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CHAPTER NINETEEN

I shouldn't be risking the ship, Raeder thought, as his body shook off the transit shock—or some distant, potential-staff-officer part of his mind did. A larger part leaned forward with a predator's intentness as real-space information began to flow into the assault carrier's instruments.

The rest of him knew that the Invincible wanted to be in on the kill; the crew certainly and, in some intangible, unprovable way, the ship herself. All the long grinding years of the Mollie war demanded it, the ghosts of lost comrades were cheering them on . . . and the hand he'd lost so long ago when his Speed blew up was itching fiercely, even though the prosthesis was utterly incapable of it.

The darkened bridge of the light carrier shone blue and green with the lights of the displays. A crackling tension filled the filtered, neutral-spring-pine-scented air.

"They're turning to fight, sir," the tactical desk said. "Launching first squadron of Speeds as per instructions . . ."

Rader nodded, hoping his face was as implacably blank as he desired. Sarah was out there, her sensors feeding in the data that became these antiseptic lines and graph-bars.

His own lips shaped a silent prayer, and then a silent whistle as the figures came in.

"Sir, there's been one hell of a fight here," a sensor analyst said with hushed reverence. "I'd estimate at least fifty, possibly as many as a hundred capital ships lost—no counting how many light units. A lot of them enemy, but at least twenty or so ours."

There was a slight shocked gasp across the bridge, at the implication of the molecular fog that drifted in the hard vacuum of space:

 

How many dead drift graveless
In the emptiness of space;
And they died so far from Earth and home
And the green hills' warm embrace . . .  

 

It ran through him, a fragment of a lament as old as humanity's journey beyond Sol system . . . or as old as the habit of war that had followed the species out into the great frontier.

"Give me the status on intact units," he said with relentless calm.

"Launch," he said when the recital was through. In the proverbial nick of time, he continued silently to himself.

The Invincible began to shudder as the Speeds darted out of the launch bays. The screens showed enemy fighters coming about, part of the rear guard of the force that was englobing the Commonwealth's navy and hammering it back towards the jump points that led to humanity's inner worlds. A carrier and a battlecruiser started the slow business of killing their forward vectors and reversing to engage this new—but tiny—threat. That made the red cones of their possible trajectories narrow and shorten; the Invincible's lay broad and blue across the screens.

"Oh, how surprised they're going to be," Raeder said.

Alarms beeped discreetly as the Fibian—the friendly Fibian—fleet started to emerge behind him.

The Commonwealth's fleet ought to be getting their first hint that something new was on the chessboard about now. Despite fear and tension, a slight wry grin quirked at Raeder's mouth. He would bet his pension that a certain acquaintance would be watching those reports firsthand.

* * *

All the webs trail broken, General Kemal Scaragoglu thought to himself, as he watched the figures and columns in the display tank, astonished at his own dispassion. All the tools fall broken from my hands. At the end, nothing works.

The lines on Admiral Grettirson's face were deep, graven as if with a laser etcher in the mountain granite lining a Norwegian fjord. He drew a deep breath and spoke: "There's one good thing about this," he said. "The Mollie fleet is effectively defunct. They came right at us and we annihilated them."

Scaragoglu nodded. He looked over at Adrienne Clarkson, the Prime Minister's liaison with Space Command. The elderly civilian looked a little lost on the command deck of the Chateau Laurier, but her blue eyes were firm.

"What's the situation, Admiral?" she asked crisply.

"Madame Minister, as I said, we've destroyed the Mollie fleet. Always knew we could, if they came out and gave us a stand-up fight. We've also inflicted heavy damage on their Fibian allies. Our people have inflicted casualties at a two-to-one ratio."

"But?" she said sharply.

"But the Fibians outmass us by three to two; rather more, in heavy units. We have more carriers, but we've lost a lot of Speeds and it'll be the heavy metal that counts from now on."

The admiral's long fingers moved, and patterns of scarlet and green webbed over the display tank. "It's become an attritional battle, not least because we must hold this jump point. As our strength declines, the gap in capacities grows geometrically."

"We've lost?"

"Madam Minister, if we don't withdraw now, we will be forced away from the jump point in no more than three more days of combat—possibly half that, if they're willing to pay the butcher's bill. Then the Fibians can move units through, and still have enough force to englobe us. We can't retreat for long—we're running short of munitions. If there's to be anything left to defend Earth and Tau Ceti, we must retreat and attempt to hold the jump point from the Sol-system exit."

"And the rest of the Commonwealth?" Clarkson asked quietly.

"We can hold the two central systems with what we have left. For a period of some months, at least; we've hurt them badly. If we disperse the remaining Space Command units, we will not be able to defend anything for so much as a week. The enemy will mass and smash us one system at a time."

"You're telling me that we've lost the war, Admiral?"

"We've lost this battle, ma'am. I'm giving you my best advice, and that of my staff. It is of course your prerogative, as representative of the civil power, to accept or refuse it. We stand ready to carry out your orders." His shoulders slumped. "I . . . I don't want to lose any more of my people without a reason."

Scaragoglu gave a brief prayer of thanks to his grandfather's God that he wasn't in Clarkson's shoes, or the admiral's.

"Sir!" one of the staff aides said. "Sir, we have new footprints! Multiple units emerging from jumpspace, Fibian signatures—"

* * *

The multithousand-ton mass of the Invincible shuddered as it drove through a cloud of ionized gas that had been a Fibian—an enemy Fibian—ship not long before. Invisible fields wrenched the debris aside, their shape streamlined in a way that no deep-space craft was; sensors would see a bullet-headed spear cleaving the thin haze that had been ceramet and steel and the occasional carbon atom that had started out as a sentient being.

A wolfish snarl echoed across the bridge at the sensation; it meant victory in a way that had been a constant of space combat for a very long time.

"Seeker lock," someone said.

That made the small hairs along his spine bristle in a very different way under the sweat-heavy fabric of his uniform. The combat ranges were insanely close now—the enemy ships were throwing themselves at the spearhead of the allied queens' attack and trying to finish off the Commonwealth fleet at the same time.

Which meant that heavy ship-killer missiles were being thrown around like small-arms ammunition. A destroyer had tried to ram them, and only a lucky hit on her power plant by the close-defense batteries had stopped it. The antihydrogen flare had been far too close, with secondary radiation sleeting through the carrier's hull giving everyone aboard another uncomfortable hitch towards maximum exposure.

"Tracking . . . by God, one of our Speeds has a lock-on . . . firing solution . . ."

Another expanding globe of white fire against the velvet of space and the uncaring backdrop of the stars.

"Very good," Raeder heard himself say. "Record a recommendation for the Prime Minister's Medal to that vessel."

Invincible shuddered again—he'd gotten enough experience to tell that was a mass launch of counter-missiles. So much for standing off and pecking at them with our Speeds, he thought; that was what the manuals said a carrier should do. There had never been a fleet action like this before, not in all humanity's recorded history. Probably you could see half a dozen ships at a time out there with the naked eye, and the explosions of warheads were a continuous fireworks flicker.

* * *

The figures reeled across the Commonwealth flagship's vision tank, and fresh cones of possible trajectories splayed out.

Grettirson's face went pale, and he blurted: "Oh, my God!"

Possibly his first spontaneous utterance since he graduated from the Academy, Scaragoglu thought. His own stomach clenched. Enough heavy metal was coming through to outweigh the present enemy fleet by better than two to one. That turned the odds against Space Command to better than five to one. An unbearable situation had suddenly turned utterly impossible.

Then: "Sir! We're getting a Commonwealth IFF code!"

Identification Friend or Foe, Scaragoglu thought. Why are they trying anything subtle now? They've got enough brute force to do the job, and that seems their style. 

"A trick," Grettirson said, struggling to pull his attention away from a vision of despair.

"Sir, I've got the footprint of the lead ship's engines . . . nonstandard . . . wait, here it is—"

An image flashed into a section of the display tank; a sleek double-hammerhead shape, utterly unlike the mechano-organic shapes of Fibian craft.

Another section of the tank came live, and a face appeared in it; a human face. Raeder's face, Scaragoglu realized, and he grabbed at the rail around the display tank. It would never do to collapse. Some calculating section of his mind that never slept realized that a confident smile right now would start a rumor—never to be confirmed or denied—that he'd expected this all the time, somehow.

"—friendly forces! Repeat, the Fibian ships with me are friendly forces! Conform to our movements and we can trap the enemy between us—"

"Sir!" the sensor tech said again, his fluting Danska accent strong. "Sir! The new Fibians are opening fire on the old ones . . . ship destroyed, sir! Battlecruiser class . . . carriers . . . they're launching Speeds . . . ship killers outbound . . ."

The fluid shock of bewilderment left Grettirson's face. "Message to fleet," he snapped, every inch the iron man of legend. "General attack; prepare for pursuit! And be careful to avoid any, repeat any, hostile action towards our new . . ." He paused for a second. "Friends," he finished.

Scaragoglu felt an immense grin trying to force its way onto his face. He tamed it to a suitably mysterious smile. "Madam Minister," he said rising and taking her elbow. "Let's leave the specialists to their work. One of my department's plans has paid off big-time, and I'd like to get your permission—subject to confirmation from the Prime Minister, of course—to . . ."

* * *

Marine General Kemal Scaragoglu took a sip of his coffee and listened to the back scratching and the horse-trading of his fellow senior officers with his eyes closed. For the most part he agreed with every word they said. Some things he'd do slightly differently, some subordinates he'd allow to season a bit more before promotion. But he'd pulled enough strings in his career that even he didn't have the brass to criticize when others did the same.

Truth to tell, at this point in time he was grateful simply to be here. He opened his eyes and looked around the comfortable room. It had been a near run thing. A very near run thing. With the whole human race a finger snap away from extinction.

Oh, the remnants of human civilization would have fought on—tried to escape, actually—so that they could make a new beginning. But the general had a feeling that the Fibians were fine hunters and determined killers. They wouldn't have stopped until they'd bagged every human in existence.

He allowed himself a small smile. Only the Fibians could have stopped the Fibians. Especially with the Commonwealth all but out of fuel.

"What's that smirk about, Scaragoglu?" Admiral Grettirson demanded.

The general glanced at the sour-faced Space Command admiral.

"Nothing," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. Then he sat up and turned his chair towards the admiral. "No, I take that back. I'm smiling with satisfaction. I'm delighted with the way things have turned out." He gestured expansively. "Here we are again, carrying on with the work of the Commonwealth, making plans, tying up loose ends. Less than a week ago I thought," he tapped the table lightly with his fist, "I really thought that it was all over. And here we are."

His fellow officers grinned back at him. It was a time to be happy, to celebrate, and it was one of those exceedingly rare times when self-congratulation was not completely out of line.

"To the men and women of the service," Scaragoglu said raising his cup.

"The service!" they answered him, lifting their own.

Grettirson lifted his cup, took his sip, put it down, all the while wearing an expression that implied he was being eaten alive by ants. He suddenly looked across the table at Scaragoglu with a cold blue glare.

"You're happy because that puppy of yours brought home a very meaty bone," he rasped. "The whole situation reflects well on you, eh, Scaragoglu?" He pushed his cup and saucer away with an almost contemptuous gesture.

The Marine general looked back with what was undeniably a self-satisfied smirk. He knew it would drive Grettirson crazy, but he felt he deserved a bit of self-indulgence. He allowed his smile to widen and his head to bob every so slightly.

Yes, he thought, it does reflect well on me. And it didn't come about by gluing the rule book to my face so tight that I couldn't see anything but the fine print. 

"I've noticed," the admiral said with silken menace, "that the one fellow not under discussion at this table is the very one that any person would expect to top our list. Why is that?"

"To whom do you refer?" Scaragoglu asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

The other officers shifted slightly; some glanced across the table at their fellows, some watched the two antagonists carefully.

"Raeder." Grettirson said the name as though it was sharp enough to cut his lips. "I believe he is your protégé?"

"Captain Sjarhir is my protégé, Admiral, in as far as I have one. Commander Raeder is one of my tools. Of which I have many."

Now the general had gone into wait mode, an inviting blankness that attempted to lure the opposition into indiscretion. The admiral might be a difficult man, but he was wily and knew how to get what he wanted. Of course, so did Scaragoglu.

"Well given your tool's influence on current events I'm surprised the man's name hasn't even come up," the admiral snapped.

Scaragoglu shrugged. "Well, now that his name has come up, what was it you wanted to say about him, Admiral?"

Grettirson seethed for a moment. He knew now that the general had been waiting for someone else to bring the subject up. Had he not spoken, the issue of the commander would probably have been handled in some quiet, underhanded way by Scaragoglu. Now, he'd placed himself in the position of looking ungrateful and possibly unbalanced. And yet, he couldn't let the matter lie.

"What I would like to say is that I find him a loose cannon and therefore, potentially, a very dangerous man."

As he took his time sitting forward and folding his hands on the conference table, Scaragoglu noted that none of the other officers seemed disposed to come in on one side or the other.

"We-ell," the general said slowly, "he's young and innovative . . ."

"Innovative! Although he was untrained in any aspect of diplomacy he took it upon himself to represent the Commonwealth to a whole society of aliens. There are rules designed to handle first-contact situations and the commander himself admitted that he was completely unaware of them!" Grettirson leaned back in his chair, meeting Scaragoglu's dark eyes. "Not even aware of them," he repeated. "It's only by the best of good fortune that he didn't ruin relations with these new Fibians."

"But Admiral," Vice-Admiral Paula Anderson said, "not only did the commander not alienate," she gave a brief grin at her unintended pun, "these Fibians, he led them into battle as our allies. Against their own kind, I might add, in a war that they could easily have avoided. We can hardly ignore his contribution simply because he was unaware of the rules for first contact. If we made every serving officer take a test on the subject today I'm sure they'd all fail." She spread her hands reasonably. "After all, who actually expects to find a new species?"

"I know I never do," Rear Admiral Bertucci said.

The other officers maintained their silence. They watched Grettirson and Scaragoglu, waiting for the next move. The silence dragged.

"Well," Scaragoglu said eventually with a shrug of his big shoulders, "you brought the subject up, Admiral. What are your thoughts?"

Grettirson looked down and clasped and unclasped his hands. He sensed he'd been outmaneuvered and he didn't like it one bit. But he hated Peter Ernst Raeder, felt he'd been humiliated by him, and that he could never forgive. If he didn't speak now there was a good chance they'd hand that fool the keys to the kingdom and then there'd be hell to pay.

"It's a difficult situation," he rasped out eventually. "Raeder, by sheer luck, seems to have saved the Commonwealth. Obviously the public will expect to see him rewarded in some way." His mouth worked as though he were chewing oak galls. "But we know that this officer, by virtue of his proven record, does not deserve his own command."

There was a flurry of seat shifting around the table. The admiral's mention of the public made them nervous. It was true that the public saw the commander as a bona fide hero and would expect Space Command to see him in the same light.

"You are suggesting perhaps a plaque in acknowledgement of his accomplishments?" Anderson asked, her brow furrowed. "A medal of some kind?"

The admiral shot her a poisonous glare so swift it was almost invisible.

"Perhaps something that honors all of the service equally," Grettirson countered. "Surely the situation is far too big to honor one individual. By picking out one we seem to be ignoring the contributions of all the other brave men and women who have fought in this war." His fingers writhed like worms.

"So you're saying we should ignore Commander Raeder's extraordinary actions?" Bertucci asked.

"The war is over," Grettirson said firmly. "The public doesn't need a hero now. What it needs now is to feel that all their sons and daughters are heroes. That their dead and their living children are equally responsible for saving the Commonwealth. That way their sacrifices have meaning. If the war were ongoing then perhaps the commander could be some sort of symbol for them. But now rewarding him above others merely makes it look as though everyone else was inadequate. And, as I've said before, he's a shoddy sort of officer; more suited to the Survey Service than Star Command proper."

Scaragoglu nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Perhaps the commander does need more seasoning," he conceded. "Would the board be willing to leave the matter in my hands?"

Grettirson's eyes flashed, but he said nothing. This was the very thing he had most wanted to avoid and he'd brought it about himself. Worse, he was about to see it sanctioned by the board. The admiral couldn't believe he'd been outmanuvered so completely.

Anderson studied the general for a moment through narrowed eyes. Then she sighed. Raeder had already thrown his lot in with the Spider. At least he'd have an interesting life, if not necessarily a long one.

She nodded.

"If you can satisfy both the public and Commander Raeder," she said cautiously.

"Oh, I believe I can," Scaragoglu said. "I believe I can."

* * *

Peter sat in Marine General Scaragoglu's outer office wishing he had something to read. He should have brought some of the report chips he had to read and initial. Heaven knew there was a lot of accounting to do regarding the supplies they'd grabbed for the Invincible, not to mention those Speeds he'd lifted.

Not that anyone had yet asked about them, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Right now his stock was high, so no one wanted to ask embarrassing questions. But eventually. As soon as Admiral Smallwood had the leisure to look back on the last few months, or the paperwork caught up with him, or some rat fink tattled to him. Peter stifled a sigh. Well, the piper must be paid, he thought.

Raeder was feeling a little lost and lonely right now. It had been over a week since he'd seen Sarah and he hadn't been able to get in touch with her. They were both working double time helping to clean up the mess that the final days of any war must bring. He'd left messages, but had received none in return. Maybe I scared her off, he thought dolefully.

He'd seen some of the queens and they'd been as gracious and friendly as anyone could wish. They truly seemed to be enjoying their acquaintance with his species. Or perhaps they're just being polite. He only hoped that humanity could be as broad-minded. Or at least as well bred.

They'd been popping their multiple eyeballs over a series of dance concerts the Commonwealth had arranged for them and had invited the performers to visit the clan homeworlds whenever they could.

He checked his watch surreptitiously. It was over two hours since he'd arrived and a solid hour and forty-five minutes since his supposed appointment. Still, this was the first time he'd ever had to wait on Scaragoglu. It probably meant something. Perhaps the general was displeased?

Oh come on, he thought at the closed office door, I may have stepped on a few toes, but I didn't do that badly. So maybe the human race wasn't quite ready for friendly Fibians. We sure as hell weren't ready for the hostile kind. You've gotta take your friends as you find them, I say.

He tapped his foot, earning himself a not very friendly look from the receptionist, who returned to his typing in the face of Raeder's glare.

The office door opened and Sarah entered.

"Sarah!" he said jumping to his feet.

He stood grinning at her for a second, then, when she didn't say anything but just smiled back, he gestured at the uncomfortable couch. She sat, he sat, they looked at one another. Peter looked at the receptionist, who seemed oblivious to the fact that she'd arrived.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Sarah James," the commander said aloud.

The receptionist looked up. "Thank you, sir," he said. He went back to his typing.

Peter turned to Sarah and shrugged.

"So, how've you been?" he asked. "It seems like ages since I saw you last."

"It has been ages," she said. "I was out-system. They sent me off to shepherd some WACCIs back from Sreth."

"Why you?" he asked with a frown.

"Why not?" she answered. "I think we can look forward to many strange assignments of that sort. It'll probably be awhile before things settle down and anybody knows just what's going on."

He nodded, looking away. Looking at Sarah was a bit too intense right now.

"I suppose they'll be downsizing the service," he said after a moment, still staring ahead at nothing.

"I wouldn't be at all surprised," she agreed.

After a moment he felt her take his hand. He looked over at her quickly and she smiled. Yes, she formed with her lips. Peter turned towards her.

Yes? he asked silently. She nodded. He nodded. They gazed into one another's eyes while fireworks went off in his head.

She said yes! She said yes! The happy thought went around and around in his brain. Then he thought, What if she's saying yes to something else? Maybe I'm misreading this yes thing. 

He pointed to his chest and looked at her questioningly. Sarah rolled her eyes and nodded firmly, the corners of her eyes crinkling with laughter. Peter grinned like a fool and took her hand in both of his.

Another thought struck him and he patted his pockets. Finally finding what he sought, he brought out a small box and handed it to Sarah. She accepted it, looking pleased. Upon opening the box she found a thin gold ring with a minuscule stone. Her eyes flashed up in surprise.

"Best I could do on short notice," he explained softly. "They were almost sold out."

She chuckled. "Gee, I wonder why?" Then she held out the box to him. "I think you're supposed to put it on," she whispered.

"Ah." He took the box back and pulled the ring out of its velvet bed. Then, looking into Sarah's eyes he slipped it onto the third finger of her left hand. It only went as far as her knuckle. "Oh!" he said, disappointed. "Damn!"

She held her hand out, checking the way it looked.

"It's a little small," she commented with a smile.

"You're so slender," he said in confusion, "I thought your hands . . ."

"I do not have fat fingers!" she said.

"No! You don't. But they're so long and fine that I suppose I remembered them as being fairylike."

Sarah smiled and sighed.

"You do throw the bull better than anyone I've ever met," she said fondly.

Peter laughed. "Well, better too small than too big."

"Good point," she conceded. Sarah played with the ring, holding it up to admire it.

It was a really ugly ring.

"We can get a nicer one," he said.

"Mm mm. I'll keep this one," she said, her eyes glowing. "This one has a story to it already."

"You can go in now, sir, ma'am," the receptionist announced.

Peter and Sarah looked at one another, almost surprised to find themselves in a waiting room.

"I guess what I was waiting for was you," Raeder said.

He gave Sarah's hand a squeeze, then they rose and walked into the Spider's office.

* * *

Scaragoglu had, of course, witnessed the delightful scene in his waiting room. But to offer the happy couple congratulations would be telling. And Scaragoglu never surrendered an advantage.

He returned their salutes casually and gestured to the chairs before his desk. Then he leaned forward, his hands folded before him.

"Congratulations to both of you for a job well done, Commander, Lieutenant Commander. The Commonwealth owes you and the entire crew of the Invincible a great debt of gratitude."

Peter and Sarah looked at one another, then at the general.

"Thank you, sir," Raeder said.

Sarah nodded. They both kept their eyes on the general.

Scaragoglu waited a moment, then he leaned back, allowing himself to seem weary and disappointed.

"Unfortunately . . . gratitude can seem . . ." He waved one hand as if trying to find the right word. "Onerous at times." Scaragoglu looked at Raeder with melting dark eyes, full of sympathy. "The official line of the service is that no man or woman is to be raised above another in this victory. That everyone who has served is to be thought of as serving equally and to be held equally responsible for the victory we've enjoyed."

Raeder and Sarah looked at one another.

"O-kay," Peter said slowly. "Sounds good." If I'm not being blamed and I'm not gonna get court-martialed I guess I'm ahead of the game. Disappointed? Me? Nah! 

Sarah looked less than pleased, but said only, "So what happens now, sir?"

"I'm so glad you asked, Lieutenant Commander," Scaragoglu said. He looked a bit amused. He sat forward again, pulling his chair closer to the desk. "I'm sure you've been speculating over the fate of the service," he said.

They nodded.

"We will be downsizing drastically over the next couple of years," the general told them. "I'm afraid that with the black marks against your record," he nodded at Raeder, "your offer to reenlist will be refused out of hand."

"That's hardly fair," Sarah said boldly.

"There's also that unfortunate stay in Camp Stick 'Em Together Again on your record, Lieutenant Commander," Scaragoglu said.

Sarah sat with her mouth open.

"But . . . but that . . ."

The general shook his head sadly.

"It's unfair, I know. You've both done so much, contributed so phenomenally to the winning of this war." He raised his hands helplessly. "But the senior staff were adamant."

Raeder was stunned beyond speech, beyond reaction. Beached! he thought, crushed. It's over, I'll never fly again. What was left but some boring job on a planet somewhere. He tried to see himself as a salesman and repressed a shudder.

"The senior staff were adamant about us, specifically?" Sarah asked, her eyes narrowed.

Raeder's head came up.

"That is interesting, sir. Just what did the senior staff have in mind for us that they were so adamant about?" Though he hid it as well as he could, Peter fairly radiated hope.

The general chuckled.

"That's one of the things I've liked about you since the first time we met, son. You keep looking for reasons to be optimistic." He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his stomach, a very self-satisfied expression on his dark face. "And, as it happens, I can give you reason to be."

Peter and Sarah flashed a look at one another.

"Star Command will be downsizing. There's no getting around that. For one thing the Commonwealth doesn't need the navy to be as large as it currently is to fight pirates and smugglers." He made a moue. "Personally I'd keep it larger than it will be, but no one with the power is asking my opinion."

Peter doubted that. I wish he'd get to the point, he thought. The suspense is killing me. 

"But, one door closes and another opens."

Aphorisms he's giving me. The man is trying to give me a stroke. Raeder schooled his face to show an infinite patience he wasn't feeling.

"I can't apologize enough," Scaragoglu said, leaning forward, a sincerely embarrassed expression on his face, "for the shabby way you're being treated here, Commander. The best that I was able to do was to finagle a transfer for you, and your team if you want them . . ." The general bit his lips as if what he was about to offer was so insulting he could barely bring himself to speak.

C'mon, Peter thought encouragingly. C'mon! 

"Sir?" Raeder said aloud.

Scaragoglu looked up into Peter's eyes.

"I'm offering you an extended exploratory-survey command in the Survey Service. Out on your own . . ." The general shook his head. "You deserve better," he said.

Don't throw me into that briar patch, Br'er Fox! Please! Somehow Raeder managed to keep from leaping on top of his chair and screaming "Hallelujah!" Instead he nodded solemnly. He turned to Sarah gravely.

"What are your thoughts on this, Lieutenant Commander?" he asked.

Her eyes were shining and she was trying to suppress her joy with far less success than Peter.

"What would be the terms of our contract, sir?" she managed to ask.

"The usual five-year mission," Scaragoglu said. "With the standard finder's fees in place."

"I'll want a new ship," Raeder said. "Or at the very least approval on any vessel that's offered."

"As you'll be the first out that shouldn't be a problem," the general said.

"What about supplies and fuel?" Raeder asked. "To be supplied by the Commonwealth?"

Traditionally the ships were provided by the Commonwealth and the supplies and fuel by the captain and crew in a cooperative arrangement. This was because the survey ships tended to become family affairs over time, and the Commonwealth didn't like to interfere in such personal situations. It provided stability for the crews and a good return on investment. There was even an option that allowed the captain to buy the ship from the Survey Service and operate it on his or her own.

"All right," Scaragoglu conceded. "I can't promise that this will be a lifetime arrangement. But for the first two missions at least I can guarantee that ship and supplies and fuel will be provided by the Commonwealth. Try and make it worth our while," he growled.

Peter and Sarah looked at one another.

"In regard to my team, sir," Raeder said. "I have a request."

"Ye-es," Scaragoglu said.

"Chief Patrick Casey, sir. He's an engineer, a New Hibernian. Would you be able to arrange a field commission for him, General? He's more than deserving of one. And frankly I'd need him, but without such a commission I doubt I could get him to come with me."

"Commander, weren't you listening? Space Command will be downsizing, they're not going to be handing out field commissions or any other kind of commission for a very long time." Scaragoglu's displeasure was obvious.

"But he would immediately transfer to the Survey Service, sir. He's extremely qualified, as well as deserving. It won't actually cost Space Command anything but some paperwork. To deny the man a promotion after his contribution to such an important mission, especially when he's moving to another service . . ." Peter shook his head. "It wouldn't look good, sir."

The general frowned, turning away for a moment.

"Just how important is this to you, Raeder?" he asked with a piercing look.

"I'd go to the wall over it, sir." Well, maybe not to the wall, he thought. I'm actually bluffing on that. He glanced at Sarah. She sat with her calm gaze fixed on the general. Inside he smiled. With Sarah's help maybe I'd even go that far. 

"They won't like it," the general warned. He sighed. "But I'm owed more than a few favors. I can finagle it. But that's my last concession."

"When will his commission come through, sir?" Sarah asked.

Scaragoglu pursed his lips. "Oh, in an hour, maybe," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

"Then, thank you, sir," Peter said, rising. "I'll be happy to accept this deal."

"And so will I," Sarah said.

"Then I'll have your orders cut," the general said. "Let me know who else you'll be taking with you. Try not to grab too many of our best people," he snarled.

He offered his hand.

Smiling broadly Raeder took it in a firm grip. Then Sarah shook the general's hand.

"We're getting married, sir," Raeder said. "Would you like to come to our wedding?"

Looking genuinely pleased and honestly surprised for perhaps the first time in years, Scaragoglu congratulated them heartily and said that yes, he would very much like to come.

"We'll be in touch with the details, sir," Peter said.

He and Sarah closed the door to the general's office behind them and then threw themselves into each other's arms, regardless of the amused receptionist, laughing like kids. Then, hand in hand, they raced off to tell Paddy and Cynthia the good news.

* * *

Paddy hastened down the corridor, uncommonly awkward in his excitement; he seemed to be all elbows and knees like a fifteen-year-old, if you could imagine one weighing in at two-hundred-odd pounds of bone and muscle, with callus an inch thick on his knuckles and a nose that all the microsurgery in the Commonwealth couldn't make totally straight again. The huge, awed, world-beating grin added to the effect.

He spied Second Lieutenant Cynthia Robbins climbing out of a Speed and his grin widened to the point where it began to look like a spasm and must have hurt.

"Lieutenant!" he said in a conspiratorial shout that brought heads around across the flight deck.

He waved them all off with a big hand and they turned back to their work, albeit with one eye cocked at the big red-headed engineer.

Cynthia's foot hit the deck and she turned to look at him, lifting an inquiring eyebrow.

"Lieutenant," he said, taking her elbow and drawing her aside. "Acushla," he whispered, pleased to see her blush, though her expression remained businesslike. " 'Tis the best day in the world! In the whole of the universe, so it is!"

"What are you talking about?" she whispered.

Cynthia tried to draw her arm out of his grasp and with a fond squeeze he let her.

"Take this," he said and handed her a reader. "And that." And he handed her a chip.

He stood with his hands on his hips and a face-splitting grin on his face as he watched her nervously fit the chip into the reader. The lieutenant started to read, a slight frown between her brows, and Paddy folded his arms. Then he rubbed his face, folded his arms, placed his hands on his hips, changed his stance. Then she looked up at him and her face lit with a slow smile, like the sun rising.

"Oh, congratulations, Paddy," she whispered.

She reached out and touched his chest just over his heart, and he put his hand over hers, smiling down at her with pride and hope. Slowly his grin faded.

"Ye know what this means, d'ye not?" he asked quietly.

A rare glint of mischief sparked in her dark eyes.

"What?" she asked.

The big New Hibernian went down on one knee and Cynthia's eyes and mouth popped wide open. She tugged on his hand to make him rise but she might as well have been trying to lift a Speed.

"Will ye marry me?" he asked her.

"Get up!" she hissed.

"I'm askin' ye girl," Paddy insisted.

"Paddy! People are looking at us!"

"And let them, I want them for witnesses," he said. "Now I'm to be an officer there should be nothin' to stand in our way. So I ask ye once again, lass. Will ye marry me?"

She stopped her frantic tugging and looked him in the eye. After a moment Cynthia took a deep breath and smiled a very sweet and loving smile.

"Of course I will," she said.

He leapt to his feet, caught her up in a bear hug and swung her off her feet while she laughed and the whole of Main Deck broke into whoops and cheers.

Sarah and Peter came in hand in hand while the celebration was still going on. Peter looked at Sarah and raised his brows.

"I guess the Spider came through," he said.

"And in well under an hour," Sarah observed.

"You'd almost think he'd anticipated my demands," Peter said dryly.

"Almost." She winked at him.

With bright smiles they hurried to tell their friends the good news.

* * *

Captain Sjarhir entered the general's office and raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"That poor boy," Scaragoglu said with a grin. "He actually believes that he manipulated me into all that!"

 

 

 

THE END

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