"Well, Mark old machine, you could help me. Just a bit of information."
"Certainly."
"Do you know the spatial coordinates of this system and this planet?"
"Of course."
"Then you give me a little printout of them, soonest! So I can send an FTL message to the League Navy for help."
"I don't see why I should do that."
I lost my temper. "You don't see ...! Listen you moronic machine. I'm just asking for a bit of information that will save lives-and you don't see . . ."
"Jim, my new off-worlder friend. Do not lose your temper so quickly. Bad for the blood pressure. Let me finish my statement, if I might. I was going to add that this information would be redundant. You sent an FTL message yourself, just after you retrieved the corvine-disguised transmitter."
CHAPTER 29
"I sent an FTL message?" I said, my thoughts stumbling about in small circles.
"You did."
"But-but-but-" I stopped and seized myself by the mental neck and gave it a good shaking. Logic, Jim, time for logic. "The recorded message from Captain Varod said that I would need the coordinates to send an FTL message."
"That was obviously a lie."
"Saying it was a radio message was a lie too?"
"Of course."
I paced back and forth and the TV pickup followed me as I moved. What was going on? Why had Varod lied to me about the signal? And if he had received it where was he? If he had got the signal and hadn't sent his fleet or whatever, then he was the one who must take the responsibility for the murders. The League did not go in for that sort of thing. But Mark might know what was happening. I spun about.
"Speak, ancient brain-in-box!! Has the League Navy arrived or is it on the way?"
"I'm sorry, Jim, I just don't know. The last orbiting telescope ran out of power centuries ago. I know no more than you do about this. All I can surmise is that we are very distant from these rescuers you expect."
I stopped pacing and was suddenly very tired. It was going to be another of these days. I looked around the room. "You don't have an old box or something that I can sit on?"
"Oh dear, I do apologize. I'm not being a very good host, am I? Out of training."
While he was talking a powered sofa came trundling in and stopped behind me. I dropped into it. It was hard to think of Mark as an it, not with the voice and all.
"Many thanks, very soft." I smacked my lips and it got the hint. „
"Please make yourself comfortable. Something to drink perhaps?"
"I wouldn't say no. Just to stimulate thinking, you realize.
"I'm not too well stocked at the present moment. There is some wine, but it must be four hundred years old at least. Vintage with a vengeance, you might say."
"We can only try!"
The table stopped at my elbow and I blew dust from the bottle, then activated the electronic corkscrew which managed to extract the truly ancient cork without breaking it. I poured and sniffed and gasped.
"Never-never smelled anything like that before!" And it tasted even better. All the sniffing and tasting did clear the mental air a bit. I felt better able to handle the problems of the day.
"I don't know the time," I said.
"Over sixteen hours to go before the promised executions." Mark was anything but stupid. I sipped the wine and ran over the possibilities.
"I sent the message-so the Navy has to be on its way here. But we can't count upon their arrival to save the day. The only grace note to all this is that at least I know I won't be stranded on this planet forever. Now what can I do to save lives? Since obviously neither you nor your IMers are going to lift a finger."
"I wouldn't say that, Jim. There are a number of conferences going on right now in the city. People are returning in large numbers."
"Are they knuckling under? Going back to work?"
"Not at all. A protest is being organized, as to what shape it will take-that is still being discussed."
"How do you know all this? Spies?"
"Not quite. I simply tap all the communication circuits and monitor all phone calls. I have subunits looking for keywords and making records for me."
"Are you tapping the Nevenkebia circuits as well?"
"Yes. Very interesting."
"You speak the language?"
"I speak every language. Fourteen thousand six hundred and twelve of them."
"J'amen, 6n ting er i hvert fold siker. Du taller ikke dansk."
"Og hvorfor sa ikke det? Dansk er da et smukt, melodisk sprog."
Pretty good-I thought that I was the only one who had ever heard of Danish. But there was one that I was sure Mark had never heard of. An ancient language called Latin. Spoken only by a secret society so secret I dare not say more about it.
"Nonne c'ognoscis linguam Latinam?"
"Loquarne linguam Latinam?" Mark answered in a decidedly snotty manner. "Quid referam in singutorum verborum delectu, in coniunctorum compositione, et structura, in casuum atque temporum discriminatione, in certarum concinnitate formularum, in indsorum membrorumque conformatione, in modulandis circumdictionibus, in elegantiarum cuiusque generis accurata, elaborataque frequentatione quantus turn sim et quam purus putus Ciceronianus? Ex qua Cicero mortuus est, meis verbis nihil latinius. Memoria vero libros omnium auctorum latinorum tarn veterum quam recentiorum et neotericorum continet. Voces peregrinae et barbarae quae latinis eloquiis inseruntur, omino mihi notae sunt. Nae tu es baro et balatro, nam ego studeo partes diffidles cognoscere quas scholastici doctores gestant, latebras singulas auxilio mei ipsius cerno. Doctissimi enimvero homines omnino universitatum modernarum me rogant sensus omnium talium verborum."
I could only gape at this as it hummed in electronic joy, very proud of itself.
"Did you catch all those nuances, Jim? About what a pure Ciceronian I am? Each word carefully chosen, the composition of sentence structure, the contrast of cases and tenses, phrases and clauses . . ."
He, or rather it, went on for quite a while like that. Bragging. Chatting away with Mark I tended to anthropomorphize him. It. Her. Whatever. This wasn't a human but an intelligent machine with abilities far beyond anything I had ever imagined before. But how could I put them to work?
"Mark, tell me. Will you help me?"
"In any way I can."
I sipped more wine and felt its healing and inspirational powers doing good things to me. Memory. Something that had happened earlier today.
"Mark-1 saw two soldiers desert today. Are there other newly arrived deserters in the city?"
"A goodly number of them. One hundred and twenty-one in all, wait . . . sorry, one twenty-two. Another just arrived."
"Any of them armed?"
"You mean equipped with weapons? All of them. They have all deserted from patrols in the city."
But would they use their guns? And if so, what could I do with them? An idea was taking shape. Meet fire with fire. And they just might do it. There was only one way to find out. I poured another bit of wine and turned to my electronic host.
"I would like to have all of the deserters meet me in some central place. With their weapons. Can you arrange that?"
He was silent for long seconds. Looking for a way to back out of his offer? But I had underestimated him.
"All done," he said. "The people who are hiding them will escort them after dark to the sports center. Which is very close to the site selected for the murders."
"You are one step ahead of me."
"I should hope so. Since I am incredibly more intelligent than you are. Now, since there are some hours to go before your meeting, would you repay the favor and have a good chat with me? I have been rather out of touch with galactic matters for a thousand years or more. How are things going?"
It was a strange afternoon and early evening. His memory, as it should be, was quite formidable and I learned a number of interesting things. But there was one fact which he could not tell me since he had been born? built? wired? well after
the spread of mankind through the galaxy.
"Like you, Jim, all I know are myths and ancient memories. If there was an original planetary home of mankind, called Dirt or Earth or something like that, its location is nowhere in my memory banks."
"Well, just thought that I would ask. But I think I better be going. Nice to talk to you."
"The same. Drop in any time."
"I'll take you up on that. Would you mind turning off the lights when I get to the top of the stairs?"
"Not a problem. This place is pretty well automated as you might imagine."
"No problem with the electricity supply?"
"You bet your sweet chunk there isn't. Survival was the first emotion I learned. City power supply, standby generators, battery backup, a couple of fuel cells and a fusion generator that can be fired up in ten minutes. Don't worry about me."
"I won't. So long."
I climbed the long flight of stairs and when I touched the door all the lights were extinguished. I pushed it open and peeked out: no patrols that I could see. When I threw it wide and exited there were Neebe and Stirner sitting on the bench, waiting for me.
"Aren't you worried about the enemy finding you here after Curfew?"
"Not a problem," Stirner said, "So many men have deserted that all patrols appear to have been canceled. All of the military are either on the base or in the municipal building. Now-please tell us. You have spoken with Mark Forer?" They both leaned forward in tense anticipation.
"Spoken with him and enjoyed his hospitality. And he's got a couple of cases of wine left that you wouldn't believe."
"I would believe anything about Mark Forer," Stirner said and Neebe nodded agreement. "But I am sorry that he did not give you a solution to the problem of the killings."
I blinked rapidly. "How do you know that? I didn't say anything about it."
"You did not have to. Mark Forer knows that it is a problem we must deal with ourselves. And so we shall. A decision has been reached. All in the city will assemble in the killing place tomorrow, an individual decision by each one. We will stand in front of the guns."
"A noble gesture-but it won't work. They will just shoot you down."
"Then others will take our places. There is no end to nonresistance. They will keep shooting until they run out of charges for their weapons or take despair at the murders. I am sure that they are not all moral villains like their loader."
"I wouldn't count on it. But there may be an alternative. With Mark's help, we are on a first-name basis you will be happy to hear, I have arranged a meeting of all the deserters in the city. If you will kindly lead me to the sports center we will see if my plan might perhaps be a better and more practical one."
It was a pleasant stroll, the streets of the city empty of fear for the first time since the invaders had landed. We met other groups going in the same direction, each of them accompanying one or two armed deserters. Laughter and smiles, they were cheerful now that they were away from the army-but would they go along with any plan that might jeopardize that newfound freedom? There was only one way to find out.
The sports center had an indoor stadium with a wrestling ring that held us all. The escaped soldiers sat in the lower rows while interested civilian spectators were ranked above and behind them. I climbed into the ring and waited until they were all seated, then grabbed the microphone. The audience rustled into silence.
"Fellow ex-draftees, newly arrived deserters, I welcome you. Most of you don't know me . . . "
"Everyone knows you, Jim!" a voice called out. "You're the guy almost throttled the general."
"Better luck next time!"
I smiled and waited until the cheers and shouts had died down.
"Thanks guys, it is nice to be appreciated. Now I have to ask you to help. Our dear general, cagal-kopf Zennor, plans to shoot down some unarmed civilians tomorrow. These are the people who have helped you and your buddies escape, who have extended friendship to us all- and a happy home here if we want it. Now we have to help them. And I am going to tell you how.
"We are going to take these guns that we have been trained to use and aim that at Zennor and his mob and threaten to waste them if they pull any triggers. It will be a standoff-and we might not get away with it. But it is something that we have to do."
I felt a little ashamed of adding the macho emotional argument, but I had no choice. It wasn't the world's greatest idea and it had more holes in it than a carload of doughnuts. But it was the only plan in town.
They argued and shouted a lot but in the end a majority voted for it. The minority could see no way to leave with dignity-1 said the macho appeal-so reluctantly went along with the plan. The locals led us by back routes into the buildings facing the square and we lay on our guns and slept. I was sure that a number would disappear during the night. I only hoped that enough would be left in the morning to give me a little firepower backup.
At the first light of dawn I was aware of figures moving about in the square outside. I shoved a teddy bear aside a bit so I could see through the curtains of the toy store where I was hiding. The troops were beginning to arrive. And the prisoners, ten of them, handcuffed and bound, being unloaded from a truck. As it grew lighter I saw that every soldier was an officer or a noncom. Of course- Zennor couldn't trust privates to do his dirty work! They were probably all locked up and under guard back on the base.
Zennor himself stalked from the municipal building and stood in the middle of the square. Just as I heard the rumble of wheels and powerful motors as the heavy gun units rolled up. I hadn't counted on this.
I hadn't counted either on Zennor drawing his pistol and shooting out the toy store window.
"Come out of there, diGriz-it's all up!" he shouted, and blew away a teddy bear.
Did I have a choice? I opened the door and stepped out in the street. Looked at all the guns aimed at the windows where my rebellious soldiers were hidden. Looked at the wicked smile of triumph on Zennor's face.
"I'm a general, remember? Did you really think that your ridiculous maneuver would succeed? My agent has reported to me every detail of your stupid plans. Would you like to meet him?"
One of the deserters emerged from a doorway at Zennor's signal and walked toward us. He wore tinted glasses and a large moustache; I had seen him at a distance before. Now I was seeing him up close as he pulled off the moustache and threw away the glasses. "Corporal Gow," I sighed.
"Broken to private now! Because I let you escape. They would have shot me too if I hadn't been rich enough to pay the bribes. But my downfall is now your downfall. Those other privates, verminous swine, they knew I had been a corporal, wouldn't talk to me. But I could tell something was wrong. When they deserted I instantly reported to the general. At his direction I walked through the city-and was encouraged to desert by the treacherous natives. I did, and General Zennor received complete reports."
"You're a rat!"
"No insults, spy. My rank has been restored by the good general. And you are in the cagal."
"You are indeed," Zennor agreed. And aimed his gun between my eyes. "You've failed and failed badly. Let that be your last thought as you die.
"This is the end of you!"
CHAPTER 30
Well, yes. This was just about the lowest low moment I had ever experienced. In a life that had been, unhappily, quite filled with low moments. I mean, really. Here was this murderous general leering away at me and fondling the hair trigger of his pistol. Behind him were his potbellied troops looking down the barrels of their cannon. While on all sides my disarmed army was being kicked out of hiding and forced at gunpoint into the square. There can't be many moments lower than this.
"You are not going to get away with this, Zennor," I said. Which was pretty feeble but about all I could think of at the moment.
"Oh yes I am, little man." He raised the gun and pointed it between my eyes and caressed the trigger. Then lowered it. "But I don't want it to be too easy for you. Before I blow you awa
y, you are going to watch me shoot every one of these treacherous deserters. They had the effrontery to attempt to raise their weapons in rebellion against me. They will die for this mistake. Then I am going to shoot the ten prisoners, just as I promised. Then, and only then, will I kill you."
"Not if I kill you first," I growled and felt my lips curl back from my teeth. I had nothing to lose. I raised my hands and stalked toward him. And he ran!
Not far. Just to the nearest prisoner, a grandmotherly woman with gray hair. He pulled her away from the others and thrust the muzzle of his gun against her head.
"Go ahead, diGriz. Take one more step toward me and I pull the trigger. Do you doubt me?"
Doubt him? Never. I did not take the step. The world was coming to an end and there was nothing I could do about it. They had the guns: we had nothing.
It was then, at the darkest moment, through the blackness of my thoughts I became aware of the shuffling of many feet. I turned to look just as Zennor did.
Around the corner came a solid mass of people, filling the street from side to side, an endless number of them. Leading the front rank was Stirner-and Neebe!
"No, don't, go back!" I shouted. Neebe smiled sweetly at me. And kept walking at Stirner's side. Zennor had his gun aimed at Stirner now-who appeared completely indifferent to it. Stirner stopped and called out loudly.
"All of you men with weapons-put them down. We will not hurt you for that is not our way . . ."
"One more word and I will kill you!" Zennor roared. Stirner turned to him, his face cold as death.
"I believe you will," he said. "Until this moment I really did not believe it possible that a human being could kill another. After seeing you I believe it."
"Good, then you will . . ."
"Be quiet. I will do just what I came here to do. I will take your weapon. If you kill me, someone else will take your weapon from you. If he fails another will try. Eventually it will be empty, discharged and will be taken from you. You cannot win. Those who follow you cannot win. It is all over."
"It is not!" Zennor shouted. There was spittle on his lips now, a look of insanity in his eyes. He pushed the woman captive away and ground his gun into Stirner's body. "No one has the guts to do that. When I blow your blood all over them they will turn and run. My men will fire a volley and the survivors will flee in panic. That is what I will do and you cannot stop me . . ."
The Stainless Steel Rat Gets Drafted Page 24