Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (23 page)

And he did have the lever the Admiral needed. Beckhart had given that away in threatening Gruber.

The Admiral needed the location of the Seiner Yards. Mouse must have told the Old Man his partner could clue him in.

Gruber would yield to the threat. Not gracefully, but he would yield. No sane man would do otherwise once the fate of Homeworld became known.

Gruber would surrender. The single most commonly known fact about Beckhart was that he was a man of his word with a threat. He would use the bomb if refused. But McClennon was sure the Old Man was running one colossal bluff right now. He could not have the coordinates of the Yards. Three Sky was huge, even if he knew to look there. Insofar as Thomas knew, there were just three people on The Broken Wings who could tell Beckhart what he had to know. Jarl and Amy would not talk. He was in one hell of a tight place. The Starfishers did not call their nebula Three Sky among themselves. McClennon doubted that one in a thousand knew that landside name, and not one in a hundred of those the coordinates for the Yards themselves. Mouse did not know. McClennon had acquired the information entirely by accident, while arguing with Amy.

“Where’s Jarl?” he asked. He wondered how effectively his orders had been carried out after he had alerted the fleet. Well, probably. Amy was carrying on like they were the only red pass people left.

Tears rolled as she replied, “He’s dead, Moyshe. He killed himself. Only about fifteen minutes ago. I got away while they were distracted.”

“While who was distracted?”

“The military police.”

So. That roadblock had been a setup. And Jarl, intuiting Beckhart’s thrust, had gone the only way he could to avoid checkmate.

And Amy intended eliminating another information source. Him.

Where was the harvestfleet? Had Beckhart gotten his bluff in on Payne too?

Then what would Amy do about herself? Put a lasebolt through her own brain? She was capable. She seemed a bit self-destructive.

What if Beckhart’s claims about a centerward race were valid? That meant the whole human race, as well as several neighboring races, were threatened with extinction.

It seemed a lot more than Seiner freedom lay on the line.

The weight of the decision he had to make seemed as heavy as that Atlas had borne. Heavier. Hundreds of worlds might depend upon his choice . . . Ambergris and the Stars’ End weapons. They might make all the difference.

What to do?

He leaned against Jellyroll’s leg and stared at the symbols of the sides of his conflict. Which should he betray? Which should he destroy?

It was in his hands alone now, and there was no evading the decision. He could not let it ride in hopes it would sort itself out. No god from a machine would swing down on a wire to relieve him of his burden.

He had always had a yearning to become a hero, even for the few shooting star moments Confederation culture allowed. He would become one to the trillions if he delivered Stars’ End and its arsenal. He would stand beside Jupp von Drachau, destroyer of Sangaree . . . But that would make him Iscariot to millions of Starfishers.

His fingertips sensually caressed his weapon. There lay all solutions. In the gun. The final argument. In the words of ancient Mao, “All power comes from the mouth of a gun.” War and violence, he thought. A certain breed claimed they solved nothing. Those folks ignored the fact that dead men seldom argued.

He remembered a small Ulantonid nun, seen in passing in the Blake City spaceport on Carson’s an eon ago, while he and Mouse had been waiting to join the Starfishers. She had served a dead man . . . 

He was vacillating. Avoiding decision. Riding a period of stability for all it was worth.

One squeeze of a trigger would settle a trillion fates. His friend? Or Amy, his love?

Those symbols remained as motionless as the man between whose legs McClennon stood. They waited too, aware that, for the moment, he was possessed of godlike power.

Mouse had, McClennon was sure, known the ramifications for some time. Perhaps since before the mission had begun. Mouse stared at Amy’s weapon, half hypnotized by the death lying there. Death had never touched him . . . 

He had been immune for so long . . . 

Amy was pale and growing paler. She had had time to think, to see some of the possibilities, and to grow scared. Her gun hand quivered.

Mouse began moving, almost imperceptibly bringing his stunner a little farther forward.

“Wait!” McClennon snapped. “This is silly. There’s a way out.”

They looked at him, their faces grave and baffled.

His finger danced on his stunner’s trigger. Amy squeaked as she fell. Mouse looked infinitely surprised. Shaking, McClennon peered into the street beyond the trees behind him. The Marines seemed uninterested in the park. Good. If the men just kept their mouths shut . . . 

He scrambled down, collected weapons, stunned Marya again. Her breathing indicated she was partially recovered, and probably gathering herself for something.

He had to keep the three of them out of the way while he twisted the Admiral’s tail. Maybe he could salvage something for everybody, though Beckhart would resent it all to hell.

But, dammit! It wasn’t necessary to have big winners and losers. Everybody could lose a little and win a little and come out ahead in the end.

Beckhart would give in if he could not catch up fast enough. He had to have those coordinates soon, or see his whole intrigue blow up in his face.

McClennon laughed. He was going to get the best of the Old Man, and that was as rare as roc’s eggs. Still chuckling, he threw Amy over his shoulder and headed for the tight darkness of Old Town.

She would come out of this hating him, but by doing it this way he would give her more than he ever could with love.

He searched his mind for signs of instability. All the gears were in place and working smoothly. Some sort of balance had been achieved. Not a natural one, but one that looked good for a while. He was now a little of everyone he had ever been, and a little more, too.

He hoped it would last long enough.

Eighteen: 3050 AD
The Main Sequence

“What the hell is going on, Damon?” Beckhart’s voice had a saw-toothed edge. “Storm and the Sangaree woman were in that park. Storm called to say he was going in after her. McClennon’s men admit he went in. You chased the Seiner woman in there. Four people. Where the hell are they now?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the Major confessed. “We went in as soon as we knew where to look. They weren’t there anymore.”

“No shit? You’re aware that three of those people are professionals, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir. And two of them are ours, with no reason to run.”

“One of them. I’m not sure what McClennon thinks he is. It’s not his fault, but he has his head on backwards and it’s falling apart. He probably doesn’t know who he is or who he’s working for half the time. He’s the one I’m worried about. He needs psychiatric attention fast.”

Beckhart massaged his forehead. He was growing a bitch of a headache. Just when it looked like he had it nailed down . . . He had to snag Thomas or his woman before Gruber called his bluff. He had to show at the Yards before the harvestfleets extricated themselves from the standoff at Stars’ End. He had to move before the Sangaree raidfleet learned about Homeworld.

“Why the hell did that idiot Kindervoort have to go and kill himself?”

“He evidently had strong feelings.”

“They’re a stiff-necked mob. I’ve never figured them out. That damned Payne is still up there making nasty talk. With three squadrons sitting on his back.”

“Just pride talking, sir.”

“We screwed up, Damon. If we don’t find those people, alive, we’re had.
We.
Do I make myself clear?”

“Abundantly, Admiral. I’ve got all my men digging. The local police don’t have any decent tracking gear, but it’s still only a matter of time.”

“The shorter the time, the better, Major. High Command is breathing down my neck. The CSN has a personal stake in what we’re doing. He isn’t very fond of me. So don’t forget that water and horseshit both go downhill.”

“Message received, Admiral.”

“Good. Get out there and find them. And don’t forget that they’re professionals.”

The Marines did not turn up a trace all night. Beckhart spent the time tossing, sharing his cot with a cruel dread.

He was afraid the Sangaree woman had gotten the drop on Storm and McClennon and had spirited them out of the city. She had gotten out once before.

Time trudged along. The tension built. He began snapping at everyone around him. “Like a mad dog,” he overheard one of his technical ratings say.

That hit him like ice water. It made him count ten before speaking. He had an image of himself as a reasonable, fair, and fatherly superior. His pride demanded that he treat his subordinates well.

After thirty hours he locked himself in his tiny cubicle of an office. He drank coffee, gobbled aspirin, and wondered if he was too old to start praying.

“Admiral!” an excited voice called through the closed door. “Comm call. Field channel three. It’s McClennon, sir.”

Beckhart slapped his drab Navy comm unit, muffing the channel selection twice. “Come on, you bastard.” A moment later, “Thomas? Where the hell are you, son? What’s going on? Where’s Mouse? You all right?”

“We’re fine. Mouse is tied up at the moment.” McClennon giggled. “All three of them are.”

He’s gone, Beckhart thought. Cracked completely. “Where are you, Thomas?”

“Around and about. Right now I’m here.”

“McClennon . . . Report to me immediately. In person.”

“No sir.”

“What? Thomas, the whole damned thing is going down . . . ” What was McClennon up to?

“Give me one little thing, Admiral. That’s all I’m asking. One thing, and I give you Stars’ End on a platter.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? When did Commanders start bargaining with Admirals?”

“Captain.”

“That can be rectified. McClennon, I’m tired and I’m aggravated. Don’t give me any shit. Tell me where you are so I can send somebody to pick you up.”

“No sir. Not till I get what I want. I’ve got something you need. You give me something back. You want to talk about it?”

“I’ll listen, Thomas. That’s all.” That’s all. Had anyone had sense enough to try for a fix on McClennon’s transceiver? Probably not. Too much to expect of these people.

“It’s simple, Admiral. I’ll give you the coordinates for the Yards after you execute some instrument guaranteeing the Starfishers’ independence. Recognize them as an independent political entity. Offer to exchange embassies. Offer mutual non-aggression pacts. All those kinds of things that will make it hard for Luna Command to subjugate them without a big public outcry.”

“Holy shit. You’re out of your mind.”

“I know it.” Beckhart heard McClennon’s pain and fear. The man was scared silly. He knew he was on the edge. “It’s getting worse. I need help, Chief. But I’ve got to do this first.”

“Thomas, the answer is no. You know damned well that I couldn’t agree to something like that even if I wanted. Which I don’t, I don’t have the power.”

“High Command does. I’ll listen on this channel. You let me know when the treaties are ready.”

“Thomas, you’re committing suicide. You’re throwing your career away.”

“Really? You mean you haven’t used me up yet?”

“Thomas . . . You can’t hide from me forever.”

“I can try, Admiral. I can sure as hell try.”

“Thomas, I’m going to have your balls for breakfast . . . Shit!” He was talking to himself. McClennon was gone.

He hurled a half-finished mug of coffee across his office. The brown liquid dribbled down the wall, onto a stack of memos that had accumulated while he worried.

Someone knocked.

“Enter.”

Major Damon stepped in. “We triangulated the call, sir. No luck. He wired a standard Navy comm into a public box and made the call from a public box somewhere else.”

“I told you we’re dealing with professionals. But let’s consider the bright side. It’s a small city, and he has three prisoners to watch, feed, and keep clean. He’ll make a mistake. Storm will jump him. Or we’ll find him. Keep looking.”

Damon left. Beckhart cleaned up his coffee mess, settled into his chair. He felt better. Almost relaxed. The worst possibilities were, for the moment, no more than ghosts of evil chance.

He made some elementary calculations. The lead time he had on the Seiners if he and they started for the Yards together. Stars’ End was eight days rimward of The Broken Wings. The Yards were somewhere back toward the Inner Worlds. How long till a Sangaree courier reached Stars’ End with the news about Homeworld?

The Sangaree had no known shipboard instel capacity. They communicated by courier exclusively. So his agents told him. So he hoped. The scheme depended on a long news lag and Starfisher stubbornness.

He smiled. If the fastest ship known had left Homeworld immediately after von Drachau’s attack . . . He should have fourteen more days.

“Thomas, there’s no way you can stay ahead of me for two weeks. Not in this burg.”

Confidence soon yielded to doubt. High Command withdrew his Marines over his protest. The doubts grew stronger. On day seven the CSN personally called. Beckhart could conceal the truth no longer. He covered for McClennon by declining to name names.

He was loyal to his men. Thomas was no turncoat. He was a victim of his occupation and faulty technical preparation. Sooner or later every agent encountered the crisis. McClennon had had the misfortune to hit his at an historically inopportune moment.

Heads were going to roll among the Psych crew! On day eleven Beckhart came to the conclusion that the first head lost would be his own. The CSN kept making sounds like a happy executioner sharpening his axe.

“Come in, Major. I take it you’re going to tell me the same old thing?”

“Unfortunately, sir. He’s just not leaving any tracks. We did find a cellar this morning that someone had been using, but they were long gone when we broke in. We’ve covered sixty percent of the city now. We’re reasonably sure he hasn’t slipped back into what we’ve covered.”