Conditions have indeed improved considerably over the past five standard days, and this improvement is clearly due to the intervention of our new Commander. My port-aft track has been replaced, and the maintenance work on my port-forward suspension was completed in only 42.4 standard hours. While I have detected a certain amount of grumbling among the maintenance crew personnel, they have resumed a regular work schedule, and I can at last anticipate being returned to full combat status within two more weeks.
Messages intercepted through base communications continue to worry us, however. Unconfirmed reports of hostile or unknown spacecraft in three systems—Starhold, Endatheline, and Wide Sky—have increased dramatically in both number and frequency. Endatheline has been out of communication for the past 15.72 standard days, and 2.74 hours ago, Unit 96875 reported that all communications—including SWIFT relays—between Muir and Wide Sky had also been interrupted. We reported the matter to our Commander and continue to await developments.
He, meanwhile, has been invited to one of those incomprehensible social engagements occasionally held at the Governor's Residence.
* * *
Donal arrived precisely at the beginning of Third Watch, as specified in the invitation, but it was clear that the party had been going on for some time already. The Governor's Residence was ablaze with light, so brightly illuminated in fact that the stars of the cluster overhead were washed out, and the emptiness of the Gulf kept at bay. Richly dressed guests stood about on the covered patio or strolled along the tree-lined drive leading up to the house. From a low bluff the house overlooked the bay, sparkling with the reflected hues of lights both from the mansion and from the city of Kinkaid, which sprawled along the horizon on the opposite shore.
Stepping off the public flier and onto the broad, plascrete landing pad, Donal was immediately greeted by a gray-and-gold-uniformed servant, who discreetly checked his invitation, then smiled, bowed, and gestured with a pleasant and professional "This way, if you please, sir."
The title "Governor" was clearly a holdover from an earlier era, when the Strathan Cluster was first being colonized by human explorers moving out along the Eastern Arm toward the Galaxy's outer rim. The Cluster had been independent for two centuries, now, but the Confederation retained most of the ranks, titles, and formalities of the original thirty-six colonies. The changeover from dependent to independent status had been entirely peaceful; if anything, most citizens of the Confederation had resisted the idea of self-government, favoring a central government that was remote and unconcerned with the affairs of their day-to-day lives.
It was interesting, Donal thought as the servant led him through a tall and richly paneled door, how the people of Muir, at least, clung to the illusions of the past. Governor Reginald Chard was as powerful an autocrat as any human ruler in history, ruling a world of half a billion people while answering solely to a small and largely docile advisory council and to a legislative body that did little but rubber-stamp his proclamations and wrangle with the popular representatives and local district managers. Besides this, he was the senior member of the Strathan Confederation Council, a benign and relaxed dictatorship embracing thirty-six worlds. Despite the Confederation's independence, however, there was still the pretense that Muir and the Strathan Cluster were merely extensions of the whole of human-ruled space.
It was, he realized, a kind of game, a way of fooling themselves into believing that they were part of something larger . . . and more secure.
The grand reception hall of the Governor's Residence was alive with glittering light and color, as each movement, each gesture of each elaborately bejeweled woman, of each elegantly dressed and bemedaled man, reflected the blaze of lights overhead in kaleidoscopic radiance. The floor itself had been set to display an immense portrait of the Galaxy, a simulation of the broad spiral viewed face-on, as though seen from a vantage point ten thousand light years above the core.
Perhaps, Donal thought wryly, it wasn't a game after all. It was as though the people here on this lonely outpost of humanity were unconsciously trying to hold the Ultimate Night at bay, to fill their small, enclosed bubble of a universe with light and forget the emptiness of the Void. By standing, walking, or dancing across the image of the Galaxy, they seemed to be trying to lay symbolic claim to its three hundred billion stars, as though one could own an ocean and all of its treasures and secrets simply by taking its photograph.
"Drink, sir?" Another servant, this one in white, offered him a glass on a silver tray with a precisely measured bow. Donal accepted the drink with a nod. He was greeted in friendly fashion by several men and women just inside the hall. A whirl of introductions left him a little lost, trying to fit names with faces as he fielded the usual pleasantries. When did you arrive in Muir? What do you think of Kinkaid? Where were you stationed in the Concordiat?
One of the women in the group was memorable, even if he lost her name almost as soon as it was given to him. She was blond and intense and quite pretty in a clinging and somewhat insubstantial fluff of iridescent blue and starpearls, and she'd seemed determined at the time to give him every opportunity to steal glances down her low-cut décolletage. Something about the way she kept folding her arms beneath her generous breasts and leaning forward as she looked up into his face with those alluring blue eyes seemed to be body language enough to constitute a full-blown proposition.
Donal knew that he would have to tread carefully, though. Customs varied from world to world throughout human space, and a display of near-naked female breasts might not be the invitation here that it was on other worlds.
Within a few moments, though, the conversation had turned to other things—the weather on Muir and the advent of thorsh-hunting season—and he'd politely taken his leave, wandering away from the group to a spot off to one side of the reception hall, where he could watch the glittering assembly with a measure of anonymity.
Donal had been on Muir for almost a week now and still knew very few of the local people. Most of his time, during both on-duty hours and off, had been spent working with the two Bolos in Vehicle Bay Four, trying to ascertain just how far their test responses and psychotronic measurements might have drifted from the baselines listed in the manuals as normal. The problem was far from solved. Both Bolos showed a high degree of stability, and most of their answers to his test questions were dead on . . . but every once in a while one or the other would come back with an answer that couldn't even be charted, and that worried him. It was like the old story about the behavioral scientists who put a chimpanzee in a room with a locked box of food and various tools to see how the animal would handle elementary problem-solving. When they squinted through the peephole to watch, however, what they encountered was the large, brown eye of the chimp, peering through the peephole from the other side in an effort to study them. It was eerie, and more than a little disturbing.
"So tell me, Lieutenant," a woman said, stepping close to him from his right. "How do our social functions here in the Cluster compare to those back in the Concordiat?"
He took a sip of his drink, working on an answer. The woman . . . Lina? Tina? Something like that . . . was one of the people who'd greeted him on his arrival . . . the memorable one, with the generous and nearly naked breasts. From the wry and somewhat calculating expression on her face, she seemed to have set her sights on him for some reason and claimed him for herself.
"Actually, ma'am," he said at last, smiling, "I never attended assemblies like this all that much, so I'm not really much of an authority. Still, the people here are the nicest I've run into in a long time."
"I'm not ma'am," she said, laughing. "Lina!"
"Lina." He took another sip of his drink and tried to keep his eyes from straying down the front of her gown. "Anyway, I like what I've seen so far."
"My, and aren't we the diplomat, now!" she exclaimed, twinkling as she lightly slapped his chest with an "oh, go on" gesture. "I declare, we must have a refugee from the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne here!"
"No, no," he said. "Not at all. In fact, my big mouth usually manages to get me into trouble. Not very diplomatic at all."
"Well, that does sound intriguing!" She laughed, a rather scratchy squeak and cackle that was not nearly as attractive as her face. "It makes you a man of mystery! You know, the word around Kinkaid is that you fled some sort of trouble back in the Concordiat."
"Really?"
"I've heard that a woman was involved."
"How interesting."
"But then, I also heard that you tried to warn some people about the Drozan, but they didn't listen."
"I can't imagine where you got your information."
"There was some sort of a cover-up, and a court martial. Something about you saying your commanding officer had a fat head."
He sighed. "If that were true, it wouldn't be the first time. Like I said, I have a big mouth."
"Mmm." Those blue eyes regarded him steadily for a moment, as though searching out chinks in his armor. ". . . and . . . are you married?"
"I was. That was a while ago, though."
"Oh, I'm so sorry." But he could tell from her eyes that she wasn't sorry at all.
He shrugged. The memories weren't so painful now. Not as much, anyway.
Donal felt a light touch at his elbow. Turning, he found himself face to face with Lieutenant Colonel Wood.
"Miss Brodly," the colonel said gravely. "Lieutenant. Please excuse the interruption."
"Yes, sir," Donal said, drawing himself up a bit straighter.
"Why, Colonel Wood!" Lina said. "I haven't seen you in weeks! When are you coming over to my place again? You promised to tell me all about your—"
"Um, yes. If I may borrow your companion, Miss Brodly? Lieutenant? The governor would like to see you now."
"Ah!" Donal exclaimed, delighted at the interruption. He set his glass on the empty tray of a passing waiter, then bowed to the woman with formal gallantry. "If you would excuse me, Tina?"
"It's Lina!"
"Sorry to take you away from the young lady," Wood said as they crossed the soft-glowing, milky curdle of one of the Galaxy's spiral arms. "But Governor Chard likes to meet all newly arrived officers. And he is your host."
"Oh, by all means, sir. Duty, and all like that, of course." He suppressed a shudder. The woman had such a predatory, such a hungry look. Not that he minded the attentions of a pretty young woman, necessarily, but he still hadn't gotten his bearings on this world, and he didn't want to take a misstep on unfamiliar ground.
He wondered if the local social life here was somewhat stunted by the rarity of new faces. It was the only reason he could imagine that explained such interest in a low-ranking newcomer like him.
Governor Reginald Chard was a thin, sharp-faced man with white-blond hair and the expression of someone who has just tasted something unpleasant. He was talking with General Phalbin, but he turned and gave Donal a thorough once-over as he approached with Wood. "Ah," he said, extending his hand with a deliberate air of condescension. "You must be our newest expatriate from the civilized worlds. Welcome to the Cluster, Lieutenant."
"Harrrumph," Phalbin added. The general momentarily buried his nose in the wine glass he was holding. When he emerged again, he shook his head. "Not as though we need these puppies from the Concordiat, eh, Governor? Coming out here like lords of creation to tell us what to do. Ha?"
"Now, now, General," the governor said, smiling. "Be gracious. This gentleman can't help his orders, and he certainly can't be held responsible for the, ah, perceptions of his superiors."
Donal was stung. "I assure you, General," he said, voice sharp, "that my only interest here is in the Bolos. I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do."
"You seem to be making a fair start over in the Maintenance Depot, young man. I hear you've been shaking things up over there. Rocking the boat, as they say." He took another long and thirsty swallow from his rosé. "It is generally expected that a junior officer newly posted to an unfamiliar command will take his time to settle in, to, ah, get the lay of the land, as it were. . . ."
Obviously, someone had been complaining about the way he'd been running things. It was, he supposed, to be expected, though he would have thought the complaints would have gone to Lieutenant Colonel Wood, not all the way up the line to the commanding general.
This was not the time or the place to discuss brigade politics, however, or the problems inherent in going outside the chain of command. "Perhaps, sir," he said carefully, "we should discuss this at another time."
"Absolutely!" the governor said, face creasing in a broad smile. "Come, come, General! I throw these affairs so we can get away from the stress of the daily grind, you know. Can't keep your nose in your work all the time. Got to come up for air once in a while and see what the world has to offer, eh?" He sipped his drink, then gestured with the glass, taking in the glittering room. "So. Lieutenant. What do you think of our little corner of the Galaxy?"
"I'm afraid I haven't had the chance to get out and see much of Kinkaid as yet, Governor," he said. "Your night skies are certainly spectacular."
"Yes indeed, they are that. Some people who come out here find them disturbing, you know. All that emptiness out there."
"I can imagine. Still, that's all in the head, isn't it? What does it matter if the next nearest star is four light years away, or four thousand? As long as you have a good piece of ground to stand on right here."
"Well, well, General!" Chard said, turning to Phalbin. "Our newest officer is a philosopher as well!"
"That was neatly put," Phalbin said, grudgingly. "But it takes—eh?"
A gaudily uniformed aide, gold aiguillettes spilling from her left shoulder, moved to Phalbin's side and whispered something in his ear. He started as though pinched. "What? When?" he demanded.
The aide whispered something else, and Phalbin shook his head. "Who would have believed it?"
"Is there trouble, General?" Chard asked mildly.
"Um . . . harrumph, well, possibly. Possibly. Governor? May I see you privately for a moment?"
The two men stepped aside, conversing in low and urgent tones. Donal looked at Lieutenant Colonel Wood, one eyebrow cocked higher than the other in an unvoiced question.
"Probably running short of wine," Wood said, a mildly acid edge to his voice. "They're wondering if they have to break out the good stuff they were saving for themselves."
"You don't much like this posting, do you, sir?"
"Is it that obvious?" He shrugged, then took a sip from his glass. "I wonder, sometimes, how in God's name humans can imagine they're the pinnacle of creation. I seem to remember reading something, somewhere, about a notion called 'survival of the fittest.' "
Donal chuckled. "Don't think we're going to make it?"
"Frankly, I'm astonished we've made it this far." He studied the governor and the general for a moment with evident distaste. "Any evolutionary system that allows people who can't see past the end of their nose to rise to positions of power . . ."
"Are you talking about the governor, sir? Or General Phalbin?"
He shook his head. "Forget I said that. But it's damned frustrating, sometimes. I keep wondering what happens when we come up against a race that's smarter, faster . . . and just plain meaner than we are."
"I always thought humankind was pretty nasty, sir. We've had the evolutionary monopoly on nastiness so far, anyway."
"The only trouble is that too often somebody has to come along and smash us in the face a few times before we wake up and recognize that there's a problem at all."
"The rumors? About something out in the Gulf?"
He shrugged. "Probably just that. Rumors. But God help these people if there's ever a real threat to our security. Everyone spends so much time worrying about covering his own tail that we could find ourselves in real trouble someday, and with no one to blame. The cold, dead hand of Darwin doesn't distinguish between social classes, and it damned well doesn't wait for openings in engagement calendars."
Donal guessed that Wood had been trying to get something out of Phalbin or the governor, an appropriation, perhaps, or access to needed supplies, and had been refused. A coldness brushed across the back of his mind, raising his hackles. For the past week he'd been deluging Wood's office with requests for service and maintenance parts for the Bolos. Had those requisitions been turned down? Ignored? Had Wood been called on the carpet because of them?
"Trouble with the hierarchy, sir?"
"Mmm. Let's just say that—" He stopped abruptly. Phalbin and the governor were coming back. Phalbin was glowering; Chard looked rattled. "Bad news, Governor?"
"The base is going on alert, Colonel," Phalbin said bluntly. "You'd better inform your men."
"I'm sorry to have to end the evening's festivities," Chard added. "But this is . . . distressing."
"What is it, sir?" Donal asked. "If we're going on alert, it would be nice to know what's threatening us."
"That's just it," Chard said. "We don't know. Nothing but vague and panicky guesses. Fear-mongering. Hysteria—"
"It has just been reported," Phalbin said, cutting in, "that a large and definitely hostile force has landed on Wide Sky. We haven't been able to learn anything, save that the enemy force appears to be a species unknown to us, and possessing superior technology and firepower."
"Superior technology?" Donal asked, eyebrows raised.
"Superior enough to destroy the Mark XVIII that was based there," Phalbin said. "It seems one of your vaunted Concordiat Bolos, Lieutenant, didn't even have sense enough to know it was outclassed. They took it to pieces in just seconds."
Wood pursed his lips and gave a low whistle. "Where did they come from?"
"Unknown at this time," Phalbin said.
Chard shrugged. "It's possible, I suppose, that they are from the Void after all."
"Highly unlikely, sir." The general pursed his lips and gave Donal a swift, sidelong glance. "Undoubtedly we are dealing with raiders, refugees, perhaps, from strife somewhere within our Galaxy."
"Melconians, possibly?" Wood asked. "Seeking easier targets?"
"Possibly." Phalbin looked at his drink, as though attempting to divine the answers there. "They are a long way from home, if they are."
"Apparently," Chard went on, "we lost all contact with Wide Sky several hours ago. Our last message from them indicated that the military base there was on the point of being overrun. Evidently, their SWIFT equipment was captured or destroyed."
"Could have been the relays between here and there, too," Phalbin said. "This deep inside the Cluster, SWIFT needs relays every few light years just to keep up the signal strength."
Chard's eyes widened. "Eh? But that means they might be on their way here. Knocking out our faster-than-light comm links could be the prelude to an invasion."
"That's why we're going on alert, of course. Not that invasion is all that likely. . . ."
"I understand we've also lost contact with Endatheline, General," Donal said casually. "Seems a bit much to expect mere raiders to knock out two of the other worlds of the Cluster in such short order, don't you think?"
Phalbin's face darkened, and he was about to say something curt, but Chard spoke first. "What's your point, Lieutenant?"
"That we could make better decisions if we knew exactly what this threat was. Who they are, what they want." He looked at Phalbin. "And where they come from."
"And how would we do that, Lieutenant?" Phalbin said.
"By going there, of course," Donal said. "I volunteer."
"He's got a point, you know," Chard said. "We need to know what the hell is going on out there."
"Yes, sir, but—"
"If it's just raiders or bandits, riffraff like that, we won't need to alarm people here unnecessarily. I'd hate to upset the political status quo."
Phalbin digested this. "You would go by yourself, Lieutenant?"
"Yes, sir. Well, I'll need transport, of course. I don't think we want to wait for the next freighter or passenger liner due in-port. Maybe a military courier or a mail packet—"
"There's a regular Space Service courier run scheduled for two days from now," Wood said. "We might even bump that up a day."
"Could you leave tomorrow, Lieutenant?" Phalbin asked.
"Certainly. And a courier would be ideal. Fast enough to keep out of trouble if things are bad in Wide Sky orbit. I could at least get close enough to use standard radio or use a SWIFT link-up without having to go through the relays. One way or the other, we'd know."
"What about your work here? With the Bolos?"
"Frankly, General, there's not a lot more I could get done staying here." There'd been some foot-dragging with the depot crew, certainly—not to mention someone taking detours around the usual chain of command—but work on the Bolos was pretty close to back on schedule now. And the way things seemed to work around here, Donal was beginning to think he'd prefer to get the intel he needed to work with himself, rather than wait for it to trickle down the line from someone else. It was surprising, he thought, how quickly he was getting excited by the prospect of getting out of Kinkaid and off of Muir for a few days. He grinned. "If you send me, General," he said, "I'll promise not to submit any more parts requisitions until I get back."
"Harrumph," Phalbin said . . . but then he managed a quirk of a smile. "We do need to know what's happening at Wide Sky. Very well, Lieutenant. I'll write up your orders. But let me remind you, this won't be an annual leave. No paid vacations. I expect you to go in, see what's happening, talk to the local authorities if you can raise them, and then get back here, at once."
"Yes, sir." He frowned.
"Something, Lieutenant?" Wood asked.
"Just a thought, sir. You people should probably make plans in case I don't return."
"Eh?" Chard said. "What do you mean?"
"Sir, from what we've heard, we have hostiles out there who eat Mark XVIII Bolos for breakfast. If I don't return on schedule, well, you'd better just assume that I've run into something really nasty out there. Something that you're going to want to be prepared for when it reaches Muir."
"Pleasant thought," Wood said.
Donal gave him a thin smile. "Just thinking about Darwin, sir. And the survival of the fittest."