Someone whispered “bellhop” from somewhere behind him and his companions burst into laughter. Conorado knew they were talking about him. What the hell, he thought, not worth my time to shut him up. But what really got on his nerves was the way they were talking about the ’Finnis on board, one of whom, sporting a handsome mustache, they kept laughing about and calling “old walrus face.” In the terminal, before they boarded the shuttle, that particular man had given Conorado a friendly nod and a casual salute, so the captain felt these so-called diplomats were insulting a friend of his.
One of the diplomats, a large man with a florid face and a voice like a foghorn, was making himself particularly obnoxious. The way the others in his party deferred to him, Conorado reflected that he was probably a second or third secretary and used to receiving deferential treatment. In his mind, he contrasted the man with Jayben Spears, the Confederation consul on Wanderjahr, and J. Wellington-Humphreys, who’d come to think so highly of Lance Corporals Dean and Claypoole after they’d rescued her from the mines on Diamunde. He knew there were some decent people in the Diplomatic Service, but there were also those who, because of education and breeding, held themselves above the common citizens of the Confederation’s member worlds, the “hoi polloi” and “rubes” of the more “backward” settlements.
Conorado tried to settle back in his seat. The almost physical pain he’d felt at the way he’d parted with Marta had receded to a dull ache. Well, he couldn’t think about that anymore. What was it the old song said? “With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear / We dare not look behind us but steadfastly on before.” He couldn’t remember anymore where he’d heard those lyrics, but they’d stuck with him. They could’ve been written for a Marine. Well, it was done and he’d have to wait until he got back to patch up their relationship, or learn to deal with bachelorhood again. He had to think ahead now, to what awaited him in Fargo. Damn that woman Hoxey! She must have powerful friends in government to bring charges against him, especially considering that even the chief scientist on her shift, Omer Abraham, had disagreed with the way she abused the Avionians in captivity.
Well, he would have plenty of time to think about his defense on the long trip back to Earth.
The shuttle’s coxswain announced they were preparing to dock at the Cambria in a few minutes. Be interesting to see what that ship is like, he thought.
The SS Cambria was a deep-space cargo craft capable of hauling more than one million metric tons of just about anything. When the cargo bays were used to transport items that required atmosphere, they could develop their own weather in the form of cloud condensation and even rain, in the form of heavy mists. These huge bays were generally used to store raw materials that were impervious to the “weather” or could withstand zero atmosphere conditions. Perishable goods were transported in special shipping containers or in smaller compartments that could be climate controlled as needed.
She was nearly two kilometers in length between bridge and propulsion plant. Those points and the various cargo compartments in between were connected by a horizontal elevator shaft.
On that flight, the Cambria had been outward bound from Earth for over a year. She had made a vast swing through Human Space, stopping at dozens of worlds on the way to her terminus, Thorsfinni’s World. During the voyage, she had carried just about everything the entrepreneurs and governments of those many worlds could think to order or ship to someone. The Cambria and ships like her were a mainstay of the commerce between worlds that was essential to their economic survival.
Now she floated in orbit far above Thorsfinni’s surface, her vast cargo holds dark and empty and groaning with the noises of expanding and contracting metals and of fluids being piped through her venting systems, as if she were alive and begging to be fed. And she would be, when they reached Siluria, her only stop on the way back to Earth. There, she would pick up some more passengers and hundreds of thousands of tons of the rich mineral ore mined on that planet. Her owners back on Earth were in a state of near ecstasy over the profits they expected to earn on the voyage, and the members of her crew virtually skipped about their duties in happy anticipation of the huge bonuses they’d make once their pay was settled.
Vast as she was, the Cambria required only a crew of ten. A marvel of twenty-fifth-century technology, she was fully automated and required only maintenance and someone to watch over her computer guidance systems. Most of the crew spent their shifts roaming throughout the Cambria’s holds and compartments and propulsion plant, checking this, tinkering with that, repairing the occasional minor malfunction, keeping watch on the vessel’s hull integrity—or goofing off smoking thule and ogling girlie vids in the bowels of the ship, where her captain and engineer couldn’t keep an eye on them.
Supercargo on the Cambria lived well. She carried staterooms for a hundred passengers, suitably remote from the crew’s quarters, and a full assortment of recreational activities from swimming and exercise rooms to gambling facilities. Medical services were provided by a computerized dispensary that could handle any emergency situation and most acute conditions. For individuals with life-threatening injuries or chronic medical problems the computer system could not handle, there were stasis units to keep patients alive until definitive medical care could be found.
Housekeeping was fully automated in the passenger compartment, and the huge galley prepared excellent meals around the clock. The owners of the Cambria made a tidy profit hauling human cargo.
A few more passengers were scheduled to board at Siluria, but even so, the passenger compartments would be far from crowded. Ordinarily this circumstance would lead to an intimate and friendly atmosphere among the passengers, but not on this voyage, not with Mr. Redface and his sycophants. Even before boarding, Conorado had decided to spend most of his time by himself.
As they filed out of the shuttle, the nineteen passengers were greeted warmly by a young woman in a jumpsuit.
“I’m Jennifer Lenfen, ladies and gentlemen. I’m the systems engineer on the Cambria, with double duty as purser when we have passengers.” She smiled. She was wearing a loose-fitting jumpsuit, the standard work clothes for the ship’s crew. The suit did not reveal much of what was inside, but her smile was warm and genuine and it was obvious she was looking forward to dealing with the passengers on this voyage. “Your baggage will be delivered to you once your stateroom assignments have been made. So if you will follow me, I’ll lead you to the passengers’ galley. The captain will talk to you once we’re settled in there.”
“What is there to do on this scow, Miss Renfen?” one of the diplomats asked. He was a young man with a wolfish look about him.
“Lenfen, sir,” Jennifer corrected him, not missing a beat or losing her smile. “You’ll have a full assortment of recreational activities available while on board. Also, when a crew member is available, tours of the ship can be—”
“You’re on, honey!” the wolfish young man crowed.
“Tours of the ship can be arranged.” She looked straight at the wolfish young man. “Individually or in small groups . . .”
“Individually, Miss Renfen, that’s for me!” the young man interjected.
“. . . for a gratuity.”
“Oh, honey, do I have a ‘gratuity’ for you!” the young man howled. His companions laughed with him.
“James,” Redface said, laughing himself but apparently thinking it wise to rein in his protégé. Miss Lenfen’s face flushed and she stumbled over her words, surprised and shocked at the young man’s blatant suggestiveness.
“What is your name, sir?” Conorado asked, stepping up to the young diplomat.
“James Palmita,” he answered, surprised and taken off guard. He recovered quickly, though, and sneered, “And who in the hell are you, soldier boy?”
Conorado thrust a rigid forefinger into the young man’s chest. “James, shut up.” Lewis Conorado had just carved out his niche for the rest of the voyage.
The passengers
’ galley, which was more a restaurant than a dining hall, was built to accommodate fifty diners at a seating. Miss Lenfen led the party to a large table in the center of the galley and asked everyone to take a seat. Servos rolled out and began taking orders, much to the delight of the new arrivals. Conorado ordered a liter of Reindeer ale and was delighted when it was delivered ice cold. He glanced at the three ’Finnis, raised his glass in their direction before he drank.
The diplomats ordered a wild variety of mixed drinks and aperitifs, things with a twist of that, three jiggers of this, shaken and mixed just so, but once everyone had been served, the atmosphere relaxed considerably. Conorado found himself sitting next to a mousy little woman who had not joined much in the antics of her companions.
He wiped the suds off his upper lip and turned to the woman. “My name is Lew Conorado,” he said, offering her his hand.
“Marchia Golden,” she answered, but did not take Conorado’s hand.
“Where you headed? Back on Earth, I mean? Home leave?” He kept his hand out for a moment and then awkwardly withdrew it.
Marchia Golden did not reply at once, as if considering whether she should bother to answer the question. “Back to headquarters. For reassignment.”
“Well, Marchia, what do you do? I think it’s more than obvious what I do.” He laughed.
“I’m an administrative assistant, if you must know.”
Conorado cleared his throat. “Well, it’s a long voyage, ma’am, and—” But Marchia Golden had turned abruptly to one of her coworkers and began a conversation with him. Wow! Conorado thought. Talk about the social snub! He shrugged and turned to the man on his left, but the man was engaged in a deep monologue with another woman diplomat, so he gave up, moved to the other side of the table and took a seat with the ’Finnis.
A crewman in a dirty jumpsuit walked up to the table and sat down. He was middle-aged, with several days’ growth of whiskers, and the stub of a cigar jutting out of one side of his mouth. “I’m the captain,” he announced to no one in particular as he ordered a beer from a servo. The table fell silent. This was their captain?
“How do you do, Captain,” Redface replied. “I’m Jamison Franks III, second undersecretary of the Confederation embassy on Thorsfinni’s World, and these people here are members of the Diplomatic Service.” He introduced the IG team. “And we three,” he indicated himself, Palmita, and Ms. Golden, “are returning to Earth on reassignment. I have the rank of ambassador.”
“Hi,” the captain said to the people around him. “My name is Hank Tuit. Welcome to the Cambria.” He shifted his cigar carefully and took a long drink of his beer. Suds formed a white mustache on his upper lip, which he wiped away carelessly with his hand. He belched. “Hey!” Tuit announced suddenly, looking down the table. “We have a Marine with us! How’re you doing, Captain? You must be with 34th FIST?”
“Yessir,” Conorado answered, rising from his seat. Tuit waved him back down. “None of that military protocol on this ship, Captain! I had enough of that the forty years I was an officer in the Confederation Navy. I promised myself,” he addressed the whole table now, “that when I retired I wouldn’t have any protocols anymore, and I don’t. When you get back to 34th FIST, Captain, say hello to Gunnery Sergeant Bass for me, would you?”
“You—You know Charlie Bass?” Captain Tuit smiled and took another long swig from his beer.
“Ah, Captain,” Franks said, “we’d like to see our staterooms, and may I ask, will anyone be dining with you at your table tonight?”
“Huh? ‘Table’? Oh, yeah. No, no. No captain’s table on this vessel. I live on the bridge, Mr. Ambassador. I eat there, I sleep there, I even shit there. No, you won’t see much of me on this voyage. Unless one of you dies, then I’ve got to make a report. Otherwise you’re on your own.
“Jenny.” He turned to Miss Lenfen. “Orient these folks on the passenger compartment and get them into staterooms. Folks, you’re on your own now. Anything you need the rest of this voyage, ask Jenny. You are not permitted outside the passenger compartment unless you’re accompanied by a member of my crew. Captain,” he turned to Conorado, “join me on the bridge for coffee after Jenny gets you squared away.” Carrying his beer with him, Captain Tuit got up to leave, turned his back on his passengers and walked away.
Ambassador Franks stared at his departing back. “Strange old bird,” he muttered.
“Best thing the navy ever did was get rid of that old fart,” Palmita whispered in a voice loud enough that Tuit and everybody else at the table could hear him, but Tuit ignored the comment and continued out of the dining hall without a backward glance.
Siluria was one of many worlds in Human Space that was not worth colonizing, but its rich ores made it worth exploiting, so two industrial bases had been established there eighty years before to mine the planet’s natural resources. The companies that had invested in the enterprise were not interested in wasting any money preserving Siluria’s environment. They strip-mined its outer crust and bored dozens of kilometers under its surface to extract priceless cargoes that were then shipped to consumers all over Human Space. About ten thousand men and women labored in the mines of Siluria. The pay was excellent and many of them eagerly renewed their contracts when they expired.
Five who were not going to renew sat in a tiny cabin perched on the rim of a vast pit that was the remnant of a strip mine that had played out years before. The occupants had to shout to make themselves heard above the howl of the frigid wind that buffeted the cabin. That was just what they wanted because their business this night was very private.
A schematic of the SS Cambria lay spread before them on the table. “Brothers,” their leader was saying, “in three weeks time we strike at last for the Lord.” The others muttered “Amen!” to his words. The one speaking was thin with a dark beard and the watery eyes of a fanatic. The four others about the table could have been his brothers, judging by their looks, but they were not related. “You all know what you are to do once we’re aboard. We have finished practicing. Each has his duty and each knows just what to do. Until the day of boarding we will spend our free time in prayer and meditation. We must prepare ourselves for paradise.” Tears stood out in his eyes as he spoke.
“Amen,” the others replied.
“The Unbelievers are sending military forces to our beloved home!” the speaker shouted, as much out of rage as to be heard above the wind. “The leaders of our community have transgressed! They have fallen into the ways of the sinful!”
“We shall show them the wrath of our God!” one of the others shouted.
The leader nodded. “They must be given a Sign. They must be shown the Way! The Lord God has spoken to me, brothers! When we are done, we shall be called home to Him!”
“God be praised!” the others shouted.
One of the men put a small metal container on the table. “The Lord God has favored me with the knowledge of this Secret,” he said as he slid the case into the center of the table.
The leader fell silent at the sight of the case but his eyes gleamed. He ran his shaking hands reverently over the surface of the metal. His hands shook not out of fright but with ecstasy. In a voice turned hoarse with emotion he said, “Here—inside this Ark—is the power and the spirit of the universe. Let us pray.”
The five men bowed their heads in silent prayer. The metal case, nothing more than the ordinary tool kit of a mining engineer, gleamed softly in the dull light. It contained a thermonuclear bomb.
CHAPTER
* * *
NINE
A military base is a dull and cold place to be when the troops are away. For men who don’t have their families with them on hardship tours, holidays are an especially bad time too, and Thorsfinni’s World was a hardship tour in spades. The single men and those separated from wives and children inevitably turn their thoughts to home. The longer a man stays in the Corps, the more he gets used to family separations and learns that the hardship can be endure
d with other men in a similar situation, in the spirit of camaraderie that always buoys the spirits of military men far from home.
No combat unit ever deploys at full strength. Men are always on temporary additional duty, ineligible because of physical profiles, because they’re off at schools, exempt because of serious family problems, and so on. And when troops deploy, it’s a living hell for the men who have to stay behind.
No Marine worth his salt wants to remain in garrison when his unit is out on a combat operation somewhere. Those who are left behind often feel they’ve been singled out because there’s something wrong with them. In the case of 34th FIST, it was true. Colonel Ramadan was being left behind because of his bum leg, and a few other men were recovering from various injuries or suffering from permanent disabilities—men whom the “quarantine” prevented from being discharged and returned home.
But far worse was to be the dependent of a man sent on deployment. All too often when that happened a family’s life in the Corps was abruptly ended by a knock on the door and a visit from the chaplain with news of the worst kind. And when tragedy did not intervene, the worry, the loneliness and boredom of the waiting, was too much for some, and weary men returning from some godforsaken hellhole returned home to find their families gone. There was an adage among Marine Corps wives: “We’re not in the Service anymore.” It was a sharp and cynical statement and it cut in different ways.
Starfist: Kingdom's Swords Page 9
