The Alliance Navy was not large enough to sustain many such losses. After all, the Navy's mission was primarily to protect the spacelanes. It was held at a size that would permit it to perform its security mission, to patrol the border with the Empire, to prevent brigandage across the border, and possibly to put down a planetary insurrection, should one occur. If the Navy called much of its strength from security and border patrol, brigandage and outright piracy would quickly follow. In fact, such crimes had been increasing recently. Maybe Atmos wasn't so crazy, after all!
Certainly, the Navy's unofficial motto of "One Planet, One Ship" had a certain amount of validity. A Battle Cruiser orbiting a planet beyond the reach of ground-based weapons, and capable of overwhelming all known ground-based defenses, was usually assumed to be intimidating enough to discourage would-be rebels. If it were accompanied by a transport carrying a Marine battalion, suppression of insurrection would not normally be a problem.
A rebellion of nine prosperous systems would be a totally different case. Both the raw materials and manufacturing facilities would be available to the Coalition, and any information needed to begin the manufacture of weapons would be available on Boondock. Jirik didn't know how many of the Rim Tramps were available to the Coalition, but there could be as many as a hundred; and it wouldn't be at all difficult to outfit them with missiles and particle beam weapons, creating an almost instant fleet of warships. Admiral Kedron had shown they could quickly become effective warships a century ago.
If Jirik were commanding such a fleet, he'd station it near the center of the crescent, and place small picket ships in each planetary system. These pickets would flee at top supralight speed at the first appearance of Alliance ships, carrying word to the fleet. In this manner, the fleet would be able to respond within hours to a threat to any of the Coalition planets. Especially if the space on the far side of the Coalition were not quite as "unexplored" as the Alliance thought. A large number of small tramps, stripped for speed and armed, could overcome the defenses of the largest Alliance cruiser, the way a pack of wolves can drag down the largest prey.
Any military man knows that the most dangerous opponent he can face is a fanatic; and most of the Actionists appeared to be fanatics. Unless Tomys and his compatriots could subvert and destroy the Actionist movement covertly, with some sort of fifth column operation, it appeared that the Alliance could have a real problem.
Well, he decided, he would see Tomys tomorrow at his office, and discuss it with him. Meanwhile, he had ship's business to attend to, and he'd better get going.
Jirik took a final look at himself in the mirror, and was not impressed. The bruise on his cheek had entered what Bran sardonically called its "somber rainbow" phase: colorful, but in dull hues of purple, red and black. His eye, swollen half-closed last night, had closed even further, and shared his cheek's color scheme. None of his visible cuts and bruises was still bleeding but several were quite obvious. He hardly looked the part of a serious businessman. Since he would have to deal with a shipping agent and possibly even a librarian, this simply would not do. He delved into the first aid kit. The bruise on his cheek, as well as most of the cuts, he effectively camouflaged with makeup. The eye, however, was another problem. Debating mentally for a few moments, he finally selected a square of plastiflesh bandage and placed it over the offending eye. The plastiflesh looked better than the colorful eye, and he could simply explain it as an accident, perhaps implying that he was injured in the same encounter that damaged the ship. He rechecked his appearance in the mirror, and decided that he looked considerably more respectable. He went off to find Tor.
Tor was waiting for him when Jirik arrived at the rented office, his usual smiling expression changing to one of concern as he saw Jirik's bandage. "Are you all right, Captain?" he inquired anxiously, "What happened? Are you hurt?"
"Calm down, kid," Jirik replied, "I'm fine. I just had to hide some liberty souvenirs from the groundhogs. Listen," he continued as Tor visibly relaxed, "If they ask, the bandage is due to a small accident on board the Lass. We don't have to tell them that it was a bar fight." Tor nodded.
"All right," Jirik continued, "Have you contacted the library yet to get me an appointment with the head person?"
"Y-Y-Yessir!" Tor replied, "W-We have an ap-p-pointment with J-Jon Fanlin, the head of the L-L-Library Department of the University at 1330 hours."
"Good work, son," Jirik commended him, "That'll give us time to deal with this shipping agent, and maybe get some lunch before we talk to him."
The shipping agent appeared a few minutes later, and Tor watched interestedly as Jirik negotiated with him for a load of thorium to complete their inbound cargo. Finally, the shipping agreement signed and the loading arrangements completed, Jirik ushered his visitor out, leaned back in his chair, and yawned hugely.
"Well, that's that." He stretched deliciously, then checked his ring watch. "C'mon, kid, We've just got time enough to get something to eat before our appointment with that damned librarian."
"Uh, sir," Tor replied, "I d-don't think that Mr. Fanlin is just a librarian. I m-m-mean, he's a very important m-m-man. He's the number two man in the Library system, and on Boondock, the Library is a cabinet-level agency. I d-d-don't think you should underestimate him."
Jirik clapped the younger man on the back, almost sending him stumbling. "Hell, kid, I knew that he was important. But it's good to see that you took the trouble to find it out. You may have a future as a trader, after all!"
Tor flushed with pleasure at Jirik's compliment as they walked out onto the spaceport field. A taxi flitter was waiting. At Jirik's questioning glance, Tor flushed again. "I, uh, called a taxi when I saw that the agent was getting ready to leave, s-sir. I hope that was all right." He dodged as Jirik attempted to clap him on the back again.
"Good thinking." Jirik approved. "But I don't know any place close to get a decent meal. I've been grabbing a sandwich at my desk."
"Uh, there's a p-place near the University that's pretty good," Tor shrugged, "Uh, that is if you don't want anything f-f-fancy. It kinda caters to the students." He added apologetically as they climbed into the taxi.
"As long as I can get a decent sandwich, I don't give a damn," Jirik replied. He waited as Tor gave the address to the driver.
"Y'know, kid, I'm pretty impressed with the way you handle yourself. I haven't had time to really get to know you, since you were only on board a couple of weeks before we got here. I hate to admit that I don't know much about one of my own crewmen, but I've been so busy with the repairs and all . . ."
"There's not really much to tell, Captain," Tor replied. "I grew up on a farm on Corona. I'm 14 years old, Coronan, which means 17, standard. Ever since I can remember I've wanted to be a spacer. To tell the truth," he continued with a rueful grin, "I was a lousy farmer. But it's hard for a farmer to get into space, and the Navy has a waiting list on Corona. All my relatives and friends thought I was crazy. I had about given up when I heard that your Comm Officer signed off, and you needed a crewman to get off-planet."
He shrugged. "I used up three months' pay and a lot of favors to get to the port quick enough. You can't imagine how excited I was when Mr. Fergson . . . uh . . . Bran said he'd recommend me for the job. I guess all my math and science study in school helped a lot."
"Yeah, it helped," Jirik replied, "But I think the main reason Bran recommended you was because you wanted it so bad. A math and science background is important, son, but Bran and I both know that if you don't eat, sleep and breathe space, you'll never be happy as a spacer. How do you like it so far?"