Chapter 5

     Draccus Tartus sighed and pulled the next file from his in box. Tyranny is supposed to be more fun than this. As a child, his father’s life had seemed to be filled with glamour: wine, women, and song.
     Of course, Father ran this nation into the ground. The nation had been on the verge of economic collapse. The more economically literate of the people anticipated this, and used it as an excuse to whisper revolution.
     So Draccus had no choice. He had to pull his father down before Tartus followed the bad example of . . . say, the Elvii Cluster. A nation ripe for conquest, if Draccus had ever seen one.
     Which brought Draccus back to the report at hand. The policy of quiet raids wouldn’t last forever. It had worked far longer than Draccus had expected. Or had it?
     Draccus began perusing the report. After half the first page, he gave up in disgust and turned to the appendices in back.  He stared at the disorganized charts and tables for half as long as he had given the report’s text. Then he pulled paper, pencil, and calculator from a desk drawer.
     It took an hour to make sense of the data. He plotted it on a rough chart, and stared. We are in the realm of diminishing returns. If this trend continues, these raids will become unprofitable in less than six months.
     Draccus turned back to the report and skimmed it through. It was maddeningly vague, both in historical analysis and forecasting. He closed it with a grimace. Is this incompetence or fear? Draccus had seen the tendency before: staffers who were afraid of seeming to criticize a policy. Did they think criticizing Draccus’ policies would be taken as criticism of Draccus’ rule?
     The phone rang.  The indicator light showed that the call was from a junior supervisor in Foreign Intelligence. Interesting.
     “Hello?”
     “Tyrant. I am Kalak, supervisor of the Elvii section in Intelligence. I have material that you may be very interested in.”
     “Is it interesting enough to bypass channels?”
     “If I am wrong, I am willing to face the consequences.”
     More interesting. Such confidence is refreshing. I do hope he is correct.
     “You pique my interest. Come to my office at once.”
     After hanging up, Draccus collected his notes into the briefing folder. He paused, then added a note to determine whether the preparer was incompetent or fearful. Either way, he would receive no promotions in Intelligence.
     Or is it disloyalty? Draccus hesitated, then jotted the thought. Someone determined to make Draccus look bad might try to encourage him to continue a policy after it became counterproductive. Such a motive . . . might well produce a report such as this.
     The folder went in the hold box, and Draccus swept all the boxes aside. He steepled his hands and stared patiently at the office door.
     When it opened, two men entered. One marched briskly towards the desk. The other stopped, then slunk after the first.
     They both stopped the prescribed distance from the desk and made obeisance. Draccus covertly studied them as he acknowledged their ritual abasement.
     When they stood, Draccus motioned them to the chairs beside the desk. He turned as they sat.
     “Before you begin, satisfy my curiosity on one minor point. How long had you known about this before calling me?”
     “Half an hour, Tyrant,” the confident one answered.
     “What did you do in that half an hour?”
     “I confirmed Balawat’s interpretation of a message.” He waved a hand at his nervous sidekick. “We pulled together all the information that was readily accessible. And I considered whether this was important enough to jump the chain of command.”
     “Which brings us to your message.”
     “As you know, we have people in the Elvii Cluster who help us. Recruiting men is rather easy, as many resent the way the women run the government.”
     “You received a message directly from one of them?”
     “Yes, Tyrant. We usually do not let hired traitors have our transmission protocols. The agent on the spot decided to risk one of our remote repeaters.”
     “Does the traitor know who he is helping?”
     Kalak glanced at Balawat. Taking his cue, Balawat answered. “He has been told only that the women will be overthrown, and men put in charge. He receives nominal monetary payments, but his main motive seems to be sexual. He appears to want a particular female as his wife. Or perhaps slave, it’s hard to tell.”
     “That’s not necessarily as bad as it sounds, Tyrant,” Kalak put in. “The Elvii have no concept of marriage. And the men must put up with some rather degrading customs in exchange for sex. A sex slave may be the nearest thing to marriage that he can comprehend.”
     “Continue.”
     “This traitor is a crewman on the Implacable, one of the Elvii’s best ships. This ship - or its captain - is remarkably good at vanishing in the midst of vacuum. Implacable departed the Elvii Cluster at full acceleration. Once its engines were cut, Implacable seemed to vanish. The message we received was beamed from Implacable. Yet, when we studied the location of space the message came from, nothing was there.”
     Draccus nodded, just to show he was still paying attention.
     “We believe Implacable is coming here, for a last attempt at diplomatic negotiation.”
     “Are they sending that dried-up prune again?”
     Kalak shook his head. “That dried-up prune is now their head of state. They are sending one of her granddaughters.” Kalak tossed a photograph on the desk.
     Draccus picked up the photograph and studied it. The woman’s hair and skin were Elvii-fair, as if they didn’t receive enough sunlight out there. Stupid thought. There’s no place to sunbathe in deep space. I’m babbling. At least I’m not doing it out loud. Draccus took a deep breath to calm himself.
     I always babble in the presence of beauty. And this - Ambassador, I suppose - is beautiful enough to make me babble merely at her photograph.
     Draccus tossed the photograph to a far corner of the desk and deliberately leaned back. “Tell me about her.”
     “Her name is Ari Ionii. She is - or, rather, was - in the final stages of diplomatic specialist training. She has high marks in all her academic work, but we thought she had another half year to complete her training.”
     “I sense a political deal.” Tartus’ eye wandered to the photo again. “Of noble blood, I take it?”
     “The Elvii are egalitarian, and believe all women earn their place in society. In the case of the Ionii, and a few other families, that is suspect. In historic times, there has never been a time when an Ionii was not a member of the Senate.”
     “Every generation?”
     “Not quite. It has skipped a generation several times. Ari’s mother should have entered the Senate years ago. It seems her mother’s failure to uphold tradition is a source of shame for her.”
     “So . . . if they admitted to a nobility, this woman would be noble?”
     Kalak cleared his throat. “Yes, Tyrant. We do not have much of a file on her yet. I brought what we have, in case you want it.”
     “Yes . . .” My rule is secure. As secure as my ability to keep the economy booming. It is time, and past, I produced an heir. And a symbol to unite the new nation would be useful.
     Draccus straightened in decision. “Kalak. You are transferred to my personal staff. You have authority to requisition in my name.” Draccus’ smile went sinister. “Do not abuse it. If I find you used this for personal profit, rather than in my service, you will become an organ donor.”
     “Tyrant, I -”
     “Let me continue. I am giving you two separate, but related tasks. First, you will gather every scrap of information you can about this woman. I wish to know everything about her before I face her.” He reached for the folder. “Is this the only copy?”
     “Yes, Tyrant.”
     “Make another for your use, then return this to me. Send me daily updates, even if the update is to say you have nothing new.”
     “Yes, Tyrant.”
     “Your second role . . . When will Implacable arrive?”
     “What we know of its flight path shows considerable attempts at stealth and misdirection. A maximum-acceleration course from its last known position to here would take a week. Depending on how hard they work at misdirection, it may take a month or more.”
     “Sufficient. When Ari arrives, I wish her captured safely.”
     “Tyrant, to capture a diplomat . . .”
     “Kalak, it is time to produce an heir. If I could claim that the heir’s mother was of the old Elvii nobility, it could simplify consolidating our next conquest.”
     Kalak looked stunned a moment. Then he took on a look of calculation. “Yes, Tyrant.”
     Kalak stood and reached for Ari’s photo.
     “Leave that.”

     Ari stopped and bent over, huffing. Around her, the herd of men parted, passing on either side. At a faster run than she had ever achieved.
     “Are you all right, Tribune?”
     Ari looked up at the only man that wasn’t streaming past her.  “Is this absolutely necessary?”
     Milae paused a moment. “I can’t tell you that it is,” he finally replied. “It is possible that the Tartii will act honorably and legally.”
     Ari snorted at the unlikelyhood. Then she pushed herself to an upright position and staggered forward.
     Smells and noise surrounded her. The pod she walked in rotated around Implacable’s equator, simulating a more-than-planetary-surface gravity. The pod’s ceiling groaned and shuddered as it passed each weld and seam in Implacable’s armored hull. Hundreds of men ran down the track, their footfalls echoing on the steel plates beneath their feet, their sweat filling her nose with its musky scent.
     “Are you sure the Tartii will try this trick?”
     “Tribune, nothing is certain in war. But this trick is a simple one to prepare you to defend against.”
     “Simple. Not easy.”
     “You only need to be able to walk. Not run and fight in an attack armor.”
     Ari tripped over a seam in the deck. Milae – who had scrupulously not touched her the entire time she had known him – caught her before she could hit the deck. He steadied her, then let go when it appeared she wouldn’t fall over immediately.
     “Perhaps this is enough for today,” he said.
     Ari turned and looked toward the door. She had managed to move only fifteen or twenty body-lengths into the room.
     “I’ve done so little yet.”
     “A week ago, walking into the Captain’s office was a major effort for you, Tribune. Don’t push so hard you hurt yourself. Being able to walk under normal surface gravity alone would be a major help in your rescue.”
     Ari bit her lip, then turned in resignation. One day, Milae, we’ll see what I am capable of. And it will be more than you expect.

     Athena woke as the door opened. She saw someone slip inside, then quietly close the door, plunging the room back into darkness.
     She sat up as quietly as she could manage. Her feet on the floor, she prepared to jump the furtive intruder.
     A flashlight snapped on pointed upward. Athena blinked a moment in its light.
     “Sergeant Drake?”
     “Ah, you’re awake, Colonel,” he whispered. “Please keep your voice down.”
     “What’re you doing here?”
     Velcro rasped as he opened a gym bag. “Getting you out.”
     Athena awkwardly caught the flight suit he tossed toward her. “What?”
     “Colonel, we have a philosophical quandary here. There is a law, with attendant regulations, that says medical concerns override all other military concerns. There is another law, with its own regulations, that says security concerns override all other military concerns.”
     Athena cocked her head at this abrupt departure. “So which is right?”
     Drake shrugged. “Both? Neither? The answer is almost more philosophical than practical.”
     “So why the question?”
     “Ah, we’re getting somewhere. While in this hospital, you are in territory controlled by those who believe the medical is the most important. The Wing believes security is more important.” His grin flickered in the dim light.
     “So . . . McAffrey decided to resist the hospital commander?”
     “No. It’s more complicated than that. If you’ll dress, I’ll explain.”
     Athena looked down at her patient gown, then up at Drake. As she cleared her throat, he propped the flashlight up and turned away. As he continued, Athena fumbled the Velcro closures on back open.
     “Orders have been cut reassigning you to Yeager Station, and your medical treatment to Yeager’s base hospital. This hospital’s commander has resisted, claiming you’re too sick to be transferred.”
     “That’s a lie!”
     “Perhaps he’s looked over your medical records and decided any ship you’re on has an unusually high chance of being wrecked in mid-flight?”
     “That’s not funny.”
     “I didn’t think I was joking, Colonel. Anyway, the Wing is sending a transport to Yeager on a courier run. The flight is scheduled to depart in half an hour, but the crew has an intermittent trouble light. They may leave on schedule, they may not. And the loadmaster screwed up and planned for a liftoff weight about 75 kilograms heavier than reality.”
     Athena stopped struggling with the flight suit a moment and smiled. “Really.”
     “Are you ready, Colonel?”
     Athena closed her eyes a moment. “No. My hand won’t stop shaking long enough to let me get my legs in this flight suit.”
     “Would you like some help?”
     Athena thought of Cheryl Murasaki-Drake. The sergeant’s wife was impossibly beautiful, and had regained her previous figure less than three months after delivering their third child. If they patented the genetic code responsible, they could make a fortune. If there was such a thing as an uninterested man, Sergeant Drake must be him.
     “No. But I think I need it.”
     Drake turned slowly. He looked, if anything less interested than Athena expected as he walked to her bedside. But he knew exactly how to help; in less time than it used to take her, Athena’s flight suit was sealed and he was pulling socks and boots out of the gym bag.
     “Are you used to dressing strange women?”
     Drake’s mouth quirked up in a twisted half-grin. “Not as large as you, certainly. You’re easier than my two-year-old; she usually isn’t sure she wants to get dressed.”
     Athena let him put socks and boots on her feet. “What a flattering comparison.”
     “I wasn’t aware you cared about that sort of thing, Colonel.”
     I’d better quash this before it starts. “Is there anything else I should know, Sergeant?”
     “I ran across some more information I think would interest you, Colonel. Now, none of this is official, and much is my interpretation of things I don’t fully understand.”
     “Yes?”
     “Medical regulations have more room for interpretation built in them than any other regulations I’ve seen. There are lots of phrases like ‘in the opinion of the attending physician.’ Anyway, it seems there are lots of schools of thought inside Aerospace Force medicine about the best way to treat patients. One of those schools of thought regards patients as little more than the things doctors work on. Another strongly believes that a patient should be brought to a full recovery before being allowed out of a hospital.”
     Drake finished lacing her boots and looked up. “One of the strongest proponents of both those schools of thought commands this hospital.”
     Drake picked up his gym bag and stuffed Athena’s patient gown into it. “Ready, Colonel?”
     “Yes.”
     Drake turned the flashlight off and went to the door. He opened it a crack, looked out, and then slipped out. Athena followed, then pulled the door closed with her good hand.
     They moved carefully, as quietly as they could arrange. Suddenly a medtech came around the corner.
     “What are you doing here? Visiting hours were over at twenty hundred!”
     “But the Major’s shuttle just came in,” Drake said, gesturing toward Athena, “and she wanted to see her boyfriend.”
     Athena squinted at the nametag on her flight suit. Instead of her own name it said ‘J. J. Jackson, Major, USAF’ under the astronaut’s wings.
     “Then get a good night’s sleep, and come back in the morning,” the medtech snapped.
     “But . . .” Athena began, trying to get into the spirit of Drake’s inspiration.
     “Major, get out of my ward or I’ll call the SPs!”
     Sputtering and protesting, Athena and Drake allowed the medtech to push them toward the elevator bank. After the elevator door closed, Athena sagged.
     “How do we escape the lobby?”
     “Just follow my lead, Colonel.”
     “Do you have . . . much experience at this sort of thing?”
     Drake shrugged. “Why fight when you can talk your way out?”
     Because fighting is all I ever learned.
     In the lobby, Drake’s luck held. No one stopped them, or did much besides glance at them as they walked out.
     Drake led the way to an electric scooter Athena recognized. It was of the type usually used to ferry pilots from ready rooms to the flight line. She slumped in the passenger seat as Drake took his place behind the wheel.
     “Not yet, Colonel,” Drake said. “You’re a relief pilot I’m rushing to the flight line.”
     Athena sat up and tried to look as if she had been awakened in her quarters after midnight, rather than an escapee from the hospital.
     “How do you know we’ll get away with this?” she asked.
     “I don’t. But it’s a fairly harmless attempt.” He paused as he dodged a teenager riding his electric bike after curfew.
     “If you make Yeager Station, everything’s under control,” he continued. “The hospital commander there cares mostly about rehabilitating injured troops as quickly as possible. They don’t try for miracle cures to bring the crippled to full recovery.”
     The crippled. Athena stared at the arm that wouldn’t stop trembling, no matter how much she wanted it to. That’s me now. Forever, I suppose.
     Athena felt tension melt from her as the cart moved farther from the hospital. Drake steered them from a local-traffic tunnel to the high-speed tunnel to the flight line and accelerated. Athena tilted her face forward to feel the artificial breeze. How long has it been since I felt a natural breeze?
     Almost as long as it’s been since I cowered, hiding from a street gang. Let it go. Earth isn’t worth it.
     Athena shrank back at a siren. An ambulance appeared around a corner and rushed toward them, its siren piercingly loud as it dopplered past them.
     After several minutes, Drake slowed and turned off toward one of the launch points. He took a ramp curving steeply upward, and they were suddenly surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a launch point preparing for departure.
     Drake unbuckled and strode toward a waiting airlock. Athena stood on suddenly rubbery legs and hastened to follow.
     “Hey, Major,” one mechanic called. “You sure you got the regulation crew rest?”
     Athena stiffened a moment. Then she let her face go slack and stumbled theatrically as she turned to face her questioner. “Relief pilot. Catch my rest under way.”
     Drake put his arm around Athena’s. “Come on, Major. We don’t want to cause a late departure.”
     Athena stumbled slightly as she let Drake tow her into the crew airlock. Once they were inside and around a corner, he released her arm with a jerk.
     “You almost blew it back there!” he hissed.
     “What did you want me to do? Admit I left the hospital without checking out?”
     Drake just shook his head and led the way to the flight deck.
     “Hold one, Line,” the flight engineer said as Athena walked in. He flipped the radio off and took his headset off.
     The rest of the flight crew turned at this. They all stood and surrounded her, offering congratulations and commiserations.
     “Sorry I didn’t see you in the hospital,” Lieutenant Pinchon finally said. “They wouldn’t let me in.”
     “Wouldn’t let me out, either,” Athena replied. She turned to Drake, peeling the lying nametag from her suit. “Do I still need this?”
     “Hope not, Colonel,” he replied. He unbuttoned a shirt pocket and took out Athena’s nametag.
     Athena took it, but her hand shook too much to fasten it in place. Scowling in frustration, she transferred it to her other hand. She tried to Velcro it in place, but got it on crooked twice. Frustrated, she peeled it and handed it back to Drake.
     “Here. You put it on.”
     She stood still as he fastened Athena’s nametag in place. I’ve got to learn to do things left-handed. I’m getting tired of having Drake dress me.
     Athena turned back to the flight crew. Captain Toshimoto and Lieutenant Lindstrom were in the front seats, with Lieutenant Muller at the engineer’s station and Lieutenant Pinchon at Countermeasures. All that was lacking was the loadmaster.
     “Are we ready yet?”
     Athena turned to the door; Chief McMurdo stood there, a mechanic dimly visible in the corridor behind him. He grinned and winked at Athena.
     My favorites, among those still alive in the squadron. Come to see me off.
     Muller picked up his headset and turned the radio back on. “I found the problem, Line. The indicator LED had burned out. I’ll be ready to continue the checklist as soon as I get the cover back on.”
     Athena took an unoccupied seat at the back of the flight deck as everyone else returned to the bustle of preparing for departure. She held up a hand as Drake approached.
     “I need to do it for myself.” She pulled the center of the five-point harness up between her legs, and easily snapped the left side belt in place. Finding the right side belt was a struggle, but she eventually managed it. Then she pulled the shoulder harnesses over and fastened them.
     When she had finished, Drake checked her harness and tightened the lap and shoulder belts on her right side. He ignored the face she made as he straightened.
     “Take care, Colonel,” he said. “We’re down to three now.”
     Three what – oh. Sergeant Drake and two others were the last founding members of the original Lunar Special Operations Squadron still assigned to Armstrong Moonbase.
     “Take care of the Wing for me, Sergeant. Tell Johnson – “ What? What do I tell the man I’m abandoning, through an enlisted proxy? She shook her head.
     “I will, Colonel.” He snapped her a salute and was gone.
     Athena watched as the flight crew worked through the departure checklists. My last flight with Lunar Special Operations. Probably my last flight on the flight deck. From now on, I’m a passenger, not part of the crew.
     As she heard the agrav disk spin up, she shook her melancholy mood. It could be worse. I could be an experimental animal back in the hospital.
     With the cold comfort of that thought, the ship left the lunar surface.
 
 

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