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HALLOWAY’S CHARGE
TEARS OF PERSEUS PART 6
KEVIN MCLAUGHLIN

AFTERMATH BY D. J. BODDEN
 CONTENTS

★
★
Chapter Zero
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Aftermath
The Fall of the Federation
The Adventure Continues…
Book Reviews
More About the FiveFold Universe
Dedication
About the Authors
 ★

Humanity is living in a golden age. On the thousands of planets,

moons, and other habitats of the core worlds, Federal citizens—both
biological and synthetic—live in sentient cities that monitor and care
for their needs. They have never known cold, hunger, or fear. On the
frontier, colonists, privateers, and explorers experience all the
hardships of the deep dark, fending off pirates and corporate raiders
as they find their place in the galaxy. The aegis of the Federal Fleet
cannot protect them, so they defend themselves. Some even
whisper about independence.
It is a time of great change for the sentients of the galaxy.
Corruption has withered the Federation’s roots, and it will only take
one spark to set humanity aflame. What emerges from the fire will
define the next era of human history.
 ★

A note on dates in the Interstellar era:

The bulk of the Tears of Perseus stories take place in

sequence over 272 Standard years in the Perseus Arm of the
Milky Way, from 799.1.20 to 1071.2.21 Interstellar. This
translates to 3251 CE to 3523 CE on Old Earth. See the wiki
on www.fivefolduniverse.com for a longer explanation, as well as
schematics of some of the technology described in this book.
Otherwise, feel free to turn the page.
 CHAPTER ZERO

FSFF-22 Swift Dagger, Bridge

High Orbit of Tenente II
1071.2.13

The doors snapped open, giving Lieutenant Halloway access to his

bridge. The room buzzed with quiet activity. The main screen
showed nothing but a clear starfield, with the world they orbited
displayed in one corner. All was as it ought to be, at least on the
surface.
Of course, first impressions lied.
As far as Halloway was concerned, nothing was right with the
galaxy. Not anymore. He was one of a multitude trying to pick up
the shattered pieces of civilization so they might be somehow put
back together. It wasn’t working and everyone knew that, Halloway
more than most. That didn’t mean he got to stop trying, though.
“Communiqué coming in from the system defense fleet,” Ensign
Torres said from the comms station.
Again? The local SDF had been bugging him about one thing or
another ever since the Swift Dagger arrived in the system. He’d
already made it very clear to their commanding officer that his ship
was not theirs to command, that they were not errand boys for them
to order about. But they kept trying to make demands anyway.
 He could understand. Their world was in bad shape after the
close of the war. Their orbital infrastructure was a mess, and the
outer system was even worse. They were desperate, reaching for
any help they could get. But that wasn’t Halloway’s mission, and he
couldn’t allow himself to be drawn off task.
Besides, desperate people sometimes did desperate things. If
Halloway showed any weakness to the local SDF, they might be apt
to try something foolish.
“Put them on the main screen,” Halloway said, gesturing. He
briefly considered the idea of taking the call privately, but there
wasn’t really any point.
“Aye, sir.”
“They’re still at it, eh, sir?” The voice was soft, pitched to not
carry over the general buzz of the bridge noise. But the speaker was
near enough to Halloway’s side that he heard the words clearly. He
turned to see Master Sergeant Caddel standing practically in his
shadow. Her looming form stood half a hand above his.
“I thought I told you not to sneak up on me like that,” Halloway
replied, his voice just as low. How could Caddel manage to be so
damned quiet when she was built like a truck and constantly went
about in a light combat suit as well? By all rights, she ought to rattle
with each step, and yet her ability to suddenly appear at his side
undetected was uncanny.
Caddel opened her mouth to reply, her eyes glinting with humor
at whatever she’d planned to say. But before the words could flow,
the main screen lit up, showing the familiar face of the System
Defense Force’s senior officer. To Halloway’s eyes, the man looked
exhausted. Dark circles under each eye and a sunken expression on
his face told a story of little sleep and too much stress. It was
something Halloway could sympathize with himself, but he couldn’t
afford to bend out of sympathy.
“Commander Buchanan. How can we assist you today?” Halloway
asked.
The SDF commander started to chuckle. “Your words suggest
you’ve been of assistance other days, which I assure you has not
been the case, Lieutenant.”
 “I have orders and a specific mission to fulfill,” Halloway
reminded the man.
Buchanan waved away his words. “Yes, I’m well aware. And
those orders preclude doing any sort of humanitarian aid in the
process, or so you’ve told me.”
“Short resources, Commander. I’m sure you’re familiar with the
problem as well.”
“I am,” Buchanan said. “We’ve just had the mining station at
Tenente IV raided and stripped. Lieutenant, I’m sure you understand
we cannot afford to lose any more technology from our remaining
outposts. I’ve been asked to formally request the Fleet’s assistance
in patrolling the outer sector of the system.”
Halloway sighed and looked down for a moment before returning
his gaze to the other man. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help. He
did. But he had one small ship and a mission that was already too
damned complex for the tiny contingent of troops aboard. The Fleet
was stretched to the breaking point; he could feel it every time he
read between the lines of the orders he was given.
“I have to decline, again,” Halloway said at last. “You have my
most sincere sympathies for the issues your system is facing, but my
orders are clear: I’m to escort Federal citizens out of the system and
ensure their safety.”
Buchanan’s face grew red. “You people caused all this! Now
you’re packing up your toys and running with no regard for anyone
or anything? How can you even sleep at night?”
Halloway clenched his teeth. “Commander, I’ve got one frigate. If
that ship is in the outer system, it can’t be here protecting the
people I’ve been ordered to escort home. If I had more assets under
my command, perhaps it would be different. As it stands? I cannot
help you.”
“God damn you to hell,” Buchanan said. “Fine. We’ll take care of
matters ourselves, like we always have.”
The screen winked out to darkness and then returned to
displaying the star field again as the commander cut his connection.
Halloway sank into the captain’s chair, rotating his head to ease a
neck stiff from stress.
 “Bit of a stick up his ass, eh, sir?” Caddel asked.
Halloway had to chuckle at that. “A bit. But I can’t say I’d act
that much different if it were my world falling apart and I saw a way
to slow the damage. Thing is, we’d just be a drop in the bucket
anyway.”
“We’ve got more military power on this ship than any other
vessel in system,” Caddel pointed out.
“Yes, but we’re still just one ship. And we’re leaving before long.
We might help them for a day, or even a couple of days. But then?
We’ll be gone, they’ll be on their own again, and any good we did
would be washed away,” Halloway said. “We don’t have the
resources to go building sandcastles that the tide will wash away
tomorrow.”
Caddel frowned and open her mouth, then closed it again. She
gave a grimace and the smallest of nods. “As you say, sir.”
Halloway thought he detected a tone of disagreement in her
voice but let it go. “It’s good you’re here. We’ve got new orders.
Walk with me a moment?”
“Aye, sir.”
They stepped off the bridge into a small office nearby where
Halloway could deal with private matters and communications. He
took a seat and gestured for Caddel to take the one across the desk
from him.
“So what are the brass sending our way now?” Caddel asked.
“Same shit, different day,” Halloway replied. “We’re to expedite
the withdrawal and make all haste out of the system as soon as
possible.”
“I can increase our manpower down on the surface, help move
things along some.”
“Good, that will help. The sooner we get out of here, the better
off we’ll all be.”
Caddel grunted. “For us, sure. For these people? Us leaving is
gonna suck, sir.”
“Not much we can do about it.”
“We’re here. We could pitch in a little,” Caddel said.
 There was the disagreement Halloway sensed earlier. Caddel was
too good an NCO to mention that openly on the bridge. She’d been
in uniform longer than Halloway was alive, he was pretty sure. That
was part of why he’d invited her to speak privately, so that they
could have this out here, rather than elsewhere.
“Right now, the best thing the Fleet can do is pull back, regroup,
and rebuild. Eventually we can reach the point where we can help
these far-flung systems again, but this isn’t the time, and we don’t
have the manpower or resources for it. Not anymore,” Halloway said.
“Yes, but there are going to be a lot of people out there in need
of real help,” Caddel replied, warming to the discussion. “This system
is a good example, but it’s not alone. Many of the Perseus systems
are a bloody mess. I’m not feeling great about abandoning them all.”
“We can’t help everyone, Caddel.”
“No, we can’t,” she replied. “But maybe we should try.”
“Trying to help everyone is how this mess got started in the first
place,” Halloway snapped. He shook his head. He hadn’t meant to
lose his temper even a little. “Anyway, even if there was an easy way
we could help, our orders preclude it. I’ve sent you the packet to
review.”
Caddel got to her feet and snapped a salute. “We’ll get it done,
sir. Always do.” Halloway let his face soften. They’d gotten into a few
verbal spats since Caddel took over the Marine contingent on his
ship. It was good having an NCO of her experience in charge of their
Marine contingent; officers and non-comms were in short supply,
especially in high-fatality roles. “I know you will, Master Sergeant.
Dismissed.”
 CHAPTER ONE

TDFF-1 Caracal, Bridge

Medium Orbit Over Tenente II
1071.2.13

Commander Jayce Buchanan leaned back in his seat and steepled

his fingers, taking a deep breath in a mostly vain attempt to reduce
his heart rate and blood pressure. He wanted to rant and rave. He
felt like sending a missile up that Fleet asshole’s rear end. Not that it
would do him even a bit of good. It might feel nice, but despite the
Caracal being a frigate in name, the Fleet frigate had many times the
firepower of his vessel and more than enough anti-missile defenses
to stop anything he might send their way.
No, much as it might be fun to fantasize about it, that wasn’t the
way forward. Even if he could somehow blow the Fleet frigate to
kingdom come, it wouldn’t improve the lot of his world and the
people he was sworn to defend. Now, if he could find a way to take
their ship from them? That might be worth considering. Having a
Fleet ship—even a frigate—at their disposal would vastly increase
their capabilities.
But even that was a pipedream and Buchanan knew it well. If
they somehow managed to take the frigate away from Halloway and
his crew, the Fleet would just send in a cruiser to “handle” the
problem, and nothing in his force would even stand a chance against
that sort of firepower.
He sucked in another deep breath, managing to at last restore
his calm. He looked up from the small screen where he’d been
chatting with the Fleet lieutenant and glanced around the bridge at
his crew, who were studiously ignoring him. They’d all been listening
in, of course. Morale on board the Caracal had to be in the toilet at
the moment. There wasn’t a lot he could do about that. They really
were in the shit, so there was no point trying to cover it over with
perfume.
“All right. Ensign Magnusson, set a course for Tenente IV. If the
Fleet won’t help, it’s going to have to be up to us,” Buchanan said.
“Aye, sir. Setting course.”
Buchanan’s XO stepped close, leaning in to speak softly in the
commander’s ear. “We’re pulling our biggest asset away from
Tenente II?”
“Yes,” Buchanan replied. This was Kepler’s first cruise with him as
XO, but Buchanan had picked him for the role specifically because he
had a sharp mind. The last thing he wanted was to discourage the
man from using it. “We’re gonna use the Fleet frigate whether they
want us to or not. With them in orbit here, thieves are going to see
the orbital structures as a lot less appealing places to steal from.”
“Even though the Fleet frigate has said they won’t help?”
Lieutenant Kepler asked.
“The thieves won’t know that,” Buchanan said with a smile.
Kepler grinned back. “I get it. Nice, that. And the corvettes will
remain here in orbit as the actual guardians. With the Fleet frigate
looming, anyone hoping to get some quick looting in will either look
elsewhere or wait for the Fleet to leave the system.”
“Precisely. Which frees the Caracal up to go see how bad things
are out on that mining platform.”
Kepler shifted back to his station as Buchanan watched the
readouts on his screen. They were building acceleration, pouring on
some speed as they shot clear of the planet’s gravity well. Soon
they’d be far enough away that they could use their Icarus drive to
jump most of the remaining distance.
 “Sir, Typhoon Station is sending us a sitrep from the outer system
sensors.”
Buchanan turned to face the speaker—a young junior officer,
Ensign Vogt, who was monitoring their communications stared back
at him with shocked, round eyes. Typhoon Station was the base for
the SDF. It was the only place in the system where they could
reliably repair and refit their vessels, and it also served as something
of a command hub for the System Defense Forces.
All the remote sensor platforms routed their data through
Typhoon Station, where it was assessed by human staff and a weak
but useful limited AI that they’d managed to get installed to help
them with threat assessment. The tactical LAI was one of precious
few aces in the hole Tenente had remaining.
“What’s the story, Ensign?” Buchanan prompted her to go on.
“Multiple contacts arriving in the outer system, sir. A lot of
contacts. The LAI is still trying to get a good count, but it’s dozens of
ships at least.”
“Dozens? Do we have an idea what sort of ships we’re looking
at?” Buchanan asked. He called up a copy of the data to his console
and began skimming through it. Dozens of ships might be a pile of
refugees looking for safe harbor, or it might be an assault force from
another system, even a pirate fleet. Buchanan wasn’t even sure
which of those options would be the worst for his homeworld. They
were going to have trouble holding things together as it was, and
refugees could be as damaging as pirates.
“Looks like half a dozen large transports and about two score
smaller craft. Shuttles, small cargo ships, stuff like that,” Vogt said.
That sounded more like refugees than pirates, and pretty much
put the kibosh on it being an assault fleet from another star system.
The Caracal used to be a large transport vessel, but it had been
significantly reworked to make it into a combat-worthy frigate class
vessel. It wouldn’t stand up against a Fleet frigate, mind; but it was
a damned sight better in a fight than the pair of corvettes Tenente
had in operation. The incoming fleet arrived a long way from
Tenente II, probably figuring correctly that the system would focus
its defenses on the inner planets. But they’d been about to jump into
the outer system anyway...
Buchanan had the ship’s computer run the math. Tenente IV was
only two light hours distant from the newly arrived ships, and he
needed to get out there anyway to inspect the place, see what the
raiders took, and secure it as best he could.
That it also took him twenty-two hours closer to this ragtag fleet
was a bonus. They hadn’t broadcast a message on arrival; the same
sensors that relayed their arrival flash would have done so for a
transmission as well. That didn’t necessarily mean they were hostile;
it could also imply they were simply being cautious. A wise course
these days, and one Buchanan intended to follow himself.
“Continue prep for the jump to Tenente IV,” Buchanan said. “We’ll
secure the mining facility and send a direct transmission to those
ships at the same time. They haven’t tried to reach out yet, but we
won’t jump to conclusions.”
The last thing he wanted was an accidental massacre of helpless
civilians because someone got trigger-happy. That sort of thing was
what got humanity into this mess in the first place. Buchanan wasn’t
going to allow the same on his watch.
“Let’s see why they’re here. Then we’ll figure out how to deal
with them.” Buchanan looked back at Vogt. “Ensign, notify Typhoon
Station of my intentions and tell them we’ll be in touch via the
relays.”
“Aye, sir.”
Buchanan rolled his shoulders, trying to drive some of the
tension out of his back. There was a spot just under his left shoulder
blade that always got sore when his stress levels went up, and it was
beginning to hurt. Couldn’t show any weakness in front of the crew,
though. They were counting on him to be strong, decisive, and in
command of himself as well as the ship. He shoved the ache aside,
focusing on the ship and the mission.
“Kepler, take the con. I’ll be in my quarters reviewing the data
from both the raid and that new fleet,” Buchanan said. “Call me as
soon as we’ve moved far enough from Tenente II to make our
jump.”
 With that, Buchanan left the bridge. Hopefully he could find some
answers to their growing list of problems from the data packet
Typhoon Station sent them.
 CHAPTER TWO

FSFF-22 Swift Dagger

High Orbit of Tenente II
1071.2.13

Master Sergeant Tanya Caddel swore under her breath and rubbed
her eyes in irritation. “How the hell can accessing files make my eyes
hurt?”
It didn’t make sense. Her wrist implant was downloading the file
from the ship’s interface, and while her retinal implant provided the
interface with data about what she was seeing, the projection of the
data was directly into her brain. She was looking at it with her mind,
not her eyes. So why the hell did her eyes hurt? She could tell they
were red and puffy just from the feel of them, too. Sighing, she
leaned back in her chair and closed the offending file. She could
afford a short break.
This was why she’d never gone and become a mustang, even
though the invitation was passed her way more than once.
Paperwork was the bane of her existence, but at least as an NCO
there was only so much of the crap she was expected to shovel.
Officers handled most of it.
Now she was the senior NCO and senior “acting officer” for an
entire platoon of Marines, all of whom counted on her to get them
safely home again. Caddel shook her head. So far, she hadn’t lost
anyone on this mission. But she had a sneaking suspicion that luck
wasn’t going to hold out much longer. Shit was going down in this
system. She felt it in her gut. Things were going sideways at an
accelerating pace. It wouldn’t be too long before something broke
that nobody could fix or someone fired a shot that couldn’t be taken
back.
It burned that she couldn’t do more for these people. Tenente
might be a Perseid system, but at this point she figured what was
left of humanity needed to start helping each other out or there
wasn’t going to be much future left for the species. The AI war had
almost cost humanity everything. It might still, if people couldn’t
learn from the hard lessons they’d been given.
Bottom line? She’d joined the Fleet decades ago to help people.
To serve humanity as best she could. Now it looked like the Fleet
was pulling back from that role. She didn’t know what was up with
that, but the whole thing stank.
An alert pinged her that she had a message incoming from the
planet’s surface. Caddel checked the sender: it was Sergeant Harris,
who was leading a team of Marines planetside as they helped
evacuate the interstellar citizens from Tenente II. He wouldn’t be
calling unless something was up. She opened a channel to accept
the voice call.
“Sergeant, what’s up?”
“Master Sergeant, we’ve got some issues down here,” Harris told
her. “We’re supervising the evacuation of Blue Ocean Industries right
now, and they’re...moving, albeit slowly.”
“Your job is to hurry them along, eh?” Caddel replied.
“Yes, Master Sergeant. Working on that. You know how the suits
can get.”
Caddel grunted an affirmative. “What’s the actual issue, then?”
“Civilians. Couple hundred of them showed up this morning
outside the gates. The numbers have grown to a few times that
now,” Harris told her. “They’re not doing anything hostile. Not yet,
anyway. But the raw number of people slowly gathering out there
has me concerned.”
 “Are they armed?” Caddel asked.
“No visible firearms. I’m guessing at least a few have concealed
firearms, but no heavy weapons. They do have picketing signs,
but...”
“But that’s not a real threat to a Fleet Marine.”
“No, Master Sergeant. Clubs don’t beat our armor. Right now,
they’re not a major problem,” Harris said. “I’m reporting it as an
early warning. My gut says this could go sideways fast.”
Caddel’s gut was telling her the same thing—about the crowd
down there at the BOI complex, about the general state of the
planet, about the entire system, and maybe about humanity as a
whole. It all felt precariously balanced, like things could slide apart
and fall into disaster with just the right nudge.
She called up a satellite feed of the crowd Harris was talking
about. Looked like maybe a thousand civvies out there. They were
angry, and she couldn’t blame them. The interstellar corps were like
rats fleeing the sinking ship. Nobody liked being left behind to
drown. But that’s precisely the fate most of those people faced.
It wouldn’t take much to stir them to action. The right spark
would turn that crowd into a mob, and a squad of Marines wasn’t
much good against a thousand or more angry attackers.
“All right, Sergeant Harris. You’re due to move to the next site
when?” Caddel asked.
“This evening, Master Sergeant.”
“You’ll hold position until then. Keep making it very clear to the
crowd that there are still Fleet Marines on site,” Caddel said. “I don’t
think they’ll be likely to attack if they know they’ll be facing that sort
of opposition.”
“Make ourselves a little more visible, then?” Harris asked.
“Yeah. Don’t get shot, Sergeant. I need you back here when
you’re done. But show your armor a bit, let them see there’s Marines
on site. Ought to keep the crowd peaceful while you’re there,
anyway.”
There was a pause, then Harris spoke again. “Will do, Master
Sergeant. But what about after we move to the next site?”
“Blue Ocean has their own security, right?”
 “Yes, Master Sergeant.”
“Then let their security handle it. Your job is to supervise getting
the high-profile VIPs off the surface. Their corporate security can
handle evacuating the rest of their staff.”
“On it, Master Sergeant. Harris out.”
She cut the connection, still staring at the satellite feed. Zooming
in let her get a better feel for what was going on down there. More
vehicles were approaching the complex, and they didn’t look
corporate-owned. They likely contained yet more protesters. At the
rate people were gathering, there would be thousands of protesters
there by nightfall.
And once Harris and his team left, there’d be precious little
holding back that crowd from attacking. Sure, Blue Ocean had some
security on site, but not enough to hold off thousands of civilians
without turning it into a massacre.
She could fix that. Send down a squad or two to the position and
they could hold it indefinitely against pretty much any number of
civilian attackers. They could even use nonlethal munitions to take
people down. The Swift Dagger had stockpiles of knockout gas
grenades, stun rounds, and more.
Yeah, it would be easy to solve. But she could already hear
Lieutenant Halloway’s answer if she ran the idea by him. They were
leaving the system. As soon as they left, whatever was going to
happen would happen anyway. All they’d do by sending Marines
down there is put precious Fleet resources and troops at risk for no
reason.
Caddel understood his reasoning. She just hated it. It flew in the
face of everything she’d ever believed about what the Fleet stood
for. They were first and foremost protectors! She’d been in uniform
too long to believe it was always quite that rosy, mind. Any naivety
she’d had as a private was long since burned away. Even so, that
lingering sense of purpose never went away. Even when she’d been
forced to do things she hated, it was always with the thought in
mind that she’d be serving the greater good of humanity.
How was running away from people in their hour of need serving
them?
 The thought wouldn’t go away, no matter how hard she tried to
distract herself.
 CHAPTER THREE

TDFF-1 Caracal
Entering Orbit Around Tenente IV
1071.2.13

Buchanan drummed his fingers on his arm rest as he waited for the
team to report in. They’d jumped out to the mining facility without
any trouble and come in fairly close. He hadn’t docked the Caracal
with the station, however. If whoever raided it set up scuttling
charges, he couldn’t risk losing the frigate.
The ten men who’d gone across in a shuttle were all volunteers,
but that didn’t mean Buchanan was any less concerned for them.
Sending people off to possible death was always part of the job, but
it was one of the parts he disliked the most.
It was a relief when at last the communications systems buzzed
for an incoming message. Buchanan had it delivered over the bridge
speakers. “Report, Sergeant Waters.”
“Aye, sir. We’ve breached the airlock and done a quick check of
the station,” Waters said. “I’ve got good news and bad news, sir.”
Buchanan rolled his eyes. “How about the good news first,
Sergeant.”
“Looks like whoever it was didn’t leave any charges behind, sir.
We need to do a more in-depth inspection just to be sure, but I’ve
already checked the most likely spots on the station, and it looks
clear. If someone left explosives behind, they hid them with the skills
of a real pro, and that doesn’t sound like our culprits.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Buchanan replied. They were fairly sure the
break-in was a local criminal organization. “And the bad news?”
“The bad news is they stripped her pretty much bare, sir,” Waters
replied. “I’m really impressed with their thoroughness, to be honest.
They were on the station, what, four hours?”
“About five,” Buchanan replied.
“Even so, they did a hell of a lot of work in such a short time.
Every bit of tech that was functional and not nailed down is gone.
And a lot of the stuff that was bolted in place was taken, too,”
Waters said. “When we catch these crooks, maybe we ought to put
them to work.”
Buchanan chuckled at the idea. When caught, the criminals
might well be put to some sort of forced labor. “Good work, Waters.
Continue the inspection until you’re sure the place is secure. The
Caracal will remain in position until you’re through there.”
“Aye, sir,” Waters said.
Buchanan cut the link, running a hand through his hair. That was
the news he’d expected, but not what he’d hoped for. Tenente IV
was a gas giant, and that station had been a critical fuel source for
the entire system, pulling a variety of useful gasses out of the
atmosphere. The entire station was a marvel, really, and something
Buchanan wasn’t at all sure Tenente had the technology to rebuild.
With all of that tech stripped from the station, it might as well be a
ball of rock.
The place was mothballed toward the end of the war, but they’d
always hoped to set it into operation again. Now that was
impossible.
One blow after another, and they kept coming. Tenente was in
trouble, and it was growing worse, not better. Every raid, every
break-in, every theft of technology from one of the few remaining
places with Tier 3 or Tier 4 tech... They all added up to a slow
downward spiral. If he and those like him couldn’t break the
trajectory, Tenente would head into a dark age that it might never
come out of.
He shook his head to clear it of such dark thoughts. “All right.
How are our guests doing out there?”
“Still closing, sir,” Ensign Vogt replied. “They haven’t responded
to any of our transmissions.”
“They’re receiving us, though?”
“Unless every ship in their fleet has suffered the same
communications failures? Absolutely, sir. And to be clear, that’s
bloody unlikely,” Vogt replied.
Which meant they were getting the signals the Caracal sent.
They just weren’t deigning to reply, which meant they probably were
in the system to cause trouble.
Buchanan called up all the data their sensors had managed to
acquire on the ships so far. They had six transport vessels, big
clunkers that had originally been constructed to haul bulk cargo. But
there was no telling what they contained now. After all, the vessel
he commanded had once been a merchant vessel itself, before being
upgraded to something closer to military specs. A bigger engine and
some firepower, and they had themselves a frigate—more or less.
In the same way, those transports could be full of cargo, or
loaded down with refugees, or refitted as troop carriers or
something. There was no way to tell at this range, and without any
response from the incoming fleet, Buchanan found himself forced to
assume they had ill intentions in mind.
But the transports weren’t even the biggest problem. The small
crafts were probably a greater risk, in the long run. Those huge
transports were too big to hide and too slow to evade his frigate or
even the corvettes. Unless they fled the system entirely, he could
track them and monitor their activity without too much trouble. The
smaller ships made that difficult.
For starters, there were scores of smaller ships. Little trading
ships, shuttles, and a variety of other small civilian craft all flew
about the six transports. It looked like they’d simply grabbed
everything with an Icarus drive, loaded people into it, and taken off.
Again, that begged the question: was this a pirate fleet, or were
these refugees? It wasn’t like Tenente had a ton of resources to
spare even if it were the latter, but he didn’t want to massacre a
fleet of unarmed civilians because he’d assumed wrong.
At the same time, he could not let them assault the remaining
orbital structures.
Tenente was in too precarious a position to lose any more tech or
other resources.
“Once Sergeant Waters and his squad are back aboard, we’ll
swing into a wider orbit around Tenente IV,” Buchanan said. “They
seem to be headed this way, so we’ll be waiting when they arrive. If
they approach any of our stations we may have to force the issue.”
He turned to Ensign Vogt. “Send a new transmission. Warn them
that if they approach Tenente IV or any other world in this system
they will be treated as hostile and engaged with lethal force.”
“Aye, sir,” the ensign replied.
It hopefully wouldn’t come to that. A show of force ought to be
enough to send these ships packing. Even if they were armed, he
doubted they had enough firepower to take on everything the SDF
had to offer. On top of that, there was a Fleet frigate in the system.
Even though they were being assholes about offering their
assistance, surely the Fleet wouldn’t allow raiders to openly attack
the system! They’d have to step in if the oncoming ships struck. The
Fleet was a bunch of insufferable busybodies with something of a
messiah complex, but they were at peace now. Surely, they’d defend
the system if push came to shove?
Buchanan found himself uncertain he knew just what they’d do,
and that bothered him more than a little. There were too many ifs,
maybes, and unknown factors involved in this mess.
“I’m headed back to my office to call back to Tenente II. I need
to speak with command to report and get further orders,” Buchanan
said. He snapped a nod to Kepler, who stepped forward to take
command of the bridge. “Alert me the moment any of those ships do
anything out of the ordinary.”
He felt certain it wasn’t going to be a matter of if they did
something, but rather when.
 CHAPTER FOUR

TDFF-1 Caracal
Orbit of Tenente IV
1071.2.13

It wasn’t an hour later that Buchanan was recalled to the bridge.

The ship was already under acceleration—Kepler knew his job and
was right on top of things. But from the initial report, they’d been
blindsided despite all their preparations.
The doors to the bridge opened with an audible hiss and
Buchanan strode into the command center of his ship. “What the
hell happened?”
Kepler turned and replied immediately. “Half a dozen small craft
from that incoming fleet docked with Lazarus Station twenty minutes
ago, sir. They forced entry despite station security attempting to stop
them. A gunfight broke out. Security believes they killed at least two
of the intruders before they escaped again, but they also lost a
man.”
First blood had already been shed. He’d been hoping to prevent
that. As they’d learned to their sorrow during the last war, any
bloodshed tended to beget more of the same. If cooler heads could
prevail, then maybe a fight could still be prevented, but it became
less likely with every casualty either side sustained. The people of
the Tenente system would begin hungering for justice from the
attacking vessels, who would feel much the same about the
residents of the system. Sometimes all it took was one death to
spark a war.
Nobody could afford another war, not on the back of the one
they’d barely survived.
“How did they get so close without us spotting them sooner?”
Buchanan asked.
“Not sure, sir. The ships were very small vessels, barely even
shuttles. They jetted out well ahead of the main formation and
probably just inserted themselves into regular system traffic. If they
looked just like any other in-system ship...”
“Then our scanning platforms would just treat them as such.
Smart of them. But what were they thinking, trying to hit Lazarus?
There’s a few thousand people on board that station. They were
never going to succeed at taking it,” Buchanan said.
Lazarus Station orbited Tenente V, just a little further into the
outer reaches of the system than the Caracal already orbited. Like
the ninth planet, Tenente V was a gas giant. Lazarus Station wasn’t
a mining platform, however. In the old days it had been a trade hub,
a place for incoming and outgoing commerce to mingle. These days
it was a small city in its own right, full of people trying to keep their
technology humming along as best they could.
Far too many people lived on Lazarus for the crews of six tiny
vessels to do anything effective there. No, those had to have been
scout ships. The incoming fleet was checking the place out, seeing
what the defenses looked like and investigating what might be on
the station worth stealing. The answer wasn’t good; Lazarus had no
real external defenses remaining worth speaking of. Its internal
security team was solid, but more of a police force than a military
one. However, the station was home to a great many people, which
meant it had enough technology on board to refit a lot of damaged
ships. That, plus the food and other basic supplies still warehoused
there, was probably what the ships were scouting for.
And while the security teams managed to fend off a handful of
scout vessels, if those transports closed on the station there would
be little the teams aboard it could do to prevent them from taking
whatever they wanted.
Worse still, his frigate wasn’t going to be able to fight them all
off. If it came to shooting and they’d armed those transports, plus
whatever weapons the smaller ships were packing, the Caracal
would be outmatched. He had the corvettes as a reserve force. If
Buchanan called them in as well, then he was confident he could
handle whatever these raiders could throw his way. But if he
stripped Tenente II of the corvettes, there would be nothing left to
protect the orbital infrastructure from scavengers.
Feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place, Buchanan found
himself in the unpleasant state of not knowing precisely what to try
next. There was really only one good answer, and that was to get
help from the Fleet frigate. But Lieutenant Halloway had already
refused the request once. Had the situation changed enough that he
might alter that decision?
Even the idea of going hat in hand to the Fleet and begging for
their assistance was galling. That one Fleet frigate had more
firepower than his entire SDF, though. Halloway could make all the
difference in the world, if he wanted to.
Grumbling softly under his breath, Buchanan came to the best
decision in a bad spot. “We’re jumping back to within easy comm
range of Tenente II. Vogt, get me a relay through Typhoon base to
the Swift Dagger as soon as we arrive. I need to speak with their
commanding officer.”
Kepler raised his eyebrows but didn’t say anything, for which
Buchanan was grateful. He understood the man’s skepticism. He felt
the same. But he was running out of good options, so picking the
best of a bad lot seemed to be the order of the day.
A short jump later and they were back home again. It only took a
couple of minutes for the connection to go through.
Halloway’s face appeared on the small screen of the console in
front of Buchanan. “Commander. I understand you wished to speak
with me?”
“Yes,” Buchanan replied. He swallowed his pride and went on.
“Thank you for responding so rapidly. Our civilian station at Tenente
V was attacked by elements of this rogue fleet moving into the
system.”
“We noted that,” Halloway replied. “It looks like your station was
able to defend itself, though...?”
“They were. But only against six tiny ships. With the rest of the
fleet moving in, there’s no way Lazarus Station will be able to hold
against them. We’ve got thousands of civilians on that station.”
Halloway stared back at him, face impassive, like he was waiting
for Buchanan to get to the point. Going to make him spell it out, was
he? Fine.
“I’m calling to ask if you can assist us. If you could keep
overwatch on the various orbital structures around Tenente II so I
can pull the corvettes to help us out here, we can safely defend the
station. That won’t even pull you away from the planet,” Buchanan
said.
Halloway’s face twisted and for a moment Buchanan thought the
man would bend, would come to their aid. He clearly wanted to
help. It would be a crappy military officer who enjoyed standing by
while civilians were in danger, and if Buchanan had the measure of
this man correctly, Halloway wasn’t a bad officer.
Then the moment was gone and Halloway’s visage returned to
the impassive image he’d held during the first moments of the
conversation. “My orders don’t allow me to assist, Commander. I
haven’t been given any leeway on this. If I had more ships here,
more forces of some sort, maybe my orders would be different. But
any units I pull from making sure our people are evacuated safely
puts them at risk. They’re my mission. Defending this system is
yours.”
“Damn it, Halloway. You have the power to end this without any
of the civilians on Lazarus dying.”
Halloway’s eyebrows snapped down and his calm face turned to
a glare. “And what about the civilians on those transports? You’re
asking me to pick a side in a battle I know very little about. Which
set of civilians are more deserving of our aid? Yours, or theirs? The
answer is I don’t know and I can’t know. Which means I cannot help
you. We’ll maintain our position at Tenente II, but we cannot spare
ships or men to watch your orbital structures for you. Was that all,
Commander?”
Buchanan opened his mouth to release every swear word he’d
ever heard, then zipped it shut before he could. The man deserved
his ire, maybe. But Buchanan would remain the professional in this
anyway. Twice he’d asked the Fleet for help and twice he’d been
rebuffed. They weren’t going to assist Tenente. Not even when
civilians were in imminent danger.
“That was all. Caracal out,” Buchanan said, keeping all the other
things he wanted to say safely to himself. He’d let them loose later,
perhaps, in the confines of his quarters where no one else would
hear it.
He snapped off the connection and looked over at his XO.
“Seems like we’re on our own, sir,” Kepler said.
“Yes. So we’re going to have to get creative,” Buchanan replied.
“All right. As soon as we have our people all aboard, we make for
Tenente V. We’re not letting this invasion put any more of our people
at risk.”
 CHAPTER FIVE

FSFF-22 Swift Dagger

High Orbit of Tenente II
1071.2.13

Caddel was standing not far behind Halloway as he made his

pronouncements. She was of two minds about the whole thing.
Personally, she figured they could task some of her Marines with
security and keep those orbitals pretty damned safe. A team of four
Marines per major station would be enough to fend off most
scavengers, and the frigate’s four interceptors could make short
work of most bigger threats. It was exceptionally unlikely that they
would need to bring the frigate itself to bear.
The idea kept growing in her mind as the two ship captains
spoke. It wouldn’t even take up much of her force. She had more
than enough Marines to handle their current mission and still assist
the System Defense Forces. There was no real reason why they
couldn’t help, but it was still the lieutenant’s call, not hers.
That didn’t mean she had to keep her thoughts to herself, of
course. It was always a good SNCO’s job to advise their officers.
Once the communication was cut—with more than a few harsh
words, she noted, although she got the feeling there were a lot
more left unsaid—she made her way to Halloway’s side.
 “A moment of your time, sir? I had a few things I wanted to go
over with you.”
Halloway glanced at her, caught her gaze, then nodded. “Will do,
Master Sergeant. Just a minute please. Ensign Torres?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Send out a message, open protocols, widest reach across the
system possible. I want every player out there to make sure they
hear what I have to say,” Halloway said. “All Federal civilians and
interstellar corps are to accelerate the evacuation. We’ve had our
timetable moved up. With the way things are degenerating in this
system, I want us underway in forty-eight hours. If scavenger
groups or anyone else interferes with the evac, they will be fired on,
but otherwise we will be remaining neutral to any conflicts within
this system for the duration of our stay.”
The ensign repeated back the commands and got to work
transmitting the message. Caddel grimaced. That message going out
meant that Halloway was that much less likely to agree to any sort
of help for the people living here. Still, it couldn’t hurt to ask.
“Walk with me, Master Sergeant?” Halloway asked. He turned to
his XO. “Briggs, you have the chair.”
They left the bridge behind them, marching on to the lieutenant’s
office. Neither of them said a word during their walk, each keeping
their thoughts to themselves. Caddel wasn’t sure if the silence was a
good thing or not. On the one hand, it might mean Halloway already
knew what she wanted to discuss and wanted privacy to go over it in
detail.
Or he might be planning to shoot her down and was only moving
the conversation someplace away from prying eyes as a courtesy to
her rank. No real way to know, but she wasn’t getting a good vibe
from the situation.
“Sir, I—”
“Wait until we’re in my office, Master Sergeant.”
Once they’d stepped inside, Halloway gestured her toward a
chair, which she took. He closed the door and took his regular seat.
“Now, what’s up? I had a feeling whatever it was would be better
discussed just between the two of us.”
 “Probably true, sir,” she replied. “I know you just announced to
the system that we’re not helping the Tenente SDF, but I drew up
some rough plans on how we could provide them a little light
support while we’re here and not impede our own mission at all.
Sending you the file now.”
With a thought, Caddel triggered transmission of the file. She
waited a moment while Halloway quickly scanned what she’d
written. A flash of blue from his retinal implants revealed his
reading, but his face remained expressionless, so she wasn’t sure
how her plans were being received.
“They’re good plans, Master Sergeant,” Halloway said after a
moment. He met her gaze with his own. “But our orders don’t give a
lot of leeway here. I sympathize with these people, too. There’s just
limits to what I’m allowed to do.”
“Even if we can accomplish this without harming our primary
mission?” Caddel asked.
“Even so. Your plans are good ones, but can you honestly
guarantee me that you’ll lose zero Marines in the op?” Halloway
asked.
“No, sir. I cannot make that guarantee.”
“Of course not. It’s most likely safe, but we simply cannot take
the risk. We can’t afford to lose the men, so we can’t gamble their
lives like this either.”
Caddel wanted to bark that it wasn’t any more of a gamble than
anything else they did. She knew damned well her Marines would be
more than willing to assist the SDF like this. Hell, it was light guard
duty. She’d already had several people ask her directly why they
weren’t doing more to help.
Instead, she zipped her lips. Saying those things wouldn’t make a
difference here; she could see it in the lieutenant’s eyes. He wasn’t
going to bend. That was weird, based on what she knew of the man.
He wasn’t the sort to turn his back on people in trouble. She
wondered what the full content of those orders he’d received had
been. Caddel had a sneaking suspicion there was more to the orders
than she’d been told.
 “Understood, sir. If that’ll be all, I should go check in with our
people on the ground, make sure the evacuation is still going on
schedule.”
“Sounds good, Master Sergeant. I do appreciate you bringing this
to my attention,” Halloway said. “If you have more ideas, send them
to me. Maybe I can pass them on to the SDF if they’re something
they can implement.”
“Will do, sir.”
Out in the hall, she racked her brain for something she could do
that might be effective, and an idea sparked. Ironically, it was what
Halloway said that gave her the thought. If her Marines could guard
those installations, then surely Tenente II had some ground troops
of their own they might be able to spare for the same role?
If they could free up the corvettes by using ground troops to
guard the orbitals, maybe they could find a way out of this mess
even without Fleet help. If her hands were tied personally, she could
at least get the idea over to the SDF leaders. After all, that’s what
Halloway had suggested doing, wasn’t it? Give him any further ideas
so he could pass them along?
Well, he hadn’t forbidden her from passing along these ideas
herself, and sometimes it was better to beg forgiveness than to ask
for permission. Halloway didn’t seem especially concerned about
what happened to the people of this system. And maybe he was
right—no matter what they did, the whole place might collapse into
anarchy the moment they left. That didn’t mean she could just stand
by and do nothing while she was still around, though.
Once she was back in the privacy of her quarters, Caddel opened
a link to Typhoon Station and transmitted the initial plans, with some
light modifications, and an invitation to correspond with her if there
were any questions about what she’d sent. She closed the link. It
wasn’t much, but it was more than nothing.
 CHAPTER SIX

Typhoon Station
Low Orbit of Tenente II
1071.2.13

Colonel Alex Jensen stepped onto Typhoon Station, his boots

banging against the cold steel deck plates. He hated space. Hated
being there. After the disastrous Battle of Callan, or “Massacre of
Callan” depending on whom one asked, he’d transferred out of the
Perseid Navy, but he couldn’t seem to leave the service behind him.
Not fully. His skills were simply too needed. So he’d found a position
as an officer for the Tenente ground forces. A strange act, given who
his family was and all the starship yards they owned, but after
watching innocent people die senselessly in the cold void, he
couldn’t bring himself to keep serving there.
He’d avoided traveling into space as much as possible since then.
It wasn’t always in the cards, though. He’d been forced by his job to
make a few trips up, and here he was again. There were ships in
space about ready to shoot at each other, too.
Just like last time.
Maybe this time, he could make things happen a little differently.
He had colonel rank on his shoulder now, after all, instead of
lieutenant bars. If he’d been a bit more senior back then, could he
maybe have prevented catastrophe? The thought haunted him more
days than not.
This might well be a chance for redemption.
“Sir, this way please,” a young woman wearing lieutenant rank
said as he exited the shuttle and walked across the hangar toward
her. A pair of security guards formed up alongside them as escorts.
“Lieutenant, thanks for meeting me. I’m here to coordinate—”
“Well aware, sir. We’ve got Commander Buchanan on the line for
you right now, though, sir. Need to get you up there so you can
conference call with him before his ship leaves local space.”
“Understood. Lead on, Lieutenant.”
They walked in silence through the busy station. Typhoon was
the nerve center of their space defense forces, much like his base
back on Tenente II’s surface was the central hub of their ground-
based military. Typhoon had modest repair capabilities, picked up
and relayed data from all the various sensor and communication
buoys scattered across the system, and helped coordinate action
across the various ships in their tiny fleet.
From the outside, it didn’t look like much, though: a big ring,
spinning slowly in place with a few shuttles and a single corvette
docked. The other corvette was out on patrol, and the SDF’s sole
frigate, of course, was about to jump out to Tenente V.
On the inside, Typhoon was a hive of activity. They passed
dozens of people on their way to the command center, all of them
rushing about on business of their own or working to repair or
maintain some system in the station halls. The place was somewhat
cobbled together, like much of their remaining tech. They’d fused
pieces of several stations to create one with actual defensive guns
and enough supplies to keep their ships in order. It worked, but it
wasn’t the easiest thing to keep working.
Finally, they reached the command center. It was a smaller room
than Jensen expected. He’d imagined some vast space like the
control rooms ground-side. It had been too long since he’d been in
space, where cubic meters were precious and nothing was given
more room than it required. The room they led him to was about the
size of his living room back home. It did have several large screens
showing various parts of the system.
One in particular displayed the main body of the invasion fleet, if
that’s what they were actually up against. Personally, Jensen wasn’t
entirely convinced these weren’t just refugees. But pirates, raiders,
refugees, or whatever, if they attacked Tenente property again they
needed to be dealt with firmly.
He pulled his attention away from the screen, redirecting it to the
lieutenant who’d been his guide. “I’ve been told there’s someone on
the Fleet ship who’s offered us some sort of assistance?”
A bit of a shock, that. The lieutenant in command of the ship had
been fairly adamant about not helping out. Was this a change of
heart, or a sign of conflict within the ship’s crew?
“This way, sir. She’s on standby to speak with you.”
Alex followed him to a console near the front of the room. A tech
seated in front of it saw them approaching and got out of the seat,
offering it to Jensen. He nodded his thanks and slid into the chair.
On the screen facing him was the image of a young woman who,
being Federal Fleet, probably wasn’t nearly as young as she looked.
Technically, she was a Federal Marine, judging from the uniform.
Jensen glanced at her rank—she had a lot of it, but was an NCO, not
an officer. He took a stab at the rank.
“Gunnery Sergeant?” Jensen asked.
“Master Sergeant, sir. And you’re a ground defense colonel,
which means you must be Colonel Alex Jensen,” she replied.
He blinked. “You’re much better informed about us than we are
about you.”
She laughed in reply. “That’s the job, sir. No offense meant. I’m
Master Sergeant Caddel, and I’m in charge of the Swift Dagger’s
Marine contingent. Yes, it’s unusual. Yes, it’s a headache. But that’s
not why I called.”
Alex grinned at the quick pronouncements. He had indeed been
about to ask why an NCO was in charge of their Marines instead of
an officer. But she was right; it wasn’t pertinent to why they were
both there. “All right, Master Sergeant. We’re on your dime here.
How can I help you?”
 “It’s more like how I can help you, sir. We’re...unable to provide
direct assistance to the System Defense Forces. Our ship’s captain
has direct orders to the contrary, so much as both of us would like to
render assistance, we’re not able to directly intervene.”
Alex nodded, knowing all of this already. “I’m sensing a ‘but’ in
there, somewhere?”
“More or less, yes, sir. While we can’t intervene directly, I ran
some numbers on having ground troops posted as guards to the
orbital structures you’re currently protecting with your corvettes,”
Caddel said. “I’ve already sent the information your way, but if you
need any advice on the implementation, I’ll be here if you need me.
Basically, you’ve got just enough military-grade shuttles that you
should be able to land a team of ground troops on each orbital to
keep watch and have a company in reserve, probably on Typhoon
Station, to back them up in case anything comes up.”
“And we have these plans already?” Jensen asked, glancing
quickly at the lieutenant who’d been his guide. The lieutenant
nodded once.
“You should, yes. If I think up any other good ideas I’ll send
them your way, but at least this should be something,” Caddel told
him.
“My thanks, Master Sergeant. Wish we could work together more
closely on this. I get the feeling I’d enjoy the experience,” Jensen
said.
“Maybe some other time we can,” Caddel replied. “There’s still
plenty of work to be done to get humanity back on track.”
“Agreed. All right, I’m going to go over these plans and see about
implementing them as rapidly as possible. We’ll call you back if there
are questions, but thank you for taking the time to offer this
solution.”
“Glad to help, sir. Caddel out.”
The screen went blank. Colonel Jensen rubbed his temples with
the forefingers of each hand. It was an elegantly simple solution,
and one that literally hadn’t occurred to anyone in the SDF or
Tenente II’s army. It should have. Hell, he should have thought of it!
But they were all too used to thinking of space troops working in
space and ground troops working on the ground.
That might have worked well in the old days when there was
plenty of everything to go around, but things had changed. It wasn’t
going to be enough to leave everyone to their own domains
anymore. If the space forces needed assistance, then the ground
forces would have to supplement them.
“Lieutenant...” Jensen glanced down at the name tag.
“Horokawa. I’d like a full copy of the specs the master sergeant sent
us. I’d also like you to call down planetside and tell them to put the
Fifth Rangers on alert status. I’d like the entire platoon ready to
board shuttles within two hours, ideally.”
He’d need to get in touch with the right people from the SDF to
get access to the shuttles and pilots he’d need to pull this off. But
once he ran the idea by them, he felt certain they’d see the value in
the idea the same as he had. With ground troops watching the
orbitals, the corvettes were free to reinforce their frigate. With the
extra ships, Commander Buchanan should be able to handle this
incoming fleet without too much trouble.
They had a plan. Time to execute.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

FSFF-22 Swift Dagger

Orbit of Tenente II
1071.2.13

Caddel had no sooner signed off with Colonel Jensen than she got a
ping for an incoming call. It couldn’t be Typhoon calling back already
—too soon. Jensen wouldn’t have had time to go over what she’d
sent him yet. He didn’t seem the sort to make calls about nothing.
So it was no surprise when the message tag said it was coming
from Sergeant Harris, one of her squad leaders on the ground. He
wasn’t scheduled to report for another five hours, and Harris wasn’t
in the habit of making social calls either. Whatever this was about, it
would be important.
“Caddel here,” she said as she picked up the call.
“Seen the news lately, Master Sergeant?” Harris asked.
“Been a bit busy up here, Sergeant. What’s up?” Caddel was
already scanning the system news channels for clues to what he was
talking about.
“Blue Ocean is under attack. That civvie mob I reported earlier?
It kept growing. It’s at least five thousand strong at this point and
they’ve breached the outer fence of the complex.”
 “Are your people still there?” Caddel glanced at the tactical
display.
“We’re due to move to the next site within the hour.”
“Any immediate danger to our Marines?”
“Negative, Master Sergeant. We’re in exoskeleton armor and well
behind the BOI security lines. They’re holding off the mob for the
time being, but I’m not sure if they’ll be able to keep it up much
longer,” Harris said. “We’re seeing a lot of small arms out there now,
including some military-grade weapons.”
“Military grade?”
“Assault rifles, stuff like that. Haven’t seen anything over Tier 2.
Yet,” Harris replied. “Honestly, I’m not saying the ground defense
troops are involved in attacking an interstellar corporation’s base of
operations, but...that’s pretty much what it looks like to me.”
“Damn.” That complicated things. The same group of people
she’d just offered assistance to were now pitching in with a strike
against Blue Ocean? Caddel didn’t think Jensen was aware of it,
though. She felt certain he would have revealed something during
their conversation if he had.
If a colonel in the ground forces didn’t know his troops were
attacking BOI, then it probably wasn’t an approved op. More likely, a
bunch of army grunts decided to go help their friends and family in
their “protest” of the corporation’s departure. It had been a hot topic
ever since the Swift Dagger arrived in system. The corporations they
were helping to evacuate were bringing with them everything they
could load onto starships. A lot of the tech they were hauling out
was stuff Tenente II could really use in the struggle ahead of them,
and everyone knew it.
It wasn’t unexpected that the civilians might get uptight, and
they’d seen some smaller-scale demonstrations earlier. Now that
departure was imminent, that had scaled up into a full-on riot,
complete with small arms.
“All right, Sergeant Harris. Number one, I want you to keep your
people safe. If it looks like you’re at risk, you’ve got a combat shuttle
on hand. Use it to get our people out of there. No heroics, you get
me?”
 “Understood, Master Sergeant.”
“Meantime, stay put if you can safely do so. I’d like eyes on this
mess. I’m going to call the Blue Ocean execs and see what they
have to say about all this,” Caddel said.
She closed the call with Sergeant Harris and was about to call
down to Blue Ocean, but decided that perhaps she’d be better off
having a chat with Halloway first. He needed to be informed of this
development anyway, and he might want to interface more directly
with the corporate folks down on the ground. Honestly, she’d be
thrilled if he did; facing down those sorts of people was officer turf
and not her favorite sort of work.
Caddel opened a link to Halloway. He answered immediately.
“What’s up, Master Sergeant?”
“Issue on the ground, sir. BOI is under attack by roughly five
thousand civilians. Pretty much a mob, but they’ve got small arms
and have breached the perimeter fence. BOI security is holding them
off for now, but our people aren’t sure how long that will last.”
“Damn it. We both saw this coming. This whole place is going to
go up like a powder keg soon. We need to get our mission complete
and get out of here before then,” Halloway mused.
“I was about to call BOI and basically tell them to hurry their
asses up,” Caddel said.
Halloway laughed. “Oh, they’ll love that. Go ahead and make the
call. Tell them we’re departing within forty-eight hours. If they’re not
ready to go, we’re leaving without them, so get the lead out. I know
they’re going to complain that they still have equipment to collect
and shuttles to load, but our timeline is fixed. Feel free to take the
gloves off a bit, Master Sergeant.”
“Roger that, sir,” she replied. The conversation closed and she
opened up a new comm link request to the surface, reaching out to
the corporate headquarters for Blue Ocean.
It took fifteen wasted minutes and reexplaining herself over and
over to three different subordinates before she was finally routed to
who she actually wanted to speak with: Grant Hammond, the man
actually in charge of BOI operations on Tenente II. She needed to
talk to the buck-stops-here man, not flunkies.
 “Hammond here,” he said. “Who might I be speaking with? We’ve
got a situation here, and I can’t be distracted for long.”
“Sir, my name is Master Sergeant Caddel. I’m in charge of the
Fleet Marine force for the Swift Dagger.”
“Oh! Master Sergeant, thank you for calling. For you, I have all
the time in the world, believe me. Thank you for the squad of
Marines you’ve sent to help us with our evacuation. I’m sure by now
they’ve reported what’s going on down here?”
“That’s why I’ve called you, sir.”
“Excellent. What additional support can you provide?”
Caddel blinked. It wasn’t every day she could be surprised. As a
career Marine, she’d seen just about everything. There was precious
little that could shock her. But Hammond managed, nonetheless. He
thought they were going to send more troops down to defend a
corporate base that was being evacuated anyway?
Well, Halloway had said to take the gloves off. “None, sir.”
A moment of silence from the other end made her smile. He
wasn’t the only one who could shock someone into momentary
speechlessness.
“Master Sergeant, my understanding is you have at least a
platoon or so of Marines up there, right?” Hammond asked. He went
on without waiting for her to reply. “A squad of Marines would be
enough to turn back the rabble currently pouring into our facility.
Then we will be able to safely extract all of the essential equipment
from the buildings here and depart.”
“Our orders are extremely clear, sir. We’re not allowed to commit
forces to combat in this system unless Federal lives are at stake.”
“They have guns,” Hammond said.
“So does your security force. I’ve already run the numbers.” She
had, in her head, and she had the experience to be confident of the
results. “Your existing security force is more than sufficient to hold
this riot at bay long enough to extract your personnel.”
“But not our equipment.”
“Sir, that’s not my concern. We’ve here to help evacuate lives.
Gear isn’t on the docket. Any equipment you manage to retrieve on
your own is fine, but with all due respect, we’re not here to protect
your stuff. We’re here to save lives.”
Hammond’s voice came back angry and loud. “After I lodge a
formal complaint with your brass, your career won’t be worth—”
Caddel cut him off. “Sir, be that as it may, I am following orders,
as is my captain.” Hammond seemed to sense that she wasn’t going
to bend easily, so he tried another tack. “We’ll be forced to hire a
mercenary company, then. There are two Combine forces in orbit,
correct?”
“Yes, sir. Both are due to evacuate with us, actually. They’ll be
leaving in forty-eight hours with the Swift Dagger.”
“Well, we’ll hire them to keep the facility safe until then. If the
Marines won’t help us, maybe the mercenaries will,” Hammond said.
Caddel kept her face impassive but winced inwardly. Mercenaries
wouldn’t use the same sort of restraint that her Marines might. It
would be a hell of a lot better for the protesters if she sent a squad
of Marines in. But besides their orders making that impossible, there
was something about Hammond that rubbed her the wrong way. She
didn’t want to put her people at risk to rescue whatever junk he was
trying to extract from the facility. Sure, it was likely valuable, but so
were the lives of her people.
“If you think that’s best, sir, you should do that,” she replied. “But
make sure you and the mercenaries are all ready to go before we
depart. Lieutenant Halloway has informed me that anyone not ready
to go by the deadline will be left behind.”
“Oh, we’ll be ready.” Hammond smirked at her. Sarcasm laced his
voice. “As will everything we need to bring with us. Thanks for the
conversation, Master Sergeant.”
She stared at where his image had been a moment before, then
shook her head. Things were about to get a lot worse on the
surface. She needed to warn Harris to watch his back and be ready
to get the hell out of Dodge at a moment’s notice, but there wasn’t
much else she could do. Having her hands tied was the worst part of
this entire operation.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
offre successivement, afin de nous adoucir, des poignées de
fromage en poudre, du zamba, de la viande séchée. Nous refusons,
et il reste là, marmottant des prières. Son émotion lui donne une
étonnante activité de cuisinier, car il ne cesse de puiser dans les
sacs, d’enfoncer de la glace dans les petits pots placés devant le
feu, de mélanger la farine et le beurre dans l’eau chaude, et il nous
paraît qu’il gâte les sauces. Il mange avec ses doigts de petites
boulettes, il boit à petites gorgées cette mixture de beurre rance et
d’eau chaude.
Cela continue longtemps, sans qu’il cesse de murmurer des
« Om mané padmé houm » et de nous considérer d’un petit œil où le
moins observateur lirait une vive inquiétude.
Nous nous amusons un instant de son embarras, puis nous
engageons conversation quand tout notre monde est là. On lui
explique que si nous voulons des chevaux, c’est parce que plusieurs
de nos gens ne peuvent plus marcher et que nous ne voulons rien
prendre sans le payer généreusement. Nous l’appelons appa,
popeunn, c’est-à-dire père, frère, et il approuve en levant les pouces.
Nos chiens, qui courent sur lui avec des intentions malveillantes
lui causent un véritable effroi, et il nous supplie de les éloigner. Nous
le rassurons en lui expliquant qu’ils ne mordent pas ceux que nous
appelons « frères ». Puis nous l’apprivoisons avec du sucre, et
lorsqu’il le goûte, il ne cache pas sa joie ; puis c’est du raisin, des
abricots : il exulte, et il nous qualifie de « frères » à son tour.
Puis nous montrons des iambas et nous marchandons son
cheval. Et, pour prouver que nos intentions sont bonnes, nous
rendons la liberté à son compagnon, en lui permettant d’emporter sa
pelisse. Celui-ci est à peine à cent pas qu’il se sauve vers la
montagne, abandonnant son chef sans la moindre vergogne. Peut-
être que la consigne est de fuir.
Sur ces entrefaites arrive un cavalier ayant un fanion rouge au
canon de son fusil. Il se dit propriétaire de moutons fusillés par
Rachmed, et immédiatement nous lui offrons le thé, mais il le boit
dans sa propre tasse, qu’il tenait enfouie sous sa pelisse. Ainsi le
veulent la coutume et le rite religieux : un Tibétain ne doit pas
apposer ses lèvres à la même place que des lèvres impures. Vous
comprenez que les lèvres impures sont les lèvres des autres.
Pendant ces réflexions on a tiré du sac un lingot d’argent, on le
montre au Tibétain propriétaire, qui demande à l’éprouver. Il le frotte
sur une pierre, le regarde, y remarque un cachet, et nous lui disons
que c’est le cachet de Péking. « Pétsin ! Pétsin ! » Il est rassuré.
Néanmoins, lorsqu’on lui a pesé le prix de ses agneaux, il
examine encore l’argent ; puis, satisfait, il l’enferme dans un petit sac
pendu à son cou. Nous lui faisons cadeau d’un petit miroir : il n’en
sait pas l’usage, et d’abord ne voit pas son image reflétée. Notre
prisonnier, soumis à la même épreuve, se reconnaît et éclate d’un
rire presque idiot. Il donne avec volubilité des explications à son
congénère, lequel se regarde à nouveau et rit beaucoup en voyant
son nez et son bonnet en face de lui. Comme la nuit approche, il
nous salue et part en riant.
Notre prisonnier est parfaitement apprivoisé, et il n’hésite pas à
nous demander l’autorisation de dormir à la place où il se trouve. Il
supplie qu’on le défende de nos chiens, et exprime le désir de
posséder un petit miroir. Nous lui promettons cela pour demain.
Dès ce soir, nous lui payons son cheval, que nous attachons près
de nos tentes, où nous transportons une panoplie de fusils à mèches
et de sabres appartenant aux fuyards.
Toute la nuit nos chiens aboient, et, dans le lointain, d’autres
chiens leurs répondent. A l’heure où commence cette demi-obscurité
qui précède les jours d’hiver, des hurlements de loups éclatent dans
le silence. Ils sont, de l’autre côté du lac, toute une bande, à nous
donner le plus lugubre des concerts. Je sors de la tente à ce
moment et je trouve Rachmed déjà debout.
« Rien de nouveau ? dis-je.
— Rien ; tout va comme hier, hommes et bêtes. »
A peine suis-je rentré dans la tente qu’il arrive, et, très triste, dit :
« Imatch vient de mourir. »
 Hier encore, à l’arrivée au camp, je lui ai demandé s’il allait
mieux. « Mieux », avait-il répondu. Il avait bu du thé avec plaisir. Il
est vrai que son souffle était haletant, sa figure enflée. C’était pitié
de le voir étendre vers le feu ses doigts rouges et gonflés, qu’il
promenait sur la flamme sans les pouvoir réchauffer. Pourtant il
s’intéressait encore à ce qu’on faisait dans la tente ; je l’avais vu
poser des argols dans le foyer par habitude de vieux Kizaï, véritable
homme de steppe. Placé à l’entrée de la tente, à l’endroit qu’il
préférait, on l’avait soigneusement enroulé dans sa pelisse et ses
couvertures, et il s’était étendu pour dormir.
Lorsqu’on lui avait demandé s’il désirait quelque chose, il avait
dit : « Merci. » Nul ne croyait que sa mort fût proche. Nous
demandons à Rachmed des détails sur la dernière heure de ce
brave homme. « Quand les loups ont hurlé, Imatch a appelé :
« Parpa, aka (frère aîné), donne-moi de l’eau ; Parpa, aka, j’ai soif. »
Parpa a répondu : « L’eau est gelée, mais je vais allumer du feu, je
fondrai la glace et tu boiras. » — « C’est bien. » Puis, l’eau prête,
Imatch l’a bue sans aide, mais avec peine, et en se réjouissant
d’étancher la dernière soif. Ensuite il s’est étendu, et s’est mis à
gémir doucement. Soudain il s’est dressé, il est sorti de la tente sur
ses genoux afin de satisfaire un besoin et il est revenu à sa place.
Nous préparions le thé, on lui a offert la première tasse prête ; il a pu
la tenir. Il a essayé de boire, mais il a dû rejeter la gorgée qu’il avait
dans la bouche. Il a rendu la tasse, et se couchant il nous a
appelés : « Hé ! Timour, Iça, Abdoullah, Parpa, Rachmed. » Nous
l’avons entouré. S’étant soulevé péniblement sur son coude, il a dit,
séparant les paroles par des soupirs : « Je n’arriverai pas. Allah ne
veut pas me porter plus loin. Adieu. Je suis content de vous tous,
vous m’avez bien soigné. Adieu. Je suis mort. » Il est retombé sur le
dos, et d’un seul coup l’âme est sortie de son corps. »
Tel est le récit que nous écoutons à la lueur de notre lanterne, car
le jour n’est pas levé.
« Dès qu’il fera clair, dis-je à Rachmed, nous l’enterrerons.
Cherche un creux dans les fondrières. Il y en a d’assez grand pour y
coucher un homme. »
 Imatch nous avait suivis depuis Djarkent, depuis la frontière de
Sibérie. Tous nous l’aimions, car s’il était rude en paroles, il était
bon, courageux, travailleur. Il soignait fort bien ses chameaux, qu’il
avait autrefois possédés en partie. Étant tombé dans les griffes d’un
usurier, il avait dû lui vendre ses bêtes avec lesquelles il transportait
des marchandises, et de propriétaire qu’il était, il était devenu le
serviteur de son créancier. Celui-ci nous avait vendu les chameaux
deux fois au moins le prix qu’il les avait achetés et Imatch avait suivi
la fortune de ses bêtes. Les gages que nous lui payions étant très
élevés, il comptait faire des économies, pouvoir acheter des
chameaux à son retour, et redevenir libre, « redevenir Imatch comme
devant », ainsi qu’il disait lui-même. Mais Allah en a décidé
autrement. Le pauvre Kirghiz ne reverra plus sa steppe.
On l’étend au fond d’un trou, enveloppé du feutre qui lui servait
de lit. On lui tourne la face vers le sud-est ; il nous regardera partir et
verra la ville sainte par-dessus les océans qui embrassent le
Nouveau Monde. Les uns apportent des pierres dans le pan de leur
pelisse, les autres de la terre dans des sacs, afin de recouvrir le
mort. Puis les prières sont récitées avec des sanglots.
On fait les préparatifs de départ pour le Namtso, qui serait de
l’autre côté d’un chaînon s’allongeant en travers de notre chemin, au
dire de notre prisonnier.
Nous lui rendons la liberté, et nous lui remettons des cadeaux
ainsi que les armes prises la veille. A peine sommes-nous partis que
les fuyards d’hier apparaissent. Ils nous guettaient du haut de la
montagne, nous les voyons trotter vers leur chef.
La certitude que le Tengri Nor, que le Namtso, comme disent les
Tibétains, est là, nous donne un regain de vigueur. Nous regrettons
que nos chevaux soient incapables de nous suivre ; nous les tirons
par la bride ; ils se traînent derrière nous, car ils ne peuvent plus
nous servir qu’à porter notre selle, nos sacoches et notre manteau.
A mesure qu’on avance vers le sud, le lac semble s’élargir et
grandir aussi dans la direction du sud-ouest, et, comme la brume
nous empêche de voir sa fin, il prend l’immensité d’une mer sans
rivage. Mais la brume évanouie, on voit bien que ce n’est qu’une
petite mer, qu’un grand lac emprisonné dans les montagnes.
Le soleil du soir frappant la glace en fait jaillir des pierreries
superbes, des diamants énormes, des parures pour géants, et, entre
toutes ces merveilles d’une joaillerie féerique, éclate, isolé, un
brillant ayant les dimensions d’une colline. Nous nous souvenons
alors que nous avons devant nous le « Lac du Ciel », et cette
fantasmagorie ne nous surprend plus, un tel lac pouvant offrir tous
les spectacles. Le soleil descend, il se pose sur le sommet des
collines, et le diamant extraordinaire ne jette plus de feux : il devient
un bloc de glace, et l’écrin magique étalé devant nous semble une
eau limpide qu’aucun vent ne ride. Puis tout est rose. Le soleil
plonge derrière la chaîne ; il verse un ruissellement d’or en fusion à
l’extrémité du lac, et le paysage se silhouette en offrant ce
contraste : à notre droite, c’est-à-dire au nord, d’où nous venons, ce
sont des lignes douces, et au sud, du côté de Lhaça, ce ne sont que
lignes brisées, que crêtes menaçantes, toute une traînée de pics
semés à dessein dans le but d’élever une insurmontable barrière.
Le temps de me demander si l’on a mis le Ningling Tanla à cette
place pour nous empêcher de passer, et la nuit tombe. Les loups
poussent des hurlements lamentables.
 CHAPITRE IX
LES GENS DE LHAÇA

Après avoir dépassé le Namtso, nous sommes restés dans la

passe de Dam jusqu’au 7 mars, puis nous avons eu un premier faux
départ.
Nous avons profité de ce premier arrêt pour observer des
Tibétains de conditions diverses et des lamas venus à cette place
pour nous surveiller. Nous avions besoin de leur aide pour continuer
notre voyage et nous ne nous sommes entendus qu’après des
pourparlers qui semblaient interminables, car on est assez mal pour
bavarder à plus de cinq mille mètres d’altitude, en hiver.
Le 20 février est le premier jour de leur année, qu’ils font suivre
de cinq autres jours de réjouissances. Dès le matin, l’interprète vient
nous inviter à nous rendre chez l’amban afin de célébrer la fête.
Ce brave Mogol a coiffé une sorte de capuchon rouge pour la
circonstance et il s’est livré à des libations nombreuses, on le voit
bien. Il a les yeux plus brillants que de coutume, il répand du reste
une odeur d’arki qui nous dispense de chercher la raison de sa
bonne humeur et de la béatitude de son sourire.
« Venez, dit-il, venez vite. C’est le premier jour de la nouvelle
année. L’amban vous attend avec impatience. Il vous a préparé un
repas. Venez. »
 Nous descendons vers le camp tibétain, situé en aval du nôtre,
de l’autre côté de la glace. De nombreuses tentes noires entourent
la tente de l’amban et des principaux. C’est un va-et-vient de
serviteurs qu’aident les sauvages habitants des hauts plateaux.
Malgré la rigueur de la température, ceux-ci ont le bras droit hors de
la pelisse, et la moitié de leur corps apparaît complètement nu. Ce
sont eux qui recueillent l’argol, vont quérir la glace, dépècent les
bêtes, soignent les chevaux de selle, les mules, les yaks de bât et
enfin soufflent constamment le feu au moyen d’une outre fendue où
ils emprisonnent habilement l’air qu’ils expulsent par un tube de fer
plongé dans le tas d’argol.
Des guirlandes de prières relient les uns aux autres les sommets
des tentes, on dirait le pavoisement d’une flottille. Dans le camp il y
a un grouillement d’êtres et tout autour, sur les flancs de la
montagne, un fourmillement de yaks : ils ont servi à transporter les
provisions pour les cent ou deux cents individus qui nous honorent
de leur présence. En face de la tente de l’amban en est une autre
ouverte, servant de cuisine. Nous voyons auprès, un homme faisant
les gestes de battre le beurre dans une jarre : c’est, paraît-il, afin de
mélanger le beurre au thé : les Tibétains boivent ce mélange avec
plaisir.
L’amban, leur chef laïque, nous attend devant sa tente, il envoie
quelques serviteurs assurer notre marche sur la glace en nous
tenant par le bras, car nous sommes des hôtes précieux. Nous
grimpons la berge au bas de laquelle on doit marcher avec
précaution, et l’amban s’avance au-devant de nous. Une fois de
plus, nous constatons qu’il n’est pas grand. Il nous accueille avec un
sourire traversant sa lune ronde et glabre ; son front découvert de
vieille fille qui perd les cheveux vers la quarantaine nous semble
marquer beaucoup d’intelligence. Il nous fait entrer les premiers
dans sa tente de toile à quatre faces, formée par des portants sur
lesquels se pose un toit pointu également à quatre faces. Comme
l’amban est un laïque, il n’emploie que des laïques pas tondus, et un
serviteur à cheveux longs, à tresse pendante, soulève la portière.
 L’amban nous invite à nous installer sur une sorte d’estrade, à
droite de la porte. Une autre estrade un peu plus haute, adossée au
fond de la tente, lui est réservée. Il s’y assied, jambes croisées, sur
une peau de tigre, s’adossant à des coussins, doublés les uns de
soie de Chine, les autres de calicot des Indes, si je ne me trompe.
Puis, sans plus tarder, nous lui demandons à quelle date viendra
la réponse de ses supérieurs, permettant l’organisation de notre
départ.
« Vite, dit-il.
— Vous seriez bien aimable de nous dire ce que vous entendez
par le mot « vite », car dans certains pays cela veut dire : « Au bout
d’une heure vous aurez ce que vous demandez » ; dans d’autres :
« Après un jour ou une année ». Et chez vous quel sens à Ce
mot ? »
Le traducteur mogol nous paraît plus que jamais sous l’influence
de l’arki et il commence par rire de bon cœur, puis il traduit ces
paroles, et l’amban rit à son tour.
« Il est vrai, dit-il, que l’on doit s’entendre sur le sens des mots.
Je puis vous dire que « vite » signifie dans six jours environ, car nos
chefs auront sans doute besoin de consulter le mandarin chinois. Or
il est absent de Lhaça et il habite à l’ouest, à deux journées de la
ville. Croyez que je regrette ces retards, mais ils sont inévitables. »
Sur ces entrefaites, entre le chef des lamas ici présents, et il
s’assied à gauche de l’amban. Devant eux, une petite table supporte
leurs tasses que surmonte un couvercle en argent. Des jeunes gens
versent fréquemment du thé au beurre contenu dans des théières en
terre cuite.
Tous se disputent l’honneur de nous servir afin de nous
examiner. L’un d’eux a sans doute pris la théière des mains d’un
camarade qui veut l’empêcher de pénétrer dans la tente et le retient
par le pan de sa robe. Pour se dégager, il lance derrière lui de
vigoureux coups de pied tandis qu’il soulève la portière avec le plus
aimable des sourires.
 A gauche de l’amban, un autel a été installé sur des coffres :
l’image de Bouddha enfermée dans un cadre doré sourit ; devant
sont alignées sept petites coupes en cuivre contenant du safran et
de l’huile ; un luminaire flambe doucement ; des aromates brûlent
dans une cassolette ; des bâtons d’odeur se carbonisent lentement,
plantés dans les cols de petites théières. On a déposé sur les deux
degrés de l’autel des figurines en beurre ; je puis distinguer une tête
de mouton à cornes ayant sur le front des protubérances en sucre
blanc, des colonnettes en même matière, et, dans des soucoupes,
des confiseries offertes en holocauste à la divinité.
Après avoir bu un nombre considérable de tasses de thé, nous
manifestons le désir de nous retirer. L’amban, appuyé par son chef
des lamas, nous réitère ce qu’il a dit vingt fois déjà.
« Tâchons d’arranger les affaires, d’être toujours d’accord, d’être
toujours comme cela », et ce disant, il joint les index par la face
interne, et, insistant pour que nous soyons amis, il se sert de cette
comparaison :
« Deux tasses d’une belle porcelaine posées sur une table font
un bel effet. On les entrechoque, elles se cassent, et il n’y a que
débris. Ne nous entrechoquons pas, ne nous entrechoquons pas »,
répète-t-il en se levant pour nous reconduire.
A la sortie, tout le monde nous salue en souriant et l’on voit bien
que la consigne est de ne pas nous choquer.
Sous prétexte de nous promener, nous nous dirigeons vers une
tente noire qu’on a dressée depuis peu sur le chemin de la passe en
amont de notre camp. Nous voyons accroupis autour d’un feu
d’argol huit hommes à longue chevelure qu’un lama tondu
commande. Ils se tiennent au fond d’un trou, ils bavardent
tranquillement, fumant une petite pipe à fourneau de terre et à tube
en os qu’ils se passent à tour de rôle. Ce sont de pauvres diables
chargés de ramasser l’argol et qui ne célèbrent pas du tout la fête de
la nouvelle année. Ce que nous prenions pour une tente, de loin,
n’est qu’une moitié de tente, un abri de bure noire ouvert du côté où
le vent ne souffle pas. Les Tibétains y dorment sur un peu de menue
paille mêlée à des argols ; dans un coin sont entassés leurs arcs et
leurs lances, et au milieu trois pierres forment le foyer pour les jours
où le vent souffle fort. Leur costume rudimentaire est taillé dans des
peaux de mouton effiloquées dans le bas, trouées et d’une saleté
extraordinaire. Leurs figures, noires de graisse et de fumée,
contribuent à réaliser le type le plus pur du sauvage qu’on puisse
imaginer.
En considérant ces crânes étroits, on se demande quelles
cervelles ils peuvent bien abriter, et nous ne nous étonnons pas que
les lamas exercent un ascendant extraordinaire sur des êtres aussi
peu intelligents, aussi peu susceptibles de volonté, dont les
sensations doivent être à peu près celles de leurs yaks et de leurs
chiens. Espérons que tous les Tibétains ne ressemblent pas à cette
bande de bêtes à face humaine.
Le 21 février, par un vent d’ouest, les fêtes continuent : on sonne
les trompes en haut des rochers, on chante dans le camp, et les
guirlandes de prières sont agitées par le vent.
Le 1er mars, dès le matin, le ciel est couvert, puis un ouragan se
déchaîne et la vallée disparaît sous la poussière. Le vent souffle
toute la nuit, quelques tentes des Tibétains sont emportées par la
bourrasque et nous nous trouvons très bien dans la nôtre, qui est
quadruple : en effet, l’amban nous a fait cadeau d’une tente double,
que nous avons jetée sur la nôtre, et cela nous permet d’avoir un
réduit à l’arrière pour divers objets, et un vestibule à l’entrée. De
grosses pierres consolident notre habitation, et notre toile défie le
vent. Le minimum de la nuit est de − 23°,5, aussi, au réveil, notre
troupe se plaint du mal de tête. Les ouragans amènent toujours une
recrudescence du mal de montagne, même pendant les repos.
Ce 2 mars, vers midi, un nuage de neige passe sur nous ; le ciel
reste couvert avec un vent de nord-ouest qui n’est que le vent
d’ouest du Namtso s’engouffrant dans le col.
Dans l’après-midi, l’interprète à la dent longue nous apporte un
peu de lait, que nous réclamons depuis longtemps pour nos
malades, et en même temps il nous fait part de la prochaine arrivée
de grands chefs. Nous nous en étions doutés dès le matin, car de
nombreux yaks chargés étaient arrivés dans la nuit et nous avions
vu dresser une grande tente avec beaucoup de difficultés, et même
nous avions ri lorsqu’un coup de vent avait enlevé la toile. Le remue-
ménage, le va-et-vient des hommes, les petits chefs surveillant les
travaux, nous avaient mis en éveil, et l’indiscrétion de l’interprète ne
servait qu’à préciser nos prévisions.
Aussi, cet homme parti, nous nous postons à une bonne place
avec nos lorgnettes et nous surveillons la descente de la passe.
D’abord arrivent des chevaux chargés, bien harnachés, ayant au
cou des sonnettes sonores ou des houppes de couleur rouge,
couleur du pouvoir. Puis, voici des cavaliers bien vêtus ; ils errent à
travers les fondrières et paraissent ignorer le sentier tracé au bas
des contreforts et qu’on atteint avec un détour. Des sauvages à
longue tresse les appellent ; d’autres s’empressent à leur rencontre,
prennent les brides et soutiennent leurs montures sur la glace. Ils
arrivent au camp et toutes les tentes se vident, on se presse autour
d’eux. Ce n’est que l’avant-garde, car l’agitation reprend dans le
camp tibétain et des serviteurs se dirigent vers la passe.
Bientôt apparaissent les grands chefs, montés sur des chevaux
au pas rapide et sûr, entraînant les hommes qui les tiennent par la
bride sous prétexte de les soutenir, et peut-être par politesse. Nous
distinguons trois grands personnages. Couverts de fourrures
doublées de soie jaune, ils paraissent ventrus, rebondis, énormes, et
l’on s’étonne qu’ils n’écrasent pas de cette masse leurs agiles petits
chevaux. Sur la tête, ils ont les chapeaux à plume des mandarins
chinois, mais posés sur une cagoule qui leur garantit la nuque et la
face, dont on ne voit rien ; leurs yeux sont en outre abrités par des
lunettes protubérantes que surplombe une visière par surcroît de
précaution. Une escorte assez nombreuse, aux costumes bigarrés,
trottine derrière eux avec un grand bruit de grelots. Ce spectacle
offre une certaine pompe, mais il nous semble ridicule et nous
pensons à un défilé de mi-carême.
Dans le camp tous les chefs civils et religieux attendent placés
sur une ligne les mandarins ; là ils s’inclinent profondément en
restant à leur place. Seul l’amban s’approche, complimente deux
des arrivants, avec lesquels il échange une poignée de main ; ceux-
ci, sans descendre de cheval, gagnent les tentes qui leur sont
destinées. La foule se disperse et chacun court où sa besogne
l’appelle.
Lorsque nous réfléchissons que tout ce rassemblement de
peuple a lieu parce que nous sommes ici, nous trouvons qu’on nous
fait beaucoup d’honneur.
Puis, les interprètes viennent nous demander si nous voulons
accorder une audience aux grands personnages qui sont arrivés.
Nous disons que nous serons trop heureux de les recevoir
immédiatement. Notre réponse transmise, toute une troupe se dirige
vers nous, ayant en tête deux individus somptueusement vêtus à la
chinoise. Ils avancent bras dessus bras dessous, et l’un d’eux, petit,
court, rond, voûté, s’appuie sur son compagnon. Ces deux
vénérables marchent lentement, reprennent haleine tous les quinze
pas. Nous restons impoliment sous notre tente et nous n’en sortons
que quand la troupe est sur notre territoire.
Nous échangeons des saluts avec ceux qu’on nous présente
comme le ta-lama et le ta-amban. Des porteurs déposent à nos
pieds, ou plutôt sur notre provision d’argols, cinq sacs : un sac de
riz, un de zamba, un de farine, un de pois chiches, un de beurre. Là-
dessus nous invitons les deux ambassadeurs à s’abriter sous notre
tente, où des feutres les attendent. La simplicité de notre
ameublement les effarouche sans doute un peu, car ils ont l’air
d’hésiter, ils font des difficultés avant d’entrer. Ils demandent la
permission de s’asseoir sur leurs petits tapis, et leurs serviteurs
étendent pour l’un une peau de guépard, pour l’autre un petit
matelas doublé de soie. Ils excusent ces précautions en disant :
« Nous sommes vieux et fatigués. »
Les trois premiers négociateurs s’assoient auprès d’eux, en face
de nous, et la conversation commence. D’abord ce sont des
politesses :
« Comment vous portez-vous ? dit le ta-lama.
 — Fort mal, car nous sommes dans une mauvaise place. »
Cette réponse ne laisse pas de les désorienter un peu, ils
s’attendaient à plus d’amabilité de notre part, et notre connaissance
le petit amban baisse la tête. Il nous avait dépeints comme des gens
convenables, et, pas du tout, nous répondons avec rudesse.
Nous leur demandons à notre tour s’ils ont fait un bon voyage.
« Oui, quoique la route soit mauvaise. Nous avons dû venir à
petites étapes, à cause de notre âge. Les fêtes nous ont aussi
retardés, sans quoi vous nous auriez vus plus tôt. Ces fêtes sont
commandées par la religion, et nous devons les célébrer. »
Ensuite viennent des questions sur nos personnes, sur le but de
notre voyage, et nous répondons ce que nous avons déjà dit vingt
fois au petit amban. Et ils nous font les mêmes propositions que ce
dernier nous a déjà faites :
« Vous allez retourner sur vos pas !
— Non. Cela est impossible.
— Retournez, nous vous procurerons tout ce qu’il vous faudra.
C’est ce que vous avez de mieux à faire. Nous nous quitterons bons
amis. Réfléchissez à ma proposition, et je vous le conseille,
acceptez-la : j’espère que nous nous arrangerons à l’amiable, car
nous sommes venus sans soldats, et nous aurions pu en amener de
Lhaça. Cela vous prouve nos bonnes intentions.
— Il est inutile de nous proposer le retour et de nous conseiller
de réfléchir. Nous ne parlons pas à la légère. Nous sommes venus
de l’Occident, poussés par un destin, par une force qui nous a
transportés à travers les déserts en suivant un chemin que vous-
mêmes ignorez. Notre volonté est d’aller à Batang et de rejoindre
nos compatriotes au Tonkin, où ils habitent sur les terres prises à
l’empereur de Chine. Vous ne pouvez rien contre notre volonté, nous
ne ferons pas un seul pas vers le nord, soyez-en persuadés. Vous
ne nous effrayez pas, nous venons de l’extrémité de la terre sans
avoir pu être arrêtés, nous poursuivrons notre marche et vous nous
y aiderez. Vous réfléchirez vous-mêmes et vous verrez que Bouddha
lui-même en a décidé ainsi. Nous préférons mourir plutôt que de
retourner. C’est notre dernier mot. »
Le soleil se couchant, ils se lèvent et s’éloignent, visiblement
mécontents d’avoir entendu de semblables paroles en présence de
leur escorte.
Ils nous disent adieu, et, avant de s’éloigner, voulant avoir le
dernier mot, le ta-lama nous répète :
« Réfléchissez. Réfléchissez. »
A quoi je réponds en français, irrespectueusement :
« Oui, mon vieux.
— Que dit-il ?
— Il vous souhaite bonne nuit dans sa langue », répond
Abdoullah.
Les deux grands chefs s’éloignent et nous restons aux prises
avec le petit amban et les deux autres négociateurs des premiers
jours.
Le petit amban — qui nous a pris en affection, nous
commençons à le croire — nous fait des reproches :
« Pourquoi avez-vous parlé sur ce ton à mes chefs ? Songez
donc que ce sont les deux premiers de Lhaça, ils peuvent autant que
les kaloun (ministres). Soyez plus aimables demain. Dites-moi ce
que vous désirez. Je leur parlerai dans ce sens. Mais ne changez
pas d’idées, car si vous me contredites ensuite, ils m’accuseront de
m’être vendu à vous et d’avoir pris en main vos intérêts et même
cherché à obtenir pour vous plus que vous ne vouliez.
— Notre désir est d’aller à Batang, ainsi que nous vous l’avons
cent fois répété. Vous nous fournirez les moyens de transport, des
vivres, et nous vous les payerons. C’est ce que nous voulons
aujourd’hui et ce que nous voudrons jusqu’à ce que nous
l’obtenions.
— Je le dirai à mes chefs, mais sans pouvoir insister, car ils se
défieraient de nous, ils nous accuseraient et nous serions punis
terriblement. »
 Il s’éloigne sur ces mots. Nous allons nous asseoir près de notre
feu d’argol et nous échangeons nos impressions sur les deux
ambassadeurs.
On reste longtemps à bavarder au clair de la lune. On entend
Abdoullah réciter des prières en compagnie du Doungane, sous la
tente duquel il est allé se réfugier. C’est le signe qu’ils ne voient pas
l’avenir en beau, car ils s’adressent toujours au ciel dans les
mauvais moments. Les temps sont-ils meilleurs ? ni Abdoullah ni le
Doungane ne récitent une fatiha.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Les pourparlers avec les deux grands chefs continuent le 3 mars

et les jours suivants, et après des phases diverses, des fâcheries et
des raccommodements, nous arrivons à les convaincre que nous ne
sommes ni Anglais, ni Russes, mais Français. Et nous obtenons un
déplacement pour le 7 mars.
« Enfin, nous allons lever le camp, disons-nous, et changer de
place. »
Le matin du 7 mars, le soleil luit, il a neigé les jours précédents et
la montagne est resplendissante, éblouissante. C’est un superbe
temps de départ, mais un faux départ, car nous nous déplaçons pour
nous installer dans une meilleure place, où nous attendrons encore.
Le camp est très animé. Il ne faut pas moins de trois ou quatre
cents yaks ou chevaux pour transporter les bagages, les tentes et
les vivres. De tous côtés on voit les hommes noirs courir derrière
leurs bêtes, les rassembler, les pousser devant eux avec des
sifflements aigus et en faisant tournoyer leurs frondes. Pour n’être
point gênés dans leurs mouvements, ils ont tiré leurs bras hors des
manches de leurs pelisses, qui leur tombent sur les reins et laissent
leurs torses à nu. Leurs longues tresses les embarrassent lorsqu’ils
se baissent et ils en ceignent leur front. Ils paraissent avoir des
bandelettes comme de chastes matrones romaines, ou bien des
diadèmes, et l’on dirait ces barbares que, dans les jeux publics, on
déguisait en rois pour l’amusement de la populace.
Ces Tibétains aussi sauvages que leurs bêtes ont grand’peine à
les saisir. Nos chameaux les épouvantent. Et ce n’est pas du
premier coup que les yaks se laissent prendre par la corne d’où l’on
détache le cordon attaché à la cheville qui perce leur mufle. Leurs
maîtres les approchent avec précaution et ne les saisissent que par
surprise. C’est bien pis pour les charger : il faut un temps infini avant
de pouvoir ficeler sur leur dos nos coffres, dont ils ne veulent à
aucun prix. Mais la patience de ces hommes est sans borne, et ils
finissent toujours par avoir raison de l’animal récalcitrant ; dès qu’ils
le tiennent, ils l’entravent, le chargent malgré les ruades et les coups
de cornes, mais ne le châtient pas.
Des lamas, le bâton à la main, leur donnent des ordres, les
réprimandent. Ces sauvages exécutent gaiement leur besogne : ils
sont très obéissants, très respectueux à l’égard de leurs lamas : ils
leur parlent et ils les écoutent dans la plus humble posture, courbés
en deux, la langue pendante.
Tous nos chevaux étant morts, on a sellé pour nous, de petits
chevaux tibétains pleins de feu. Ils sont mangeurs de viande crue,
ainsi que nous nous en sommes assurés de nos propres yeux. Ces
carnivores ont des jambes merveilleuses, une adresse acrobatique,
ils se tiennent en équilibre sur la glace, sur les mottes des tourbières
limoneuses, et, s’enlevant, bondissant sur le sentier, ils nous
emportent avec un trottinement rapide auquel nous ne sommes plus
habitués. On dirait que les petits diables nous trouvent légers
comme des plumes ; au fait, notre embonpoint est nul, notre
maigreur est ascétique.
En trois heures et demie nous chevauchons 22 verstes par
monts et par vaux, mais surtout en descendant. Nous allons camper
près d’une rivière gelée qui verse ses eaux au Namtso.
Le petit amban nous reçoit sous sa tente, où il nous a préparé un
repas délicieux. C’est d’abord une langue de yak fumée, à laquelle
succède une autre langue de yak, que nous faisons disparaître, y
compris les environs de l’œsophage ; puis des légumes, des
carottes salées de conserve, et du poivre rouge et vert ; enfin des
galettes de pain sans levain, et du thé au beurre à discrétion. Cet
excellent amban admire notre appétit et nous excite à le satisfaire.
Avouons que nous n’avons pas besoin d’encouragement.
L’amban nous a reconduits près de notre camp, posé sur la rive
droite du cours d’eau. Il voulait nous retenir sous sa tente jusqu’à ce
que la nôtre fût dressée, mais nous avons manifesté le désir de
marcher, parce que nous avons froid aux pieds, et il nous a
accompagnés disant :
« La coutume ne veut pas qu’on laisse seul un hôte sans abri. On
doit lui tenir compagnie. »
Nous profitons de cette coutume pour lui poser diverses
questions. D’abord c’est le nom de la belle chaîne que dominent les
pics Huc et Gabet. Ils ont ce soir chacun un turban de nuages, cela
me rappelle la Perse et le turban bien connu du Demavend. Cette
chaîne s’appellerait Samda Kansain, et la rivière au bord de laquelle
nous nous trouvons, Samda Tchou, empruntant son nom à la
montagne qui la nourrit.
Ensuite nous lui parlons du serou, de la licorne dont le père Huc
a entendu certifier l’existence. Après des explications, nous
apprenons que cet animal vit au pays du Gourkas (dans l’Inde) et
qu’il a une corne non pas sur le sommet de la tête, mais sur le nez,
et que c’est du rhinocéros qu’il s’agit.
8 mars. — Le vent souffle d’ouest. Il neige par instants. Le soleil
paraît, disparaît. Puis, la violence du vent plus grande, le ciel se
couvre et le froid est insupportable après la tiédeur de l’après-midi.
L’amban vient nous entretenir. Il nous engage à prendre
patience. Car il faut qu’on nous prépare à Lhaça les objets que nous
avons demandés. Avant de quitter Dam, on a dressé, sous notre
dictée, une longue liste de nos désirs.
Nous avons demandé des costumes de tous genres, des
chaussures, des coiffures, les objets de culte, les cymbales grandes
et petites, des peaux, des prières même. On nous a promis de réunir
des chevaux pour nous, et de les expédier vite ici. Mais l’amban
craint notre impatience. Il se rend compte de l’envie que nos gens
ont de partir. Personne d’entre nous ne se soucie de rester ici, à
commencer par moi. Cependant il y a des degrés dans l’impatience,
et jusqu’à nouvel ordre nous avons le devoir d’attendre, car les
Tibétains ne nous témoignent aucune malveillance.
L’amban proteste de la pureté de ses intentions. « Vous êtes des
frères pour nous. Nous voulons vous être agréables. Si nous vous
retenons, c’est parce que mes deux supérieurs doivent écrire à
Lhaça. Ils sont convaincus que vous êtes des gens de bien. Mais,
que voulez-vous, nous n’avons pas vos habitudes, nous ne savons
pas expédier vite les affaires. Un conseil décide des affaires
importantes, et vous savez que les membres d’un conseil nombreux
ne tombent pas immédiatement d’accord. Si j’étais seul, vous auriez
de suite ce qu’il vous faut, mais rien qu’ici nous sommes trois grands
chefs et vingt petits environ. Les uns se défient des autres et il faut
beaucoup de prudence pour ne pas être accusé. »
Cette crainte d’être accusé que l’amban a manifestée déjà
semblerait prouver que Lhaça est un foyer d’intrigues, que le pouvoir
y est partagé, qu’il est très recherché, et que ceux qui le possèdent
se montrent jaloux de le conserver.
L’amban demande des renseignements sur la façon dont on vit
en France ; quelle situation est faite aux femmes ; sont-elles jolies ?
Puis il parle des inventions étonnantes que les Anglais ont
appliquées dans les Indes et qu’il n’a pas vues. « Avez-vous aussi
des machines ? Avez-vous aussi de grands bateaux avançant sur
l’eau sans voiles ? Et des livres ? »
Et apprenant que nous possédons beaucoup de livres traitant de
toutes les questions auxquelles l’homme s’intéresse, il s’étonne que
nous voyagions.
« Car, dit-il, à quoi bon parcourir les pays lointains lorsqu’on peut
occuper sa vie à lire sans quitter son foyer. Ainsi je n’ai moi-même
aucun désir de sortir du Tibet : les livres de notre religion suffisent à
ma curiosité. »
 L’amban n’a évidemment pas d’idées modernes, son esprit n’a
pas besoin de l’activité fébrile où nous nous complaisons, il est
heureux de vivre sans efforts dans son pays, il ne se soucie pas des
« grands problèmes » de l’humanité, le progrès n’existe pas pour lui ;
il fait de la politique autant que l’exige l’instinct de conservation, il lit
et relit un livre, marmotte des formules incompréhensibles et il est
heureux. Ses actions n’ont qu’un but : conserver le fromage où sa
naissance l’a placé, et peut-être, si cela est possible sans trop de
risque, évincer son supérieur du fromage de Hollande plus gros que
le sien, et s’y fourrer avec la satisfaction du devoir accompli. C’est
surtout en ceci que l’amban ressemble aux gens d’Europe. Du reste,
c’est un homme très aimable. Il a peut-être raison de ne pas
s’intéresser au reste du monde.
 CHAPITRE X
LES GENS DE LHAÇA

(SUITE.)

Le 14 mars, on nous invite à déjeuner chez le ta-lama, en

compagnie du ta-amban et de l’amban. Un repas de gala a été
préparé à notre intention ; il dure quatre heures, pendant lesquelles
nous pêchons avec nos bâtonnets dans une trentaine de plats
rarissimes et qui doivent coûter excessivement cher. En effet, il n’est
pas facile de se procurer au Tibet des jeunes pousses de palmier,
des dattes de l’Indoustan, des pêches de Lada (Leh), des jujubes de
Ba (tang), des petites baies de Landjou, des algues de mer, des
mollusques des bords de l’océan, etc.
Malgré cette profusion, le ta-lama regrette de ne pouvoir faire
mieux les choses, attendu qu’il est loin de la ville et que les
transports sont difficiles. Il espère que nous l’excuserons, car c’est
un repas d’amis. Toutefois, parmi ces divers produits de l’art
culinaire asiatique, quelques-uns sont mangeables et nous leur
marquons toute notre considération. Mais le lait chaud, qu’on nous
sert en quantité suffisante, est ce que nous préférons à tout, nous
nous plaisons à y plonger des dattes de l’Indoustan pour les dégeler.
L’abondance et l’excellence du repas n’amollissent pas nos
cœurs, et nous ne nous laissons pas fléchir lorsque, les petites