Empery (21 page)

Berberon recalled how in the first year or so of Sujata’s stewardship many senior Chancellery staffers had experienced panic on discovering that their new boss expected them to be able to present their ideas in person and to answer questions off the cuff. Sujata would not let them hide behind memos and arms-length electronic consultations.

Nor did she respect the traditional and fiercely defended fiefdoms that had been carved out in the name of division of responsibility. She expected everyone, not merely the staff analysts, to embrace the larger picture and offer insights. And she encouraged them to disagree, not only with each other but with her as well. In short she had brought the art of the dialogue back to the Service.

The gathering was a crisis conference in everything but name. In the three weeks since Sujata had returned from her leave, most of the resources of the Chancellery had been marshaled for an intensive review of Wells’s latest proposal. Now it was time for answers to the questions she had posed. The witnesses sat elbow-to-elbow at the far end of the room, waiting to be called on.

Since he did not share her authority, Berberon was not seated at the main table with Sujata, Ten Ga’ar, and Regan Marshall, the Vice Chancellor. But he had been given full access to Wells’s formal proposal and understood that the session was as much for his benefit as for Sujata’s. By his actions eight years ago, Berberon had shouldered an extra burden where Wells was concerned.

First up was the chief of Data and Library Services.

“You’ve reviewed the Defense Branch’s report on Kleine interference?” Sujata asked.

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“Is it accurate?”

“I consulted the Operations Branch records in an attempt to see if there were inaccuracies or omissions. I found none.”

“In your opinion the report contains an accurate history of the problem?”

“Yes, Chancellor.”

“And you found no evidence that any coordinated effort was made to suppress knowledge of the problem?”

“I found no such evidence. Judging from the number of individuals who knew of the problem and when and how they heard of it, dissemination followed a natural dispersal pattern.”

“Who knew? Any of our people?” asked Marshall.

“I’ve located seven individual Chancellery staffers who had some awareness of the problem, but they all viewed it as a technical matter with no policy consequences, and all had been reassured that Operations was addressing it.”

That answer could hardly please Sujata, but she made no comment and dismissed the chief. Next up was the supervisor of the Office of Technical Coordination.

“Franklin, may we have your evaluation of the proposed trunk communications system?”

“We don’t really have much to look at so far, Chancellor. What we have is a statement of design intent, not a fully engineered solution,” the supervisor said, resting his folded hands on his round belly pontifically. “But the theory is consistent with our understanding of the physics of transmatrix links.”

“Why can’t we just increase the strength of the transmission and get a better signal-to-noise ratio?” asked the chief of the Office of Financial Management.

The OTC supervisor turned to face his colleague. “Ken, this isn’t like trying to be heard across a noisy room. You can’t simply talk louder. We’re not pushing energy. We’re just aiming it.”

“Does Lynx Center have the capacity to serve as a temporary relay point between here and the Perimeter?” Marshall asked.

“Not at present.”

“When could they have it?” Sujata asked.

“Considering that they’re already beginning some preliminary tests, there’s a very high probability they could begin to assume that function in five years.”

“And Perimeter Command?”

“A few years longer. They don’t have the facilities Lynx does.”

“Won’t that solve the problem?” asked the finance chief.“It’s taken us three hundred years for the problem to become significant. Seems like bringing up just two relay stations between-here and the Perimeter should buy us quite a lot of time.”

“You don’t cut the interference by a third simply by cutting the distance into thirds,” the OTC man said with a hint of impatience. “The baseline interference on even the shortest link is already high enough to require special data-handling protocols. By the time the Lynx and Perimeter Command relays come on line, we’ll be lucky if we’re no worse off than we are right now.”

“Let’s take a closer look at the time parameter,” Sujata said. “The schedule proposed for deployment of the repeater system in the Lynx and Boötes Octants—is it realistic?”

“Optimistic, I would say. Token-passing communications have never been attempted on this scale. There are bound to be some difficulties.”

“So you agree that there is potentially a window during which we will be out of touch with the Perimeter.”

“Completely out of touch, no. But suffering from severely impaired communications, yes. Real-time voice and video will probably be impossible, even with sparse matrix techniques.”

“Thank you, Director,” Sujata said.

Over the next hour they heard from several other witnesses concerning the financial and logistical feasibility of the repeater system. Then Sujata dismissed all those who had testified, leaving only her committee liaison and the High Justice of the Service Court awaiting their turn.

“Those of us who remain are the only ones who know that Comité Wells has recommended moving the Strategy Committee and certain officers in command of the Defense Branch, including himself, to Lynx Center,” Sujata said. “I’d like for us to now focus on that part of the proposal. Justice Kemmerman, would you please offer your interpretation of Section 74.1?”

“The bylaws are very clear on this,” the silver-haired justice said, speaking slowly. “Section 74.1 specifies that no member of the Steering Committee may take any action that would remove himself or herself from the system-local time track or place himself of herself out of real-time communication with the remainder of the Committee for more than fourteen consecutive days. In effect that means that Wells can go to the moon or Mars, but he can’t go to Lynx—not as Director of the Defense Branch, that is.”

“Unless the bylaws are changed,” the liaison interjected.

“Yes. There is that option, if you wish to take it and you can muster a unanimous vote of the Committee. Though I would discourage you from tinkering with the long-term stability of the Service to meet short-term needs.”

The liaison turned to Sujata. “Chancellor, you have to weigh the desirability. But as a practical matter, in my opinion the Committee would be willing to approve a change exempting only the Director of the Defense Branch from Section 74.1.”

“I wonder,” Marshall said. “Chancellor, I might remind you that three of the Directors are colonials like yourself, who might be very interested in being free to make a visit home without having to resign from the Committee to do it.”

“You may well be right, Regan,” Sujata said. “Justice Kemmerman, is there any way to let Wells go without changing the bylaws and throwing the door wide open for everyone?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What about the Chancellor’s emergency powers under 32.33?” Ten Ga’ar asked.

Kemmerman frowned. “It’s a gray area,” he acknowledged grudgingly. “You have a certain latitude under the emergency-powers clause, but the Committee is always in a position to disagree as to whether the situation qualifies as an emergency.”

“Would the Court feel obliged to initiate any action on its own to stop the transfer?”

“You’re asking me to speak for all five justices—not just for myself—and to render a decision before the fact,” Kemmerman said. “I really am not in a position to do either.”

“Let me put it another way,” the liaison said. “Has the Court ever intervened against a decision by the Chancellor without having first received a petition from a member of the Committee?”

“No,” Kemmerman said. “That has not happened.”

“Then, Chancellor, I’d say that if you took the precaution of getting the Committee’s approval by means of an advisory vote, you should be safe from any repercussions.”

For the next quarter of an hour the group brainstormed possible ways of providing for an interim exercise of power. Then Sujata excused both the High Justice and the committee liaison, leaving only Berberon, Marshall, Ten Ga’ar, and herself in the room.

“It sounds to me as though everything hangs together except Wells’s reason for going,” Sujata began. “Our experts don’t foresee a complete loss of communications with the Perimeter. Building the repeater system would be enough of a response to the situation.”

“Wells does have a certain obligation to look on the dark side,” Marshall pointed out. “He may well think a loss of communications is a real enough possibility that prudence requires moving the command forward.”

“He may,” Sujata said. “But for the moment let’s assume otherwise. Can anyone think of any reason that hasn’t already been stated here why Wells may see this as a desirable move?”

“Symbology,” Berberon said.

“Explain.”

Berberon dragged his chair forward to join the others at the table before continuing. “Being on the Perimeter is not particularly attractive duty. There aren’t many creature comforts on a Sentinel, and very few more on a tender. The crews are small and the ships are crowded. There’s a mind-numbing sameness to the work. Instead of going back to Lynx Center, the rotations now take the crews to Perimeter Command, which is just as spartan as the ships they come off. They never get that now-I’m-back-in-civilization feeling. And on top of everything else there’s a sense of isolation, of vulnerability—particularly so now that they can look back here and see the worlds enjoying protections they don’t have.”

“Meaning the Defenders.”

“Yes. But for Wells to bring a fleet flagship into a forward area as much as says, ‘We’re strong. We’re safe here.’ And privations are less onerous when they’re shared.”

“I agree—but I think it goes further,” Ten Ga’ar said. “Chancellor, I’ve watched him, both with a Ba’ar woman’s eyes and with the tools that you have taught me. Comité Wells has a warrior spirit. It is in his walk, in the way he dominates a room by his presence. It is the reason for the mask behind which he hides. To fulfill that spirit, to be honest to his essence, at some time he must walk into the arena to be tested. I think this is why he asks to leave us. The rest is only pretext.”

Sujata locked eyes with Ten Ga’ar. “If you’re right, is walking into the arena enough?” she asked softly. “Or does he have to fight and defeat an opponent too?”

“Chancellor, I do not know.”

“Probably Wells, himself, doesn’t know,” Berberon said.“The Renans have a saying, ‘No one hates war more than a warrior. But no one loves victory more than the victor.’ It’s a conflict every soldier wrestles with in times of peace. Once war has begun, of course, they do not have the luxury of being philosophical. More fundamental concerns come to the fore—like survival.”

Staring at the center of the table, Sujata chewed at the tip of her thumb thoughtfully. “If I believed that the Perimeter might become isolated by this interference problem,” she said at last, “I never would consider letting Wells go there. I never have caught him in a lie or found him to follow the letter of the law while violating its spirit. Yet, though I trust him, I would not want to tempt him. That much of what Wyrena says I have seen in him myself.

“But Franklin tells me that I can count on always being able to get a priority message through to the Perimeter. As long as that link exists, the last word belongs to the Chancellor. It seems as though I am free to let Wells go but not obliged to. So should I?”

It was the question Berberon had been waiting for, and he pounced on it without hesitation. “Yes, Chancellor, absolutely. This is what we’ve been asking for—a chance to neutralize Wells. It’s a seventeen-year run to Lynx. Seventeen years to take back what we gave him. Seventeen years the Committee will be free from his influence.”

“Doesn’t he know that too? Why would he throw away the position and the power he worked so hard to achieve, unless he knew he were going to get even more?”

“Power is only a means to an end. He would give it up when he’s achieved that end. I think Wyrena is right. Wells is so enamored of the thought of riding to the front on a white charger that he’s willing to separate himself from his allies downwell.”

Sujata looked to the Vice Chancellor. “Regan?”

“I’m really not convinced that romantic notions of gallantry or symbolism from the days of trench warfare have anything to do with Comité Wells’s proposal. As for a hidden agenda, I don’t see what good he can do for his friends there that he can’t do here,” Marshall said. “And as for trusting or tempting Wells, I don’t see what harm he can do us there that he can’t do here. Let him go. Let him take himself out of the picture.”

“Wyrena?”

“Just one selfish thought on your behalf,” Ten Ga’ar said.“If he goes to Lynx, in all likelihood you will never have to deal with him again.”

Sujata was silent for a moment. “Does anyone have any fears that Wells is positioning himself for a coup?” she asked quietly.

“Just the reverse,” Berberon said. “I would be more fearful of that if he stayed here.”

“I agree,” said Marshall. “Earth is the locus of power in the Affirmation. This is where the action is. Let him go, Chancellor. Let’s be rid of him.”

Sujata’s gaze flicked in Berberon’s direction.
Does this change the rules of our bargain?
her eyes asked.
Would this free me?

Berberon answered with a slow nod.
Yes
, he thought.
And free me as well
.

“Very well,” Sujata said. “Wyrena, please call Comité Wells. Tell him I want to see him.”

Harry Eugene Barnstable had been roaming the gangways of Maintenance Yard 105 for a long rime. He had come to the orbiting shipyard at age twenty-two, fresh out of school, because he loved the deepships, found them achingly beautiful in form and romantically compelling in function.

With a clarity of self-knowledge uncommon in the young, Barnstable had understood that he lacked whatever it took to wear the black ellipse of the deepship crews. Whether it was a timidity of spirit or an addiction to comfort, Barnstable knew he would never give up Earth and the normal life it represented to fly star to star in the deepships. But this close he could get, like the landlubbers who once haunted the quays, the earthbound whose spirits alone soared into the clouds on silver wings.

Barnstable’s first job was as an environmental integrity engineer—a fancy name for someone who maintained pressure enclosures and space doors. There were a lot of space doors in Yard 105. The station boasted sixteen full-sized work bays arrayed in a four-by-four grid, and each shipway had seven interlocks—two for man-sized waldoids, two for the construction teleops, and three flying tunnels to provide shirtsleeve access to completed hulls. Yard 105 kept its EI engineers busy.

But being busy proved not to be enough for Barnstable. Feeling as though what he did was peripheral to the real work of the Yard, he returned to school quarter-time in a quest for new employment endorsements. Three years later he was fully qualified as a teleop assembler, enabling him for the first time to make a direct contribution. The highlight of that period was helping to lay the keelspine of a new packet destined for the Earth-Ba’ar Tell run.

Yet even in his new role there was still a distance between him and the ships he loved so much. He performed his duties in the comfort of the Yard’s shirt-sleeve teleop center, isolated from the ships in the bays by a hundred metres of space and the very technology made his job possible. His robotic surrogates—welders, pushers, seamers—roamed all over the ships’s hulls. His real hands never touched them.

By the time he was forty, Barnstable had found a way to cross that final barrier, graduating from the teleop room to the ranks of the integrations engineers. Then, at long last, he could board the deepships freely, and he learned them as well as the men who ere wed them, and in some ways better.

Barnstable felt a pride in what he did that drove or shamed those who worked with him to ask more of themselves. And the word got out that when Barnstable’s crew installed something, it worked; when they fixed something, it stayed fixed.

Then a freak accident—ironically, caused by a mismaintained hatch that cycled closed without warning—irreparably damaged nerves in his right leg, costing him both strength and mobility and bringing him back to the soft duty on-station. Barnstable could have sued or retired, or both. Instead he stayed on as the supervisor of F-bay.

In all, Barnstable had spent thirty-one years watching the ships come and go from Yard 105’s bays. Some had taken shape there, and some had only been visitors, stopping for a time to rest and recoup. Packets and cruisers, tugs and freighters—he remembered them all by name, and many by the service he had done them.

As different as the ships and Barnstable’s memories of them were, they had one thing in common: once a ship left Yard 105, Barnstable knew not to expect to see it again. Ships left Yard 105 for the craze and the long runs to the other Worlds. Those that were meant to return would not do so until many more years had passed, time eaten up by the long, empty light-years.

Of all the ships that Barnstable had seen riding at anchor in the shipways, only one had ever left and come back—and it had done so repeatedly. The ship had been in Yard 105 when he had first come there, and he had begun to think it would be there long after he had left. Its name was
Tilak Charan
.

As spanking new outside as
Charan
appeared to the eye, it was in fact a relic of an era, the feeling of which was almost impossible to recapture, when the frontier had represented challenge and mystery instead of terror and death.
Tilak Charan
was the third name the vessel had borne. When Barnstable had first crossed paths with it, it had been called
Weichsel
. When it had begun its life more than a century and a half ago, its name was
Taipeng
. Barnstable did not concern himself with the changing appellations, for he knew it best by the hull registration under which all the ship’s work records were indexed—USS-96.

Like its sister ship the
Joanna Wesley
(formerly
Journa
, nee
New York
), which was in the care of Yard 102, USS-96 was part of the Survey Branch’s last great shipbuilding project. The sixteen vessels that had comprised the Cities Series were to have been the spearheads of the Survey Branch’s Phase III search, fresh blood for the millennium-long pursuit of First Colonization Worlds. Aided by a much larger fleet of unmanned drones, the Cities vessels were to have pushed hard at the limits of the known, more than trebling the volume of explored space in the course of a five-hundred-year plan that would add four thousand new star systems to the catalogs of the astrographers.

But Thackery’s Revision had intervened, abruptly halting the expansion and canceling the Survey Branch’s plans. Of the sixteen Cities hulls, six were never more than engineering drawings, and three were abandoned with their keelspines freshly laid. Seven were completed as “generic” AVLO hulls and renamed for seven of the Unified Worlds. Five of those seven misbegotten survey ships now patrolled the Perimeter in their new identity as Sentinels.

Except for the journey inbound to Earth from the Centers where they had been built, the two remaining ships—USS-96 and USS-97—had spent the next hundred years as deepships in name only. In the decades immediately following the Revision, when the panic was most palpable, they had been flying archives, filled with nonvolatile memory cubes representing what was hoped would be a meaningful abstract of the species’s collective knowledge and history.

Later, when fear of the Mizari had mellowed to paranoia, the memory cubes had been removed from USS-96 to make room for berths and accommodations intended for Earth’s ruling elite and the Service’s senior staff. When the list of those demanding to be part of the evacuation grew too long for USS-96 to accommodate them, the same had been done to USS-97. For thirty years the two ships were quietly held in reserve, ready to leave orbit literally on a day’s notice. But the need had never arisen.

Three factors led to the next phase of the ships’ careers. Progress on the Perimeter listening posts gradually erased the fear of a sudden, overwhelming attack by the Mizari. The Service withdrew from the evacuation plan, prompting a few key Terran officials, embarrassed by the suggestion of selfishness and cowardice, to remove their names from the list. And as the new Defense Branch matured, it began to exercise its claim on the resources of the Service, especially those it felt were being underutilized.

As a consequence, both ships underwent still another metamorphosis, this time to emerge as engineering test-beds. Every new development in deepship technology between the mid-500s and the early 600s was field-tested on USS-96 or USS-97, or both. The procedures for upgrading ships in the field were worked out, sometimes by trial and error, on their viscera. Toward the end experimentation overran development, and both ships diverged sharply and in different directions from the standard internal plan for deepships.

That was how Barnstable had first found USS-96—its lines marred by the addition of experimental doughnut-shaped AVLO radiators forward and aft, its innards ravaged by a succession of tinkerers, all of whom had treated the ship as a disposable good.

It was Harmack Wells who had rescued the ships from slow death at the hands of the Office of Systems Research. Soon after Wells took office, USS-96 was moved into Barnstable’s F-bay, USS-97 into Yard 102. In the six years since, both ships had been stripped down to the bone and then rebuilt with state-of-the-art components. Virtually the only original equipment left in place were the AVLO-L drives, and even those received new controllers and peripherals.

The thoroughness of USS-97’s renovation and the degree of interest the Director’s office expressed in its progress had long ago caused Barnstable to wonder if the ship were being readied for a role as fleet flagship. But it was not until five weeks ago that his suspicions were confirmed, when USS-96 and USS-97 were both assigned flag crews.

Even then it was not clear which of the two ships would be primary. Not until the recommission orders came through specifying that the ship in Barnstable’s F-bay was to have
F-1 Tilak Charan
as its transponder ID was the picture complete. Wells was going to the Perimeter, and it was
Charan
that would take him there.

For Barnstable that news was the vindication for a lifetime of labor. Even learning that
Wesley
’s unreadiness—she was still six weeks from full flight certification—had been a factor in the choice did not dim his pride. “First and best,” he had told the refit team at their final meeting that morning. “That’s what
Charan
is—that’s what we are.”

As much as Barnstable was pleased for his own sake, he was even more pleased for
Charan
. Though he knew better than most that ships were mere technological artifacts, he was enough the romantic to also believe that each ship had a proper destiny conferred on it by the intent of the builder. When that destiny was frustrated or unfulfilled, it could only be viewed as a tragedy.

From his office greatport Barnstable watched as the black spider that was the base tug entered the spaceward end of F-bay and nosed close to
Charan
’s bow. Two waldoids were standing by in case of trouble, but the tug pilot was skilled at his job, The six slender grapple arms gracefully closed on the flared circular rim of the forward radiator. After a brief pause to be certain all was secure, the slipway’s anchors released
Charan,
and the tug began to edge the flagship out of the yard.

For the last time, Barnstable thought. This time
Charan
would not return. At long last she would become what she had been built to be—a deepship, riding gravity’s own wave between the stars.

“It’s about damn time,” Barnstable said to himself, watching the tug’s chemical thrusters fire as it pointed
Charan
toward Unity Center. “About damn time.” Then he turned away from the greatport, surprised to find his eyes bright with moisture. Tomorrow another ship would fill the empty bay, and he could not allow himself to think of
Charan
for very long.

“… the mighty arm of the chosen people of God. O Benefactor, look with favor on the labors of those who follow the path You have shown us, that we might win back the promised lands and earn the right to live forever in the infinity of Your Creation. Give us strength and comfort as we prepare ourselves to face Your enemies…”

Though Janell Sujata was standing just a few metres away from the Most Reverend Bishop of the Holy Redemption Church, she was not listening to his invocation. Looking out from the temporary rostrum at one edge of Unity Center’s great central atrium at the overflow crowd gathered on the balconies and the main plaza, Sujata wondered just when she had lost complete control over the departure ceremonies.

Perhaps my failure was not anticipating the amount of fuss that could attend the sailing of a single ship
, she thought.
If someone had told me a month ago, I would not have believed it
.

A month ago everything had seemed in order for a quick, quiet departure for Wells and his staff. The Committee had given its pro form a approval to the relocation of Wells and the command staff. Wells had accepted her requirement that the journey be made in the minimum time possible, forcing
Charan
to stay in the craze, incommunicado, until its approach to Lynx Center. Satisfactory arrangements had been worked out for the Deputy Director of Defense to report directly to the Chancellor in Wells’s absence.

The first clue to what was coming, the significance of which Sujata unfortunately missed, was the attention that
Charan
garnered after being moved to a station-keeping zone adjacent to Unity Center. From the first day, buses jetted almost hourly between the Center and the ship. Some carried Earthnet and outworld journalists, others dignitaries who had requested tours.

Most often, of course, the buses carried members of
Charan
’s crew, who were readying her for departure but not yet ready to take up residence. Gradually those who needed to be there began to crowd out those who were merely curious, and after two weeks the tours were halted. The next day the crew began to occupy the ship on a continuous rotating schedule, serving notice that
Charan
’s sailing date was drawing near.

But by then the Defense Branch had forwarded to Sujata without comment more than fifty internal inquiries as to whether there would be any formal send-off for
Charan
and the command staff. Some of the inquiries, assuming that there would be a ceremony of some sort, merely asked for the schedule and other details. The referrals did not quite add up to an official request on Wells’s part, but Sujata nonetheless took the hint. Conscious of the psychological aspects of the transfer, she saw no harm and some possible good in a quiet, in-house salute to those who were leaving.

Then Berberon had intervened, asking if he might have the chance to address Wells and his staff as a way of underlining the Terran government’s support for a move over which the Nines were reportedly ecstatic. She could not refuse him. But Berberon’s involvement brought with it demands for access to the ceremony by Earthnet and a flurry of requests for invitations for officials from other Observer missions. Suddenly the quiet leave-taking had become a major media event.

Her one victory had been to keep Wells himself off the podium and away from the microphones. Instead he stood as part of a neat pattern of human bodies a few metres in front of the rostrum in a reserved area on the plaza. Wells and his staff, wearing rust-colored, high-collared tunics that only could be considered officers’ uniforms, formed the front rank. She had seen the tunics before, but there was one new detail. Each of the men in the front row wore above his right breast pocket a small gold trigon made up of three discontinuous bars.