Hevun's Rebel

by C M Weller

  Graak stood at careful parade rest and looked into the middle distance. Much as though the Majestrix appreciated the male gaze, she did not like his male gaze in the sight of so many gossip-prone slaves or so many members of her entourage.

  "Our instruments detected no trace, but your majesty is already aware of my opinion of our instruments."

  The Majestrix, in a move calculated to provoke a reaction, presented her tail to a human servant to clean it for her. "And what of your famous nose?"

  "Humans have been in all of the effected store rooms, your graciousness. They left no DNA trace. No prints. But they left their scent."

  "And of course you can't trace them." She let down her tail so the servants could work on a leg.

  "Humans smell alike," said Graak. "Once their paths cross..." He left the rest for her to deduce.

  "Such a pity," the Majestrix sighed. "And this will naturally lead to another petition for dogs. What can they possibly smell that you can't?"

  "The difference, your grace."

  The Majestrix sighed and turned herself over in the milky, scented water. The servants rushed to attend each limb. "So tiresome," she breathed. "You know I'm allergic to dogs. They make my eyes mist and my skin itch. And I simply hate to itch."

  "Of course, your majesty."

  "Even the hairless breeds make me come out in the most hideous rash. It's so dreadful. My people have to make sure there's not even a trace of dog everywhere I'm scheduled to go."

  She plucked a fat grasshopper from the bowl of one of her twin redheads and gave it to the other to chew for her.

  It was the only moment where Graak felt any sympathy or pity for a human.

  After she kissed the pulped grasshopper from the humans' mouth, she sank back into her bath. "So many people in high society back home have dogs. It's simply tiring to go back and wait while they make certain I don't get sick."

  "Yes, your grace. I understand. Our instruments are not sensitive enough to detect the humans' pitiful amounts of DNA. And since dogs are not a viable alternative... I humbly submit that we need the most sensitive scientific instruments from our homeland."

  "Oh! So tiresome," said the Majestrix. "They haven't stolen anything terribly important at all."

  "M'lady, they have enough parts to build a small ship. The only thing they haven't stolen is the hull plating."

  "And what good is a ship," yawned the Majestrix, "if there's nowhere to launch it from?"

  "I bow to your higher intellect, your majesty." Graak bowed to match his words. "But are we certain there isn't a forgotten launch bay that we have, perhaps, erroneously sealed off from ourselves?"

  "When you find out," she said, "do let me know."

  He had been dismissed. He bowed and backed out of the room.

  So. He had to go shopping and spend his personal funds on something that would do the job of a Rat, and not, say, fall down any vertical shafts and smash. He found a toy and hobby place and spent twenty minutes interrogating the staff until he found someone with enough brains to actually come up with a coherent answer to his odd questions.

  He went back home - a tiny space in the rear of his offices with barely enough room for a cot, a food printer and basic amenities - with a remote-control car, a camera, some unidirectional flexible tracks and a number of servos and signal boosters.

  It was some work putting it together, but he had time to spare in his off-duty hours. As an abandoned male, he had less social life than the humans. He was expected to turn up for formal ceremonies, or guard the Majestrix or one of the other higher-ups under threat, but other than that, his life was empty.

  At the other end, he had a peculiar device that did not resemble the original toy car in the slightest. He would test it out in the day, when the Rats were swarming the tunnels. And with that thought in mind, he added the station security emblem to every possible side.

  That should keep the Rats' sticky fingers off of it.

  Graak began his investigations in the outer areas of the station, in a dry dock hangar and one of the older air vents. He could hear them laughing at him. Even when there was no-one to see to laugh.

  He didn't care. He had to find out what those stinking humans were up to.

  For a large portion of the air vents, nothing was there but fluff and the rare, lost Rat. Or an occasional creature looking for something to eat. It took him days, recovering the spy-bot at the end of his limitations and napping in hostels or enlisted bunks along the way. He combed and cris-crossed the exterior areas of the station. He used every pathway he could find that was near the exterior, but could find nothing that his fellow Tu'atta could not access.

  His ship theory was dead in the water.

  And since no human traders were caught with the missing parts, there was nowhere the parts could go.

  He found some angry higher-ups waiting for him. Radiating anger and disappointment. "Ladies," he said as politely as he could manage, "Do forgive my tardiness. I have been on a special mission from the Majestrix herself - long may she reign - and I have yet to report my findings."

  They had to pay obeisance to the Majestrix. They had to wait until she had finished with him. And, knowing their holy leader, long may she reign, she was going to take her sweet time.

  *

  Sahra had to wonder why all the tunnel rats had to report to the security office. She had her suspicions, but it never paid to look guilty around the masters. She'd run out of her initial box of ration baggies and started on a second, also stolen from a random supply store.

  She also knew that her rats knew about playing stupid for the masters. They knew to derail, distract, and dissemble with the best of them. Even little Alis was a master.

  All she had to do was wait.

  Masters were going in with baskets of something. Rats were coming out with bread rolls.

  Huh. The Om'r in charge was trying bribery. No matter what, he still wasn't going to make any friends with her rat patrol.

  Still... food was food. The Om'r was keeping her away from a good days' scrounge and maybe catching some evriyong for the pot. One little roll didn't make up for a whole pot of dinner. And it did not make up for lunch, which Sahra missed because the masters wouldn't let her go eat.

  "Sahra Johnston," said the Om'r by way of a greeting. "This is the second time you've been in here."

  Sahra kept her eyes on the basket of rolls. One would not survive the cattle cleaner at the end of shift. More than one would not do so, either. She was glad evriyong were waterproof. She had to eat the roll he gave her here. Or close to. Letting it go to waste was worse than shameful.

  He picked up a roll and played with it. Flipping it back and forth in his talons. Sahra followed the motion with her eyes only.

  "Do you spend much time in the air vents?" he murmured.

  Sahra held up her hand around her bad ear, leaning it forward. "I hear not it, I-am-bad."

  He raised his voice, "Do you spend much time in the air vents?"

  "Knowin' not, me. Get cart-full, get time, sometimes. Go hunting. Neffur counted, me."

  "Do you sometimes take things you find in big places?"

  Sahra did her best shocked gasp. "That big no-no! Tunnels only! Bad girl take from go-out!"

  The Om'r stared at her. She stared at the bread roll. Her stomach growled. Things beeped or pipped for attention.

  Now the roll was rolling in his claws. "How far do you go? What interesting things do you see?"

  "Go where scrounge is, me. Looking very bad. Look not, me."

  "Have you kept anything you found in the tunnels?"

  "How-I-do?" said Sahra. "Nowhere keep in... Masters search me."

  He growled at that. A noise of frustration and doubt. "I've checked your records. You've found things of good value."

  "Big family has me. Must work good for eat."

  "You find very good things after we sent you close to the old ore processing complex."

  What was he getting at? Sahra screwed u
p her face and said, "Master?"

  "Did you find anything... special?" The way he said 'special' ran chills up and down her spine. Did he already know about Simy?

  Sahra remembered that haul. "Broken bits of master machine? Um. Ore chunks? Um. A bit ole piece o' plating that was all burneded and bent up? Some normal junk?" Sahra added a shrug.

  "Nothing else? Nothing you might have... hidden away?"

  Sahra thought about losing Simy to make tears come to her eyes. "I understand not. What is good answer?"

  The Om'r sighed and toured around his big desk to give her the roll. "Good-girl. Good-girl." He flicked his talons at a Vasht and that master took her back to the slave areas. There was hardly any time for tunnel work, but she had to try anyway.

  And she had less than no time for sabotage.

  At least during the duty cycle.

  And only an hour or two after lights-out.

  She was going to have to come up with something extra-special to do to that Om'r to balance the scales.

  Wait. Was that revenge? Revenge was forbidden. Revenge would definitely point to her and her rat patrol. And that Om'r was already suspicious of all tunnel rats for something.

  If something happened tonight, Sahra knew who he'd blame.

  Damn it.

  It made her guts hurt to think that someone like him could get away with making so many people go hungry. Put so many families behind quota. Make so many do with less, or without. All because he wanted to ask a bunch of dumb questions that anyone with a grain of sense could avoid.

  A bunch of questions to every last tunnel rat in the station.

  Now the sweet bread roll became a heavy weight in her stomach.

  Who else had seen? What had they seen? How many actual people did she not know were part of the rebel plot? How well did the rebels explain to the rats they enlisted that those rats should keep a secret?

  How easy was it going to be for the masters to find all the secrets? Not just the strawberries in the stations' heart, but their forgotten history and the Mosquitoes and the tricks and Simy.

  Would they bother with bullets? Or finally declare the entire station lost and burn it all with a fire hotter than the sun?

  Seventh-Papa caught her worrying as all her family sat for dinner. "Worried, sprout?"

  "Jus'..." she started. And then stopped. Mama and Seventh-Papa and all the bigger sibs were scared of the rebellion. She had to think about saying it right.

  "Yes?"

  "When God punishes his people... He sen's a say-vee-ur, right? To fix it all up?"

  "Savior. Yes. He does. When the time is right."

  "But... is it wrong to kind of... help the say-vyur? Before y'know who they is? Start fixin' some fings b'fore they does?"

  What she got was a lecture on religion. About how someone had to be certain of God's rules before they started interfering with things. And how it was a blessed soul who recognized a savior before even God made it clear. And how none of those kinds of folks stayed alive for long around the masters. And how she was almost even and far too young to be worried about anything like that.

  "Moses started as a baby. Jesus started as a baby. They was say-vyur b'fore they was sevun. They was say-vyur b'fore they was six. If'n anyone knew... they knew. I reckon they had t' be worried." She sighed. "I reckon... they'd'a been glad if'n sumbody were there t' help even a li'l."

  Seventh-Papa looked mad. Mama looked about to cry. "All we can do is keep the faith that the savior will come," said Mama. "We have to be patient, and believe that God will send His savior, soon."

  Sitting and waiting and obeying the masters hadn't done any good. Sahra wondered if being mad at God was blasphemy... or a sin..

  Thin stoo, tonight. For everyone.

  Sahra blamed herself. Then she blamed the male Om'r master who held every rat until he'd finished asking questions. She blamed the masters for even being here at all. She blamed her people in the long-ago, so in love with peace that they didn't lift a finger to protect it.

  *

  The Rats knew nothing. He had to throw out that interview chair, simply because it was soaked in the sweat, stink, tears, snot, and -yes- even the urine of an uncounted number of filthy human young.

  Useless.

  They knew. He knew they knew. But how to prove it? And what did they know? Graak had precious few secrets, and nothing he was ashamed of. It was one reason among many that he made such a good security chief. No way to blackmail him. No leverage. No family to hostage. No daughters to ransom. Or sponsor. No potential for bribery, either. He had nothing, wanted nothing, and owed nothing.

  Rather a lot like this case.

  Persons unknown, very likely the tunnel rats, had entered storerooms all over the station, stolen enough parts to make a small ship, taken it nowhere he could find and, apparently, done nothing with it.

  Graak did not close the case. Until he found out what was happening to those parts, who took them, and why, the case would never be closed.

  He'd just have to watch it grow colder until such time as some actual evidence turned up.

  Meanwhile, he had to do something about the unseasonal rash of mating behavior amongst his officers. He knew it was related to temperature control on the station. He also knew he couldn't send a memo to all of them, because word would get out.

  He sent a private message to his trusted subordinates. The ones he personally valued, regardless of their heritage or how much money their relatives attempted to tip the system with. The ones who did good work.

  It read, You might find thermal underwear most efficacious at assisting you to keep your mind on the job. And included the address of his tailor, who did discrete fittings and said nothing to no-one.

  It did give away his secret, that of being notoriously unreachable and unflappable, but it gave it away to those people who he needed to also be unreachable and unflappable. The rest, those who got their rank through bribery and nepotism and knowing the right people, were free to fumble along on their own merit. But mostly the lack thereof.

  For now, it was all he could do for his benefit.

  *

  Sahra was hungry. Her family was hungry. About the only one who wasn't hungry was baby sister Brae, because she got everything she needed from Mama.

  She'd already crept two extra ration baggies into Mama's pantry, and now she crawled as fast as she could around all the good dump-spots. Filling her cart with all the good stuff she could find. It still took too long to get it counted and herself sent back to the tunnels again.

  It took too long to get to the secret heart and find a crowd of scared rats in the places where the firstcomers used to have row after row of screens and buttons. Lots of rats, Sahra knew. Many more, she didn't. She was shocked to see a few bullies in the bunch. They were just as shocked to see her coming in, let alone a few of the rebels salute.

  All of her enlisted rats stood straight and saluted.

  Sahra returned it and found Smiley. "What's bin hap'nin'?"

  Smiley saluted and said, "Cap'n... your troops want to know we aren't compromised."

  Captain? Really? "Does High-Admi'rl Ali know 'bout this?"

  "He knows you're doing excellent work," said Smiley. "G'wan. Talk to your troops."

  Sahra turned around and stood on a work desk. "Awright, let's make this real easy. Hands up anywun who said anyfink 'bout this place."

  Silence. Not one hand went up.

  "It awright. We ain't goin' be mad ifn' anywun did."

  Still nothing.

  "Right. Then we all ain't got nuthin t' worry 'bout. Anybody got new tricks?"

  "I fought 'bout sticking summa that Djaak inna food printer system?" said one of Sahra's bullies with a nervous hand in the air at don't-shoot position. "Would it work?"

  "Heat doesn't destroy Djaak," said Smiley. "Can make it work better, sometimes. We'll just have to make sure it's the pure stuff..."

  "Goo' job, Jani," Sahra smiled. "Lesse whut it does to 'em."

&
nbsp; *

  Too many troops were going home. Too many raw, green recruits were coming in. Needing training. Making stupid mistakes. Mishearing orders, following the orders from the wrong superiors, and otherwise slowing down everyday operations to a painful crawl.

  Graak's newest Taans looked like they were still growing into their joints. They were all recruits from a charitable orphanage that took in abandoned male children, according to their papers.

  "You've all been told you're worthless. That nobody will value you. Today, you turn that to your advantage. You use that against those who think you are stupid." He nodded to a trusted Vasht, who began handing out thermal underwear. "This is one of your many weapons against those people. Use your eyes, use your brains, use the cunning that saw you to this age. Use reason and logic. All at once. Only then can you be victorious against the forces of ignorance."

  Only three sets of eyes lit up at the thermal underwear. Graak would keep an eye on those three. They were going to be clever enough to earn promotion.

  "Also, avoid the food printers. I have reason to believe the system has been... compromised. Eat from a food printer at your own risk."

  Some, not the ones who figured out the why of the thermal underwear, covertly laughed and scoffed. Those idiots were going to go nowhere. They'd be lucky if they lasted a month.

  Whatever had adulterated the food printing system made some diners addicted to eating. Many a previously respected officer quickly became torpid, overweight, and demoted. Few seemed to care, as long as they could eat.

  The continued mystery of the slowly-draining fuel reserves on docked ships had one clue. Identical markings on the fuel lines of the afflicted vessels.

  Tool marks.

  One of his more... imaginative Matrachs had theorized about vampire ships, so Graak had given her the missing parts list and also the task of coming up with a theoretically sound model. One that fit all known information, including the information that the humans had no access to any secret launch bays. So far, she had been working so hard at it that it was effecting her health.

  And so far, she had no plausible answers, either.

  No sensors ever saw anything like a vampire ship. No maintenance crew found the other theory, a camouflaged Waldo designed to sip at the fuel reserves. Yet the marks kept appearing.

  And other things kept going wrong.

  Misaligned air filters worked loose, raining accumulated fluff and pests down in random areas of the station. Make that, random Tu'atta-inhabited areas of the station. No human areas were ever so afflicted. Water tanks became contaminated, somehow, spreading sickness and disease.