“So, somewhere back home, someone is working on reinventing a whole bunch of Kenmiri technology so it works with the gravity shield,” she guessed.
“Almost certainly, but they don’t brief destroyer captains on that,” Chavez told her. “But as to my question…twenty days until we hear back?”
“From when they left, which was eight days ago,” Sylvia confirmed. “I’d expect that it will take at least two days for the Kozun to make up their minds, so we’ll be here at least fourteen more days, Captain.
“Is there anything we can do to make your crew less…restive?”
“If I could arrange an R&R schedule to send people off-ship somewhere, that could help,” he admitted. “We’re orbiting alongside one of the most impressive spacegoing civilizations I’ve ever seen, but we’re stuck on our own ship.”
“Those ships are their homes, their factories, their farms,” Sylvia pointed out. “They’re not generally willing to let strangers tramp all over them.”
“I know,” Chavez agreed. “My grandmother was Roma. From the stories she told—legends, thankfully, at this point—they would never let anyone inside their wagons without good reason.”
“I’ll ask,” Sylvia promised. “It will be good for both of our peoples, I think, for well-behaved UPSF crew to visit and see what’s on their ships. I’ll speak to the Protector-Commander.”
If nothing else, making the request gave Sylvia something to do.
Sylvia was surprised by how easily she was able to get in touch with Third-White-Fifth-Gold. She contacted their flagship and asked to speak with them, expecting to have to make an appointment.
Instead, she was immediately connected to the Protector-Commander, their Face Mask glistening in the light of their office as they gazed levelly at her.
“Ambassador Sylvia Todorovich,” he greeted her. “I will admit, I expected your people to make contact at least twenty hours ago.”
“We are twelve days from the earliest I would expect your messengers to return,” Sylvia observed. “Why would you expect us to make contact?”
“I know how long my warriors would tolerate sitting and doing nothing,” Third-White-Fifth-Gold said. “I believe that the discipline of your arms is as strong as ours, but distraction serves better than idleness.”
“That it does,” Sylvia agreed. “You know us well, then, Protector-Commander.”
They shrugged.
“I know warriors, Ambassador, and people,” they told her. “Much is common across all races, be they Ashall or Unseeded. Limbs and eyes and organs define much…but much, I find, is a constant of the condition of sentient life.”
Ashall meant Seeded Races. No one knew quite what that meant—except, perhaps, the Kenmiri—but the term covered a slim majority of species known to the UPA. Every one of those species could pass for human—and vice versa—given carefully selected clothing.
That was part of why the Drifters were as cloaked as they were, after all. It concealed everything about them—including their species.
“I see,” Sylvia said. She didn’t disagree with them, either. Her own experience said much the same—even the Enteni on La-Tar, aliens whose eyes were inside massive mouths, were recognizably people in their actions and choices.
“Then you have guessed that I wish to negotiate some relaxation opportunities for the crew of my escort vessel,” she told the Protector-Commander. “I have no desire to risk the safety of the Convoy or even the goodwill of your people. Anything you and your Council are prepared to offer would be welcome.”
“We have an opportunity available now that we did not have when Shaka first arrived,” Third-White-Fifth-Gold told her. “The casino vessel Trust in Fortune has returned to the Convoy from a sojourn to the Tak System.
“Trust in Fortune is designed to handle significant numbers of strangers in a controlled manner,” the Protector-Commander concluded. “While her normal customers are, frankly, wealthier than I expect your crew to be, I am sure we can arrange some level of group discount or prepaid credit between us.”
Sylvia let her face settle into a sharp and disapproving look—even as she concealed a smile internally.
Of course the Drifter’s suggestion for R&R was going to end up costing her more refined metals. Blue Stripe Green Stripe Orange Stripe was going to profit from this encounter in every way they could.
That was how nomadic merchants survived, after all.
Chapter Nine
“Sensor sweep complete. Ra-One is clear of any active spacecraft,” Ihejirika reported. “We are utterly alone out here except for a single skip drone headed to Zion.”
“Have we confirmed that drone’s bona fides?” Henry asked.
“Really, ser?” O’Flannagain asked from the flight deck. “Do we even know anyone else with skip drones?”
“Not yet, but that will change,” Henry replied. “It’s too obvious a solution to remain unique for long.”
O’Flannagain was right that he was probably being too paranoid about the realspace maneuvers she wanted to put her new fighters through. He wished there’d been time to test the SF-130s in Zion or even the numbered systems between the UPA and Ra Sector.
Their stops in each of those systems had been too short to both confirm the system was clear and get a useful amount of exercise time in.
“Drone is definitely ours,” Moon reported, the tall and heavyset Martian communication officer sounding amused. “On her way from the station at Beren.”
“Understood,” Henry acknowledged. “Commander O’Flannagain, you are cleared to commence your exercises. I want all of your birds back aboard in ten hours, an hour before we skip. Understood?”
“Yes, ser,” she said crisply. “Rocking and rolling.”
Readiness icons started flicking to green on Henry’s repeater displays immediately, and he grinned.
“Was the Commander already in her starfighter, ser?” Ihejirika asked in amusement.
“O’Flannagain wasn’t,” Henry told him. “But it looks like most of her pilots were.”
He sucked a breath in through his teeth as the readiness icons solidified. Of the eight SF-130 Lancers on his flight deck, five were glowing solid green, “ready to launch.” The other three were flashing amber.
These fighters hadn’t even left the hangar bay yet and a deep foreboding settled onto Henry’s shoulders.
“O’Flannagain?” he asked.
“I see it too,” she said grumpily. “Techs are on their way. Initiating launch of the fighters that are clear.”
“Understood,” he told her. “Carry on, Commander. The fighter group is yours.”
There was a double meaning to that phrase that he knew his CAG understood: she could do whatever she wanted with the fighter group…but she was also entirely responsible for it being a combat-ready force when he needed it.
Once in space, the five working fighters blurred on Henry’s sensors as their gravity shields came up. Those shields were stronger than on the old fighters too, he noted. The shear zone was twelve thousand gravities versus the old fighters’ ten thousand.