Prisoners of Tomorrow (75 page)

“Clear to exit,” the Dispatching Officer informed Sirocco.

“Lock clear for exit,” Sirocco called to the cabin below.

“Carry on, Guard Commander,” Colonel Wesserman replied from the depths.

“Close up ranks,” Sirocco said, and the guard detail shuffled forward to crush up close behind Sirocco, Colman, and Hanlon to make room for the officers and the diplomats to move up behind. Sirocco looked at the Dispatching Officer and nodded. “Open outer hatch.” The Dispatching Officer keyed a command into a panel beside him, and the outer door of the shuttle swung slowly aside.

Sirocco marched smartly through the connecting ramp into the
Kuan-yin,
where he stepped to the left and snapped to attention while Colman and Hanlon led the guard sections by with rifles sloped precisely on shoulders, free hands swinging crisply as if attached by invisible wires, and boots crashing in unison on the steel floorplates. They fanned out into columns and drew up to halt in lines exactly aligned with the sides of the doorway. Behind them the officers emerged four abreast and divided into two groups to follow Colonel Wesserman to the left and General Portney to the right.

“Present . . .
arms!”
Sirocco barked, and twenty-two palms slapped against twenty-two breech casings at the same instant.

Through the gap between the officers, the diplomats moved forward and came to a halt in reverse order of precedence, black suits immaculate and white shirtfronts spotless, and finally the noble form of Amery Farnhill conveyed itself regally forward to take up its position at their head.

“His Esteemed Excellency, Amery Farnhill,” the assistant one pace to the rear and two paces to the right announced in clear, ringing tones that resonated around the antechamber of the
Kuan-yin
’s
docking port. “Deputy Director of Liaison of the Supreme Directorate of the official Congress of the
Mayflower II
and appointed emissary to the
Kuan-yin
on behalf of the Director of Congress . . .” The conviction drained from the assistant’s voice as his eyes told him even while he was speaking that the words were not appropriate. Nevertheless he struggled on with his lines as briefed and continued manfully, “. . . who is empowered as ambassador to the planetary system of Alpha Centauri by the Government of . . .” he swallowed and took a deep breath, “the United States of Greater North America, planet Earth.”

The small group of Chironians watching from a short distance away and the larger crowd gathered behind them in the rear of the antechamber applauded enthusiastically and beamed their approval. They weren’t supposed to do that. It didn’t preserve the right atmosphere.

“They’re okay,” Corporal Swyley’s disembodied voice whispered from no definable direction. “We’re making ourselves look like jerks.”

“Shuddup,” Colman hissed.

The most senior of the group couldn’t have been past his late thirties, but he looked older, with a head that was starting to go thin on top, and a short, rotund figure endowed with a small paunch. He was wearing an open-necked shirt of intricately embroidered blues and grays, and plain navy blue slacks held up with a belt. His features looked vaguely Asiatic. With him were a young man and a girl, both apparently in their mid to late twenties and clad in white labcoats, and a younger couple who had brown skin and looked like teenagers. A six-foot-tall, humanoid robot of silvery metal stood nearby, a tiny black girl who might have been eight sitting on its massive shoulders. Her legs dangled around its neck and her arms clasped the top of its head.

“Hi,” the paunchy man greeted amiably. “I’m Clem. These are Carla and Hermann, and Francine and Boris. The big guy here is Cromwell, and the little lady up top is Amy. Well, I guess . . . welcome aboard.”

Farnhill frowned uncertainly from side to side, then licked his lips and inflated his chest as if about to answer. He deflated suddenly and shook his head. The words to handle the situation just wouldn’t come. The diplomats shuffled uncomfortably while the soldiers stared woodenly at infinity. A few awkward seconds dragged by. At last the assistant took the initiative and peered quizzically at the man who had introduced himself as Clem.

“Who are you?” he demanded. The formality had evaporated from his voice. “Are you in authority here? If so, what are your rank and title?”

Clem frowned and brought a hand up to his chin. “Depends what you mean by authority,” he said. “I organize the regular engineering crew of the ship and supervise the maintenance. I suppose you could say that’s authority of a kind. Then again, I don’t have a lot to do with some of the special research programs and modifications but Hermann does.”

“True,” Hermann, the young man in the white labcoat, agreed. “But on top of that, parts of this place are used as a school to give the kids early off-planet experience. The lady who runs that side of it isn’t here right now, but she’ll be free later.”

“She got tied up over lunch trying to answer questions about supernovas and quasars,” Francine explained.

“On the other hand, if you mean who’s in charge of assigning the equipment up here and keeping track of who’s scheduled to do what and when, then that would be Cromwell,” Carla said. “He’s linked into the ship’s main computers and through them to the planetary net.”

“Cromwell knows everything,” Amy declared from her perch. “Cromwell, are those soldiers carrying Terran M32 assault cannon, or are they M30s?”

“M32s,” the robot said. “They’ve the enhanced fire-selectors.”

“I hope they’re not going to start shooting each other up here. It would be pretty scary in orbit. They could decompress the whole ship.”

“I think they know that,” Cromwell said. “They’ve spent a lot longer in space than the few trips you’ve made.”

“I suppose so.”

The assistant’s patience snapped at last. “This is ridiculous! I want to know who is in overall authority here. You must have a Director of Operations or some equivalent. Please be kind enough to—”

Farnhill stopped him with a curt wave of his hand. “This spectacle has gone far enough,” he said. He looked at Clem. “Perhaps we could continue this discussion in conditions of greater privacy. Is there somewhere suitable near here?”

“Sure.” Clem gestured vaguely behind him. “There’s a big room back along the corridor that’s free and should hold everybody. We could all get some coffee there too. I guess you could use some—you’ve had a long trip, huh?”

He grinned at the joke as he turned to lead the way. Farnhill didn’t seem to appreciate the humor.

“Ahem . . .” General Portney cleared his throat. “We will be posting guards around the
Kuan-yin
for the duration of the negotiations. I trust there will be no objections.” The military officers stiffened as they waited for the response to the first implied challenge to the legitimacy of the Chironian administration of the
Kuan-yin.

Clem waved an arm casually without looking back. “Go ahead,” he said. “Can’t see as you really need any, though. You’re pretty safe up here. We don’t get many burglars.” Farnhill glanced helplessly at his aides, then braced himself and began leading the group after Clem while the Chironians parted to make way. The military deputation broke formation to take up the rear with Wesserman tossing back a curt “Carry on, Guard Commander” in the direction of Sirocco.

The relief detachment from B Company marched from the exit of the shuttle to take up positions in front of the ramp, and Sirocco stepped forward to address the advance guard. “Ship detail,
aiten-shun!
Two ranks in marching order, fall . . .
in!”
The two lines that had been angled away from the lock re-formed into files behind the section leaders. “Sentry details will detach and fall out at stations. By the left . . .
march!”
The two lines clumped their way behind Sirocco across the antechamber, wheeled left while each man on the inside marked time for four paces, and clicked away along the corridor beyond and into the
Kuan-yin.

Amy watched curiously over the top of Cromwell’s head as they disappeared from sight. “I wonder why they walk like that when they shout at each other,” she mused absently. “Do you know why, Cromwell?”

“Have you thought about it?” Cromwell asked.

“Not really.”

“You should think about things as well as just ask questions. Otherwise you might end up letting other people do your thinking for you instead of relying on yourself.”

“Ooh . . . I wouldn’t want to do that,” Amy said.

“All right then,” Cromwell challenged. “Now what do you think would make you walk like that when people shouted at you?”

“I don’t know.” Amy screwed her face up and rubbed the bridge of her nose with a finger. “I suppose I’d have to be crazy.”

“Well,
there’s
something to think about,” Cromwell suggested.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Clump, Clump, Clump,
clump, clump, clump, clump, clump.

“Detail . . .
halt!”

Clump-Clump!

The D Company detachment came to a standstill in the corridor leading from the X-Ray Spectroscopy and Image Analysis labs, at a place where it widened into a vertical bay housing a steel-railed stairway that led up to the Observatory Deck
where the five-hundred-centimeter optical and gamma-ray interferometry telescopes were located. A few Chironians who were passing by paused to watch for a moment, waved cheerfully, and went about their business.

“Sentry detail, detach to . . .
post!”
Sirocco shouted. PFC Driscoll stepped one pace backward from the end of the by-this-time-diminished file, turned ninety degrees to the right, and stepped back again to come to attention with his back to the wall by the entrance to a smaller side-corridor. “Parade . . .
rest!”
Driscoll moved his left foot into an astride stance and brought his gun down from the shoulder to rest with its butt on the floor, one inch from his boot. “Remainder of detail, by the left . . .
march!”

Clump, clump, clump, clump . . .

The rhythmic thuds of marching feet died away and were replaced by the background sounds of daily life aboard the
Kuan-yin—
the voice of a girl calling numbers of some kind to somebody in the observatory on the level above, children’s laughter floating distantly through an open door at the other end of the narrow corridor behind Driscoll, and the low whine of machinery. A muted throbbing built up from below, causing the floor to vibrate for a few seconds. Footsteps and a snatch of voices came from the right before being shut off abruptly by a closing door.

Driscoll was feeling more relieved. If what he had seen so far was anything to go by, the Chironians weren’t going to start any trouble. He’d had to bite his tongue in order to keep a straight face back in the antechamber by the ramp, and it was a miracle that nobody important had heard Stanislau sniggering next to him. The Chironians were okay, he had decided. Everything would be okay . . . provided that ass-faces like Farnhill didn’t go and screw things up.

What had impressed him the most was the way the kids seemed to be involved in everything that was going on just as much as the grown-ups. They didn’t come across like kids at all, but more like small people who were busy finding out how things were done. In a room two posts back, he had glimpsed a couple of kids who couldn’t have been more than twelve probing carefully and with deep frowns of concentration inside the electronics of a piece of equipment that must have cost millions. The older Chironian with them just watched over their shoulders and offered occasional suggestions. It made sense, Driscoll thought. Treat them as if they’re responsible, and they act responsibly; give them bits of cheap plastic to throw around, and they act like it’s cheap plastic. Or maybe the Chironians just had good insurance on their equipment.

He wondered how he might have made out if he’d had a start like that. And what would a guy like Colman be doing, who knew more about the
Mayflower II
’s machines than half the echelon-four snot-noses put together? If that was the way the computers had brought the first kids up, Driscoll reflected, he could think of a few humans who could have used some lessons.

His debut into life had been very different. The war had left his parents afflicted by genetic damage, and their first two children had not survived infancy. Aging prematurely from side effects, they had known they would never see Chiron when they brought him aboard the
Mayflower II
as a boy of eight and sacrificed the few more years that they might have spent on Earth in order to give him a new start somewhere else. Paradoxically, their health had qualified them favorably in their application to join the Mission since the planning had called for the inclusion of older people and higher-risk actuarial categories among the population to make room for the births that would be occurring later. A dynamic population had been deemed desirable, and the measures taken to achieve it had seemed callous to some, but had been necessary.

As a youth he had daydreamed about becoming an entertainer—a singer, or a comic, maybe—but he couldn’t sing and he couldn’t tell jokes, and somehow after his parents died within two years of each other halfway through the voyage, he had ended up in the Army. So now, though he still couldn’t sing a note or tell a joke right, he knew just how to use an M32 to demolish a small building from two thousand yards, could operate a battlefield compack blindfolded, and was an expert at deactivating optically triggered anti-intruder personnel mines.

About all he was good with outside things like that was cards. He couldn’t remember exactly when his fascination with them had started, but it had been soon after Swyley, then a fellow private, had taught him to shuffle four aces to the top of a deck and feed them into a deal from the palm. Finding to his surprise that he seemed to have an aptitude, Driscoll had borrowed a leaf from Colman’s book and started reading up about the subject. For many long off-duty hours he had practiced top-pass palms and one-handed side-cuts until he could materialize three full fans from an empty hand and lift a named number of cards off a deck eight times out of ten. Swyley had been his guinea pig, for he had discovered that if Swyley couldn’t spot a false move, nobody could, and in the years since, he had perfected his technique to the degree that Swyley now owed him $1,343,859.20, including interest.