James Hogan - Mission to Minerva

"No talk!" one of the guards barked from the door. Danchekker lapsed back into silence. They had picked up enough Jevlenese during their stay there to know that it had a distant resemblance to Lambian, and were able to recognize a few words. The Lambians had relieved the captives of their headbands, ear pieces, and wrist screens, depriving them of communication with the Shapieron and of ZORAC as a translator. It also meant that conversation with the Ganymeans who were with them was no longer possible.

Danchekker's disposition was to remonstrate and make a fuss when there was a chance it could have some affect on things, but when that ceased to be the case he would lapse into a resigned silence to await what couldn't be altered. Hunt was the opposite-more like Caldwell. Sitting, doing nothing, and waiting simply wasn't in his nature. Whatever the odds might be against its making a scrap of difference, his compulsion was to do something.

The most immediate concern was the plane with Harzin and Perasmon aboard, at that moment on its way to Cerios. If Freskel-Gar's whole line had been phony, it was a safe bet that his assurance of the flight's having been diverted was a deception too. In fact, as Hunt thought about it, and taking into account his admittedly scrappy knowledge of the events that were due to unfold in the years ahead, it seemed pretty clear now who had been behind the downing of the flight. His feeling of having come in halfway through a revolution wasn't so farfetched at all. It was right on!

The irony of the situation was that it had been the assassination of the two leaders that had put Freskel-Gar in his position as successor to Perasmon, which a strong Lambian element had been opposed to. The hard line that Freskel-Gar had taken, encouraged by the general and close advisor Zargon-clearly Broghuilio as had been suspected-had led to the irreparable animosity that had set Cerios and Lambia on their course for war. Yet from the things learned in the Shapieron's reconnaissance visits, it needn't have happened, even at this late stage. The Cerians knew. Their military had gotten wind of the plot and sent a warning to the security people, but somebody there sat on it. The affair caused a scandal, heads rolled, and jobs were lost, but that all came too late to change the course of events.

Garuth and the others up on the ship might have figured it out as well, of course, but Hunt had no way of knowing that, or what they might have been able to do about it if they had. So that left Hunt and the rest of them here, down on the surface. But what could they do, locked up under armed guard and without communications?

The only possibility he could think of was to find some way of rocking Freskel-Gar's confidence before his position became unassailable, which might cause him to have second thoughts. Hunt did a mental tally of the resources at their disposal that might be brought to bear. They didn't amount to much. They had arrived in a starship that was far beyond present Minervan technology, but so had Broghuilio and his Jevlenese-in fact, five starships, no less. True, the Shapieron was capable of independent operation whereas the Jevlenese ships depended on facilities that didn't exist yet in this universe, but the point probably wouldn't impress itself upon Freskel-Gar in the space of the next few hours, which was what mattered. They were in the company of aliens of a kind that had vanished from Minerva in the distant past, and while that would be a source of boundless interest to scientists, academics, archeologists, and the like, it was unlikely to overwhelm somebody of Freskel-Gar's practical disposition. The kind of aliens more likely to capture his attention would be ones who talked of war and brought weapons, and he already had those in the form of Broghuilio and the Jevlenese.

The only thing left, then, was to resort to bluff. They knew, and Freskel-Gar would have no way of explaining how they knew, that the Cerian presidential plane was about to be shot down by a missile that it seemed pretty likely was Freskel-Gar's doing. If strangers appearing from another world knew about it, wouldn't it seem probable that many other interests on Minerva that could prove problematical were likely to find out too? Freskel-Gar came across as a sharp calculator. Maybe he could be induced to reconsider letting the assassination go ahead if it seemed more likely to lead to consequences that would undermine his situation rather than solidify it. At least it was a tangible aim. Whatever happened after that could follow as it came.

That much having presented itself, and not a lot else, Hunt indicated by gestures to the guards that he wanted to talk. One of them motioned him across. Hunt got up and approached, accompanied by curious looks from the others. The guard indicated for him to stop a good eight feet away. "There, you [something-something]."

"Talk Lambia prince." Hunt indicated the door. "Freskel-Gar."

The guard shook his head. "No talk. Highness [unintelligible] other man." Trying to bridge between old Lambian and later Jevlenese was tedious. Having ZORAC around made a big difference. The thought suddenly gave Hunt an idea of how he might be able to use this to get access to ZORAC. He mustered what he could recall of the smattering of Cerian he had picked up in their reconnaissance interviews and strung a few words together in an improvised sentence. The guard shook his head again.

"Cerian, no understand."

Hunt gestured again and made his voice urgent, mixing Lambian and Cerian words as if he didn't know the difference. "Must… important… Freskel-Gar… danger." The other guard muttered something and tapped on the door. It was opened from the other side, and he left.

"Stay," the first guard commanded. Hunt complied, feeling a bit like a dog being trained. He hadn't exactly been planning on going anywhere.

After a wait the door opened again, and the second guard reappeared. "Come talk [something] prince [something] quick."

The guard brought Hunt back to the communications center where they had been before. Things were still hectic. Freskel-Gar was talking to some officers and consulting a battery of screens displaying terrain and city maps. One showed the Shapieron hanging in space. Whether it was coming from a Minervan astronomical observatory or surveillance gear deployed by the Jevlenese somewhere, there was no way of telling. To his alarm, Hunt saw that one of the full-size surface landers was pulling away from it, having evidently just detached. The only reason to be using it would be to carry everyone who had been on board. But before Hunt could think any more about what it might mean, Freskel-Gar turned.

"Well?"

"Hunt," Hunt said, pointing to himself.

"What do you want?"

Feeling mildly foolish, Hunt smiled ingratiatingly and went into his act of mixing up the languages again. Freskel-Gar frowned as he tried to follow. "Apologies," Hunt said. "Know Cerian more. Easier with starship translator computer." It was one way of getting access to ZORAC, anyway. Quite ingenious, even if he did think so himself.

"Not necessary," Feskel-Gar said. "We can get you a Cerian translator."

Laisha sat with Farrissio and the other Cerians who had been inside the Agracon's secure zone. They were in a dingy room that looked like some kind of store, somewhere on the level where the communications room was situated, below the main building. She was still bewildered and had no idea what was happening. The crash from the euphoria she had been feeling less than an hour previously had been so total and sudden that she still wasn't capable of thinking clearly. This couldn't be happening, not after Harzin and Perasmon's speech, the reconciliation between their two countries, and everything it implied. She had tried to tell herself several times that at was all a bad dream and force herself to wake up. But there wasn't any waking up. It was happening.