“Suspend program,” Sten said. “If it's blown, how long does it take to put things back together again?”
“Phraseology uncertain,” Jorgensen intoned. “But understood. Repression will be intensified after such a revolution is defeated; reestablishment of revolutionary activity will take an extended period of time. A conservative estimate would be ten to twenty years.”
Sten didn't even bother to swear. Just poured himself a drink.
“Sten!” Bet suddenly shouted. “Look. At that screen.” Sten turned. And gaped. The screen she was pointing at was the one fixed on the entrance to the Exotic Section.
“But,” he heard Doc say, “those are none of our personnel.”
They weren't. “They” were a solid wall of Migs. Unarmed or carrying clubs or improvised stakes. They were charging directly into the concentrated fire of the patrolmen grouped around the entrance. And they died, wave after wave of them.
But they kept coming, crawling over the bodies of their own dead, and, finally, rolling over the defenders. There was no sound, but Sten could well imagine. He saw a boy—no more than ten—come to his feet. He was waving ... Sten swallowed. Hard. There were still threads of a Sociopatrol uniform clinging to it.
More Migs ran forward, teams with steel benches ripped from work areas. They slammed at the doors to the Exotic Section, and the doors went down.
Jorgensen, still in his battle-computer trance, droned on. “...there are, however, examples of spontaneous success. As, for example, the racially deprived citizenry of the city of Johannesburg.”
“Two Miyitkina,” Sten snapped.
“Ah hae a wee suggestion,” Alex said. “Ah suggest we be joinin’ our troopies, or yon revolution may be giein’ on wi'out us.”
* * * *
Sten stepped through the smashed windows of the rec dome's control capsule and looked down at the faces staring up at him in their thousands. Sweaty, bloody, dirty, and growling.
It made no sense. Militarily. One rocket could take out not only the assembled Mantis team, but all the resistance workers they'd so laboriously trained and recruited over the months.
Clot sense, Sten thought, and nipped the hailer on.
“MEN AND WOMEN OF VULCAN,” his voice boomed and echoed around the dome. He assumed that there were still functional security pickups, and he was being seen. He wondered if Thoresen would be able to ID him.
“Free men and women of Vulcan,” he corrected himself. He waited for the roar to die. “We came to Vulcan to help you fight for your freedom. But you didn't need our help. You charged the Company's guns with your bare hands. And you won.
“But the Company still lives. Lives in The Eye. And until we can celebrate that victory—in The Eye—we have won nothing.
“Now is the time ... Now is the time for us to help you. Help you make Vulcan free!” Sten chopped the hailer switch and walked back into the capsule.
Alex nodded approvingly. “Ah, ye can no dance to it, but Ah gie yer speech a’ fair. Now, if we through muckin’ aboot, ye ken we'll shoot away our signal, an’ gie on wi’ our real business?”
* * * *
MYOR YJHH MMUI OERT MMCV CCVX AWLO...
Mahoney moved aside and let the Emperor read the decoded message:
STEP ONE COMPLETE. VULCAN NOW IN COMPLETE INTERNAL TURMOIL. BEGINNING STEP TWO.
The Emperor breathed deeply.
“Deploy Guard's First and Second Assault according to Operation Bravo, colonel.”
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Baron stared at the figure on his screen. Frowned. It was familiar. He tapped keys, and the camera moved in on Sten. Thoresen froze a frame. Studied Sten's face. No. He didn't know him. Thoresen punched the keys ordering the computer to search its memory for a possible ID. With a little luck, it would just be some Mig with a loud mouth and tiny brain. Somehow, Thoresen didn't think it would work out that way.
* * * *
Ida's model of the Bravo Project lab looked like a gray skinny balloon, half full of water at one end. There wasn't much to study; Ida had still been unable to penetrate security.
The team members and Bet eyed the model morosely. Sten, Alex, and Jorgensen wore, for the first time since they'd been on Vulcan, the Mantis Section phototropic camouflage uniforms. Ida and Bet were fitted into the coveralls of a Techist and 3rd Class.
There wasn't much to say. Nobody was interested in inspirational speeches. They shouldered their packs, silently got into the gravsled, and Sten lifted it off, into the corridors of a Vulcan gone insane.
* * * *
Vulcan was quickly collapsing as the Migs took to the streets. Images of pitched battles, looting, and Sociopatrol defeats floated up on the Baron's vidscreen.
The Baron turned the vid off. It was hopeless. There was nothing more he could do to put down the revolt. He would just have to let it burn itself out, then try to put his empire back together again.
A light blinked for attention. Thoresen almost ignored it. Just one more report from a hysterical guard. No, he had to answer. He flicked his computer on.
His heart turned to ice. The computer had identified the Mig leader. Sten. But he was—How?—And then the Baron knew that his world was about to end.
There was only one possibility: Sten; the Guard; Bravo Project. The Emperor knew and the Emperor was responsible for the Mig revolt. Sten was part of a Mantis Section team.
Desperately, Thoresen searched for a way out. What would happen next? How was he supposed to react? That was it—The Emperor was looking for an excuse to land troops. Thoresen was expected to call for help. He would be arrested, Bravo Project uncovered and then...
And then Thoresen had it. He would go to the lab. Get the most important files. Destroy the rest and flee. The Baron would still have the Emperor where he wanted him as long as he had the secret to AM2.
He rose and started for the door. Paused. Something else.
Something else. The Emperor would have ordered the lab destroyed. Sten and his team could be on the way now. He hurried to his comvid.
The frightened face of his chief security man came into view. “Sir!”
“I want as many men as you can spare. Here. Now,” Thoresen snapped. The security chief started to gobble. “Get yourself together, man.”
The chief stiffened. “Yes sir.”
He disappeared. Thoresen thought quickly. Was there anything else? Any other percautions? ... He similed grimly to himself, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small red box. He shoved it into his pocket and raced out the door.
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Frick and Frack arced back and forth, high above the deck of the Bravo Project lab. Hugging the ceiling, they'd gone straight down the entrance corridor, above the security teams.
They hadn't been seen by human eyes. There were, after all, no birds or even rodents on Vulcan. What the human eye doesn't understand, it doesn't see.
* * * *
The security watch officer eyeballed his fingernails. He'd chewed them to the quick last shift. And he'd systematically racked every patrolman within twenty meters. There wasn't anything to do but sweat and count his problems.
And he had a lot of them. Guarding a lab whose purpose he had no idea of, for openers. Plus the clottin’ Migs were going crazy—his best off-shift buddy had been found with a half-meter glass knife through his chest. And now he'd been tagged that Baron Thoresen was on his way down.
The last thing he needed was the computers being as berserk as they were, he thought. He glanced at the screen. Experimentally slammed it with one ham fist. Didn't change things. It still indicated flying objects were inside the lab proper.
The watch officer wondered why he'd taken the Company's job. He could have been very comfortable staying on as head of secret police on his homeworld. He looked up at the two Techs trundling down the corridor, ‘bout
clottin’ time, he decided.
The beefy first-class Tech swaggered into his office and lifted a lip. Clottin'joy, the watch officer thought. I gotta get a deesldyke. All I need now is hemorrhoids.
He smiled sympathetically at the poor third-class Tech behind Ida. Poor kid, he thought. Shows you. Bet that first-class clot tried somethin', an'her assistant didn't go for it, so the dyke makes her lug the toolboxes.
“'Bout what I'd expect,” Ida snarled. “Computer cracks up, an’ all you can do is sit there puttin” your thumbs up your nose.” She turned to Bet. “Men!”
The watch officer decided it was going to be a very long shift. He tried to keep it formal. “We're getting readouts,” he began.
“I know what you're gettin',” Ida said. “We got terminals too.” She eyed the watch officer. “I tol’ you, kid, it'd turn out to be somethin’ simple.”
“What do you mean?” the security officer asked.
“That bracelet. You hang that much alloy near a terminal, it's gonna get crazy. Figures.”
“But that's the automatic screen. We've always worn them. And nothin's happened before.”
“Yah. An’ those clottin’ Migs haven't tied up the computers before either. You tellin’ me every one a’ you patrol geeks wears them?”
“Yes.”
“Dumb, dumber, dumbest. Get ‘em out here.”
“Huh?”
“Everybody on the shift, stupid. Maybe this one'll be easy, an’ the only problem is somebody's got a bracelet that's signaling wrong.”
“We can't call in every patrolman,” the watch officer started. Ida shrugged.
“So great. Me an’ cutie here'll go on back and file that we couldn't properly evaluate the situation. Sooner or later somebody, else'll come around and try to fix that computer.”
The officer eyed the screen. The flying objects were still there. Looked at the third-class Tech, who slipped him a sympathetic and very warm smile. Made a decision. Turned to the com and keyed it open.
“Third shift—no emergency—all officers report immediately to central security. I repeat, all officers report immediately to central security.”
* * * *
Bet slipped two bester grenades from her pouch and stood up. Bravo Project's security officers were crowded inside the small office. Ida stood near the door.
“This everybody?”
The watch officer nodded.
Bet hit the timer on the grenades and dived for the door. She landed on top of Ida.
The two grenades detonated in a purple flash.
The Bravo Project patrolmen crumpled. Bet rolled off Ida and helped her up. Ida wheezed gently, muttered something in Romany, and shrilly whistled between her fingers.
Sten and the other members of the team hurried into sight, running toward them.
“We'll hold the back door. You stand by.” Ida stepped inside and lifted the toolbox tray, extracted two folding-stocked willyguns, readied them, and tossed one to Bet as Sten and the others ran into the Bravo Project lab.
Meanwhile, Ida had turned the watch commander over. “What're you doing?” Bet asked curiously.
“Private revenge,” Ida replied, planting one hoof firmly in the unconscious man's groin. “I suspect he thought nasty things about me.”
She lifted her other foot off the ground. Bet winced and turned back to look down the long empty corridor.
* * * *
“Wouldnae it be simpler,” Kilgour suggested, “to just blow th’ whole shebeen?”
“Clot, yes,” Sten said. “But if we did"—he gestured up to the ceiling—"we'd be soyasteaking all those Techs up there.” He grinned. “Damfino why I'm stickin” up for ‘em.”
“Because,” Doc said, “mission instructions were to obliterate this lab with minimum loss of life.” He waggled tendrils at Alex. “Ignore him. Simple minds find simple solutions.”
Alex ignored Doc. “Ah gie ye pocket-size destruction, i’ ye'll tell me where Ah begin.”
The lab ceiling lofted high above them. High enough, Sten decided, for the hangarlike building to have its own weather. Frick and Frack curvetted among the ceiling lights. In the middle of the lab was a small space freighter, its cargo doors agape. Mysterious apparatus sat around it on the main floor. Doors opened off the sides into rabbit warrens of minor labs.
“Set charges on any information storage file,” Sten decided. “Any computer. And any piece of equipment that doesn't look familiar.”
“Finest kind,” Jorgensen moaned as he shouldered back into his pack. “That means he's gonna shoot anything that don't look like a sheep.”
Alex wagged a meaty finger. “Frae yon teddy bear Ah take abuse a’ that nature. But no frae a man wi’ his feet still i’ the furrows.”
And they went to work.
* * * *
Thoresen, in spite of his fascination with weaponry and martial arts, had never been in combat. Nevertheless, as he entered the corridors that led to Bravo Project, he had sense enough to drop back and put two squads of the fifty-strong patrol company in front of him. Thoresen was still analytical enough to realize he was in a response situation. He might, he considered as he unobtrusively dropped back in the formation, still be running late.
* * * *
Bet wiped sweaty hands on the plas willygun stock. “Deep breaths,” Ida advised calmly. “Worry about them ten at a time.” She suddenly realized what she'd said, and chuckled. “On the other hand, do you think a surrender flag would be a better idea?”
Bet pulled the willygun's trigger all the way back. The gun spat AM2 slugs out into the packed mass of oncoming patrolman.
Screams. Chaos. Ida thumbed a grenade and over-armed it down the corridor, then heaved her bulk under the deck plating as the riot guns roared.
Bet dropped the empty tube from her gun and slammed a new one home. She was midly surprised that she wasn't scared when she watched the patrolman come on.
“Ida!”
“Go,” the tubby Rom said, without taking her eyes off the corridor.
She squeezed the trigger.
“If I was with the Delinqs,” Bet managed, “Id say the time has come to haul butt.”
“But you ain't. You're with a big-time Mantis Section team. So what we're gonna do is haul butt.”
Ida rolled out the door, finger locked on the trigger, then through the entrance to the labs. Bet slid after her. The two women turned, and sprayed down the corridor, then dashed toward the main lab.
* * * *
Alex sang softly to himself as he unspooled the backup firing-circuit wire back toward the center of the lab.
“Ye'll set on his white hause-bane, An I'll pike out his bonny blue een; Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair. We'll theek our nest when it goes bare...”
Clipped the wire and fed it into the det box. Ran his firing circuitry through his mind, and glanced at Sten. Sten high-signed him, and Alex closed the det key.
“Ye ken we best be on our way. An hour an’ yon labs'll be a mite loud for comfort.”
Then Ida and Bet doubled into the room. Ida crouched next to the door and sprayed down the corridor.
“The patrol,” Bet shouted. Slugs spattered through the lab doors, and the team members went flat, scuttling for cover. Ida emptied her magazine and scrambled toward the ship.
The team formed a semicircle perimeter just before the freighter. Sten ducked behind a large machine resembling a drill press as the first of Thoresen's troops burst into the lab.
“Can you stop the charges?” Sten shouted.
Alex cut down the patrolmen inside the lab, then said calmly, without turning his head, “Ah may've outsmarted mesel’ on this one, lad. Each an’ every one a’ those charges I fitted a antidefuse device to.”
“Sixty minutes?”
“We hae"—Alex checked his watch—"nae more'n fifty-one now.”
* * * *
Tacships, darting in front of the Guard's assault transport, hammered through the drifting security sate
llites off Vulcan, not knowing that Bet's massacre of the Creche workers meant most of them were unmanned.
Monitors moved straight for Vulcan. Over the past months, Thoresen had acquired some moderately forbidden antimissile devices and installed them in blisters on Vulcan's outer skin. The combination of the Guard's sudden attack and the half-trained status of their crews, however, meant only a few went into action before the monitors’ own missiles wiped the positions out.
Obviously the normal canister-dispersing assault transports couldn't be used. Conventional freighters had been laboriously modified for clamshell-nose loading and unloading. Proximity detectors clacked, braking rockets shuddered the transports down to a few kilometers per hour, then still slower as the pilots dived out of the control positions, sealing locks behind them as the transports crashed through Vulcan's outer skin, half burying themselves into the world.
The noses dumped away, and suited guardsmen spilled out. There was little resistance. None of the patrolmen inside had realized what could happen in time to suit up.
The Guard smoothly broke down into small, self-contained attack squads and moved out. Behind them moved their semiportable maser support units and, around the ships, combat engineers went into action, closing off the vents in the outer skin.
Resistance, compared to the Guard's usual opposition, was light. The Sociopatrolmen may have thought themselves elite thugs, but, as they discovered, there was a monstrous difference between larruping unarmed workers or crudely armed resistance fighters and facing skilled, combat-experienced guardsmen.
* * * *
Mercenaries make rotten heroes, Thoresen decided as he watched the Sociopatrol officer wave his squad forward. About half of them huddled even closer behind the improvised barricades Thoresen had ordered set up just inside the lab's entrance. The other half reluctantly came to their feet and moved forward.
The Mantis troopers across the room opened fire. The fastest-moving patrolman made it three meters before legs exploded and he sprawled on the bodies of previous waves. The accountant part of Thoresen's brain shuddered at the tab. They have five men— Thoresen hadn't seen Frick and Frack, sheltered high above him on a beam—we came in with almost seventy. They've taken no casualties, and we've lost thirty patrolmen?
Sten [Sten Series #1] Page 23
