Sten s-1

by Allan Cole

  "And you have the respect of the other Delinq gangs?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. I want you to set up a meeting."

  "A meeting? What for?"

  "Listen, and I'll tell you."

  The Delinq chieftains eyed each other warily. Even with Bet's assurances, they were suspicious. The meeting could be a setup for the Sociopatrol—or a takeover.

  About fifteen of them were spread around the huge table, muttering to each other and trying not to be impressed by the huge banquet or the luxurious dining room.

  The meeting place was a new restaurant scheduled for opening in a day or two. The latest servant bots purred around the room offering the Delinqs delicacies reserved for Execs. Ida had found it after Sten had told her he wanted an impressive meeting place for the gang leaders, someplace that would show them just how powerful the Mantis team was. Ida had first patched into the personnel computer, and ordered all of the prospective restaurant employees to remain on their current jobs. The tap of a few more keys showed restaurant construction seriously delayed because of needed materials. And just to make sure, Sten had a few worker bots put a sign on the main entrance: DANGER. DO NOT ENTER. VACUUM CONDITIONS BEYOND.

  Bet was at the head of the table. Beside her sat Sten.

  She put a hand up for attention and got it. "Look at us all," she said. "Look at the faces around this table."

  Puzzled, they did.

  "This is the first time the leaders of every gang have been in one room. Better yet, nobody's cut any throats."

  True, some of them thought. But maybe not for long.

  "Think about what that means. All of us together. Representing a combined strength of maybe three hundred or four hundred Delinqs."

  A stir.

  "What's that get us?" a gang chief named Patris snarled.

  "Normally," Bet said, "nothing. All of us against the Sociopatrol would mean just a little bit more splatter than usual. Normally."

  "So who's talkin' about goin' against the patrol?" asked a gang boss named Flynn.

  Bet pointed at Sten. "He is."

  The muttering became a loud grumbling.

  "This is Sten. You've heard about him. He was with Oron."

  Even louder grumblings.

  "Sten's been offworld. Off Vulcan. And now he's come back to help us."

  Stunned silence. But mostly because of the enormity of the lie.

  "You all heard about what happened to my gang?" Bet said.

  Nods all around.

  "And you heard about what happened to the patrol clots that almost got us?"

  Slow nods. Glimmers of what she was getting at. "Sten killed them," Bet said. "All of them. If he wasn't who he says he is, then how could that even be? How could I be here talking to you?"

  "She's right," Patris noted. "My best runner saw them cleanin' up the clottin' bodies."

  Flynn sneered. "So he's a hero. Big deal. Now, what's he want with us?"

  Sten rose. Instant hush.

  "It's very simple," he said. "We're gonna take over Vulcan."

  The effort to overthrow Vulcan began with a series of what Doc called "gray actions."

  "We want to increase the discontent among the Migs," he said. "Then impress on them the vulnerability of the Company."

  Doc thought the proposed gray-action incidents his best work yet. Jorgensen thought they were just plain dirty tricks, and what Alex called them was not repeatable, even in his brogue. Only Ida was charmed. She saw infinite possibilities in enriching herself.

  "That'll have to wait," Sten warned her.

  "For what? I got this computer singin' any song I want."

  "Then you found Bravo Project?"

  Ida sighed. "Well, almost any song."

  Doc glared at her.

  "I'll start on the radio broadcasts," she grumped.

  Even Doc was impressed with the device she worked out. It took up an entire stateroom aboard the old liner. Basically, it was just a simple radio broadcaster beefed up with enough power circuits to boost Vulcan out of orbit. She rigged it to a Mantis minicomputer and set it to monitoring the Company band that broadcast Mig news and entertainment.

  "Flip this switch," she said, "and we're on their band. Anything we say sounds like it's coming from their station."

  "You mean like Thoresen does it with Xypacas?" Sten asked.

  "A little more subtle than that," Doc broke in. "The idea is to make it sound like it's a Company-approved script."

  Incomprehension registered on Sten's face. He waved them away in disgust. "Never mind," Doc said. "I'll work out what we're going to say. You just worry about your end."

  * * *

  Sten and Bet ambled past the factory. They strolled unhurriedly along like two Migs just off-shift and heading for a narcobeer. Several workers came out of the factory and stepped on the slideway beside them.

  Sten nudged Bet with an elbow.

  "Will you looka that," he said loudly. "That's Bearings Works Twenty-three, ain't it?"

  "Yeah," Bet answered. "Sure is. I heard about that place."

  Sten shook his head.

  "Poor clots. I sure wouldn't wanta work there. Oh, well. Guess the Company's workin' on a cure."

  A beefy Mig glared at them. "Cure? Cure for what?"

  Sten and Bet casually turned toward him. "Oh, you work there?"

  The Mig nodded.

  "Sorry," Bet said. "Never mind."

  The beefy Mig and his buddies pushed over to them. "Never mind what?"

  Sten and Bet appeared a little nervous. "Say," Sten said. "Not so close, if you don't mind. No offense."

  "What'sa matter with you? Waddya mean not so close? We got the crawlin' crud or somethin'?"

  Bet tugged at Sten. "Let's get out of here. We don't want any trouble."

  Sten started away, then stopped. "Somebody's gotta tell them," he said to Bet. He turned back to the puzzled Migs. "We work at the Mig Health Center."

  "So?"

  "So we been gettin' some real strange cases from that place." He pointed at the factory the men just left.

  "What kinda cases?"

  "Not sure," Bet said. "Has somethin' to do with the lubricants you use."

  The Migs stiffened. "What's wrong with 'em?" the beefy man asked.

  "Can't tell. Seems to be some kind of virus. Hits only males."

  "What's it do to them?"

  Sten shrugged. "Let's just say, they ain't been havin' much of a sex life lately."

  "And probably never will," Bet chimed in.

  The Migs looked at each other.

  Sten grabbed Bet by the arm and pulled her away. "Good luck, boys," he yelled back over his shoulder.

  The Migs didn't even notice them leap over the barrier and hurry off down another slideway. They were too busy looking impotent.

  Ida positively purred into the microphone. Doc sat beside her, checking his notes, making sure she made the right points in the right untrustworthy tone of voice.

  "Before we begin our next request, fellow workers, we have an announcement. This is from the Health Center, and the people over there are very concerned about a rumor that's been going around.

  "A silly rumor, really. It has to do with viral contamination of lubricants at Bearing Works Twenty-three.

  "Ah, excuse me—I mean with the noncontamination of lubricants at. . .Never mind. It is totally without foundation, the Health Center informs us. And there is no cause for alarm.

  "It is absolutely not true that it causes impotency among males—Correction. There is no contamination—but if there were, it would not affect the potency of males.

  "Uh. . .I guess that's it. Now, for our next selection—"

  Ida flipped the switch and the regular broadcast boomed in. Just as a song was starting. She turned to Doc, beaming.

  "How'd I do?"

  "I am happily considering all those poor, suffering Mig libidos."

  The following shift, only eight Migs showed up for work at the bearing factory. W
ithin fifteen minutes those eight had also heard about the broadcast denial and were on their way out.

  Patris, disguised as a Sociopatrolman, leaned casually against a wall. Watching the Migs at play in the rec area. Another Delinq—a woman dressed like a joygirl—chatted with him. Pretending to be on the make.

  A tall, skinny Mig caught their attention. He was working a gambling 'puter. Inserting his card, waiting as lights and wheels flashed. Cursing as he kept coming up empty-handed. In the card went again for another try.

  "He's been at it an hour," Patris whispered to the girl. She glanced over at the Mig.

  "Probably just added six months to his contract," she said.

  She turned, slipped over to a duct, stumbled against it. ‘There's our mark," she whispered to the Delinq inside. A scuttling sound and he was away.

  Hours later, the Mig was still at it. Inside the wall, behind the gambling machine, the Delinq manipulated the controls with a bluebox of Ida's evil devise. He kept the Mig just interested enough by feeding him a few wins. But steadily, the man was losing. "Clot," he finally shouted. Turned and stalked away from the machine.

  Patris flicked an invisible speck from his uniform and strolled over to the gambling 'puter. He waited just until the Mig looked his way. Inserted a card. Instant sirens. . .bells. . .lights going wild. The loser Mig froze.

  "Clot," he said to a Mig beside him. "See what that slime just did?"

  "Yeah. Got himself a fortune."

  "But I been playin' that thing half the day. Don't gimme a clottin' credit. Then he walks up and. . ."

  Other Migs gathered at the sound of the winning machine, overheard the loser Mig, then cast nasty looks at Patris. Patris finally pretended to notice. He stalked over to the crowd, swinging his stun rod.

  "On your way," he ordered. "Quit gawkin' and git." The angry crowd hesitated. "Stinkin' cheat, that's what it is," somebody yelled from the back. The somebody being the "joygirl" Delinq.

  "You should'a seen him," the loser Mig shouted. "He stole what I should'a won." More angry grumbling. Patris hit the panic burton and in a flash, a squad of patrolmen were rushing to his rescue. He waited until they closed on the crowd, then faded out of sight.

  "Fellow workers," Ida said. "We all must be grateful for the marvelous recreational centers provided by the Company. At no small expense, I might add.

  "For instance, the gambling 'puters, which give us all good clean, honest fun. Company statistics prove that the machines pay off more credits than they take.

  "But there are always losers, who now are spreading a terrible rumor. So terrible it almost embarrasses me to repeat it—However, there is no truth to the story that the machines are set to pay off only to high Company officials. No truth at all. Why, some liars have even indicated that the machines only pay off to Sociopatrolmen. Can you imagine that! The very men hired at no small expense by the Company to. . ."

  Jorgensen came up with the masterstroke. "That's lightweight stuff," he said. "You gotta hit a guy where it really hurts."

  "Such as," Doc sniffed, a little hurt.

  "Like beer."

  The following shift break swarms of Migs streamed into the rec domes. Offered their cards and settled back for a cool one. Nothing. Not one drop. The machine merely swallowed the card, deducted credits, and then chuckled at the Mig to go away.

  "Clot I will," shouted one big Mig. He shoved his card in again. Still nothing. He slammed a meaty fist into the machine. "Gimme!"

  "I am Company property," the machine informed him. "Violation of my being carries severe penalties."

  The Mig kicked the machine in answer. Alarms went off at five Sociopatrol centers. They steamed to the rescue. Only to find empty domes. Empty except for the twisted hulks of beer machines. All looted of their contents and groaning on the floor.

  Doc shook his head.

  "No. Too obvious. Not gray enough. Skip talking about the beer, Ida, and go to the food situation instead."

  Ida turned to her microphone.

  "Fellow workers, the Company is pleased to announce a new health program. They have discovered that we are all getting much too overweight.

  "Therefore, beginning next shift, all food rations will be reduced thirty percent.

  "That thirty—Sorry, we're in error. That program will not take effect until. . .until—What? Wrong announcement? Oh, kill it! The program is no go!

  "Fellow workers, there is no truth to the report that food supplies will be cut thirty percent next. . ."

  Sten side-stepped a drunken Mig, sloshing a little beer, then pushed through the crowd to Bet. Set down their beers and settled into a seat beside her.

  "I'll tell ya," a Mig said to his companions, "they've gone too far now. Too clottin' far."

  Sten winked at Bet, who smiled back.

  "They cheat us. Mess with our sex lives, try to screw with our beer. Now they're gonna increase all work contracts one year."

  "Where'd ja hear that?"

  "Just now. From that woman on the radio."

  "But she said it was just a rumor."

  "Yeah. Sure it is. If it's a rumor, how come they're tryin' to deny it so hard?"

  "He's got a point," Sten broke in.

  The Mig turned to Sten. Peered at him, then grinned. Slapped him on the shoulder.

  "Sure I do. That's the way the Company always works—feed you a rumor, get the reaction, then spring it on you for real."

  "Remember last year," Bet said. "There was that rumor we were all gonna lose three paid holidays? What happened?"

  "We lost 'em," the Mig said sullenly.

  His friends all sipped beer. Thoughtful. Angry.

  "What the clot," someone sighed. "Nothin' we do about it 'cept complain?"

  Nods of agreement.

  "I tell ya," the first Mig said, "I'd sure do something about it if I could. Hell, I got no family, I'd take the risk."

  The other Migs glanced about. The conversation was getting dangerous. One by one they excused themselves. Leaving only Sten, Bet, and their Mig friend.

  "You mean what you said?" Sten asked.

  " 'bout what?"

  "About gettin' even with the Company."

  The Mig stared at him suspiciously. "You a spy?"

  He started to stand up.

  "Well, so what if you are. I'm fed up. Nothin' make me feel better'n to break you—"

  Bet took him by the arm. Gently pulled him down and bought him a beer.

  "If you're serious," Sten said, "I got some people I want you to meet."

  "To do what? Gripe like all the others?" He waved an arm at all the Migs in the bar.

  "We gonna do more than gripe," Sten said.

  The Mig eyed them. Then smiled a big grin. His hand reached across the table. "I'm your man."

  Sten shook his hand.

  "What are you called?"

  "Lots of things from the clottin' supervisor. But my name's Webb."

  They rose and left the bar.

  "I think I finally got the idea how this whole thing works," Bet told Ida and Doc.

  "The gray actions?" Ida asked. Bet nodded.

  "Poor humans," Doc said, "torturing what little brain they have over the obvious."

  Bet gave him a look to shave his tendrils at neck leveL Turned, and started out the door.

  "Wait," Ida said.

  Bet stopped.

  "Doc," Ida said. "You're the all-seeing being, but sometimes you miss what's in front of your pudgy little face."

  "Such as?"

  "Like maybe we ought to find out what Bet has on her mind."

  Doc thought about it, tendrils wiggling. Then exuded his warmest feelings at Bet. "My error," he said. "Blame it on genetic tendencies to rip and tear."

  Mollified, Bet returned and settled into a chair. "What I was thinking about," she said, "was the ultimate gray action. For Migs."

  "Like?" Ida asked.

  "Like the old legend that's been going around Vulcan since the first Mig."

&n
bsp; "Legends?" Doc said. "I like legends. There's so much to build on."

  Bet took a deep breath.

  "Story says someday there's gonna be a Mig revolt. A successful revolt led by an offworlder who was once a Mig himself."

  Doc was still feeling a little slow—his apology had put him off.

  But Ida got it right away. "You mean Sten?"

  "Yes. Sten."

  "Ah," Doc said, finally getting it. "The mythical redeemer. Sten leads the way to salvation."

  "Something like that," Bet said.

  "The perfect rumor," Ida said. "We spread the word that the redeemer is here." She looked at Doc. "Have we reached that point yet?"

  "Yes," Doc said. "It's the perfect intermediate stage."

  Bet hesitated. "One problem."

  "Such as?" Doc was anxious to be about his work.

  "What will Sten think about it?"

  Ida shrugged. "Who cares? Just wish it were me. There's a lot of money in redemption."

  The rumor spread like a virus colony on a petri dish. All over Vulcan, Migs were tense, angry, waiting for something to happen. But knowing, still, that nothing ever would. Without prodding, the dissension would dissipate to everyday acceptance.

  "You see?" the old Mig told his grandchildren. "It's like I been tellin' your dad all along. There is a way off Vulcan. And clot the Company."

  His son and daughter-in-law ignored the obscenity. Nodded to their kids. Gramps was right.

  "And like I been sayin' all the time, it's a Mig that'll shove our contracts right up the Company's—"

  "Dad," his daughter-in-law warned.

  "Tell us about him, gramps," a child said. "Tell us about the Mig."

  "Well, to begin with, he's just like us. A workin' clot. And then he got offworld. But he never forgot us, and. . ."

  "Ah didna ken Ah was servin' wi' th' Redeemer," Alex said. He bowed ceremoniously and held the mug out to Sten.

  "Sharrup," Sten growled. Bet giggled.

  "Ay, Bet. Tis wonderful ye brought th' weenin' hole in m'theology to light. Here Ah was, servin' in darkness, havin' naught save th' Trinity t' keep me safe."

  "Trinity?" Bet asked.

  "Aye." Alex bent, and picked a struggling Sten up by the hips. Held him high overhead then to either side, then dumped him back in the chair. "In nomine Bobby Burns, John Knox, an' me gran'sire."