by Chris Bunch
Alsaoud holos screamed, generally taking the line that “no one approves of Patson’s murderous rabble, but someone must prevent further violence, and disarm the gunmen of the People. Violence of this sort settles nothing.”
Actually, it settled the mob back on its heels for a week.
Scouts for the rabble reported that these hooligan youths had set up patrols around their district, and anyone who had business outside was escorted by armed guards. Police, ordered to stop such outrages looked at the determination in the eyes of these escorts and — being the cowards police normally are, unless they outnumber their opponents by the dozens — left well enough alone.
During this week, there was time enough for the elders in the Maron Region to meet.
And time enough for Star Risk to consider what they might do.
“We sit back and watch the bodies bounce,” Goodnight opined. “And see if it gives us a chance to further outrage Cerberus.”
“Wrong,” M’chel said flatly. “We’re at least partially responsible for these mobs — if we hadn’t stirred things up by using the People against Cerberus, none of this might have happened.”
“I question your logic,” Grok said. “The People were a-pirating before we arrived in the Alsaoud region.”
“I’m a sentimental saphead,” Jasmine King said. “I vote with M’chel.”
“Who’s advocating what?” Grok asked.
“Maybe,” Riss said, clearly thinking aloud, “making sure the People down on Khazia have even odds.”
“Which means what?” von Baldur asked suspiciously. “Running guns to them?”
“That’s not a bad start,” M’chel said.
“That’s ridiculous,” Goodnight said. “All that’ll do is stir up — oh. I get it. More trouble for Cerberus, probably.”
“That wasn’t why I suggested it,” M’chel said. “But it’ll do for a reason. I vote yes on my own measure.”
“I think I shall, too,” Grok said.
Von Baldur considered. “It certainly won’t make life any easier for Nowotny and company. Make it four.”
“Hell’s tinkling little bells,” Goodnight said in disgust. “I’ll vote with the sappy sentimentalists. Make it unanimous.”
“Things like this,” M’chel said, “warm the cockles of my little heart and make me proud of all of you.
“Of course, we’re not going to give any guns away.”
• • •
While Jasmine and Grok plotted on the theoretical aspects of street mobbing — that is, what kind of weapons one should give others to lug to a brawl — von Baldur consulted with Ganmore on just how they were going to get their varied bangsticks to the injured parties on Khazia.
“I am not sure,” Ganmore said, “that I ever should have told you my title of Advisor,” he said. “For now you are truly requiring me to play out my role, when it is supposed to be honorary.”
“Star Risk,” von Baldur said smoothly, “expects only that from its friends that which they have shown themselves very capable at.”
Ganmore squinted warily at von Baldur. “I somehow feel I shall be paying for that compliment the next time you bring me a cargo for valuation. Nevertheless …”
There was an excellent conduit:
The People, having more than a passing familiarity with extraborder dealings in their wanderings across the galaxy, knew well the ways of customs officials.
When they moved onto Khazia, they realized they might need to provide certain items for their people from time to time, such as foodstuffs that were outside that planet’s health laws, or people themselves who didn’t wish, for whatever reasons, to appear on anyone’s immigration rolls.
So, even though there was no maritime tradition among them, a dozen men and women suddenly took up the trade of ocean fisherman.
A commercial boat, beyond sight of land and the reach of radar, is an entity unto itself, and is seldom, without a tip, regarded as interesting to any regulatory agencies beyond a game department.
Von Baldur reported this to the others.
“Those poor wights,” Grok said. “One of these centuries they will have their own planet and government again, and all of their citizens will be master scofflaws.”
The first rule of running a successful uprising, whether a full-scale revolution or just minor banditry, is to use the same weaponry as your enemy. It makes resupply a lot easier, and helps add confusion to the issue when trying to determine where a bullet came from and who was responsible.
No one in Star Risk had paid much attention to what the local cops carried, and as the small Alsaoud land army was kept mainly out of sight, they didn’t have much of an idea on what sort of gunnery to provide.
Since everybody was trying to keep hidden to conceal their presence from Nowotny and Cerberus as long as possible, Redon Spada had to do the eye-balling.
His casual investigation produced another interesting discovery — both police and military were armed with current-issue Alliance blasters and blast rifles.
“Interesting,” Grok mused. “Between spaceships and pistols, they do seem to have an inside to the Alliance, don’t they? I sense Cerberus’s fine hand at work here.”
Interesting — but the idea didn’t seem to be immediately relevant, and did give Star Risk the way to go.
Using current weapons, though, was going to be a trifle expensive, and they weren’t trying to bankrupt the People — at least, not until Cerberus was properly dealt with.
Goodnight and his compatriots had to go out and hijack a couple of small freighters for the front capital.
Then von Baldur went to Hal Maffer, who was surprised to hear from him.
“I thought you people folded your tents and started living the clean life. Glad to see you’re still around,” he said cordially. “I hope you settled that nasty business with Cerberus.”
“No problem with that,” von Baldur lied. He didn’t trust Maffer — or anyone else — any more than he distrusted him — or anyone else. “We’re doing an excellent business a long, long ways from any of their interests. And we’re paying for these hem, tools, up front.”
“That’s good,” Maffer said. “I always like dealing with you people. Keep me in mind if you need any other devices as the situation develops. So what do you need now — and do I deliver?”
“No,” von Baldur said. “We’ll pick up.”
He gave Maffer the shopping list.
Grok and Jasmine had come up with a rather draconian inventory. Since they weren’t combat veterans, they’d consulted with M’chel, who certainly was, to see if their logic and theories were too rigid.
She shook her head.
“No. You two are as hard-hearted as a pair of supply sergeants — but you’re right. Or, at least, you’re not very wrong.”
They’d chosen blast rifles and blasters, ten with clip-on shoulder stocks, for each rifle. Of course a rifle is always more useful than a handgun, but a little hard to conceal, sometimes. At least with the rinky-dink add-on stocks, which have never increased a pistol’s usefulness much, these guns would be a bit more lethal.
But not by much. A good rule of thumb with a pistol is to never deploy one unless you can also throw it at your enemy and do damage.
They’d allowed a dozen crew-served weapons, no more. These could be used for ambushes, but there deliberately weren’t enough of them to encourage any development of positional warfare.
There was quite a lot of plastic-type malleable explosive, and various sorts of detonators, for ambushes and booby traps.
Finally, there were grenades.
Grenades come in two general types: offensive and defensive. An offensive one can be thrown at the charge, with a small enough exploding radius so the thrower shouldn’t have to worry too much about getting caught in his own explosion.
Detonating grenades can be pegged from a nice, safe hole or wall to duck behind.
Again, because they didn’t want to encourage their rebels down o
n Khazia to start thinking they had fortresses, there weren’t any defensive bombs provided.
Spada and Goodnight picked up the cargo in the McMahon and brought it back to the Maron Regions. Commo went back and forth, code words were arranged, and then the ship took them down to Khazia, rendezvousing with the fishing boats at sea, in the dark of the moons.
All the weapons were safely hidden in the People’s district before the sun came up.
A few days later Patson’s rabble got themselves stirred up with rhetoric and other, more concrete stimulants, and determined to make a stand for their own beloved streets, by burning down the People’s quarter. But this time they’d give the scum a surprise, and since Khazia had fairly strict civilian gun laws, brought a scattering of sporting arms, various stolen weapons, and an assortment of antiques.
The People’s district was well barricaded.
The mob, shouting brave slogans of Khazia for the Alsaoud and such, closed on it.
A few bravos with guns thought they saw targets and chanced a round or two.
There was no response until they got within ten meters of the barricades, and then blaster bolts cracked out in volleys. Even given the untrained and excitable aim of the People, thirteen Alsaoud sprawled on the pavement.
The mob fled at lightspeed, trampling another five of their brothers as they went.
Were the People “normal” rowdies, the next stage would have been police riot squads, the People’s retreat back into pretended innocence, and everyone fuming and fretting for the next escalation. Or, conceivably, that might have ended things for a few years.
That was what Star Risk had been depending on.
Given that the People were sometimes, as had been noted, “a bit excitable,” that was not what happened.
The People held firm behind their barricade, even after the mob had fled.
Police riot squads did show up, and advanced rather timidly.
Their armored lifters were charged.
The police opened fire.
The People didn’t break and run.
Instead, they opened fire with all weapons, and, screaming their rage, ran on.
The police lifters wheeled and fled as the People were on them.
They hid back at their stations and barracks, claiming to be regrouping.
The People rioted happily that night, burning and destroying anything that looked profitable or inimical. Among the losses were both the reverend Patson’s storefront and auditorium. Unfortunately, the reverend was not in them when they burnt.
He, his wife, and brood were able to flee to Tarabula, the system’s third world, and vanished from history.
The next day, four of the People’s most respected Advisors called on the presidential palace, to discuss and end the troubles.
Walter Nowotny considered the situation absurd. How could a minority, less than a fifth of the population of the city of Helleu, be able to cause such chaos? Utterly preposterous.
He had other problems, such as the pirates or the looming confrontation he would have with Ral Tomkins of Cerberus — and, most likely, his “mentor” Yarb’ro, to which he was hardly looking forward.
He “requested” that the Advisors be turned away.
They were — most rudely, with nightsticks — and the People ruled the streets of Helleu for a second night.
Star Risk was almost as upset as Nowotny, importuning Advisor Ganmore to end this madness before the situation got out of hand, and whatever gains they might have gained were lost. Now was the time for negotiation and ultimatums, not more rioting. In the necessary conferring, Star Risk hoped to see another opening in Nowotny’s armor, and strike for that.
But the cheery anarchists in the streets weren’t listening to their own Advisors, let alone Ganmore in the far-distant Maron Region.
Even out there, a good half of the People thought it was the time to strike against the Alsaoud, and gain what was their due.
Former pirates were now loudly declaring their patriotism, and a vision of having their own worlds again.
Starships were arming, massing, and discussing what had to be done.
The People also had their own sudden visionaries to contend with, that this was the Day of Redemption.
“We have created a hell of a mess,” von Baldur said haplessly to M’chel Riss. “Do you have any suggestions as to how we can improve things?”
She shook her head, completely blank.
She was a soldier, not a revolutionary.
“We could just bail, and leave Nowotny up to his belly button in shit,” Goodnight said. “But the bastard might wade out. We’d better tough it out and see what develops.”
It was announced that President Flyver would talk to the people of his system and implore them to calm themselves and be reasonable, and that the Proper Authorities would bring order back, with justice for all.
Being a bit of a grandstander, he said he would make his address from the balcony of the presidential palace, and his most trusted advisors would be with him, System-wide holos would be ‘casted.
“You think,” Goodnight said, “Nowotny’ll be dumb enough to show up for that? And maybe we could slip a missile in their laps?”
“I’m truly appalled,” Jasmine King said. “Do you know how many innocents would die just to take out one man?”
“And besides,” M’chel added, “there’s not a chance Nowotny’ll be watching the show from anywhere but a holo screen. He’s not a complete dunce.”
Grok just shook his head.
Goodnight even went into bester, and while in battle-analysis mode had von Baldur ask him about the likelihood of Nowotny being there and being vulnerable. He had to listen to his own superbrain tell him he was a romantic dreamer.
But they all decided to watch the show.
It was quite a show, indeed.
The great square in front of the palace was packed. Even a hundred or so People had dared attend, well bodyguarded by young women and men with Star Risk’s weaponry.
President Flyver had the most dynamic, inspiring speech of his entire career written.
“We are all common people, of a common blood, and must learn to seek peace for all, and listen to our most secret, most loving hearts. Only then can we — ”
He looked away from the screen he was reading from, out over the crowd, annoyed by a sudden, approaching whine that definitely should not have been there.
Five thousand meters overhead, three military starships patrolled, alert for any intrusion from space.
Three hundred meters above the palace, police lifters loaded with alert marksmen and the best operatives Cerberus had swung back and forth, watching overhead for forbidden aircraft.
A young woman of the People had found her calling.
She had been taking light flying lessons, intending on making a career with her own transcity delivery service. She was considered quite a skilled flier, soloing in a dozen hours.
But now there was something more important than her career.
Something more important than life itself.
She was airborne an hour before the speech was scheduled, orbiting out of Helleu over the ocean, keeping low under any radar screens, eyes flickering from her controls to the holo screen showing the palace.
When Flyver’s introduction began, she swung her lifter back toward land, and went to full speed.
She came in over Helleu only fifty meters above the rooftops.
The palace loomed large in front of her.
Flyver looked away from his screen, saw the bulbous nose of the onrushing aircraft, had time to notice a scratch on the nose paint, opened his mouth to scream.
The woman’s lifter never wavered, her grip on the controls never shifted, as she sent her aircraft smashing into the center of the presidential balcony.
FORTY-ONE
M’chel never thought the word frozen applied to anything but ice cubes or certain, irregular, states of matter.
She was wrong.
&
nbsp; The five members of Star Risk stood motionless, watching the smoke boil out of the president’s palace.
The crowd around it was also frozen.
“Let’s roll,” Goodnight said suddenly.
“Where?” Grok said, seeming a bit amused by the humans’ astonishment.
“Whatever is going to happen will begin in that proximity,” von Baldur said, jerking a thumb at the screen. “I think better when I am on — or at least close to — the scene.”
“When,” Grok said, definitely amused, “you bother to think at all.”
But he reached for a com, and called for Redon Spada to stand by the yacht.
• • •
The crowd outside the palace recovered slowly, and when they did, they wanted scapegoats.
They found some close at hand — the small continent of the People. Even better, they were mostly women and children.
With, fortunately, a thin screen of armed men and women.
The guns came out, and the crowd stopped cold.
The People retreated, back through the streets toward their own district.
The Alsaoud started after them.
At that point, the military inadvertently saved the day, swooping down, very late, to see what they could do to save their rather incinerated president.
The crowd didn’t know who owned the spaceships that were screaming down on them, and assumed that more diabolical attackers were at work.
They scattered.
The People would have done the same, but there was nowhere to go.
One Alsaoud patrol boat captain, angrier than the others and slightly more collected, snapped a screen into a tight shot of the street, recognized the People by their costumes, assumed they had something to do with the assassination of the freshly elected Flyver, and launched a missile.
It missed by blocks, and destroyed a government office handling consumer affairs.
Then the ship’s executive officer jerked his superior out of the launch station, and took over the controls of the p-boat.
For this act of mercy, he was later courtmartialed and reduced two grades.
• • •
