“Trying to take over,” she replied.
Grimacing, Larson said, “I wouldn’t work with that guy. He’s only out for himself. He doesn’t care about us. He just wants to cause all the mayhem and chaos he can, then grab some power as the dust settles. And the bastards he brought with him are worse.”
“I know, I know, but we need their support, and we need their funding. I don’t like them any more than you do, but right now, they’re a necessary evil.”
“Whatever you say,” she said. “I’ve tested the systems. Speakers set up to cover the crowd. Try not to shout too loud and keep your mouth close to the audio pickup. I’ve got three recorders going, and we’re streaming live on the UnderNet, with a couple of tame hackers riding shotgun.” With a smile, she added, “Our best guess has about fifty thousand people logged on and watching. No pressure.”
“They’re here for Wagner and Hardesty, not for me.”
“Don’t knock yourself.” Patting her on the back, Larson said, “Go put on a show.”
DeSilva carefully walked up the steps of the Ministry building, conscious of the Watchmen keeping track of her, guards flanked on either side. If any trouble did start, she’d be right in the middle of it, but she’d chosen this spot to try and demonstrate that they had nothing to hide. She glanced up at a third-floor window, and for a moment, caught a glimpse of the Minister, before Novak retreated once more into the shadows. She hoped he was paying attention. This speech was for him as much as it was for the crowd.
“Good evening!” she said, carefully positioning the microphone. “Good evening, everyone. We all know why we’re here. For the fourth time in two years, the Ministry of Supply has cut the civilian rations. We’re down to seventeen hundred calories now, and while we and our children live on algae paste, the Minister and his staff get to enjoy the products of the hydroponic farms we work in. They’ve told us that we’d all get to share in those rewards one day. They’ve been telling us that for a hundred years!” Pointing at the building, she said, “How long before they cut the rations again? And again? And again? Until we’re all on just barely enough to survive.”
The crowd moved forward, anger on a thousand faces, and DeSilva feared she had gone too far, continuing, “Our government has a responsibility to protect the lives of its citizens. The wealth that should have gone into building a new and better world for us all has been squandered on a thirty-year war with Triton.” Rolling up her sleeve, she showed her service tattoo, and continued, “I know. I was in the Guard. I spent four years out at Saturn, fighting the forces of the Outer Worlds Consortium. Fighting over what? A few resource hubs, a few moons exploited to profit the Fifty Families. We don’t see that money. None of it is invested in our futures, only theirs.”
“Kill the Tyrants!” a voice yelled, and DeSilva hastily looked around, knowing that the Watchmen were looking for any excuse to intervene.
“No,” she said. “That isn’t the answer. We are many, and they are few. We can fight them without recourse to violence. We can boycott their industries, refuse to pay our stipends, protest their decisions. Force them to concede a government of the people, by the people, for the people.” She paused, smiled, then said, “Old words in a new world, but just as true today as they were five centuries ago. We can win without bloodshed.” Gesturing at the sky, she said, “The Guard are up there, watching. They’re ordinary men and women, just like you and I, and if we fight the fire of the Tyrants with our hearts, our minds, our words, then they will join our cause. If we attempt the use of force, then they will unleash their full force on us. We cannot win a war. But there are always alternatives to fighting.”
“Kill them all!” a voice said, trying to start a chant. The nearest Watchman raised his rifle, and DeSilva turned to him, looking the crimson-garbed man in the eyes.
“Are you going to fire the first shot? Those are your people out there. The people you’re supposed to protect. Isn’t that the Watchmen’s Creed? To serve and protect? That applies to everyone, not just the Families. Maybe we’ve all forgotten that. Maybe it was in the interests of our rulers that we should forget.” Turning back to the crowd, she concluded, “The time for tyranny is over. The time of the people must begin.”
As cheers rose from the protesters, she looked at the Watchman again, the man unable to look her in the eyes. At least she’d managed to get through to someone in authority. Celia raced up to her, a tall, dark man wearing an ornate turban behind her.
“A good speech,” the man, Gabriel Wagner, in happier times a Professor of Politics said. “It is not an easy task to convince a people to break the habits of servitude, while attempting to prevent violence. This crowd is too close to the edge of chaos for my liking. If it were my decision, I would disperse it now.”
Nodding, DeSilva turned to Celia, and said, “Have our marshals stand ready to get everyone away. Make the preparations silently and quickly. Professor, I hope you have no objection to shortening your speech somewhat.” Glancing at her watch, she said, “It’ll take about five minutes to get ready…”
“And you wish me to stall the crowd to allow you time to complete your preparations.” He smiled, nodded, and said, “Of course. Your instincts are quite correct, and I approve.” Gesturing at her microphone, he continued, “If I may? It wouldn’t be wise to keep them waiting.”
She passed him the device, and said, “Good luck, Professor.”
With one look at the Watchmen, he replied, “And to all of us.”
As he made his way up the steps, DeSilva walked over to the side, beginning, “First, we’ve got…” Her words were interrupted by the all-too-familiar crack of a gunshot, over to the side, then a second, then a third. That was enough. More than enough. Before she could say anything, make a move, the Watchmen opened fire, firing over the crowd. The thud of a smoke grenade erupted behind her, smothering Wagner, and she turned back to help the old man, Celia’s arms grabbing at her, pulling her back.
“Let me go, damn it!” she said. “I’ve got to…”
“The Watchmen have him by now,” Celia replied. “We’ve got to get you out of here! That bastard Lloyd, he’s planted someone in the crowd!”
“The others…”
Gesturing to an alley, Celia said, “I’ll see to the crowd. Get going, now!” Pushing her towards her escape route, Celia turned back to the protesters, panic sending them racing in all directions. DeSilva could see people lying on the ground, some of them trampled, some splattered in blood. The air was filled with the stink of cordite, smoke from the stun grenades rising all around, the screams of the crowd punctuated with the crack of gunshots, the low wail of alarms in the background.
Celia was right. If she stayed, she’d be arrested. The Families were going to want somebody to use as a scapegoat, and she was a perfect candidate. She raced towards the alley, weaving into a cluster of fleeing students from the technical college, snatching a banner from the ground. Hopefully she’d just look like another member of the crowd, at least until they started checking the footage.
Behind her, the panic grew, the gunshots petering out as the Watchmen realized their mistake. Now the sirens grew louder, ambulances heading into to clear up the mess, and she heard the whirr of drones circling overhead, taking footage that would be used to concoct a suitable cover story to explain why the government chose to open fire on an unarmed crowd. Not unarmed, though. Someone had fired, perhaps hoping for a massacre. Her people were wounded, her people were dying, and there was nothing she could do to help them. Not without making things worse.
Turning a corner, she saw the airlock just ahead, then froze as another gunshot echoed from the walls, the gunman close by. A figure raced around a corner, panic in her eyes, sprinting toward her, arms waving in the air. DeSilva cautiously walked forward, her arms out, as a second figure chased after the first, this one with a gun in his hand. He levelled his pistol for another shot, and his target dived to the ground, hurling herself behind a recycling chute, the crack of t
he gun followed this time by the echo of a bullet striking metal, ricocheting into the distance.
The man looked up at her, then turned his pistol towards her, ready to fire. On instinct, DeSilva sprinted towards him, weaving from side to side, then dived next to the first figure, still cowering behind the recycling duct. Two more bullets hammered into the metal in quick succession, and DeSilva huddled closer into cover, looking at the frightened woman next to her.
“What the hell is going on?” she asked.
“He’s trying to kill me!”
Another bullet hit the wall, sending a fountain of dust into the air, and she replied, “I think I got that part. Do you have any weapons?”
“I’m a grad student.”
“I’ll take that as a now.” She looked around, trying to find something, anything to use to stop the madman with the gun, fumbling through her pockets. All she had was a short-range tranq spray, useless beyond a couple of meters. If she could hit his face, he’d go down in an instant, but getting that shot was going to be next to impossible.
“Feel like taking a risk?” DeSilva asked.
“Where are the Watchmen?”
“Putting down a riot. I think they’re a little busy right now. Besides, I don’t particularly want to stop and talk to them.” She glanced up, saw the man moving into cover, and added, “You want help or not? Because it occurs to me that I could throw you out into the alley and he’d probably leave me alone while I ran for it.”
“You wouldn’t…”
“When I give the word, run towards him. Don’t go in a straight line, keep going from side to side. He can’t have many bullets left…”
“He’d just put in a new clip before I turned down the alley.”
“Five shots since then. Three left unless he has some sort of custom clip.”
“Then we’ll get through this. Run on my mark.”
“I…”
“On my mark!” DeSilva looked up, then said, “Now!”
The two women ran out of cover, DeSilva in the lead, two more shots ringing out as the man tried to gun them both down, one of the bullets close enough that she could feel the rush of air past her hair. Then she was on the man, firing the spray into his eyes, and he crashed to the ground, firing a last wild shot that yielded an earth-shattering scream.
She turned, not knowing what to expect, and saw a Watchman clutching at a wound on his neck, blood gushing forth. It was the man who had raised his gun before, the one man she had reached with her speech, dying in front of his eyes. She ran towards him, cradling his head in her hands, looking frantically for a medical kit, for something to staunch the blood. With a loud crash, the woman she had saved fainted behind her, collapsing into an empty barrel, sending it skimming across the concrete.
“Freeze!” a harsh voice ordered. Two Watchmen were advancing towards her, pistols out, their faces twisted in rage at the death of their friend.
“I ought to end you now,” the first one said, but the second shook his head, taking another step forward.
“Mani’s family deserves to see her face trial. And watch as they toss her out of an airlock. It takes a long time to die out there. Long enough that you know every second of it.”
“I didn’t kill him,” DeSilva insisted.
“Tell it to the Magistrate,” the second Watchman replied. The first stepped forward, looking down at the unconscious man sprawled on the ground, reaching for his weapon.
“Sergeant,” he said, “I’m not sure, but this looks Tritonian.”
“What?”
“It’s not one of ours. Maybe there’s something else going on here.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” DeSilva pressed. “Get a medical team down here, and…”
“I don’t take orders from traitors and murderers.” He glanced to his rear, then said, “Crap. Call the Captain, get a full clean-up crew down here. And some secure transport.” Looking down at DeSilva, he said, “Even if you aren’t a killer, we’ve got you on enough charges that you’ll never see daylight again.”
Chapter 3
“Landing in five minutes,” barked the overhead speaker. “Hitting atmosphere. All passengers remain in their seats until instructed. That is all.”
“I guess Orbital Transit still doesn’t give a damn about their passengers,” Jack Mitchell said, turning to the man sitting next to him. “If Old Mac had caught one of us treating a paying customer that rudely, we’d have ended up walking home.”
“Yeah,” his friend, Ivan Kozlov, replied. Both were wearing the same basic uniform, the ubiquitous tailored jumpsuit of the deep-space freighters, and both wearing the insignia of a Captain on their sleeves. Even though, technically, only Kozlov had the right. He looked up at the cap still sitting on Mitchell’s head, and asked, “You going to take that off before you hit the dirt?”
“Huh?” Reaching up for the cap, Mitchell took it off, running his hand over the badge, and said, “Fifteen years is a long time. I guess it’s going to be hard to get out of the habit.”
“It isn’t fair. The bank ought to have…”
“Hell, Syrtis Shipping never made a profit. Those out-system runs just aren’t worth it without subsidies the government just isn’t willing to pay. Some damn fool will buy the ships and try again, I guess, but they’ll want to bring in their own people.” Glancing across at his friend, “At least you had the sense to get out while the going was good.”
“Yeah, back and forth between Mars and Jupiter for the rest of my life.” Shaking his head, Kozlov said, “My idea of hell, though at least I get back to see the family more often now.” Cracking a smile, he added, “You ought to think about that yourself.”
“They never had much time for me. Not since I quit the Guard.” He shrugged, then said, “Though that might be about to change. I’m heading down to the Space Ministry, something about my reserve commission. I guess they might be wanting to get something for the fifty credits a month they threw me all those years.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad. Work is work, even if it means going back into the fleet. What do you think they want you for?”
“I don’t know, something classified, but there was a rumor flying around a few months back that the Guard was planning to commission a couple of interstellar freighters, strengthen their auxiliaries a little. I can’t imagine that any of their highly-polished Captains would want a job like that, so maybe…”
“Damn, that’d be fantastic, Mitch. A chance to wander across the map, with a decent service contract and a pension worth the name.” Peering out of the window, he said, “Put in a good word for your old friend Iva, won’t you?”
“I’ll try and remember,” he said with a chuckle. As the shuttle hit the atmosphere, he said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been planetside. Not since the Academy.”
“That’s got to be twenty years.”
“Something like that. I never really felt comfortable down there.”
“I keep forgetting you’re Dreadborn.”
With a shrug, he said, “I haven’t been back to Deimos in about as long. No reason to.”
Shaking his head, Kozlov replied, “You aren’t missing much. Everything’s running down, everything’s just a little worse. You only notice it if you stay away long enough, but whenever I spend any time on the surface, I can’t wait to get back into space again. I’m trying to convince my wife to move to Callisto. It’s not so bad out there. The Families are actually spending some money building the place up.” He paused, then said, “I’m kinda glad Maria’s going on the deep space freighters now. It’s safer out there.”
“She graduated the Merchant Academy?”
“Top of the class,” Kozlov said, beaming with pride.
“Landing in one minute. Lieutenant Mitchell, you will disembark first. All other passengers remain in their seats. We’re coming down at a restricted landing pad under orders from the Ministry of Space and will be heading to Cydonia City as soon as Lieutenant Mitchel
l is safely clear of the ship.”
“Lieutenant Mitchell, huh,” Kozlov said, a wry smile on his face. “I guess they’re serious about bringing you back into the Guard.” The shuttle’s landing jets fired as it settled onto the pad, and Mitchell rose from his seat, reaching up to the overhead locker for his carryall. “Good luck, buddy.”
“Thanks,” Mitchell replied. “Give my love to Fatima.”
“I will.”
Mitchell walked down the aisle, curious eyes following his moves as he made his way to the airlock, a flashing green light indicating that a buggy had already attached itself to the external hatch. Someone was in a hurry. Stepping through the double doors, he saw a tall, aristocratic woman waiting for him, her uniform impeccable, shining Lieutenant’s insignia on her shoulders.
“Lieutenant Mitchell?” she asked.
“Last time I checked,” he replied. “I didn’t know I’d actually been activated, or I’d have worn my uniform.” He reached out a hand, and said, “And you are?”
“Lieutenant Natasha Romanova,” she answered. “I have been assigned to escort you to your meeting with Admiral Forbin. The others are already present.” The buggy jerked into life, bouncing across the sand. “It was assumed that you would be wearing civilian clothes. You will find a fresh uniform hanging in the emergency airlock. I suggest you change at once.”
“Thank you,” he said, making his way to the cramped compartment. He ran his fingers over the cloth, the cut similar but not identical to the uniform he’d worn two decades ago, one that he had initially expected to wear for the rest of his life. He sealed the hatch, quickly tugging off his jumpsuit and pulling on the uniform, careful to keep the creases intact.
Romanova. A familiar name, one from Earth’s history, then key to Mars. One of the Fifty Families, the ruling caste of the Commonwealth. As was Forbin, for that matter, a descendent of the pioneer of simulated intelligence, who had traded his billions for a prized spot on a colony ship. Mitchell’s ancestry was far less worthy, though his family had been out on the frontier since the settlement of Luna. There had been a Mitchell in the Interplanetary Guard since its foundation. Until now.
Exiles of Earth: Rebellion Page 2
