Ride the Star Winds

by A Bertram Chandler

  I shall never know what really made him tick, thought Grimes, gulping back his nausea.

  Then he heard the explosions.

  Crouching, he made his way back to the parapet. Two of the armored cars were burst open, literally. Their ammunition must have gone up. A third was on its side, its wheels spinning uselessly. A fourth, its rear wheels gone, looked ludicrously like a circus elephant trying to sit down.

  The two survivors had turned and were retreating, fast.

  The turret hatch of the down-by-the-stern car opened. From it was poked a rifle barrel to which a white rag of some kind had been tied.

  “Hold your fire!” ordered Grimes.

  Su Lin repeated the command in a language that the New Cantonese could understand.

  Slowly a man clambered out through the hatch, slid down to the ground, stood there with hands upraised. He was joined, after a long interval, by two others.

  “We surrender!” shouted the first man, a sergeant.

  “We don’t want you!” called Grimes. “Just get the hell out of here!” Then, “No! Stop! Look after your mates first!”

  They managed, at last, to persuade those in the overturned car to open up. Only two men crawled out.

  “Where’s the other?” shouted Grimes.

  “Dead, sir. His neck’s broken.”

  “I want to see him!”

  “Why?” whispered Su Lin.

  “Haven’t you heard of the Trojan Horse?” he countered.

  The corpse was dragged out. The man was obviously dead, his head almost twisted off his body. And, thought Grimes, nothing could possibly be living in the two still-smoking wrecks.

  The five men shambled down the road.

  “You’re too soft-hearted, Grimes.” said Su Lin. “You should have made them bury their own dead before you let them go.”

  “I never thought of it,” admitted Grimes.

  He was conscious of the smell of burnt meat drifting up from the destroyed cars. He thought ruefully that disposing of the mess left over after a space battle is so much easier than disposing of similar mess on a planetary surface.

  Chapter 44

  The gardeners formed the burial detail and seemed more annoyed at having to mar the beauty of the Residence lawn than by the true, gruesome nature of their work. Martello was laid to rest a little apart from the others. Someday, thought Grimes, the sergeant would have his monument, a statue depicting him in the uniform of a baseball player, not of a soldier, frozen in stone or metal in the act of pitching.

  Grimes, as Governor, conducted a brief service, one that he modeled on that used by the Federation Survey Service, whose personnel observed a wide variety of religions or none at all, that was used for enemies as well as friends.

  “These men,” he said, “did their duty as they saw it. They will be missed by their friends and relations. Let us not dishonor their remains. May they rest in peace.”

  Then Sanchez, with a work party, set about salvaging weaponry from the wrecked cars. He hoped to be able to dismount both the heavy machine guns and the laser cannon from the two not too badly damaged vehicles. Su Lin and Grimes went to his sitting room to see what news programs, if any, they could find on the playmaster.

  They were lucky.

  Almost immediately they found a channel on which a grave-faced newscaster was keeping his listeners up to date on what had been happening.

  “. . . the criminal John Grimes. According to reports that we have received, Colonel Bardon, as instructed by President O’Higgins, sent a force of six armored cars, under Major Jackson, to arrest the ex-Governor. It seems that Grimes and his criminal associates have barricaded themselves in the Residence and are refusing to give themselves up to justice. Two of the military vehicles have returned to the city, to the barracks, where Major Jackson is making his report to Colonel Bardon. The remaining four are maintaining the siege, ensuring that the notorious ex-pirate and his gang do not escape to terrorize the countryside.

  “A statement issued by Colonel Bardon assures us that the situation is well in hand.”

  There followed a report on a game of soccer. Su Lin switched channels. The commentator whom she found could have been an archbishop in mufti.

  “. . . must be made to realize that we, as a proud and independent planet, cannot, will not and must not accept as gubernatorial figureheads men of dubious character. . . .”

  Su Lin switched channels again.

  “. . . minor rioting in the Vanzetti Plaza district . . .”

  There were shots of police charging demonstrators, of demonstrators pelting police with rocks, bottles and other missiles. There was an explosion, after which the facade of a building crumbled in almost slow motion. A mist of tear gas hung over everything.

  And there was the shouting: Grimes! Grimes! Grimes!

  “Somebody is acting at last,” said Su Lin happily. “I wish I could see who they are. Oh, hell! Here come the water cannon!”

  And so that riot, thought Grimes, soon became a washout.

  “We shan’t get the real blowup,” said Su Lin earnestly, “until there’s a direct confrontation between you and Bardon, and you win. You’ve seen how O’Higgins and Bardon have handled the first engagement. Almost certainly there was TV coverage of the action; I shan’t be at all surprised if Raoul finds cameras in the armored cars. But those shots will never be shown. Not unless—until—we win.”

  “And I can’t see us winning until there’s something better than that abortive riot we saw. And I can’t see any sort of uprising until we show the people that we can beat Bardon.” He thoughtfully filled and lit his pipe. “But why doesn’t he use his ground-to-ground missiles? He must have some in his armory. . . .”

  “Because he wants you alive. He’s not fussy about the rest of us—but he wants you. There must be a show trial. And he will be on trial as well as you. He must be seen to have acted with moderation despite great provocation. He must present the image of statesman as well as soldier. And then, after you’ve been found guilty and deported, who will be Governor de facto, soon to become Governor de jure?

  “Bardon, of course.”

  “I’d never have given him credit for that many brains,” said Grimes.

  “It’s dear Estrelita that has the brains, not him.”

  “Estrelita may be the statesman, but not the soldier. What Bardon does next is our immediate worry. Mphm. My guess is another attack, by land, tomorrow morning. With full TV coverage—not to be released unless things go well. If I were him I’d use a squadron of hover-tanks. . . .”

  “Sergeant Martelio cast doubts upon their serviceability.”

  “I hope he was right. I hope most sincerely that he was right. Meanwhile, we’ll maintain full watches during the night and have all hands on deck at sunrise.”

  Chapter 45

  Grimes—just in case Bardon did mount a bombing attack, either from aircraft or by rockets—ordered that bedding be shifted down from the ground floor into the basements of the Residence. He decided, however, that he would remain in his palatial quarters. Su Lin had almost convinced him that he would be more use to O’Higgins and Bardon alive than dead. He was willing to take chances with his own life—but not with the lives of others.

  The armored cars had yielded two useful heavy machine guns and a good supply of ammunition. Their crews, however, had removed the crystals from the laser cannon before abandoning the vehicles, must have taken these with them. This was annoying, but Grimes felt a grudging respect for the men. They were not altogether devoid of the soldierly virtues.

  The night was quiet.

  The sentries, with their powerful night glasses, maintained their vigil on the roof. The only thing that they reported was a fire of some kind in the city. Grimes went up to look, it did not seem to be a very big conflagration. He and Su Lin caught a late night TV news session on the playmaster and there was no mention of it. There was no further mention of the riot that they had seen earlier. And, they learned to their amuse
ment, Colonel Bardon’s armored cars still had the Residence under siege. It would not be long, said the smug announcer, before the notorious pirate commodore was brought to justice.

  Grimes turned in.

  Su Lin turned in with him.

  They knew, both of them, that no matter what the outcome would be they would not be enjoying much more time together. They had been thrown together by circumstances beyond their control—and other circumstances, inevitably, must soon send them on their separate ways.

  They would enjoy what they had while they had it.

  When Grimes awoke, in the early morning, Su Lin was no longer with him although her place in the bed was still warm. Had there been some kind of emergency? But had this been so he would have been called.

  Then the lights came on as the girl entered the bedroom, bringing with her the tray with the steaming teapot, the cups, the sugar bowl and the lemon slices. They sipped the hot, fragrant drink in companionable silence, their naked bodies in close contact.

  She said, at last, “You pirate chiefs do yourself well, don’t you?”

  “Only when they have pirate molls like you to look after them . . . .”

  There was a gentle tapping at the door.

  Wong Lee came in. He looked at the couple in the bed with an odd combination of regret and approval; certainly there was no censoriousness.

  “Your Excellency,” he said, “a body of troops approaches from the city.”

  “Hover-tanks?” asked Grimes.

  “No, Your Excellency. There are vehicles, but they seem to be personnel carriers.”

  “See that all weapon posts are manned. Oh—and better get the galley staff to make plenty of tea and piles of sandwiches. We may have the chance to grab a bite before the shooting starts.”

  “All that is already in hand, Your Excellency.”

  “Good man!”

  Grimes jumped out of the bed, ran through to the bathroom. He made a hasty toilet, despite the fact that he was joined there by Su Lin. He even found time to depilate, knowing that a scruffy, unshaven commanding officer does not inspire the same confidence as one who looks clean and bright and on top of the Universe. He dressed again in his Far Traveler Couriers uniform, with the pistol thrust under the red sash. Followed by the girl, who was clad in form-fitting black blouse and slacks, he went up to the lookout platform.

  The sun was just up.

  The column of personnel carriers, led by a command car, was still a long way off, approaching slowly along the winding road from the capital.

  Raoul Sanchez came to him.

  He said, “I’ve set up the two heavy MGs to cover the drive.”

  “What makes you think they’ll use the drive, Raoul? Those are foot soldiers. They have almost the same freedom of movement over any sort of terrain as a hover-tank.”

  “I had to put the guns somewhere, sir.”

  “Sorry, Raoul. And, after all, guests usually try the front door first.”

  He could see quite clearly now, with the aid of the powerful binoculars, the men sitting in the personnel carriers. They were wearing full battle armor. This would restrict their freedom of movement but would protect them from almost anything short of a direct hit by a heavy artillery shell. Too, a laser cannon would fry them inside their carapaces but Grimes didn’t have any laser cannon, only a few pistols.

  He absentmindedly munched a ham sandwich that somebody had brought him. There wasn’t enough mustard.

  “They’re stopping,” said Sanchez unnecessarily.

  They were stopping, had stopped.

  Two tall figures got down from the command car.

  Bardon, decided Grimes. Bardon, and . . . ?

  In spite of the all-concealing battle armor he knew that the other one was a woman by the way that she was moving.

  So Estrelita O’Higgins was making political capital by being present at the kill.

  Soldiers were disembarking from the troop carriers, forming up on the road. How many of them were there? Grimes swore under his breath. There must be at least five hundred of them. Five hundred well-armed (definitely), well-trained (possibly) professional soldiers against less than one-fifth that number of rank amateurs. Even Grimes was an amateur in this sort of warfare. The Residence was not a spaceship.

  Somebody must still be in the command car, using a sonic projector.

  “Surrender! Come out, all of you, with your hands raised! Show a white flag to surrender!”

  There was a small flagstaff on the lookout platform; so far as Grimes knew it was rarely used. But the halyards were intact. He went to them, cleared them.

  “A flag . . .” he muttered. “A flag . . .”

  “Sir, surely not . . .” Sanchez sounded heartbroken. “You’re not showing the white flag, sir?”

  “Who said anything about a white flag? I want something, anything, that’s as unlike a white flag as possible!”

  “Here!” said Su Lin, thrusting a bundle of some black cloth at him. He took it from her and suddenly realized that she had removed her shirt.

  But it would do.

  The black flag—the black flag of piracy, Grimes’s enemies would say—rose jerkily to the masthead, stirring lazily in the light morning breeze.

  Bardon put on a show.

  Grimes watched it with grudging respect. There was more to the man than he had thought. He must have made a study of Australian history. Perhaps he had gotten the idea from Major Jackson’s report to him on his conversation with Grimes, when Grimes had said, “You’ve come to the wrong shop this time, Major Johnston . . .” The New South Wales Corps, with rattling drums and squealing fifes, had marched on Bligh’s Government House to place him under arrest. A drum and fife band preceded Bardon’s Bullies, playing some derisory tune that Grimes could not identify.

  And those musicians were unarmed. Bardon was trading on Grimes’s decency, gambling that he would not open fire on the bandsmen.

  Grimes at last recognized the tune. Lillibullew. It had never been one of his favorites. Nonetheless, he thought wryly, the bandsmen deserved to be shot for murdering it.

  But how would it look, how would it look on TV screens throughout the planet—and, eventually, on Earth—when men whose only weapons were fifes and drums were mowed down by a man who had just hoisted, atop his castle, the black flag of piracy?

  They were taking their time marching up the drive toward the main entrance of the Residence—the bandsmen in their colorful dress uniforms, Bardon behind them, with Estrelita O’Higgins striding, in step, beside him and, after them, the rank upon rank of robotlike troopers.

  Down came the troopers, one, two, three . . .

  And four, and five, and six, and . . .

  Those drummers couldn’t keep a tune. The beat was ragged, becoming more so. Men were having trouble keeping in step. But was that arhythmic throbbing coming from ground level? It was not. It was surging down from the sky in ragged waves.

  Whistles shrilled.

  The approaching army halted. Men looked upwards. Weapons were deployed to sweep the sky—but not fired. There was a ship there. A civilian ship, not a warship. An Epsilon Class star tramp. It would not be the first time in history that neutral onlookers had been present at a battle, as sensation-hungry voyeurs.

  The spaceship steadily lost altitude. Was she going to land? Did Captain Agatha Prinn intend to rescue her one-time Commodore? Keep out of this, you silly bitch! Grimes was thinking, was saying aloud. Keep out of it! If you do land you’ll get shot up and Bardon’s story will be that you were caught in the crossfire . . .

  But Agatha’s Ark was not landing. She hovered there, the cacophony of her inertial drive deafening. And was that a cargo hatch opening in her dull, pitted side? It was. Things were falling out, tumbling earthwards, bursting as they hit the ground. Bardon’s men stumbled through the stifling, white cloud, the machinery of their armor clogged by the fine particles. They looked like men caught in a sudden blizzard. Grimes was reminded of pictures he had see
n of Napoleon’s Retreat from Moscow.

  There was a lull in the bombardment.

  Grimes, accompanied by Su Lin and a half-dozen of the Residence’s domestic staff, ran out over the flour-caked lawn and grabbed the dazed Bardon and Estrelita O’Higgins, hustled them inside the building. Sanchez, with another party, captured Bardon’s command car without firing a shot. In it was the TV equipment that would be covering the taking of the Residence.

  It was covering, now, the ignominious defeat of Bardon’s Bullies.

  Very shortly afterward other TV units in the city were covering the riots that immobilized the remainder of the Terran garrison and drove the members of Estrelita O’Higgins’s police into hiding. Those who were lucky.

  Chapter 46

  “I didn’t think of it myself,” admitted Agatha Prinn. “It was my agent, actually, Mr. Dennison of Starr, Dunleavy and Bowkett . . .”

  “Dennison,” said Su Lin, “is one of us. But go on, Captain Prinn.”

  “Mr. Dennison’s idea was that I lift off as scheduled and then just sort of drift over the Residence, make a landing and snatch Grimes to safety. I said that I didn’t fancy landing on anybody’s lawn, no matter how big. I like to have something solid under my tail vanes when I set down. Why, I asked him, couldn’t I, sort of accidentally, drop something on Bardon’s boys? ‘But you don’t have any bombs,’ he told me. ‘You’re just a star tramp, not a warship. And, in any case, if you play any active part in a battle, no matter on whose side, you’ll be as big a pirate as your pal Grimes.’”

  “ ‘I’ve a cargo of flour,’ I told him. ‘In bags. And, while it was being loaded, some ill-intentioned person planted an incendiary device in the middle of it. Luckily this will be discovered while I’m hovering over the Residence, to play my last respects to my old Commodore. So I will have to jettison cargo . . .’”