Star's End

by Glen Cook

  Moyshe had begun to suspect that the complication was deliberate, and purely for the propaganda possibilities inherent in potential dead or injured tourists. If his guess was correct, then someone upstairs was as cold-blooded as his old boss, Admiral Beckhart.

  “This’s the way it’s going to be, then,” Moyshe said. “You’ll have ten thousand tourists on the ground all the time. That’s going to make the Angel City merchants happy and me miserable. I’ll have half of a hundred fifty men if you give me the hundred I just asked for. That doesn’t divide out too good, so the tourists will be on their own. If they get into trouble, tough. I’ll cover auction people and VIPs. God can take care of the rest.”

  He surveyed his audience. He did not see any sympathy there. “You pushed me into this job,” he growled. “Why not let me do the damned thing?”

  Mouse backed him up. “The same goes for my shift, gents. That’s the real world down there. The world of Confederation, espionage, and bad guys, I should say. Those people don’t do things the Starfisher way. I’ve been led to believe that Moyshe and I were given our jobs because we know The Broken Wings and Confederation. And the intelligence viewpoint. I wish you’d accept our expertise. And quit trying to make other realities conform to your views about the way things ought to be.”

  Storm winked at Moyshe. They had taken the offensive. They had gotten in their licks.

  Kindervoort said, “Let’s calm down. This’s no time for tempers. The job has got be be done, like it or not.” Kindervoort’s comm buzzed. “Security.”

  “James, Radio, sir. Is the Ship’s Commander there?”

  The Ship’s Commander stepped to the comm. “What is it?”

  “We’ve noticed an increase in coded traffic, sir. It could mean that we’ve been detected.”

  Within minutes several other departments reported similar suspicions. The interruptions kept Mouse and benRabi from arguing their case. The Ship’s Commander excused himself, as did his Executive Officer. The holographic visitors faded away. The holo technicians started packing their equipment.

  “Well, damned me,” Moyshe grumbled.

  “What do you think?” Kindervoort asked.

  “It’s hideous,” Mouse snapped.

  “Moyshe?”

  BenRabi spread his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “What the hell? Nobody listens to anything I say.”

  “You think there’s any chance they could lay hands on somebody who knows something worth their while?”

  “Of course there’s a chance. You’ve seen the damned situation reports. They mean business down there. I’m trying to do a job. If nobody will let me…”

  “Moyshe, I’m not the Ship’s Commander. Just between you and me, I think you’re right. I argued your case harder than you think. The Ship’s Commander just doesn’t see the rest of the universe in anything but Seiner terms. He thinks Confederation is just like us, only working against us. He thinks this is some kind of competition between fleets. He’s wrong, but he’s in charge. If he wants shoreside liberty, that’s what he gets. Do what you can, and grit your teeth if you lose a few. Just don’t let them find out what’s going on at Stars’ End before we get hold of the weapons.”

  “That will mean fighting the Sangaree again, Jarl. Which means we won’t get any back-up here if this show blows up in our faces.”

  “True. We’re on our own. So we stall. We go slow. We keep the auction piddling along. With luck, Gruber will finish before we’ve lost our distraction value.”

  “That’s candy,” Mouse grumbled.

  “From hunger,” benRabi agreed. They had begun to slip into landside idiom again. “You’re all hyper bent.”

  The public address system came to life. The Ship’s Commander asked for volunteers willing to join the auction security effort down in Angel City.

  People started showing up immediately. Amy was the first applicant.

  “You’re not going,” Moyshe told her. “That’s the final word.”

  She fought back. The argument became bitter.

  “Lieutenant,” Moyshe said, “you will remain aboard ship. That’s an order. Jarl, will you support my directives?”

  Kindervoort nodded.

  “Damn you, Moyshe benRabi…”

  “Honey, I’m not letting you get killed. Shut up and go back to work.”

  There were thousands of volunteers. Everyone wanted an extended vacation landside. No one believed there was any danger. Previous auctions were reputed to have been long, wonderful parties.

  “You got your list?” Moyshe asked.

  Storm nodded.

  They had interviewed the candidates who had survived an initial screening. Each had noted the most likely names. They had agreed to take the first hundred names that appeared on both their lists.

  Orbiting in to The Broken Wings, Moyshe found the recent past beginning to feel vacationlike in retrospect. He and Mouse would not make overnight soldiers of their volunteers. Even the old hands were terribly weak. Seiner lives revolved around space and ships and harvesting. They would make perfect Navy people. Groundpounders, never.

  The toughest hurdle was to make them understand, on a gut level, that someone they could see could be an enemy. A given of Seiner life was that those you could see were friends. Their enemies always existed only as blips in display tanks.

  “It’s a hard lesson for landsmen,” Mouse said. “That’s why Marines stay in Basic so long. Our culture doesn’t produce the hunter-killer naturally. We ought to build us a time machine so we can go recruit in the Middle Ages.”

  Moyshe chuckled. “They wouldn’t understand what the fighting was about, Mouse. They’d laugh themselves sick.”

  Danion and her sisters went into geosynchronous orbit well above Angel City’s horizon. The message was not lost on anyone. If there was too much foolishness downstairs, the fire could fall.

  Moyshe, in spacesuit, wrestling a load of armaments, joined Storm for the journey to their departure station.

  “Wish we had real combat gear,” Mouse said. “These suits won’t stand much punishment.”

  “Be nice.”

  “Get any sleep?”

  “Couldn’t. I kept watching the news from Angel City.” Moyshe had been shaken by the reports.

  “Me too. Something big is happening. There’re too many undercurrents. Be careful, Moyshe. Let’s don’t get bent with it.”

  “You ever feel like an extra cog?”

  “Since the first day I worked for Beckhart. There was always something on that I couldn’t figure out. Here we are. And Jarl looks excited.”

  Kindervoort was overseeing the loading of the four lighters that would make the initial landings, in pairs at fifteen minute intervals. Storm and benRabi would command the teams aboard the lead pair.

  “You’re going overboard, Jarl,” benRabi said as they approached Kindervoort.

  “Why? The more we impress them now, the less trouble we’ll have later.”

  “You won’t impress them. Not when they have three squadrons here. Go take a look at what Operations has on those ships. Three Empire Class battlewagons, Jarl. The Second Coming wouldn’t faze them.”

  “I smell Beckhart,” Mouse said. “Something about the way things are going… He’s back in the woods somewhere, poking holes in our plans before we know what they are ourselves.”

  Kindervoort said, “Make sure that…”

  “I know! I know!” benRabi snapped. “We’ve been over everything fifty times. Just turn us loose, will you?”

  “Go easy, Moyshe,” Mouse said.

  “You take it easy, Mouse,” he replied, gently. Storm had begun shaking. He was thinking about the long fall to the planet’s surface.

  “I’ll be all right when things start rolling. I’ll go AM if I have to.”

  “Things are rolling now,” Kindervoort said. “Get moving. Take your musters.”

  Work helped settle Moyshe’s nerves. He must
ered his men, checked their suits, made sure their weapons were ready, and that they had the first phase of the operation clearly in mind. He rehearsed it for himself. The lighter sealed off from Danion. Moyshe joined the pilot. He wanted to remain near the ship’s radio.

  “All go, Moyshe?” from Kindervoort.

  “Landing party go.”

  “Pilot?”

  “Ship’s go.”

  “Stand by for release.”

  The pilot hit a switch. His visuals came up, presenting views of Danion’s hull, stars, and The Broken Wings in crescent. The planet was a huge, silvery scimitar. Its surface lay masked by perpetual cloud cover.

  The Broken Wings was a very hot, very wet world, with a nasty atmosphere. Its handful of cities were all protected by huge glassteel domes.

  “Dropping,” Kindervoort said.

  The magnetic grapples released the lighter. The pilot eased her away from the harvestship. Radar showed Mouse’s boat, almost lost in the return from Danion, doing the same a hundred meters away.

  They picked up their service ship escort and began the long plunge toward Angel City’s spaceport.

  Kindervoort would lead the second wave. Behind him would come armed lighters from other harvestships, ready to provide close air support if that proved necessary.

  The planet grew in the viewscreens. On infrared it looked rather like Old Earth. Moyshe told his pilot, “The first survey teams thought this would be a paradise.”

  The pilot glanced at the screen. “It’s not?”

  “It’s a honey trap.”

  A greenhouse effect made it a permanently springtime world. It was a riot with a roughly Permian level of life. Its continents lay low. Much of the so-called land area was swamp. Methane made the air unbreathable. The planet was on the verge of a mountain-building age. Three hundred kilometers north of Angel City lay a region locally dubbed the Land of A Million Volcanoes. It added a lung-searing touch of hydrogen-sulfide to the air.

  The first wisps of atmosphere caressed the lighters. The escort braked preparatory to pulling out. The landing teams would be on their own the last 100,000 meters.

  Mouse’s boat screamed down less than a kilometer from benRabi’s. Their pilots kept station almost as skillfully as Marine coxswains. They had handled atmosphere before, somewhere.

  Moyshe became ever more tense, awaiting some sudden, unpleasant greeting from below. There was none. It was a picnic fly, except that it was a penetration run without thought to economy or comfort, just getting down with speed. Moyshe kept a close monitor on the radio chatter of the second wave, already in the slot and coming down.

  The lighter rocked and shuddered, braking in. BenRabi staggered back to his men.

  There was barely time for him to hit his couch before, with a bone-jarring smack, the ship set down. Moyshe sprang up and turned to the opening hatch, laserifle in hand. Behind him came two men with grenade-launchers, then the rest of the team.

  Moyshe jumped out, dodged aside. Two hundred meters away Mouse hit tarmac at virtually the same instant. His pathfinders spread out to place the target markers for vessels yet to arrive.

  The thing became anticlimactic. No one was home. The field was naked of ships and people.

  Then a stiff-necked, thin old man in a bubble-top, The Broken Wings swamper’s outsuit, stepped from a utility shed. “Beautiful landing, Thomas,” he said on radio. “Ah. And Mouse, too. You’ve taught well, boys. But you had the best teachers yourselves.”

  “Beckhart!” Mouse gasped.

  “You were expecting St. Nick, son?”

  “You said you smelled him,” benRabi snapped. “Mouse, raise Danion. Tell them to stand by on the main batteries. General alarm. Have Jarl come close circle with the air support.”

  “Thomas, Thomas, what are you doing?”

  “The question is, what are you doing?” He covered Beckhart while Mouse handled the communications chores. Kindervoort came up on the suit frequency, chattering wildly. He wanted an explanation for the panic.

  “I just came out to welcome you,” Beckhart said. “I wanted to see my boys.” All operatives were “son” or “my boys” to Beckhart. He treated them like family—when he was not trying to get them killed. BenRabi had strong love-hate feelings for the man.

  He stifled his emotions. For the moment Beckhart had to be considered the most dangerous enemy around. His presence altered everything.

  “What is all this?” the Admiral demanded. “An invasion? This is a free planet, Thomas.”

  BenRabi foresaw a sorry, sad old man act. The act that so often won the Admiral his way. One means of beating it was to throw him a hard slider. What the hell was his first name? Using it would rattle him.

  “We heard there was some dust getting kicked up here,” Mouse said. “Nicolas! Will you get those men deployed? What the hell do you think this is?” The Seiners were standing around gawking, stricken motionless by the sheer hugeness of the planet. How could you be military the first time you saw open spaces and an infinite sky? “We don’t take chances, Admiral.”

  Beckhart chuckled. “There was a spot of trouble. I’ve got it under control.”

  “We heard something about martial law,” benRabi said. “How does that fit with your standards of neutrality?”

  “We pick on everyone separately but equally.” Beckhart chuckled again. He glanced around at the Starfisher landing parties, then at the sky. “There’s no violation in spirit, Thomas. I need what you’re selling. You’ll sell it in peace if I have to break every head on the planet. That’s why I elected myself your welcoming committee. Now then, I think I’ve got everything ready for you. Why don’t you ride in with me and tell me about your adventures?”

  Mouse and benRabi exchanged glances. This was not what they had expected. It stank of Beckhart scheming. But… if the Old Man said things were under control, they were. He rarely lied, though he enjoyed razzle-dazzling you from the other room.

  “Right,” Moyshe said, making a snap decision. “Nicolas. Kiski. Pack up your weapons and get over here. Admiral, what’s the transportation picture?” The spaceport, like any built with an eye to safety, was well removed from the city it served.

  “Excellent. It should be arriving… Ah. Here it is.”

  A column of Marine personnel carriers rumbled onto the field.

  “Did you bring the Guinness?” Mouse asked. “We might as well be sociable.”

  “A shipload,” Beckhart replied. “And with any luck von Drachau will show up and share a few before we close up shop.”

  “Jupp?” benRabi asked. “Really?” He looked forward to that. Jupp was still a friend, though he was on the other side now.

  He and Mouse shuffled their men into the first few carriers, advised Kindervoort of the altered situation, and left for Angel City as the second wave began rumbling down the sky.

  Fourteen: 3050 AD

  The Main Sequence

  Beckhart’s word proved good. Angel City was quiet. Central Park, a recreational area at the city’s heart, had been equipped with field tents, trailers, and miscellany the Admiral had borrowed from the Corps. Storm and benRabi set up for business before noon.

  “Mouse,” benRabi said, “you get the feeling we’re being rushed?”

  “It’s not a feeling, Moyshe. It’s a fact.”

  “How do we stall?”

  Men with briefcases were lining up to obtain the little catalogs Moyshe’s team had brought along. “Buy time,” Jarl had said. It did not look like they would be given a chance. The various purchasing agents, impelled by the war scare, wanted the bidding to begin right away.

  The Marines proved to be perfect policemen. They helped immeasurably. They showed favoritism only to Starfisher tourists. The Admiral seemed determined to avoid a significant incident, and to help the local shopkeepers relieve the Seiner sightseers of all their hard currency.

  Storm lost his first tourist their second day on The Broke
n Wings. The man turned up again before Mouse learned that he had been taken. He was none the worse for wear. He was a mess cook from Danion who knew nothing anyone wanted to know.

  “It’s started,” Mouse told benRabi when Moyshe relieved him. “Make sure everybody checks in before they wander off. Check their passes. The ones we have to watch have been given a red one.”

  “You know who grabbed the man?”

  “No. I didn’t try to find out. I just passed it to Beckhart. I figure we might as well let his people do it. We’ll have more people to watch our criticals.”

  Moyshe lost several people on his shift. There was only one incident with anyone who mattered. His people handled it perfectly, and presented the would-be kidnapper to Beckhart’s Marines.

  The man turned out to be a frustrated newshawk trying to get around Seiner and Confederation censors. Beckhart booted him off planet.

  Days ground by, producing no insoluble problems. The auction bidding was wild. Prime ambergris nodes repeatedly brought record prices. There were rumors that Confederation meant to get a stranglehold on the trade. Outsiders and private industry wanted to grab while the grabbing was good.

  That rumor made Moyshe nervous. The way the Admiral shrugged it off, he suspected the Bureau had an angle.

  The war scare, if not genuine, was convincing. Confederation and Ulantonid forces were marshaling on the boundaries of the March of Ulant. People were getting scared.

  Did they mean to fight one another? Or some third party? The news people were wondering too. Luna Command had been leaking one line of news one week, another the next.

  News snoops became Moyshe’s biggest problem. They used every trick to capitalize on an opportunity to approach real Seiners. Moyshe did three interviews himself. Someone had tipped the media that he was a former Bureau agent.

  He refused interviews after someone discovered that he and Mouse had been responsible for Jupp von Drachau’s famous raid in the Hell Stars.

  Then Seiners ceased to be newsworthy. The sword-rattling on the frontier faded away.