by Allan Cole
For once, Sten couldn't find an Imperial obscenity dirty enough to fit the occasion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"BEGGING YOUR PARDON, sir," the Counselor said, "but you don't know what it's like out there. Lies. Rumors. Every Mig ready to cut your throat."
"Nonsense," the Baron said. "It's a normal Mig stage."
The Counselor sat in Thoresen's garden, waiting for the ax to fall. But it wasn't what he expected. Here he was with a drink in his hand, chatting with the Baron. That's not what usually happened when Thoresen summoned an employee. Especially with all those stories going around about the Counselor.
"I asked you here," Thoresen said, "because of your well-known frankness."
The Counselor beamed.
"And that matter," Thoresen continued, "of certain, ah, shall we say alleged indiscretions on your part."
The Counselor's face fell. It was all a setup after all.
"There have been accusations," Thoresen said, "that you have been dipping a bit too deep into Mig credits."
"I never—" the Counselor began.
Thoresen held up a hand, silencing him.
"It's expected," Thoresen said. "It's the way it's always been done. The Counselors make a little extra for their loyal efforts, without cost to the Company, and casual labor contracts are extended without expensive book work."
The Counselor relaxed a bit. The Baron's description was accurate. An informal system that had worked for centuries.
"My difficulty," the Counselor said, "is the rumors. I promise you—on my life—I've never taken the amount I'm being accused of."
Again, Thoresen motioned him to silence. "Of course, you haven't. You are one of my most trustworthy—well, at least, discreet—employees."
"Then why—?"
"Why did I summon you?"
"Yes, sir."
Thoresen rose and began pacing. "Actually, I'm calling in all of my key officers. The Migs are moaning and groaning again. It happened in my grandfather's time. And my father's. I'm not worried about them. What I'm concerned about is the overreaction of my own people."
The Counselor thought about the ugly looks he had seen lately. It was more than Mig grumbling. He started to say something. Then decided not to.
"As I said," Thoresen continued, "it's just a cycle. A normal cycle. But it must be handled delicately."
"Yes, sir," the Counselor said.
"The first thing to remember," Thoresen said, "is not to aggravate them. Let them blow a little hot. Ignore what they say. And identify the leaders. We'll deal with them after things calm down." He looked at the Counselor. "Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now I plan to take a personal hand in all this."
"Yes, sir."
"I want all incidents—no matter how minor—brought to my attention."
"Yes, sir."
"No action—no matter how minor—is to be taken without my go-ahead."
"Yes, sir."
"Then it's settled. Now, is there anything else I should know about?"
The Counselor hesitated, then said, "Uh, yes. The broadcasts on the Mig radio. They've been a little heavy-handed?"
"An excellent example of what I've been talking about. Overreaction. The people responsible have denied releasing that information, but facts are facts."
"If I may ask—what did you do?"
Thoresen smiled. "Dismissed them. And ordered all broadcasts cleared by me."
There was an uncomfortable pause, until the Counselor realized he had been dismissed. He rose, almost bowing.
"Thank you for your time, sir."
"That's what I'm here for," the Baron soothed. "To listen to my people."
He watched the Counselor exit. Measured him. A clumsy man, he thought, but valuable. If things got worse, he could always throw him to the Migs. No. Not necessary. Not now. Events were just being blown out of proportion.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FOR A PERSON who had just pulled off a minor coup, Ida looked glum. She had found Bravo Project. Even with Sten's help, it had been a nasty problem. It was, obviously, near The Row. Or, what had been The Row. But the whole area was a warren of corridors, factories, homes. And specially constructed computer dodges, worked out by a genius whom Ida had grown to admire.
"What I did," she told the group gathered around her terminal, "was make the assumption that Bravo Project was sealed from the rest of Vulcan."
"Naturally," Sten said.
Ida glared at him. "That means all the people who worked there have to be kept under ultralight security. But these are special people. Not prisoners. So I figured they gotta be kept happy. The best food. Drink. Sex. The whole shot."
Doc smiled a nasty little teddy-bear smile. Ida had more brains than he gave her credit for.
"I set up a monitor on gourmet food shipments. Livees for highbrows, things like that."
"What's the problem, then?" Sten asked.
Ida tapped some keys. A three-dimensional model of the Bravo Project lab blossomed out. Silence as they all studied it.
"Projection," Jorgensen said. "Direct assault unacceptable casualties. Mission in doubt with conventional tactics."
Doc looked it over. His tendrils waved in agreement. The others waited for his conclusions.
"Under the present circumstances," he said, "Jorgensen is correct. But what if we move it up a stage?"
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.
Breath
e. . .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 should 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' a puirfec' 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?"
