Free The January Dancer by Michael Flynn Page B

of impressive and subtle scope. Staff were arranged by units and sections around the room’s circumference—clerks manning the consoles, department heads standing inboard from them at podiums.
    Greystroke entered, fastening a red-and-gold dress jacket. “Point Traffic,” he said, “alert me when you spot Cerenkov glow from the Parkway exit. Swift-boats are fast, but that fleet won’t be too far behind.”
    The supervisor in charge of Sapphire Point Navigation and Tracking Section acknowledged. “Timer says four metric minutes until arrival.”
    “I assume they’re heading for the Silk Road. Communications, hail their commodore as soon as they are subluminal. And Fire Control?”
    “Aye, Pup?” The captain of Battle Management Section turned at her podium.
    “We’ve gotten no swifties from Hanseatic Point, but we cannot discount the chance that a Confederate fleet has forced the crossing west of us. If so, they’ll come off the ramp firing. Be alert.”
    “On it,” said Fire Control; and she directed her staff to key off Traffic’s bearings.
    “Customs,” Greystroke said dryly, “prepare for maximum likelihood.”
    The supervisor of Customs Section grinned as he set his screens. “Maximum likelihood; minimum impact. Boring.”
    “Boring,” said the Hound of Fir Li as he entered through his personal door, “but preferable to the more exciting alternatives.” He wore a tight-fitting suit woven of thread-of-gold, bearing no insignia of rank and but a single decoration: the red-and-blue lapel ribbon of the Appreciation of Valency. It was the only one he ever wore. He strode through a chorus of greetings to the dais in the center of the room and stood behind the rails, gripping them with both hands. “Status?”
    “Two metric minutes,” said Traffic.
    “Cu,” said Greystroke. “Squadron is dispersed and all ships on amber alert.”
    The Hound nodded. “Sensors, dome view. Palisades at focal.”
    The ceiling dome darkened to the outside night. To the right and rear of the command station: the emptiness of the Rift. To the left, the frontier stars of the League with the haze of the Periphery beyond them. At the forward focal point, enclosed in red-line crosshairs, the exit from the Parkway. Invisible, an anomaly in n-space, limned in false colors so as to resemble the mouth of a tunnel.
    “Ninety beats,” said Traffic. “Sir, a swifty exiting the Parkway.”
    “Message from incoming fleet,” said Comm. “Screening for viruses. Clean.”
    “Play it.”
    A window opened on the dome display just to the right of the crosshairs, revealing a flat-faced man with thin black moustaches and hair done up in greased braids that fell past his shoulders. His skin was pale with a greenish cast. Studs, rings, and gems graced every feature of his face, though effecting no discernible improvement on any of them. A golden torque encircled his neck. A ruby was set in the center of his forehead.
    “G’day, to youse, yer honors,” the apparition said, with an easy confidence and a predatory smile. “Don’t be a-frightened at our little outing here, youse. We’re just passing through Sapphire Point. Welcome to it, sez I. Oh, yeah. I hight the Molnar khan Matsumo, me; chairman of the Kinlé Hadramoo out of th’ Cynthia Cluster. We’ve twenny ships exiting th’ Parkway, an’ makin’ cut-off to th’ Silk Road. No reason to go waving yer weapons all about, youse. Oh. And nothing to declare,” he added with a smile.
    “Fleet exiting!” called Traffic.
    “Hold all fire,” ordered the Hound.
    “He didn’t say where he was bound,” Greystroke murmured to his chief.
    “I noticed, Pup.” Then, louder, “Comm, put me through. What’s the time lag?”
    “A grossbeat.”
    “Metric time, if you please, Mr. Lazlo.”
    “Sorry, sir. One-point-um-three, now.”
    “Compress and squirt, then. ‘Intruder fleet, this is His Majesty’s battle cruiser, ULS Hot Gates, Sapphire Point Squadron; Cu na Fir Li