CHAPTER 14

Admiral Sampson was used to making decisions alone, but this time he felt the full weight of the world—no the Empire—on his shoulders. The battleship Gangout had developed engine trouble a day past. For twelve hours she limped along with the rest of the fleet, but then her starboard engine gave out and she dropped out of superluminal. Admiral Sampson ordered the battleship Wisconsin to rejoin with the Gangout, and if she could not be brought to speed to rescue her crew, and scuttle the ship, discreetly. It didn’t turn out to be quite that simple.

As luck would have it the Gangout dropped over the superluminal horizon right into the center of an inhabited system. Before long the Gangout registered the inevitable and unavoidable scans of the Quotterim. The Captain of the vessel, realizing he’d been sighted and understanding the dire results wisely jammed the planet’s communications system. The Gangout still had use of her systems through power supplied by her good superluminal engine, so she entered orbit about the planet and established quarantine. The timely arrival of the Wisconsin squadron overwhelmed whatever response the inhabitants might have considered against the Gangout, but it presented Admiral Sampson with a stark dilemma.

The Admiral rubbed his ebony jaw in thought. Captain Palmero had taken charge of the quarantine when the Wisconsin entered orbit, and he was now on the viewer. Palmero had just given Sampson a preliminary report over a tight communications band. Sampson dropped his own squadron out of superluminal to contain the communications signal to a bare minimum, but now he was getting nervous. His fleet was divided, and the enemy knew he was there. At all costs he needed to contain the situation and prevent the information of his presence from reaching the Alliance. Just what that cost might be he was afraid to calculate. There was a long silence.

“Captain, how many people does this planet have?”

“Nearly thirty million, Admiral,” Palmero replied grimly. “This is no small frontier town, or world, but an important planet in this sector of the Quotterim Empire. Our Scythian charts list it as “Altamira,” the second largest center of commerce in this province. They get convoys through here monthly, and random traders nearly every day. Fortunately for us there were no traders in the system other than those already on the planet’s surface when we arrived. Currently the situation is in hand, but I can’t guarantee how long that will last.”

“Are you in contact with the planetary government?”

“Only to issue our ultimatum,” Palmero answered. “When immediately jammed all of their communications bands, all that we know about at least. I then issued an ultimatum to the effect that the planet was under quarantine. Any outgoing signal from the planet would trigger a bombardment and any ship leaving the planet’s surface would be destroyed. Thus far they seem to be taking us seriously. We’ve seen no attempt either way.”

“That was quick thinking, but we need more,” Sampson told him. “We need to bring the situation to a head and we need to do it fast. I can’t afford to keep the Wisconsin tied up playing jailer, and there is no way we can shut down every transmitter on a planet that large. I think we need their help.”

“How do we go about getting it?”

“We’re on the right track with this quarantine, we just need to get them to buy into it is all,” Sampson smiled.

“I’m listening,” Palmero replied.

#

Alexander’s brain registered only the unexpected shock of the assault until the frigid waters of the lake slapped him into sensibility. He went under with the rush of water around his ears, and something wrapped about his legs, pinning them together. Whatever it was it immediately began pulling him through the darkness. Instead of trying to fight it Alexander heaved downwards with both arms, clawing for the gulp of air which surprise had denied him. His head broke the surface for an instant, and he did not waste the moment with trying to cry out. He took in a lungful of air and was summarily dragged under and through the water. With the air in his lungs Alexander was able to focus his mind on his predicament. According to the pressure in his ears he was not too deep, but he was moving quickly, more quickly than he could swim; dragged by his legs. He could see the faint gleam of two lights maybe five meters ahead in the stygian night beneath the lake, but nothing else.

He grappled for his blaster, which had served him faithfully under the waters of Pantrixnia, but as his hand grasped the emptiness he remembered with painful clarity leaving it behind with most of his armor. Immediately his hand shifted down to his thigh, and there, nestled safely in its sheath, was the Chem knife. The nearly half a yard of Chem steel came into his hand willingly, and Alexander struggled against the current to place its edge on his bindings. Try as he may, though, Alexander could not reach beyond his feet. The alarm for air began to sound in his head and he placed the blade between his legs and felt it run up against his bindings. He cut upwards and felt the thong part. Nothing. He reached again, feeling the edge run up against more bonds. He cut again, and then again. Finally, with the desperation to breath reaching a painful crescendo, he cut what turned out to be the last bond.

He settled to a stop, scrambling upwards. In a flash of foam he broke out into the starlight, now seeming bright as day, and drank in the cool fresh air. There was no chance to relish the freedom. Alexander filled his lungs five times and then plunged below again. His antagonists were below, and he searched for their lights. Instantly he saw them, slightly apart, but almost upon him. He cursed, assuring himself that never again would he forget his blaster. That weapon would have made quick work of his present problem, but he still had his knife, which glowed dully with the diffuse light of the approaching flashlights. The sudden thump of a spear on his Chem cuirass, the one piece of armor he was wearing, spurred him into action. Alexander did not wait further upon his adversaries. He chose the closest light and charged. Alexander’s experience being what it was he didn’t know what manner of being he would meet. His surprise was almost physical when he came to grips with what appeared to be a normal wetsuit clad Terran armed with a knife.

That was nearly all he saw, however, as the light of the flashlight careened wildly in the ensuing melee. Alexander did not bother to attempt to grapple the knife arm of his foe, but rather sought to grasp with his left hand while wildly plunging his huge blade into the writhing figure. It was a savage and desperate struggle in the cold dark, short of breath, thrashing through the frigid liquid. With nothing to see Alexander clutched blindly. He found little purchase on the figure, as all he felt was the slick suit and streamlined equipment. His knife thrusts were accordingly erratic, but the huge blade still found something. The dancing beams of the flashlight grew suddenly cloudy, diffused by some foreign substance in the water. He felt his adversary’s hand desperately clawing at his breast, finding nothing but the hard scales of the cuirass. The assassin’s blade scraped and thumped against his torso without effect. Realizing belatedly that Alexander was armored the attacker shifted his thrusts to Alexander’s head and neck. Alexander felt the cold bite of the blade creasing his skull, but he ignored it as his blade finally found full purchase in the soft yielding vitals of the assassin. He used the anchor of the blade to pull himself closer to the assassin, reaching out with one hand to steady himself, and wrapping his powerful legs around the torso. The assassin grunted in pain, pinned as he was, and struck weakly at Alexander’s armored back. Alexander, feeling the striking arm on his left shoulder caught it in the crook of his left arm and pinned it to his side. The assassin immobilized, Alexander set himself for a killing blow but even as his knife rose he felt an arm wrap itself around his shoulders from behind. Alexander struck, twisted, and kicked free of the pinned assassin in one instantaneously violent movement. His blade plunged and twisted into the first assassin’s breast as the second assassin’s knife, meant to cut his throat, instead slashed wickedly across his cheek. Pulling his blade free and blindly guessing that he now faced the second assassin, he struck upwards. The blade again found flesh, and this time Alexander heard the palpable scream of pain. He twisted the blade, gaining another satisfactory response, and as before used the anchor of the blade to find his foe. His left hand found a strap, and he pulled his blade from the assassin’s groin. The second assassin continued to strike wildly, but they were weak blows, and they ended altogether when Alexander calmly buried his half meter of steel in his ribs.

Alexander struck away from the twitching corpse, the need for air again ringing in his head. After what seemed an eternity he broke the surface to find a completely different world than he had seen only seconds before. Every light in the MacDonald’s Hudson Bay resort was on, and half a dozen boats were already putting out. It was the matter of only a moment before the first of them reached the waving Alexander, streaming blood from his head and face. A forest of helping hands pulled the Overlord to safety and Alexander gratefully exchanged the chill waters of Pend Oreille for the cool air of Idaho. Alexander daubed at the slashes on his head with a towel as the boat sped back to the float house, which was now an anthill of activity. A small army of generals, aides, guards and the like, both Chem and Terran, met him at the dock. Alexander, holding the bloody towel to his head, waved off all offers of aide, stomping from the boat and giving orders at once.

“Admiral Augesburcke! Send some of our people back to fish the bodies out. I think we shall find them disturbingly Terran!” He growled, irritated more with the fact that the assassination attempt had been, apparently at least, Terran in origin. Alexander’s mind was whirling with the implications of what just occurred. The Alliance, he assumed, could be expected, even forgiven, for such attempts. Such was the Galactic’s paranoia over Alexander. Yet what reason would Terrans have to assassinate Alexander, especially in the present crisis? He could think of only one thing, and the thought angered him: political power.

Augesburcke shouted for a tree by tree search in and around the lake for any additional accomplices, his bassoon voice bellowing at the height of fury. He was answered by a cascading series of orders, the roar of boat engines, and the whirl of choppers as a frenzied search effort got under way. To add to the confusion a flurry of press somehow gained entry onto the dock. Flashbulbs were popping off in the night, and frantic questions were being hurled at Alexander, Augesburcke and anyone else who looked like they might have been responsible for preventing such an occurrence. The press, the guards and the Admiralty were all vying for space around Alexander, and on the crowded quay with the tenseness of the situation, tempers started to flare. The press was, obviously, an uninvited presence, and one of the soldiers apparently had enough of their irritating demand for Alexander’s attentions. One of the pushing and pleading newsman finally met his match. A soldier silenced his pleading soliloquy by thrusting her rifle butt into his chest. He cartwheeled off the dock like a stick figure, arms and legs sprouting straight from his body. There was a splash of white foam on black water, and then a long moment of rippling emptiness. Finally, the newsman appeared to a chorus of nervous laughter and genuine anger.

“Enough! Enough! Silence, all of you!” Alexander roared, and suddenly the throng about him grew quiet. One reporter, seeing this as a moment of opportunity began to call out a question. “I said silence!” Alexander roared, his temper obviously getting the better of him. The newsman ignored the warning and began his question again. Alexander’s blade flashed out, inches from the pallid white face. “Someone get him out of here! Take his press pass and ensure he is not issued one again!”

The members of the press, eyes now white with surprise and fascination actually shrank away from the Overlord, and Alexander replied with a steady glare. “That goes for any photographer who wants to shove a camera in my face, or that of any other dignitary. There’ll be no “Paparazzi,” or whatever they’re called, around me. Understood? Manners, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to rediscover them. If you don’t you are out. Simple as that. Now, any one of you want to press me on that?” There was an uneasy silence. At length a reporter experimentally raised her hand. Alexander glared at her, hands on hips, naked blade glaring emphatically under the lights, blood still oozing from his slashed face. His barbarous appearance and temper failed to coy her. She merely raised a Vulcan inspired brow and kept her hand up. Alexander growled, and daubed his face with the bloody towel. “Very well, what is it?”

“Mr. Overlord, could you possibly give us a brief description of what just happened?”

“An intelligent question, at least,” Alexander admitted, but before he answered Admiral Augesburcke stepped up to his side and urged him to forego a press conference and get his “Overlordship’s ass” into the float house so the surgeon could see to his wounds. Alexander glanced at Augesburcke with a sour expression. “I look that bad?”

Augesburcke simply raised both brows.

Alexander relented, telling the assembled press, “I’ll explain it later, suffice to say it’s just a flesh wound. Now I really must get to it, and by the way, has anyone seen my wife?”

For once the press was patently useful. As one they pointed immediately behind Alexander. He turned to find Nazeera, drenched, in the midst of her uneasy Chem guard.

“Hello, my dear, sorry to have left you in the lurch there,” he told her, a wry grin appearing on his bloody face. When he reached Nazeera, whose eyes lost some of their greenish tinge of concern, he wrapped his free arm about her waist. “Came in after me did you? That lake is cold, my dear and not at all like your tropical lakes on Chem. Are you certain you are alright?”

Nazeera smiled, putting her arms about him, and examining his wounds. “Oh pah! It is only water, my husband! It was hot enough with my desire to find you! Unfortunately, I am no fish, and my entourage would not suffer me to search for you for long. They feared for my life as I feared for yours.”

“My thanks to the noble Chem for that,” Alexander nodded to her retinue.

“Yes, but we must get you within where the surgeon may attend you,” Nazeera told him, leaving no more room for argument.

Holding the towel to his face he assured her. “I’m alright, actually my lungs hurt more than these scratches. I’m not so used to holding my breath. I think the excitement of the evening is over though. Let’s go inside and get me stitched up.”

Nazeera walked with her husband, her own arm around him. The shock of the encounter did not trouble her as nearly as Alexander’s Terrans. She was Chem, and moreover this was not the first time she’d witnessed Alexander in danger. The throng parted for the two, a nervous buzz of conversation but no questions surrounding them. With the buzz of the press still in their ears Alexander disappeared inside with Nazeera, the Admiralty and the Chem.

#

The enormous yet graceful bulk of the Wisconsin floated threateningly over the capital of Altamira, a city called Deltir. Directly below “Big Whiskey” and her protective guns, was the shuttle of Captain Palmero. The Captain himself was within the capital, convening with the Governor of Altamira. Palmero was forceful though carefully courteous. He told the Quotterim, “Governor, we each have our jobs to do, yours is the safety and welfare of this planet, mine is the protection of the Terran Empire from Alliance aggression.”

“It seems to me that these are Terran ships in orbit around a Quotterim world, Admiral, not Quotterim ships in orbit around a Terran world,” the Governor answered placidly. The Quotterim were a smallish, slight race which could not be described as particularly humanoid. They were less than a meter tall and weighed perhaps thirty pounds. Though bipedal the Quotterim had extra appendages almost like tentacles but with more rigid articulation under their two arms. The Quotterim’s eyes were large and expressive, and at this moment seemed faintly amused at the Admiral.

“Then would you care to explain the four thousand Alliance warships massed on our borders,” he demanded. When the Quotterim shrank back from his manner, Palmero bit back his Spanish anger, and waved a hand to calm the Governor. In a more diplomatic tone, he said, “We are each justly assured in our own correctness, Governor, but it is not my intention to debate politics with you at this time—I’m not a politician. I seek merely to come to a mutual understanding and to gain your cooperation.”

“You seem to be in control, Admiral, what is it you wish of us?”

“I want you to give me a reason for not bombarding your planet back into the Stone Age, Governor,” Palmero smiled.

The Governor and those Quotterim gathered about the table looked at each other with a sudden nervous tension in their eyes. The Governor remained almost, but not quite as impassive as before. “Really Captain, I think if you’d meant to destroy Altamira you’d have already done so without so many words wasted upon us.”

“That is true, Governor,” Palmero told the Quotterim, “but it was not my intention to destroy your planet in the first place. We are not here by choice, but by necessity. The reasoning is irrelevant. We are here. I advise you to accept that fact. My problem now is that you know I am here. I need you to give me a reason why I should not jeopardize my mission by eliminating that problem.”

“You would not destroy over thirty million beings,” the Governor exclaimed, adding, “Even Terrans could not be so barbaric.”

Palmero stroked his mustache, saying stonily, “Governor, last century alone dictators on Terra executed somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred million people. That was Terran executing Terran. Do you honestly think we’ll agonize over your people more than our own?”

The Governor hesitated in his answer, and one of his aides took the opportunity to whisper a warning in his ear. “It is just as the Scythians told us, Governor! Do not push them into a show of strength! They may destroy an entire city simply to assure us of their deadly sincerity!”

Reluctantly the Governor nodded, acknowledging the Terran’s advantage. Palmero paced to a window, and stood for a moment surveying the rocky seascape. It reminded him of his home on the Mediterranean coast. The sea was the wrong shade of blue, but it was warm with a salty bite in the air, there was even what looked to be groves of olive trees. In a more amicable tone the Captain told the Quotterim, “Terrans can be quite barbaric, Governor, but we do not have to be. Eventually we would like a working relationship with the Quotterim as a whole, but for the moment I will be satisfied with your cooperation.”

“What exactly do you mean by “working relationship” Captain?” The Governor asked. “Quotterim working in Terran mines does not strike me as a future worth treason.”

“Terrans no longer palate slavery, Governor,” the Captain said briskly. “When I say working relationship I mean just that, as equals. I would hazard to say that Alexander would seek a relationship similar to that we have with the Scythians.”

“In which we would lose a great deal of our empire through Terran migration and then political absorption,” the Governor noted.

Palmero shook his head impatiently. “That is something you will have to work out with Alexander. I did not come to Altamira to bring about a political settlement to the war. That is beyond my authority.”

“In other words Alexander will dictate terms to us under threat of annihilation, just as you are,” the Governor replied, his aides becoming noticeably nervous at the Governor’s tone.

Palmero was about to issue a burning retort, but the sight of the fearful Quotterim surrounding their Governor, who sat proudly behind his desk as if discussing a routine state visit, not the survival of his world. The Captain had a sudden admiration for the Quotterim politician, and a sudden understanding of how Alexander dealt so successfully with aliens. The word alien was actually a misnomer in Alexander’s vocabulary. Each and every person, despite their origin, was a being and Alexander dealt with them accordingly. Now for the first time Captain Palmero saw the Governor as something other than an alien Quotterim. He could relate to how the governor felt, and he responded accordingly.

“Governor, I empathize with the difficulty of your position, and I understand your obligations and loyalty to your government. You are an astute individual, so I am certain you also understand my obligations and loyalties. Let me add one more thing, however, concerning Terrans. Although it is true that I will go to extreme measures to ensure the success of my mission I can tell you honestly I will do so only with great reluctance. I gain no honor from the destruction of helpless beings, and I can say with equal certainty that Alexander would be most distressed with such an outcome. You see Alexander believes that eventually there will be a normalization of relations between Terra and all the current member states of the Alliance. A catastrophic event, such as the destruction of Altamira, could only hurt the short term prospects for such normalization. I say this to gain your cooperation, Governor, but it is true nonetheless. If your well being were not part of my mission we would not be speaking.”

“I understand your point, Captain,” the Governor replied, “but you must understand this: treason is treason, and it cannot be bought.”

“I do not seek your treason, Governor, or even your acceptance,” the Captain told him. “I merely seek your cooperation under duress with quarantine of this system. No ships shall be allowed to leave it, and none shall be allowed in. There are, obviously, to be no transmissions made to or from the system.”

The Governor wrung his tiny hands, and his extra appendages drummed on his ribs as a Terran would drum their fingers on a desk. “You may jam our communications, of course, as you already are, and you can ground our ships but I doubt you can prevent scheduled and unscheduled shipping from approaching the Altamira system. That, Captain, is unfortunately out of my control. I will cooperate under duress for the best interests of the citizens under my care, but I will not help you in any way.”

“That is all I came looking for, Governor,” the Captain replied.

“Captain, may I ask, what will you do with those ships entering our system?”

Palmero’s face turned stony. “They will have to be destroyed, of course.”

“That will lead to a great loss of life, Captain,” the Governor observed.

“I am open to any options, Governor, so long as they do not violate my objectives,” Palmero said.

The Governor hesitated, but then told him, “You mentioned the concept of quarantine. It is not an altogether unique occurrence for a system to declare a decand or decant long quarantine for a variety of reasons. For instance, there are five systems currently under quarantine in the Quotterim Empire for unpredicted solar activity. Our worlds are tamed, Captain, but often the galaxy is not. It would be possible for us to issue such a warning by your order and thereby avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.”

“Give me a recording of the message and the procedures for its issuance,” the Captain told the Governor. “If it meets with our approval we will issue it.” It took only a few moments for the Quotterim Governor to supply Palmero with the message and instructions that it should be broadcast ten times every Galactic decurn on several frequencies. When the Captain had the assurances he wanted he nodded and said, “Thank you for your time, Governor. I think this arrangement, strained though it is, will work out to both our advantage.” The Captain turned to leave, but a thought prompted him to stop at the door and address the Governor again. “Governor, I am a soldier and war is my business, but I’d like you to know I am sorry we had to meet this way. You are the first of the Quotterim I have met, and I sincerely wish that it occurred under more peaceful circumstances.”

“The Quotterim, and myself, would have wished that as well,” the Governor replied, obviously surprised at the remark.

The Captain nodded. “Good luck, Governor!” He said and returned to his shuttle. When he was strapped in for the short return flight to the Gangout Captain Palmero shook his head and told his aide, “You know I think I could really get to like that guy. I wonder what they’d think of Spanish wine?”