The tube trains were scarcely new, occasionally squeaked or swayed, but were well maintained. While some passengers talked quietly, Volunza could see that they were individuals who already knew one another.
His eyes checked the map on the car wall. Three more stops before his destination.
The train squealed as it braked for the next underground station, but only five or six passengers rose.
Once the car halted and the doors opened, the small crowd outside on the platform waited until the departing passengers left before entering. With a hiss, the doors closed, and the train lurched gently as it began to pick up speed.
Lak Volunza continued to study the passengers, the stranger accepting citizens of Forsenia, while the train hummed and hissed along.
When the train slowed in its approach to the next to the last station on the western line, called Red Brook, Volunza stood, along with a handful of others. The majority of passengers remained seated, obviously headed for the end of the line, as he stepped out onto the platform.
While the DomSecs appeared slow, they might be one step ahead, and waiting for him to exit the train at the end of the line—any line. Even if they could track which cards he had used, they would have to wait until he left the station, unless they wanted to stop every passenger on every platform, whether incoming, outgoing, or transferring. He doubted that the DomSecs were worried enough yet to blanket some sixty stations; many of which had much higher traffic volumes and more than one exit.
If their data system were good enough, they could track anyone from the two tube stations that were equidistant from the Herklonn home and compare the names against addresses. That would take a few minutes, but not many, and would certainly narrow the focus of the search.
That possibility was the reason why the credit card he had used did not bear the name or credit codes of Lak Volunza, but those of a newshawk association, the kind of card given to people who traveled on business too frequently to be justified as personal use. Such cards were registered in both individual names and in the names of the organization. His card represented the state news organization, FPNS.
Brisk steps took him up the inclined ramp to street level, where he turned southward along the boulevard lined by squat and oversize dwellings of gray stone, presumably the homes of well-paid functionaries of some sort.
Volunza checked the time. Only midafternoon, far earlier than he would have wished to be less conspicuous.
At the next corner he turned westward, keeping an eye open for uniformed DomSecs and anyone else. He passed a young woman wheeling a buggy, in which a sleeping infant lay, covered with a light, but bright red blanket.
He nodded, somberly, without smiling, as he passed.
Surprisingly he received a tentative smile in return.
He reached the green expanse of the Novaya Park without passing another soul on the broad streets, and with just two or three electrocars humming past.
The park had no gates and presented a series of grassy areas interspersed with dark conifers and the heavy trunks of the ancient and imported oaks. The size of the trees, if nothing else, confirmed the age and stability of Varenna.
As he headed toward the permanent summer pavilions, he wished he had made his hair even grayer. Then he could have joined the group of older men at their endless games of chess.
While the cool breeze felt warm enough for him, he suspected most Imperials would have found Forsenia far too chilly, especially in any season besides the too-short summers.
A whining sound tickled his hearing, coming from the road to his left where it wound toward the common area a hundred meters in front of him. Volunza set his case down by an oak and wiped his forehead, leaning against the tree as if to rest for a moment. Then he sat down.
From the base of the old oak, he had a clear view of the men at their stone tables, as well as of the women playing cards at a second row of tables. His position also kept him shielded from direct observation from the perimeter roads around the park.
The electrovan continued to the common area and the summer pavilions, where it stopped. A uniformed man and woman climbed out and walked over to the men playing chess, stopping by an older man who was watching, standing in the kiosk that sold drinks and dressed in a gray tunic. The seller nodded as the three talked for several minutes.
The two security officers walked into the section of tables shaded by the pavilion roof. The female DomSec pointed to a white-haired man, then looked back at the man in gray, who nodded.
The white-haired man, the object of her attention, bolted upright. Despite his obvious paunch, he charged the male DomSec, bowling him into another table, and scattering chess pieces in the process.
Both DomSecs turned, but did not draw weapons, as the paunchy man careened off the immobile stone table, pounded past the kiosk, and threw himself through the still-open driver's door of the electrovan. The door slammed closed.
The van began to whine, picking up speed and volume as it whipped back down the road toward the far side of the park.
Wsssh!
The man who temporarily called himself Volunza blinked.
A searing flash of light flared across the grass, so quickly it cast no shadows.
Volunza blinked, rubbing his eyes to regain his vision.
The first thing he saw, when he could see again, was the seething lump of metal that had been the DomSec electrovan. He turned his head slowly to survey the park, but could see nothing else.
"Booby-trapped," he observed to no one in particular.
He watched the group in the center of the park. All but a few of the older men and women returned to their cards and chess. Those that did not merely sat and stared blankly.
The gray-haired kiosk attendant and the two DomSecs strolled casually up the winding road toward the hot metal that had once been a paunchy man and an electrovan.
Volunza quietly eased himself farther down at the base of the oak, nearly invisible to anyone more than a few meters away, and took out a tattered book. Better to wait for the time when everyone was going home before trying to move anywhere farther.
He reminded himself not to borrow any government vehicles. Their rental rate was more than he wished to pay.
He wished the night would come, and with it the shadows that would offer some concealment.
XXXII
THE PURPLE-SHADED squares on the map represented the territory controlled by the government, territory being enlarged by the DomSecs day by day. The light green represented the shrinking area of rebel control.
Gerswin frowned, shook his head, and folded the latest version of the thin plastic into a small oblong which he stored in the thigh pocket of the shipsuit he wore under the winter furs.
"Forsenia rebel file. Interrogative projections."
"Insufficient data."
Gerswin nodded again. He couldn't expect the AI of a scout, even his overendowed scout, to have the capability of a tactical AI, but he had hoped.
Despite the advantage of terrain, despite the advantage of surprise, and despite the tactics and stupidity of the DomSec commanders, the rebels were losing, bit by bit, kilometer by kilometer.
Even without the tanks and drones of the security forces, the rebels had more than adequate weapons, and the DomSecs were so careless about theirs and their supplies that neither weapons nor ammunition were a problem. The rebels had, thanks to the bestmeat plant, local flora, and the carelessness of the government troop:. more than adequate food. And no one liked the DomSecs.
Gerswin paused in his mental summary.
At the same time, few of the Forsenians actually hated the security forces or the government. They were minor evils to be endured, like the winter, the snows, the continual freezing temperatures.
Did freedom require an inborn hatred of control and government?
He shook his head tiredly.
What in Hades was he really doing: And why? What would a revolution on Forsenia do for either ecological development or Ol
d
Earth?
He had had a reason when he started. Hadn't he?
He shook his head again, and stood, gathering the winter furs around him as he walked toward the lock. Regardless of the questions, he could not leave unfinished what he had started, not yet, at least.
Thumbing the lock stud, he waited for the lock to open fully, before slipping out into the darkness, out onto the thin skis, and into a ground-covering pace toward the town ten kilos to the west.
He expected to arrive there before the small DomSec garrison began the day, perhaps in time to liberate quietly a disrupter or two, or something equally effective.
XXXIII
ANATOL SHEFSIN PURSED his lips as his brown cues passed over the two men who stood oil the opposite side of the bank of data screens from him.
Yes?"
"You asked about the Imperial reaction, First Citizen."
"I did. It seemed likely that no quarantine would result so long as the unrest involved neither ships nor heavy weapons. Is that the Imperial position?"
Shefsin's brown eyes were as hard and shiny as the polished brown fabric of his tunic and trousers. He waited without apparent impatience.
"Basically," answered the blocky man in the dark black tunic used in place of a uniform by all senior DomSec officers on Forsenia. "There were words about evaluations and status of the government, but the Imperial office did not seem enthusiastic about recommending a quarantine."
"Refreshing change," observed Shefsin dryly. "Of course, it couldn't have anything to do with the shortfalls an Imperial revenues, could it?"
Neither subordinate ventured an answer. Both stood as if they would stand in the same position until dismissed or forever.
"Of course not," Shefsin answered himself. "The Empire is as it has always been, insisting on our pro-rata share, holding itself as our sole protection against the alien horrors of the galaxy. In the meantime, population pressures around . . ." The First Citizen waved an arm toward the exit portal. "You may go. You have done your duty, and well, and the Republic appreciates it. More importantly, I appreciate it."
Both DomSecs inclined their heads slightly.
"Thank you, First Citizen."
"Thank you, First Citizen."
Shefsin watched and waited until both men had departed before smiling.
He recalled the plans he had studied earlier, the ones for the Republic's first armed jumpships. Before long, before long, the Empire would have to pull back from the Forsenian sector.
The Atey rebellion was fortunate in many ways, he reflected, particularly if he could prolong the conflict until the new heavy weapons complex was in full operation.
While the Empire might need Forsenia and its contributions, the Republic hardly needed the Empire.
Smiling more broadly, the First Citizen looked at the crest displayed on the wall opposite him.
The jagged lightning sword across the olive branch—right now the lightning glittered with promise.
XXXIV
GERSWIN SHIFTED THE heavy-duty disrupter to distribute the weight differently and continued trudging toward the center of the rebel camp, wishing he could shed the bulky and heavy furs for his thin and insulated winter whites or grays.
"You there."
Gerswin ignored the voice.
"You with the 'ruptor!"
Turning slowly, Gerswin faced the caller, a hear of a man who wore the double bands of a force leader.
"Yes, Force Leader," he answered noncommittally.
"Where are you going with that 'ruptor?"
"Back off patrol. To turn it into the armory."
"Not through camp center. Around the perimeter."
"Yes, Force Leader."
Gerswin turned and let his seemingly tired steps carry him back toward the perimeter, waiting until the big but junior officer had lost sight of him in the gathering gloom and increasing snow.
He pursed his lips. Worrying about whether troops carried disruptors through camp center was scarcely the priority setting one would expect of a rebel command facing an approaching DomSec force with the worst of the winter chill yet to strike.
Whether rebel or DomSec, military or civilian, all Forsenians seemed to share a concern with procedures and routine, sometimes to the apparent exclusion of reality.
The man who wore the white furs of a scout sighed. He knew he had learned a great deal from his experiences on the chill planet, but at the moment he was not exactly certain why he had bothered. Not that it would be long before he left, but that bothered him as well.
The armory was a crude bunker whose entrance was shielded from the snow with a small sport tent.
Gerswin stepped inside. A thin and graying man in fraying Imperial winter whites stood inside, glaring at a weapon on a flat bench.
"Log it in, soldier." He did not look up.
"New weapon," offered Gerwin.
The rebel armorer looked up. His eyes widened a touch.
"Where did you get that?"
"The DomSecs were a bit careless."
"Energy level?"
"About ninety percent."
"I don't think I'll ask. Wish we had more like you. Your name?"
"Volunza."
"Oh, you're that one. The scout."
Gerswin nodded.
The older man returned his attention to the disassembled laser, as if Gerswin were not even in the bunker. Gerswin racked up the disrupter, added it to the listing, and used the small stencil gun to etch a number on the butt plate.
He slipped back out into the snowy evening, drifting toward the center of the encampment, listening, occasionally stopping, picking up fragments of conversations.
"When I was with the Twelfth on Herrara . . ."
"Not at all like the Service . . . not at all . . ."
”. . . always think the Impies do it best . . ."
He paused, then turned toward the mess tents.
As the smell of burned corbu wafted toward him, he changed direction again and moved toward the command center, easing up toward the guards outside Torbushni's tent.
"Volunza! What did you bring in today, old man?"
"'Ruptor. Guess the DomSecs are getting even more careless. Don't seem to care." Gerswin nodded toward the commander's tent. "What goes with the commander?"
The guard looked down at the packed snow, then around the pathways before answering, his voice low. "Now, old Torbi thinks that the DomSecs won't attack, just circle and wait. Circle and wait for us to try to get out. Try to starve us out."
"Might be right."
"Sure he's right. What did they cook tonight?"
Gerswin smiled. "Burned corbu."
"Same as yesterday. And the day before." Salnki spat into the snow to his right. "Except for you scouts, nothing happens. The DomSecs march closer. A blind man could pick off half of them. Torbi says no. Don't get them mad. All the officers agree. Thought this was a revolution."
Me too."
"Not now. See how many empty tents? Torbi's right, all right. Push comes to shove, and winter really sets down . . . no rebels left, except a handful. Too few to fight." Salnki stiffened.
So did Gerswin.
"Salnki? Who's your friend?"
"Volunza, ser. The scout."
"The one who brought in the case of stunners?" asked the two meter-high towering figure of Commander-Colonel Torbushni.
"Yes, ser," answered Gerswin.
"Wanted a messenger, but you'll do fine, Volunza. Can you get Senior Farce Leader Gruber from communications up here?"
"Yes, ser. If he's in camp."
"If not, get whoever is the senior comm man."
Gerswin nodded as Torbushni retreated back into the heated comfort of his insulated bubble tent, retreated without waiting for an acknowledgement.
Salnki shook his head.
Gerswin quirked his lips and turned back downhill. Gruber had already disappeared into the hills, but Torbert, remaining comm force leader, would be happy to conf
er with Torbushni—even if it were an attempt to negotiate a surrender.
Gerswin shook his own head as he trudged through the snow—a snow that represented fall and not winter—the cold beginning to bite into his cheeks as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped further.
3.The Endless Twilight Page 16