Thorstein handed him a bundle of branches and led him in the opposite direction. They found their crewmates, along with more than a few men who’d been in the hall earlier, seated around a semi-circular row of wooden benches. They cheered at Rick’s arrival.
“Just bumped into Freya at the willow table,” Thorstein announced to general mirth. Apparently, the awkward moment was a standard of Midgaard betrothals and Freya’s cousin must have had a hand in timing the encounter.
“How’d it go?” Erik demanded, swatting his own back with a handful of branches, face red from the steam.
Thorstein jerked his thumb at Rick. “This one spent the whole time trying not to look at her chest and she spent the whole time staring at his!”
“Norns!” the hauld who’d been at Shelby’s hall exclaimed. “Can you blame the lass?” He gestured at Rick “What’re they feeding you on that world?”
“Whatever he brings down with his monstrous bow,” Erik said, punctuating his statement with a belch. “He drew Emerie’s bow.”
“That meat trader?” The hauld laughed. “He had his shop when I was bending space with the LRG but that had to be fifty years ago.”
“This’d be his son,” Thorstein explained.
“So you got to join the hunt.” The hauld turned back to Rick. “Took you to some dense patch of forest to hunt bifleet, didn’t he?”
Rick nodded, recalling how the Midgaard loved stories of prowess. “Got two of them,” he replied. “Took the first with a bow but the second broke out and charged me so I had to take him with a knife.”
He settled into the tale, fitting it into the narrative structure favored by the Midgaard stranded on the Canal. The group was spellbound, hanging on every word, and, when he finished, he knew they’d enjoyed it.
Rick had never bragged in his life and, yet, it didn’t seem like bragging. It was a courtesy to these people to entertain them with a good story. It was so unlike anything he’d known on 3428.
They swapped stories, interspersed with serious advice on marriage from the older men and not so serious advice from the younger, for well over an hour. Finally, a young lad came in and whispered to Thorstein.
“Alright, lads,” he called. “The ladies have left. It’s time to hit the ice water.” He led a procession through the columns and out into a courtyard where a small pool had a delicate tracery of ice on its glassy surface.
It didn’t look very large to Rick. “So we go one at a time?”
“Or just the one,” Thorstein said, giving him a shove.
The cold was like an electric shock. Rick didn’t close his mouth in time and a mouthful of water seared its way down his throat like liquid metal. He splashed his way to the surface, every fiber in his body focused on reaching the edge. He pulled himself out and lay on the comparatively warm flagstones, coughing convulsively. He brought his lungs under control and glared up at his foster brother.
“Don’t give me that look,” the engineer chided him good-naturedly. “We all end up in there on our wedding night. If your heart survives that, it stands a good chance of surviving Freya Augustdottir!”
It was almost a relief, Rick reflected, when they finally shoved him into place in front of the scruffy-looking priest who’s hair looked like it had been trimmed with somebody’s teeth. Freya stood next to him, in front of her cousin who held an axe very similar to the one in Thorstein’s hands.
The priest took a branch, dipped it in a bowl of mead and sprinkled everyone in the moonlit courtyard, finishing with the young couple. Rick took the axe from his foster brother and turned back to place it in his bride’s hands.
She nodded approvingly at the weapon before turning to exchange it for the one her cousin was holding. She turned back and gave him the weapon.
Still not uttering a word, they exchanged rings and turned back to the priest who was muttering quietly to himself.
He finished whatever he’d been saying to the darkness and drew himself up to his full height. “You are joined,” he said solemnly.
And then he wandered off.
Before Rick could ask what came next, he was hoisted up by his crewmates and carried back inside Shelby’s hall. He looked back to see Freya being similarly carried, giving as good as she got in the exchange of ribald jokes.
They wound their perilous way up a narrow staircase and the couple were deposited inside a large bedchamber. The revellers flowed back out and shut the door, leaving them alone.
“So,” Rick began before realizing how foolish he would sound if he were to ask what happens next? He shook his head slightly, smiling to reassure her he wasn’t a complete fool.
She took pity on him all the same. “So,” she began, her voice stirring his blood, “when we go down to join the feast, we’ll announce our intent to lead a small force to establish a claim over 3428. As we’re not haulds, we can only take eight volunteer ships along with our own.”
“Why only eight?”
“Eight plus our own makes nine,” she explained. “The tenth must be captured if we wish to elevate our status. A hauld must earn the distinction – it can’t simply be given – and you must lead ten ships to achieve that status. Just because we’re adding a valuable planet to the Ancestress’ sphere of influence, doesn’t mean she’s going to ignore custom and make us haulds.”
She looked out the window to where the Mark III Hussars hovered at their berths. “My cousins all thought I was mad to join the LRG when I could be off raiding the fringe worlds with them but I’d never have been trusted with this mission without the experience I’ve gained.”
“You saw the need for it, didn’t you?” Rick asked.
Her expression seemed less pained by this mention of her abilities. “I did.” She smiled at him. “You don’t look at me like others do.” She crossed the room to stand before him. “Because I have seidr powers, most people are a little uneasy, even fearful, but you act as though it’s perfectly normal. You actually see me instead of the sorcery.”
On impulse, Rick reached out to touch her face. “Oh, I think there might be some sorcery in what I see,” he whispered.
She chuckled, her hand reaching up to cover his, to keep it there.
Every nerve ending in his skin tingled. He darted a quick glance at the door. “Did you say they were waiting for us to join the feast?” There was no mistaking the reluctance in his voice.
“Hmmm…” She stepped closer, reaching up to touch his collar.
He felt his clothing go slack.
“They’ll just drink until we come down,” she murmured. “We have… state business to look to first.
She put her lips close to his ear and he shuddered at the warm breath as she whispered.
“Don’t rush on their account!”
Anticipating
Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic
Graadt ignored the twitching magister on the floor in front of him. Instead, he held the gaze of the magister he deemed most likely to take action now that their boldest comrade was incapacitated.
He was signaling his intent to make the young lawman his next victim if he failed to show good sense and back down. Common sense was a rare commodity among this world’s magisters and he was sure he saw the signs of an attack in the young Dactari’s eyes.
Graadt pulled his hand from the pouch at his side, flinging another stun-ball at the magister’s midsection.
As the second Dactari went down, sense made a late appearance for the remaining two. The buzz of the crowd finally seemed to register and their expressions changed from anger to fear.
The four lawmen had thought to either capture or kill Graadt and, seeing as he was alone, they felt bold enough to try their luck. They had still been hesitant to take action and Graadt had been quick to use that advantage.
If he hadn’t learned to seize every advantage, he never would have made it off Oudtstone’s forested moon alive as a youth. He’d quickly dropped the leader with a stunner and, when that didn’t seem sufficient, he d
ropped the next bravest, putting them on their heels in the middle of an unfriendly crowd.
The two conscious magisters hesitated still, afraid to attack Graadt and unwilling to leave their comrades to the mob.
Graadt was jostled by the sudden rush of angry citizens as they closed in on the remaining lawmen. He knew it was inevitable. All an angry crowd like this needed was a spark, a reminder that their hated oppressors were vulnerable, and they swarmed the magisters without taking a single casualty.
He felt the pressure of the mob lessening as he backed away and he turned to push his way out. Individuality shrank to nothing in a situation like this. Respect for rules, the sense of right and wrong was suspended in the herd-mentality of an angry mob and he knew it wouldn’t take much for him to become the next target.
He passed out of the throng to find Nid and Kaans approaching with the food they’d gone to purchase.
“The Human again?” Nid asked.
“No. This time it was me,” Graadt replied, grabbing an algae bun filled with fish meat from Kaans. “Four magisters tried to get up on their hind legs and give me a hard time, so I had to drop two of them.” He took a huge bite.
“You killed them?” Nid asked without a hint of disapproval.
“Mff, no. They’re shtunned, more than ushual.” Graadt forced the reply out past his half-chewed food. “Come to think of it, sho are we.”
Nid looked at him for a few seconds and then he nodded. “He’s nearly done here.”
Graadt swallowed. “And when he’s done, he leaves.”
Kaans nodded with evident satisfaction. “Then there’s little sense in risking our hides searching two million square cubits of space if he’s going to be boarding that elevator soon.”
“Let’s get to the station.” Graadt took another bite. “We can wait for him at the orbital end of the tether.”
The Gloves Come Off
Protest
Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic
Cal was near the front of the crowd as it approached the station entrance. They carried banners protesting both the price of water and the increased price of the exit ride and the guards outside the station entrance looked only mildly alarmed. They’d seen this kind of thing before.
Whenever public unrest was on the rise, the administration usually responded by lowering the price of water, which benefitted the poor, and raising the cost of the ride up to the orbital counterweight, which offset the lost water revenue by taking money from the wealthier citizens.
The poor rarely expected to use the elevator, so they were usually quite happy to see the rich having to pay more, doubling the effectiveness of the revenue shift. The signs protesting the price increase didn’t make an abundance of sense but Cal needed an excuse to bring the crowd to the entry gates and it seemed to be working.
The guards by the doors were armed with maces. Republic infantry weapons were based on linear acceleration and the incredibly high velocity of the rounds made them too dangerous for law enforcement or crowd control. As a result, blunt or edged weapons had been the norm for thousands of years. On some company worlds, planets like Chaco Benthic that were far enough away from Dactar to avoid official interference, weapons like those carried by the magisters were somewhat more common.
Still, such deadly weapons couldn’t be given to mere security staff. There had to be at least the impression of a judicial process if the company wanted to prevent outside intervention in their management of the planet. As it was, the Republic barely cared about Chaco Benthic.
It and a hundred other back-water planets like it were hardly worth the cost of administration to them.
The crowd was moving past the gate now. The leading ranks were roughly ten meters past the last guard when Cal took a deep breath. “Now!” he yelled, and the signs were dropped as the protesters began surging to the left.
Straight toward the open-mouthed guards.
Cal didn’t see exactly what had happened to them but the large group, whose only real protesters were the handful who’d spontaneously joined them en route, flowed quickly over them and into the station.
As planned, Group One broke off and headed for the communications center. Group Two headed straight for the barrier between arrivals and departures, using Cal’s throwing charges to blast their way through both the barrier and the heavy door that sealed off the mechanical room. Group Three took the boarding carousel, leaving the few real protesters standing in a small, stunned group in the middle of the floor.
In the space of five minutes, the orbital tether station had been seized and the only gates to the city were closed. Cal and his group were effectively in control of all communication with the rest of the Republic.
“C’Al,” Bel wheezed the name, trying to catch his breath. “One of the pods is already committed to launch. The only way to stop it is to blow it, but I don’t know that we could do it without trapping us down here permanently.”
“So let it go.”
Bel grinned. “You should come say goodbye, first.”
His curiosity Piqued; Cal followed him over to the boarding platform. “Well, that simplifies things for us,” he declared cheerfully. “The only really competent opposition we had in the city and they’re leaving?”
Inside the sealed pod, three Stoners were glaring at him with impotent rage, shouting unheard insults as the carousel rotated them into the launch position. Cal raised a hand, waggling his fingers goodbye with a cocky grin on his face.
Cal’s levity was forced. Their chances of seizing the orbital counterweight had been relatively good assuming they only had company security to face. With the three Stoners up there, it was unlikely the rebels would make it out of the pod alive and that was only if the Stoners didn’t sabotage the elevator itself.
He knew they didn’t need him alive. The Stoners would likely just throw an explosive intp the pod when it arrived at the station and collect enough parts to prove they’d killed him.
His exit strategy was in a shambles.
“C’Al,” Belfric wheezed. He coughed wetly.
Cal turned. Bel’s chin was covered with frothy red foam. He was staring down in shock at a metal spike protruding from his chest. “You could hurt someone with that…” he mumbled. His knees gave out and he slumped to the floor, revealing a guard.
The Dactari was struggling to free the spike of his mace from Bel’s form but flesh has a way of gripping a blade. Cal pulled out a plasma bow and activated it, leaping over his wounded friend as the bow unfolded and began generating an arc. He swung at the guard’s neck, severing the head and cauterizing the veins in one sweep.
The bow deactivated as he dropped it and he turned back to find Bel lying on his side, the spike still through his chest. To remove it, here on the station floor, would only ensure his quick death.
Cal knelt, putting a hand under his friend’s head. “Bel?”
The eyes opened. “Motherless clone got me good, didn’t he?”
“Don’t try to talk…”
“Don’t try to talk, he says,” Bel coughed up more froth. “I’m finished, my friend. I can feel my lungs filling with blood, so let me… talk while I still… can.” He held up his left hand and Cal seized it with his right.
“Kimric… will accept losing me, if it meant something.” He squeezed Cal’s hand. “Make… sure my granddaughter’s life is better… for this sacrifice...”
His hand began to tremble. “One… day…”
Cal took a deep breath and felt something change in his soul. He was so damned sick of hearing that countersign. Fifteen decades of Someday soon was more than enough for one lifetime. He gave Bel’s hand a hard squeeze. “Today,” he said fiercely. “Today!”
He was done with the standard program. No more stirring up the poor, only to leave them to their fate while he moved on to the next world. This was a fight he’d see out to the end.
“Today,” a Krorian standing on the loading platform repeated.
Cal looked up at
the man and saw the resolve there. This was going to happen. “Today!” he shouted, looking around him at the grim faces.
“Today,” Bel wheezed, and then his hand went slack.
Cal looked down, releasing Bel’s hand and easing his head down to the ramp. He closed his friend’s eyes and shut his own.
“Today,” the murmur began circulating around the station, growing in strength as the insurgents realized that the long-awaited day had come upon them so suddenly. It began building in volume.
Cal wished he didn’t care but it was far too late for that. Bel had been a good friend, possibly the only one he’d really had in the last fifteen decades, and Cal had been lying to him the whole time.
He’d lied to people like Bel on seven other worlds and it got harder each time but this was more than simple progression – he’d come to care about Bel, Kim and their extended family. There was no walking away from this. He knew he’d have to talk to Kim. He’d have to face her reaction upon learning her husband had died helping an Alliance agent.
“C’Al?” An urgent voice broke in on his thoughts.
He looked up at the young maintenance supervisor who’d reported to Bel. “What is it, Korlaith?”
“It’s the company execs, or what passes for the execs now…” He shook his head. “You’d better come…”
Dominion
Planet 3428
“There’s the Barden,” the sensor coordinator announced, a sharp shadow appearing on her face for a brief moment. She looked back to where Freya and Rick stood. “All nine accounted for.”
They stood even though the Hussar class or, as the Midgaard called it, Snekkja class was Earth-built. Midgaard captains never sat on the bridge of any ship larger than a scout and, as the two species had melded into one, the Hussar Mark III’s had begun to ship out with no captain’s chair.
The Ormurin was relatively new and she’d been a handsome wedding gift from Erin Shelby, who still refused to upgrade from her beloved Mark I. Though there was no way to retrofit the multi-axis, tandem-lensed pitch drives of the Mark III, she still insisted on keeping the Pandora.
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