Empire Of Man 3 - March to the Stars (14 page)

* * *

“They're wearing around,” Pelu said.

“I can see that,” Kerr answered. He rubbed his horns as he considered the small fleet's maneuvers. Its units were changing to an easterly heading on the port tack, and the maneuver was a thing of beauty for any seaman to watch. The sails seemed to float into position naturally, and in a remarkably short period of time, all five ships were hove over and flying before the wind.

“They're in a better position to drop on us from windward,” Pelu worried. “Could they be some new ship type out of Lemmar?”

“If Lemmar could build ships like that,” the captain snorted, “we'd already be in chains in Kirsti! And if they're in a better position to drop on us, they're also in a better position to avoid all of us. They can leave us in their wake any time they want to now, but before, they could have been cut off by the western Reavers. Actually, I think what they're doing now is a better sign.”

“I wish we knew who they were,” Pelu fretted.

“I wonder if they're wishing the same thing?”

* * *

“Ready for some more unsolicited input?” Roger asked with a grin.

“Certainly, Your Highness,” Pahner replied with a slight smile. “Every fiber of my being lives to serve the Empire.”

“Somehow, I think I detected just a tad of sarcasm attached to that answer,” Roger said with an answering grin. “But I digress. What I was going to say is that we need to make contact with these folks.”

“Agreed. And you have a suggestion?”

“Well, for first contact, we'll need someone who's well versed with the translator program and whose toot has enough capacity to run it. And that means either Ms. O'Casey or myself. And since it's a potentially dangerous situation . . .”

“You think it makes more sense to send the person I'm supposed to be guarding,” Pahner finished. Then he shook his head. Firmly. “No.”

“So you're going to send Eleanora?” Roger asked sweetly.

“Quit smiling at me!” Pahner snapped. “Damn it. I'm the commander of your bodyguard, Your Highness. I'm not supposed to be sending you into situations because they're too dangerous to send somebody else!”

“Uh-huh,” Roger said. “So, you're sending Eleanora?”

“There is no way you're going over to that ship,” Pahner said. “No. Way.”

“I see. So . . . ?”

* * *

“Ah, freedom!”

Roger leaned back in the sailing harness, suspended from a very thin bit of rope less than an arm length above the emerald sea as the catamaran cut through the water at nearly sixteen knots. D'Nal Cord shifted and tried to get into something that felt like a stable position—difficult for someone his size on the deck of the flimsy craft—and rubbed a horn in exasperation.

“You have an unusual concept of freedom, Roger.”

Most of the small boats of the flotilla were traditional “v” hulls, but both Roger and Poertena had insisted on at least one small “cat” for fast movement. Building it had required nearly as much human-provided engineering knowledge as the much larger schooners—light, fast catamarans require precise flexion in their crossbraces—but the result was a small craft that in any sort of decent weather was even faster than the schooners.

And it was fun to sail.

“I have to admit that this is sort of fun,” Despreaux said, fanning her uniform top. “And the breeze is refreshing.”

“Back on Earth, catting and skiing were as close as I ever got to being free,” Roger pointed out, bounding forward in the harness to see if it improved the point of sail. “You guys would actually let me get away for a little bit.”

“Don't complain,” Kosutic replied. “Your lady mother's spent most of her life wrapped in cotton. As your grandfather's only child, there was no way the Regiment was willing to risk her at all. She rarely even got to leave the palace grounds.”

“Frankly, I could care less about Mother's problems,” Roger said coldly, swinging back in his harness as Poertena altered the cat's course slightly.

“Maybe not,” the sergeant major replied. “But you've had more experience with 'real people' in the last six months than she has in her whole life. The closest she ever got to dealing with anyone but Imperial functionaries and politicians was the Academy. And even there, she spent the whole time still wrapped in cotton. They wouldn't even consider having her do live zero-G drills—not out of atmosphere, at least. It all had to be in simulators, where there was no possibility of exposing her to death pressure. And if they never let her do that, you can just imagine how much less likely they were to let her do things like, oh—just as an example that comes from the top of my head, you understand—leading a charge into a barbarian horde. And no cut-ups like Julian were allowed within a kilometer of her.”

“And your point is?” Roger asked. He leaned further outward and dangled his hand into the water as a slightly stronger puff of wind hit the sail. “Speaking of risks, you do realize that if there are any of those giant coll around, we're toast?”

“That sort of is the point,” Kosutic said soberly. “Imperial City is filled with professional politicians and noble flunkies, most of whom have never had to scramble for money to supply a unit in the field. Who've never been exposed to 'lower class' conditions. Who have never slept on the ground, never gone to bed hungry. In some cases, that means people who not only don't understand the majority of the population of the Empire, but who also don't like them or care about them. And in other cases—which I happen to think are worse—they don't understand them, but they idealize them. They think there's a special dignity to poverty. Or a special quality to being born into misery and dying in it.”

“Saint Symps,” Despreaux said.

“And various soclibs,” Kosutic agreed. “Especially the older style pro-Ardane redistributionists.”

“There's at least an argument there,” Roger said. “I mean, too much concentration of power, and you're not much better off than under the Dagger Lords.” He paused and grinned. “On the other hand, I know you're all a bunch of low-lifes!”

“And if you live entirely by what you think is 'the will of the people,' you get the Solar Union,” Kosutic continued, pointedly ignoring the prince's last comment.

“Pockers,” Poertena growled, and spat over the side.

“Yeah, Armagh mostly sat that one out,” the sergeant major admitted. “But Pinopa got it bad.”

“What really burned some of the early members of the Family was that the ISU used Roger MacClintock's policies as their 'model' for that idiocy,” Roger said. “Prez Roger, that is. Roger the Unifier. But without accepting the societal sacrifices that were necessary. And then, when it all came apart, they tried to blame us!”

“I could kind of understand getting involved in planetary reconstruction,” Despreaux commented. “Some of those planets were even worse off than Armagh. But leaving your main base completely uncovered was just idiotic.”

“And why did they do that?” Kosutic asked, and proceeded to answer her own question. “They had to. They were already so wrapped up with social welfare programs that they couldn't build the sort of fleet and garrison force they needed and still be redistributionist. So they depended on bluff, sent the entire damned fleet off to try to do some planet-building, and the Daggers nipped in and ate the Solar System's lunch.”

“The Daggers were very good at killing the golden goose,” Roger said. “But we—the MacClintocks, that is—learned that lesson pretty well.”

“Did we?” Kosutic asked. “Did we really?”

“Oh, no,” Roger moaned. “This isn't another one of those 'let's not tell Roger,' things, is it?”

“No.” The sergeant major laughed, but her eyes were on the native ship they'd come to meet, and her gaze was wary as Poertena wore around its stern, preparing to come alongside to port. “But take a good look at your grandfather's career,” she continued, “and then tell me we've learned. Another person who'd never worked a day in his life and thought the lower classes were somehow magical. And, therefore, that they should be coddled, paid, and overprotected . . . at the expense of the Fleet and the Saint borders.”

“Well, that's one mistake I would never make as Emperor,” Roger joked as Poertena completed his maneuver. “I know you're all a bunch of lying, lazy pockers.”

“Be about time to hail,” Poertena said. The ship and the catamaran were about a hundred meters apart now, on near parallel headings, with the cat slightly to the rear of the much larger merchant ship. Since that put the wind at their stern, Poertena had brought the sail in until it was luffing and dangerously close to jibing, or falling over to the other side of the boat. It might make them a little anxious about collisons between things like heads and booms, but it also slowed them down enough that they wouldn't pass the slower Mardukan ship.

“Get us a little closer,” Roger ordered as he unclipped the harness and secured it to the mast. “I need to be able to hear their reply. And I don't see any guns.”

“Odd, that,” Kosutic said. “I agree we need to get closer, but if those are pirates, or even letters of marque, chasing them, you'd think they would have defenses. And I don't even see a swivel gun.”

“Something else to ask about,” Roger said as Poertena fell off to starboard. The change quickly filled the sail, set as it was for a reach, and the cat began skipping across the rolling swell.

“Shit!” Despreaux flattened herself and tried to figure out where to move as it suddenly seemed obvious that the cat was about to go clear over on its side.

“Hooowah!” the prince said with a laugh, throwing his weight back outboard again to offset the heel. “Don't dunk us, for God's sake, Poertena! We're trying to show our good side.”

“And I cannot swim,” Cord added.

“Lifejackets!” Roger laughed. “I knew we forgot something!”

“T'is close enough?” Poertena asked as he brought the boat back to port with a degree more caution. They had closed to within sixty meters or so, and the Mardukan ship's crew was clearly evident, lining the side, many of them with weapons in their hands.

“Close enough,” Roger agreed, then stood back up and grasped a line to stay steady. “Try not to flop us around too much.”

“What? And have you get all wet and sloppy?” Despreaux said.

“Hea'en forbid!” Poertena laughed. “I try. Never know, though.”

“You'd better,” Kosutic growled. “Straight and steady.”

* * *

“Just keep us on this heading,” Kerr said to the helmsman. “They don't seem to be threatening us. And I don't see what they'd be able to do with that dinky little boat, anyway.”

“Who are they?” Pelu asked.

“How the hell do I know?” Kerr shot back in exasperation. “They look like giant vern, but that's crazy.”

“What do we do if they want to come aboard?”

“We let them,” Kerr answered after a moment. “Their ships can run rings around us, and I think those ports showing on the sides are for bombards. If they are, there's not much we can do but heave to and do whatever they say.”

“It's not like you just to give up,” Pelu protested.

“They're not Lemmar, and they're not Fire Priests,” Kerr pointed out. “Given the choice of them, or the Lemmar and the priests, I'll always take the unknown.”

* * *

“Here goes nothing,” Roger said.

“What language are you going to use?” Despreaux asked.

“The kernel that came with the program. It's probably taken from the tribes around the starport, and we're finally getting close to that continent. Hopefully it will at least be familiar to them for a change.” He cleared his throat.

“Hullo the ship!”  

* * *

“Oh, Cran,” Pelu said.

“High Krath,” Kerr muttered. “Why did it have to be High Krath?”

“Are they Fire Priests?” the helmsman asked nervously. “It can't be Fire Priests clear out here, can it?”

“It could be,” Kerr admitted heavily. “Those could be Guard vessels.”

“I never heard of the Guard having ships like that any more than the Lemmar,” Pelu said. “Anyway, they would've used Krath, not High Krath. Most Guard officers can't speak High Krath.”

“But they're not priests!” Kerr snarled, rubbing his horns furiously. “So where did they learn High Krath?”

* * *

“No response,” Despreaux said. The unnecessary comment made it evident just how nervous the veteran NCO was.

“They're talking it over, though,” Roger said. “I think the two by the helmsman are the leaders.”

“Concur,” the sergeant major agreed. “But they aren't acting real happy to see us.”

“Oh, well,” Roger sighed. “Time to up the ante. Permission to come aboard?”

* * *

“Well, at least they're asking,” Pelu observed. “That's something.”

“That's odd, is what it is,” Kerr answered. He stepped to the rail and took a glance at the more distant ships. They had crossed his course almost a glass before, and then swung back to the west. At this point, they were still to his east and the range from them to Rain Daughter would have been opening as she ran past them on her southeasterly heading . . . except for how close they were to the wind. As it was, their nearest approach was still to come. But it didn't seem that they intended any harm. Either that, or they were jockeying for a good wind position.

“What do we do?”

“Let them board,” Kerr said. His curiosity was getting the better of his good sense, and he knew it. But he didn't suppose, realistically speaking, that he had very many options, anyway. “One, I want to know who they are. Two, if we've got part of their crew on board, they're less likely to attack us.”

He walked over to the rail and waved both true-hands.

“Come aboard!”

* * *

Roger caught the dangling line and swarmed up it. Technically, he should have let either Kosutic or Despreaux go first, and he could hear the sergeant major's curses even through the sound of rigging and water. But of the three of them, he was the most familiar with small boats, and he felt that even if it was a deliberate trap, he could probably shoot his way clear of the four-person welcoming party.

The scummies waiting for him were subtly different from those on the far continent. They were definitely shorter than the Vashin Northerners who made up the bulk of the cavalry, closer to the Diasprans in height. Their horns were also significantly different, with less of a curve and with less prominent age ridges. Part of that might have been cosmetic, though, because at least one of them had horns which had clearly been dyed. They were also wearing clothes, which, except for armor, had been a catch-as-catch-can item on the far continent. The “clothing” was a sort of leather kilt, evidently with a loincloth underneath. Otherwise (unless they were very unlike any of the other Mardukans the humans had met), certain “parts” would be showing under the kilt. The two leaders also wore baldrics which supported not only swords, but also a few other tools, and even what were apparently writing implements.