t even be able to stop their torpedoes. One salvo could gut the whole fleet.”
“Maybe I should reconsider this job offer,” growled Crawford.
Before Frichette could respond, a rating ran into compartment and shouted: “Sir Charles! Lord Frichette! The governor needs you on the com, immediately! It’s an emergency!”
T
he man led them at a trot through the CIC, which was mostly in pieces, and through the hatch that led to the main bridge. “God, what if it’s the Venanci here already,” muttered Crawford. “We’re not ready!”
But it wasn’t the Venanci, although it was still bad enough. Governor Shiffeld stared out of the bridge communications screen. “Gentlemen, we have a problem. There’s been a mutiny.”
* * * * *
“Father Gillard?” Brannon looked up as one of his ‘assistants’ stuck his head in through the hatch of his quarters.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Something is happening aboard the Newcomers’ ship.”
“What?”
“There is a great deal of commotion around their boat bay. My comrade and I were… scouting, and we saw a great many of their warriors crowding into shuttles and then leaving. From their demeanor and facial expressions, we believe that this is not some drill. Clearly, some crisis has occurred.”
“You say there were many of the warriors leaving? How many?”
“We would guess forty or fifty. Father, it is our business to evaluate the strength of potential opponents. During the weeks we have been here, we estimated that there were fewer than sixty warriors aboard this vessel. There can be very few left. The area of the ship you are interested in is nearly unguarded now, we would estimate.”
Brannon looked sharply at the man. He had not confided any of his fears or his plans to him. “What do you know of this?” he demanded.
“Father, it is our business to notice these things. The mere fact that you hired us at all told us much. I have… observed your actions and interests since then. If you have a task for us to carry out, there might never be a better time.”
Brannon sat for a moment in indecision. Could he really do this thing? He closed his eyes and prayed.
“Lifegiver’s will,” he whispered after a while. “Gather your comrade and let us be about this.”
* * * * *
Charles Crawford nodded to Sheila MacIntyrre and Doctor Birringer as they piled into the shuttle. “Well, you were right,” he said grimly to Sheila.
“I usually am,” she shot back, “but what, exactly, am I right about this time? What the hell is going on?”
“Our esteemed Governor Shiffeld is calling it a ‘mutiny’, but what it boils down to is that a couple hundred of the workers—including a lot of our folks, apparently—have tried to seize control of the family transports.”
“Oh my gods,” gasped Birringir. “Anyone hurt?”
“We don’t know for sure, but hopefully not many if there are. The reports are pretty sketchy, but it seems like a rather poorly organized mutiny. They grabbed the bridges of the four ships, but failed to secure the engineering sections. So, they are demanding that the captains hyper out, but the engineers won’t give them the power to move. Stalemate.”
“And we are going over there to try and break it up?” asked Sheila.
“Yup. Shiffeld’s sending his cops and some of the warships, but he’s agreed to let us try to talk to them before he resorts to force.”
“Great. Do we know who we’re dealing with?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Seems like Beshar is one of the ring leaders.”
“Shit!” said Sheila with feeling.
“I knew he was worried and depressed, but I didn’t think that he’d—hell, I just wasn’t thinking at all.”
“None of us were, or not much at least. Stop beating on yourself and let’s go make this all better.” Crawford smiled and squeezed Sheila’s hand.
It took about ten minutes for the shuttles to reach the transports. Crawford could see a cluster of other shuttles and several of the smaller warships hovering nearby. Their pilot maneuvered around to one of the transports’ docking bay, but the doors were closed. A few more minutes on the com finally produced Beshar Hannah on the small communications screen. The man looked very tired and seriously worried.
“Hi, Besh,” said Crawford. “Can we come aboard and talk about this?”
“We can talk right now—not that there’s much to say.”
“Uh, I’d rather do it face to face, Besh. I’ve got Sheila and the doc here with me. It would be easier and… we’d have more privacy.”
Hannah twitched and he suddenly seemed to realize what Crawford was saying about privacy: no records and no witnesses. “All right, but just the three of you. And I won’t open the boat bay doors; come around to… to emergency airlock six. No tricks, Chuck, we’ve got weapons and we’ll fight.”
“No tricks, there’s just us and the pilot of the shuttle here and we are unarmed. Okay, we’ll be at the airlock in a few minutes.” He cut the connection and directed the pilot where to go. Shortly, they were hooked to the airlock and cycling through. A dozen people waited to receive them. A few had stunners and most of the rest carried things which could be used as clubs. Crawford recognized at least half of them. Hannah was there and he ordered the shuttle pilot to detach and stand off. Nothing more was said by anyone until they’d been led to a small room where they could talk in private. Hannah waved away his escort and faced them alone.
“So, what the hell is this, Besh?” demanded Crawford.
“You know perfectly well what this is: we are taking our families and getting out of this death trap!”
“Doesn’t look to me like you are going anywhere, Besh. The ships won’t move.”
“You can get the governor to order the engineers to cooperate. I want you to do that, Chuck!”
“Or else, what? There’s usually an ‘or else’ in these sorts of situations, isn’t there?”
Hannah turned red. “I don’t want it to be like that! We’re not traitors or lunatics. We just want to take our families and leave. We have a right!”
“To what?” demanded Sheila. “To force the ship crews to go with you? To kidnap the families of the other people who aren’t here? We’ve done a head count, Besh, and you’ve got people with you who have maybe five hundred dependents here in cold-sleep. There are four thousand people on these ships! Were you just going to walk off with all of them?”
“I… we… we could move all of our families,” said Hannah, looking very uncertain. “We could thaw them out and put all of them on just one ship and we could go.”
“Where?” asked Crawford. “Where are you going to go, Besh?”
“Anywhere but here! The Venanci are coming, you damn fools! I’ve got kids and if you think I’m going to let those bastards run their genetic experiments on them…”
“Beshar,” interrupted Doctor Birringir, “those are just wild stories. The Venanci don’t really do things like that. If we are forced to surrender they’ll likely send us home once they have what they want.”
“You hope! If there’s a war over this, it could be years for that to happen, and what if the only ones who get exchanged are big shots like the governor or… or Sir Charles, here?”
The way he said it was like a slap in the face. Crawford reared back and just stared, his mouth hanging open and his eyes stinging. He didn’t know what to say, but Sheila was suddenly out of her chair, her face twisted in fury.
“How dare you? Besh, how dare you? After all Chuck has done for you and for all of us? There’s not a person in the entire team he hasn’t helped out at one time or another! And most of us owe him a lot more than simple favors. Do you think he would ever—ever!—leave us in the lurch?” Sheila took a step forward and Hannah put his hand on his stunner. “Well? Do you?”
Hannah’s eyes fell and after a moment he shook his head. “No. No, I’m sorry, Chuck, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that I’m so scared. We’re all so scared…”
“I know, Besh, I know,” said Crawford, swallowing hard. “But this isn’t the answer. Even if I asked the governor, there’s no way he’d let you go. If he let one group go, there would be mass desertions within weeks and the whole thing would go to hell. Maybe staying here wasn’t the best idea, but we’re committed. Besh, he’d blast these s
hips out of space before he’d let you go. We have to stick together. If we do that, we’ve got a chance. If we don’t, there’s no chance at all.”
Hannah looked up and there were tears in his eyes. “So, what happens now?”
“What happens now is that I tell Shiffeld that everything is under control, his cops go back where they came from, everyone else gets back to work, and we forget this ever happened. Okay?”
“O-okay, but you really think Shiffeld will let this drop?”
“If he wants his gate built, he damn well better!” snapped Sheila.
“Exactly. I can handle Shiffeld. Can you convince the rest of your… your associates to give this up, Besh?”
“I-I think so. Once we couldn’t make a quick getaway most of them started having second thoughts anyway. When I explain how things stand I think the rest will give it up, too.”
“Okay, so let’s go do it.” Crawford stood up and they left the compartment. They had left nearly a dozen people outside, but there were only two there now. Hannah seemed surprised.
“Where are the others?” he demanded.
“Uh, you told us to keep the intercom open so we could hear,” shrugged one man sheepishly. “When we saw which way this was going, the others decided to go with Plan B.” He jerked his head aft.
“Oh hell,” hissed Hannah.
“What’s Plan B?” demanded Crawford.
“Come on! This way!” exclaimed Hannah. He led them in the direction the man had indicated. They hurried along through a series of hatches until they came to the entrance of the cold-sleep compartment. It was horribly reminiscent of the last time Crawford had done something like this, right down to the high-pitch wail.
But this time the wail was not electronic, it was very, very human. They stepped through the hatch and saw a woman holding a cold, frightened infant and trying to soothe it. Further down the rows of capsules were several other children. A group of people were dashing from place to place among the capsules and each and every sealed capsule had the warning lights of a reviving occupant. The closest woman turned to them and Crawford saw that it was Ginny Lansdor. She had a look of defiance on her face as she clutched her baby.
Across the Great Rift Page 28
