Homefall: Book Four of the Last Legion Series (9 page)

“Then, Mr. Liskeard,” Garvin said, “we’re trouping!”

Liskeard grinned, touched controls, and
Big Bertha
lifted clear of Grimaldi and waddled toward the stars.

Garvin could have gone straight for Centrum, but he knew better. Njangu’s digging indicated that whatever had happened to the Confederation now looked like it had happened in chunks, rather than a total implosion/explosion from the center.

He felt if he went straight for the heart of the matter, he’d most likely get his head rolled, and thought it wiser to skirt the fringes … actually well into the heart of the Confederation … gathering intelligence before going for broke.

His goal was the multiple systems of Tiborg. That hadn’t been his original target, back on Cumbre, but he hadn’t planned on having to go all the way to Grimaldi to gather his troupe, either. Tiborg had been one of the secondary options he’d chosen, because a Confederation fiche, fairly classified, said the sector could be “interesting in its approach to diplomacy.”

“Which means,” Garvin had said, “they’re royal pains in the ass … or were, anyway, to the Confederation, I’d guess. Well worth talking to.”

“Yeh. Right,” Njangu said. “This is the old ‘enemy of my friend could be worth knowing’ routine. It’s generally been my experience that somebody who’s a good enemy is an all-around pain in the ass to everyone who comes in contact with him.

“But you’re the brave leader and all.”

Big Bertha
jumped through five systems, four inhabited, without landing or contacting the locals. Penwyth, Lir, Dill, and Froude went to Yoshitaro — Garvin having refused to see them, taking advantage of the old military law that an absence of response always means no and go away — to request
Big Bertha
make landings.

“That’ll give the planets’ peoples
something
,” Penwyth said. “The mere assurance that there’s folks out there, concerned about the Confederation.”

“Touching,” Njangu said, not quite sneering. “Truly touching. Especially you, Ben, being one of the petitioners, being a hardened killer of the ether. There are … were … how many planets in the Confederation at last count? A hundred thousand? A million? Don’t you think we might grow old gracefully on such a charming errand of mercy, rather than doing what the hell we’re out here for in the first place?”

Penwyth and Dill might’ve said more, but Froude recognized that Yoshitaro was right. They didn’t have time to waste. Lir knew, after the time with him in I&R, better than to argue when the boss got a certain coldness to him.

Njangu asked Monique to stay behind after the others.

“Getting soft?” he asked, and there wasn’t a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

She took it as meant, thought for a bit.

“No, boss. I don’t think so.”

“Good,” he said. “We’ve got soft hearts enough, and I suspect this operation will get sticky before we belly up to the bar at the Shelburne again.”

“Boursier One, this is Tiborg Alpha Delta Control,” crackled in Boursier’s headphones. “You are cleared to land at field, using Channel three-four-three for instrument approach, or under visual flight conditions once in-atmosphere under pilot’s discretion. Over.”

“This is Boursier One,” Jacqueline Boursier said into her mike — Dill had started something by using his own name for a call sign. “Roger your instructions on Channel three-four-three. Be advised I am forerunner of Transport
Big Bertha
, who will be entering your system shortly.”

There was a pause.

“Boursier One, this is Control.
You
should be advised we have patrol ships out … but your transport name is certainly disarming.”

Boursier, fairly close to being humorless, opened her mike. “Roger your last. We intend no harm. We are a circus ship.”

“Say again your last?”

“Circus,” Boursier said. “As in entertainment.”

A long pause.

“This is Control. I looked the word up. My superior says proceed as before.”

“Roger … thank you, Control. Switching channels.” Boursier touched a sensor, signaled
Big Bertha.

A few minutes later, one of the patrol ships dropped into normal space. Garvin Jaansma was aboard it.

“Boursier One, this is Jaansma,” he said. “No problems?”

“None that I can see.”

“Then let’s be hung for sheepsies … go on down and see what’s happening, Boursier One.”

“Roger. Switching frequencies.” Again, Boursier touched a sensor.

“Tiborg Alpha Delta Control, this is Boursier One. Proceeding to landing. Other two ships will follow me.”

The Nana boat went back into hyperspace, and then it returned, followed by
Big Bertha
, and they closed on the planet below.

“Interesting,” Garvin said to no one in particular. “Supposedly these systems are democratic, but they’ve all got names like some soldier named them. Alpha Delta whatever my left nostril!”

“Or else the people only think they’ve got democracy,” a tech murmured.

“That too.”

• • •

“Purpose of your visit?” the customs officer asked briskly.

“To entertain your people … and maybe make a few credits,” Garvin said.

The customs officer looked up at
Big Bertha
looming over her, then smiled.

“You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever cleared who wasn’t from one of the Tiborg systems. You … and your people … are truly welcome.”

• • •

“Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, citizens of our Confederation, welcome to Circus Jaansma,” Garvin called, and cracked his whip sharply.

The main cargo area of
Big Bertha
was about half-full of people. Garvin had decided for their first real performance, and the first night on an unknown world, it would be safer to keep things close at hand and pitch the tent later.

“We bring you wonders from beyond the stars, from old Earth, from worlds unknown to man, with strange aliens, monsters, deadly beasts, death-defying acrobats high above you, to chill and amaze — ”

At this point, the clowns attacked Garvin, as planned. He flailed and whipped them off, the clowns stumbling into each other, their every scheme foiled by idiocy; then one shrieked warning, and pointed off.

Through a portal Alikhan loomed, growling, snarling, “guarded” by Ben Dill, wearing a pair of tights and iron rings about his biceps.

There were screams, especially from the children. Perhaps there were a few adults who knew what a Musth was, but none of them could know whether or not he was friendly.

Behind Alikhan streamed the circus — tumbling acrobats, the aerialists pirouetting on lifters, the cats in their cages, the elephants, the horses, Darod Montagna proudly if a little shakily standing on one of them, and the show began.

• • •

They played day-on, day-off for the next four days, honing the routines.

Njangu wasn’t around much — he was again scouting libraries for data on the Confederation, looking for possible info sources, but without that much success.

Tiborg had been mostly out of contact with the Confederation for more than ten years, longer than Cumbre. Researching back through the holos of the time, it seemed the break-off hadn’t been of much concern.

He wondered what the word “mostly” meant, decided to look further, even though he got the idea the people of Tiborg were perfectly happy to be left alone, content to let the Universe roll on by.

He made some attempts to size up the local military, found, in common with many worlds, curiosity wasn’t encouraged. He did discover there was an Armed Forces Club in the capital, and considered if there might be something there.

• • •

Running Bear paced back and forth, stepping carefully, chanting as he did, moving steadily down the sawdust around the three main rings.

It was coming back to him, he thought, wishing he’d had a grandfather or father he was sure actually had remembered the rituals.

He only half believed in racial memory, but was trying desperately under the face paint and body paint.

He tried to remember a time before the whites, when his people ruled the plains of a distant world, warrior lords of the prairies.

He came back, realized there was a small girl staring solemnly at him, who’d come out of her seat in the stands.

“Are you real?” she asked.

“Nope,” Running Bear said. “I’m a ghost. A ghost dancer.”

“Oh. What are you doing?” she asked.

“A rain dance of my people,” Running Bear intoned, trying to keep from laughing.

“Oh.” The little girl nodded, started back for her seat, then turned back.

“It’s a good dance,” she said. “It just started raining when we got here.”

Running Bear grunted like a good Amerind should; felt, inside, a tiny ripple of fear for messing about in the territory of the gods.

• • •

“We certainly seem,” Ristori said to Froude, “to have arrived in interesting times. I assume you’ve noted there’s a campaign going on for Planetary Premier?”

“I’ve seen something on a holo,” Froude said. “Unfortunately, I was trying to learn that damned forward roll you think my old bones are capable of.”

“Shame, Doctor,” Ristori said. “Wolves should always attend on the doings of the sheep. Otherwise, they might miss the hiring of a new and dangerous shepherd. Or a flock of sheepdogs.”

“I’m worse than that,” Froude confessed. “I don’t even know how the damned system works.”

“Most simple, simple, simple,” Ristori said, reverting to his chosen clamor. “Sorry. You have a supposedly freely elected Premier and Vice Premier, plus their various appointed secretaries. They, in turn, help rule all of Tiborg’s twenty-odd worlds through four systems.”

“Interesting device,” Froude said. “Sounds like it might be fairly representative.”

“Perhaps,” Ristori said doubtfully. “However, I also noted there are some thirty members of what’s known as a Directorate. There’s very little on the holos about them, but they seem to be former planetary politicians, who, and I am quoting here, advise the Premiers, bringing their years of experience to bear.”

“Mmmh,” Froude said. “How much real power do they have?”

“No one says, which suggests a lot.”

“Indeed. So the Premiers are puppets, then.”

“In a manner of speaking … except that it seems to me that one of them who’s properly cooperative and understanding will have his name set down as a potential Director.”

“Ah, humans,” Froude said. “We do come up with strange ways of doing things.”

“Especially this election here on Delta. It would seem that the government is a shade on the corrupt side, and has held power for some eight years. Gaming, whoring … whatever. Delta seems wide-open, which we haven’t seen, not having gone downtown nearly enough, for other citizens of Tiborg to find this an exciting place to vacation.

“But now there’s a young reformer named Dorn Fili who’s a candidate for Premier, swearing he’s going to throw the rascals out, bring honesty, truth, and justice to government, rule hands-on and such. He’s very pretty, according to the holos I’ve seen.”

“Ah?”

“The interesting thing that I’ve discovered,” Ristori said, “is that Mr. Fill’s father was Premier some years back, thrown out of office by outraged reformers.”

“Oh.”

“Precisely. Let’s tear the old crooks away from the trough so new crooks can have their turn to come in and fatten.”

• • •

“You know,” Garvin said contentedly, “I could get into this habit of making money.”

“You mean we’re actually in profits?” Njangu said.

“Well, if you ignore the initial outlay from Jasith … and the cost of the ship … we’re making credits hand over fist.”

“Always easy to show a profit if you blow off the overhead,” Njangu said. “That’s why being a thief attracted me so much.

“Speaking of which, I’ve got the angle on this Armed Forces Club thing. It’s got a big building near the center of the capital, provides rooms for its members, has a bar, meeting halls, some kind of museum, serves meals … I’d guess the usual private club menu of gray vegetables and boiled meat.

“However, they’re very proud of their charities.”

“Ah-hah.”

“Exackle,” Njangu said. “I’m gonna roll Penwyth in, and say the circus would be delighted to sail some Annie Oakleys … that’s the term, right, for freebies? … for their gimpy kids or something.”

“Which’ll give us what?”

“Which’ll give us maybe a temporary membership for Erik.”

“Which’ll give us … besides having to listen to Penwyth whine about the food … what?”

“Soldiers love other soldiers,” Njangu explained carefully. “They really suck up to bigger militaries.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Garvin said. “Never having been around a bigger one … but maybe you would, given your fondness for the late Larissan military.”

“Screw off,” Njangu said. “So, assuming there might’ve been some kind of contact beyond this break-off ten years gone, we might be able to pick up some data of interest about the Confeds and what happened.

“Maybe.”

“Thin, my little brownish brother. Very thin indeed,” Garvin said. “But I agree. We should — ”

There was a tap at the cabin door.

“It’s open,” Garvin said, and the door slid open and one of the gangway sentries stood there. With him was a handsome man in his early thirties, and a heavyset, satisfied-looking companion in his late middle age. Both men wore business wear that Njangu, even though he knew nothing of the planetary style, decided looked expensive.

The younger man was very handsome, in a rugged sort of way, his face open, exuding confidence and trust.

Njangu decided that he hated him.

“Good evening, gents,” the middle-aged man said. “I’d like you to meet Dorn Fili, soon to be Premier of Delta, and possibly we can discuss some matters of mutual benefice.”

“Now, now,” Fili said with a smile, “we’ve yet to win the election, Sam’l.”

“We have the people behind us, Dorn,” the older man said. “They’re tired of corruption and dirt in public office.”

“I hope so,” Fili said. “But we don’t have to campaign in front of these people, who we hope will do us some good. My friend here, is Sam’l Brek. He’s advising me, which he’s been doing since I was born, and before that was one of my father’s most trusted men.”