Glen Cook Starfishers 02 Starfishers

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a low cycle. There was nothing on but an endless parade of public service
messages, though once a commentator mentioned rumors of a forthcoming major
news event involving Navy. Something big was expected, but its nature could
not be determined. Security remained unusually tight.
Sure, Perchevski growled at the cube. The Chief of Staff will probably
announce this year s winners in the Fleet Backgammon Playoffs.
Luna Command was heart and brain of Confederation. It was headquarters for
the Services, which were Confederation s bone and sinew. It was the hub of a
human enterprise kept unified only by its military. And the only exciting
thing that had happened there in Perchevski s lifetime had been the discovery
of the prehistoric alien base on the moon s dark side.
The military did not control Confederation. But the only obstacle to absolute
military rule was a gentlemen s agreement among the generals and admirals to
accept the forms of democracy. High Command could do anything it damned well
pleased, any time it pleased, were it to ignore custom. Out in the remote
reaches, far from senatorial eyes, it often did. There were few sanctions the
civilian sector could exercise.
Aggravated, Perchevski killed the holocast. He checked the lunar calendar for
the best viewing site, recovered his tunic, and hit public transportation
again. He took the high-velocity electric train the six hundred kilometers to
the tourist observation dome overlooking Tycho.
The crater was not the attraction there. People did not come from
Confederation s one hundred thirty-four member planets, and more than a
hundred dominions, protectorates, associated states, and outright colonies, to
look at a hole in the ground. The allies and tributaries were not interested
in a crater either.
Neither was Perchevski.
Tycho observation dome offered a magnificent view of Old Earth. His
homeworld. A world he had not visited in eight years.
Tycho, or its sister domes, was as close as most tourists cared to get to
their biological roots.
Perchevski lay back in a lounger and half-listened to the canned commentary.
. . . where the race of Man began . . . possibly also the planet of origin
of the Sangaree . . . first successful extraterrestrial landing, July 20,
1969, in the old dating. Neil Armstrong . . . ascension of World Commonweal
following World War III . . . Fail Point, July, 2194, led to the Collapse.
Reinhardt Ships carried Commonweal refugees to interstellar colonies from 2187
through the end of the Luna Wars in 2226. The Treaties of Jerusalem of 2228
led to the chaotic exploration and random settlement we now call First
Expansion.
A profligate expenditure of resources and racial will initiated a
reactionary isolationism which spanned the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth
centuries. Space travel, even to Luna, was discontinued. Contact with the star
worlds did not resume till 2613, when Vice-Admiral Takada Yoshimura brought
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New Earth s fleet back to Luna. A short time later Yoshimura encountered ships
of the Palisarian Directorate.
The old records in Luna Command revealed the locations of scores of settled
worlds. The secondary colonies of the Directorate were under pressure from
Toke at the time. The Directorate and New Earth concluded a xenophobic
alliance, and began searching for other human allies.
The concept, if not the fact, of Confederation had been created.
We have our former enemies, the Toke, to thank for midwifing Confederation
through its birth pains. The unrelenting determination of the Star Lords and
Caste of Warriors united humanity. The conflict endured sufficiently long for
Confederation to become a reality, with its military headquartered here in the
tunnels of Luna.
Confederation and Luna Command have been growing steadily since.
Perchevski stopped listening. He had heard it all before.
He knew he would hear it again. The viewing domes were the Meccas of regular
hadjs.
He looked at the Earth and wondered how his parents were doing. He had not
heard from either for a long time.
He slept while returning to his apartment. It had been a long day.
Two messages awaited him. The first was from Max. She wanted to see the
xenoarchaeological digs Darkside. The other was from his employers. The
printout said: SENIOR STAFF PARTY WEDNESDAY 8 PM ATTENDANCE MANDATORY CONTACT
864-6400-312 FOR FURTHER INFO.
He sighed, pecked out the number. Max would not like this. He tried her
number after he had gotten the story.
Max? Walter. Yeah. Thanks for calling. Hey. I ve got a problem. Just got
word from my boss. I have to go to a staff party tomorrow night. Can t get out
of it. I know. I m sorry. Hey! Want to come along? All the big wheels will be
there. The Chief of Staff Navy is supposed to come out with some big
announcement. No. I don t think it has anything to do with the March of Ulant.
That s all smoke screen, if you ask me. It s at the Command Club. Can you meet
me there? Okay. Bye.
He lay back on his bed and wondered what the news would be, and why he had
been ordered to make an appearance. He was a senior operative, but certainly
not senior staff.
He also wondered how long it would be before they called him down and stuck
him behind a desk. It didn t look as if his vacation was going to go through,
and they did not like people just loafing around while they waited for an
assignment.
Again he thought about his parents.
Seven: 3048 AD
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Operation Dragon, Engagement
He could not write. He had too much free time. He always worked better when
the minutes were quick and crowded.
Something was wrong with his head. Skeletons were coming out of their closets
in there. Especially the Alyce affair. The unbreakable walls of Tyre were
crumbling.
It had been years since he had thought about Alyce. Why now? That hasty Psych
programing before the mission? Or were the edges of his sanity just fraying?
He had two bad days. There were moments when he did not know where he was or
why, or, sometimes, just who he was.
He sometimes felt his life was managed by guardian devils. The Fates pursued
him like indefatigable hounds, with malice their only joy.
The ship dropped hyper without warning. Are we finally there? he asked the
air. He stepped into the corridor. Most of the landsmen were there.
Jarl Kindervoort s voice filled the ship. Passengers, remain in your [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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