Back | Next
Contents

NEVASA

The magnetic motors began to throb as Ran entered the Starlight Bar. Bridge was preparing to drop the Empress of Earth out of her parking orbit above Nevasa.

The bar in the Empress's prow was more crowded than Ran had ever imagined he would see it. There were chairs for fifty, chromed frameworks that slid above the deck without friction but locked safely into place when a passenger sat down. A few seats were empty, but there were standees around the autobar also.

Ran saw Wanda Holly near the center of the room, seated at a table with two drinks—clear, with lemon slices—waiting on it. He sat down in the seat the second drink saved and said, "Umm, what did you need, Wanda?"

He wasn't out of breath, but he'd moved pretty fast from the main lounge when he got the call, Ms. Holly requests your presence in the Starlight Bar at your earliest convenience. Not an emergency, maybe, but it wasn't standard operating procedure either.

"You've never been on Nevasa, have you, Ran?" Wanda asked. She raised her glass and offered him a silent toast. "Hope you like sparkling water," she added.

"If it's wet, I drink it," Ran said absently. He didn't drink like he had on the Cold Crew, but he wouldn't have turned down something stronger. All crewmen were on standby during docking maneuvers, but Ran had been officially off-watch for the past thirty minutes.

He considered the Second Officer's question. "No," he said, "I haven't been here before. Worried about the authorities because of the war scare, you mean?"

Wanda shrugged. She was looking out the holographic panel that mimicked the curve of the starliner's bow. "That'll be a problem, sure. But right now, I just wanted you to see what it's like to land on Nevasa."

She glanced around the bar. She wore her hair in a brilliant blond swirl today. Ran liked blondes, but he thought Wanda probably looked her best as the brunette her genes had made her. "That's what everybody's here for," she explained. "People who've landed on Nevasa before or talked to somebody who has."

"Oh . . ." murmured a dozen throats.

Ran looked through the clear forward bulkhead. The sky around the Empress of Earth was beginning to fluoresce.

Streaks of bubbling color rippled through the stratosphere, similar to Earth's auroras but momentary and a thousand times brighter. The Empress was dropping slowly, at a shallow angle, so she made about as much motion forward as down. The light bloomed from her magnetic motors and those of the eight tugs which coupled the starliner in orbit, streaming back over the ship and her wake through the disturbed air.

It was perhaps the most beautiful thing Ran had ever seen in his life.

"Nevasa's atmosphere has a high proportion of noble gases," Wanda explained. "A high-density magnetic flux excites them. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life."

A cold, green flare bathed the vessel, covering the bulkhead like a lambent curtain. Passengers gasped in awe and delight.

Wanda looked at Ran. "The thing I don't understand," she said, "is . . ."

Her voice trailed off as three pulses of topaz yellow followed the green, drawing her eyes by reflex.

"Is . . . ?" Ran said softly.

"Is how they can live here and rush into a war, not that the war's all their fault," she said to complete the thought

"I suppose," Ran said as he stared wide-eyed at a light show the size of a continent, "they don't see things the way outsiders do. . . ."

* * *

"This war," cried Miss Oanh from the center of the family room, paneled with painted screens, "is evil!"

"War with Grantholm," said her father gently, "is probably inevitable and certainly morally right."

Mr. Lin knew his long service in Nevasa's Ministry of External Affairs was the cause of many of his family problems. His daughter had spent half of her eighteen years on foreign worlds with him. The three years on Earth, where Mr. Lin had been ambassador before being brought back to the ministry, had been particularly unfortunate in forming Oanh's attitudes regarding planetary honor—and filial piety.

Lin cleared his throat and went on, "I realize that you feel you have a right to your own opinion, but please keep it to yourself for the time being. I become a plenipotentiary when I arrive on Tellichery. So long as we remain on Nevasa, I do not have the prerogative of overruling the security services."

Mr. Lin's aides in the open, adjacent rooms which served as Lin's home office discretely avoided staring. The squad of gray-clad guards seemed equally focused on people other than the minister and his daughter. They watched the aides and the petitioners waiting in the outer office. Many of the latter were foreign nationals.

The three-meter area cleared around the perimeter of the family room's open doors was a result of the civilians' nervousness about the guards' openly carried weapons.

Almost certainly some of the guards were members of the Counterintelligence Bureau. The chances were good that one or more of the personnel from Lin's own ministry reported to the bureau as well.

"It's never morally right to kill other human beings!" his daughter snapped.

Lin sighed inwardly. Oanh hadn't wanted to leave Earth, where her friends were, and she was even angrier to be uprooted again in less than six months. He would have preferred to leave her on Nevasa, since in most senses she was capable of looking out for herself—

But Oanh's anger at the situation came out in the form of statements that were likely to be viewed as treasonous if war with Grantholm broke out.

When war broke out. Mr. Lin wouldn't have been sent on this mission were war not inevitable and alliance, military alliance, with Tellichery not a crucial factor in that war's outcome.

"There may be no war," he said aloud, in the calm voice that he knew grated on his daughter's nerves worse than a shriek would have done. Lin couldn't help it. In a tense argument he became preternaturally calm, which was a reason for his career success . . . but had driven his wife into the arms of a grain merchant on Skeuse and was looking as though it might drive his daughter away as well.

Oanh sniffed.

"And in any case," her father continued, "the behavior of the Grantholm military leaves it open to question whether they can be considered human."

Lin's spacious home overlooked the heart of Nevasa City to the east, and Con Ron Landing, the starport, to the west. An incoming vessel and its tugs formed a blight ring above the family room's clear ceiling. The panels of smoked polycarbonate were mounted in flexible troughs so that they did not rattle audibly, but the starliner's roar made them vibrate and caused the image to quiver.

"What a fascist pronouncement," Oanh said without looking at him. "And I suppose only the military is going to die in this moral crusade?"

"Oanh," Mr. Unsaid. "Please."

He knew it was his fault. She'd never had a proper home, even before her mother fled. Lin's duties required that he work eighteen hours on those days he didn't work twenty-four. Servants could care for Oanh and teach her—but they couldn't give orders that the strong-willed daughter of an increasingly high official had to accept.

For all that, she hadn't become wild. Just opinionated; and under present conditions, voicing the wrong opinions could be more dangerous than drunken sprees.

"Father," Oanh replied—but at least she did lower her voice so that it might not be heard over the pulse of the starship, "you know as well as I do that this war isn't necessary. It isn't even over things, it's just perceptions. There's no excuse for it!"

"There may be no war," Lin repeated softly.

To an extent, his daughter was right. A nation can always avoid war, almost always, by rolling over on its back and baring its belly. Whether that could ever be considered a valid alternative, however, was another matter entirely.

Private firms on Grantholm and Nevasa had together begun to develop Apogee, a world with a climate that was moderate and also unusually stable because the planet had no axial tilt. Nevasa saw Apogee as a rice basket, while the Grantholm entrepreneurs developed resorts on their sections.

Both plans had been set out publicly before any colonization took place. The problem arose when the Grantholm government—not the private developers—noticed that the population in the Nevasan sections was a hundred times greater than that in those under Grantholm control. Rice is a labor-intensive crop. Nevasa was importing a labor force from disadvantaged regions of Earth—from the Orient of Earth.

Grantholm claimed that the pattern of development was a plot to bring the entire planet under Nevasan suzerainty . . . and Mr. Lin knew that in the secret councils of the Nevasan government, that possibility had indeed been floated. All Nevasan activities on Apogee to date had been perfectly in line with the original agreements, however.

The arrogance of the Grantholm delegation which ordered Nevasa to cease shipping colonists to Apogee would have been quite unacceptable to any sovereign government. Certainly to the government of Nevasa, which had the military potential to teach Grantholm the lesson for which that world had been begging for so long.

Probably. And certainly with the support of Tellichery. Almost certainly with the full support of Tellichery.

"Oanh," he said, "I understand your feelings."

Lin didn't know whether or not that was true. As with so many of the statements he had to make, truth or falsity did not matter as much as appropriateness did.

"But you must understand," he continued over his daughter's attempt to reply, "that honor is not merely a word."

"Neither is life, father!" Oanh said.

Any further discussion was lost in the resonating boom of the Empress of Earth landing.

* * *

Transient Block, the ground facility on Nevasa for Trident's Third Class passengers, was neither a slave pen nor a prison. It wasn't a palace, either, and Ran didn't like the sound of the door banging behind him to shut out the soft night

The block consisted of three levels of rooms built around a central court. It housed Third Class passengers while the Empress was on the ground. That way the on-board accommodations could be thoroughly cleaned, and the human cargo got a degree of variety when that was possible.

Residents now crowded the court, the stairs, and the interior walkways serving the rooms on the higher levels. The speaker addressing them through a handheld amplifier spoke in an unfamiliar language, but the translator on Ran's shoulder chirped, "Join us, then, brothers and sisters, so that you personally can live better lives—"

Mohacks was close to the door with a woman wearing a green Trident ground staff uniform and a set expression. From the look of her, she was a local or at least of oriental descent

"Sir!" said Mohacks. "These indigs—"starship crewmen rarely had much use for ground-based personnel, but Mohacks made "indigenous staff" sound like "dog shit" "—let in unauthorized people and—"

"They're not unauthorized!" the woman, a supervisor, snapped. "They're Nevasan government officials, and this is Nevasa, sailor."

"Sailor" had the intonations of "cat vomit."

"Your enlistment will be on the same terms as that of Nevasan citizens," said the translator through Ran's right earpiece, "and after the war you will be granted citizenship of—"

The speaker wore civilian dress, a smooth-fitting business suit of rusty color with white accents. The four men with him were in gray uniforms. The leader carried a small pistol in a ludicrous little holster dangling from a broad Sam Browne belt, but the sub-machine guns of his subordinates weren't just for show. Babanguida stood in the midst of the group with a set look on his face. Two Trident ground staffers were nearby also, smiling in calm approval.

Ran unspooled a transceiver disk from his commo unit and set it against the doorframe. Thousands of eyes were turned on the man speaking; the building breathed with the crowd's anticipation.

"I warn you!" the ground-staff supervisor cried. "I've disabled the gas dischargers! Using force on a high official of the—"

"—free the universe from racist Grantholm tyranny!" the translator said.

"Block," Ran ordered the building's artificial intelligence, a modular unit common to most large-scale Trident facilities throughout the operating area, "give me a feedback loop from the government gentleman's amp through your own PA sys—"

The screech preceded Ran's final syllable.

"—tern!"

The crowd bellowed in pain and fear. Ran hadn't said anything about amplitude, but the AI made the right decision: more is better. Ran winced at the impact, and the Nevasan guards whipped around with their weapons raised.

The squeal stopped. The Nevasan official had dropped his amplifier. He picked it up again, looking around in angry question.

"You can't do—"the supervisor said to Ran.

"Block," Ran said. "Keep it up until I countermand the order."

He grinned at the local woman. Not bad looking at all, though ground-staff uniforms didn't flatter females. Not that it mattered, of course.

"Sure he can, girlie," Mohacks said. "This is Mr. Colville!"

Ran realized that he'd just been promoted, in a manner of speaking.

The official must have spoken again with the amp still keyed to his voice, because the PA system shrieked like a horse being disemboweled. Babanguida bent close to the man and spoke into his ear. A Nevasan guard prodded the rating with the muzzle of his submachine gun. Babanguida ignored him.

Babanguida and the official moved toward Ran. The local man protested. Babanguida grinned, and the armed guards fluttered like birds around a blacksnake.

"Block," Ran said, "give me the PA for a moment. Ladies and gentlemen—"his voice slapped with phase-timed clarity from all the speakers in the Transient Block "—we apologize for this problem. Please return to your sleeping quarters while we sort it out."

The speech ended with another painful squeal. It might have been a fault in the system, but Ran had noticed that with some AIs, "intelligence" was the operative word rather than "artificial." In any case, the jagged blade of sound got the keyed-up crowd moving obediently.

"Whose idea was it, I wonder," Ran said mildly, "to lower the barriers between male and female sections?"

He was looking at the supervisor. There was nothing mild about his eyes.

She grimaced and turned away.

"This man—"snarled the Nevasan official as he waved his amplifier in Ran's face. Feedback howling through the PA system drove a mass cry from the crowd.

Babanguida took the amp from the stunned local and switched it off. He handed the unit back. His smile could have lighted the building.

The Nevasan swallowed. "This man says you're responsible for . . . ?" he said. The sonic clawing had cowed him.

Ran saluted. "Yessir," he said. "Lieutenant Randall Colville, Third Officer of the Empress of Earth—and in charge here unless one of my superiors arrives. And you are . . . ?"

"I'm Level Six Minister Thach," the official said, regaining some his poise. "I demand that you stop this interference with my duties!"

"Sir," Ran said, "Trident Starlines is contracted to deliver these passengers to certain destinations. Nobody on board the Empress has the authority to change that. I—"

"The Government of Nevasa, which I represent, has the right to recruit troops on its own soil," Thach said. "Stop this nonsense!"

"Sir," Ran repeated, "I don't question your right, it's not my business to even discuss your rights. My duties require—"

The Nevasan officer muttered something to his subordinates. Two of them thrust their sub-machine guns into Ran's ribs.

Ran began to laugh. "Blow me away and your superiors'll throw you to the sharks so fast your head'll spin!"

"Stop that!" Thach snarled to his uniformed contingent. "Stop that now!"

The guns jerked away from Ran's side.

Passengers had paused to watch. The PA system gave a low-frequency growl that moved them on again. Trident ought to give this AI a medal. . . .

"You, ma'am," Ran said to the ground-staff supervisor. He hadn't caught her name tape. "Your folks had better help with getting passengers back where they belong. Now."

He didn't raise his voice, but the last syllable had teeth.

The supervisor looked from the ship's officer to Thach, looked down, and began to sidle away.

"You have no right to do this!" Thach said.

"Sir, please," Ran said. "I can't make policy. I don't doubt you've got the right to do whatever you're doing, but I've got to do my duty until one of my superiors changes that duty. Take it up with them, sir. Please."

"You're on Nevasan soil," said the uniformed officer. "The ship may be extraterritorial, but this building isn't. I could arrest you for insult to an official in the performance of his duties."

Thach hadn't made the threat, but he waited intently for the result of it.

Ran nodded. "Yessir," he said. "And then your diplomats and Earth's diplomats would discuss it, and it wouldn't do anything about the question of Nevasa recruiting transients shipped on labor contracts—which is the only thing that matters to us standing here. But I expect you to do your duty, as I'm doing mine."

Ran's face wore an expression of sad calm. Mr. Thach glared at him.

Thach gave the amplifier to the uniformed officer with almost the crispness of a blow. "Come along," he snapped as he stepped to the door.

Ran opened it quickly. Thach turned and added over his shoulder, "We'll be back!"

"Yessir," said Ran. He didn't doubt it in the least.

Ran closed the door. His ratings grinned at him in delight. The ground-staff personnel had disappeared, helping chivvy passengers back into their dormitories.

Ran could understand how the locals had felt, trapped in the gray area between patriotism and loyalty to their employer. They'd made the best decision they could. In the larger scheme of things, it didn't matter a hoot that their decision had made life for a few of the Empress of Earth's crew harder.

But if they thought Ran Colville wasn't going to see that every one of the bastards on duty tonight at the Transient Block was fired, they were dreaming.

"What do we do when they come back, sir?" Mohacks asked. It was a real question, not a nice way of saying, "We're shit outa luck when they come back."

Ran touched his transceiver to the doorjamb again. "Block," he said, "get ground transport for the full Third Class list here at once. I'm authorizing overtime for the drivers and support people."

He looked at his ratings and shivered with sudden relaxation. "What we do," he said, "is make sure that all contract passengers are back aboard Earth territory before that gentleman can organize a better try. It's after office hours, after all. We ought to be able to manage it."

He took a deep breath and added, "Anyhow, we'll give it a good try."

Without a pause, Ran went on, "Block, patch me through to the Empress. The Purser had better have Third Class ready, because the passengers are going to be back, ready or not!"

* * *

It was three hours before Ran got back to the Empress.

The trouble with a white uniform, Ran thought as he strode into the Embarkation Hall, is that it really shows grime. Fatigues were the proper garb for directing trucks loaded with Third Class passengers around a detour, but the first part of the job that called him to the Transient Block had required all the swank he could muster.

As it turned out, he should have stopped to change instead of coming straight to Commander Kneale to report. Kneale was in the Embarkation Hall, where nearly a hundred passengers were processing already, even though it was a full twelve standard hours before the Empress undocked. Ran was a lot dirtier than he'd realized until he reached the hall's bright lights. Passengers gave him nervous, hunted glances, and the commander looked concerned instead of furious.

"Trouble?" Kneale murmured when he was close enough to Ran that they wouldn't be overheard. The two officers stood by a pilaster, looking out the broad gangway toward the terminal's lighted concourse. Nevasa wasn't Earth—all the human colonies together weren't Earth—but Con Ron Landing passed a tremendous quantity of commerce in its own right

"Not really," said Ran. "Traffic's really screwed up, is all. There's a rally or something in the middle of the boulevard, so we had to take back streets to the terminal. The trucks don't have commo, so I played traffic cop at the second corner."

He glanced ruefully at what had been a white sleeve. "It just looks like I got dragged all the way from Transient Block. Sorry. I'll go change."

The clothing and features of the incoming passengers suggested a variety of ethnic backgrounds. Most of them were foreigners leaving Nevasa as the planet teetered above the chasm of war . . . though there were clumps of Nevasan women and children as well.

"Umm," said Kneale. "Well, I think you've earned yourself some sleep. Why—"

The terminal slidewalk brought a party of well-dressed Nevasans toward the Empress of Earth. They were escorted by gray-uniformed guards who jogged beside the slidewalk with weapons in their hands.

"Thach was quicker off the mark than I'd have guessed," Ran said mildly while his mind raced. If they raised the gangplank—

Useless; the machinery wouldn't respond fast enough, and half the crew was on leave in Nevasa City besides. Anyway, Commander Kneale was in charge—

Kneale strode to meet the problem at the lower end of the gangway. Ran fell into step at his superior's heel.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Kneale said in with loud cheerfulness. "Welcome to the Empress of Earth."

There were nine Nevasan civilians. Eight of them were virtually indistinguishable, though the group included two females and the age spread was about thirty standard years. They all wore rigidly proper clothing—"proper" in higher official circles on any human planet—and they cultivated blank, vaguely disapproving expressions.

The ninth member of the party was odd girl out: probably not as young as her fine bone structure suggested to Ran, but certainly still in her teens. She was dressed in London chic, a black and yellow frock which spiked over the right shoulder and fell off the other. Tights of translucent matching fabric encased the right leg, while the left was bare to her ankle boots.

A nice face, though angry now, and not a bad pair of legs at all. . . .

But the important thing was that if that girl was in the party, it wasn't an official demand to enroll contract passengers into the armed forces of Nevasa.

"I am Minister Lin," the eldest of the civilians said to Commander Kneale. "You have a suite booked for me and my staff, I believe?"

"Yes indeed, Minister," Kneale replied. Only an expert would have caught the relief in his voice. "The Asoka Suite. You're boarding early?"

He made a gesture behind his back. Several senior stewards stepped toward the cabin luggage arriving on floating carts.

"Father has to arrive early," the girl said in an overly audible voice. She glared at Kneale. "So that he can be sure that it's safe for military secrets!"

Mr. Lin coughed. "You're connected to all ground media while we're docked, of course?" he said.

"Of course," Kneale agreed. "Ah—your attendants will have to surrender their weapons before boarding, you know, sir. They'll be returned—"

"That's impossible!" snapped one of the civilian aides. "They're responsible for the minister's security."

"Trident Starlines is responsible for the security of all its passengers," the commander replied calmly.

Ran looked toward the girl. His face was expressionless to hide his anger at this latest problem.

The Nevasans were being deliberately obtuse. Trident Starlines made no attempt to restrict what passengers had in their hold baggage. On Calicheman, pistols were as standard an item of dress as hats against the fierce sunlight, and many of the fringe worlds were harsher places yet

The Nevasan security men could have their submachine guns as soon as they left the ship at any landfall. Nobody but Trident officers had guns aboard the vessel. As for the minister's safety against a mob of other passengers—given the facilities of the Empress's imperial suites, there was no need at all for him to leave his quarters during the voyage.

The girl saw Ran looking, she thought, at her. She turned her head in embarrassment. Obviously, she was more inhibited than she wanted her father to think.

"That's impossible!" the aide repeated.

"Then it's impossible for Minister Lin to board the Empress," Kneale replied. "I'm truly very sorry."

Lin looked at his aide. "Oh, don't be a fool, Tran," he said. "I haven't got all day to stand here and argue about trivia."

He nodded to Kneale. "If you'll direct me to my suite, then?"

The commander bowed and gestured a steward forward, Ran sighed and stepped back. A shower would feel good, and he'd have to see what Housekeeping could do with this uniform . . . .

A company of infantry, helmeted and wearing mottled battledress, double-timed toward the Empress in a column of fours that filled the slidewalk. At a shouted command, they jumped from the moving walk with a crash of bootheels and clattering equipment. Two of the men upended when their boots hit the fixed flooring.

"Minister Lin," said Kneale in a hard voice. "What is this?"

A non-com sorted the troops into formation while their commissioned officer trotted up the gangplank. Ordinary passengers fled the Embarkation Hall with glances over their shoulders.

Lin looked at the soldiers disdainfully. "Not my department, Commander," he said.

"Are you the captain?" the military officer demanded.

"I'm Commander Hiram Kneale and I'm in charge here, sir," Kneale said. "On behalf of Trident Starlines, that is. Minister Lin of course represents your government."

The soldier did a violent double-take. Ran smiled internally. Kneale had played his cards perfectly—though nobody was really sure what was trump in a situation this confused.

"I'm Major Dung," the soldier resumed after a moment's deliberation. "My men are here to search your vessel and detain enemy aliens."

"Has war been declared, then?" Ran said, knowing that the Empress's AI would have informed him if there had been a declaration.

"War has not been declared," Lin said sharply—to the major, not Ran. "Whose orders do you claim to be executing, sir?"

"I—"blurted Dung. "I—my orders came directly from the Ministry of Defense."

"Vessels retain the nationality of their flags by international compact," Commander Kneale noted, looking at his fingernails. "Armed invasion of the Empress of Earth would be an act of war directed against Federated Earth."

"Precisely who gave you these orders, Major?" Lin demanded. "And don't tell me the building did!"

"Ah, Minh—"Dung said.

"Field Marshal Minh?" Lin cried. "I can't believe he would have done anything so dearly ultra vires!"

"No sir," the major mumbled. He didn't know ultra vires meant "beyond his authority," but he did know he was in way over his head. "No, it was General Minh in Operations Planning. . . ."

Mr. Lin glared at Dung as though the soldier had just urinated on the carpet. "Please take your comic opera company out of here, Major," he said. "You can have no conception of the trouble you almost caused by your illegal and ill-advised actions."

Dung swallowed, saluted, and scurried back to his troops. They looked like recent inductees, clumsy and nervous. Which didn't make Ran feel better about what had nearly happened. At least with veterans, you could be pretty sure they weren't going to shoot you unless they meant to.

"Thank you, Minister," Commander Kneale said quietly as the troops straggled aboard an out-bound slidewalk.

"It was nothing," said the girl. "Father enjoys bullying people."

Ran winced.

"To my suite then, please," said Mr. Lin as though he hadn't heard his daughter's comment

The Nevasan delegation moved off, guided by the Chief Steward. Two of the uniformed guards collected the weapons of the whole detachment and disappeared with them toward the VIP lounge. The guns would return in a few minutes, discreetly cased in a piece of luggage stamped "not wanted on voyage."

"Nice job, sir," Ran murmured to his superior.

Commander Kneale looked very tired. "Sometimes you get lucky, my boy," he said. He sighed. "I was going to give you the rest of the night off. Instead—can you find the Terran embassy?"

Ran shrugged. "Sure," he said. "Bridge can download me a map. It may be a little tricky getting there tonight, what with everything."

"I want a detachment of Earth troops here at the gangway," Kneale said. "There don't have to be many, just enough for a tripwire. Terran troops are a—more believable warning than me spouting international law may be. And the embassy doesn't want an incident any better than I do."

Ran saluted half-seriously. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

He thought of changing his uniform but decided not to. Chances were, he was going to look a lot worse by the time he made it to where he was going.

* * *

The lobby of the Terran embassy was three stories high. It was supported by fluted pillars of polished black stone on conglomerate bases. Glass light-fountains springing from the foreheads of stylized alabaster horses accented the decor.

Ran found it a haven of peace after the outer court foil of shouting, crying people, many of them clutching children and bundles of personal belongings.

"Tough time, sir?" asked the sergeant commanding the six Terran soldiers who'd passed Ran into the building.

"Tough enough," Ran murmured. He straightened his uniform jacket. When the door opened for the Trident officer, at least a dozen other people had tried to force their way past him. "Are all those folks out there Earth citizens?"

"Not a one of them," the guard said. "They're fringe-worlders and they're scared, that's all. They figure Earth can protect them. West Bumfuck or wherever they come from sure-hell can't."

"Mr. Colville?" called a plump civilian from the second balcony. He looked about Ran's age or a few years younger. "I'm very sorry you've had this useless trip. I told your Commander Kneale—"

"I'm coming up!" Ran interrupted in an artificially cheerful voice as he headed for the stairs.

Kneale had called ahead to announce him—without that, Ran would never have gotten through the embassy doors at this hour and set of circumstances—but the whole reason for his presence was to make a face-to-face request. It's harder to turn down a person than it is a voice.

The stairs were of the same black stone as the columns, but inset grip pads prevented the treads from being lethal to someone in a hurry, as Ran was now. As he passed the second-floor landing, three people whispering in the open hallway turned and stared at him. Their faces were as frightened and uncertain as those of the crowd outside the building.

The man who'd called to Ran shifted his weight from one foot to the other as though he had a desperate need to run for the bathroom. "Really, Mr. Colville," he said, "there's nothing more to—"

The third-floor hallway had doors on the outer perimeter and overlooked the lobby on the inside. Paintings of women wearing 17th-century dresses covered the ceiling in broad, filigreed-silver frames. Your taxes at work . . .

Money spent on expensive buildings wasn't going to get anybody killed. Hiring dithering fools to make decisions in a crisis just might do that.

Ran stuck out his hand. "And you are, sir?" he said.

The embassy official shook hands in a practiced reflex. "Emrys-Dunne," he muttered. "Assistant Political Officer. As you can imagine, we're quite busy just now. I should be in a meeting right—"

He nodded toward the door standing ajar across the hall beside them. Ran could see half of those around the table within. The striking blond woman would have been worth comment in other circumstances, but none of the conferees were senior people. An older man near the foot of table was clearly a Nevasan national, locally employed embassy staff.

"—now."

You bet. There's a crisis, so call a meeting and cluck. With luck, the ambassador and other ranking personnel were doing something useful, but Ran wasn't willing to bet on that.

"Sir, I know this is a crisis, but the Empress of Earth is more than just a hugely valuable vessel," Ran said as persuasively as he knew how. He was so tired and hungry that he was getting light-headed. "She's a symbol of Earth itself, just as the embassy here is. A few Terran soldiers may be the only thing between normal lift-off and an ill-judged attempt to seize her. That sort of mistake could bring Federated Earth into the war, as you know."

"That's out of the question!" said Emrys-Dunne, more forcefully than Ran would have guessed the plump man could be. "Deploying members of the guard detachment off embassy property would be a clear violation of the treaty—"

The meeting in the conference room broke up. The people spilling out the door looked drawn and gray. Ran suspected that Emrys-Dunne had kept the gathering together longer than would otherwise have been the case, and that his absence gave the others an excuse to leave.

"Sir," Ran said, "There's already been one—"

"No!" snapped the official. "No, absolutely not. What you're suggesting could be construed as an act of war on our part."

That was probably true, but—there wasn't a snowball's chance in Hell that the government of Nevasa would try to make anything out of it. Whereas a Nevasan misstep here, in the middle of the crisis, might arouse the sort of public outcry at home that forced Earth to take public action. The government of Federated Earth collectively hated to act as much as Emrys-Dunne seemed to dislike the idea as an individual.

"Sir, just as a symbol," Ran pleaded. "To make it clear that the Empress is Earth territory and—"

"No!"

The blond woman stopped nearby, looking intently from Emrys-Dunne to Ran. "We could send a few watchmen," she said unexpectedly. "He's right, you know. The department won't thank us if we let Earth be dragged into this because the Nevasans—or some Nevasans—miscalculated."

"Uh?" said Ran.

"This is Ms. Hatton," Emrys-Dunne said through a grimace. "She's our General Services Officer. And I remind you, Susan, that this is a political matter."

"On the contrary, Clovis," Hatton replied, "the private watchmen are a GSO matter, just like the maintenance staff and all other aspects of personnel billeting. And it seems to me that this is a proper use for them."

"Wait a minute," Ran said. He was too tired to be sure of what he was hearing. "These are Nevasan citizens hired to guard embassy housing?"

"Not Nevasans," the blonde corrected. "We hire third-planet nationals for the job. And they guard our supply warehouses as well, of course."

She pursed her lips. "The important thing from your standpoint is that the guards wear uniforms with Terran Embassy shoulder patches," she went on. "But they also have Nevasan approval to carry lethal arms."

"You have no right to authorize personnel paid with embassy funds to guard private property!" Emrys-Dunne objected.

"Trident Starlines will pick up the tab, no problem," Ran said. "Just get me to a line that can access Bridge—ah, the Empress of Earth, I mean."

"Yes, come with me," Hatton directed as she turned and led the way down a short corridor to an office. She looked just as good going away as she did from the front. Ran was partial to blondes, not that it really mattered.

The office was a small one adapted for two people, presumably the GSO and a local assistant. Hatton used one line while Ran, at the opposite desk, clipped his transceiver to the other phone and patched through to the Empress's AI.

"Six be enough?" Hatton asked.

"Yes," said Ran. If six weren't plenty, then a battalion wouldn't be.

Hatton talked for a moment, her voice muted by the interference field of her phone, and looked up at Ran with satisfaction. "They'll be there in half an hour," she said.

"Time and a half to everyone who makes it," Ran said. "Double-time to any of them who're at the Empress in fifteen minutes."

"Accepted," said Bridge through the Third Officer's earpiece.

Hatton raised an eyebrow and spoke again into her phone. She switched off the line and said to Ran, "I don't know if any of them will make it, but they're certainly going to try. I hope it works."

"We all hope it works," Ran said. He stood and stretched. "Including everybody with good sense in the Nevasan government. Anyway, you and I did what we could to avoid trouble."

He looked down at Hatton. She was wearing something clingy and gauze-fine, but as opaque as a brick wall. The fabric was a soft blue that shimmered metallically when the light hit it from the right angle.

"I really appreciate your help," Ran said. "I know it's safer to sit on your hands than to help. That's anywhere, I mean, I'm not down on the foreign service."

Hatton sighed. "Spend four hours in a meeting with Emrys-Dunne and you would be down on the foreign service," she said. "Well, if there's nothing else I can do for you, Mr.—"

"Ran Colville," he said with a smile. "And if you can tell me—is there a hotel around here? I don't look forward to getting back to the ship tonight, and if I did I'd get rousted before my head hit the pillow. Also I could use a meal."

Hatton looked at him sharply. "Yes, there are hotels," she said. "And restaurants, though I don't know what'll be open with things—the way they are. I can take you past one on my way home, since I'm leaving now myself."

"Ah . . . ?" said Ran. "Could I offer you dinner too?"

Hatton sniffed. "And have it look as though Trident bribed me to provide guards? Not likely, sailor."

"Trident isn't picking up the tab," Ran said. The comment didn't bother him, but he injected a touch of acid in his voice to make the blond woman feel guilty. "I'm off duty, I'm in a strange city, and all hell's breaking loose. I was just hoping for the company of somebody who's acted like a friend."

Hatton grinned ruefully. "Sorry," she said, "it's been a long day. Sure, let's have a meal—but Dutch treat. And—"

Her face hardened.

"—I want it very clear: we're having dinner together. We're not going to bed."

Ran chuckled. "Milady, I don't doubt you've had a hell of a day, but believe me, it's not a patch on mine." He crooked his arm for her to take it. "There's some things that're just beyond human limits."

Which was perfectly true. Though in that one particular category, Ran Colville hadn't found his limits yet

* * *

The parking lot beneath the embassy building smelled of oil and damp concrete. The cars were an odd mix of Terran, Nevasan, and a scattering of models built on various other planets where embassy personnel had been stationed previously.

"Be careful out there, Ms. Hatton," warned the attendant. He was slim and dark, a Nevasan native. "Mostly they're acting happy—but people are scared, and you can't tell what's going to happen."

"Thank you, Lee," Susan said. "I'm leaving my car here. From what I see out the window, it wouldn't be possible to drive out anyway."

"As you wish, Ms. Hatton," Lee said. He looked Ran over. "And good luck to you too, sir," he added.

"Thank you," Ran said formally. "I and my employers are very appreciative of the embassy's help in this crisis."

Of course Lee's comment had a double meaning. Of course Ran Colville knew better than to embarrass a lady in front of her staff.

Lee stepped into his kiosk at the head of the exit ramp and threw a lever. Motors winched up the armored door.

"Come!" Susan directed, tapping the back of Ran's hand, and they darted through together. The door crashed shut, leaving them with the glowing Nevasan night.

A crowd filled the street—not solidly but by small groups and individuals, the way jellyfish swarm to the surface of a calm sea. No one spoke loudly, but the air hissed with conversation and the miniature radios that more than half of the people carried. Occasionally a cheer would rumble from far away, like angry surf.

"All the government ministries are within a few blocks of here," Susan explained. "People want to know what's going on."

"They could learn more by staying home and watching the news," Ran said. He was keyed up, though the day had wrung him out too thoroughly for his jitters to be obvious. "They're like kids before they run a race, too nervous to sit still."

Susan nodded them to the right at the intersection with the boulevard fronting the embassy. The park across the way was full of people. Buildings facing the park were brilliantly floodlit, and someone was speaking through an amplifier. Ran couldn't make out the words, but the crowd responded with waves of sullen enthusiasm.

"Parliament and the presidential palace," Susan said. Then she added, "If they understood what was going to happen, they wouldn't be cheering."

Ran shrugged. "It's going to happen anyway," he said. "Whatever ordinary people think, whatever they do. They might as well be happy while they can."

On one of the helmet recordings Ran found after his father died:

The broken buildings were gray and jagged. Three bodies lay in the gutter. A machine gun spat over them from a cellar window.

The stone transom puffed and sparkled with bullet impacts, but the rebel machine gun continued to fire. A grenade wobbled toward the gun and burst into waves of violet smoke.

The viewpoint shifted as Chick Colville stood up. A rod of brilliantly-white flame, napalm enriched with powdered aluminum, stabbed toward the concealed gun position. Smoke sucked and swirled, but it continued to screen the cellar window even after secondary explosions shook the rubble.

Three rebels ran into the street. Their clothes were burning. Bullets killed them and covered the bodies with dust knocked from the stone of the ruined building. The oldest of the rebels might have been fourteen . . . .

There wouldn't be street fighting here in Nevasa City . . . but a nuclear weapon might get through despite the rings of defenses, and certainly many dinner tables would have empty places that the dead would never return to fill. Sure, cheer now.

Either Ran shivered or something showed on his face. When he glanced around at his companion, she was staring at Mm. "No problem," he said with a smile that admitted maybe there had been one.

Instead of responding, Susan said, "We'll go to the Parisienne." She had to raise her voice to be heard over the murmur of the crowd. "It's the hotel the embassy uses for delegations, and the grill room is famous."

Inconsequently, she added, "It's only a block from my apartment."

Ran looked toward her. She didn't meet his eyes.

The boulevard was divided by a central spine of trees with bushes planted to either side of it Buildings in this district were set back from the street, behind walled courtyards like that of the Terran embassy. Awnings of plush and silk jutted over sidewalk at the courtyard gates. Sometimes the fabric bore a crest or a legend: MINISTRY OF CULTURE, for example, or TYDIDES CORPORATION, and some in scripts unfamiliar to Ran.

A taxi with square lines and a great deal of chrome brightwork was stopped against the central plantings. A large crowd was gathered around the vehicle. A man wearing Nevasan formal kit, embroidered robes suggesting those of Earth's Ming Dynasty, stood on the taxi's roof.

"We must not be backward in defending our civilization against arrogance and barbarism!" the man cried. Drink slurred and hoarsened his voice. "The tree of liberty grows in the soil of martyrs' bones!"

Listeners at the back of the circle looked over their shoulders at Ran and the woman. Nevasans tended to be short and slightly-built by general human standards. The two foreigners stood out, even without Ran's white uniform and the glitter of Susan's dress.

Ran stepped to the outside and put his arm around the woman. He didn't look aside at the crowd, nor did he quicken his pace.

An emergency vehicle drove slowly down the boulevard. A blue strobe light pulsed above the cab, though its siren was silent. The driver was a policeman, but two soldiers in battledress sat in the open back of the vehicle, dangling their feet over the bumper.

"There's the Parisienne," Susan said quietly. She had a make-up mirror in her hand. She used it to glance at the street behind them. She didn't pull away from Ran, though they were past the group gathered around the taxi.

She closed the mirror. "They aren't following," she added. "I—didn't think it would feel like this. It frightens me." Her voice was calm.

"It's a bad time to be an outsider," said Ran, who'd been an outsider all his life. He quickened his pace slightly. A broad marquee labeled PARISIENNE jutted out in the middle of the next block, guarded by a uniformed concessionaire.

They crossed an alley between two extensive courtyards. A stone bollard at the mouth blocked the passage for any but pedestrian traffic. Signs dangled from either side of the alley, but the expensive boutiques were locked and shuttered.

Ran slowed. "Is there a back entrance to the hotel?" he asked." ! . . . don't like the look of the folks across the street."

Susan leaned past Ran for a better view. The mob—this lot wasn't a crowd or a gathering—filled both opposite lanes of the boulevard and was trampling the bushes of the divider. Ran could hear metal ring under heavy blows.

"The Grantholm embassy," Susan said. "The staff left yesterday, all but a caretaker or two."

"Come on," Ran said harshly. He turned and strode back toward the pedestrian way, half dragging the woman with him when she hesitated.

"The authorities shouldn't let that happen," Susan muttered. "The host country is responsible for the safety of all embassy—"

Someone at the rear of the mob saw the woman's blond hair and shouted, "There go a couple of Grantholm dog-fuckers!"

"Go!" said Ran at the alley mouth. He gave Susan a push in the right direction and released her.

The shop nearest the corner specialized in carved jade. Chromed steel rods two and a half meters long slanted from the wall to support the plush marquee. Ran grabbed one of the rods and wrenched it free. He backed a few steps down the alley, out of the pool of the streetlight at its mouth. His hands were set a meter apart at the center of the rod.

Well-dressed Nevasans, their faces contorted with fury, foamed around the bollard like the tide racing past a bridge pier. One of the leaders brandished a pistol. Ran stepped toward the mob, swinging the rod with all the strength of his torso behind the motion.

The man with the gun screamed as his skull cracked. He jerked a shot into the ornamental brick pavement at his feet

Ran backed, stabbed with the tip of the rod, and swung in another broad arc. This time he used the opposite end of his weapon. A Nevasan gripped the rod. Ran judged his angle, smiled like the angel of death, and thrust forward with all his weight. The glittering tube slid through the Nevasan's hands and punched his front teeth into his palate.

Ran backed another step. The shot had spooked some of the mob, and those still thrusting forward stumbled over the ruin of their front rank. Ran scanned his target Both ends of his rod were black with blood.

"Don't breathe!" Susan Hatton said sharply. She hadn't run when he told her to. She reached past Ran, bracing her left hand on his shoulder.

The canister in her right hand went poom! and belched a cloud of gas toward the mob. The recoil lifted her arm. Nevasans sprawled.

"Now run!" she shouted. They fled together. No one followed. Stun gas lay as a bitter haze at the alley mouth.

Under the light at the end of the block, Ran threw down the steel tube. It was kinked at both points his grip had formed the fulcrum for his blows.

Susan led him across the street, dodging the light vehicular traffic. "The hotel?" he said.

She stopped at a grillwork gate. The building beyond the courtyard was of four stories, with balconies shielded by carved screens at each level. "Where did you learn to fight like that?" she asked as she touched the thumbprint lock.

"On a Cold Crew. In sponge space," said Ran. His eyes were dilated. "Only we used cutting bars and adjustment tools, and sometimes a man's line broke and he went sailing off forever."

There was no expression in Ran's voice. His eyes stared all the way to Hell.

"Ran?" the woman said. She brushed his cheek wonderingly. Her fingers came away smeared with the blood that had spattered him.

He shuddered. "I'm all right," he said. It was a prayer, not a statement. "I'm fine." He hugged her fiercely.

"Not here," she said, but she kissed him anyway. "Come on, inside my apartment."

"I'm all right," Ran Colville whispered as she thumbed the lock to the entrance elevator. "I'm fine . . . ."

* * *

The phone rang. It had a pleasant-sounding mechanical bell. Ran didn't associate the chime with the cause until Susan Hatton lurched over him to lift the handset "Four-two-four-one," she said crisply.

A voice squeaked from the unit. Susan looked puzzled and gave the phone to Ran. "It's for you," she said.

"Colville," Ran said as he straightened up in bed. Who knew that he was—

"Ran," Wanda Holly said in a tone that melded humor with the grating seriousness of the words, "you need to get back aboard the Empress ASAP. We'll be making an early departure from Nevasa. Parliament has just declared war on Grantholm."

"Right, I'm on my way," said Ran. His mouth was open to say more, but Wanda broke the connection at the other end.

He put the handset on its cradle and looked at Susan. She had tossed the bedclothes back. Her body was supple and flawless. "It's war, so we're undocking early," he said. "I've got to get to the ship soonest."

He swung his legs out of bed. Pain slashed through his shoulders and the sheets of muscle over his ribs. He gasped involuntarily and tucked his elbows in close for a moment.

Susan touched his back. Her fingers were warm.

"It's okay," Ran explained. "I—haven't had that particular sort of exercise in about ten years, God be praised."

She looked startled. Ran laughed. "Oh, not that exercise," he said. "I meant earlier last night, the . . . the trouble."

The spasm passed and he stood up.

"I . . ." Susan said. Her tongue touched her lips. Her nipples were small and very pale. "I hadn't been with anyone in three months. Since Tom was transferred to the consulate at Bu Dop on the other side of the planet But you seemed to need me as much as I . . . ?"

Ran leaned over and kissed her. He reached gently between her thighs. Her labia were swollen. "Umm," he said. "You're going to be bruised, m'dear."

They hadn't slept much. Every time he started to doze off, Susan had hugged him to her again; and he'd responded. He didn't know that was really what she'd wanted, but it was what he had to give, and give again.

"And he laughs, the brute!" she said chuckling. Then, in a neutral tone, she voiced the first question to cross his mind when he heard Wanda speak. "How did she know where you were? The woman who called?"

"I should've clipped my commo unit to a phone when I took it off," Ran said. He'd pulled on his trousers and shirt, but he waited a moment before he dealt with his boots. "I didn't, but they could still locate it from the Empress. Bridge, that's the AI, must have dug the telephone address of the location out of the local system's records."

The marquee support had trailed a line of bloodspots across the sleeves and front of his tunic. The white fabric filtered the blood as it wicked through. Each spot had dried as a black center in a reddish ring, with a pale brown margin surrounding the lot. Ran put the garment on anyway.

"I'll be leaving Nevasa City in two days," Susan said from the bed. "There was a commercial attache slot open in Bu Dop. I put in for a transfer to be with my husband."

Ran finished sealing his boots. Momentary twinges suggested that he'd broken a rib, but he was sure it was just muscle strain. He didn't say anything.

"I—don't suppose," Susan said, "that your ship will be returning to Nevasa anyway, because of the war?"

Ran put on his commo unit. He knelt on the bed to kiss the blond woman again. "Not during the war, no," he said as he held her. "Trident probably should have chosen an alternative port even for this run, but nobody really expects a crisis to get worse yet."

He stood up again. He didn't remember ever having seen a more perfect body than hers, and he'd seen a few . . . .

"After the war, whenever that is," he said, "you'll know when the Empress docks. And what you do then is your business."

He made his way out of the apartment alone. Susan lay on the bed, her eyes empty.

* * *

The sky-stabbing departure horn of the Empress of Earth sounded its three notes for the second time as the taxi dropped Ran Colville at the gangplank. It had been a quiet drive. Debris from the vast assemblages of the previous night lay over many of the streets, but the mobs themselves had dispersed.

Second Officer Wanda Holly waited at dockside. Men in bright blue uniforms stood protectively before the gangplank. Their shoulder patches and cap tallies read Terran Mission. Ran nodded at them in approval. One of the guards saluted, though they couldn't have the least awareness of who the man in the dirty uniform was.

"You're the last, except for a few of the Cold Crew," Wanda said crisply as she swung into step with Ran. "Did you have a pleasant time last night?"

Ran looked at her. "I went," he said without emotion, "to arrange for the embassy to send guards. The embassy did do that, and we're able to leave Nevasa without a major problem. So yes, Wanda. Success in a difficult mission is always pleasant."

"Glad you made it back," she said. She turned and walked away at the top of the ramp.

Ran headed for his room and a change of uniform. He was whistling absently.

When he thought about the tune, he realized it was the old ballad, Clerk Colville.

Back | Next
Framed