Sten

by Chris Bunch

  Jorgensen ran it through his brain. "Black operations ... Input flux increased ... Bravo target ... Yes ... alternatives ... but too numerous to compute."

  They discussed it.

  "I vote we push to the next level,” Sten said.

  * * * *

  "What the clot ‘m I supposed to say?” Sten whispered.

  Doc was trying to learn a sneer. He didn't have the expression quite right yet. “The usual inspiring drivel. You humans are easy to impress."

  "If it's so easy, why don't you get up on those crates?"

  "Very simple,” Doc said blandly. “As you keep telling me, who believes a teddy bear?"

  Sten looked around at the other team members.

  "Tell ‘em aught but the truth, lad,” Alex said. “They're nae Scots so they'd no ken that."

  Bet just smiled at him. Sten took a deep breath and clambered to the top of the piled boxes.

  The forty-odd assembled Migs in the warehouse stared up at him. Behind them, their Delinq guides eyeballed Sten curiously.

  "I don't know what the Company will think of you,” Sten said, “but you scare clottin’ hell outa me!"

  There was a ripple of mild amusement.

  "My da told me, most important tool you had was a four-kilo hammer. Used it to tap his foremen ‘tween the eyes every once again, just to get their attention.

  "I'm lookin’ at forty-seven four-kilo hammers just now. You and your cells are gonna get some attention. Starting next shift."

  A buzz rose from the cell leaders below him. “You all got jobs, and you and your folk've run through them enough. I'm not gonna stand up here and tell master craftsmen how to set your jigs.

  "Just remember one thing. There's only a few of us. We're like the apprentice, with half a tool kit. We go breaking our tools early on, we'll end up not getting the job done."

  The men nodded. Sten was talking their language. Doc's tendrils wiggled. Correct procedure, he analyzed, even though he didn't understand the analogies.

  Sten waited until the talk died. Raised his arm, half salute. “Free Vulcan."

  He waved the Delinqs forward to guide the Mig cell leaders back through the ducts to their own areas, and jumped down from the crates.

  "Well, Alex?"

  "Ah nae think it's Burns ... but it'll do. Aye, it'll do."

  * * * *

  The Mig eyed the weapon skeptically. It wasn't confidence-inspiring. A collection of 20-mm copper plumbing pipe, brazed together. He unscrewed the buttcap, and took two of the sodium thiosulfate tablets that fell into his palm, shoved the weapon back into his coveralls and went down the corridor.

  Breathe ... breathe ... breathe ... normally ... you're on your way to report a minor glitch to your foreman. There is no hurry...

  He touched the buzzer outside the man's door. Footsteps, and the bespectacled foreman peered out at him.

  He looked puzzled. Asked something that the Mig couldn't hear through the roaring in his ears as he brought the weapon out and touched the firing stud. Electric current ran into tungsten wires; wires flared and touched off the ammonium-nitrate compound.

  The compound blew the sealed prussic-acid container apart, whuffing gas into the man's throat. He gargled and stumbled back.

  The drill took over. The Mig dropped the gas gun on the dead Tech's chest and walked away. Took the amyl nitrate capsule from his coverall pocket and crushed it—completing the prussic-acid antidote—stripped off his gloves and disappeared into a slideway.

  Ida swam a hand idly, and the robot's lid opened. She stared in at the ranked desserts in the server. “Y'all gettin’ fat,” Jorgensen said.

  "Correction. I am not getting fat. I am fat. And intend on getting fatter."

  She began stuffing some megacaloric concoction into her face with one hand and tapping computer keys with the other.

  "Did you wipe them?” Sten asked.

  "Hours and hours ago."

  "Then what in the clot are you doing now?

  "I randomed, and got the key to the Company's liquid assets pool. Now, if I can get a linkup, I'll be able to transfer whatever I want into some offworld account."

  "Like a Free Trader roll?"

  "That could—oops!" Her hand flashed across the keyboard and cut her board out of circuit. “Suspicious bassids got a security key hidden in there."

  Sten started to say something, then turned away. Bet had been watching, confused.

  "What's she doing?"

  "Setting up her personal retirement fund,” Sten said.

  "I figured that," Bet said disgustedly. “I meant the wiping."

  "We figured Company security and the patrol kept records on troublemakers. Migs who didn't rate getting brainburned or pulverized yet. Ida located the records and wiped them."

  "I did better than that,” Ida said, wiping her hands on the bot's extended towel. “I also put a FORGET IT code in, so any more input will be automatically blanked.” Bet looked impressed. Ida turned back to the keyboard. “Now. Let's have another squinch at those assets."

  * * * *

  "This is Free Vulcan,” the voice whispered through a million speakers.

  Frantic security Techs tried to lock tracers onto the signal source. Since the signal was initially transmitted via cable to a hundred different broadcast points, randomly changing several times a second, their task was hopeless.

  "It has begun. We, the people of Vulcan, are starting to strike back. Seven Company officials were removed this shift for crimes against the workers they've ground down for so many years.

  "This is the beginning.

  "There will be more."

  * * * *

  Sten slumped into the chair and dialed a narcobeer. Drained it, and punched up another.

  "Any casualties?"

  "Only one. Cell Eighteen. The contact man got stopped on the way in by a patrol spotcheck. His backup panicked and opened up. Killed all three of them."

  "We'll need the name of the man,” Doc said. “Martyrs are the lubricant of human revolutions."

  Sten put his nose in his beer. He wasn't in the mood just yet.

  "There goes the little guttersnipe now,” Doc said approvingly.

  Lying beside the panda in an air vent high above Visitors’ Center, Sten focused the glasses. He finally found a Delinq wearing Mig coveralls darting through the crowds of offworlders.

  "You had him take a bath, I trust,” Doc said. “He is supposed to be the angelic little child every human desires for his very own."

  Sten swung the glasses to the four Migs wearing Sociopatrolman uniforms, as they hue-and-cried after the Delinq.

  "Slow down, boy,” Sten muttered. “You're losing them."

  As if listening, the boy zig-zagged aimlessly for a few seconds and the “patrolmen” closed in on him. Shock batons rose and fell.

  "Ah,” Doc sighed contentedly. “I can hear the little brute scream from here. What's going on?"

  "Mmm ... here they come."

  Spacemen boiled out of the bar the Delinq had allowed himself to be caught at.

  "Are they righteously indignant?"

  Sten panned the glasses across the spacemen's faces. “Yep."

  The offworlders knotted about the struggling group. One of them shouted something about bullies. “Come on,” Sten muttered. “Get ‘em moving.” The Delinq was a better actor than the four adults. He went down, but swung his head then dug his teeth into one man's leg. The phony Sociopatrolman yelped and brought the shock baton down.

  That did it. The spacemen became an instant mob, grabbing bottles, smashing windows. The four “patrolmen” grabbed the boy and ran for the exit.

  Sten hit the key of the minicomputer beside him, and the riot alarm began shrilling. “Tell me what's happening,” Doc said impatiently.

  "Our people have cleared the dome. All right, here comes the riot squad in shock formation."

  "What are the spaceclots doing?"

  "Charging."

  "Excellent. Now, we shou
ld see the first couple or three real patrolmen going down. Somebody should be panicking and putting his baton on full power and...” Doc smiled beatifically.

  "Sure did. Took out a first officer. Drakh!"

  "What you are telling me is that the morally outraged foreigners, having witnessed the brutal beating of a charming young child, and having been attacked by thugs, are reacting in the most strenuous manner possible. Tell me, Sten. Are they eating the Sociopatrolmen?"

  "They aren't cannibals!"

  "Pity. That's a human characteristic I haven't been able to observe at firsthand. You may proceed."

  Sten grabbed a hose, shoved it through the grill and triggered the tanks of vomit gas into the Visitors’ Center, grabbed Doc, and they quickly slithered away.

  "Excellent, Sten. Excellent. Free Traders are insatiable rumor-spreaders. At the least, the Company appears in a bad light. With luck, a few of those space sailors are moralists—which I doubt—and will refuse cargo. Especially after they wonder why the Company not only involved them in a riot, but gassed them in the bargain."

  Sten decided the only thing that could make Doc happier would be a massacre of orphans.

  COMPANY DIRECTIVE—TO BE IMPLEMENTED IMMEDIATELY

  Due to poor productivity, the following recreational domes provided for Migrant-Unskilled workers are to be closed immediately: Nos. 7, 93, 70.

  * * * *

  There's some'at aboot explosions in vacuum, Alex decided for the hundredth time as he watched the lighter become a ball of flame. Almo’ apuirfec’ circle it makes.

  He picked up bis explosives kit and edged out of the loading dock.

  Four other crates, besides the one that had just vanished the offworld loading ship, were booby-trapped. With a difference. Only somebody with Alex's experience would realize they would never go off. One explosion was to draw the attention of the Free Traders—destroying only a robot lighter—and the other bombs to discourage Free Traders’ shipping Company cargoes.

  * * * *

  COMPANY DIRECTIVE—SECURITY PERSONNEL ONLY

  Effective immediately all ID cards issued to personnel whose duties are in the following areas: Visitors’ Center, Cargo Transshipping, or Warehouse Divisions are rescinded. New passes will be issued on an individual basis. Thereafter, any member of patrol or security staffs failing to detain persons using old-style (XP-sequence) IDs will be subject to firm disciplinary proceedings.

  * * * *

  The secretary checked Gaitsen's desk carefully. Light pen positioned correctly, Exec-only inputs on STANDBY, the chair set carefully so many centimeters from the desk.

  Efficiency is all, Stanskill, Gaitsen had said repeatedly. Clottin’ surprise, the secretary thought, he never said that in bed. Too busy worryin’ about his heart, maybe.

  She went to the door, palmed it, and looked around for the last time. Everything familiar and in its place, just the way the Exec wanted. She passed through the doorway, and, as instructed, left her carryall on her desk in the antechamber. She checked the clock. Gaitsen should just about be out of the tube.

  She knelt by the duct, and the Delinq waiting impatiently held the screen open. The woman crawled inside and disappeared.

  As she awkwardly bent around a ninety-degree turn in the ducting, the secretary was sorry she wouldn't be able to watch as Gaitsen plumped down in his favorite seat.

  * * * *

  "Alvor?"

  "Yuh?” The bearded cell leader peered over Sten's shoulder.

  "Did you have your team take this Braun out?"

  "Never heard a’ the clot."

  Sten nodded, and scrolled on up the security report. Whoever killed Braun—low-level Exec in Product Planning Division—must've been settling a private grudge. He considered a minute. No. Free Vulcan would not claim that killing with the others. Might get the Company even more upset.

  * * * *

  COMPANY DIRECTIVE—SECURITY PERSONNEL ONLY

  Prior to beginning routine patrols, consult route with shift team director and chart R79L. Areas marked in blue are to be patrolled only by four-man teams equipped with riot gear. DISCUSSION OF THIS POLICY MODIFICATION IS FORBIDDEN TO NONCLEARED STAFF.

  * * * *

  "This is the voice of Free Vulcan,” the speakers resonated. “We would like to know how you Executives and security people feel.

  "As if there is a noose tightening around your necks?

  "Things have been happening, haven't they? What happened to that Sociopatrol that was sent out to Warehouse Y008? It never reported back, did it?

  "And Exec Gaitsen. That must have been very unpleasant. Not a very fast way to die, either. Perhaps you Executives who use your secretaries as joygirls might reflect on Gaitsen for a few moments.

  "Yes. There is a noose. And it is getting steadily tighter, is it not?"

  "Do you have a tracer?” Thoresen glowered.

  "Nossir. And, Baron, I don't think we'll be able to get one.” Thoresen blanked the screen, and keyed up another department.

  "Semantics. Yes, Baron?"

  "Do you have an analysis of that voice?"

  "We do. Very tentative, sir. Non-Mig, non-Tech. Even though the voice of Free Vulcan—"

  "You have been directed not to use that term, Tech!"

  "Sorry, sir. Our theory is that the voice is synthesized. Sorry."

  Thoresen flicked off, noted the time, and headed for the salle d'armes. He pulled a saber from its hanging and spun on the instructor.

  "Come in,” he growled. “As if you mean it!"

  * * * *

  Sten eyed the hydroponics farm dubiously. It looked just as it had before Alex bustled off. The agribots still lovingly tended the produce intended for Exec consumption. “You sure it's gonna go?” he asked skeptically.

  Alex patted him patronizingly. “Ah ken ye dinnae know what ye're glassin', lad. But dinnae tell your gran'sire how to suck eggs."

  Sten followed him to the shipping port and ducked inside. Alex let the door almost close, then blocked it with a small metal bar. “Now ye see it—"

  He touched off a small emergency flare, lobbed it into the middle of the farm, and yanked the bar out. As the door snapped closed, Sten saw the compartment fill—deck to ceiling—with a mass of flames.

  "Ye ken,” Alex said, as the shock slammed against the lock, “i's what's known as a dust explosion. Ye mere put the intake in the fertilizer supply, burn awa’ the liquidifier, an’ dust sprays aboot the room. Touch i’ off'—the little man chuckled happily.

  * * * *

  EXECUTIVE PERSONNEL EYES ONLY

  We have noticed an inordinate number of applications for transfer, early retirement, or resignation. We are most disappointed. During this admittedly unsettling time, the Company needs its most skilled personnel to be most attentive to their duties. For this reason, all such applications shall be disapproved until further notice.

  Thoresen.

  * * * *

  Webb slit the dying Sociopatrolman's throat from ear to ear, stood, and brushed his hands off. He walked over to the only survivor of the ten-man patrol, held against the wall by two grim Migs. “Let ‘im go, boys."

  The surprised Migs released the patrolman.

  "We're makin’ ya a bargain,” Webb said. “You ain't gonna get splattered like the rest of your scum. We're gonna let you go."

  Webb's two men looked surprised.

  "You just wander back to your barracks sewer, and let your friends know what happened."

  The patrolman, near rigid with terror, nodded.

  "An’ next time they put you out on patrol, you don't have to crud around like you're a clottin’ hero. Make a little noise. Don't be too anxious lookin’ down a passage where somethin’ might be goin’ on you don't want to know about. Let ‘im run, boys."

  The patrolman glanced at the Mig bush section then he backed away. He sidled to the bend in the corridor, whirled and was gone.

  "Y'think he's gonna do like you want, Webb?” one of his men asked.r />
  "Don't matter. Either way, he won't be worth drakh anymore. An’ don't you think security's gonna wonder why he got away without gettin’ banged around?"

  "I still don't understand."

  "That's why you ain't a cell leader. Yet. C'mon. Let's clear."

  * * * *

  The five-man patrol ducked as Frick and Frack hissed down from the overhead girders of the warehouse. One man had time to raise his riot gun and blast a hole through some crates before the white phosphorus minicaps ignited.

  The two creatures swooped back over, curiously eyeing the hell below them as the phosphorus seared through flesh and bone, then banked into the waiting duct above.

  * * * *

  "You! What's that? The brown drakh?"

  "Soybeef stew,” Sten replied. “May I offer you some?"

  "Nawp. Don't need any extra diseases. I'll help myself.” The med-Tech ladled stew from the tureen onto his tray, then slid on down the line.

  Sten, face carefully blank, looked down the line of servers to Bet. They both wore white coveralls and were indistinguishable from the other workers in the Creche staff mess. Part of Sten's mind began the countdown, while another caught bits of conversation from the technicians at the tables.

  "Clotting little monster! Daddy this, an’ daddy that an’ daddy I got to be a spacetug today and—"

  "If we didn't need ‘em, Company oughta space the little clots—"

  "Tell ‘em stories, pat ‘em on the head, wipe their bungs when they mess. The Company don't pay us near enough."

  "How you doin’ with Billy?"

  "Me an’ that clot are reaching an understanding. I put him in a sewer supervisor, and just left him there for two shifts. Clottin’ booger's gonna learn."

  "Actually, doctor, there's no reason the Company has to maintain these creatures in the style it does. I'm theorizing that the program could be implemented with the use of atrophy amputation."

  "Hmm. Interesting concept We might develop it...” Time.

  Sten snapped the stock of the willygun to lock and brought it up, finger closing on the trigger. The two Sociopatrolmen lounging at the entrance dropped, fist-size holes in their chests.

  "Down! Get down!” Bet shouted ... the servers stared, then flattened as Sten lobbed two grenades from his pouch into the middle of the hall.