Silverfleet and Claypool

Silverfleet walked up to the space before the throne with exasperated haste. She looked up, ready to address herself, after performing whatever signal of recognition of authority the situation demanded, to the government of this world. Her eyes met an oval of elderly men and women, hundreds of years old, perhaps, for the medicine on Taraadya was at least as good as that on Central. They looked back at her in wise sadness, in wise apprehension, in wise skepticism. But they were only the web, not the spider.

The Empress Alal sat in the middle of her gerontocracy. She was small, blond, hopelessly beautiful in her night-black dress and blood-red cape and the purple of the cushioning on her throne. She had ruled Taraadya, as Silverfleet knew from the computer, for a hundred and five years, and Silverfleet did not doubt that Alal would still be Empress of Taraadya a hundred and five years from now. She fixed the crystals of her pale blue eyes on Silverfleet.

“You are here to ask for help,” she said.

“No, I came here—your highness,” she said, and looked down to break the eye contact, “I came here to find my friends.”

“You mean, Commander Claypool and her company.”

“Yes. You have them. Why do you hold them? Um, your highness.”

“It is not for us to give our reasons to you, Commander Silverfleet. It is for you to tell us what profit our people will gain from changing our path. For we do not choose by whim.”

No, Silverfleet thought, I’ll bet you don’t. She looked across the row of ministers, who glared at her effrontery for even coming to the Taraadya system. She swallowed another mouthful of her pride (there was plenty more where that came from) and tried again. “Your highness, I come here to humbly request that you free six friends of mine, that I am led to believe you have in your keeping.”

“No,” replied the Empress Alal. “They are of use to us. But—”

“For what? I mean, your highness, not to question your decision, but—I mean, they came here in peace, as an embassy from—”

“An embassy? There is some other nation involved here? We thought it was just Taraadya, and the Central systems. So, do you also represent this nation? Where is your capital? Who is your leader? No. I know. It must be you. Incredibly brave you are, then, coming here, or perhaps only proud.”

“Your highness may of course choose to take me prisoner as well.”

The Empress paused to smile. “No,” she said, “believe it or not, you are not so useful to have in safe keeping. No. We will speak again tomorrow. Our chamberlain will call you.”

“But, your highness, I still—!”

“Please enjoy the hospitality of the Empress. We will call you to us tomorrow for further consultation.”

With a tiny smile, she gave Silverfleet another three seconds of eye contact and then turned her head to the chamberlain. While Silverfleet allowed herself to be led out of the throne room, the next petitioner approached the throne. Silverfleet noticed nothing, or else every detail of the chamber, the hallway, her escort and the way her new clothes felt impressed itself on her equally.

Cloutier waited in an antechamber. She was still in her vac suit, and stood, self-contained as usual, in the middle of a black marble floor. Their eyes met. “No luck, right?” she asked.

“Nope.” Silverfleet walked up to her, looked her in the eye, and then turned and headed down the hall. Cloutier followed her, down this hall and up that, pursuing the robotic wisp of light that led them to their accommodation. The door shot open, then closed behind them. Silverfleet immediately started pulling off the long gown she had been given, throwing it on one of the beds. She turned, naked, to Cloutier, as if about to make a key observation. “You know,” she said, “I think I’ll take a bath.”

“Can I join you?” asked Cloutier. “It’s big enough.”

“Uh, sure. Um, you will excuse me if I don’t feel romantic.”

“Halyn! We just need to talk.”

A minute later, the two women—bony Silverfleet and gristly Cloutier—sat facing each other, up to their armpits in a typical Taraadyan bathtub. It was a meter wide and a meter deep and it was full of water that was almost too hot to take. They passed Silverfleet’s flask of replicated whiskey.

“I hate to admit it,” said Cloutier, “but I could live like this.”

“You like it on this planet?”

“It’s kind of cool. Planet? Moon, really. I can’t think of any other system except Arturo where the main colony is on a moon.”

“Paladar,” said Silverfleet. “I know there’s another one too. But here the planet’s a gas giant, just like Arturo. So it reminds you of home?”

“Ha. I wish. Arturo didn’t have anyone rich. We were ruled by the mining company. We lived on that moon because that was where the mining was. Here, you can’t help thinking it’s because of the view.”

“It certainly is a selling point, that view,” said Silverfleet. “The planet reminds me of—of the big planet at Black Rock.”

“Black Rock? Is that where—?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s where me and Suz first hid out.”

“So, they’ve got her?”

“The Empress didn’t quite say so, but it’s clear they do. Her and the rest of her wing.”

“But they’re not in with Central?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t know. No, I suppose the Empress thinks Claypool would make a good bargaining chip. I’m sure they don’t see eye to eye with the White Hand. Who knows what they think they could bargain for? I guess it hardly matters.”

“I think it matters,” said Cloutier. “You say they don’t see eye to eye with the White Hand.”

“I’m sure they don’t. Taraadya prides itself on being independent. They’re isolationists, and they certainly aren’t going to bow to rule from Central.”

“So what could they bargain for, that Central wouldn’t just take away as soon as Claypool changed hands? I think this Empress of yours wants Claypool as a hostage, not a bargaining chip.”

“Hmm. Maybe. They’d keep her out of circulation, and in return, Central would have to lay off Taraadya. Well, that’s a little more hopeful. But I don’t believe it, because by that logic she should be imprisoning you and me—unless we’re sadly misinformed about being among the best fighter pilots in the Galaxy.”

“You’re not misinformed, Halyn. You are the best fighter pilot in the Galaxy.”

“Then that’s not why they’re holding Claypool and her wing. But they have a reason, I assure you. That Empress Alal doesn’t pee without thinking twelve moves ahead.”

They dried off and lay down on one of the two huge beds, side by side and barely touching, and that was how they lay when Silverfleet awoke. The light in the room was unchanged. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling and wishing that it was Claypool next to her, then she turned and found Del Cloutier still sleeping, and she felt ashamed. She wanted to think, she wanted to come up with a brilliant plan, but all she could do was sulk and second-guess.

Then Cloutier opened her eyes, looked at Silverfleet and stretched. “Halyn,” she said.

“Del.” They were both naked, which was merely weird.

“We’re still here.”

“Yep.” Silverfleet got up. The gravity was quite light—in fact, since this side of the moon always faced the big planet, it was lighter here than on the far side, as moon and planet canceled out to a tiny extent. She found her vac suit draped across an ornate chair and started pulling it on.

“No fancy gown today?” Cloutier asked.

“No. Goddess, no. But the Empress said we should enjoy her hospitality, so let’s go have a look around the moon.”

“Sounds great.” Cloutier looked out in the hall. “But first let’s look for breakfast.”

There was no chance, of course, that two fighter pilots, landing on a moon with a solar day of 158 hours, would happen to coordinate their sleep cycles with local time. Thus they followed the robotic beacon to the mess hall of the Taraadyan starfleet, with fifty tables of eight chairs each, and they found themselves nearly alone. A minute after they had seated themselves and begun tucking into a luscious but very artificial breakfast, they were joined by another itinerant fighter pilot, a redhead with an ironic face. Cloutier looked up and said “Hi,” and then Silverfleet looked up.

“Fiona!”

“Halyn!”

“You know each other?” asked Cloutier.

“I shot up her fighter at Marelon,” Silverfleet replied. “I’ll do it again, Fiona, just give me a chance.”

“No thanks. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re hostile to me. I just think it’s incredible, that we could shoot at each other one day, and then, what, six months later, we could just—run into one another, on neutral territory.”

“Is it? Is it still?”

“Yes. It is. I’ll tell you what. I’d serve that Empress Alal. If you know what I mean. Is this your new traveling companion?”

“Name’s Cloutier,” said Cloutier. “I’m her wing second. Claypool’s still her traveling companion.”

“I don’t think she’ll be traveling very far,” said Fiona. “No, it wasn’t my idea. We’d just as soon Alal hand her over to Central. Seems such a waste. I guess they want to put her on trial.”

“Sure it wasn’t your idea,” replied Silverfleet. “Wait a minute. Put her on trial for what?”

Fiona gave her a funny look. “How much do you know about your Suzane Claypool, anyway?”

“She’s from Enderra, she’s a fencer and a chess player—”

“Sure she’s from Enderra,” said Fiona. “Cloutier, huh? Are you in love with Halyn Silverfleet too? I know I was. And I think you can plan on getting a lot more time with her now that Claypool’s under wraps.”

“I’m not in love with her,” Cloutier replied, “and I’m definitely not in love with you.”

“Del,” said Silverfleet, “this is Fiona Rigan. She trained under me at Central, lo these many years ago. Then I went off and fought at Alcen and she graduated and basically took my place.”

“I thought Sandra took your spot,” said Cloutier.

“Oh, Sandra Chase,” said Fiona with disdain. “No one could take the Great Silverfleet’s place, but definitely not Sandra.”

“And you’ve been fighting ever since?” asked Cloutier.

“We’ve fought on the same side a few times,” Fiona put in.

“Yes, we’ve been fighting ever since.” Silverfleet explained. “I wasn’t even the Great Silverfleet back then, but once I had that reputation, it really bothered Fiona. Didn’t it? Ever since, every time we meet, it’s sort of ‘I’m going to be the next you.’ She’s not the only one who gives me that. There must’ve been four or five.”

“Sandra, for instance,” said Cloutier.

“Piff! Sandra,” said Fiona.

“You certainly beat the heck out of her as a pilot or as a person,” said Silverfleet, “and that’s not the highest of compliments. But look. You didn’t just happen down here. You came with Central to get Claypool, didn’t you?”

“No. Not me, anyway. I’m part of the embassy to the Empress.”

“And you didn’t just happen in on our breakfast, either,” Silverfleet pointed out, waving a piece of artificial meat at her. “You came to say something. Spit it out.”

“As far as that’s concerned,” said Fiona, standing, “I guess I must’ve already said it. Have a nice breakfast—I’ll be seeing you guys at dinner, I suppose. Ta ta!” She walked away, leaving behind one more nodding smirk for Cloutier.

“I don’t like her,” Cloutier judged.

“I’m not surprised. But what does Central really want from Taraadya?” She sipped a hot spicy liquid from a closed container and played with her fried starch. “Whatever it is, they’re not going to get it.”

“Halyn! You’re starting to sound like Claypool.”

“Thanks.”

They spent the day looking around Taraadya. It was never day, the entire day, since right now, and for the next forty hours or so, the moon on which they stood faced away from the star. Thus the only light on the city was the pinkish gleam of the planet, but that was brighter than any moonlight Silverfleet had ever experienced. The moon was orbitally locked, so the capital city had a constant view of the moon’s giant orbital mistress, whose rings, edge-on, spanned 120° of the sky. The vast world itself, with its bands of purple and orange and pink and the bright white storms that filigreed their boundaries, filled 40° with a queer light almost too bright to look upon. The moon, rather large at a diameter of 5000 kilometers, and possessed of a lovely protective magnetic field, had been thoroughly terraformed, and now they could sit on a verandah overlooking a garden of aromatic shrubbery and feel a soft breeze as they looked up at the planet, several other large moons visible against its garish background along with the shadow of this one.

“So what does she know about Suzane?” asked Cloutier as they sat in the dim afternoon, sipping fruit drinks in the light of the planet. “Anything?”

“Fiona? I don’t know. I don’t know.” Silverfleet looked up to study a ruddy hurricane on the gas planet’s waist. “I’ve always supposed she has a secret,” Silverfleet went on in a soft voice, “but I don’t want to hear anything about it from Fiona.” She was imagining Claypool as an embezzler, or a bank robber. She shook her head and met Cloutier’s blue eyes. “Secrets are secrets. What she was or what she did or what they want her for doesn’t have anything to do with what she means to us.”

“You think they’re going to attack New Home while we’re here?”

“The thought’s occurred to me,” replied Silverfleet. “It depends on how well they’ve coordinated. I always assumed Fiona would be with their forward force.”

“Why don’t they try to take you out while you’re here?”

“I think they always hope to recruit me. The White Hand are enthusiastic recruiters.”

“So why don’t they just recruit Claypool? I mean, what was that about a trial?”

“I think they’re just trying to scare us. But—still.”

“Still. Still, why don’t they do something to us? I mean, Central’s definitely here, so why allow us free travel? Why would the Empress allow it? We might try and free Claypool.”

“Oh, right. I’m a fighter pilot. I’m not even a very good aim with a stunner.”

“All right,” said Cloutier, “and what do you make of those two men? Don’t look.”

“How can I not look?” Silverfleet turned and saw two men in drab, dark, baggy clothes sitting at a table a little way off, turning away from them. Dark baggy clothes seemed to be the usual on Taraadya, but most people accessorized with lots of silver and exotic gems, a local product. “Them?” she said aloud. “That’s easy. They’re the secret police.” The men couldn’t help but look nervously in her direction; other locals around them gasped. “Yes. Definitely secret police.”

She smiled. People all around them cleared out. “Now you’ve done it,” said Cloutier. “They’re coming over.” Indeed, one of the men stood up, looked around and started to approach their table. “I have my stunner ready,” Cloutier whispered.

“Don’t use it!” Silverfleet hissed.

“Pardon me,” the man said. He seemed awfully tall, and he was indeed dressed all in black. He had a twelve-hour stubble on his face and a couple of scars that hinted at some interesting stories. But his steely blue eyes were edged with lines of concern and embarrassment.

“So—was I right?”

“In a word, yes. I am sorry.” He sighed. “But now we have to leave this place. You will need a new set of guards, and it will be necessary for you not to contact them as you did us.”

“Contact? Nonsense. I admit I called attention to you, but do you really think the other people around didn’t know who you were?” She smiled sweetly. “And I won’t hear of you two being replaced. Why don’t you take us on a tour?”

“But—!” But she smiled even more sweetly, and the agent looked at his colleague, who shrugged, and Silverfleet turned her smile on Cloutier, who rolled her eyes, and Cloutier then shrugged at the agent. Having consulted, he capitulated. “All right. We have two hours and thirty minutes before the banquet you are to attend. What would you like to see?”

In the time allotted, Silverfleet and Cloutier got to see a park with introduced animals—monkeys happily cavorting in gravity that was a third of what they were born to—and a museum of Taraadyan antiquities—dating back to the first Emperor, Theodore, whose holographic image still welcomed visitors with the proper Imperial stiffness—and the museum of astronomy, where they saw Taraadya in its place orbiting the largest of five gas planets that orbited a bright yellow star near the edge of the galactic arm, 83 light years out from Central—and a bar, where, over Taraadyan wine the two big lugs explained Taraadyan history and culture to the two tiny women.

“The Empress Alal, may the skies bless all her days,” said one, “has total power, and delegates to her ministers according to her wisdom. She was trained for over a century to rule our system, and truly she is good at it. There is no crime and our chief fear is from outsiders.”

“Is there dissent?” asked Cloutier.

“Her predecessor, her uncle, Emperor Petan, was overthrown by Central after civil war erupted, and it was years before we ruled ourselves. At times, civil disturbance has engulfed Taraadya, but her Highness Alal has not had this problem.”

“Central conquered Taraadya? When?” asked Silverfleet.

“They came in and took over to solve our problems, in 3242. But they had their own problems, and we were rid of them in 3250, and we were fortunate to find that Princess Alal had survived the troubles. There have been no troubles since.”

“Beware,” said Silverfleet. “Talis was conquered by Central after the White Hand instigated public discontent. They did the same at Alcen, now I think of it—after I was gone.”

“We fear not the White Hand,” said the other agent. “Our people do love Alal, and she loves them too. We are not so many that there are hungry masses, as on Central or other places.”

“Do you go to other places?”

“Most of us go somewhere else sometime,” said the first agent. “But we all come back.”

“We are but eight hundred thousand,” said the second. “We live long and have only two children each, for we need not fill up every surface with folk, as has happened on Central. I have been there, when I was under fifty.”

“How old are you now?” asked Silverfleet. “I’m under fifty.”

He smiled. “I just turned a hundred,” he said. “Feruth here makes no end of fun of me. He is but ninety-five.”

“Ninety-four,” Feruth corrected him. “But Tanash will live to see three centuries, perhaps four. Our medicine is far advanced.”

“That’s how Alal is over two hundred years old,” said Cloutier, “and still looks young. Or does she wear makeup?”

“Does she have a—potential successor?” asked Silverfleet.

“She has a son and a daughter,” said Tanash. “They are a hundred and one and seventy. It seems likely one of them will succeed her, but it is idle speculation to guess which. May the skies protect them both, and our Empress as well.”

“May the skies protect them from the White Hand,” said Silverfleet. “It seems like you have a pretty solidly-built society here. But they’re nothing if not clever, and they’re very interested in ruling every human colony there is.”

“That is why we watch them so closely, when they come,” said Tanash.

“Oh, do you? Do they maintain a regular schedule of visits?”

“No,” said Feruth. “The Empress does not encourage them. We do not encourage visits.”

“You sure don’t,” said Cloutier, “putting your guests in cells. Why didn’t you lock us up?”

“The Empress commanded,” explained Tanash.

“Maybe we look honest,” said Silverfleet. “So what does Central have here? A full fleet?”

Tanash and Feruth looked at one another. “I can’t say,” said Tanash, “but it is much less than the Empress’s fleet.”

“Well answered.” Silverfleet looked at a wristwatch she didn’t have. “Oh, look at the time!”

The two men jumped up and looked at their watches. “Oh,” said Tanash, “do not jest so. Still, we should get back.”

“It’s nice to have some extra time,” said Cloutier, “in case of an unforeseen delay like an ambush by Central agents.”

“Fear not,” said Feruth. “No, it’s not that they should fear Tanash and me—there are more around us even now.”

“You won’t get in trouble for this?” asked Silverfleet.

“As Feruth says, fear not,” replied Tanash, punching up his authorization on the table keypad to pay for the wine. “We only did as you ordered. And that was what the Empress ordered.”

The two women were deposited at the palace for the banquet, and they found the food excellent and the company quite pleasant, for they were seated together among Taraadyans who showed no interest in them. At the head table, which they could see in the middle distance if they leaned forward and looked to the right, the Empress sat with her most august courtiers—and the Central delegation, headed by Fiona, in a blue dress modestly decorated with medals, and a bland-looking starfleet officer in his nicest duds. “They seem to be getting on rather well,” said Cloutier, who looked quite out of place in a frilly yellow dress.

“She has to treat them with show of courtesy,” replied Silverfleet, but a shadow rose in her heart.

“You should’ve brought your medals.”

“I left every medal I’ve ever gotten on the planet where I earned it.” She sighed. Cloutier patted Silverfleet’s shoulder, and Silverfleet smiled back. “At least they haven’t tried to recruit me.”

Dinner proceeded to dessert, and with each course the liquors changed, and at last they were sipping tiny glasses of brandy and watching the high table in silence. Silverfleet was thinking of slipping out and flying back to New Home; then she thought of Claypool in a cell, and Elan and Conna with her, having crossed a hundred light years to join the cause; and then there was a butler at her elbow to ask them to join the Empress Alal in her private audience chamber.

When they got there, Silverfleet and Cloutier found the Empress sitting on a modest throne atop a short dais, smiling indulgently as she listened to Fiona Rigan telling of a pirate battle near Alcen for which she had won a pretty purple gem on a gold ribbon. The bland officer stood nearby smiling blandly. The other ten occupants of the room were split evenly between ministers and soldiers.

“Ah, my dear Commander Silverfleet,” said the Empress, “Commander Rigan has been telling us of your exploits.”

“I do not believe it, your highness,” Silverfleet replied. “I think she has been talking about herself. Which is well, since I doubt anyone else will bother.”

“Ah, very amusing,” said the Empress. “But before she spoke of herself, she allowed that you had beaten her in a fair fight quite recently, and Admiral Birbain suggested that it was only a matter of time before they found a way to put you back in the Central uniform. I said that if you were indeed as good as your reputation, I should hire you instead. What would it take?”

“Oh, let’s see,” said Silverfleet, her heart pounding. “Uh, your highness, I’d, uh, require that I choose my own subordinates.”

“And you would choose the ex-pirate?” asked Fiona.

“Oh, I certainly would. I might hire you instead, Commander Rigan, but I think Cloutier is just as good and comes cheaper. But, your highness, your starfleet would still suffer for the lack of a really good fighter pilot.”

“You would suggest, perhaps, Suzane Claypool?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“In all seriousness, Commander, I have asked you, and these emissaries from Central, here for a purpose.” Her steely blue eyes pinned Silverfleet. “Do you not have a suit you wish to bring forward again?”

“What?” She swallowed. Her heart was suddenly racing. “Yes, of course, your highness. I, uh, would humbly request that you free Claypool and her companions and let us leave your system.”

The Empress smiled primly, as if that were all the necessary reply. Then she turned to Fiona and the bland Admiral. “How about you? Do you have any response to this suit?”

“Your highness,” said the Admiral, “I would humbly request that you turn the rebels you have captured over to the Central Starfleet. They are pirates and fugitives from justice. Central is prepared to provide certain considerations in return.”

“Or if you don’t turn them over to us,” added Fiona, “by all means do not let them go, your highness, or there may be great danger to us all.”

“Thank you,” said the Empress. “I will consider all you have said.”

“But your highness,” Silverfleet pleaded, “Claypool represents no threat to you. It’s Central that threatens you—isn’t that just what they just did? If you do as they say, they will reward you, and if you don’t they will punish you. They would buy and sell your system, and make you do their bidding like one of their planetary governors.”

“Whereas you,” said the Empress, “cannot reward, only threaten.”

“I don’t threaten,” Silverfleet objected, “um, your highness.”

“Your highness,” Fiona cut in, “perhaps you do her a disservice. Silverfleet’s no pirate—she has been a staunch fighter for democracy. That’s apparently what brought her and her friend to the fringe in the first place. Perhaps that’s what Claypool was here to do: promote democracy.”

“But—!” But Silverfleet couldn’t fish a rational reply out of her mind’s turbulent waters.

“Your highness,” said the Admiral, “you are rightly concerned, and Central is too, about the growth of outlaw groups on the fringe. You could do much worse than to turn the whole problem over to us, but we understand if you want to take matters into your own capable hands. Why not imprison these two as well? They clearly will use their freedom to violently promote opposition to authority.”

“Only Central’s authority,” Cloutier objected.

“The pirate speaks,” said Fiona. Cloutier bit back a reply.

“Your highness,” Silverfleet tried, “at least release some of our people. We promise—we would never attack—”

“No, Commander,” said the Empress. “Your friends stay where they are. Admiral Birbain makes a good point—you should be happy that I don’t follow his advice and imprison you too.” Silverfleet opened her mouth but nothing came out. The Empress went on, “Miss Claypool and the others will stay here until we are ready to charge them, and in all likelihood they will remain here long after. Accustom yourself to it: I know you are not used to being overruled. But I am the law.”

Silverfleet looked around the faces in the room, finishing with Cloutier. The two of them shook their heads, and then turned and curtsied to the Empress before spinning on their heels and walking out.

“Damn! Damn, damn, damn!” Silverfleet was banging the back of her head on the inside of the door of their room. She turned and hid her face against it. “If only I weren’t an idiot.”

“She played us pretty well, your friend Fiona,” said Cloutier. “Usually it takes more than three moves to win at chess.”

“It’s all my fault.”

Cloutier was about to say something funny, when she realized with a shock that the Great Silverfleet was crying. “Oh, Halyn,” she said. “Come here.”

Silverfleet turned, sniffled, then came obediently to Cloutier’s arms, and they both had a good cry. “Oh, what are we going to do?” asked Silverfleet. “I can’t leave without her. I swore I wouldn’t. I can’t anyway.”

“We could try to shoot our way in and get her.”

“I would, oh, Goddess, I would. We’d be killed for sure, but whatever. But we don’t even know where she is. Oh, Del.”

“It’s all right,” said Cloutier as Silverfleet wept in her arms.

The two pilots had said little more to each other by the next morning (it was actually still night outside). They were eating breakfast in an out of the way corner of the cavernous starfleet mess hall, hoping not to be accosted by Fiona again. It was not Fiona who accosted them this time. “Excuse me,” said a little woman of early middle age, with blond hair just going grey, carrying a fruit drink. “May I sit down with you?”

“You’re a fighter pilot,” Silverfleet stated.

“Of course,” said the woman, taking a chair. She wore a wildly colored dress, but it was clear she usually wore a vac suit. “I’m Dasha Elkainen. I fly for the Empress of Taraadya. I’m the, well, I’m her senior fighter pilot.”

“You know Fiona?”

“What? You mean Commander Rigan?” She blushed.

“She knows her, all right,” said Cloutier.

“I know her too,” said Silverfleet. “Was it her idea that you—?”

“What? See you? No, I just happened—well, no, I sought you out, but it wasn’t anyone’s idea. It was my idea.” Dasha Elkainen leveled vulnerable blue eyes at Silverfleet. “I’ve always wanted to meet you, Commander Silverfleet.”

“Have you met Commander Claypool?”

“What?” Everything Silverfleet said seemed to catch this woman by surprise. “I can’t—I mean, no. I mean, of course. I escorted her wing in.”

“So why are you holding her?”

Elkainen swallowed a What? and then replied, “It is the law of the Empress.”

“And what about Central’s laws?” asked Cloutier. “Are they enforced on Taraadya? You know they’re having trouble with certain rebels out on the frontier. You might have heard of the rebel leader—a Commander Silver-something. You might even know of a reward offered for her capture.”

“I—I know of no such thing.”

“There was a reward for Claypool, I’ll wager,” said Silverfleet. “So what about it? Why should we trust you? Why should we trust anyone here?”

“Well—well, why should you not?”

“Look, babe. I’ll lay it on the line. The only reason I’m here is to get Suzane Claypool out. I know nothing of this place but what I’ve seen, and so far it seems like the sort of place where the locals take visiting fighter pilots prisoner if they think Central might be in the market for them. So, what about it?”

“I’m not going to sell you out. I swear it.”

“Who is?”

“None of my girls, I swear it, Commander. I am the commanding officer of all the fighters that serve the Empress. None of them is going to try to take you. You are wrong, Commander. We do believe in hospitality to our visitors, and in chivalry too.”

“What about Central?” Cloutier put in. “What’s to keep them from assassinating Halyn?”

“The Empress,” Elkainen replied fervently.

“Oh, I’m sure they’re quite afraid of her.”

“Look,” said Silverfleet, “why should we believe you? How do we know there isn’t a Central agent behind every Taraadyan official we meet? Behind your Empress? She seems awfully amenable.”

“She is not!” hissed Dasha Elkainen, leaning toward them. Silverfleet raised an eyebrow. “You don’t understand. She plays a delicate game. We do not want to be overrun. We have less than a million souls. Central could bring a hundred thousand marines here. We have—well, we have a good starfleet, and a large one for a single system, but you know they have as many in a single one of their fleets—they have a dozen fleets the same size, at least.”

“Yes,” said Silverfleet, “I know. I know she walks a tightrope. Taraadya does, to protect its independence. I respect that, of course I do. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“But you are right to suspect,” replied Elkainen. “They have spoken of their quest, these Central emissaries, spoken of it never to our Empress but always to our starfleet officers, and to our fighters, and to our lords and sophisticates.”

“And to you?”

“To me. Of their hope for, for Humanity. Of the destiny of the Mother Planet. Of the moral obligations of all humans. Of the high calling of space flight and colonization. And they do not speak of it outright, but anyone with eyes can see that they would rule Taraadya from Central.”

“They certainly would,” Silverfleet agreed. “Do any of you listen to them?”

“I know not. Some must. But we are not fools. Not like others.” She turned her blue eyes on Silverfleet, and they were full of challenge. “There is no world like Taraadya, there is no government like the Empress Alal, and there is no people like my people.”

Silverfleet held her eyes for a moment, then nodded. “I’ll concede that,” she said. She looked away. “I never walked on a planet where I trusted either the rulers or the masses to do the right thing. I only trust me. And Suzane Claypool. When I met her—well, it took me a while to realize that I trust her as much as I trust myself. It was the first time I have ever felt that.” Suddenly she looked sidelong at Cloutier. “And you, Del. You’re the second.” Before Cloutier could respond, Silverfleet turned back to Dasha Elkainen. “So—Fiona? She was spouting White Hand propaganda?”

“No,” said Elkainen. “No, she’s—different from them.”

“She’s too clever,” put in Cloutier.

“No,” said Silverfleet. “No, it’s not just that. I mean, she is too clever, but she’s not the sort to believe those things. She’s not regular starfleet, she’s more like us. No, it’s that admiral.”

“Yes!” Elkainen replied. “When they first came, a turn after your friend showed up—I’m sorry, do you know what a turn is? It’s a turn of the moon around the planet.”

“A week,” guessed Cloutier.

“Six and a half days, by the clock,” said Silverfleet.

“Yes,” said Elkainen, “a turn. When they came, that Admiral—Admiral Birbain. He took us all out to Hispathor’s for a traditional Taraadyan banquet. Not like at the Palace, but very, very expensive. Thirty of us, senior starfleet officers, captains, commanders. And he talked the whole time. He talked for six hours. Six hours. All about Taraadya’s place in the great destiny of humanity.” She chuckled negligibly. “We didn’t buy it. We called him Admiral Birdbrain behind his back. What is it, Commander?”

“What? Oh. Nothing.” She wiped the calculating smile off her face and stood up. “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll need to get another audience with her Highness and the Central people, like last night. Though if I had anything like money, Commander Elkainen, I’d take you and your whole fleet out for dinner first.”

They passed the day with a tour of “outer Taraadya”, the side of the moon that faced away from the planet. The city side had a night in the middle of its day, when for twenty hours the huge planet interposed between the moon and the sun. The other side had an ordinary day and night, albeit each was three and a quarter days long, and thus it was here that the crops were raised. They found a park with thick forests of tall, skinny trees and a slow motion waterfall. Ten hours later, they were back on the night side of the moon, facing the day glow of the planet, watching their moon’s shadow racing across the bloated belly of the gassy world above. Then they were called to the palace for the evening’s banquet.

“We’ll be going soon,” Silverfleet told Cloutier, after they were seated and sure their table neighbors were paying them little heed.

“You mean leaving the system?”

“I fear so.” She looked around. “One thinks of politics as a chess match. But this is more like pool—you’ve played pool?”

“2D or 3D? Hey, I’m a pirate.”

“An ex-pirate. I just hope this shot I’m lining up works. Oh, doesn’t the pasta look heavenly?”

Three hours later, they were called back into the presence of the Empress. The same cast of characters awaited them. Silverfleet approached the Empress and knelt.

“You have requested another audience,” said the Empress’s chamberlain, a gruff old man with a pointy beard and blue eyes that looked at least four centuries old. “What is your petition?”

“Is it the same request as before?” asked the Empress. “Because I know you are bound to make it, and you know I am bound to deny it.”

“No, no, your highness,” replied Silverfleet. “I see no need to waste your time with the impossible. I calculate that both you and I would be better off with Claypool and her wing free to fly away, but that is not the answer your computations give you and I can hardly argue with someone who knows so much more than I do. No, I do not flatter.” She turned to the Central emissaries. “No, I came to ask a question of Admiral Birbain.”

“You need me here to ask him something?”

“I wish to honor you with a—gift. Admiral,” she said, before the Empress could further question her, “if you don’t mind, suppose you had the power to order things the way you wanted. Would the Empress Alal remain in her position?” The Admiral hesitated. “You are a member of the Order of the White Hand, are you not?”

“Of course I am,” he said with bland indignance.

“So you can’t lie. So tell the truth. Just answer the question: would the White Hand’s plan for the galaxy include the Empress Alal and her line ruling Taraadya in perpetuity?”

Admiral Birbain looked at the Empress, perhaps hoping she would be offended by the question. She didn’t seem to be. “Let’s indulge her, Admiral,” the Empress suggested.

“Well,” said the Admiral, “I suppose you could just look up the Edicts of the Grand Council of the White Hand. It is our aim to unite the whole galaxy and rule the human race from its ancient home, et cetera, et cetera. But it’s very long term, I assure you. Perhaps many lifetimes may pass before—!” He stopped and fumbled.

“Before you take over Taraadya. Be careful, Admiral, they live long lives here.”

“Your highness,” said Fiona, “the Admiral’s beliefs are not an issue. He may believe what he likes, and be assured, my own beliefs are far different from his, but I’m sure you don’t want to be bored with what I or Silverfleet or some mining supervisor on Fingale believes.”

“Yes, exactly,” said Admiral Birbain. “What difference does it make what I think? As you say, one may be mistaken, and so I’ve kept my ideas to myself until this Silverfleet came to abuse my honesty by asking me about them.”

“Very polite of you,” said Silverfleet. “When ten billion people on Central appear to believe as you do. But you haven’t exactly kept your beliefs to yourself, have you?”

“What?” asked the Empress.

“Your highness,” she went on, “you have to understand, when someone really thinks they know what life is all about, they can hardly keep quiet about it. It was all Admiral Bird—Birbain, excuse me, could do to avoid the subject with your highness. Or maybe your starfleet officers, uh, abused his honesty by asking him about his beliefs—but he seems to have expounded on them quite a bit when you were out of earshot.”

“What’s this?”

“Your highness,” said the Admiral, “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Ask him straight on, your highness,” suggested Silverfleet.. “Ask him if he’s been talking to your own starfleet officers. Ask him if he’s been telling his ideas to Commander Elkainen, who by the way was not impressed.”

“Your highness,” said the Admiral, “I may have spoken to some about those things that are important to my people—”

“That would mean,” Silverfleet pointed out, “that yes, he has been preaching things not fit for your ears to your subordinates.”

“Well, then, Admiral,” said the Empress with a chilly little smile, “why do you not speak of them to me? Let me abuse your honesty a little myself. You think I should be overthrown?”

“Your highness!”

“Come on. The White Hand doesn’t believe in lying, do they? Have you been spreading your verminous ideas amongst my people? My officers?”

“Your highness, how can I answer such a question?”

“Yes or no would be nice. Try this one for practice. Do you think Central should rule Taraadya?”

“Well, in the long run, who knows—”

“In the short run? If you had the power right now, would you replace my rule with Central’s?”

“Uh, well, yes, of course, it’s written, but perhaps you could see your way clear to be the—!”

“Governor, I suppose? Serving at your whim?”

“Your highness,” put in Silverfleet, “their governors rotate every five years. So you could go on to govern, oh, Ticeti or Seregara or even Alcen. They have eight billion there, you know.”

“I’m sure eight hundred thousand is a great plenty,” said the Empress. “Thank you, Commander Silverfleet, this is indeed diverting. All right, how about this. You know I would never agree to let you rule Taraadya. I have my own beliefs, and I think most of my people believe the same way.”

“They do, your highness,” said the chamberlain.

“Thank you. So, Admiral, do you believe that Central rule will eventually be forced upon us, despite our own desires?”

“I, uh, your highness, I believe that eventually you will see the light.”

“You know I will not. Would you turn my people against me? Yes or no, should I be overthrown?”

“He’s not going to answer that,” Fiona cut in. “Your highness, this isn’t fair. He—”

“He has something to hide? His beliefs? Or is it his activities he’s hiding?” Her smile abruptly switched off. The room seemed to grow cold. “Commander, are there any other questions you would have me ask him?”

Silverfleet smiled. “Ask him, your highness, if he took two dozen of your most senior Starfleet officers out to Hispathor’s, and spoke to them for hours of the White Hand’s plans.”

“You didn’t!” said Fiona. “You stupid man! You stupid, stupid—!”

The Empress looked at her ministers. “Is this true?”

“My lady,” said the High Admiral of Taraadya, “it is, but none of us was moved. We will remain loyal to you and your house for as long as there is a sun burning in Taraadya. Being human is nothing, my lady—being your subject is everything!”

“Is that so? This is tantamount to rebellion! Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

The High Admiral of Taraadya held down his flusterment and said, “My lady, we knew you would be—very upset.”

“Oh, I’m upset,” the Empress replied. She swung her eyes around to Admiral Birbain. “Friendly embassy indeed. This is nothing but an excuse to make inroads against our liberty as a people. Central has ruled Taraadya before—do not think I don’t remember those days—and it was not good. How dare you try to make it happen again? I will not tolerate it.”

“Your highness,” said Fiona, “he’s only a starfleet officer. What does he know?”

“He’s a White Hand agitator,” said the Empress. “You’re no better, Commander Rigan, no matter what you believe, if anything.” She stopped. There was utter silence as she surveyed them. “You will all leave Taraadya,” she told them. “Silverfleet, and you, what’s your name, and Commander Rigan, and this, this Admiral, and all your White Hand starfleet—you’re all going to be gone from my system in a hundred hours. Is that long enough?”

“Their cruisers,” said the fleet minister, “can be past the Oort cloud in a hundred hours, your highness. The fighters can be gone in ten.”

“Fine. Order it so. And all off my moon in one hour.” Silverfleet and Fiona and Birbain all raised their voices to object. “Not another word!” she told them. “I have made up my mind. Out! Or there will be executions! Do not think my people wouldn’t enjoy them!”

“You may have hit that cue ball a bit hard,” judged Cloutier, as she and Silverfleet were swiftly escorted to the bay beside the palace where Giselle and Vanessa waited.

“Shut up. Sorry. Oh, goddess. I don’t believe it.”

“At least Claypool’s still safe.”

“Oh goddess. We came all the way here and we never even saw her. Well, Taraadya hasn’t seen the last of us.” They traversed a huge long corridor in about ten seconds, rounded a corner and started down another. “Where are we going?” she asked the lieutenant of the guard that led the six soldiers behind them.

“Fighter launch bay 3,” he replied.

“I guess I can’t blame her,” said Silverfleet. “She needs Claypool as a hostage. My stupid ploy didn’t do anything to address that aspect of the situation. Oh, if I only had a brain.”

“Halyn! I couldn’t have done even as well as you have, and under such stress.”

They rounded another corner and came out onto a wide platform. The striped expanse of the planet glowed before them in the light of morning, its rings gleaming against the black of space. There were more soldiers on the platform, and a half dozen Taraadyan fighter pilots standing by their fighters. Silverfleet walked up to one and saluted.

“Commander,” said Dasha Elkainen, “it is my privilege to fly with you.”

“May it not be the last time,” said Silverfleet.

“May it not,” said Elkainen. “You’ll have to be patient, Commander, there is a short delay, but we should be off in a few minutes, and the Empress’s order is clear.” Silverfleet and Cloutier and Elkainen stood together by Elkainen’s fighter for a minute or two, unsure what to say or do, and then Elkainen’s comm emitted a tone. She glanced into her fighter and said, “We’re ready, Commander.”

“No time to waste, then,” Silverfleet replied. “The Empress’s order is clear, as always.” She went to Vanessa and got in, and then Cloutier leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.

“Happy flying,” she said. “See you at Between.”

“Roger that.” In fifteen seconds they were off the ground and moving away, the six Taraadyan fighters around them. Six more fighters with Taraadyan markings came up from a nearby bay and joined the escort. In her rear view screen Silverfleet could see the Central fleet detaching from its starbase moorings as the Admiral and Fiona and their colleagues took off in shuttles from the moon. They vanished, along with the moon and virtually all trace of Taraadyan civilization, as the two fighters and their twelve fighter escort rounded the planet and began to accelerate in the direction of New Home.

“Dasha,” called Silverfleet on a quiet channel, “if you have any news for me of Claypool, send to New Home. I’m transmitting the coordinates—but only to you. I trust you not to let anyone else know them.”

“Commander,” said Dasha Elkainen over the comm, “I will not fail your trust. I will leave you in the care of this escort, for as I have said, I share your distrust of Central, but not their distrust of you.”

“Thanks,” said Silverfleet. “We’ll meet again.”

Then she was gone, with her wing, and for a couple of minutes the eight remaining fighters flew together toward a gravity-assist from the star. The comm lit up again, from the leader of the new escort wing. Absently, Silverfleet flicked the switch.

“Commander Silverfleet,” said a familiar voice, “game of chess?”