The Shadow and Night (97 page)

Merral saw that Perena was next to him. “Is Vero all right?” she asked in a voice of quiet concern.

“Yes,” Merral said, “but it's the last time he will switch the weather sats off when there is a risk of him flying. Nice landing, though.”

“It wasn't hard, really. The Tanaris strip was made originally for emergency landings for in-system shuttles if Isterrane was closed with bad weather. I think it's the longest on the planet. I could have come down vertically, but you need to be absolutely certain of your equipment to do that.” Then she lowered her voice and whispered to Merral. “Look—while the vehicles are arriving—come into the hold with me.”

Inside the ship, the smell of the disinfecting agent was still powerful and Perena sniffed dubiously. “Nasty stuff. Anyway, full marks. We survived. So you made a bold and decisive decision.”

“Thanks. And if we hadn't survived?”

“It wouldn't have been bold and decisive; it would have been rash, foolhardy, and badly judged. We won this one. But you got a lot of credit for your action, and you made the right decision.”

“It wasn't easy.” Merral was surprised at the emotion in his voice. “Would you really have ejected the module?”

Perena shrugged unhappily. “Under the old rules, yes. By letting you do this I broke with Standard Operating Procedures. But do those old rules apply in what is, effectively, a time of war?” She sighed. “You see, Merral, we are all having to learn new things and new attitudes.”

Making no further comment, Perena walked over to the barrel and peered around it.

“What are you looking for?” Merral asked.

“I want to find out why it broke loose,” she said, squatting and staring to one side of the drum. “Under normal conditions we'd have a full inquiry. There's no time here. But I'd still like to know. It's very odd—almost unprecedented—for a load to break free. But see, here's where it was attached.” She leaned forward and lifted up a broken strand of silvery webbing. “Okay, so it snapped. But why, eh, Merral?” She looked at him, her face angular in the hold lighting.

Merral shrugged.

“Well,” she said, “we have an imaging record of the loading, so we will find who was responsible. And I'll get this looked at in daylight.” She peered closely at it and muttered, “You know I think this is old. It's got an orange safety thread in it.”

Merral bent down and looked at it, noting that he, too, could make out a fine orange line along it. Safety threads occurred in most critical rope or straps, whether for climbing or for lashing down equipment. Green indicated pristine condition with full strength, but over time and use that shifted to yellow, orange, and then red to indicate a progressive weakening. It was a well-known ruling that, for critical tasks, you never used less than green. He turned to Perena. “Okay. Let me have a full report. We nearly lost the mission before we started.”

“We could have lost us.”

There were noises at the hold door. A tall, green-clad man with a long face dominated by a hooked nose climbed into the hold. “Captain D'Avanos? Captain Lewitz?”

“Indeed,” said Merral, struck by the way the man's wide smile was accentuated by his thin dark moustache. There was an awkward salute and smile on the broad face.

“Lieutenant Ferenc Thuron, sir. Welcome to Tanaris.”

“Thank you.”
Thuron,
Merral thought, going through the list of names in his mind. “Ah yes. You're a team leader?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your team will come in from the west. Right, Ferenc?”

“Yes, sir, but I am afraid everyone calls me Frankie.” The gentle brown eyes were apologetic. “The Ferenc was because my dad was into the Old Hungarian at the time I was born, but it's confusing to spell. So it's Frankie. But only if it's no trouble. You're the boss.”

Merral found it hard not to smile back. “Trouble, Lieutenant, is a relative thing, and you going from Ferenc to Frankie does not really rate in the scheme of things. Not now. Does it, Captain Lewitz?”

She grinned. “Hardly. Not now.”

Frankie looked around and sniffed. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, you haven't half had the ship cleaned out, have you?”

“A leak, Frankie.”

“Yeah. I guess that explains it. I'm ready to take you to the base. Any immediate instructions, sir?”

“Only that I want to have a meeting with you, the experts, and the other team leaders later. We need to get started here fast.”

“Sounds okay, sir.”

As he exited the hold, Merral saw, by vehicles, other men wearing green. With a shock of recognition, Merral realized they were in uniform, and suddenly the significance of what he was about struck him.
We have made soldiers, and I must lead them.
It was all he could do to stop himself from trembling.

Zak, smartly dressed in a green uniform, was waiting for Merral at the main tent.

“Sir,” he said, with a smart salute, “good to see you here. Welcome to Camp Alpha.”

“ ‘Camp Alpha'? I thought this was Tanaris?”

Zak looked nonplussed. “We figured, sir, we ought to give it a name that wasn't on maps. So if anyone overheard they wouldn't know the address. That's what they did.”

“I see,” Merral said, trying to ignore feelings that he was utterly out of his depth. “Camp Alpha, it is. Everything okay, er . . . Lieutenant?”

“Good, sir. Do you want me to brief you now?”

“I need to change my clothes.”

“Yes, sir, your uniform's in the tent there. There are a couple of tunics and trousers; we weren't sure of your size. You'll want to put them on straightaway.”

“Thank you, Zak.” Merral forced himself to smile. “Let's have the briefing later. I want to meet all the lieutenants, in half an hour, say, at seven-thirty.”

“That's 1930 hours, sir?”

“Nineteen—? Yes, of course, Lieutenant, that's what I meant to say. Pass the word around.”

“I'll give the order, sir.”

Merral hesitated. “Yes, well, whatever. Go on and do it, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir!” Zak said with a snap in his voice, saluted, turned, and left.

Merral walked into the tent, closed the flap, and stared at the uniforms on his bed. He sat on the folding chair and put his head in his hands.

“Oh, Lord, they've picked the wrong man,” he said in quiet prayer.

Less than an hour later, the last few of the ten men and women Merral had summoned came into the office tent and took their seats around a long collapsible table. As the chattering and introductions slowly died away, Merral, feeling a little more sure of himself, gazed around again.

On his immediate left were five men in the same uniform that he now wore. All were in their mid- or late twenties, and Merral, whose twenty-seventh birthday was still six months away, felt slightly encouraged that he would not have to order men about who were much older than him. He reviewed again who they were and what their responsibilities would be if it came to fighting. Closest to him was Zak, sitting bolt upright in his chair as if he found it perfectly natural to be on a remote island wearing a military uniform and preparing to do battle. It wasn't just pretense either, Merral reminded himself. By all accounts, Zak had excelled in organizing the setting up of the camp and had been designated as the leader of the team that was to approach the ship from the north.

Next to him was the lean, tall figure of gentle, apologetic Frankie Thuron, who, it turned out, was a chemistry research student and a long-distance runner. Beyond Frankie sat Fred Huang, a large, long-limbed man who wore his thick and lengthy dark hair tied back and who seemed to have a permanently fixed grin and loud, cheery voice. Fred, Merral knew, was a marine biologist and an accomplished diver from one of the smaller islands of the Mazarma Chain. It was Fred, Merral reminded himself, who would go with the diplomatic team and attempt first contact.

Forcing himself not to think about whether Fred's mission could succeed, Merral moved his gaze to the tall figure of Barry Narandel slouched in a chair beyond him. Barry, down to lead the reserves, had his hair cut so close that it was almost stubble and thoughtful blue eyes that seemed to drift around in a lazy scrutiny. The fifth of the line of uniformed men was Lucas “Luke” Tenerelt, who had been designated chaplain, his green uniform marked with improvised bronze clerical flashings. Merral knew from his folder that Luke, whose almost gaunt face and piercing dark eyes were accentuated by the basic lighting in the tent, was in his late thirties and had, after an outstanding dual-track theology and engineering degree, become a leader in his home congregation in Maraplant.

As the silence deepened, Merral turned his gaze to those on his right. There was Perena, the still-gray-faced Vero, and next to him, looking unusually solemn, Anya. Beyond her was the head of communications, the short but strikingly blonde Maria Dalphey, and next to her, Lucia “Lucy” Dmitri. Lucy had been seconded from the Farholme Atmosphere Transport Board and made responsible for the logistics; she was a willowy brunette with green eyes, and Merral was struck by her look of quiet competence.

So,
the solemn thought came to Merral,
this is my team.
Well, his first impressions suggested that Vero, Corradon, and Clemant had chosen well. Merral opened his folder to a blank piece of paper. “Gentlemen and ladies,” he began, wondering even as he said it whether it was the right mode of address, “I just have a few things to say, and then in half an hour we shall adjourn for the evening meal.”

He caught the grimace on Vero's pallid face. “For those who feel like eating, that is. But I thought it would be good if Luke, as our chaplain, would pray for us.”

Luke nodded, got firmly to his feet, and as everybody bowed their heads, prayed clearly in a loud, confident, and booming voice. “Lord of the Assembly, we pray that You go with us in our planning and preparations. We pray too that we do not forget You in the urgency of the hour and that You protect us all through the blood of Jesus, the Lamb of God, from all the powers and principalities of evil that we face. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
”

Merral felt that if Luke had any doubts about the task ahead, he kept them well hidden.

As Luke sat down, Merral looked around. “By any reckoning,” he said, “the last meeting like this happened in the Rebellion. So I suppose this is, very sadly, a historic occasion.” He watched heads shake in agreement, then went on. “The schedule is this: After the meal, I want to address everybody briefly. Then we have three days of training ahead. Tomorrow I want an early morning meeting of us all for a progress report. At eight.” He caught a glance from Zak. “That is, 0800 hours. I would like to see you individually during the rest of the day. Is that okay?”

There were glances and nods of agreement. “Fine then. I want us now to go around. Briefly say who you are, what you see your job as being, and what stage you think your work is at now. Then we shall go and eat after that.”

There were more nods.

“So then, let's start with Zak here. . . .”