Timothy Zahn - Conquerors' Pride

"I don't think so," Cavanagh assured her. "True benefactors seek a noble result, not the glory of creating that result themselves. I'm sure he will be pleased if you reach home as he desires, no matter how that result is achieved." He looked at Paallikko. "I trust the Mrach government has no objections to Fibbit staying an extra day on Mra-mig?"

"Truthfully, it is somewhat awkward," Paallikko said hesitantly. "Her exit order has already been approved and time-marked for this night. To extend her residence would be improper."

"I thought certain exceptions could be made," Kolchin spoke up, "for former NorCoord Parlimins."

Deliberately, Paallikko turned to look at him. "I was under the impression, Lord Cavanagh, that human custom was for subordinates to remain silent unless invited to speak."

"We humans have many different customs," Cavanagh said. "They add a richness to our various cultures."

"Anarchy," Paallikko hissed contemptuously. "That is what your so-named cultures truly are. Anarchy."

"Sometimes it does look that way," Cavanagh conceded. "Still, we make do."

For a long minute no one spoke. Then Paallikko hissed again. "An exception will be made," he said reluctantly. "But for one day only, until sunset tomorrow. If that is not acceptable, the Sanduul must leave now."

"It's quite acceptable," Cavanagh said, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt whispering in his ear. His errand here was finished—he should be on his way to Dorcas right now to help Aric and Quinn with their preparations. He had no business spending even an extra day here chasing shadows or tilting at windmills or whatever in blazes he was doing. "We'll probably be off Mra-mig well before that."

"Then it is so ordered," Paallikko said, pointing to one of the customs officials. "Kavva mron ce gan ce mrash."

The other nodded. "Ba mrash," he said, and hurried off.

Paallikko looked back at Cavanagh. "The records will be altered," he said. "Will you need assistance with accommodations, Lord Cavanagh? Or with the threading frames?"

"Our suite is large enough for all of us," Cavanagh assured him. "And as for the frames, we'll only need to take this damaged one with us. The rest have already passed customs; presumably they can be taken directly over to the Cavatina. "

One of the blue-capped Mrachanis glanced at Paallikko and then nodded. "It will be done," he said.

"Good," Cavanagh nodded. "Come with us, Fibbit. And thank you, Paallikko, for your assistance and your time."

"It is ever an honor to serve those of the Human Commonwealth," the other said softly. "Good evening to you, Lord Cavanagh. May you enjoy your threading."

There was, predictably, no answer. Standing up, gingerly easing her back into a more or less vertical position, she let her gaze sweep across the piles of crates and cylinders stacked against the wall of her borrowed warehouse. There was a lot of material here, and through the distant pounding in her temples she permitted herself a brief moment of mildly smug satisfaction. She'd thrown this whole thing together in what had to be record time, and she'd done it well. Everything a fourteen-man expedition should need for a few weeks away from home, and all right here in this room. Now all she needed was the big box that was supposed to go around it.

"Hello?" a voice called from somewhere behind her. "Anyone home?" Melinda turned, frowning. That didn't sound like the man who'd rented her this space. "Over here," she called. "Back by the rear doors."

There was the sound of footsteps... and then, coming around someone else's pile of crates, a youngish man in a Peacekeeper uniform emerged into view. "Hello," he said again. He walked toward her, sweeping his gaze across the supplies she'd just finished inventorying. "Quite a stockpile you have here."

"I'm glad you like it," Melinda said, trying without success to read the black combat-style insignia on his collar. "Can I help you with something?"

"Probably," he said, still examining the crates as he continued toward her. "I heard about this impressive cache of yours and wanted to come take a look for myself."

"I had no idea it would become a tourist attraction," Melinda said dryly. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm rather busy at the moment. And this is private property."

"I'm afraid that distinction doesn't mean much at the moment," he said. "Dorcas is about half a wink away from martial law. Whether or not that wink happens will likely depend on the level of cooperation we get."

"Really," she said, letting her tone drop into frostbite range. "Does your commanding officer encourage this sort of strong-arm language with visiting civilians?"

The man stepped over to her and stopped; and for the first time he turned his full attention on her. "That's not strong-arm language, Dr. Cavanagh," he said, his voice as cold as hers. "It's a statement of fact. We're facing a possible attack here—a probable attack, in my personal estimation. Visiting civilian or not, you're in a war zone and under my authority. I have both the right and the responsibility to do whatever it takes to protect the citizens of Dorcas."

Melinda swallowed hard. Now, a meter away and no longer moving, she could finally make out the hawk-and-star insignia of a lieutenant colonel on his collar. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

For a moment he just stood there and let her flounder. Then—almost reluctantly, she thought—his lip twitched in a half smile. "Apology accepted," he said. "I'll meet you halfway: my choice of words could have been better, too. Let's try it again from the top, shall we? Welcome to Dorcas, Dr. Cavanagh. I'm Lieutenant Colonel Castor Holloway, commander of the Peacekeeper garrison here. My logistics officer tells me you came in with half a freighter load of supplies." He waved at the stacks of crates. "Obviously, he was correct. You can probably guess my next question."

"What's it all doing here?" Melinda suggested.

He smiled again. "Very good. And?"

Melinda studied him. Up close she could see he wasn't quite as young as she'd first thought. Somewhere in his late thirties, she decided, with eyes that looked considerably older than that. "I don't suppose I could tell you it was a private matter and that we should leave it at that."

Holloway shook his head. "Afraid not. You see, I pulled the record of your entry before I came down here. Apparently, you wanted permission to leave your freighter in orbit for a few days instead of bringing all this stuff down. That tells me that you don't intend any of these goodies for the fine citizens of our colony, but are simply using Dorcas as a transfer point."

Melinda nodded. He was sharp, all right. She would have to watch her words carefully. "You're right, we are," she said. "I'm meeting my brother Aric and some other men here in a day or two. All this is to be transferred to them." She fixed him with a stern look. "A task that would have been considerably easier if I'd been allowed to stay in orbit as I requested."

"An orbiting ship would also have instantly identified Dorcas as an inhabited planet if a Conqueror scout happened to mesh into the system," Holloway pointed out. "Or orbiting hardware of any sort—you may have noticed the absence of any communications or nav/weather satellites on your way in. I'm sorry if you were inconvenienced; but as I've already mentioned, this is a war zone. There's no point in being more of a sitting duck than we already are." He cocked an eyebrow. "All of which leads to another obvious question. Why Dorcas?"

Melinda shook her head. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to," Holloway countered. "Mid-space freight transfers might be a common sight at Earth or Bergen, but not at out-of-the-way spots like Dorcas. One might suppose you had some, shall we say, less than legal transaction in mind."