In memory of Tim Samaras, tornado researcher, his son
Paul and colleague Carl Young, who lost their lives in the May 31, 2013 El
Reno, OK tornado - a 295 MPH, 2.6 mile wide EF5 monster that nobody expected.
They were Storm Chasers - and scientists - who were among the very best. Sadly,
sometimes even being among the best isn’t sufficient when Nature does something
entirely unanticipated.
Distant
Relations
By Storm
Lt. Commander Charles Phillip
Morton looked out the small porthole window of his cabin and couldn’t help a
shiver. First, for a submariner, windows were a novelty on a vessel so similar
in many ways to a submarine. Second, the view from that window was something he
never in his life thought he’d ever see.
A blue and
white planet that wasn’t Earth.
He couldn’t help being awed,
fascinated and a little afraid; awed and fascinated because this was Lar, the current Dawimhlar homeworld. It was a planet that they’d starting
terraforming almost twelve thousand years ago, after a massive asteroid impact
had destroyed most of the native ecology less than a thousand years before
they‘d discovered it - and it had taken them almost six hundred years to get
the planet habitable enough to begin settling there. He was afraid because
there was a real possibility he might never be able to go home again. This
place might well become where he would spend the rest of his life. It or one of the other Dawimhlar worlds.
It would take some getting
used to. He glanced down at the English language guidebook Patterson had gotten
for him. Lar was eighty percent covered in water
versus Earth’s seventy-one percent. It had only two large continents that were
about the size of Africa; the rest of the land surface was divided among four
Australian sized island continents and a half dozen volcanic island arcs. The
rotational period was only twenty hours - four hours shorter than an Earth day.
The length of a Lar year was three hundred and
seventy-five Earth days, due to Lar being farther out
from its star - Eta Cassiopeia A to him, Sillor to
the Dawimhlar - than Earth was from Sol (it was the
fourth planet in a system of six) but the shorter local day meant there were
four hundred fifty-one days in the year. The mass was 1.1 times that of Earth -
which accounted for the fact that the artificial gravity they maintained in
their cities on Mars had been higher than Earth normal.
He’d been wondering about
that.
Lar also had a single large moon, though it was slightly
smaller in diameter than Luna. It made up for its lesser size by being closer
to the planet, so according to Patterson Urra Shepak actually appeared larger in Lar‘s
sky than Earth‘s moon did. He’d also told Morton the craters on the face of Lar’s moon resembled not a man’s face, but that of a big
cat in profile; this accounted for the name, since the literal translation of Urra Shepak was ‘cat moon’. In
addition to the single large moon there were over a dozen small moons similar
in size to those of Mars - and a planetary ring system. From the porthole he
could just see the crescent of Urra Shepak peeking over Lar’s horizon
while the arc of the planetary ring system hung above the orbiting starliner.
His eyes wandered towards the
northern pole. There was more ice here than on Earth - a lot more. Part of the
largest continent extended above the ice line and as a result the northern half
of it was covered in a continental glacier. It was another thing he’d never
expected to see. According to the guidebook, one of the smaller island
continents occupied the South Pole and it too was completely covered in a miles
thick ice sheet. Well, that wasn’t too different from Antarctica. It even had
penguins!
The northern continent
however… He suppressed another shiver. The guidebook had a list of mammals that
inhabited that continent and it read like a who’s who from Earth’s Ice Age in
North America. Mastodons, mammoths, sloths, Saber-toothed cats, American lions
and dire wolves! It recommended that tourists not venture out on foot or
in open vehicles into the nature reserves.
He could certainly see why.
A light tap on the cabin’s
hatch interrupted his musings. “Yes?” he inquired.
“It’s me, Pat, Mr. Morton,”
came from the other side.
“Come on in,” he called out,
“the door’s unlocked.”
The hatch opened, revealing
Patterson dressed in a loose fitting shipsuit, travel
bag at his side. “You ready to go?” he asked.
Morton gestured at the small
bag that lay packed on the bunk. He was definitely traveling light these days.
If not for the clothes he’d been loaned aboard Soese,
mostly by Captain Hauer - who was fortunately very
tall for a Dawimhlar - he’d have been threadbare. Scathach had pressed a credit chip into Pat’s hand before
they’d boarded the liner Diyeh Shepak’s shuttle
- her name translated as Blue Moon - on Mars and sternly instructed that
they stop in Bahleh - the Imperial Capital - and go shopping.
He didn’t know if he ought to be embarrassed or gratified. Pat had just grinned
and noted that he had some female cousins who lived there - and who would be
thrilled to help them shop.
Well, that seemed to be at
least one similarity between females of both Dawimhlar
and human persuasion. It must be a genetic thing. He also had to admit to some
qualms about letting a gaggle of strange females organize his life, even on a
temporary basis. But since neither he nor Pat were familiar with Bahleh - and there were no published maps for areas where
off-planet visitors were more or less banned - a local guide was an absolute
must. Pat had told him it was to keep overly nosy alien tourists from imposing
themselves on the local inhabitants.
Alien
tourists. Morton had to shake his
head at the idea. He’d not had the opportunity to meet any of the true aliens
that had been present on Mars, though he understood Captain Crane had. And just
how would he be perceived on Lar? He knew now that
Pat truly was Dawimhlar, not just by virtue of the
fact that his mother’s people were citizens of the Dawimhlar
Amalgamation, but by DNA. He actually had Dawimhlar
blood in his family tree - and all Dawimhlar were
hybrids between an ancient species called Dawam and
Homo sapiens. That had been a shocker.
But
himself? He was wholly human,
unlike most of the people here who might look that way. He wasn’t sure
just how he would be greeted, even though everyone on Mars had been kind to
him. All he had to do was open his mouth to speak and his terribly accented Dawimhlar would instantly give him away as being from
Earth.
While he was lost in his
thoughts Patterson had gathered up his bag and was standing patiently in the hatchway
waiting for him to return to reality. He couldn’t help the slight blush that
crept onto his cheeks.
“Sorry, Pat. I was
wool-gathering.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Morton.
I’ve been doing some of that myself.” He paused for a brief moment, then added, “Even though I’ve been here before and know a
lot of my relatives, I grew up on Earth. I’m going to miss it and all my
friends there - especially on the boat.”
Chip could only nod as they
headed down the passageway to the shuttle bay.
Morton looked out the window
of the descending shuttle at the approaching planet. As the arc of the horizon
grew larger, the shuttle rotated to an angle that began to obscure his view of
the planet below. Tongues of superheated gas began to glow along the leading
edges of the ship’s stubby wings, evidence that they were now entering the
upper fringes of the atmosphere. As the air thickened the glow brightened,
blotting out the exterior view entirely; turbulence made the rapidly descending
ship begin to buck slightly. This was something Patterson had warned him about, otherwise this fiery reentry into the Lar’s atmosphere would have been far more alarming than it
already was. It was certainly unlike the shuttles the Dawimhlar
used to travel between their military starships and planetary surfaces. Those
had the ability to descend even at high speed without a meteor-like trail
blazing across the sky. When he’d asked why the difference, Patterson had told
him that most civilian shuttles had different types of shielding and propulsion
that weren’t nearly so voracious in their energy
consumption as their military grade stealth counterparts. Nor were they as
technically complicated, which made them more reliable
and decreased both the amount and cost of maintenance - factors which made both
pilots and owners happy.
Morton snorted to himself as
he felt the ship shedding speed as it plunged deeper into the atmosphere. The
idea of reliability made him happy, too. A serious malfunction at this
altitude and speed would leave nothing of the shuttle and passengers but a
fiery smear across the sky. The buffeting increased for a few seconds, then
eased off; he suddenly realized that the intense glow outside was starting to
abate as well. As he returned his attention to the outside, he realized that he
could now discern the color of the sky.
It looked so much like
Earth’s familiar blue that he felt the terrible weight of being an exile settle in his very soul. Oh, how he wanted at that
moment to be able to go home.
There was a whine from
beneath the shuttle that he recognized as the landing gear doors opening,
followed by the roar of turbulence as the wheels dropped into the slipstream,
slowing the descending craft still further. As the ship made a final banking
turn and lined up on the runway, the intercom clicked on and the pilot came on
to give the standard speech welcoming the passengers, giving local time and
temperature and reminding them to have their baggage claim tickets ready.
Morton had to smother a small laugh. Here he was, almost nineteen light-years
from home, yet except for the different language, he could have been flying
into any airport on earth.
The more things change,
the more they stay the same. He’d
seen that principle demonstrated before, but this had to be a classic example. The
Admiral would appreciate the irony, was his next thought, and so would
Lee.
The screech of tires on
pavement brought him back to the present. The shuttle rolled out just like any
earth-built aircraft, then turned off onto a taxiway and trundled to the
terminal building. Wheels, it transpired, were vastly more energy efficient
than trying to float something about on energy fields. So much for science
fiction, it seemed. And the Dawimhlar, he’d noted,
much preferred doing things the most energy thrifty way possible that would
still achieve whatever their goal in a specific situation was.
He and Patterson gathered up
their bags and exited through the jet-way. Even here, the similarities
abounded. Passengers were sitting at the gate area, waiting for their shuttle
flights with the same stolid patience of air travelers back on earth. The
glaring difference here was that the majority of them were Dawimhlar;
the rest were clearly aliens. He had to fight the urge to stare at some of the
more exotic looking individuals.
A tug at his elbow brought
him back to the business at hand. Patterson was pointing towards a small
tractor looking vehicle with a string of small open passenger cars. “If we’re
going to catch the train we need to get aboard the tram, sir.”
Morton nodded and followed as
Pat hurried ahead to get them seats. They’d barely settled when the tram pulled
out and turned into a tunnel dedicated solely to such vehicles. It soon became
apparent why; the train station was separate from the spaceport. What was a
fifteen minute ride on the tram would have taken them at least an hour - or
more - to walk.
The tram exited the tunnel
and braked to a halt under the overhang in front of a long stone building with
a façade that looked so much like something out of the Victorian era that
Morton couldn’t help staring. He’d noticed on Mars that the buildings had that
same sort of half odd familiarity to them, but he’d simply passed that off as
his imagination. The pattern here, while not exactly the same, still had a
feeling of something almost but not quite recognized. Patterson, however,
seemed not to notice, and was leading the way inside.
Once through the ornate
bronze and stained glass exterior doors, Morton found himself in a large dome
shaped lobby. He simply had to stop and stare. He’d once been through the New
York City Hall 1904 era subway station when he‘d been on leave from Annapolis
with Lee. The mezzanine level had been similar to this, right down to having an
ornate round stained glass skylight in the top of the dome that filtered
sunlight through in hues of blue and green. The main difference was that the
skylight in New York was simply patterns in colored glass and here they were
actual scenes. Oceanic scenes to be precise. Kelp and
brightly colored fish seemed to be the predominate subjects. The color scheme
of the intricately tiled walls here ran to many shades of light green and
blue-green with a variety of browns, unlike the New York station, which was
somewhat less colorful, being mostly creams and browns. The large arched
passage to the platform was opposite the ornate entrance, so when Patterson
moved on after purchasing their tickets, he hastily followed. Once through the
short passage, he found a gently curved platform beside the tracks, a neon
orange stripe marking the outer edge, while the domed walls and ceiling were
geometrically tiled in the same shades as the lobby. More expanses of stained
glass were set in the wonderfully ornate ceiling. The biggest difference
between the New York station and here was that this entire station was at
ground level and the tunnel on either end clearly led outside instead of
underground into more tunnels. Well, that and the fact that there were far
fewer people crowding the platform than there would have been in New York.
And the people! The forty or
so individuals on the platform were almost all Dawimhlar,
in a dizzying assortment of skin and hair colors; there probably weren’t more
than half dozen people in the whole crowd who were obviously alien. He could
only shake his head in amazement. The Dawimhlar on
Mars had appeared less variegated in appearance, so he hadn‘t been aware that
the species came in a far wider array of skin hues - not to mention varying
amounts of hair and hair color - than humans. That was assuming all the shades
he was seeing were in fact natural. He couldn’t tell and didn’t know enough
about the culture to say if such things were possible or were permissible even
if they were possible. He‘d also thought the Martian
Dawimhlar colorful in their dress, though it had all
been in two main styles. The reason for that, he’d been told, was because
almost everyone wore a skinsuit when not inside a
structure that could be sealed in the event of a pressure breach in the
artificial environment of the cities. As a result people mostly wore loose
coveralls or robes that fitted over their skinsuits.
Rather similar to what they wore on board their ships, now that he thought
about it. But here… here they were in a planetary environment without that
particular consideration and the results were …. eclectic. They were also anything but
Victorian in style, which made for a bizarre juxtaposition between the
architecture and the fashion. He took note of a gaggle of Dawimhlar
in what could be taken for Greco-Roman togas and gowns had they not been in a
brilliant rainbow of silken hues. There was one individual dressed in what for all the world looked like bright blue and orange feathers,
while two more had opted for a similar style in glossy black. Many wore
kilts in varying colors that ranged from solids to intricate multicolored
patterns; there was even one older female in what looked for all
the world like motorcycle leathers. Some of the rest were in what were
obviously shipsuits or other work clothes. Others
were in styles he’d never seen and simply had no words to describe. They made him and Pat look
downright drab. No wonder Scathach had insisted they
go shopping in Bahleh. Which
reminded him… “Pat,” he asked, “when is the
train due?” Patterson glanced over at the
wall at what Morton belatedly realized was a clock. It didn’t look like any
clock he’d ever seen before - there were too many of what he guessed must be
numbers and many of the bronze gears seemed to be on the outside rather than
hidden within. He had no clue as to how to read it, though Pat clearly was
having no problem. “Should be any minute now,
Mr. Morton.” Even as Patterson was
speaking, Morton realized that he could hear an odd keening sound - and it
seemed to be coming from the rails. Before he could mention the sound to Pat,
however, he heard another - and it was something that he hadn’t heard since his
childhood in Chicago. The sound of a steam train whistle.
And with it came a huffing, chuffing, hissing, clanging, clacking that was
unlike anything he’d ever heard except a steam locomotive. But surely
that wasn’t possible. He turned and stared in
disbelief down the tracks toward the source of the sound. To his utter
amazement, a steam locomotive, it’s two bright front lights one over the other
illuminating the tunnel like twin suns, was indeed
huffing and rumbling into the short tunnel leading into the station, bronze
bell clanging. His eyes grew wide as he beheld the silver trimmed black
behemoth pull slowly past the platform, showing two wheels on the side of the
leading truck facing him, then four huge silver rimmed driving wheels at least
two feet taller than he was, followed by a trailing truck with two more sets of
small wheels under the cab itself. All the shining silvery side rods and valve
gear attached to the big driving wheels wove a slow hypnotic pattern as the
locomotive lumbered past him at a slow creep. White steam eddied from between
the wheels and out of a short smokestack on the top, drifting across the
platform as the train finally chuffed and squealed to a halt. His jaw dropped as he gazed
up at the apparition in front of him. For a brief moment his mind seemed frozen
in incomprehension. This had to be the widest and tallest damn locomotive he’d
ever seen - of any kind. No wonder the track rails looked so much
farther apart and heavier than anything on Earth. They had to be to support the
weight of this enormous brute of a train. Some incongruity brought him
back to reality and he found himself looking closer at the locomotive. There
was something not quite right about it, totally aside from the fact that this
iron horse was obviously not of any Earth design or manufacture. Was it the
configuration of the wheels? He thought hard to remember back to his childhood
and the retired neighbor who had been an engineer on the old steam trains.
Manny had used to regale him with stories of life on the rails for hours on
end. If he remembered correctly, this would be a four-eight-four configuration.
Four guide wheels, eight drivers, four trailing
wheels. No, not unusual, particularly for steam engines built after 1900. Then
it hit him. There was no coal tender, no wood stacked behind the engine, no
obvious source of fuel for combustion. And the smell.
There was no odor of smoke coming from the engine, only the smell of
steam and hot metal. He also could detect no reek of diesel or other
hydrocarbons. He found himself looking at the ceiling. There were no soot
stains on it. What then, were they using to power this monstrous machine? And
to keep the moving parts lubricated? “Mr. Morton?” The sound of
Patterson’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “They’re boarding now. We need to
go find our seats.” Almost by reflex he followed,
his mind still turning over the puzzle of what made this particular train go.
Could it be some sort of nuclear power? Fusion? If so,
why the archaic looking style of the engine? Why steam and not electric?
Was the steam simply an effect for the tourists? He looked around at the other
passengers. None of them seemed to be paying much attention to the train
itself, though now that he was inside, the passenger cars were worthy of a
second look all by themselves. The archaic style was continued in the interior,
with plush seating in small booths with tables rather than rows of benches.
Each booth had its own window and an isle curtain that could be drawn for
privacy. He gave his head a small
shake. No one that he could see was acting like a tourist. Rather, their
behavior seemed to be more that of regular commuters. But
then, why so few passenger cars? He’d noted as they were boarding that
there were only four in matching black and silver. The whistle blew twice,
short bursts that echoed oddly within the station. He glanced
a question at Patterson. “Five
minute warning. Anybody
going needs to get aboard now.” “That wasn’t a very long stop
for a passenger train.” Morton wasn’t really complaining, since they were after
all, already aboard, but it did seem odd to him. “And just what powers this
train? Is it electric? I didn’t see anything that looked or smelled like fuel.” “On your last question, sir,
it’s got a hydrogen fusion mag bottle to heat the steam. As to why they don’t
use it to make electricity - well, Seaview’s reactor makes steam to power
the turbines too. Besides, we just like the look and sound of a steam
locomotive,” responded Patterson as he stowed their bags in the overhead bins
above their seats. “And it wasn’t a long stop because it’s not primarily a
passenger train,” “What? It only has passenger
cars hooked up. I looked.” Hydrogen fusion! Well, he supposed if you had it,
you could use the tech any way you wanted to. “We’ll pick up the freight
cars on the way out. This is a heavy cargo run. If we’d wanted a passenger
train, we’d have had to wait for another four hours. And share with non-Dawimhlar tourists. Scathach
wanted us to avoid them as much as possible.” At Morton’s surprised expression,
Pat added, “If you‘ll come in and sit, I‘ll explain.” Morton stared at him for a
brief moment, uncertainty showing on his face, but then did as requested. Pat
pulled the curtain closed behind them, then sat in the bench on the opposite
side of the table. He looked somber as he began to speak. “It’s about what’s happening
with the US government right now and Admiral Tobin and company’s frantic search
for Seaview. The Dawimhlar government has
evidence they are being influenced by some of our enemies - and the attitude
that has resulted in certain quarters is making a lot of people on other worlds
very nervous that history may be trying to repeat itself.” He paused, looking
rueful. “The problem is, about three hundred earth years ago, a species who
called themselves Molhar - The Chosen - decided that
all the other sentient species in the universe had been created by devils and
that it was their ordained mission from their gods to exterminate them all.
Needless to say,” Pat told him in a dry tone, “the rest of the sentient races
disagreed with that belief. The Molhar refused to
compromise, even when the ships from thirty worlds stood poised above their
atmosphere ready to wipe them from the face of the universe. That planet is
still a smoking glow-in-the-dark slag pile to this day.” Morton could only shake his
head at both the waste and stupidity, but inside the seed of worry had been
planted that earth’s future was less than secure. There were other groups
beside Tobin and his lot that had a very similar mindset, who were vying for
power in not only the US but other countries as well. Something of his thoughts
must have shown on his face. Patterson had no trouble telling the direction his
thoughts were tending. “One of the reasons the Dawimhlar keep a continued interest and presence on earth
is to try and prevent something like that from happening to Earth. And to keep our enemies from finally destroying humanity out of
spite if they fail to provoke someone else to do it first.” “So the Dawimhlar
have meddled.” Morton wasn’t sure if he was glad they did or was peeved that
they considered humanity so immature. But then, he reflected, humanity did
frequently act like spoiled brats - or worse. Shrugging, Pat informed him
in a matter-of-fact tone, “If we hadn’t, it is likely that Earth would have
already been destroyed. After the war with the Molhar,
the other local races have been understandably paranoid about any culture that
sees itself as superior to all others. If the Axis powers had won World War II
and moved ahead with a space program, they were prepared to move against you.
Ordinarily, by interstellar treaty we would have been helpless to intervene,
but we’re originally from earth and we‘ve maintained a presence both there and
on Mars all this time. It’s that loophole that allows us to stand between
humans and the rest of the universe.” Morton swallowed hard. It had
never occurred to him that Earth had already skirted that close to
annihilation. “So why do you bother?” He genuinely wanted to know. Patterson rubbed thoughtfully
at the side of his face. “There are many reasons. But I suppose the fact that
the Dawimhlar are actually a hybrid species - part
human, part Dawam - plays a large role in it. We
could not have returned to the land as quickly as we did without infusions of
human blood back fifteen thousand years ago.” “That’s never stopped humans
from killing off their own kin, let alone their own kind,” Morton pointed out. “It has to do with the first
interaction between humans and Dawam. Despite being
hominids in the same genus as your own species, Dawam
were truly marine mammals, living a lifestyle very similar to sea otters,”
Patterson told him. “We had lost the use of fire and even much of our
tool-making skills. You know about the K’uk - it was,
you might say, the end of our species’ innocence. Our ancestors realized that
they were vulnerable to tool-using species and began to view humanity with
alarm. But the Goddesses led one of the Dawam shamans
to a trio of sisters and their children who were of a northern tribe - and who
had been unjustly outcast by their shaman. In exchange for refuge, they
offered to trade the knowledge of those lost skills, their only condition being
that we never use our knowledge against men except in self-defense. We’ve kept
that pledge.” Morton eye’s widened. “So
that’s why you’ve never returned to Earth as conquerors!” “Yes. And it was through
them,” Pat added, “that our ancestors discovered that our two peoples could
interbreed. Their blood runs in all of us who are Dawimhlar.
That includes the vast majority of those of us who look human. Anybody whose ancestors
have been here for more than three generations tends to be of mixed blood. Including me. And because of that blood tie - and the debt
of honor - we have stood as protectors for Earth while allowing humans to find
their own path to the stars.” “And the
aliens?” “Scathach
prefers that no one get wind of just how precarious relations between Lar and Earth are right now.” Morton thought about it, then slowly nodded. “You think some of them are spies.” “We know some of them
are spies,” corrected Patterson emphatically. “And there many
of them who are afraid of humans - and us.” “The Dawimhlar? Why
would they be afraid of you?” Pat steepled his fingers contemplatively. “You saw the Pumpkin Ceremony?” At Morton’s puzzled
nod, he asked, “How many human cultures have survived being overrun by other
civilizations with even less disparity in technology? Survived and
pushed ahead with their own development?” Morton considered for a long
moment the bloody history of human conquest, especially in the last few
centuries by the Europeans, before finally admitting, “None that I know of.” “That is even more true of first contact with between alien species. Stone
age cultures, particularly when their first experience
with otherworlders is violent, where they are
regarded as merely animals to be slaughtered, never survive intact -
except for the Dawam. When they
deliberately set out to reverse evolution by interbreeding with another related
species - that was also something unheard of. The pace of our subsequent
technological development was even more unfeasible - yet we did it. We went
from stone age barbarians to building starships
in just over two thousand years. We are an anomaly. That scares the shit
out of them all, Mr. Morton, because we continually do things they think have
to be impossible. And we frequently do them in ways they find baffling and even
unsettling.” “Do you think they’d try to
kidnap me?” He was starting to feel a bit paranoid again. Patterson reflected for a
moment on the question. “Most of them probably wouldn’t do anything other than
try to gain information from you,” he finally said. “They’d rightly fear the
consequences of anything else. After all, Scathach,
who will be Empress, carries a scar she got defending you. It would, by
our customs, be an act of war. But she’d rather not lead any of them into
temptation, so we’re going to keep you out of the places tourists go and dress
you like one of us. And,” he admitted in a wry tone, “not all space-faring
races are sane by our standards.” “I guess I’m going to have to
work on my language skills,” Morton grumbled good-naturedly, hiding the gnawing
worm of fear, and bringing a smile to Patterson’s face. “It couldn’t hurt,” Patterson
replied. “And it would help if you let your hair and beard
grow.” The train whistled again,
this time a long warbling blast, breaking into their conversation. The
cessation of sound was followed immediately by the jerking of the car as the
train lumbered into motion. It brought Morton to another question he’d forgotten
to ask earlier. “How long is this trip to Bahleh, Pat?” “About five hours. We’re
about two hundred miles from the edge of the city and the train terminal.” Morton blinked in surprise.
“That seems a bit far to put your main spaceport from your capital city.” “It’s a safety issue,”
Patterson told him with a grim note. “If you think an airplane crashing in a
city makes a mess, wait until you’ve seen the results of a shuttle - or worse -
a starship crashing into one.” “But Tholus
and the Martian cities have spaceports inside the main caverns.” “They also don’t allow
anything bigger than a small cargo shuttle or a very small starship-
like Daig’ar’s ex-courier boat - to land inside - and
their airspace is tightly controlled. If it looks like a ship is going to come
in and crash - they’ll close the main shields. That will destroy the
ship in question, but it does protect the city. So you’d better have it under
control - and keep it that way. Martian cities are a lot like submarines and
spaceships, Mr. Morton - hull integrity is everything. Explosive decompression
is not a pretty way to die.” There was that, he had to
admit. Though the fact that nearly everyone who lived on Mars
wore a skinsuit as a matter of course should have
made that obvious. But that also answered the question of why the total
population on Mars numbered less than a three hundred thousand. It was actually
a pretty dangerous place to live, despite the fact it had been inhabited for
thirteen thousand years. Another thought occurred to
him. “Pat, what do the Dawimhlar call Mars? I don‘t recall anybody ever mentioning
it.” Pat’s answer came with a
laugh. “Darsooma.” Morton stared at him in
disbelief. “Isn’t that sort of similar to what…” “Edgar Rice Burroughs called
Mars in his novels? He knew about us, Mr. Morton. That’s where he got the name.
He just changed it some. And many of the aliens in his books are based on real
people too. They just never lived anywhere in Earth‘s solar system.” “And what do you call Earth?”
Morton wanted to know. “Lah’Teh.
Literally Sea-Earth. We are marine mammals after all.” The train rattled and
squealed to another halt. Morton’s curiosity got the better of him; he slid
over next to the window and peered out to see if he could see anything since Pat
had told him this was primarily a freight train. They were obviously in a
train switching yard. He could hear the bangs and clatter of railcars being
moved and see huge boxcars, flatcars and tank cars sitting on adjacent tracks,
but couldn’t really see what was happening to their own train. He turned back
in obvious disappointment, but Patterson grinned at him and tapped the edge of
the table between them. To Morton’s surprise, the table top lit up; the screen
was filled with a host of icons. Patterson studied them for a brief moment, then tapped one. The screen shifted to show an overhead view
of what looked to be the train they were on. A pair of
small squarish looking locomotives were busily shuffling a variety of flatcars loaded with
what appeared to be huge coils and ingots of metal - mostly steel and copper
from the color - into short strings, then bringing them up behind the passenger
cars. There didn’t seem to be but a handful of boxcars and tank cars in the
mix. There was however, what looked like a string of railcars at least two
miles long being strung together. That was a lot of
tonnage. He wasn’t sure even a locomotive as big as the monster leading this
train was going to be able to pull that much weight. It soon became apparent that
the Dawimhlar didn’t expect it to. Three more of the
massive locomotives were moving into position, one in front to help pull and
two behind to push. He looked dubiously at the arrangement; on Earth a train
with multiple engines in front and one or more trailing was usually reserved
for mountainous terrain. Just what lay between the spaceport and Bahleh? Or was it simply a question of weight? With a final bang, the last
of the cars was connected. As he watched on the screen, the big driver wheels
on all four locomotives spun, gaining traction; with a final lurch the train
began inching forward. This amount of mass wasn’t something that was going to
be persuaded to accelerate very quickly - it would take a while to build
momentum. He sincerely hoped the Dawimhlar had the
railway right of way protected against the larger herbivores like mammoths,
because a collision with something having this much mass would be… messy… to
put it mildly. Once out of the switchyard,
the train was on an open, flat plain that stretched to the horizons, covered by
tall grasses in a thousand shades of green and a profusion of early summer
wildflowers in a rainbow of colors, all bathed in the golden light of a late
planetary afternoon. Which was all wrong according to his
internal clock, which insisted it was just after lunch - and that he was
hungry. Morton looked down at the tabletop. “Can we get a map of where
we are and the terrain around us, Pat? And something to eat?” “Sure.” Patterson touched the
screen; icons appeared. He touched one and the view pulled back to give a
bird’s eye view that showed their entire route, with an overlay of the rail
route and other notable features. It was apparent from the map
that the spaceport was set in the center of a high plateau on a broad peninsula
jutting from the southern edge of the continent, looking rather like a mirror
image of the southern tip of South America had been grafted on to a large land
mass shaped vaguely like Australia. The high mountains were on the eastern edge
of the continent, while the plateau dropped off in the west to… Morton did a
double take. The city of Bahleh sat on a large
mountainous island in the center of what looked to be two ring shaped ridges
which were completely separated by water from each other. Two more ridges on
the east side formed half rings with cultivated valleys between; the western
half of the entire odd geological formation extended offshore into the ocean so
that on the west side all four of the ridges formed arcs of islands. The whole
thing had to be almost two hundred miles in diameter. The end of the track they
were on looked like it extended all the way to the inner ridge, but not the
central island. He lifted startled eyes to Patterson, who cocked his head in
question. “What is that?” asked
Morton in disbelief, pointing at the map. Patterson blinked in surprise
and looked down where Morton was pointing. “Ah, actually, Mr. Morton, that’s
the crater the asteroid left fourteen thousand years ago. The one that
wiped out ninety-nine percent of the native life forms on Lar.
It was just a bit bigger than the one that nailed earth at the end of the
Cretaceous and took out the dinosaurs.” Morton’s mouth fell open. “An
asteroid killed off the dinosaurs?” This was news to him. As far as he
was aware, prevailing theory was that the breakup of Pangaea, combined with
realignment, volcanic eruptions and mountain building creating massive climate
change had done for the dinosaurs. No one had ever mentioned asteroids to him! “Well, they were already in
decline, but, yeah, that seems to have been the final blow.” “Where’s that crater?”
This was something he ought to mention to Admiral Nelson the next time he got
to speak to him. “Partly in
the Yucatan and partly in the Gulf of Mexico, Mr. Morton. It’s pretty well buried now - after all, that one was
sixty-five million years ago.” “But what formed the island
in the center of this crater? Is that a volcano? And why the
ridges?” “Rebound dome. In a big
impact like that, the center of the crater springs back up and
makes an elevated dome that can be higher than the rim. The ridges are
actually ripples formed in the surface of the crust by the sheer force of the
impact. They chose that site for the city because there was a lot of geothermal
heat from the impact still available for energy production and because the area
was so messed up there was no putting it back the way it had been, even with
the tech we have now, let alone what we had then.” He shrugged. “So it didn’t
much matter what they did to it.” Morton could only shake his
head in amazement, but as he did his stomach growled, prompting a grin from
Patterson. “Let’s see what’s on the menu.” Patterson touched the tabletop
again, pulling up a smaller screen inside the larger one. This was in the Dawimhlar cuneiform script, so Morton was dependent on
Patterson to translate for him. “Well, it looks like fish or
roast se’apall sandwiches. Choice
of toppings and condiments. Juice, tea, ice water or a cultured fruit
flavored milk product called ke’fir. That’s kind of
like a thin yogurt.” “You eat se’apall?”
Morton was aghast. They looked so much like horses that the American cultural
taboo against horsemeat had reared its head. “We don’t have cattle, Mr.
Morton. They weren’t domesticated until after the Dawimhlar
had left earth. Things were pretty hardscrabble in our early history - we ate
what we had. Besides, is there really any point in raising a dozen different
types of animals when just a few species can provide everything you need? We
get a type of wool, meat, milk and leather from se’apall.
Plus transportation. They’re hardier than cows too,
especially in Lar’s environment. Bison and aurochs
are about the only bovines that actually thrive here - but nobody has
undertaken to truly domesticate them. They’re dangerous animals to work with.”
He shrugged. “And yaks were from the mountains, so we never interacted much
with them back on Earth - and humans didn’t domesticate them until long after
we’d left either.” “What kind of fish then?” No
matter what Patterson said, he wasn’t hungry enough for horse - or anything
that looked like one. Patterson perused the menu. “Salmon, cod, tuna or mackerel.” “Real Earth type salmon? Actual cod?” That was more like it. “Yes to both. Raw, fried,
baked or grilled.” “A fried breaded cod sandwich
sounds good. Tartar sauce? Lettuce?
Tomatoes?” “All can be had.” “The tea -
real tea?” “Yep. Imported from India. Black, green or white, hot or iced.” “That’s it then. Cod sandwich and a cup of hot black tea. Got sugar?” “Sure. We have a variety of
cold adapted sugar cane, so consider it done, Mr. Morton.” Patterson pressed icons on
the screen, then closed out the small screen. “Lunch
will be here in a minute.” Morton sat back, somewhat
bemused, his mind still buzzing with new information while he waited on his
food. There was a lot to consider - fusion powered steam engines, aliens and
politics, terraformed planets, extinction level
asteroid impacts. His universe had gotten a lot more complicated than he’d ever
dreamed it could be. DR3
Night had fallen as Morton
had sat peering out the window, entranced by the glimpses of wildlife on the
vast high plain around them. Mammoth, mastodon, some kind of huge bison,
smallish tan and black horses with stiff manes and sparse tails, dire wolves,
saber-toothed cats, American lions that were different from the African variety
he was familiar with and a huge short faced bear. He’d caught fleeting glimpses
of a multitude of smaller creatures, some of which looked familiar, but many more
that didn’t. There was more than one biologist - or paleontologist - who would
kill to be sitting where he was just now. He stifled a yawn. Despite
the fact that by California time it was only midafternoon, he was already
tired. Given the fourteen hour flight from Mars, during which he had slept
little, it had been a long day that started too early. He pressed his face
against the window and could just barely see the crescent new moon hanging
slightly above the ridgeline on the western horizon ahead of the train, the
last traces of orange and purple swiftly fading into the cloak of night. The
glimmering ring system that arced across the night sky glimmered with soft
brilliance that made the moon a mere afterthought - even with part of the ring
in planetary shadow. Not nearly as large a ring system as Saturn‘s, but
impressive none the less. The smaller moons were mere dots compared to Urra Shepak, more of a scale to
the moons of Mars - but there were so many of them! This was a night sky that
said beyond any doubt ‘Not on Earth anymore’. A small dot moved against the
starry background. His eyes tracked it by reflex; he supposed it was another
shuttle coming in at the spaceport. He’d seen several in the two hours since
the train had pulled out of the station on its journey. The object in the sky
suddenly changed course. He frowned. Definitely a ship, but what was it doing? Feet pounded in the aisle and
the curtain to the booth jerked open. It was the Dawimhlar
in charge of the train, their version of a conductor. Before Morton could ask
what was going on, she had grabbed both him and Patterson and was shoving them
forward up the isle towards the front of the train. They passed six other
female Dawimhlar headed the opposite direction; they
were in what looked like the same type of battle armor that the Imperial
Marines aboard the Soese wore - and
armed to match. Morton suddenly had a very bad feeling about that dot in the
sky and a sinking feeling in his stomach. The conductor hadn‘t bothered to grab
anybody else out of their booths, just the two of them. A loud thunk
shivered through the train from behind them. Morton glanced back and suddenly
realized he could see light from the planetary ring arc through the window in
the passenger car door. The boxcar that had been next in line was rapidly
dropping back - and with it the entire string of freight cars and the two
trailing engines. The rest of the train seemed to suddenly leap forward in a
sudden burst of acceleration. It took him only a split
second to realize what had happened. They had dropped the bulk of the train’s
mass, leaving the two fusion powered steam locomotives at the head pulling only
the four passenger cars. It was obvious the engineers were pouring on power,
accelerating as fast as sixteen big driver wheels could turn. But could even a
fusion powered train outrun a spaceship? Somehow he didn’t think so. This could
only be a move to buy themselves time, since he rather doubted that the ship
coming in was a pirate after rolls of steel or copper. A brilliant flash and boom
outside made the interior lights flicker, then die. Missiles of some sort. Beside him he heard Patterson mutter
something about jammers, so he took it to mean the miss was deliberate. But if
they were some sort of device designed to take out the power systems, were the
fusion bottles in the locomotives going to die like the lights? The train seemed to find
another gear and accelerate even faster, so it would seem that the fusion
bottles and their control systems were protected against this kind of attack.
He wouldn’t have thought a mere freight train would be considered a target that
would warrant such a sophisticated level of defense, but he didn’t know much
about Dawimhlar history. But it also made the use of
steam to propel the train suddenly not so quaint. Steam and hydraulic systems
wouldn’t care about an electronic jammer. As long as there was a heat source,
the wheels would turn. He became aware that the
train was entering a cut in the rocks. The outermost ridge of the crater! The
map had shown a tunnel through it. That must be where the train was trying to
take refuge. Except the
train wasn’t slowing down. Morton
could see the walls of the cut whipping by at a frightening rate, shadows
dancing crazily in the reflections from chemical light sticks the train’s crew
had broken out as soon as the lights had died. He was sure at this point he
really didn’t want to know how fast the train was hurtling through the night,
because he was absolutely certain that if one could have attached wings to the
locomotives, they would fly. He was even more afraid that if they hit an
obstruction on the tracks at this speed, they’d try to launch themselves anyway
- and likely succeed - at least for a moment or two. The conductor pushed the two
of them into the front booth by the doorway. “Stay down,” she told them in
badly accented English before turning to head back to the rear of the car. Then
the train was in the tunnel proper and inky darkness closed in around them. But only
for an instant. Another brilliant
flash filled the opening just behind the car. The thunderous shock wave rushed
into the tunnel carrying huge shards of stone with it, exploding the rear door
inward, making the train bounce dangerously. Shrieks
of pain followed, along with a sudden rush of those passengers from the rear of
the car that could still get up and move. Morton looked over at Patterson in
shock. Had that been an attempt to take the train out or had they been trying
to block the tunnel before the train got there and simply mistimed it? Pat was looking towards the
rear of the car. Morton looked back and could see the conductor down in the
isle, trying to crawl forward. Without even thinking about it, he got up,
Patterson at his heels, and headed for the scene of the carnage. By the time
they were halfway there, the rest of the passengers had sorted themselves out
and the braver - or more duty conscious - who were not
badly injured were also moving back to help. Two of the six Dawimhlar Marines were down, critically injured. Several of
the passengers who’d been near the back of the car were clearly dead. Bile rose
in Morton’s throat, along with a feeling of guilt. From the conductor’s
actions, this had to be about him and Pat. But who had attacked them? And why? As the downed Marines’ colleagues were tending to
them, he and Patterson stopped by the conductor to see what they could do for
her. Pat murmured to her in Dawimhlar, bringing a
look of surprise to her face. Apparently someone had failed to mention to the
train’s crew that Patterson was Dawimhlar. Morton turned his attention
to her injuries. A large shard of steel had hit her in the leg, breaking the
left thighbone and leaving a deep gash. He looked around for something to use
as a compress and found one of the other passengers at his side. Patterson
asked a question and looked relieved at the answer. “She’s a doctor, Mr. Morton.” Patterson’s words relieved
Morton as well. He scooted back and stood, letting the doctor take his place
beside the conductor, then turned his attention back
to the rest of the passengers. They all seemed to have the situation well in
hand, which was something of a relief. He was definitely going to have to work
on his language skills - the need for a translator in a situation like this was
clearly a major handicap. Another thunk
reverberating through the train caught his attention, followed immediately by
the screech of brakes being applied. But it wasn’t an emergency stop like he
expected, though they were slowing, that was certain. What were the locomotive
drivers thinking? And what was the thunk? It was
identical to the sound the separating couplings had made when the freight cars
had been ditched, just farther away and in the opposite direction. Had the
engines abandoned the passenger cars? Surely not. He called the map to mind and
calculated their current position; if he recalled correctly, the tunnel was
about five miles long, with a much shorter cut on the considerably steeper
western face of the ridge; that led immediately to a bridge that spanned the
valley all the way to the next ridge. He’d had Patterson zoom in on it earlier
and discovered it was built in much same fashion as a Roman aqueduct with
massive stone arches rather than steel girders. It meant they would be exposed
to weapons fire from the attacking ship. He just hoped the spaceship crew’s
instructions didn’t include simply blowing the train away if they couldn’t get
it to stop. The front door of the car
opened, revealing two of the locomotive crew. Morton couldn’t help but blink in
surprise at seeing them here. Pat had told him that since the locomotives had a
fusion heart, the engineer was just that - an engineer. The driver was referred
to as the pilot. He thought he recognized the auburn haired Dawimhlar
pilot as being from the lead engine. He knew that on earth multiple locomotives
could be controlled from just one; he supposed that was true here as well. It
was possible, he reflected, that the conductor had ordered the crew of the lead
locomotive out for safety, since if the train did hit something on the track,
they would be the most at risk. Besides, if they were here, it meant the
passenger cars had not been abandoned. The pilot squatted down
beside the conductor, speaking softly. As they clasped hands, Morton realized
that both the pilot and engineer had tears streaking their faces and the
conductor was giving them a look of… sympathy? Beside him he heard Patterson’s
sudden intake of breath. “What’s happening, Pat?” he
whispered. “They cut the lead engine
loose, Mr. Morton, and sent it charging out on autopilot with all the safety
locks off. They think the attackers will try to land on the track at the other
end of the tunnel in anticipation of coming in after us, so they are going to
use the locomotive to try and blow the ship up - or at least put a scare into
them. Fighter ships are already on their way, along with the Imperial Marines.
The longer the train crew can keep them from coming in, the more likely they
are to give it up as a bad deal.” “Unless they decide to blow
us all up,” muttered Morton morosely. “Not likely,” stated
Patterson with conviction. “That really would be an act of war - and war with
us nobody sane wants. Not even mercenaries are willing to risk that. The last
bunch that tried didn‘t leave any survivors to regret their rashness.” That rocked Morton back on
his heels. Just when he was lulled into thinking that the Dawimhlar
weren’t all that different from humanity, that core of unyielding steel showed.
No wonder the other races had problems dealing with these people. There were
lines in their moral code that you simply did not cross without dire
consequences. He couldn’t help but shiver. The train continued to slow.
By now he thought, the freed locomotive should be almost to the other end of
the tunnel. Their attackers were going to be in for a surprise when it came
bolting out, but he didn’t see much hope for the plan to actually work. First,
they would have to be dumb enough to actually land on the tracks knowing
that those two big locomotives were coming… The world seemed to flash an
actinic white and bounce. There was the screech of metal on stone and the floor
underneath them tilted to one side - and stayed that way as the train ground to
a sudden halt, clearly derailed. Apparently, thought Morton to himself as he
lay in the isle half stunned, afterimages dancing in his eyes, somebody was
crazy enough to risk war with the Dawimhlar. His main
question now was what kind of weapon had been used and how much radiation he
and the rest had just been exposed to. He heard a groan that sounded like
Patterson from just beyond his head. Reaching out with his right hand, he felt
around and found one of the sleeves of Patterson’s shirt. “Pat, you okay?” he asked. “Mostly,” came the pained
reply, “but I landed on my wrist and I think it’s broke - again.” Morton had to suppress a
hysterical laugh, for Patterson’s words reminded him that this whole insane
episode had started just over a month ago with the crash of the Flying Sub on a
beach in Los Angeles County. He himself was barely healed from a gunshot wound
acquired after the crash, when would be hijackers attempted to steal FS1 and
kidnap him. Ever since then he’d felt like Alice after falling down the rabbit
hole, because his life just kept getting curiouser
and curiouser. A hand touched his leg; he
twitched out of reflex. “Subcommander,”
growled an unfamiliar voice, “are you injured?” Morton blinked to try and
clear his vision. He thought the blurry shape at his feet was one of the Dawimhlar Marines - and even now he wasn’t sure if they
were truly Marines or if they were railroad security. On the other hand, if
they were calling him by the Dawimhlar Navy
equivalent of his rank, then they likely were Imperial Marines. Which begged the question of just what an Imperial assault
team was doing on the train in the first place. Had they been expecting
trouble? Was that another reason why Patterson put the two of them on the
freight instead of waiting for a passenger train? To hold down casualties if it
turned out there was trouble? “I don’t think so. What did
they hit us with? And how much radiation did we get?” He braced for bad news. The Dawimhlar
dryly laughed. “They didn’t hit us with anything. The locomotive hit them.
Their ship had just set down on the track when the Hal Ota nailed it.
The flash was mag bottles collapsing.” “No shit?!” The words slipped out before Morton could stop them. “No shit, indeed. I am Subcommander Felik Dawam, by the way. As for radiation - the engine we still
have has shielding that stopped anything damaging from getting by.” “You people think of
everything,” murmured Morton, still half dazed. “We try,” grinned the subcommander, patting him on the leg. “What about your
companion? Patterson?” “Broke my wrist - again,”
answered Patterson with a groan. “Other than that, I’m just bounced around some
and bruised. How bad is the train wrecked?” “Ah.” It came out as a rueful
sigh. “Enough that the Shik’tah’yeh Ota and
many of the cars will probably have to be scrapped.” Now it was Morton’s turn to
sigh. “Do you know why they were after us?” he asked morosely. “No,” said Felik, “but it probably has to do with interstellar
politics.” She made a face. “Oh, great,” said Morton with
disgust. “As if the politics just on Earth wasn’t
enough.” That brought a laugh from the
Dawimhlar officer. “I will have to leave you now, Subcommander, but I will send someone to see to Patterson.
There are others I need to check on.” With those words, she rose and made her
way forward out of the car, heading towards the head of the train. “I hope the engine crew made
it,” came from Patterson. “I hope so too,” he replied.
He paused briefly. “Pat, what do those names she gave for the engines mean?” “Well, Hal Ota translates
closest to Western Flyer. The other one…” Patterson thought for a
minute. “In this context I’d translate it as Midnight Flyer.” “Context?” “Shik
can mean either dark or black, so shik’t can be
darkest or blackest, but ah’yeh means time, so
usually shik’tah’yeh literally means darkest time -
which means midnight.” He was definitely going
to have to work on his language skills. In the meantime… “Pat, I’m going forward to
see if there’s anything I can do.” “I’d go with you, Mr. Morton,
but I don’t think I’d be of much use to you.” They were interrupted by the
appearance of the doctor they’d met earlier. She spoke to Patterson; he
answered and held out his wrist for her to examine. She tsked
at him during his explanation, so Morton expected Pat had just informed her
that this was the second time he’d injured his wrist in just over a
month - and he figured she was about as happy with him as Jamieson would have
been - and she didn’t even know Pat. It must be a doctor thing,
was all he could figure. He climbed slowly to his feet, feeling bruised and battered, and made his way to the
door in the front of the car. With the right side of the train against the wall
of the tunnel, he had no option but to climb down on the left side. Chemical
light sticks were liberally stuck on the exterior surfaces of the passenger
cars, so he had plenty of illumination to see by. It looked like most of the
passengers who weren’t injured were walking down the tracks towards the
locomotive. Curious, he followed, but soon realized that their destination
wasn’t the locomotive itself, but the tunnel opening on the west side of the
ridge. He supposed it probably was closer than the east end, which was almost
certainly collapsed from the missile hit anyway. However, given the explosion
that had derailed the train, he had to wonder what kind of shape the west
entrance was in. It might well be collapsed too. He kept walking, relieved to
see as he passed the wrecked locomotive that the crew had climbed down from the
cab. Like himself, they moved somewhat stiffly,
obviously battered from the derailment, but clearly not seriously injured. They
were surveying the damage to their locomotive with unhappy faces, so he could
only surmise that Subcommander Dawam’s
judgment that the engine was too badly damaged to be repaired was probably
correct. It was unfortunate about the train, but he couldn’t help the sigh of
relief that the crew was alive and well; that anyone had been killed at all
weighed on him. It was perhaps half a mile to
the entrance. Before they’d gotten more than halfway there, lights appeared
ahead, revealing that this entrance was indeed partially collapsed. Voices
called out in Dawimhlar; from the excited babble of
relief from those around him, it was obvious that these were the Imperial Marines
he’d been told were on the way to rescue the survivors. Those who were the
least injured trotted ahead to greet the newcomers. Not all of them turned out to
be Marines. Morton did a double take at the familiar figure hurrying down the
track towards him. “Scathach?”
He’d last seen her on Mars less than a day earlier, something which already
seemed like a lifetime ago. He wondered how she had gotten here so quickly, but
decided that she had probably taken one of the Navy courier boats. They were
considerably faster than the passenger ship he and Pat had come on. “Chip!” The relief in Scathach’s
voice was obvious. “Are you injured?” “No, just rattled around
some. Pat broke his wrist, but there was a doctor on the train and she’s seeing
to him now.” Scathach came close and stopped, looking him over carefully.
“Are you certain?” she asked, worry evident in her voice. “Yes, I’m certain,” he said
with a wry smile. “But what are you doing here?” She looked at him with arched
eyebrows. “Where else would I be when the son of my heart is in danger?” Morton gave her a long,
searching look. She hadn’t called him that in public since he was a boy, that
summer so long ago when they’d first met. It was, Faileas had told him then, a term that among the Dawimhlar was something more than merely words. It was an
affirmation of family by choice. But now, with Scathach
having been nominated to be the next Empress, it took on whole news levels of
meaning. Interstellar politics indeed - and now he was left wondering if it
might just be the reason someone had dared to attack this train, here on
the Dawimhlar homeworld,
only a hundred miles from their Imperial capital city. Somebody was apparently
playing for very large stakes indeed - and he was merely a pawn in a greater
game, even if he wasn’t formally adopted. Or perhaps that was the why - he hadn’t
been formally adopted because he still had blood family on Earth who cared for
him - and it may well have been that the attackers had known that as well. Had Scathach adopted him all those years ago, he would be Dawimhlar in the eyes of Imperial law - and his abduction
or death a cause for war. But as a non-citizen… Or maybe the whole thing had
nothing to do with him at all. “Scathach,
why were there marines on the train? To protect me and Pat?
Or for some other reason?” he asked. She sighed. “Chip, I never
dreamed when I rescued you as a child that things would turn out this way. But
now… .” She spread her hands in a gesture of
resignation. “We got intelligence after you left Mars that hinted that someone
wanted to abduct you, but we did not have confirmation, nor have we been able
to determine with certainty who was behind the plot, though we do,” she noted
grimly, “have a pretty good idea of who they might be and why. We had hoped,”
she added grimly, “that by putting you on the freight and holding the passenger
train that it might gain us time to prevent anything from actually happening. Obviously that didn‘t work - although it did keep all the non-Dawimhlar tourists from being involved.” His own sigh echoed hers. At this point, he reflected, the
die was probably cast. No matter what she said or did, someone out there knew
that she cared deeply for him, and since she had no children of her own, he was
the surrogate son. It was, in some ways, he reflected, much like the
relationship between Admiral Nelson and Commander Crane - though it was
unlikely either of them would ever publicly admit it. “So where do we go from
here?” he asked “First,” she told him wryly,
“to see Empress Toshira…” There was that feeling of
falling down the rabbit hole again. DR$
Chip Morton sat at the
wrought iron table across from Scathach and the
Empress, ears and eyes wide open trying to absorb as much information about his
surroundings as possible. He was still having trouble believing that he was
really in the Imperial Complex, for it was nothing like he’d thought it would
be. Oh, it was opulent enough - but much of it consisted primarily of
government offices. The Empress’ private quarters were actually quite
modest and took up less space than Admiral Nelson’s own home on the Institute’s
grounds. It wasn’t how one would expect an Empress to live. In fact, some of
the quarters for visiting dignitaries were bigger than the Empress’ own and far
more luxuriously furnished. He knew this because he, Patterson and Scathach had spent what was left of the night in one of
those suites. He and Scathach were currently having
breakfast with the Empress and in her private garden while Patterson was being
tended to by the Imperial medical staff. The garden was just as
unpretentious as the Empress‘ residence, taking up no more space than a small
city lot - and a large part of it was an actual vegetable garden, for the
majority of the plants in it were edible, including those plants in the
inevitable water garden, though this one was salt water, not fresh. The corner
that was given over to ornamental plantings was actually quite minimal. A set
of dark stone steps led down to the stone paved patio where they were currently
seated; it was surrounded by a low wall made of the same dark stone. The stone
itself was metamorphic bluestone (whatever that was) from Earth. It wasn’t a
particularly expensive stone, they’d told him, but its presence here was symbolic,
since it came from the area of Earth the Dawimhlar
considered their original homeland. The one real extravagance was the dark
iridescent semiprecious gemstone circle at the top of the steps - and that had
been a gift from another government back when the Imperial Complex was being
built millennia ago. He couldn’t help but be entranced by the glimmering
rainbow of colors created by the play of the early morning light on the ring’s
polished surfaces. How many figures in Dawimhlar history had passed through that ring, he
wondered. How much history set in motion from where he sat right now? It
boggled the mind to contemplate. He found himself turning all
of his attention back to the conversation, for Empress Toshira
was describing the events and outcome of a meeting that Admiral Nelson, Lee
Crane, Faileas and Captain Hauer
had just had a few hours before with the US President, Gerald Ford. He wished he’d been there to
see Hauer clobber Tobin with his helmet. From the
look on Scathach’s face, it was obvious she’d have
liked to been there too. Morton had to shake his head at the realization of
just how up to date the Dawimhlar were on current
affairs back on Earth. Why, they knew more about who the political players were
than most government agencies on Earth did! The other part of the discussion
centered on just who might have been behind the kidnapping attempt.
Unfortunately, when the locomotive had bolted from the tunnel, the final
explosion had not actually been the result of mag bottles collapsing when the
ship and train collided - it had been the ship’s weapons impacting on the Hal
Ota’s deflector shields and exploding prematurely. It had also become
apparent upon close analysis that the second missile was intended to take the
train out after the jammers had failed to even slow it down, let alone stop it. The result was that there
were no survivors from the attacker’s ship, with little remaining to tell
exactly who they had been. In fact, there wasn’t much left of the ship, the
railway bridge or a sizable chunk of the cliff face. It would take weeks to
repair the damage. He considered himself and Pat fortunate the Dawimhlar routinely built shielding into their locomotives
to protect against any sort of accident - or attack - that might disrupt the
function of the fusion plants that powered them and also contain the steam in
the event of a boiler rupture. He’d been astounded to learn
that the leading suspects in the bold attack were the descendants of a separate
group of Dawimhlar who had split off from the
majority in an event called the Third Sundering right after they’d reached the
stars and discovered the K’uk Empire was a thousand
years dead. That group, who took the name Tin’t’da, had taken a very different social path. Where the Dawimhlar elected an Empress - or Emperor - the
other group had made it hereditary and had developed over time a hierarchy of
nobles that ruled over the lower classes. The entire society was rigidly
stratified, a practice the Dawimhlar found abhorrent.
They had also flirted with genetic engineering and the results of that
disaster had left the Tin’t’da physically changed to
the point that they no longer looked anything like Dawimhlar
or humans and were now unable to interbreed with either. Their gene pool had
become seriously inbred as a result. Compounding their problems was an
over-reliance on cloning; it turned out that DNA had a limit on how many times
it could be successfully cloned. The Tin’t’da were
approaching that limit, for less than half of their clones survived gestation -
and they lost another thirty percent before the first six months. That
translated into an overall survival rate of thirty-two percent - for the upper
classes. The survival rate in the lower classes was even more dismal. Consequently they had not
prospered over the last thirteen millennia to the extent they thought they
deserved; the Goddesses had also disowned them, even though they liked to
pretend otherwise. Their resentment of the Dawimhlar
had grown exponentially with the decrease in their own population - and they
hated humans almost as much as they did the Dawimhlar.
The Empress and her Intelligence services had long suspected them of being
responsible for more than one war on Earth - and this was the main reason
besides the more recent paranoia inspired by the Molhar
that the Dawimhlar maintained a presence on earth.
Chip could only shake his head in amazement at the convoluted twists and turns
to Earth’s history that he was discovering. “So what do these Tin’t’da look like,” he asked. If they had changed
themselves, he supposed they could now look like anything. “How familiar are you with
the UFO abduction reports from your world are you?” asked the Empress. A couple of weeks ago he
would have laughed at the question - today he didn’t so much as crack a smile.
He let his eyebrows rise before answering, knowing that before the Dawimhlar had re-entered his life he would have been loath
to admit that he even knew the answer to that question. “The most common
description seems to be of small grey creatures with big eyes….” “Those are the lower class Tin’t’da. The worker bees if you will. They are genderless
and can only reproduce by being cloned. The upper class Tin’t’da
do this to ensure their … servants… can never revolt. As for their nobility -
are you familiar with the myths of Europe involving the Fae
or Sidhe?” “They’re fairies?”
asked Morton in disbelief. “No.” Toshira
shook her head in negation. “They lied to your ancestors and tricked them into
believing that’s what they were. But what they were passing off as magic was in
fact technology. At that point we kicked them off the planet and forbade them
coming back.” She gave him a rueful smile. “Of course, they’ve been sneaking
back and causing trouble every chance they get.” “I’ll be damned,” said
Morton, his eyes going wide. He was going to ask another question, but the
appearance of a uniformed Imperial Marine at the head of the steps with an
armed squad flanking her brought all conversation to a halt. The Marine saluted, fist to
chest. Toshira nodded gravely and the officer
proceeded down the steps and across the small patio to where the three of them
were seated. She handed the Empress one of the communications tablets and
stepped back, coming to a parade rest. Toshira looked grimly at him and Scathach
before laying the device on the table and turning it on. A holographic sphere
blinked into existence; in the sphere was Captain Hauer.
Chip sucked in a breath, for the neatly pristine bridge that he’d last seen
aboard Soese had been replaced by one that
showed obvious signs of damage. There was a stitched gash across one side of
the Captain’s face, while his left hand was wrapped in bandages and supported
in a sling. He gave the Empress a grave nod and then straightened tiredly to attention. “My Empress,” came Hauer’s voice from the sphere, “The Tin’t’da
made the attack on Earth that we feared.” Morton went pale and was about to
rise from his chair when Hauer continued. “They were
successfully repelled without anyone on Earth being the wiser. Admiral Nelson
and Captain Crane are still at Admiral Holloway’s home and Seaview is
still safe in Tholus.” “Thank you, Captain,” said Toshira gravely. “Our losses?” Hauer grimaced. “Two of the older cruisers were lost with
all hands, while three had significant damage, with heavy casualties but were
able to limp back to Darsooma. The rest had only
moderate damage. All of the new ships came through with very little in the way
of harm. None of the attackers survived to flee. And Intelligence was correct -
the Tin’t’da have made an alliance with the Chuid.” Toshira closed her eyes and gave a deep sigh. “We are at war
then,” she stated bluntly. “Yes,
Empress.” Scathach looked at Toshira with a
wan smile, then as the Empress gave a slight nod, pulled the copper ring of the
heir from her right hand and laid it on the table. Hauer’s eyes followed the ring with a look of bewilderment
that was beginning to turn to alarm. “I offer my Empress my life,”
said Scathach in Dawimhlar,
“For I am unworthy of being Heir.” Morton could barely follow what she was
saying, for the form of the language she was using was both formal and archaic. “Worthy you are, for another
time,” said the Empress with equal formality, “so your life is yours to keep.
But for war, one needs to follow a warrior.” She and Scathach
both looked at Hauer, who was looking back at them
with his mouth hanging open. “You can’t mean it,” he
spluttered in Dawimhlar. “I do,” said Toshira. “Will you accept for the sake of the People? I
have neither the experience nor youth for what is to come.” “And I just plain don’t have
the experience,” added Scathach, “I am an able
administrator, but war is not something amenable to being … administered.” Hauer looked at them for a long moment before finally
nodding unhappily. “Then I shall invoke the War
Emergency Clause of the Constitution and call an immediate vote,” said Toshira, giving Hauer a sad sort
of smile. “If the people approve, I will abdicate immediately.” She touched
another icon on the tablet and stood, moving to position herself so that the
gleaming stone ring at the top of the steps down to the patio was behind her. “My people,” she said as she
looked into what must obviously be a camera in the device sitting on the table,
“We are at war. The Tin’t’da and their allies the Chuid attacked Earth a short time ago and were repelled. We
have taken casualties.” She bowed her head for a brief moment. “Because of my
advanced age, I feel unable to lead you. Scathach,
who was to follow me, rightly points out that she is an administrator, not a
warrior.” Morton could feel the entire Dawimhlar Amalgamation holding its collective breath. “I have therefore chosen
Captain Taharqa Hauer,
currently commanding the heavy cruiser Soese,
and senior commander of the Solar System, as Heir. How do you the people say?” A second sphere popped up.
What Chip now knew were Dawimhlar
numbers began filling the sphere, settling into two columns. He assumed that
one was aye and one was nay, but he hadn’t a clue as to which was which. It was a process that took
far less time than he would have thought. When the last number in each column
steadied, Toshira simply nodded and pronounced, “Taharqa Hauer, I name you Heir.”
She took off the heavy silver ring on her right hand and laid it on the table.
“I now lay down my burden. Emperor Taharqa, I give
you the Power of the Crown and the Sword, as written in the Constitution of the
Dawimhlar Amalgamation.” Hauer sighed. “I accept,” he said, “and I name Scathach as my heir. My people, does this meet with
your approval?” Scathach was looking at Hauer like
he’d lost his mind. He smiled wryly back at her.
“As you pointed out, you are an able administrator. Since I will be otherwise
occupied, much of the ordinary business of the Amalgamation would otherwise go
untended. Do you not agree?” Scathach sighed and nodded unhappily. “This is so, my
Emperor,” she admitted. “Then citizens, let the vote
for my Heir, begin.” The first two columns of
numbers cleared, to be replaced by another set. And as quickly as before, it
was done. Scathach shook her head, but picked the
copper ring up off the table and put it back on. Morton found himself looking
at them in amazement. In less than twenty minutes they had elected a new Heir,
had the Empress abdicate, crowned a new Emperor, then
elected another Heir. This would have taken months - if not years - for any
government he was familiar with back on Earth. “I shall have a courier boat
bring you the Imperial ring,” Toshira was saying when
a glow on the steps caused her to go silent and stare. As the glow brightened,
Chip began to discern a shape in it, a clearly female form with … two heads?
His breath caught, for this was the depiction of the Dawimhlar
Goddesses. But to his surprise, at least a dozen other forms were also taking
shape behind them. Who they were he hadn’t a clue. Apparently the Dawimhlar present found none of them unfamiliar, for they
had all bowed their heads with their hands together in obvious respect. Even Hauer, looking on from the view-sphere, had bowed his head
as well. “Our Children,” said two
voices in perfect harmony as the first female figure solidified halfway down
the steps. “It is a sad day that events have come to this, but choices long ago
made have finally borne their bitter fruit. We give our blessings to Emperor Taharqa.” The other glowing ethereal presences all nodded
their agreement, one by one repeating what the first had said. Then, just as
suddenly as they had appeared, the uncanny apparitions all faded, leaving behind
a profound and awed silence. “Well,” said Scathach after a very long moment, “That’s never
happened before.” Morton blinked at her in
surprise. “What do you mean?” he asked, still not quite sure that he’d just
seen what he thought he had. “Oh, that’s not to say there
isn’t a Blessing by the Goddesses and perhaps one or more of the lesser gods on
a new Empress or Emperor, but it’s usually in a private ceremony at one of the
temples and the only people who see it are those in actual attendance. But this,
all of them together, in public…” She trailed off and shook her head.
“We’ve long feared this day, when the Sundered Ones would come to us in battle,
determined to destroy us because they lost their way - and we didn’t.”
She paused for a moment before adding, “The Goddesses warned us long ago this
day would come, as have some of the other Gods that made the journey from Earth
to Lar and our other worlds, so we have been
preparing for it.” The new Emperor was looking
pale - and not just from his injuries. “What Scathach
isn’t telling you, Subcommander,” said Hauer in a tight voice from the view-sphere, “is that they did it for unification. You may have noted that
the Dawimhlar are still a strongly matriarchal
society because of the disparity in numbers between males and females. One
consequence of that is that in all of our fifteen thousand years of history we
have had less than a half-dozen Emperors - and none of them have been Emperor
during wartime. Disunity now would be disastrous for us as a people. I wasn’t
sure how Toshira planned for me to overcome that
biological bias, but…” He gave Morton a grim smile. “The Goddesses solved the
problem for you.” Morton blew out a breath as the enormity of the burden that
had been laid on the now former cruiser captain sank in. “Just how dire is the
situation anyway?” “If we lose this war, it will
be because there are no more Dawimhlar left to fight
it - and not only our worlds but Earth will be burned out cinders.” The blood drained from
Morton’s face. Toshira returned to the table and sat down, reaching out to
the com tablet. Morton realized that their entire conversation had just been
seen and heard by the whole of the Dawimhlar
Amalgamation. He looked at Scathach and Toshira and realized that it hadn’t been an accident; they
were pressing home the message their Gods had just delivered - stand together
behind the Emperor or perish. With the public transmission
terminated, Toshira turned to Morton and sighed. “I
am made to think,” she told him, “that there is no point in you continuing on
to Seethahn. You may now actually be safer on Earth
with Seaview than you would be with us.” “What about Admiral Nelson’s
enemies?” He couldn’t see them passing up the opportunity to snatch him for
information if they realized he had actually been to another planet. “Some of those enemies are in
league with the Tin’t’da - and now that we are
officially at war, will be dealt with,” Scathach told
him grimly. “And what
about Pat?” The two Dawimhlar
looked at each other. “That,” noted Toshira wryly,
“is his decision.” ********** Harriman Nelson was starting
to become concerned. It was now 9:00 AM on Saturday morning in Annapolis - and
his call to the Soese had gone unanswered for
over an hour. He hadn’t yet said anything to Admiral Holloway; thankfully the
Soviet Ambassador and Senator Cranston were no longer there, having finally
gone home shortly after midnight. Holloway had said he and Crane might as well
spend the night since he had more questions. Now, as they were eating a
late breakfast, Holloway was asking those questions, but it was obvious that
Nelson was distracted. Holloway put down his fork and looked sternly at him. “Harry, there’s something
wrong. Spill it.” Nelson squirmed and
hesitated, but finally with a sigh admitted, “Soese
isn’t answering my call.” “What?” Crane sat up and
looked concerned. “Is it night ship-time?”
asked Holloway. “I don’t think so,” said
Nelson. “It’s not just that Hauer isn’t answering -
it’s that nobody is answering.” The sudden chime of the
device in his pocket made them all jump. Nelson grabbed it in relief and
flipped open the cover. Hauer was there - and the
gash on the captain’s cheek and the wreckage of the Soese’s
bridge in the background left Nelson staring in silence with a shocked
expression on his face. Nelson’s reaction brought Crane and Holloway out of
their seats to come stare over his shoulder. Hauer gave them a wan smile as he rubbed at his bandaged
left arm. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you earlier, Admiral Nelson, but we were
having a bit of a … crisis.” “What the hell happened,
Captain?” demanded Holloway. “Our mutual enemies decide to
attack Earth, Admiral Holloway. None of them got through our perimeter, but…” Hauer trailed off and waved vaguely at the remnants of the
carnage around him. “Enemies? What enemies?” Nelson and Holloway both looked
baffled. “They call themselves Tin’t’da, but to our great sorrow, there was a time long
ago when they were part of our own people.” He shook his head. “They took a far
different path than the rest of us, experimenting with genetic engineering -
and it failed to produce the results they wished, but it did change them to the
point that they no longer look like us or you. We finally had to kick them out
of not merely our own society but out of the Solar System.” He stopped and
grimaced, rubbing his arm again before continuing. “That was almost twelve
thousand years ago. They’ve sneaked back in from time to time and caused
problems for both our people and yours - we suspect them of having started more
than one of your wars - and we have clashed with them ourselves on numerous
occasions.” Nelson shared shocked looks
with Holloway and Crane. “So what do they look like?” he asked. Hauer gave them an ironic smile. “How familiar with the UFO
reports of actual encounters are you?” Crane gave Hauer a look of horror. “They’re Grays? Are you
serious?” Holloway gave him a sharp look, clearly wondering how he knew the
answer to Hauer’s question. “I’m afraid so. The Grays are
only their lower class though. Genderless neuters who are created by cloning.
Their upper class is responsible for much of your legends of Sidhe, particularly Dark Court Sidhe.” “Then their magic…” began
Nelson. “Was
entirely technology.” Holloway shook his head. “Now
I’m wondering just how many species this world produced that we’ll have to deal
with.” “Ten,”
said Hauer, “Although there has been some
interbreeding over the millennia. Only the Tin’t’da, Haita and Yeti are so distinct genetically they cannot do so.” “Yeti? They’re real?” Nelson stared in disbelief. Ten? There were ten living
hominid species? And what the hell were they all? Holloway had apparently been
left speechless with this latest revelation. “So how many of them are we
going to have to be looking out for besides these Ti… Tin whatevers,”
growled Holloway finally. “None,” answered Hauer
tiredly. “All the rest, when they left Earth, left with us, and settled
on our worlds. Though they may not have Dawimhlar
blood, they are full citizens of the Amalgamation. You have no need to fear
them.” He paused. “There are other complications to this, however. The Tin’t’da also attacked Lar. Your
Lt. Commander Morton was caught in it but is not injured.” Crane had started to
rise but settled back into his chair. “Since we are now officially at war we
felt he might well be safer aboard Seaview than with us. As soon as he
arrives by courier boat from Lar, we will be
transporting your submarine home, Admiral. That will likely be later today.” “Is that all?” Nelson had
gotten to know the Dawimhlar captain well enough to
know that something was bugging him. “Ah well,” sighed
Hauer, “You might as well know it now. Because she
was planning on stepping down anyway, Empress Toshira
moved up the election for Heir using the War Emergency Clause of our
Constitution. Scathach, since she has no military
experience also resigned as Heir Apparent.” “So who is the new Empress?” “Emperor.” Hauer sighed deeply. “And
it’s me. It’s not something I ever expected or wanted. So the heavy
cruiser Mjollnir will
be bringing Seaview back to you. As soon as repairs are completed on Soese, I need to return to Lar.” “What’s the likelihood these
bastards will try again?” asked Holloway as Nelson struggled to absorb the fact
that they were speaking with the new Dawimhlar Emperor. “High,” admitted Hauer. “Since Mars is also a target, we will be keeping one
of our fleets here to defend both worlds. They will get to you only if they can
get past us. However, the more immediate business is where you wished Seaview
to be dropped off.” Nelson looked at Holloway,
who sighed. “Until we make sure that everybody has gotten the message,
she probably needs to be here on the East Coast.” He thought for a moment. “New
London, Harry?” Nelson nodded slowly.
“Captain…” He stopped and shook his head. “Emperor…” “Taharqa,”
said the former cruiser captain. “As Emperor, I no longer use my clan name,
only my own.” Nelson nodded again to him.
“Then Emperor Taharqa, if your people would be so
good as to drop Seaview east of Montauk Point, she can scoot into New
London before anybody knows she’s back.” “Might be best to wait for
nightfall,” pointed out Hauer. “So
that no one sees the shuttle.” Harry wondered to himself how long it
would take him to automatically think of Soese’s
captain as being Emperor Taharqa. “That’ll give us time to make
some preparations, Harry. Make sure nobody gets trigger happy,” noted Holloway. Nelson grunted assent.
“There’s sure to be somebody who’ll want make trouble
even then.” “And I will see to it that
they get clapped into the brig and rot there if need be,” said Holloway
tightly. “But that won’t do much for
people like Horton,” pointed out Nelson. Holloway’s lips settled into a grim
thin line. He started to speak but Hauer cut him off. “We are aware of this Horton
person - he is working with the Tin’t’da. Now that we
are officially at war, we will be doing something about that. He now has an
Imperial bounty on his head - dead or alive. I expect him to be too busy
looking out for his own hide to be much of a problem for you, Admiral,” noted Hauer with grim satisfaction. “And anybody caught with him…
well, one gets judged by the company they keep. With civilian casualties from
the unprovoked attack on Lar, we are in no mood to be
forgiving.” The two admirals looked at
each other wide-eyed. This could have interesting repercussions. They’d need to
keep a lookout for further developments. ********** Bobby O’Brien was feeling the
pressure of command. There had clearly been some sort of … crisis… among the Dawimhlar the
evening before, for they seen every small craft in Tholus
screaming out of the spaceport and the lock then close tight, not just the
energy shields, but actual physical doors on a scale so huge they were
almost unimaginable. The Harbormaster had also directed him to button up Seaview
and tether her tightly to the anchor buoys - and put her on the bottom. The
other boats and the entire city of Tholus had
appeared to button up as tightly as Seaview. It had seemed like an
eternity before anything moved again, though a look at the clock told him it
had only been about four hours. The great doors covering the spaceport aperture
had finally opened enough to let ships start landing; Bobby had watched in
horror through the periscope as every ambulance in the city streamed onto the
spaceport landing field to meet those ships. The high resolution optics in Seaview’s
periscope had let him zoom in to see injured people being loaded into the
waiting ambulances; it had also let him see the body-sized bags being offloaded
by grim faced Dawimhlar. The radio crackled; they were
shallow enough that Bobby had left the radio mast up. “Seaview, this is the
Harbormaster. Please surface and stand by to receive … Captain… Hauer aboard.” Bobby heaved a sigh of
relief. He’d meet Soese’s captain and knew he
was a straight shooter. If anybody could tell them what was going on, it was Hauer. But why the odd pause? He turned back to the
periscope and looked at the quay. It sure looked like Hauer
getting into a small boat - and he looked to have injuries. Bobby’s fingers
tightened on the periscope handles. Something had happened aboard
the Soese. Were they bringing him bad news? He
turned to the watch crew. “Surface the boat easy. We have company coming.” By the time the launch had
made it to where Seaview was moored, she had floated serenely to the
surface with little more than a ripple. Bobby climbed grimly up to the sail and
stepped out through the hatch to meet Hauer. “Your people are all fine,”
were his first words, bringing a huge sigh of relief from all of Seaview’s
personnel. “Admiral Nelson and Captain Crane are at Admiral Holloway’s house
and Morton and Patterson are at the Imperial Complex on Lar.” There were some looks shared
among the crew, for they knew that hadn’t been their XO’s destination when he’d
left. “Unfortunately, The Dawimhlar Amalgamation has been attacked and we are now at
war. We need to get your boat back to Earth as it is no longer safe here.” “Who attacked you? And what
about Tobin and the people hunting us?” asked Bobby. “Ah?” Hauer
looked at him, puzzled. “Did no one tell you that Nelson and Faileas met with President Ford and got the matter cleared
up? That Tobin was arrested for trying to attack Faileas
right in front of your President? That President Ford told Admiral Nelson to
bring his boat and crew home?” Jaws dropped. “So that means
we can really go home?” asked one of the ratings hopefully. “Yes,” said Hauer. “Although Soese
will not be the one to take you back - the heavy cruiser Mjollnir
will do so as soon as Commander Morton gets back.” “But what’s Pat going to do?”
asked another voice. “Do you want him back?” asked
Hauer, cocking his head to one side. “You do know he
is Dawimhlar?” The speaker looked around at
the others on deck and finally all of them nodded in agreement. “Yeah, we know.
But his dad is American, and well, he’s also one of us.” “It’s up to him, but I’ll
pass the message on.” “But who attacked you?” asked
O’Brien again. Hauer sighed. “They call themselves Tin’t’da.
I’ve briefed Admiral Nelson and Commander Crane and I have no doubt that Toshira and Scathach briefed your
XO. Time is limited for me here - I’ve been recalled to Lar.”
He turned to leave. “You in trouble?” asked a
voice from the group of sailors clustered on Seaview’s deck. Hauer snorted a laugh and looked back over his shoulder. “I
wish I was,” he responded dryly. “Being crowned Emperor was never high on my
list of ambitions.” With those parting words he made his way back into the
launch, leaving O’Brien and the rest looking after him in puzzlement. “But I thought Scathach was supposed to be the next Empress!” It was
Clark, one of the electricians, who spoke. O’Brien found himself
wondering why it seemed to bother Clark so much, but a shuttle similar to the
one that had brought Seaview down from Soese
was approaching. A Dawimhlar head poked out of the
opening hatch and hailed them. Bobby put the matter out of his mind and set to
work getting the boat ready for the return of her XO and the return to Earth. ********** Harriman Nelson stood on one
of the piers on the New London Naval Base, watching the lights reflecting on
dark water as his gray lady made her careful way through the night, sailing
slowly up the Thames River, escorted by a pair of tugs. Captain Crane and
Admiral Holloway stood beside him, along with the base commander, Admiral
DeWitt. Admiral Jiggs Starke was there as well - and so was Admiral Camden,
COMSUBATLANT. The collection of brass standing on the pier had sailors peeking
worriedly from around corners - and Nelson had no doubt the periscopes and
binoculars aboard every vessel present on the base were trained on the scene,
watching avidly to see just what happened. Rumors must have been flying like
mad the past few days. As Seaview drew
closer, he heard Crane sigh with relief beside him. Standing on the flying
bridge was the distinctive figure of Chip Morton, conning the submarine. But
his eye was caught by a familiar figure in blue among the hands on deck, a
white cast - again - on one wrist. Patterson. He didn’t realize he’d spoken out
loud until Holloway looked at him oddly. “They let him come back?” Crane looked over at the CNO
and answered. “He was born here, Admiral Holloway. He’s an actual American
citizen. And I’m now convinced that he never was a spy for them - just Chip’s
watchdog against Smith coming back.” “But Smith is dead,” said
Starke from the other side. “And Horton isn’t,” pointed
out Crane grimly. “At least not yet. Emperor Taharqa promised to notify me when they catch the bastard.
I‘m inclined to let the issue with Patterson be if the crew does.” The other admirals shared
looks and finally nodded in reluctant agreement. Better the devil you knew… Epilogue Don O’Brien sat at the table
in his kitchen, toying with the piece of roast beef on his plate. Across from
him, his mother was just as unhappily pushing potatoes around. It had been less
than a week since his cousin Chip Morton had been hauled away by Federal Agents
- unlawfully in his opinion - and their mutual cousin Admiral Harriman Nelson
had vanished as well, along with his submarine and crew. The FBI had promptly
descended on him, wanting answers he didn‘t have. He gave a mental
snort. Did they really think Harry had somehow smuggled Seaview to Kansas?
And from the way they continued to hover, he had the notion that Chip was no
longer in their hands either. Well, his
cousin had said that his furry friends were back. The phone rang
and his wife Carolyn answered it. As she turned, holding out the receiver to
him, her eyes were wide. He lurched to his feet and grabbed the phone. “Hello,”
he said sharply. “Don,” said a
familiar voice on the other end, “It’s Chip. The Admiral, the boat and I are
all in New London, Connecticut at the sub base - and we’re all okay. Our
political problems have been sorted out.” Don O’Brien
laughed and mouthed ‘Chip, he’s okay’ at his mother. Her smile was even wider
than his… Author’s
note: Is this the end? Well, maybe not. The Dawimhlar
are at war after all. Seaview wouldn’t be able to help them there, but … all
those plots the Tin’t’da set in motion on Earth are
still swirling and somebody
will have to deal with them….