Mission to Minerva

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

General Gudaf Irastes, second-in-command of the Prince's Own Regiment of the Lambian Royal Guard, didn't know who the foreigners were, where they had come from, or how they had made contact with the prince. They wore strange, outlandish garb that suggested some kind of air crew tunic, and their speech, though seemingly derived from Lambian, was barely recognizable. But Irastes took a simple, pragmatic view of life. When it was deemed his business to know more, he would know. In the meantime, he just followed orders. And his orders were to go with the leader of the deputation that had made the contact, who was called Wylott, back to a base they had established somewhere, and escort their chief back to meet with Freskel-Gar at Dorjon, his stronghold in Lambia.

Irastes had with him a detachment of two officers and eight troopers. Wylott and four of the deputation that had appeared with him would accompany them, while the other four remained at Dorjon with the samples of weapons that they had brought. It was understood that they were being kept as as hostages to ensure good behavior, although nobody had been so indelicate as to say so. Irastes was intrigued by what seemed to be communications accessories that the foreigners wore on their wrists and belts, and also their sidearms. They appeared to be of extremely advanced types, completely unfamiliar. He hoped this wasn't representative of Cerian work that had been going on, and which he had never heard of. If it were, the implications were alarming. Small wonder that Freskel-Gar had been very interested in the weapons. Irastes wondered if he was working some kind of deal with a renegade Cerian group who had access to developments that had been kept a secret.

Following directions from the foreigners, a Lambian personnel flyer carried the mixed group over the hills to the south of Dorjon and then across the plateau region to the wilderness of scarps and folds forming the eastern base of the Coastal Range. Irastes couldn't imagine where the foreigners could have come from in this direction. Presumably, they had traveled to Dorjon in a vehicle of their own that was also being held there somewhere with the hostages; but it wasn't his place to ask.

An incoming call sounded from the copilot's panel, speaking in the foreigners' peculiar tongue. Irastes was able to make out what sounded like "… identify…" but the rest was lost. The copilot looked around for direction. Wylott nodded to him, accepted a microphone, and went into a brief dialogue." Evidently the foreigners had been monitoring Lambian transmission frequencies. The aide of Wylott's who had been helping with the navigating tapped the pilots shoulder and made hand motions to indicate a large shoulder of rock buttress ahead, projecting from the side of a steep ridge. "There… Around, yes? Then down. You see where."

A tight turn around the shoulder brought them over a canyon that opened out below suddenly. Lying in it was an aircraft unlike anything Irastes had seen before-as seemed to be the case with just about everything else connected with these foreigners. It was dull gray in color, and curvy and bulbous, flaring at the tail into two stub wings that seemed impossibly small for its bulk, each tipped by a vertical stabilizer extending above and below. Irastes put it at about the size of a military staff carrier or a small commercial airliner. There were figures outside, watching as the Lambian flyer descended. The craft had insignia on its wings and sides, Irastes saw as they approached for touchdown. But they were not Cerian.

The flyer landed; a crewman opened the door and extended the steps. Wylott stepped out with two of the foreigners, indicating for Irastes and his party to follow, while the rest from the flyer closed up behind. The foreigners outside were armed but carrying their weapons slung. They turned to move with the arrivals back toward their waiting craft. Evidently, the journey was not over yet. Irastes halted. "How long is it likely to be before we get back here?" he asked Wylott.

"Iz wazza gi fadid zo say?"

Irastes motioned toward the aircraft. "How long?" He pushed his sleeve up to show his watch and pointed. Then waved a circle in the air and pointed at the ground. "Back here?"

"Oh…" Wylott held up a hand showing four fingers, then extended his thumb as well. "Hours." Irastes detailed one of his officers and two men to remain behind and guard the flyer they had arrived in. He nodded to Wylott, and they proceeded up the extended ramp of the foreigners' craft.

Its inside was even stranger. The structure and fittings seemed more in accord with the interior of a luxury yacht than anything economized by necessity in the manner of every flying machine Irastes had ever seen. And there were none of the panels, equipment racks, banks of cabling, and all the other paraphernalia of typical military interiors that he would have expected. Instead, there were screens flanked by arrays of what looked like luminous crystals, and areas of wall and ceiling that seemed to glow internally, illuminating the cabin. The seats seemed to mold themselves to any posture that was desired. He was still marveling at it all, when he realized the ramp had retracted beneath doors that closed from somewhere, and in moments they were moving. From the views on the screens, they were going straight up, but uncannily there was no feeling inside the cabin of lying back-or even of accelerating, though the rate at which the ground image was shrinking told that the rate was fearsome. The outline of Lambia was already visible in patches between clouds; then ocean, fringed by a brilliant line that had to mark the edge of the ice sheet. The horizon became distinctly curved. Above, the sky was darkening, showing stars. And still they were going up. Only then did the realization hit Irastes fully: This was more than just an aircraft; it was a space ship!

Broghuilio stood on the bridge of the Jevlenese flagship. Screens showed the drab surroundings of gullies, ridges, patches of ice and dusty rock making up the area of Minerva's moon where the ships had put down. Although it seemed unlikely that the Lunarians would have established any regular surveillance of the far side yet, the ships were lying in hollows selected to be in shadow for much of the time. Surface tractors with g-shovels had scattered lunar debris over and around them to obscure their outlines.

Things were moving well, and surprisingly rapidly. A reconnaissance party sent to Minerva with General Wylott aboard one of the ship's daughter craft had established the period as being the early years of strain between the Lambians Cerians, before the onset of major hostilities between them. Given the peculiar circularity of the situation as it related to Jevelenese origins, which Estordu and the scientists prattled about incessantly, it had seemed logical to approach the Lambians. Wylott had made contact accordingly with a member of the ruling faction called Freskel-Gar, who was at once enticed by the samples of weaponry that Wylott had taken with him for precisely that purpose. The plan had been simply to establish some sort of rapport with the Lambian leadership and then play things from there. However, Wylott reported that Freskel-Gar was opposed to the official Lambian policy of seeking an understanding with Cerios, and represented a dissident movement who wanted to take a harder line. Wylott attributed Freskel-Gar's readiness to divulge all this to the lure of the Jevlenese weaponry, which suggested that he perhaps harbored ambitions that went beyond merely registering dissent. This could suit Broghuilio even better, and he had requested arrangements to be made for him to meet this Freskel-Gar himself without further delay. Wylott communicated back that he would be returning with one of Freskel-Gar's military commanders to bring Broghuilio there. Even better. An honor escort. It wouldn't have done to have been told to come and knock on the door, like a beggar at a kitchen.

"Orbiter reports contact," an operator called from one of the consoles. "Lander locked onto homing beam, delta v-h two-seven-fifty and five-five thousand."

The bridge Duty Officer turned from inspecting system monitors. "They're on their way down. Landing in about four minutes."

"Put General Wylott on the screen," Broghuilio instructed. The pinkish, somewhat puffy countenance with its slicked-back silver hair appeared a few seconds later. "A commendable performance," Broghuilio acknowledged-which was about the closest he came to lavishing outright praise.

"Your Excellency is too gracious."

"What is the arrangement?"

"Major Krebe and a detachment have remained at Dorjon. We will proceed to a rendezvous point on the surface, where a Lambian craft is waiting to take us back. The scout has been concealed at Dorjon. Freskel-Gar awaits at your pleasure."

Broghuilio nodded. "Satisfactory."

Wylott indicated the direction over his shoulder and behind him with his eyes, and lowered his voice. "Shall I present Freskel Gar's General Irastes now?"

Broghuilio took in the figure slumped in a seat in the background, still evidently in some kind of mild shock. His mouth puckered in mild amusement behind his beard. "How well do things work with the language?" he asked.

"Difficult. The similarities are… distant," Wylott admitted.

He would cut a more impressive figure if Irastes were to meet him as part of his first experience of entering the command bridge of a converted Jevlenese interstellar transport, Broghilio decided. Maximizing effect was half the art of command and leadership. "I will receive him here," Broghuilio replied.

The lander appeared overhead minutes later, completed a slow descent, and docked in its mating bay of the transport. Shortly afterward, General Irastes and his staff and escorts were conducted through, gaping from side to side in total stupefaction. Broghuilio waited imperiously at the head of the grouped bridge officers, his arms folded. They would depart without delay, as soon as the visitors had absorbed enough to produce the required mood of receptiveness. There was no need to tell them that without h-grid power the ships' systems were running on reserves to maintain life support for the occupants, the main armaments were useless, and the secondaries only good for as long as reserve power lasted. When that ran out the ships would be little more than piles of scrap metal on the lunar surface. Minerva possessed no industries that were capable of refueling them.

Prince Freskel-Gar Engred stared again at the object lying on the table in his private chambers of the fortress at Dorjon, alongside the weapons that his experts had still been examining and questioning the foreigners about when General Irastes and his party returned. Irastes had brought it back as a token of the importance he attached to the events that had burst upon them that day. It was a rock from the far side of the Moon. Irastes had been there since the last time they spoke. The prince was still struggling to take in the things he had just been hearing.

Aliens that were human?… Somehow speaking a mutilated smattering of Lambian… Some kind of time warp from the future; but a different future. How could you have a different future when you didn't have a future yet? All of that was beyond Freskel-Gar. What was clear to him, however, was that they possessed weapons of immense potency; and even if the stocks should be limited, or if Lambia was unable to supply the materials to operate and maintain the weapons, the knowledge that these aliens possessed could be of immeasurable worth.

Freskel-Gar's deputy, Count Rorvax, who had been making some progress with following the aliens' speech translated the words of the their leader, a stormy, black-bearded man called Broghuilio. "You… I think he means on this world… don't know… War. Organizing for war… Plans and designs, yes, and a few… puppy snaps? Skirmishes. But what of… I don't quite get that… the minds of the people? What of… the same word. I think it means shaping the country, state, I guess… into a, not sure… can wage war? We can… make you into a… war leader… who will unite and… something like carry… all of Lambia… This bit's awkward. He's talking about a force Cerios won't be able to resist… Lambia and Cerios will be/become one, with one king…" Broghuilio gestured pointedly at Freskel-Gar, "and… something grand-sounding, to do with destiny."

The prince gazed again at the piece of dull, crumbly rock. Irastes had said their ships up there were the size of ocean liners. And they were willing to bargain. For reasons that Broghuilio seemed disinclined to elaborate, they were not able to get back to wherever they had come from. There were over two thousand of them up on the lunar surface in need of sanctuary and sustenance, in return for which they could no doubt render valuable services. Freskel-Gar's eyes gleamed at the pictures that Broghuilio's words had painted in his mind. He felt he had the basis of what could be a very profitable deal here. For a long time now, he had been working toward the day when he would unseat Perasmon. His followers were ready; the equipment was in place. But he had never felt sufficiently sure of having the margin that would ensure them the edge. This could be it.

The other factor had been to await the right opportunity. And that could just have been answered, too. Rorvax had brought the news that President Harzin of Cerios was coming to Lambia to meet with King Perasmon, following the negotiations that had been going on for some time between their technical advisers. It could only mean that a truce between the two powers was in the offing, after which Perasmon would be a hero, and Freskel-Gar's chance of power and fame would be gone permanently. If he was going to make his move, it seemed it would have to be very soon, or never.