"Uhh," said the doctor, all shamefaced, "sorry to interrupt you, Admiral, but uhh, ha-ha, Nimbus has been saying some things I think we should, uhh, discuss."
"What sort of things?" Festina asked.
The doctor gestured for the cloud man to answer. "Well," Nimbus said, particles of mist roiling within him, "I’m sure you realize Grandma Yulai won’t be the last. She’s only the first casualty in a much larger campaign to keep York’s expose hushed up. If someone on the High Council was desperate enough to murder her—"
"Wait," Havel interrupted. "Does it have to be someone on the High Council?" He turned to Festina with his big watery eyes… as if, ha-ha, the admiral would reassure him the universe was not truly cruel. "Maybe it was just someone misguided," Havel suggested. "A lowly ensign perhaps, who thought killing this woman would make the admirals happy. That could be how it was, couldn’t it?"
"The council will try to make it look that way if this business ever gets out." Festina curled her lip. "They’ll find some gung-ho hotshot who’ll confess to doing it unasked… and the admirals will howl with horror that anyone could believe they’d approve of such a deed. For all I know, maybe it was some lousy lieutenant who wanted to impress the High Council. But we have to assume the worst: one or more admirals have gone bug-fuck and they’re ready to out-and-out murder folks who pose a threat." She gave a grim little smile. "I’m afraid I fall into the threat category. So does Oar. So does everyone on this ship."
"But even if the admirals are on the warpath," Havel said, "they can’t do anything, can they? They’re all on New Earth. They can’t send execution squads to murder us in space the League would never allow killers to leave New Earth’s system."
"The admirals don’t have to send killers. Every planet in the Technocracy has locals who don’t mind slitting throats for a price. And our beloved high admirals know who those people are. Wherever we dock, someone will be waiting for us."
"Then we don’t dock," Havel said. "We’re a navy starship, for heaven’s sake — we can survive in deep space for three full years. Even longer if we sneak into uninhabited star systems every so often and mine a few asteroids."
"And in the meantime, we let the killers run free?" Festina scowled, "I wasn’t the only Explorer marooned on Melaquin — there were dozens of others, and they’re all at risk. Most are still serving in the fleet; the next time their ships dock, there’ll be assassins waiting in port. As soon as my fellow Explorers go on shore leave, they’ll get their throats sliced. Do you think I’ll sit back and let that happen?"
"Then let us confront the Admiralty," I said. "Let us make them stop killing. Let us make them know how awful death is."
Festina shook her head. "The admirals are all on New Earth, and it’s way too dangerous for us to go anywhere near there. I don’t just mean New Earth itself — just entering the system may be a risk. Entering any Technocracy system. The council could spread word that Royal Hemlock has turned renegade: non-sentient. Every navy ship might have orders to manufacture missiles and put us down."
"Missiles?" Nimbus said. "You mean bombs? I thought the League of Peoples wouldn’t let ships carry lethal weapons."
Festina gave the cloud man a weary smile. "The League won’t let us carry weapons from one star system to another… but they certainly do let us kill dangerous non-sentients. Sometimes it’s nigh on mandatory. How do you think we handle pirates or terrorists? Plenty of nasty folk arm their ships and cause trouble for passers-by. If killers like that leave their home star system, the League takes care of them; but if the bad guys stay in one place, hiding in a handy asteroid belt and popping out from time to time to hijack local shipping, our navy has to declare a police action. A squadron goes in, sets up a secure base, then manufactures warheads from standard ship supplies. The warheads attach to normal probe missiles, and voila, you’re ready to shoot non-sentients. Once the enemy has been blown to smithereens, you dismantle your leftover warheads and go home with your pockets full of danger pay."
Dr. Havel muttered under his breath, "If the League lets you."
Festina nodded. "True. The biggest danger isn’t fighting a scruffy bunch of outlaws; it’s afterward, when you find out whether the League accepts your actions. The bad guys damned near always have innocent hostages aboard their ships, so the navy can’t just leap into an indiscriminate firefight. You try to negotiate, which seldom works, then you try blockading, then maybe a sneak attack to grab the enemy with your ship’s tractors… and nine times out of ten it still comes down to a shoot-out where you blast the bastards to bat-shit.
"Afterward, you ask yourself scary questions: did we really do our best to save sentient lives, or is the League going to hand us a death sentence when we reach deep space? Even worse, did we really clean up a nest of homicidal maniacs, or were those so-called terrorists actually high-minded dissenters against some corrupt local regime… and the fat-assed generalissimos fed our navy a pack of ties so we’d wipe out their squeaky clean opposition." Festina shrugged. "You can never be sure. The only way to learn if you did the right thing is to head home; if the League doesn’t kill you, you’re a bona fide hero."
"But even if the League doesn’t kill you," Dr. Havel said, "they may kill the person next to you." He dropped his gaze. "Admiral Ramos hasn’t mentioned what usually happens after our navy blows some ship from the sky. Even if you think you’ve pulled off a textbook operation, the League still executes a few people in your crew. Maybe those folks liked the killing too much — or maybe they didn’t do their best to encourage a peaceful surrender. Maybe the League are secretly sadists and they kill a couple crew members at random to keep everyone else nervous. You never know: God forbid the League should explain its actions. All you can say for sure is that the nice woman who always ate lunch with you, and the funny guy from engineering who had a new joke every day… they both got executed by the League and you’re still alive."
His voice carried such bitterness, we all stared at him. The doctor did not say more. It occurred to me that a man who laughs at the least opportunity may not be half so jolly as he seems.
Avoidance
"Well," said Festina in a quiet voice, "we won’t give anyone the chance to shoot us. Royal Hemlock will stay far away from Technocracy star systems; even if the council orders the rest of the fleet to vaporize us on sight, we’ll never come within target range."
"Then how shall we defeat the villains?" I asked.
"We’ll go public," Festina said. "Loud, brash, and the sooner the better. Before I came down here, I asked Captain Kapoor to contact news agencies on the closest planet to us: a Cashling world named Jalmut. We’ll record our testimony here on Hemlock, transmit everything to the Cashlings, and let them blare it across the galaxy." She smiled grimly. "I like the idea of putting out the news through nonhumans; it’s less likely the fleet will be able to get to them."
"Get to them?" Havel gulped. "What do you mean?"
"Bribe them, intimidate them, tie them up in red tape. Every human news agency has a few people who’ve been secretly bought by the navy." She glanced over at Uclod, still huddled against Lajoolie. "That must be how the Admiralty learned what Grandma Yulai was planning: she approached some reporter and the snitches got wind of it. But nonhuman media services are less subject to fleet interference; and once our statements hit general broadcast, the High Council won’t be able to keep things quiet. Even better, they won’t dare bump off the other Explorers who can testify about Melaquin — it’ll be too obvious.