Strong Arm Tactics

by Jody Lynn Nye

  “Ma’am, the Insurgents already here outnumber us at least ten to one! We don’t know what kind of armaments they’re carrying. This planet has no militia. We have only two armed vehicles and our weaponry.”

  Iry looked genuinely sympathetic and actually worried. “I’ll get on the horn to CenCom, lieutenant. In the meantime, do your best. You’re an officer in the TWC Space Service! Protect Wingle and his invention. Do whatever you have to. I will authorize any action short of atrocity, and defend it to Harawe on your behalf. Don’t let the Service down.”

  Wolfe felt proud even as he sensed a shipload of collapsed uranium’s worth of responsibility descending on his back. “Aye, commander. Send me any gen that might help me, ma’am.”

  “I will. Keep me posted, lieutenant.” Iry’s eyes met his. “Good luck.”

  She broke the connection. “Are you still there, Borden?”

  “Aye, sir. Oh, my God.”

  “I hope your God is listening,” Wolfe said. He clicked in to the aural implants of all the Cockroaches.

  “Rise and shine! Report to the hotel dining room at once! I repeat, this is an order! Priority Alpha Emergency! Chief D-45 and Petty Officer Meyers, take some caffeine pows, suit up and meet me at the entrance of Wingle World. Full arms and armor. I’ll be there in ten minutes, at the hotel in twenty.”

  Loud groans reached Daivid’s ears through the link. He turned to Wingle.

  “I’m having a couple of my people come here to stand guard over you, sir. They are crack shots and trained in hand-to-hand combat. Is there any planetary authority I can contact, to inform them of the situation? A head of government?”

  Wingle’s bushy eyebrows rose. “That’d be me, you young simpleton. This entire settlement was founded to support my family’s amusement park. Every town on this planet has a council to control day-to-day operations, but they all check back with me. We Wingles pretty much own Dudley. I’ll tell the councils what happened. You tell me how they can help, and they will.”

  “Good,” Daivid said. “Then, I’ll be back to bring you up to date a little later.”

  “You’re not leaving me out of the loop like that,” Wingle said. He turned to gesture to Sparky, who rose from his stance of holding up the wall, and minced over to Daivid. “You’re taking him with you. He’ll be my eyes and ears.”

  The puppet elbowed Daivid playfully in the ribs. “Buddies!”

  “Just guide me out to the gate,” Daivid snapped. “We haven’t got much time.”

  The puppet babbled out a line of cheerful nonsense that echoed off the corridor walls. Daivid wasn’t even listening. How could this happen to him? A month ago he was a brand-new first lieutenant, assigned his first command, a platoon consisting of twenty-two ‘difficult personalities,’ and now he was the highest military authority on a planet facing one of the deadliest enemies the Confederation knew!

  O O O

  Daivid cringed as he walked toward the automatic-opening double doors that led to the huge dining room. He expected to see chocolate streaks up to the ceiling, and a broken lamp or two shining over a field of brown-stained carpeting. To his amazement, the room was pristine and tidy, every hanging crystal prism agleam. Not one of the carpet, walls, curtains, chandeliers, chairs, or pieces of artwork was smeared with chocolate. The Avenging Angel had vanished without a trace.

  “Sir, I’ve been monitoring the orbiting ship,” Borden said, as she came into the room and spotted him. “Four shuttles just docked with her. I’m reading two hundred and twenty bodies on board now. There’s no way to tell how many they left behind on the surface.”

  “We’ll just have to assume that 220 is most or part of her complement,” Daivid said. “Be grateful for small miracles. If the Orion hadn’t interrupted those other three ships, we could be facing thousands! By the way,” he said, looking around again in wonder, “Good job cleaning up.”

  “It was easier than we thought, sir,” the lieutenant replied, though she looked gratified. “The walls are made of a much tougher material than they appear, and the stain resistance of the carpet minimized the damage so much that the platoon was almost ashamed that they hadn’t put a real dent in it.”

  “I can’t believe nothing was ruined.”

  Borden raised her eyebrows. “Only a couple lengths of carpet, and there is a warehouse full of spares. Everything is modular. Mr. Codwall told us you don’t deal with tourists unless you can make things look good cheaply, and repair it without breaking the bank, because he says they will find a way to destroy things we couldn’t blow up with plasma grenades.”

  “I’m relieved,” Wolfe said. “I didn’t want to have to turn in a report asking for reimbursement for a room’s worth of silk carpet, and I don’t have a fortune to pay him back.”

  “I doubt there’s a shred of silk in the place,” Borden said, “outside of Mr. Codwall’s personal rooms. Everything around here resists damage.”

  Sparky came over to drape a familiar arm over her shoulders. “Hey, pretty lady, you look great!”

  “Thank you,” Borden replied stiffly. She glanced at Daivid.

  “Mr. Wingle insisted he come with me to hear our plans.”

  Borden nodded without another word.

  The door opened wide again, to admit the remaining Cockroaches. Those with visible eye-sockets had deep shadows in them. Those without had drooping antennae or whiskers to show how tired they were.

  “What is it, looey?” Ensign Theilind looked bleary. “We only got to bed a little while ago. We’re all pooped. This another test? We cleaned up!”

  “We’ve got a situation, ensign,” Daivid said sternly.

  Borden pulled down the drape from the nearest crystal screen. She flipped through the channels until she came to the local 27-hour news channel, where a perky young woman was speaking sincerely to the video pickup.

  “A mysterious fire has destroyed the mansion belonging to Oscar Wingle, the beloved owner of Wingle World. Firefighters were alerted only after the nearest neighbor, who lives twelve kilometers away, saw smoke rising. No word yet on why the alarm system failed to go off. Officials are saying that there must have been an explosion or some other catastrophe, since the entire house staff appears to have been killed in the blaze.”

  “That wasn’t a plain old house fire,” Boland guessed.

  “No. One of Wingle’s employees sent him security video just before he was killed.” Wolfe sent the file to the screen, and spoke as it ran. “Insurgents have landed on Dudley, under the command of Colonel Inigo Ayala. They murdered a houseful of innocent people, then set it on fire, and they’re after our objective. They will keep searching for Mr. Wingle and his invention until they find him. We are not going to let that happen! Now, pull it together. I just told a lady that you never fail in real crises. Don’t make me a liar.”

  “No, sir!” The Cockroaches chorused. Now that they realized what was going on, none of them looked sleepy.

  “So what are you going to do?” Sparky asked.

  Daivid ignored him. “We’ve got to pull together a battle plan. The biggest advantage we have is that the Insurgents don’t know we’re here. But no matter how much of the element of surprise helps, there are still only twenty-three against ten times that many. We’re going to need help. Everyone’s help.”

  “Who’s everyone?” Lin asked.

  “Everyone in every town on the planet,” Daivid said. “They are all in danger until the Insurgents find what they’re looking for. Once we convince them of that, we should get some cooperation.”

  O O O

  “Ten Wingles,” Ayala growled, as the Insurgency shuttles arrowed toward the first indicated address. “You would think the man had nothing to do but reproduce! Is he not busy enough working on my invention?”

  “Only two more Oscars,” his adjutant pointed out.

  The shuttles set down around the wide, low building. A few life forms showed up on the scopes near the windows, then moving swiftly away. The Insurgent ves
sels had been spotted. Not a moment to be lost.

  Ayala gave the signal. Two hundred armed soldiers burst out of the shuttles and into the building, herding all of the inhabitants into a single blue-tiled corridor. The uniformed nurses and aides were terrified into silence. Most of the elderly men and women in hoverchairs looked up at him in confusion.

  “Where is Oscar Wingle?” he demanded.

  All of the prisoners pointed to the left. Ayala left them there under guard, and stormed toward the indicated door.

  He burst into the room. Two men looked up at him. One of them sat hunched in a hoverchair, the other on a rolling stool beside the elevated single bed that lay underneath the window. The one in the hoverchair, a very thin, wrinkled individual with wisps of wavy gray hair clinging to his scalp in a monk’s tonsure, frowned at the intruder, then flung down one of the cards in his hand.

  “Gin,” he said. The aide didn’t say a word. He was frozen in place by the sight of the armed soldiers crowding the doorway behind Ayala.

  “You are Oscar Wingle?” Ayala asked.

  “That’s the name, sonny,” the old man said, taking the cards out of his companion’s hand and adding them to the deck so he could shuffle them again. He turned to peer at his visitor, and gave him an unexpectedly sweet smile. “Seen you somewhere before. Or, maybe not. Met a lot of people in my day. Deal,” he told the aide.

  “I know the human is supposed to be old, but not this old,” Oostern chittered.

  “Turn the place over,” Ayala said, disgustedly. “The laboratory must be here somewhere.”

  O O O

  “Quiet, please!”

  Dozens of males and females, mostly human, shouted at one another, making the hotel dining room chandeliers ring with their voices. Knots of people formed, broke, formed again, waving their fists or pounding on chair backs. Some just cried and wrung their hands. They were the town councillors of the major population centers on Dudley. Adri’Leta had brought them all to Welcome from cities all over the planet, representing the six major towns and twenty smaller communities. They had come in answer to Mr. Wingle’s direct orders. While they were relieved to know he was safe, the news report of the destruction of his house had frightened them.

  “We’re being invaded!” a woman cried.

  A man demanded gruffly, “Why now? Why off season?”

  “Please, would everyone calm down!” Daivid called from the dais. He had chosen to hold the meeting in the dining room because it had the best acoustics. He used his communications link to cut into the music system so that his voice reached everyone present without deafening anyone or distorting the sound. They paid no attention to him.

  “Quiet, dammit!” Oscar Wingle shouted, without need for amplification. “Be quiet! Sit down. Now!”

  The councillors stared at him, open-mouthed, then dropped into the nearest chairs.

  “I can’t waste a lot of time here,” Wingle said. “I’m working. You all know what that means: it pays your salaries.” No one seemed put off by his gruff manner. They must all be used to it. “You listen to this youngster, and you cooperate. Any problems, take it up with me when the crisis is past. Not now. There isn’t time. Got that?”

  “Of course, sir!” “Yes, sir.” “Right you are, Mr. Wingle!”

  “Good. Let’s get this over with so I can get back to my workshop.” He marched past Borden, Sparky and Wolfe, and sat down at a chair at the end of the long table. The councillors didn’t let out a peep.

  “Wow. I wish I could command that kind of respect,” Daivid murmured to Borden. Wingle turned to look squarely at him, the keen eyes underneath the bushy brows amused.

  Sparky laughed. “Don’t forget, he hears what I hear.” Daivid reddened, but stepped forward.

  “Dudley is currently under invasion by a small force of armed soldiers. At present we don’t believe that the general public is under threat, but I asked to meet with you today to discuss the problem and ask for your support.”

  “Who are these people?” a hoarse-voiced man with bulging eyes in the front row asked.

  Daivid nodded to Borden. “Will you give us a quick briefing?”

  Borden was prepared, as always. She indicated the nearest crystal screen, and fed it information from her infopad.

  “These are the Insurgents,” she said, flicking a finger over a control to display a soldier in the brown and gray rebel uniform. “Their exact number is unknown, but their stated aim is to overthrow the government of the Thousand Worlds Confederation. They are bloodthirsty, brutal, and cruel. They seldom take prisoners, and they don’t like to leave living witnesses behind who can identify them.”

  “What are they here for?” a tall man in the back asked.

  “They want something I’m working on,” Wingle said shortly. “I don’t intend to give it to them. They’d misuse it, and make a mess out of the galaxy in the process.”

  “But they’ll come here to get it from you!” the hoarse man exclaimed.

  Daivid held up his hands, and raised the volume to overpower the outburst of fear from the audience. “They don’t know Mr. Wingle is here. They don’t know where he is at present. That’s one of our advantages.”

  Thielind, who sat in a chair in the row behind Borden, signalled to Wolfe.

  “Bad news, looey,” he said, through the mastoid link. “The Insurgents just gutted a retirement facility about three thousand miles from here. The old people are okay, but the help is all dead. One old guy who still seems to have all his circuits firing just called the lab in Wingle World. D-45 took the call and routed the information to us.”

  A disturbed hubbub arose in the room.

  “There’s already been another raid,” Daivid announced, then realized most of them had heard the report, too. He was going to have to demand an explanation of how. “We need to prepare a defense.”

  “But what can we do?” a woman cried.

  “I’m not sure yet,” Daivid replied. He and his officers had been brainstorming with the chief petty officers throughout the night, and had not come up with a single viable solution. “The Insurgents will come to this town as soon as someone informs them that Mr. Wingle is here. We have to anticipate that it will happen. There’s little time to lose. I have informed my superior officer of the situation, but no one can come to our assistance for at least seven days, perhaps longer. Does the planet have a defense grid of any kind?”

  “No, sir! We’ve never needed it before.”

  Daivid groaned. If those other three ships did come to Dudley to supplement the one already here, the locals would be overrun. “Do you have an army of any kind? Continental Guard? Space Service Reserve? ROTC? A military school?” The audience shook its collective head. “No? Is there any kind of organized authority?”

  “We have a police force,” one of the councillors spoke up. “But there are only about twenty per town. Most of the time they deal with tourists, putting people … er … under the influence in protective custody to … regain their senses.”

  “Gotta love those euphemisms,” Boland chuckled, from the third row of seats on the dais.

  “…Or rescuing people who overestimated their ability to deal with wilderness camping,” put in another woman very tactfully.

  “That’s a good one, too,” Lin murmured. Daivid gestured impatiently at them to be quiet.

  “What do you do to defend yourselves?” he asked.

  “We have never needed an army,” the hoarse-voiced man said. “This is a resort community. There’s nothing to steal. The only real valuable we have to offer is fun. Fun and relaxation.”

  Daivid forbore to remind them that there was an item of value here, however incomplete, and that was the subject of the Insurgents’ interest.

  “I know how quickly word spreads around here. The people of Welcome already know we are a single unit. There are only 23 of us. We will do what we can to draw fire, but we are going to need the help of each and every one of you. The enemy is too large to take on di
rectly.”

  “I’ll destroy … what I’m working on,” Wingle offered, raising his brows.

  “No,” Daivid cautioned him. “We still want it, and they’ll never believe it isn’t here. They’ll destroy this city, this planet, in revenge. They have killed plenty of people already. We have to kill or capture them, or force them to surrender, or drive them away.”

  “How can we possibly do that?” the councillors demanded.

  “Ideally, we have to convince them that they are overwhelmed by superior numbers.”

  “But we can’t fight,” a young woman explained, wringing her hands. “We’re not violent people. We’re entertainers. This is a tourist attraction. We bring joy to the hearts of young and old. That’s what we do.”

  “But your lives are in danger,” Wolfe urged, wondering why they couldn’t understand. Time was slipping away, and the Insurgents could be upon them at any time. “If you don’t aid in your defense, you may all die!”

  “We … we couldn’t face armed soldiers,” a small-boned man exclaimed, from one side of the audience. “We can’t defend ourselves against weapons. We’re puppeteers!”

  Wolfe felt inspiration dawn upon him with the blaze of the rising sun. “Puppeteers?” He felt his face curve into a wide grin. That could be the answer!

  “Oh, no, sir,” Borden began, divining instantly where his mind was heading. “You can’t possibly think …”

  He spun to face her. “Well, why not? Can you think of a better way to conjure a fighting force out of the air? The mind is the most devastating weapon of war. Is it more important to overwhelm an enemy, or persuade him he is overwhelmed?”

  “Well …”

  “Think about it!” Daivid said, sketching his idea on the air with both hands. “We could put all of the people puppets in uniforms like ours. An instant army, thousands strong, that puts no living being in danger? And what about the others? Wouldn’t it be devastating to have a host of heavily armed giant squirrels, lobsters, and dogs marching towards you? You couldn’t read their body language—they don’t have any if the puppeteers don’t want them to.”