The Rim Rebels

by Zellmann, William

  Within minutes, the bar was a swirling mass of brawling humanity. Jirik's drunken opponent stopped and stared at the commotion, dimly wondering what had happened. A bottle thrown from the back of the bar, relieved him of both wonder and consciousness.

  Jirik whooped and waded joyfully into the fray. He traded blows with a rather soft-looking Boondocker for a few moments, before they were forced apart by other brawlers. He ducked as a pitcher flew past his head, spewing beer and foam. An unshaven Boondocker in a dirty tunic staggered into him, knocking him against a table which went over with a crash. Jirik snatched a falling bottle from mid air, and smashed it over the man's head.

  A fist slammed into the side of his head, and his eyes unfocussed for a moment. He shook his head, clearing it in time to dodge a brawler charging, head down, across the bar. He smashed a chair over the man's back, and landed a jab to another's solar plexus before a fist came out of nowhere, smashing into his cheek.

  Things went gray for a moment. Even as Jirik shook his head to clear it, he swung a roundhouse left at the nearest face. The pain and the crunch felt through his hand told him that the blow had been effective. As the tide of brawling humanity swirled, Jirik suddenly found himself alone. He surveyed the bar for another likely opponent. As he started in the direction of the nearest fighters, a chair smashed over his back and shoulders, driving him to the floor. Slightly dazed, he grabbed the nearest leg and pulled, bringing its owner down with a "Whoof!" He followed up with a short jab. The man ducked his head, and Jirik's fist landed on the front of the man's skull, without apparent effect, except to Jirik. His hand felt broken. The pain made him look down at his hand, so he never saw the bottle that laid him out.

  Jirik came around as the fight was winding down. The distant sirens of police skimmers added a sense of urgency that rendered his aches and pains unimportant. Looking around, he spied one of the brawlers whose tasteful clothing suggested middle class. The man was groaning, and seemed on the verge of regaining consciousness. Jirik grabbed the man's arm and dragged him toward the back door, out of the bar and into an alley rank with the odors of vomit and stale urine. Dizziness from his exertions made him collapse alongside his still-unconscious companion. The man groaned again, and his eyes opened, though they were unfocussed. "C'mon," Jirik grated, "We've gotta hide before the blues get here!"

  "Aw right," the man muttered bemusedly, but he began to scrabble to his feet. Leaning on each other, the two staggered to a large waste bin, and fell into its shelter.

  The back door of the bar banged open with a sound like an explosion in the echoing alley. Two policemen peered into the inky blackness of the alley.

  "Hell, I can't see dreck!" said one.

  "Yeah," agreed the other, "I don't see nobody."

  "Well, the bartender said he thought a couple of 'em come this way," the first man insisted.

  "Yeah, well, I don't see anybody, and I ain't about to go bouncin' out of a lighted doorway into a dark alley. If the bartender wants 'em arrested, he can look for 'em himself!" the other replied belligerently.

  "Yeah, the hell with it," the second cop put in. Blackness returned as the door banged shut again.

  During the cops' exchange, Jirik's companion had somewhat regained his senses. He shook his head, and immediately groaned. "What the hell happened? Who the hell are you?"

  "My name's Jirik Jeffson. Do you remember the fight?"

  The man groaned again. "Yeah, some of it. Did you drag me out of there?"

  "Yeah," Jirik replied. The man looked at Jirik questioningly, and Jirik continued, shrugging, "I dunno, you just didn't look like most of those bozos. It seemed to me that you didn't deserve getting' arrested. Why? You want to go back in and surrender?"

  The man started to shake his head, then stopped with a low moan. "No," he replied, "I don't." He levered himself to his feet. "Thanks. My name's Jak Rellis. Let's get the hell out of here." He started off unsteadily.

  "Yeah," Jirik agreed, accompanying his new friend. They paused at the entrance to the alley, watching as the police cleared out the combatants from the bar. Most were walking, some were being supported, and a few were on stretchers. The bartender was talking excitedly with one of the police. Finally, the former patrons were deposited into various police skimmers, vans and ambulances, and whisked off into the night. The bartender watched them drive away. Then he turned, surveying the wrecked bar with a glum expression.

  As soon as the bartender disappeared back into the bar to begin the monumental clean up effort, Jirik and his companion left the alley. They strolled down the street unconcernedly.

  As they sized each other up in the light streaming from shop windows, Jirik decided that he had made a wise choice. Jak was in his late twenties. His speech patterns as well as his clothing confirmed Jirik's earlier impression; lower middle class. Probably a clerk or low-level tech, from his soft hands. Jirik's evaluation ended suddenly as the other said "Hey! I know you! You're the spacer that started all that!"

  "Naw," Jirik replied offhandedly, "I was just having a quiet drink. That other guy started it. He knocked me off my chair!"

  Jak looked thoughtful for a moment. "Yeah, that's right. I remember now. That damned miner. What'd you say to him, anyway?"

  "Hell, I don't know." Jirik lied smoothly, "I just asked somebody about this guy Atmos I keep hearing about. Next thing I know, I'm flat on my back."

  Jak looked amazed. "You don't know about Dr. Atmos? I thought everybody in the galaxy knew about him."

  "I'm a spacer, remember?" Jirik asked. "Our usual runs are along the Alliance border with the Empire. I never heard of the guy 'til we grounded here. And the first time I ask about him, I get punched out. I can't figure out whether the guy's supposed to be a saint or a devil." He dabbed at a bleeding cut with a piece of torn cuff. "I should have known better than to ask about a local hero – or villain – on a new planet. One of these days learn to keep my big mouth shut!"

  "But we need to teach people about Atmos," Jak replied, with the fervor of a true believer, "Especially spacers. Come on, let's find a quiet bar where we can talk; I could use some anesthetic alcohol. Then I'll tell you about Atmos."

  "Why 'especially spacers'?" Jirik put in suspiciously. He allowed himself to be led into a slightly better class bar blocks from the scene of the fight.

  Jak looked surprised. "Why, because spacers are the people to carry the word to other planets throughout the Alliance, and even the Empire."

  Jirik snorted. "Spacers make lousy missionaries. You sound like you're pitching some new religion. Is this Atmos supposed to be another deity?"

  "No, no," Jak replied in a concerned tone. "Nothing like that. Dr. Atmos was just a man, a scientist. He analyzed sociological trends from history." He paused as they seated themselves and ordered, then resumed. "By analysis of trends within the Empire, Dr. Atmos came to the realization that the Empire had passed it's 'golden age', and was in decline. By projecting known data into the future, he predicted that the Empire will fall apart within the next 200 years. The early signs are already discernable." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Cessation of new exploration. Loss of interest in outlying sectors, and retrenchment of borders. Outright release of some outlying sectors, the Alliance being the largest example. Lack of scientific progress, and subordination of the status of the 'hard' sciences relative to more 'artistic' pursuits. Tell me, uh . . . Jirik," He added parenthetically, "Can you name one basic scientific advance to come out of the Empire in the last century?"

  Jirik thought for a moment. "No, I can't. But I understood that the pace of scientific advance had slowed throughout Man-settled space. That as we learn more, less remains to be found."

  "Pah!" Jak exclaimed, "That may be the excuse, but it doesn't hold water. Knowledge of the universe and applications of that knowledge are infinite."

  "How do you know that knowledge and applications are truly infinite? Besides, you said 'basic' advances, and the number of those is much more limited."

/>   "True, but don't you see," Jak asked urgently, "That in a century, somewhere in the hundreds of trillions of people making up the Empire, any civilization that is even minimally dynamic would have produced at least a single advance? The Empire has come to denigrate scientific progress and creativity, even artistic creativity. That is very nearly the dictionary definition of decadence. When any society denigrates original thought and creativity, that society is dying. The Empire is dying."

  Jirik had originally planned to get his chosen talker talking, then "turn off his ears," responding just enough to keep the man talking for the recorder he was carrying. Despite himself, however, he found himself listening attentively to Jak, and thinking.

  "Suppose you're right," Jirik replied, "Just supposing. I can see where that could be an interesting insight. Maybe I'm missing something, but it seems to me that knowledge is pretty much useless if you can't utilize it. If we can't do anything about it, why is the theory so important to you people, and why is the man considered so great?"

  Jak was growing agitated. "But, that's just the point! It isn't useless knowledge. It lets humanity, us, plan for the ultimate dissolution of the Empire. We can't avoid the catastrophe, but we can use the time we've been given to lessen its severity. Mankind's entire existence is at stake. If all of the man-settled universe descends into barbarity or worse, millennia of development and civilization will have gone for nothing. Man could even disappear from the universe. We can't let that happen. We of the Rim Worlds have decided that we won't let it happen."

  Jirik's tone became amusedly tolerant. "And exactly how are you going to prevent it? If this Atmos is right, and the Empire does fall, how do you propose to avoid being dragged down with it? I mean, one small Rim planet seems pretty insignificant to save mankind from the forces of darkness."

  Jak's face reddened at Jirik's patronizing tone, but he plowed on determinedly. "The people of the Rim have decided what we're going to do about it We're working together, pooling resources. Seventy-five years ago hardly any Boondockers had more than a few years' education. There wasn't a library on the planet, except for a few private collections. Then Dr. Atmos came to Boondock. He convinced us. He helped us decide to do what we could to prevent the loss of man's knowledge. Our traders carried his words and works to other planets in this sector. Now, there are nine of us. Nine worlds dedicated to preserving the best of our civilization. We will not go down with the Empire. We will survive. And, when mankind needs us, we will have the knowledge, the resources to keep mankind's civilization alive. That's why I said 'especially spacers'. You can carry the warning to other worlds. Maybe many other worlds. If the word gets around, if other planets prepare like we are, maybe the candle of civilization will only flicker, instead of going out."

  "Whew!" Jirik marveled, "Maybe you should be a missionary! I'm sure that you're sincere. But I'm a trader, son, and I tend to think of things in terms of cargo. Do you have any idea of the sheer amount of human knowledge accumulated during ten thousand years of human civilization? It boggles the mind. I've been to the Empire Library on Alpha. If I remember the info-packet correctly, it said that the Library complex contains over two cubic kilometers of book discs, chips, and vids. And the Library makes no pretense of containing more than a fraction of man's written knowledge. If you could accumulate all of mankind's written knowledge, I would be very surprised if it wouldn't make a mass the size of a good size star. There's simply no way for a few small rim planets to accumulate, or even store that much information."

  Jak paused and downed his third drink. He was well on his way to regaining the flashed state he had been in when the fight broke out. "We know that," he slurred, "Thass . . . uh . . . that's what the big argument's all about."

  "Argument? What argument?"

  "Well, jush . . . uh . . . just because we agree on what's going to happen," Jak replied, "That doesn't mean we agree on what to do about it. Most of us think that we should concentrate on saving the accumulated knowledge of mankind from the destruction that's sure to follow the Collapse." The way he said it, Jirik could hear the capital "C" on "Collapse." "But there's a bunch of radicals callin' themselves 'Actionists' who think that we should actually try to take over planets; to convert them to our way of thinking." He shrugged. "I dunno. They got some points, I guess, but even if we could do it, I don't think that we have any right to take over anybody else's planet."

  A man standing at the bar had obviously been listening to their conversation. Jirik had noticed him, and had slowly been drifting back into his drunk act. From the man's appearance and manner, he was another miner. As Jak talked, the man displayed increasing signs of agitation. As Jak finished his comments about the Actionists, however, the man evidently exhausted his patience. He stalked over to their table, and with only a perfunctory "MindifIjoinyou", plopped into the table's empty chair.

  "Look," he said belligerently, "You spheres don't know what you're talkin' about." He looked blearily at Jirik. "Look, spacer, if you wanta know about Actionists, you should ask one."

  Jirik produced a drunkenly bewildered look. "Do I wanta know about Ackshunists?" He turned to Jak. "Jak, I din't know I wanneda know about Ackshunists. I never even heard of 'em until you jush . . . uh . . . just mentioned 'em."

  Jak was looking apprehensive. It was becoming obvious that another brawl was about to break out, and neither Jirik nor Jak was interested in participating. Jirik felt that he had gathered quite enough information for one evening. With Jak again becoming befuddled with drink, Jirik knew it was up to him to defuse the situation. The Actionist looked as though he meant to make his points, even if it was with his fists. If he really was flashed, Jirik reminded himself.

  "Look, pal," Jirik said woozily, "We don' wan' no trouble. If my fren' here offended you somehow, I 'pologize. He was jus helpin' me learn my way aroun'."

  "No, no, 's Okay," the man replied, waving a scarred hand, "I ain't lookin' for trouble. I jus' thought somebody who knows oughta tell you 'bout the Actionists." He stuck out a ham-sized hand. "M'name's Ry. Ry Falko." Jirik took the proffered hand in his own, and a short squeezing contest ensued. Jirik didn't win, but there was a new respect in Falko's eyes as they settled back.

  Jirik decided that there was no graceful way to exit until this Falko character had his say. He sighed. Oh, well.

  "Jak, here, has just been 'splainin' to me 'bout this Atmos character," Jirik explained to their new guest, "an' his ideas about the fall of the Empire. I'm not sure I unnerstand or b'lieve alla it, but he's a good guy. He ain't no spear."

  "Not 'spear' 'sphere'." Falko corrected. "It jus' means he ain't no Actionist. He's a Longtermer." At Jirik's look of bleary incomprehension, Falko relaxed, and continued. "See, us Actionists ain't gonna sit aroun' an' wait for th' Empire to fall apart. We figger we gotta be prepared. We gotta be ready, see." He paused invitingly, as though he had produced some great insight and expected a response.

  Jirik shrugged and obliged. "How do ya prepare for the enda civli . . . uh . . . civilization?"

  Falko became almost comically conspiratorial. "Thass the secret. Can't tell ya that. But we'll be ready. Don'chu worry. Us Actionists 're gonna save ever'body."

  At this, another man left the bar and came over to the table. This one was sober, and obviously unhappy with the drunken Falko "Awright, Ry. That's enough. You got no call to bother these folks." He flicked a glance at the apparently inebriated Jirik. "Sorry, Spacer. I'd better get him home. He's gotta work in the morning.

  "'S okay, mister." Jirik, sensing danger, played his drunk act for all it was worth. "I was jus' talking to m'friend Jak, here, an' he come over 'n started rattlin' on about Actionists. I dunno 'zackly what he meant, but he seemed real excited about it."

  The newcomer lifted Falko to his feet, shot Jirik a penetrating look, and helped his friend out the door. Jirik relaxed slightly. He suspected that he had just avoided serious trouble; at least, he hoped he had. He looked over at Jak, who was slumped over, his head resting
on the table. His stentorian snores made it obvious that he was finished for the evening.

  Relieved, and more than a little weary from the gravity, Jirik decided that it was time that he got back to the Lass. He checked his ring watch, and was surprised how close it was to midnight. Continuing his drunk act for the benefit of the bar's remaining patrons, he lurched out into the street. He staggered for two blocks before deciding that it was safe to straighten and strode off toward the port.

  When Jirik convened the crew meeting at midnight, he was exhausted. From their appearance, the rest of the crew were in little better shape. Valt was evidently drunk again. Several new cuts and bruises indicated that he'd had an eventful evening. Bran was looking haggard and drawn. It had been a very long day in high gravity for him. Only Tor appeared to be his usual voluble self. Jirik had stopped in his quarters on his way to the mess decks to change his tattered and stained clothing, and he knew what he looked like.

  Various cuts adorned his face. A large bruise on his cheek highlighted what was going to be a colorful black eye. The eye itself was already swollen half-shut. A variety of aches and pains did nothing to improve his already sour disposition. He decided that there had to be a better way to get Tomys his information. Jirik put a fresh memory crystal in the log recorder and called the meeting to order.