He measured it again and sighed. They might get a civilian through it, but there was no way a CASPer was getting through the hole without widening it. Dammit. “We’re not getting in up here without cutting,” he commed. “Any luck finding an opening back there?”
“Sorry, sir, no joy so far,” First Sergeant Ivkovich replied. “Lots of ports and exterior plating on the hull, but none that look like they’re able to be opened from the outside. If there’s a way in, I think you need someone on the inside to open it for you.”
Earl shook his head. He’d had a feeling the mission was too easy. “Dr. Sato, Commander Earl. Do you have any idea how to open an access panel or airlock so we can get to you?”
“No, Commander Earl, I haven’t seen anything like that. If you could just drop some food down through the hole, though, I’ll be able to get it. That’s all I really need for now.”
“Dr. Sato, I don’t think you understand. We’re not here as a resupply mission for you; we’re here to take you off and put a skeleton crew aboard to bring the ship back to New Warsaw.”
“I’m sorry, Commander Earl, but I don’t think that will be possible.”
“Which? Getting you off or getting the crew on?”
“I don’t think turning this ship around is an option. At least, I haven’t been able to figure out how to do it, anyway. The computer system is…elegant. Incredibly well written. Alexis will want to know more about it. I need time to understand it. This ship is following some kind of a preprogrammed course. Right now, it appears to be making the calculations for a jump to Plugy’s Star.”
“How do you know that?” Earl asked.
“It’s complicated. I doubt you’d be able to figure it out yourself.”
“Tell you what,” Earl said, focusing on not grinding his teeth, “why don’t you let the experts in the crew we brought be the judge of that. Come let us in, and we’ll get the crew in there to look.”
“I’m sorry,” Sato replied. “I don’t know how to open a way in for you. I’m not sure there is one. The ship closed the entrance through the thruster port.”
The ship closed it? The lack of food must be getting to him—he’s getting slaphappy. Earl snarled in frustration. He’d been in the spaceship assault business for 25 years, and there was one thing he knew—he was getting into this ship. “All right, boys and girls,” he said on the squad net, “if there isn’t a way in, we’ll just have to make our own. Johnson and Kowalski, get the cutters from the bomber, and let’s make an entry port before this damn ship decides to do something annoying like jump back to hyperspace.”
The pilot of Avenger One had apparently been listening to the squad net, because the bomber began drifting toward them, and the bomb bay doors—where they had stowed their cutting gear—were opening. The two troopers he had ordered went to the bomber and got the specialized cutting equipment.
“Okay, Avenger One,” Earl called once they had all the gear magnetically locked to the skin of the cruiser, “we have all our gear. If you want to go back to the Arion for the crew we’re going to put aboard, we should have an entryway cut into the ship within an hour or so.”
“See you soon!” Thorb exclaimed as the bomber pulled away from the ship. The second bomber reported it was headed back, too.
Within a few minutes, Earl’s crew had the laser cutter set up. While it was annoying to have to cut their way in, at least they didn’t have to do it under combat conditions. Earl couldn’t remember the last time he had forcibly entered a ship without having to do it while people were shooting at him. Probably when he was first learning the trade as a cadre member. He chuckled. In other words, he’d never done it as a qualified merc.
“We’re ready,” Kowalski said.
“Good,” Earl replied. “Get it going, then. We’re not getting paid by the hour.”
The trooper flipped the switch, and a laser beam flicked on and began cutting through the skin of the ship.
Earl was watching the trooper make the cut, so he saw the hole appear in the center of Kowalski’s chest as the ship jumped to hyperspace.
* * * * *
Chapter Six
Crissy Field, San Francisco, Earth
Major Good of the Golden Horde smiled as he looked at the Golden Gate Bridge spanning San Francisco Bay. He had never seen the icon before, and, while it wasn’t used much anymore due to the changing nature of vehicular traffic, it was still an impressive sight. Even more impressive, though, was the mass of people thronging Crissy Field. Thousands, maybe more than ten thousand, had gathered because the word had gotten out that there would be a supplemental signup for government aid.
While detractors derisively called the supplemental assistance program “Shit” due to its initials, a large portion of Earth’s population—most scholars estimated it at over 60% of the population, although government statistics said it was only 3% at any given time—relied on the Stop Hunger Today program to help put food on the table. As the program was largely paid for by taxes on the merc industry, it was currently unfunded, with no identified income in the foreseeable future. There were a lot of hungry, and therefore unhappy, people on Earth.
The people waiting at Crissy Field had been milling around for several hours in the hot sun, and tempers were beginning to fray. While some members of the crowd had left when the promised benefits hadn’t arrived on schedule, most of them had nowhere better to go than back to their government-funded Tri-V displays, and they were willing to wait as long as needed for the promised handout.
An hour ago, the people he had hired had begun walking through the throng, handing out signs. “Mercs Put Food on the Table” and “Bring Back the Mercs” read some; “Yesterday, Iran; Today, San Francisco,” read others, with pictures showing the nuke-blasted ruins of Tehran and the ever-increasing lines at the missions and soup kitchens in downtown San Francisco. With food prices soaring, a growing number of people were homeless as it became a choice of whether to buy groceries or pay the rent.
Within a few minutes, the mood of the crowd had begun to sour as their anger found an outlet, and they had someone to blame. It was the aliens’ fault. They had kicked the mercenaries out but hadn’t funded the programs the mercenaries’ incomes had supported. Several of the people who had passed out signs began speaking with megaphones. Major Good didn’t have to listen; he had written the speeches and knew what they said. The speakers whipped the crowd into a frenzy, blaming the Merc Guild and the government for failing to provide for them. After a few minutes, the leader noted the newly-revitalized shopping district just to the south of them, in the area that used to house the Presidio, was full of food and wealth. Crying, “Give us our due!” the leader jogged up toward the first of the shops. Several individuals followed, then a few groups of ten, then hundreds, then the entire mass moved up the hill, not wanting to miss out on their share of the loot.
Major Good smiled again. It had only taken 500 credits to buy the materials and hire the people the Gray Wolves had found for him, and he had tens of thousands of credits at his disposal. He began reviewing where to send his instigators next.
* * *
SOGA HQ, Sao Paulo, Brazil, Earth
“Yes?” Peepo asked, looking up from her slate. “My aide said you had something that couldn’t wait. What is it?”
“I wanted to discuss with you what your intentions are for re-establishing the Stop Hunger Today program,” Izabel Da Silva said. A tall, dark-skinned woman, Da Silva was a native Brazilian and the Secretary of the General Assembly of Earth—in name only. She was well aware how little power she had in the current administration, and how easily she could be removed if it served the purposed of the ‘powers that be.’
“What is this program,” Peepo asked, “and what does it mean to me?”
“For many decades, the taxes on our mercs have supported the guaranteed government income many of our people subsist on. It is a critical program that supports the disadvantaged across the planet. Without this income, we
have nothing to pay our citizens, and they are beginning to become disaffected.”
“I’m sorry,” Peepo said. She kept her seat, having realized in earlier conversations with Da Silva that she hated looking up to the woman. “What do you mean by guaranteed government income? What do the people do to earn or deserve it?”
“It’s a basic right,” Da Silva replied. “Everyone should have a basic income, regardless of their situation. The taxes on the mercenaries help support the rest of the people in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. The program is an excellent means of redistributing the wealth of the mercs.”
“So, your people don’t do anything, and you pay them for it?”
“Of course,” Da Silva said. “They deserve it.”
“But they don’t do anything.”
“They shouldn’t have to. The mercenaries make so much from their off-world jaunts that they can afford to share some with those who don’t have anything.”
“Even if those people don’t do anything?” Talking to Humans made Peepo’s head hurt more than when she spoke to Jeha. At least the Jeha usually made sense.
“They shouldn’t have to do anything,” Da Silva repeated. “History has shown we go down a bad road once we start drawing lines about which group of our neighbors that suffers from hunger or poverty are unworthy of our help or undeserving of our assistance. Some can’t do anything. Besides, there is plenty to go around. Why should they have to do something to get their subsidized income?”
Peepo shook her head. “I don’t understand you Humans. You pay people to do nothing, so others can do the work for them and support them?”
“Of course. Don’t you?”
“No. We don’t. If you want to eat, you work. We have had a difficult time getting your people to sign up for the new mercenary organizations we are recruiting for. I suggest you tell your constituents they need to work if they want to eat, and you can let them know we are recruiting. As your people are untrained, they will be making the Merc Guild minimum, but that is still more than what most make on this sorry planet.”
“They will not like this.”
“Well, that is too bad. If they want credits—if they want to eat—I won’t hear any more about how my recruiters are missing their quotas. I have jobs for the people who want them. Let me rephrase that. I have jobs for the people who want to eat.”
“What should we do with those who can’t or don’t want to work?”
“If they don’t have family to support them, they will do what the unemployable do in the rest of the galaxy. They will starve.”
Da Silva didn’t say anything; she just stood looking at Peepo with her mouth open.
“If there is nothing more,” Peepo said, “I will ask you to leave. I am busy and have much to do.”
Peepo nodded and a Besquith guard stepped forward to take Da Silva by the arm and lead her to the door. Peepo could see her mouth still hanging open as the door shut on her.
* * *
Gates of Heaven Government Self-Help Highrise, Little Rock, Arkansas, United States District, Earth
“There ain’t no cheese left!” Mercedes screamed from the kitchen of the three-room luxury “leg up” model condo.
“You don’t think I know dat?” Justin Bieber Charles yelled back. He’d hated who his mother named him after as soon as he was old enough to realize the implications, so he’d always gone by Jus.
“Kids is gonna be hungry when dey get home, Jus.”
“You don’t think I know dat, too? Fuck woman, I stood in line to get a SHIT voucher for six hours yesterday, and they run out just before I got one.”
“Then go back,” she snapped, “and do it earlier dis time!”
“Why don’ you get off yo’ lazy ass and wait in line youself,” he mumbled.
“Wha’ you say?” Jus almost repeated himself, then stopped. She’d stabbed him two years ago when he’d back-talked her at the wrong time of the month.
“Lazy, good fer nutin’ mercs,” he said louder. She grunted. He heard plastic opening and knew she was probably eating the last of the soy-bologna. He sighed. His dad had a job once, when he was little, back in ‘90, he thought. 2190 was a lot of years ago. The government gave you enough of everything now; why work? Jobs were a pain in the ass.
His favorite show, Vomit Comet, was almost over. It was a game show where people who’d never been in space were fed a huge meal, then taken up in a shuttle to orbit, where they did various challenges, all involving acrobatics. The last one to throw up won a prize. As each contestant hurled their mostly-undigested meals all over the padded cargo bay, those who were still in the running had to move through the huge globs of flying puke. It was hilarious.
As a further bonus, home viewers with premium accounts could bet on the winner. Everyone who was right got a 20-credit SHIT voucher. Jus had a premium account, thanks to the government-run “Entertainment for Success” initiative, and he’d bet on one of the two still going. A 20-credit voucher would get Mercedes off his ass until he could figure something out.
She came out of the kitchen with, sure enough, the last of their soy-bologna between a couple slices of pseudobread. She’d added one of the last packages of soy chips as well. He thought about asking for a bite, but decided against it.
“Who winnin?’” she asked around a huge bite.
“One a da ones I bet on!”
“No shit! You ain’t as dumb as you look. Whichun?”
“Dat one named Cogswallop, or somedin.”
“Okay, Jose and Cogswell,” the host was saying in his heavily-stained spacesuit. A special static visor kept it clean, so you could see his perfect teeth and expensive hairdo. “You are the last two contestants on Vomit Comet. The judges ruled that since that barf never left Jose’s mouth, he wasn’t disqualified. So you’re still in!”
The camera zoomed in on the face of the man who, despite being splattered in puke and looking like he’d been gutshot, still managed to grin.
“The last challenge is simple.” The host produced two tubes clearly marked Vegemite. “All you have to do is eat this while spinning in these three-axis chairs!”
“Oh, dis gonna be good!” Mercedes said, licking soy-mayo from her fingers. She even let Jus have a couple of her chips. The final challenge began, and then the Tri-V flickered. “Wat wus dat?”
“It did that earlier, when you was in the shitter.” It flickered again, the picture cutting out for a second. “Hey!” he said and stood up, just as Jose was looking like he was finally losing it for real. You had to watch the show through the last commercial to be eligible to win. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare!” The picture disappeared.
“CALL FOR SERVICE” appeared on the scream.
“NO!” he screamed. He picked up the coffee table and threw it though the words. All throughout the housing project, walls were rocking as people threw furniture, yelled, and generally freaked out.
In minutes, people were overwhelming the customer service numbers for the MegaVox Tri-V company, which only had a few dozen customer service people on staff. Their Tri-V sets were made on-planet from off-world components and boasted a 99.995% reliability rating. In a commercial, the owner often showed the very first unit they’d made, in his office, which had been running continuously for 22 years. In the span of 72 hours, 62 million MegaVox model A99 three-meter Tri-V’s failed, and remote diagnostics could not fix the problem on any of them.
Riots started soon after, as the MegaVox A99 three-meter Tri-V was the most popular of the four models government supplier FedMart distributed to citizens. The MegaVox headquarters in Chattanooga burned to the ground shortly after the president ran a public service announcement explaining it was an uncontrollable issue with a single chip, but it would require the units to be returned for replacement.
Zeke Avander watched the building burn from his estate high above Chattanooga on his own Tri-V, a NuGlo model. He puffed on his cigar and grinned. The main processor for the MegaVox Tri-V in que
stion was made by a HecSha concern off-planet. The same controller was used for a lot of things, and it was built on a biological superconductor base he’d helped the HecSha develop while he was a slave.
It had been a small matter to develop a virus that attacked the biological superconductor. Undetectable, too, unless someone happened to look for it. He laughed and closed the doors. There was more work to do.
* * *
EMS Revenge, Hyperspace, Enroute to Golara
“Thank you for coming,” Nigel said as Alexis came onto Revenge through the tube connecting it to Pegasus.
“No problem,” Alexis said with a nod. “You said there was something vital you had to show me?”
“Indeed. If you would follow me?”
“Well, I have to—” she said, but he had pushed off without waiting for an answer and was already traveling down the passageway. He glanced back as he got to the first corner to see if she had followed; her options were to either follow or float at the lock looking awkwardly at the duty officer, and if there was one thing he knew she didn’t like, it was not being in command of a situation. The only way she could regain control was to catch up with him…so he didn’t stop to chat until they reached their destination.
He opened the door to his office with a flourish. Alexis started through the door, but grabbed hold of one of the doorjambs when she saw the interior—the small conference table had been re-set as a formal dining table, complete with electric candles.
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