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Authors: Timothy Zahn
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in question to voluntarily cede us that authority, or to make a flex-wrapped case to that government as to why we need to invoke martial law. And to bring that about—” His lips compressed. “Things may get a bit unpleasant.”
Barrington took a careful breath. “That’s the real reason I’m going to Hoibe’ryi’sarai, isn’t it? You don’t really care about Jody Broom and her recorder. You just want me out of the way so that I can’t object to what’s about to happen.”
“It’s for your own good, Captain,” Santores said. “Both for your career, and for your standing with your patron.”
“And if I refuse to be shunted to the side so that Lij Tulu has free rein to play with his MindsEye toy?”
“Walk carefully, Captain Moreau,” Santores warned, his voice and words suddenly gone formal. “The consequences of disobeying a direct order is something even your patron would be unable to remedy.”
“I don’t disobey, sir,” Barrington said, matching his tone. “I merely appeal the order in the strongest terms possible.”
“And that appeal is denied,” Santores said. “Never forget, Captain, that you’re not the only one with a patron. Mine also demands certain results. And he will have them.”
And whoever Santores’s patron was, he was probably higher on the political food chain than Barrington’s was. “Then I’ll content myself with pointing out that martial law is a twin-ended torch,” he said. “If we end up at war with these people, we might as well have stayed home.”
“I’m aware of that, Captain,” Santores said. “But whatever happens, at least you’ll be clear of any repercussions. That should keep you out of trouble with your patron.”
“My patron is not so easily beguiled,” Barrington warned. “And as long as we’re talking about trouble, remember that sending me into Troft space just to get me out of your way will reduce your fighting force here by a full third. That’s not a good position for any commander to be in.”
“If our ships’ weaponry is needed, we’ll have already lost,” Santores said heavily. “The decision has been made, Captain. My order stands.”
“Yes, sir.” Barrington straightened to full attention. “With your permission, Commodore, I’ll return to the Dorian and prepare for our departure.”
“Very good, Captain,” Santores said, just as formally. “And content yourself with the fact that things seldom turn out as badly as one anticipates.”
A minute later, Barrington was again striding down the corridor, his heart aching with anger and frustration and dread. Santores was right, of course. Things were seldom as bad as expected. Sometimes, they were better.
Sometimes, they were much, much worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
Merrick Broom had been through a war. He’d seen destruction and violence on a scale he’d never imagined. He’d seen men and women killed and maimed, soldiers and civilians alike. He’d been injured himself, badly, and in some ways was still not fully recovered. Even if a full healing somehow managed to happen, he knew there were physical and emotional scars that would be with him for the rest of his life.
Given all that, life aboard a Troft slave ship turned out to be almost like a vacation.
Not a perfect vacation, of course. Not the kind he’d gone on with his family when he was a boy, relaxing and comfortable and carefree. For one thing, it was hot and cramped down here at the lowest part of the ship. There was also the engines’ low and pervasive rumbling, which had just enough random variation in it that his brain could never quite learn to ignore it. The food, sleeping, and sanitary facilities were wildly inadequate for the sixty men and women who eventually ended up being crowded into the narrow spaces.
And as for his fellow travelers—
“Hey!” a deep voice growled from behind him. “You—Merk. You’re in my spot.”
Reflexively, Merrick curled his hands into fingertip laser firing
Barrington took a careful breath. “That’s the real reason I’m going to Hoibe’ryi’sarai, isn’t it? You don’t really care about Jody Broom and her recorder. You just want me out of the way so that I can’t object to what’s about to happen.”
“It’s for your own good, Captain,” Santores said. “Both for your career, and for your standing with your patron.”
“And if I refuse to be shunted to the side so that Lij Tulu has free rein to play with his MindsEye toy?”
“Walk carefully, Captain Moreau,” Santores warned, his voice and words suddenly gone formal. “The consequences of disobeying a direct order is something even your patron would be unable to remedy.”
“I don’t disobey, sir,” Barrington said, matching his tone. “I merely appeal the order in the strongest terms possible.”
“And that appeal is denied,” Santores said. “Never forget, Captain, that you’re not the only one with a patron. Mine also demands certain results. And he will have them.”
And whoever Santores’s patron was, he was probably higher on the political food chain than Barrington’s was. “Then I’ll content myself with pointing out that martial law is a twin-ended torch,” he said. “If we end up at war with these people, we might as well have stayed home.”
“I’m aware of that, Captain,” Santores said. “But whatever happens, at least you’ll be clear of any repercussions. That should keep you out of trouble with your patron.”
“My patron is not so easily beguiled,” Barrington warned. “And as long as we’re talking about trouble, remember that sending me into Troft space just to get me out of your way will reduce your fighting force here by a full third. That’s not a good position for any commander to be in.”
“If our ships’ weaponry is needed, we’ll have already lost,” Santores said heavily. “The decision has been made, Captain. My order stands.”
“Yes, sir.” Barrington straightened to full attention. “With your permission, Commodore, I’ll return to the Dorian and prepare for our departure.”
“Very good, Captain,” Santores said, just as formally. “And content yourself with the fact that things seldom turn out as badly as one anticipates.”
A minute later, Barrington was again striding down the corridor, his heart aching with anger and frustration and dread. Santores was right, of course. Things were seldom as bad as expected. Sometimes, they were better.
Sometimes, they were much, much worse.
CHAPTER FOUR
Merrick Broom had been through a war. He’d seen destruction and violence on a scale he’d never imagined. He’d seen men and women killed and maimed, soldiers and civilians alike. He’d been injured himself, badly, and in some ways was still not fully recovered. Even if a full healing somehow managed to happen, he knew there were physical and emotional scars that would be with him for the rest of his life.
Given all that, life aboard a Troft slave ship turned out to be almost like a vacation.
Not a perfect vacation, of course. Not the kind he’d gone on with his family when he was a boy, relaxing and comfortable and carefree. For one thing, it was hot and cramped down here at the lowest part of the ship. There was also the engines’ low and pervasive rumbling, which had just enough random variation in it that his brain could never quite learn to ignore it. The food, sleeping, and sanitary facilities were wildly inadequate for the sixty men and women who eventually ended up being crowded into the narrow spaces.
And as for his fellow travelers—
“Hey!” a deep voice growled from behind him. “You—Merk. You’re in my spot.”
Reflexively, Merrick curled his hands into fingertip laser firing