Knight's Move (25 page)

“We’re approaching the first waypoint,” the helmsman reported.

“Hold position,” Jason ordered.  “And now we wait.”

***

The latest message from Bottleneck had not been encouraging.  Admiral Porter had sent his apologies, but cited a series of Federation Navy regulations that forbade the dispatch of military supplies to civilian planets without authorisation from the Admiralty.  Glen had fired off a dispatch to Admiral Patterson in response, although he had the nasty feeling that a message from a mere Captain would vanish somewhere in the bureaucracy rather than be showed to its intended recipient.  He’d also fired off a message to Theodore, pointing out that the crisis was an opportunity to improve the Federation’s standing within the Fairfax Cluster, but it would be at least two weeks before he heard back from either of them.  And even if the Admiralty acted at once, he knew, it would be nearly a month before any supplies were sent.

Glen gritted his teeth, cursing Admiral Porter under his breath.  There had been a time when Admirals would not have hesitated to skirt the borders of regulations; hell, hadn't then-Captain Schmitt been commended for ignoring the non-interference regulation and saving a planet of primitive aliens from an asteroid strike?  And it was highly unlikely that leaving a planet of human settlers to starve would be considered commendable behaviour.  But he could see the Admiral’s point.  As the bureaucrats clawed back their power, Admirals and Captains who bent or broke regulations would find themselves in real trouble.

Not everyone has corporate backers
, he thought, sourly.  The income from his stocks in Knight Corporation alone made him a wealthy man.  Admittedly, he hadn't had access to his trust fund until he'd turned eighteen, but he’d lacked for nothing.  Theodore had presented him with everything he'd wanted, apart from a real challenge.  And a chance to be himself.

He checked the latest message from the Governor and scowled.  She seemed pleased with herself, but reading between the lines Glen saw trouble coming.  Her one-on-one meetings with representatives from the different worlds in the Cluster might have seemed like a worthwhile idea to her, yet they almost certainly looked like an attempt to sow dissent to the locals.  And the reaction to the attack on Tyson’s Rest was sheer fury. 

“I shouldn't have told her about the starships we’d identified,” he muttered to himself.  But he’d included that detail in his report and the Governor had used it against the Bottleneck Republic, accusing their military of carrying out the attack.  If she hadn't been the Governor ... as it was, Glen had the feeling that she was swiftly wearing out her welcome.  Calling the colonists a bunch of barbarians unwilling to forgive or forget had not gone down well.

It was too early to hear anything from the Federation, but Glen was sure that it wouldn't be anything the colonies wanted to hear.  Who would have thought that an attack on a refugee camp could drive a wedge between two human civilisations?  The Federation might insist that the Bottleneck Republic provided security for the refugees, forcing the republic to denude its defences if it tried to meet those demands.  Or the Federation might send reinforcements itself.

His intercom buzzed.  “Captain, we are ten minutes from our exit point,” Helena said.

“Understood,” Glen said.  “I’ll be on the bridge in a minute.”

He stood, shut down the terminal, then strode through the hatch and onto the bridge.  Sandy rose from the command chair, saluted him and then headed for the hatch.  She'd be on the secondary bridge in case of trouble.  Glen sat down and checked the displays, then forced himself to relax.  They’d be ready if something actually happened.

Space twisted in front of him as they roared back into normal space.  The display lit up with hundreds of icons, enough to quicken his heartbeat before he realised that most of them were completely immobile.  Putrajaya’s once-impressive industrial base was now nothing more than ruins drifting in orbit.  A handful of in-system craft were moving around, trying to salvage what they could, but most of the damage seemed beyond repair.  He grimaced, remembering what the files had said about the planet.  They could feed themselves, at least, but they couldn't make more than minimal progress on rebuilding their industry.

And they won’t get any investment until the political situation is sorted out
, Glen thought, as the remaining red icons turned green or yellow. 
Theodore won’t invest in the sector, let alone a single planet, unless there are protections in place for investors.  The Federation won’t underwrite them as long as there’s a possibility the Bottleneck Republic might actually leave the rest of humanity.  And they don't have much to offer to prove their sincerity.

“Orbital scan completed,” Cooke reported.  “No starships detected; five in-system ships detected, all heading away from the planet.  Orbital defence grid is on standby; I estimate at least five minutes before it can open fire.”

Sloppy
, Glen thought, coldly.  There was an enemy fleet somewhere in the sector, a fleet that had left Tyson’s Rest in ruins, and yet Putrajaya wasn’t tending to its own defences.  But a quick glance at the display told the rest of the story.  Putrajaya simply didn't have the resources to invest in more than a minimal defence network, let alone the ground-based stations the planet had enjoyed before the war.  They’d probably kept the network tuned down to prevent wear and tear on the equipment.

“Send them our IFF and request permission to start unloading,” he ordered.  “And ask what shuttles they can spare to assist us.”

There was a long pause before Danielle turned to face him.  “They’ve granted us an orbital slot,” she reported, “but their shuttles are apparently occupied elsewhere.”

“Bollocks,” Sandy said, though the command network.  “What else might their shuttles be doing?”

Glen nodded.  Even the agricultural colonies had a shuttle or two – and, in the colonies, it was customary to help unload freighters when they arrived.  The task would be a great deal slower without an orbital station, causing yet more delays.  But it seemed that Putrajaya was unwilling to allow them to use its shuttles.  Glen could guess why.

“We’ll have to do it ourselves,” he said.  If they wanted to refuse to help unload supplies for the alien refugees, there wasn't anything he could do to force them to comply.  If he made it an order, they’d probably find an excuse to report the shuttles inoperative.  “Take us into orbit and then inform
Jackson King
that she is to commence unloading at once.”

“It’ll take hours,” Sandy said.  She sounded irked; Putrajaya had delivered a slap in the face to the Federation, but also to the principles of the Bottleneck Republic.  “But we’d better get on with it.”

“We can use the Marine shuttles too,” Glen said.  It was skirting the edge of regulations, but he saw no alternative.  “And I will inspect the camp myself in the process.”

***

Two hours later, he found himself cursing the entire human race as he looked upon the alien refugee camp.  They might have been Dragons, rather than Mice or another slave race, but surely even
they
didn't deserve to be penned up so tightly.  The planetary government had dumped them on a large island in the middle of the ocean and largely left them to their own devices.  Even the human supervisors from the Federation seemed to be dispirited by the experience.

He’d seen Dragons before, but it had been a rare experience.  Starship crewmen never met their enemies face to face.  It simply didn't matter if a starship’s crew had hands, claws or tentacles; their power lay in their ship, not in their personal appearance.  Marines did ... and most of their tales were horrific.  Seeing the enemy so humbled brought out an odd mix of emotions; delight and relief that this group had been broken, at least, merged with a kind of guilt.  Perhaps, he told himself, it would have been kinder to kill them all.

Dragons were tall, taller than the average human, with scaly draconic skin and sharp teeth that glinted unpleasantly in the sunlight.  The handful he’d met in the past had been prideful, carrying themselves as though they were still the undisputed masters of an interstellar empire – but then, they
had
to appear confident or their subordinates would drag them down. 
These
Dragons looked listless, their tails dragging in the dirt as they wandered over the island.  The colourful feathers they used to mark rank and status were completely missing. 

These are the ones who chose to live
, he thought, as he stared at them.  Countless others had taken their own lives, either through suicide or mounting insane attacks on human starships towards the end of the war.  Their ethos told them what happened to races that lost galactic wars,  It was clear that they couldn’t face the thought of becoming broken slaves, just like their own victims.  He couldn't help wondering if the ones in front of him ever regretted going into captivity.

“They’ve stopped producing hatchlings completely,” a voice said, from behind him.  Glen spun around to see a middle-aged man, wearing a green tunic decorated with strips of coloured cloth.  His face was painted green, his eyes were tinted an inhuman red.  “I think that most of them have despaired.”

Glen shuddered.  There was little sexual dimorphism separating the male and female Dragons, nothing that stopped the two sexes working together as equals.  A pregnant female would lay her eggs wherever she happened to be at the time and then carry on, leaving the hatchlings to be raised by whoever happened to encounter them.  There was no stigma to bastardry at all amongst them, he knew; they were
all
bastards in the purest sense of the word.  And they bred like rabbits. 

“We had quite a few suicides when they were first brought here,” the supervisor added, leading Glen towards a small building.  “Those that remained were the lowest of the low, as far as we can tell.  They didn't really have any ambitions in life beyond simple survival.  We’re trying to convince them that they have futures, but I really don’t think they believe us.”

“I wouldn't, in their place,” Glen admitted.  “What are we going to do with them?”

“That is indeed the problem,” the supervisor said.  “We've been experimenting with hatchlings, trying to have them raised by human foster parents.  But there have been few volunteers and ... Dragon hatchlings are quite wild by our standards.  There was a case where a hatchling bit a human step-sibling.  He might well have eaten the poor kid if the mother hadn't intervened.”

“Shit,” Glen said.  He hadn't even heard a
whisper
about that incident.  “How did
that
get covered up?”

“I believe a hefty compensation payment was made, in exchange for silence,” the supervisor said.  “From what we've been able to draw from our captives, Dragons are tougher than us; dominance games among siblings are just part of life.  It may take years to convince them to forsake their culture for a better one.”

“If we can,” Glen said, slowly.  Human biology had helped to define much of human society throughout the ages.  Women had been second-class citizens because they were generally weaker than males, as well as being the only ones who could continue the species.  It hadn't been until technology and modern medicine had been developed that women had finally been accepted as equals to men.  “Their nature might tell against it.”

“Nature is a result of nurture,” the supervisor said, primly.  “We will re-educate them into a better way of life.  Indeed, they’re already halfway there.”

Glen had his doubts, but kept them to himself,  Maybe technology could do something for the Dragons ... or maybe a sound thrashing ever so often would convince them that aggression would not be rewarded.  But their biology would hamper them, no matter what wishful thinking humans engaged in. 

“We’ll finish unloading the supplies within the hour,” he said, instead.  “Once they’re down, you can distribute them as you see fit.”

The supervisor nodded.  “Thank you,” he said.  “We haven't had any support at all from the locals.  They want the whole island to vanish.”

He looked down at the ground, as though he couldn't imagine anyone being so unpleasant.  “I don’t understand it,” he added.  “Why ...?”

Glen looked towards the Dragons, then snorted.  “They remember the Dragons stamping over their homeworlds,” he said, simply.  “This bunch might be peaceful now, but who knows what will happen if they get another chance to go to war?”