Wings

by Fearadhach MecRaudri

  “There is another concern, directly related to this mob war. There have been proposals in the general assembly of Kendal to restrict what provinces can ban in regards recreational substances, gambling, even prostitution. Kendal province is, currently, one of the strictest provinces in the world when it comes to outlawing vices, which is the very thing that has made the Fendal family so rich. The most interesting thing about this is that a few weeks ago the Kendal province actually proposed a ban on alcohol, which would have made the Fendal a fortune.

  “The motions to restrict the Provincial Assemblies ability to ban vices have been put forth. Some of those motions would be world-wide, others target specific Provinces. I will leave to your imagination which provinces those might be.

  “If any of those motions made it to law, they would, of course, cause the Fendal - or Senlan - to see greatly reduced profits. This is a fairly standard CentGov tactic when sanctioning a crime war. It seems to be a way of enforcing Rules of Engagement between the two groups. If they step too far out of line, cause too much trouble to the population trying to win, then the laws are changed and what was a prize territory becomes either too dangerous or too permissive to make the profits they expected.

  “If either of these bills pass, they will have a detrimental effect on our own revenue, of course. We do a brisk trade in a number of recreational substances there, some with the Fendal and some directly to the public. It will also end the détente which exists between us and the Fendal, already fragile because of our raid, because there will not be enough profit in the area for the both of us.”

  Someone whistled softly, and all were lost for a moment with the same dark thoughts. Lucas frequently found himself missing the days when the Mobs and CentGov could be played off against each other, despite the fact that those days had long come to an end before he joined up... or had even been born. Now, however, CentGov's more-or-less direct control of the underworld caused problems in dozens of subtle ways.

  Andrew began to sit down, but Lucas motioned for him to wait then posed another question. “Ok, so that covers most of the points I wanted covered. However, what I find most alarming about all of this, in the short term, is the risk to our supply lines. I want a report as soon as you can get it on how we are going to mitigate that risk.

  “That said, it seems this mob war is being sanctioned as a response to our raid, but have you received any indication that CentGov may take any wide-ranging action?”

  Andrew pursed his lips, then looked at Aaron and the other members of the intelligence staff who were present. Aaron drew his lips into a tight line, motioning with his hand for his second to go ahead. Andrew spoke, “Not as yet, no. We do have a concern, though. The Intel we received on those meat vats was contradictory. There were whispers in various places that they were stored in a completely separate facility. Our stronger Intel had them in the same place as the weapons, however, and the nature of the information caused us to believe that the vats had been stored at the other facility then moved to the same place as the weapons.

  “This didn’t seem particularly significant, but there are a few proposals being introduced in the CentGov General Assembly which could, potentially, be a concern toward food. We are not sure if they relate to us or some power struggle between some Families, but it is possible that a number of food-handling industries will soon find themselves with some extra record-keeping costs.”

  Lucas’s sharp intake of breath seemed to surprise everyone except for Andrew and Aaron. He leaned forward as he spoke, “How much of an impact would these record keeping requirements have on our food procurement?”

  Aaron met his gaze and held it steadily, “None whatsoever. We will be able to do everything we have, unfettered. The record-keeping requirements aren’t really anything new, they mostly seem to have to do with forcing everyone to keep records in the same format, which would make it easier for CentGov to gather all the data.”

  He felt the surprise show on his face, but felt like he had just been sucker-punched. Nearly everyone else in the room wore puzzled expressions as Aaron continued. “Before you ask, Lucas, yes, that is a danger, but we believe even that to be a minimal problem. While it is true that CentGov will suddenly have a great deal of information there to data-mine, and may be able to figure out that there is a small, but measurable, amount of food that seems to be simply ‘disappearing’, they will have no way to tell how much is actually going away. Furthermore, they will not be able to tell how it is falling out of the system. There will simply be too much data for them to sift through.

  “While we do believe this is a development we should watch, we feel that it is more likely directed at another one of the many inter-Family rivalries inside CentGov. “

  Before he could get a word out, Lucas heard Sharon speak up. “I think I may have to agree with Lucas on this one, Aaron. Yes, I know I have been in agreement with you in the past on our food issue, but this is causing me to change my mind. The timing is too close. This record keeping, coupled with the conflicting reports on the vats, makes me truly worry.

  “We are taking in more and more refugees as time goes on, and we already lack the means to feed everyone we have. It would only take, what, a five percent drop in food production to force us into food rationing?” The word ‘three’ floated from somewhere around the table, and she continued, “That means that a loss of only ten or twelve percent of our procurement would give us a dire shortage of food, and that is with our current population levels. At the rate we are taking in people…”

  Gencher waved a hand and appeared to stop himself just short of making a rude noise, “You worry too much. We have food stockpiles enough to last us a full growing season, despite the enormous cost of maintaining them: Costs which could be put into the military and moved toward ending all of this.”

  Sharon fixed him with that piercing stare of hers, but he just folded his hands and smiled. Lucas didn’t want the two of them getting into it again, so he quickly stood and spoke, “We have stockpiles enough for a few months at our current rate of consumption. At least in theory we do. In reality one major crop failure would put us on starvation rations at best. The seeds in use these days are terribly frail. They have undergone far too much genetic manipulation, and Jared’s team can’t to do anything with them. We are one bad harvest away from disaster.”

  A small movement came from the other side of the table, and he noticed one of the economists trying to get attention. He motioned for the woman to speak. She stayed seated, but her words rang out clearly, “There is a hidden problem in this matter of food and record keeping required by CentGov. If they manage to get an estimate of how much food is 'falling out' of the system, they will also be able to get an estimate of the numbers of people we are supporting inside the Sanctuaries.”

  Lucas looked leveled his gaze on her, “Are you sure?” She nodded, and he slowly turned his head to meet the gaze of each person in the room. “This is completely untenable. If they figure out how much food we are bringing in then we are in big trouble. Even if they go under the assumption that we are bringing in all of our food from Outside, and calculate their numbers that way, they will find that we have several times the population that they think we do. The results of that will be fatal. The only reason they haven’t come down on us like The Ship crashing from orbit is that they think we are too small to be a potential threat.

  “As of now, getting this food situation under control is the top priority of this council. I don’t care how we do it: by finding better crops, securing and replicating meat vats, finding some way to grow more cattle, building more greenhouse towers, whatever. I want options.”

  He sat down, and the ideas began to fly. He sat quietly, limiting his interaction to the occasional question asked so they’d know he had not stopped paying attention. He found, over the years, that the ideas came far faster when he allowed them to come forth rather than attempting to force them.

  After a couple of hours, it became evident that t
hey were not going to make any progress this day. He rose, and the discussions quickly wound down. “Ok, folks, we are starting to re-tread over ground we’ve already covered. You have all done well today. Take this back to your various teams, and see what your people can come up with.

  “Andrew, you guys have a lot of work to do keeping an eye on that province, but I want you to look for a food source as well. Let me know what additional resources you need. Thank you all for your efforts today. We are adjourned.”

  Lucas watched them all file out, but, to his surprise, Gencher stayed seated. His hands were folded on the table and he wore an impish grin which seemed totally out of place on his face. After everyone else had left, he spoke, “Well, sir, I have a solution for this. There are plenty of small farming communities we could raid…”

  Lucas cut him off with a wave of the hand, “I heard you when you mentioned that earlier, Gencher, and don’t think I’m not considering it. It would be too much a tip of the hand as things are, though. If we respond to food monitoring by attacking food supplies, we will let them know just how bad a situation we are in.

  “So, no, I do not want to use the military as an option. I know that you have a bunch of new recruits you want to get bloodied before we have pitched battles to fight, but now is not the time.”

  Gencher only looked slightly disappointed as he got up and walked out of the room. Lucas watched him go with an uneasy feeling. Not because of the man’s suggestion, it was just the sort of thing he expected from him, but from his own temptation to follow it.

  ***

  A dissembled slug-thrower rifle lay on the table in front of Korla, and beyond that a tiered classroom filled by some thirty men and women. He scowled slightly as one of them yawned, and obviously fought to keep from rolling her eyes.

  By their postures, he held their attention only because of the enormous respect these rebels held for wingmen, rather than that they believed him about both the importance and simplicity of this task. He decided to drive home the point. He hit a few buttons on the display behind him to bring up a timer. He then shut his eyes, slapped the board to start the timer, and reached for the first piece. His hands moved as if of their own accord, each fast, sure, efficient, and followed immediately by the next.

  In moments he slid the bolt home, forcefully put the rifle on the desk, and reached behind him to slap the display to stop the timer. He looked at the timer and frowned, which turned into a wry half-smile at the predictable sounds of surprise coming from his class. His speed may have surprised them, but he found it rather disappointing. And annoying, since he did not know if his lack of speed came from a lack of practice or continued convalescence.

  A look at the class made it clear that his frown had caused some discomfort. “Yes, that is disappointing. If there is a single one of you who can’t beat that time by the end of the next three weeks, I will feel that I have failed as an instructor and that you have failed as a student. And, I don’t like to fail.” He moved his wings slightly for effect, saw the point had been sufficiently driven home, and continued. “Some of you might wonder why it is necessary that you learn this. The answer is simple enough: it will keep you and your mates alive.

  “You think it is the job of the quartermaster to repair your weapon. In this you are correct. Repairing the weapon is not your job, but maintaining it is. The weapon you are issued is your lifeline, the only thing which will stop your enemy from killing you, the only thing keeping you and your mates alive. Making sure that it is in top working order, keeping it clean, and recognizing when it needs repair is your job, your responsibility, and may be all that stands between you and a small piece of metal or blast of energy making jelly out of your brain.

  “So, now that you have an idea of ….”

  He let his voice go on, passing off the lesson almost by wrote. It was a lesson which had probably been taught, in one form or another, ever since men had invented armies, and possibly longer. He could easily envision a caveman standing before a handful of tribal warriors holding a club, teaching them how to tell when it was in danger of coming apart in your hand.

  His trainers had noticed early that he had an aptitude for teaching, so he had been teaching classes by the middle of his freshman year at the academy. This particular lesson could be delivered with almost as little thought as he had assembled the weapon. A small, bored part of his mind wandered as the words fell from his mouth, wondering at the fact that he was here teaching this class.

  In the months since his arrival at this ‘Sanctuary’, as these rebels called it, he had come to realize he had no hope of escape. This Sanctuary was built into one of the many mountain islands which dotted Kethalmar's surface. He did not know where this island lay, but he knew nothing else was with at least several day's flight. When he first arrived, a flyer had gone up with him and they had flown all the way around the island. He had been allowed to go as high as he cared to, but all he saw in any direction had been ocean.

  A hand came up in the back of the room. The girl wore a timid expression on her face. He considered rolling past her question, but he saw several eyes had begun to wander. Besides, maybe, just maybe, the question just might turn out to be one he hadn't heard a thousand times. Something to break him from his doldrums. He nodded to her, and had to fight a look of resignation by the time she'd gotten three words in. Question 36, not even worded in an interesting way. He answered by rote, voice falling right back into cadence. No surprises here, just like his lack of surprise about any avenue of escape.

  Not that it should have come as a surprise. Where better to keep prisoners than in a cage filled by water? He could try to steal a craft of some sort, but aircraft and boats where kept closely guarded. He could try to steal a sub, but those hardly had the speed needed to outrun pursuit. He could try to stow away on a transport, but the only thing which came or went on a regular basis was the subs, and he could hardly stay hidden long enough to get anywhere in one of those.

  The lack of opportunity for escape was about the only thing that did not surprise him about his new surroundings and his circumstances, however. In the past few weeks he had been startled by one thing after another, from the genuine warmth by which civilians had treated him, to the size and vibrancy of this city (he could think of no other fitting word), to the cold distance he experienced from other flyers. The latter he understood easily enough, he had not declared allegiance to their little rebellion and posed a risk to them all.

  They had begun to drift again. Time for another demonstration. Have a student assemble a blaster pistol. First time he'd pulled this trick, hell, first dozen times, he'd found it difficult to suppress a grin. Now he had trouble paying enough attention to pull it off as his attention continued to wander.

  He'd felt himself, gradually, grow more and more sympathetic to these people, despite his best attempts to guard against it. Despite the obvious flaws about in their views about the nature of the world, the he had found the civilians to be good, honest people who did their best to make one another’s lives bearable... which sometimes seemed a difficult task.

  A staggering number of people had been pressed into this Sanctuary. They lived in tight, small quarters and cold only go Outside at the cloud-shrouded peak of the mountain. Yet, they walked with straight backs and an air of cheer about them; even seemed to consider the number of people holed up here to be a point of tried.

  Numbers they had, too. More people in this one place than even the most outlandish projections of the Legion. Enough to build a conquering army, and they claimed this place didn't hold even a third of the rebel population. If the Legion had any idea...

  Part of him refused to believe anything he saw here, tirelessly asserted that everything was staged for show, to lull him away from what he knew to be true, but that part of him had begun to sound less and less rational.

  The young man finally clicked the last piece of the pistol into place. Picked it up, and it fell apart in his hand. He held up the pin he'd palmed and
faked a grin. The class laughed, the young man got angry. He hoped for a moment the guy would show enough spark to take a swing, but he didn't. Rebuke, first the class, then him, then continue. They were like children.

  Children, yes. In the end, it had been the children who had been hardest to ignore. Children could be taught to put on a front, yes, but you could tell it was a front. This was an early lesson taught on how to unearth communities which were sympathetic to the rebellion: watch the children.

  Most towns and cities treat flyers with either a distant warmth or a respectful fear. Any rebelling town would appear to do the same, sometimes so well that it could be impossible to see through. The children, though, they would act different. If the adults behaved and talked one way when they felt ‘safe’, but sought to project an image to the Legion when they were around, the children would continue to act as the adults did in private. They would show scorn, hatred, even outright hostility towards Legionnaires in general and flyers in particular.

  Oh, the parents would try to get them to behave ‘properly’, but children had a hard time with mixed messages and their real teaching would show through. Flyers attempting to root out subversives were encouraged to treat children well, reach out to them, and notice how many hesitated or were hostile. A number of subversive cells had been uncovered that way. The adults could put on whatever face they liked, but the children always knew, and would always show through.

  This, of course, more than anything else, had led to his current situation. They had made no attempt to keep children away from him, nor to keep him away from the children. He got the same looks and attitudes from every single one of them, though, every single time. The words and gestures varied from group to group, but the look of awe and reverence could not be faked by children. Sure, a child could learn to respond that way, but that many groups of children? Without prompting? Children followed the actions of their parents far too well for him to believe they were being prompted.