Roger MacBride Allen - Allies and Aliens 1 - The Torch of Honor

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The Torch of Honor

By Roger MacBride Allen

PRELUDE

April, 2115

The Finns knew the Guardians had won. It was over. The Guardians had taken the

planet's surface, and now the surrender of the great satellite Vapaus would go

into effect in a few hours. The Guardians themselves had caused a delay of the

surrender by insisting it be negotiated strictly in English. The Finns,

desperately playing for time, stalled for as long as possible, taking hours to

search for the English-speaking officer they could have produced in moments.

The time was put to urgent use. The last, the only hope, thin though it might

be, was the League. Word had to be sent.

Six of the last torpedoes were stripped of armament. Light-speed-squared

generators and radio beacons were installed. Recordings that held the vital

knowledge of the anti-ship missile system, and what little information the

Finns had on the Guardians, were placed aboard.

Word had to get through.

The Guardians had not yet closed the ring around Vapaus. Three tiny one-man

ships were launched from the Forward airlock complex, each with two torps

strapped to jury-rigged harnesses amidships. The little ships launched at six

gees, to fly straight through the Guardian fleet. The enemy's radar was too

good to be fooled by any feinting maneuver; speed was the only protection.

It was not protection enough. The lead ship was destroyed in seconds by laser

fire from a troop transport. The Finnish pilot's last act was to blow the

fusion engines; the resultant explosion created a plasma that jammed every

radar screen and radio within a thousand kilometers. That gave the two

remaining ships their chance as they flashed into and beyond the gathering

fleet.

They dove down to lower orbits, rushing to get the sheltering bulk of the

planet between themselves and the enemy's radar before it could recover from

the explosion the Finns' lead ship had died in.

They fell toward the planet, gathering speed for a gravity-assist maneuver.

One hundred eighty degrees around the planet from the satellite Vapaus, they

both changed course, maneuvering violently, one coming about to fly a forced

orbit straight over the planet's North Pole, the second heading over the South

Pole.

As soon as the ships had reached their new headings, they cut their engines

for a moment, and each released a torp. Then the two ships and the two

released torpedoes ignited their engines and flashed on into the sky, the

torps holding course, the ships again changing their headings.

The southern ship was caught and destroyed by a Nova fighter scrambled from

the planet's surface. The northern ship released its second torp and came

about, one final time, to act as a decoy for the torps.

Soon, all too soon, another fusion explosion lit the sky, marking the point

where a Guardian missile had found the last Finnish ship.

The Guardians tracked only the last torpedo launched, and they were able to

destroy it.

Of the six torpedoes, two now survived, undetected. Engines still burning,

they curved around the world in exactly opposite directions, one over the

South Pole, one over the North, their courses bent by the planet's gravity

until they came about to identical bearings.

The torps cut their engines precisely over the Poles, just as they reached

escape velocity.

Each now rose on a straight-line course starting from a point directly over a

pole and parallel to the equator, the paths of the torps also parallel to each

other.

Engines stopped, they rushed through space, coasting, trusting to the cold and

dark of the void to hide them.

Hours after launch, when they were hundreds of thousands of kilometers beyond

the orbit of the moon Ku, celestial trackers on each torp examined the

starfield. The maneuvering thrusters fired fussily and touched up the torps'

headings. The two torps were now on precise headings for the Epsilon Eridani

star system, where the English had their colony world, Britannica. The

torpedoes were still far too close to New Finland's sun to go into

light-speed-squared. For long weeks they coasted on into the darkness, while

behind them, the Guardians worked their horrors on the Finns.

On one torp, the power system failed and the torp became another of the

useless derelicts in the depths of space.

But the other torp, the last one, held on to life. And at the proper moment,

the light-speed-squared generator absorbed nearly all the torp's carefully

husbanded power and grabbed at the fabric of space around the torpedo.

The last torp leaped across the dark between the suns.

Soon after, with weak batteries, the radio beacon barely detectable, the

torpedo drifted into the Epsilon Eridani system.

Just barely, the last torp made it.

PART ONE:

AN EMPTY GRAVE,

A HOLLOW WORLD

CHAPTER ONE

January, 2115

A cold, drizzly rain spattered the faceplate of my pressure suit as the

chaplain droned through the funeral service, there at the edge of the empty

grave.

The metal and rubber arm of my helmet's windshield wiper slithered back and

forth across my field of vision, clearing the rain away. This was probably the

only world humanity had bothered to settle where a pressure suit needed a

wiper. We all had them, the wiper blades endlessly waving, side to side, like

the mouthparts of giant locusts.

They were gone, dead, missing in the depths of space. Sixty of our classmates.

Their ship simply vanished en route back from one final training cruise. There

had been exactly one hundred of us when we had started out. Of course there

had been other losses to our ranks- other accidents, candidates who had been

dropped-but now there was this. There were only 34 of us left to stand on the

miserable plain.

"Vanity, vanity, saith the preacher," intoned our chaplain. "We bring nothing

into this world, and we take nothing out." The words might as well have been a

recording. The chaplain's voice made me think of dried-out toast. He talked on

in gravelly, portentous tones, plucking old morsels from half the books of

scripture, a shopworn service to be dragged out for all funerals and sad

occasions. "What is man, that thou are mindful of him?" he asked, his voice

rising for a moment, and then sliding back down to a low grumble.

A light blinked on the telltale board inside my helmet, and I kicked my radio

over to a private channel.

"Mac, this man is awful. Can't we make him be quiet, so we could at least

stand here and think?" Joslyn asked. She and I had been married by the same

chaplain three months ago. He had taken two minutes over our vows and 45

minutes on a rambling sermon that put half the congregation to sleep.

"Just keep your suit radio cut off," I suggested.

"But then I could still see his great jaw flapping. And now he's glaring at

us. Best we listen. Oh, Mac, they deserve a better send-off." She slipped her

gauntleted hand into mine and we switched back to the general circuit.

"Dear Lord, we commit to your care and keeping the immortal souls of these,

the departed. We pray you to welcome and cherish the souls of Lieutenant

Daniel Ackerman, Lieutenant Lucille Calder, Lieutenant Commander Joseph

Danvers...."

Nice touch, I thought. He's got them memorized in alphabetical order.

The empty grave was a regulation hole, one meter wide, two meters long, two

meters deep. I looked up into the sky through the gloomy overcast at the

blue-and-white globe that hung there. It was there, on the planet Kennedy,

that the tradition of the empty grave had arisen. There, during the Fast

Plague, it had been rare to have a body to put in the ground. The corpses had

been viciously infectious. The only sure way of sterilizing the remains was to

destroy them in the fusion flame of a grounded spacecraft. That was what

happened to my parents' bodies-I remember the patches of dim incandescence in

the cleansing flame. There was a an empty grave there, on Kennedy, a meter by

a meter by two meters; on top of it a granite cover slab that bore their

names.

There have always been a lot of funerals without bodies at the edges of

civilization, I suppose. There still were. A ship doesn't come back. Somebody

pushes the wrong button and a ship explodes. People get eaten. There are lots

of ways.

Finally, the cover slab with sixty names on it was carefully set down over the

grey concrete shell that defined the grave. A few centimeters of dirty water

were trapped in a puddle in the bottom.

We trooped back to the pressurized quarters and the wardroom. There was to be

a reception there.

Joslyn and I hung back. We stood on the surface of the moon Columbia a while

longer. When humanity came to this system, this, the planet Kennedy's only

large moon, had had a wispy methane atmosphere and a lot of water ice locked

up in polar icecaps. Now the engineers were hard at work in a dozen projects

to remake it into a better place. Some day their work would be done and this

world would live. Already, the air pressure was up to a third of what Earth's

was. But it was still a dank, miserable bog of a world, cold and moody, the

air poisonous. It rained too much.

Silently, I bid our comrades a last farewell, and we went inside.

Once in our quarters, it took us a while to get out of our pressure suits and

into our dress uniforms, with the grim addition of an issue black armband.

I struggled into the midnight-black, high-collared, rather severe uniform of

the Republic of Kennedy Navy. Joslyn, a native of the Planetary Commonwealth

of Britannica, was thereby a loyal subject of the King-Emperor of Great

Britain. Her uniform was a deep navy blue, with a lower collar, far fewer

buttons, and a better cut. Both of us wore the insignia of the League of

Planets Survey Service, a starfield superimposed on a rectangular grid. Both

of us were lieutenants, assigned to special training classes at the League of

Planets Survey Service Training Center on Columbia.

Joslyn checked her appearance in the mirror. She said she was five foot seven

and I was six four. I said she was 170 centimeters and I was 193. She was

slender, well-muscled and strong. Her face was oval, her lips full, and she

had a full set of dimples when she smiled. Her hair was a shade between

brunette and blonde. She grew it long and braided it. It was long enough to

hang to the small of her back. Now she had the braid coiled on top of her

head. She pulled her tunic straight and checked her profile, giving me a smile

and a wink in the mirror. She might be slender, but even in a dress uniform,

she was definitely female. She satisfied herself as to her own appearance and

turned to me. She patted my tunic smooth and brushed some lint from my sleeve.

"You'll do," she said, "but if they ever put padded shoulders in those

uniforms, you'll never fit through the doorway." Suddenly, she threw her arms

around my neck, pulled my head down, and gave me a most unmilitary kiss. She

looked me in the eye and sighed. "Mac, I do love you so."

I tickled her under the ear and smiled back. "Never mind that stuff. You sure

I look okay?"

"Oh, you'll do. That is, if one likes Greek gods."

I looked in the mirror and shrugged. I've always felt I looked like a refugee

from a comic book. Broad shoulders, plenty of muscles, I suppose, kind of a

narrow waist. My face is long and lantern-jawed. I've got light blonde hair

and the blue eyes to go with them. My smile is a little uneven, but it's

friendly enough. My arms and legs are long, my hands and feet big. I take the

largest size they issue in practically everything.

Growing up, I was the kid who tripped over his own two feet and tended to

smack into walls. My body got bigger than my coordination could handle for a

while there. Nowadays, Joslyn can escort me to the dance floor in perfect

safety; I can even waltz. Nonetheless, in regulation formal dress I look about

the size and shape of the angel of death.

We headed to the wardroom.

We, the survivors, should have been able to gather quietly together, drawn to

each other by the bonds of comradery that linked us one to the other, and to

the dead.

But the government representatives here had to be treated diplomatically. Some

were from nations and planets that opposed the Survey, others from places that

were footing the bill. Captain Driscoll had to invite them, and many had come.

Joslyn went off in search of drinks. I stood there and scanned the crowd for a

friendly face. Pete Gesseti caught my eye and came over.

Pete works for the Republic of Kennedy State Department, and is one of those

rare people who can actually make you believe that the bureaucracy knows what

it is doing. He is intelligent, open, and calm. A friendly warning from Pete

has kept plenty of people out of trouble. Pete knew my father-and kept me out

of trouble.

If not for Pete, I'd probably be just another of the orphan punks that cause

Hyannisport police to travel in pairs.

Pete is of medium height, his brown hair retreating toward baldness, his face

permanently calm.

He came over and shook my hand. "This isn't the right sort of occasion, but I

haven't seen you since. Congratulations on your commission, Second Lieutenant

Terrance MacKenzie Larson, sir."

"Thanks, Pete."

He raised his glass to me and took a sip. Joslyn returned and handed me my

drink. "Two more congratulations. Or three. On your commission, Lieutenant

Joslyn Marie Cooper Larson. On your marrying him. And on his marrying you.

Cheers."

We clinked our glasses and smiled. Pete went on. "Sorry I missed the wedding.

I understand the Reverend Buxley was spellbinding. I couldn't get leave."

"We understand, Peter. It was pretty short notice," Joslyn said. "Once we

decided to marry, we didn't see much point in waiting."

"The wedding aside, at least you didn't miss a trip to someplace worth going,"

I said.

"True, I guess. Though the League should have picked someplace a lot better

than this to train you kids. And I have a sneaky idea that putting you in this

hole was the deliberate policy of certain people who want the Survey to fail,

if you're interested in a little paranoia."

"What?"

"Mac-tell me this: How does Columbia rate as a training base for a space-going

operation?" Pete has a tendency to snap from one subject to another quickly.

He takes some keeping up with.

"Well, okay-not so great."

"Make that terrible. You guys should be in free orbit. That way, if you want

to train in your ships, you just hop out the hatch and go to it. Here, since

your ships aren't designed to land on a surface, you lose a lot of time taking

shuttle craft back and forth. Makes schedules impossible. Even having to fly

through this atmosphere is worthless as training. It's a freak since the

terraforming engineers started tinkering with it. It hasn't stopped raining

here for years, which must be great for morale. The air would kill you, so you

have to wear suits. The methane leaks in anyway, and stinks to high heaven.

The whole atmosphere is in transition: All kinds of crud precipitates and

ruins equipment. . . ."

"Okay, you've made your point. It's not such a great base. So who is it that

got the base put here?"

"You kids are lucky this is my third drink or I'd still be a fairly discreet

diplomat. People who wanted the Survey to fail. Those people had friends who

arranged for some misguided members of the Kennedy Chamber of Commerce to

lobby for you to be based here-if you follow that. They would like the Survey

to fail because the British donated the ten long-range frigates you'll be

flying, because your commander graduated from Annapolis, and because the

reports are to be published in English. They think the Brits and the Yanks are

plotting to lay claim to all the best real estate out there. Note Britannica,

Kennedy, and Newer Jersey are the prime planets so far-Europa, for example,

isn't all that habitable. There are some grounds for being suspicious. Anyone

you met at this reception speaking French, or German, or Japanese, for

example, would probably be just as happy if you had all been on the Venera

when she went poof."

"You're not suggesting the Venera. ..." I began.

"Was nuked on purpose? No. But it has crossed my mind that your friends aren't

dead."

"Pete-you're going too fast. We're at their funeral, or didn't you notice?"

"Hmmmm. Look, I'll finish the thought and then forget I said anything. But the

Venera fits a pattern. In the last ten years or so, there have been at least

30 cases in which something like this happens: a proven, reliable ship takes

off, on a well-known route. A number of highly skilled people are on board.

Some evidence-in the manifest, say-is sometimes found to suggest that someone

bribed their way on board, or stowed away, or whatever. The ship vanishes. No

wreckage, no explanation. The ship ends up listed Lost With All Hands, and

they put the files away. I get a funny feeling sometimes that someone is.

setting up shop on some backwater planet. Needs more skilled people than he's

got, so he kidnaps the talent he needs. Now forget I ever said that, because

I'd hate to fib and deny any such idea ever went through my head." He sipped

his drink.

I stood there, too surprised by the idea to react. Joslyn wasn't going to let

the subject drop, though. "Peter, if you believe that, why aren't you out

organizing a search party?"

"Joslyn, please-okay, I know that look. I give up. I guess I've gone far

enough that it doesn't matter. Listen. One: No way to prove it. Two: I could

not face giving all but certainly false hope to thousands of people who are

relatives and friends of people lost on unaccounted-for ships. Three: As the

saying goes, it's a big galaxy. We've been in star travel for 100 years, and

have yet to visit a tenth of the star systems within a hundred light years of

Earth. Four: Sooner or later, we will stumble across them-next year, next

millennia-if we keep looking for habitable planets. If something like the

Survey gets off the ground and is out there doing the looking. I spend a lot

of government time on the Survey. My superiors complain about it at times. So

let's leave it alone and talk about the weather. Has it stopped raining yet?"

"Not for another fifty years or so," I said. "We get the message." We murmured

something in the direction of a goodbye and circulated among the guests. I

went through the motions, mostly on automatic.

My head was whirling with confusion. I had never paid much attention to

politics. It had never occurred to me that someone would think ill of the

Survey, let alone try and throw monkey wrenches at it. And past that, way past

that, the wild thought that all those people might still be alive.... I

understood why Pete wasn't wholesaling his theory. I had known him all my

life, and it had taken a funeral that might have been mine and a few drinks

too many for him to mention it to me. How could he ever bring himself to

suggest it to strangers?

And then there were the rumblings that the Survey Service was to be stillborn.

We had yet to send a single ship out on a survey mission. Ours, the first

class of the Service, had been about a month from graduation when the Venera

was lost. I had figured the loss would slow us down to a crawl, but could it

really stop us? With all that to worry about, it was a lousy party, even for a

funeral.

Some hours after, I was alone in the view room. An overhanging roof shielded

the oversize view window from the worst of the rain so that it was possible to

see something of the dismal surface of Columbia, and of her sullen sky. Now it

was night, and Kennedy gleamed boldly down through the high cloud deck.

I looked up again at the sullen sky, and thought of the stars behind the dirty

clouds.

So many stars. . . .

In the vicinity of Earth's sun, the star systems are about five light years

apart, on the average. That works out to about 64,000 stars within a hundred

light years of Earth. Our home solar system is a good sample of what you can

expect to find in an average star system-nine or ten good-sized planets, 40 or

50 noticeable satellites, and a few trillion pieces of sky junk from the size

of a rogue moon down to individual atoms and elementary particles.

There's plenty of variety that goes past the average to the incredible. If

every human alive now, in 2115, were put to work as a scientist or an

explorer, and passed their jobs along to every one of their descendants, it

would still take a thousand years to get together a basic catalog of what we

know is out there to learn within that 100 light years.

Consider the infinite variety of Earth-the geology, the hydrology, the

atmosphere, the biology, the physical reality of our ancestral home. Multiply

it by the number of worlds waiting to be found, and you'll begin to understand

the problem.

Exploration is not something to do out of idle curiosity. Knowing what is out

there is an urgent need, and getting more so every year.

Around the beginning of the third millennium, the experiments were performed

that took faster-than-light travel from an impossibility to a laboratory trick

to a way to haul freight. Humanity, barely staggering into the third thousand

years alive, found that the stars had been dropped in its lap. The explorers

went out.

Some of them came back. The settlers followed in their paths. More than once,

settlers went out blazing their own trails. Very few of that number were ever

heard from again.

Yet, by the year 2025, the United States Census Bureau estimated the off-Earth

population as over 1 million for the first time. Ten years later, the figure

was twice that, and the pace accelerating. By 2050, rapid emigration and high

birth-rates had pushed the minimum estimate to 10 million. Even to this day,

the Census people try to keep track of it. At the moment, the best guess is 85

million people. That is, 85 million, plus or minus 20 million!

The colonists went out, poorly organized, often toward nothing more definite

than the hope that they might find a place to settle and live. Few managed

that. One job of the Survey was to find these people, and to establish a

reliable catalog of habitable planets, so the next generation of colony ships

might go out with a better chance of survival.

And we were to locate bounty, the incredible riches that literally hang in the

sky. What new mineral, born in exotic heat and pressure, waited for uses to be

found and a market established? Where were mountain-sized lumps of pure

nickel-iron, orbiting in darkness, waiting for a factory ship to take

possession? Where were the lovely green worlds waiting for people to come and

live on them? What new plants, new animals, would be worth exporting?

Surely it must have been obvious to everyone there was a need to explore. Just

as obviously, it was a job for the governments of humanity to take on. Obvious

to everyone except the governments, that is. Governments are supposed to lead,

but they have been following the people ever since our race entered space in a

big way.

The first crunch came in the 2030s or so. By that time, there were a good half

dozen colony planets-and a bad dozen. Nations and consortiums that certainly

could not afford to do so established colonies anyway. True, the founding

colonies had done great good for the nations that could afford the great

capital expense. But a poor nation goes bankrupt long before its colony starts

to pay any returns. The pattern was repeated many times. The nation, or the

colony, or both, would collapse, and people would start to die. To the

richness of space we brought war, riot, pestilence, and starvation. It

happened in a dozen different ways on a dozen different worlds.

The big nations, and the healthy colonies, many of them completely independent

by this time, got tired of bailing out the failures after a while. The United

States, the Asian and European powers, the strong colonies- Kennedy,

Britannica, Europa, New Alberta, Newer Jersey, and the others-came to the

conference table. By every means possible, they coerced the little and the

weak to join them-The Estonian Republic, The People's Federal Protectorate of

Chad, Uruguay, colonies like New Antarctica and High Albania, the O'Neill

colonies, the self-contained (and self-righteous) free-flying colonies in

orbit around Earth.

Some big countries were part of the problem: China had pulled off some truly

remarkable failures in space by this time. Many of the smaller nations and

colonies were among the most responsible members of the conference: Sweden;

Singapore, and her "daughter," the O'Neill colony High Singapore; Portugal;

Finland; and New Finland were strong backers of the enterprise.

The delegates bickered. They threatened each other. They indulged in back-room

deals that are still causing scandals today. But they managed to come up with

a treaty.

So, on January 1, 2038, at 0000 hours GMT and Zero hours Accumulated Stellar

Time (AST), the League of Planets came into being and its founding document,

the Treaty of Planets, came into effect.

By 0000 hours GMT on January 2, or 24 hours AST, the League was evacuating the

hapless residents of New Antarctica and treating them for frostbite.

The delegates came up with a system that works. Its basic tenet sets the right

of a human being to live over the right of an idiot to run a government as if

it were a family business.

When the League came into being, ground rules were set up for the founding of

colonies. Folks could still bug out and vanish if they wanted to, but fewer

people did so by accident. Fewer people starved. When the Fast Plague came to

Kennedy, the Interworld Health Organizations (which is one of the pieces of

the League that actually predates it, somehow-like the International Court of

Justice at The Hague) came in, and their aid saved us. There is no possible

question on that point. That's why the Republic of Kennedy is very pro-League.

There are other good things. There are fewer tinhorn dictators taking over

small colonies with still-weak governments. Trade is reliable, not for

gamblers anymore.

I stood there and looked out at the gloomy night. It occurred to me that I

must have been pretty naive to think that politics wasn't going to affect the

Survey- not with a history like the League's.

I must have been there for nearly an hour, nursing a drink. An orderly came

for me.

"Lieutenant Larson?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Excuse me, sir, but Captain Driscoll's compliments, and could you come to her

office right away?"

I followed the young man along the well-known route to Driscoll's office.

The orderly led me into the office and vanished. Joslyn was there already-and

so was Pete Gesseti. As I came in, Driscoll was just handing him back a sheaf

of papers. He slipped them back into a folder marked REPUBLIC OF KENNEDY STATE

DEPARTMENT CLASS A CLEARANCE ONLY***TOP SECRET.

I exchanged glances with Joslyn, but she just shook her head. They hadn't told

her anything yet. Pete's expression was one of pure bemusement, a bad job at a

poker face.

Driscoll ignored me for a moment and simply sat there, staring into space,

chewing on the end of a pencil. Gillian Driscoll didn't do that sort of thing

much. A good loud voice that expected to be obeyed was more her style.

She was a small, rather compactly built woman-one who punched out walls when

she felt frustrated. Her face was round, and a bit plain. Her skin had a

rough, windblown look to it. She kept her hair cut short to the point of

severity, for the sake of convenience. She was capable of using makeup

artfully, though, and had presented a pretty picture in her full dress uniform

earlier in the evening. She fought a tendency to plumpness when she got stuck

behind a desk for any amount of time. That wasn't one of her current problems:

she led the courses in hand-to-hand combat and survival training. She was of

Irish descent, more or less, and her blue eyes and red hair came with a button

nose to prove it.

Now she was in standard-issue sneakers and coverall. She seemed to come to

herself, and saw I was there. "Mac. Good. Sit down. We've got to do some

talking here."

I sat down.

Captain Driscoll drummed her fingers on the the desk and muttered darkly to

herself for a moment. Then she spoke up. "Pete, you tell it. Let me hear it

again. Maybe I can think a bit."

"Right," Pete said to her, then turned to Joslyn and myself. "First off, do

you know how the Survey Service got hold of the ships you are supposed to

fly?"

"Donated by the British, right?" I asked.

"Not exactly. You've got ten ships designated as Survey Ships. They used to be

long-duration patrol frigates, the plan being to have enough of them to be

able to send one or two into a trouble spot and have the ships' firepower hold

things together until the political types came in and tidied things up. Now

His Majesty's government contracted for 100 such ships with Imperial

Shipyards, with a clause calling for an additional ten to be built. H.M.G.

thought the extension clause was activated by notification, Imperial thought

it was cancellable by notification. The contractor was a dozen light years

from the purchasing office. The upshot is that the Brits got ten more ships

than they wanted, and the bill for same.

Turns out they didn't even need the hundred original ships. However, the

International Court at The Hague ruled for Imperial, once it got that far. So

the Brits had the ships with no budget for operating them, and no use for them

anyway. So they leased them to the League for a pound a year. Think of it as

their taking a tax loss. Now. In the five years since they got stuck, the

British have lost a few ships through accident, and on top of that, they now

have more real estate to cover. They decide maybe they could use ten more

ships after all. The current lease expires in about 45 days-Earth days,

whatever the hell that is in hours."

"To conclude the story and bring you right up to date, your friend Mr. Gesseti

has just broken a number of laws, regulations, and treaties to show me a

diplomatic message intercept sent from London to the British Embassy on

Kennedy," Driscoll said.

"Some of the back-room boys cracked their diplomatic code a while ago," Pete

said. "We pulled it off the relay satellite, picked it up, and read it before

the British did-fortunately for you people," Pete explained, without a hint of

shame. "London was telling the embassy to sort of turn cool on the Survey

people. They're pulling their liaison officer soon, and they're thinking of

taking the ships back, if politically feasible."

"The cable predates the loss of the Venera," Driscoll pointed out. "With the

British supporting us at the League, we could weather the loss of personnel.

With our establishment intact, it wouldn't be 'politically feasible' to grab

the ships this close to graduating the first group."

"But, as things stand now, you're screwed," Pete said blandly.

"So what do we do?" Joslyn asked.

"Do. What do we do?" Driscoll pulled open a drawer, extracted a bottle and

glass, and poured herself a drink. "We take our 34 surviving crew members, put

them on the ten ships that are supposed to have crews of nine each, and send

them out before the League bureaucracy has time to cut our head off."

"Ma'am. With all due respect, that can't work!" I said.

"Mac, you may be right. But unless the survey ships launch now, they never

will. We have to get them out of orbit and at their proper work."

"But can't you rush the next class though? Or use the instructors?" Joslyn

asked.

"The very first things I thought of. The second class- hell, those kids

haven't even been inside one of the survey ships yet. Most of them haven't

done the survival course yet, none of them are checked out on astrogation to

the point where I'd trust them completely even on the Kennedy-Britannica run,

let only on a trip between two poorly-charted stars. They aren't anywhere near

trained. And the instructors, strangely enough, are even worse. They're all

specialists. Scanlan is the best fusion-reactor and power system expert in 30

light years-but she's never even been in a pressure suit. Jamie Sheppard is

turning you all into experts on your pressure suits, but he doesn't know a

damn thing about piloting. No. It's you. Your class. Or we don't go."

There was silence for a moment, and then Captain Driscoll spoke again. "One

more little problem: ten doesn't go into 34. Also, some of the kids aren't

quite good enough for three to be a safe crew. But you two." She paused. "I'm

sending out two crews of four. Three crews of three. And one crew of two. You

two. You're married, so you're supposed to be compatible. Our hottest pilot

and a young man who's been at the head of every class he was ever in, what

they call a 'born leader.' Joslyn, you're now a First Lieutenant. Mac, you

have the rank-brevet-of commander, and as soon as I sign this piece of paper,

you are the skipper of League of Planets Survey Ship 41. You launch in no more

than 200 hours- before the damn pols can react to the loss of the Venera."

Shock was scarcely the word. Me? Skipper? Launch in 200 hours? The Brits

pulling the rug out from under us? I looked around the room in a daze, until

my eye met Pete's.

He just grinned. "Congratulations, again."

"Peter, this was your idea," Joslyn said accusingly.

"Wrong that time, Joslyn," Driscoll said. "I worked it out myself. But let's

just say his handing me that cable made my conclusions inevitable." For a

moment there was a smile on her face. Then, suddenly, she seemed smaller and

tireder than I had ever seen her.

"You won't even ask us to volunteer?" Joslyn asked her.

"Would you have?"

Joslyn looked to me, I to her. Her face betrayed an attempt to look only to

the rational, to look carefully at what was best, whatever her feelings. I

could see the decision she reached, and nodded my agreement, imperceptibly to

anyone but her. "Yes," she said, simply.

Captain Driscoll rose. "Then let the record show such. Lieutenant Cooper.

Commander Larson. I ask you freely to volunteer for the hazardous duty in

question. Answer upon your honor." Her voice took a hard, formal tone.

Self consciously, I stood as well. "I so volunteer," I said hoarsely.

Joslyn remained seated and looked carefully at each of us. "I, too, so

volunteer."

There was a long pause. I felt then, and felt for a long time afterward, that

things had come too fast. Now our lives were staked to the Survey. LPSS 41

could be handled by two people, but it would be very close indeed. The silence

held for a long time.

"Well, thank God for that," Pete declared, snapping the tension. "Now maybe

you can serve all of us a drink, Captain."

"An excellent suggestion, Mr. Gesseti." Driscoll pulled out three more glasses

and poured.

Pete took his glass and raised it. With a twinkle in his eye, he offered a

toast. "To secrets. And to knowing when to have them, and knowing why to keep

them."

"To secrets," the rest of us repeated, and then we all drank. We were

conspirators now; for whatever reasons, we had just agreed to hijack our own

fleet.

"One more point," Pete said. "Mac, I don't want to see you piloting a nameless

number through space. You have to name it."

"Her," Joslyn and Driscoll corrected in unison.

"So I do," I said. I had to think for only the briefest of moments. "My

friends, I ask you to drink to the League of Planets Survey Ship Joslyn

Marie."

"Mac!" Joslyn cried, very much taken aback. "Don't you dare!"

"Quiet there, Lieutenant," Driscoll said. "Never argue with a man when he's

putting your name in lights."

And so, we drank to the newly christened ship.

Joslyn got her revenge on me, though. The people from the planet Kennedy are

edgy about being called "American." Objectively, of course, if we aren't

American, we're doing a damn fine imitation. Anyway, a week later I discovered

that someone had christened the Joslyn Marie's three auxiliary craft Stars,

Stripes, and Uncle Sam. Worse, Stars had gotten a paint job consisting of huge

white stars on a blue background, Stripes had been covered with red and white

stripes, and Uncle Sam had both. The first time I brought the newly emblazoned

Stars down to the surface of Columbia, it seemed to me as though a stunned

silence hung over the ground crew. I ignored it as best I could and went

looking for Joslyn, wondering if I could clap her in irons for artistic

insubordination. It promised to be an interesting trip.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning a "Revised Crew Lists" notice was posted. The first lines

read:

LPSS 41 "Joslyn Marie" Larson, T.M. Cmdr. (commanding)

Larson, J.M., 1st Lt. Volunteer Crew-Billet Complete.

Driscoll had found Girogi Koenig willing to command LPSS 42, and the two empty

billets needed to "complete" the crew were filled within four hours of their

being posted.

The rest of the ships were listed as well, initially with no crew other than

commanders. In 12 hours, LPSS 43, 44, 45, 46, and 48 were listed as Billet

Complete. In 30 hours, all ten ships were so listed. As nearly as I could

figure, every single person volunteered-and volunteered for the ship that

Driscoll intended him or her for. Certainly, the ships with crews of four each

had one of the lowest-ranking members of the surviving class aboard, with some

of the higher-ups there to back them up. The three-crew ships were staffed by

the middle-ranking class members. All the scuttlebutt I could pick up

indicated that Driscoll hadn't coerced anyone else into volunteering. I guess

she knew her command.

Survey base was soon filled with the roar of launching auxiliary craft

ferrying supplies, instruments, luggage, and incidentals up to the orbiting

ships. The parts depot was stripped bare in 50 hours, until the base XO

ordered all spares returned to the depot for proper distribution. While I can

say that the loyal crew of the J.M. returned nearly everything we hadn't

installed yet, I can't speak for the other ships. A few aux craft made the run

to Kennedy for long-store food that didn't taste like cardboard. We all

chipped in on that one.

Every comm channel was jammed with carefully censored goodbye messages to

every planet in the League- and none of the messages explained why we were

launching so suddenly.

Driscoll was trying to keep the loss of the Venera under the tightest wrap

possible for as long as possible. She knew perfectly well that there would be

a leak sooner or later. Regret-to-inform 'grams had already gone out to the

next of kin, of course. These said nothing more than that a son or a daughter,

a niece or a nephew, a grandchild, a spouse, had died in the honorable

performance of his or her duties. No mention of how, or when, or where, simply

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TheTorchofHonorByRogerMacBrideAllenPRELUDEApril,2115TheFinnsknewtheGuardianshadwon.Itwasover.TheGuardianshadtakentheplanet'ssurface,andnowthesurrenderofthegreatsatelliteVapauswouldgointoeffectinafewhours.TheGuardiansthemselveshadcausedadelayofthesurrenderbyinsistingitbenegotiatedstrictlyinEnglish.Th...

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Roger MacBride Allen - Allies and Aliens 1 - The Torch of Honor

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