by Chris Bunch
"So?"
"So we been gettin’ some real strange cases from that place.” He pointed at the factory the men just left.
"What kinda cases?"
"Not sure,” Bet said. “Has somethin’ to do with the lubricants you use."
The Migs stiffened. “What's wrong with ‘em?” the beefy man asked.
"Can't tell. Seems to be some kind of virus. Hits only males."
"What's it do to them?"
Sten shrugged. “Let's just say, they ain't been havin’ much of a sex life lately."
"And probably never will,” Bet chimed in. The Migs looked at each other.
Sten grabbed Bet by the arm and pulled her away. “Good luck, boys,” he yelled back over his shoulder.
The Migs didn't even notice them leap over the barrier and hurry off down another slideway. They were too busy looking impotent.
* * * *
Ida positively purred into the microphone. Doc sat beside her, checking his notes, making sure she made the right points in the right untrustworthy tone of voice.
"Before we begin our next request, fellow workers, we have an announcement. This is from the Health Center, and the people over there are very concerned about a rumor that's been going around.
"A silly rumor, really. It has to do with viral contamination of lubricants at Bearing Works Twenty-three.
"Ah, excuse me—I mean with the non contamination of lubricants at ... Never mind. It is totally without foundation, the Health Center informs us. And there is no cause for alarm.
"It is absolutely not true that it causes impotency among males—Correction. There is no contamination—but if there were, it would not affect the potency of males.
"Uh ... I guess that's it. Now, for our next selection—"
Ida flipped the switch and the regular broadcast boomed in. Just as a song was starting. She turned to Doc, beaming.
"How'd I do?"
"I am happily considering all those poor, suffering Mig libidos."
* * * *
The following shift, only eight Migs showed up for work at the bearing factory. Within fifteen minutes those eight had also heard about the broadcast denial and were on their way out.
Patris, disguised as a Sociopatrolman, leaned casually against a wall. Watching the Migs at play in the rec area. Another Delinq—a woman dressed like a joygirl—chatted with him. Pretending to be on the make.
A tall, skinny Mig caught their attention. He was working a gambling ‘puter. Inserting his card, waiting as lights and wheels flashed. Cursing as he kept coming up empty-handed. In the card went again for another try.
"He's been at it an hour,” Patris whispered to the girl. She glanced over at the Mig.
"Probably just added six months to his contract,” she said.
She turned, slipped over to a duct, stumbled against it. “There's our mark,” she whispered to the Delinq inside. A scuttling sound and he was away.
Hours later, the Mig was still at it. Inside the wall, behind the gambling machine, the Delinq manipulated the controls with a bluebox of Ida's evil devise. He kept the Mig just interested enough by feeding him a few wins. But steadily, the man was losing. “Clot,” he finally shouted. Turned and stalked away from the machine.
Patris flicked an invisible speck from his uniform and strolled over to the gambling ‘puter. He waited just until the Mig looked his way. Inserted a card. Instant sirens ... bells ... lights going wild. The loser Mig froze.
"Clot,” he said to a Mig beside him. “See what that slime just did?"
"Yeah. Got himself a fortune."
"But I been playin’ that thing half the day. Don't gimme a clottin’ credit. Then he walks up and..."
Other Migs gathered at the sound of the winning machine, overheard the loser Mig, then cast nasty looks at Patris. Patris finally pretended to notice. He stalked over to the crowd, swinging his stun rod.
"On your way,” he ordered. “Quit gawkin’ and git.” The angry crowd hesitated. “Stinkin’ cheat, that's what it is,” somebody yelled from the back. The somebody being the “joygirl” Delinq.
"You should'a seen him,” the loser Mig shouted. “He stole what I should'a won.” More angry grumbling. Patris hit the panic burton and in a flash, a squad of patrolmen were rushing to his rescue. He waited until they closed on the crowd, then faded out of sight.
* * * *
"Fellow workers,” Ida said. “We all must be grateful for the marvelous recreational centers provided by the Company. At no small expense, I might add.
"For instance, the gambling ‘puters, which give us all good clean, honest fun. Company statistics prove that the machines pay off more credits than they take.
"But there are always losers, who now are spreading a terrible rumor. So terrible it almost embarrasses me to repeat it—However, there is no truth to the story that the machines are set to pay off only to high Company officials. No truth at all. Why, some liars have even indicated that the machines only pay off to Sociopatrolmen. Can you imagine that! The very men hired at no small expense by the Company to..."
Jorgensen came up with the masterstroke. “That's lightweight stuff,” he said. “You gotta hit a guy where it really hurts."
"Such as,” Doc sniffed, a little hurt.
"Like beer."
* * * *
The following shift break swarms of Migs streamed into the rec domes. Offered their cards and settled back for a cool one. Nothing. Not one drop. The machine merely swallowed the card, deducted credits, and then chuckled at the Mig to go away.
"Clot I will,” shouted one big Mig. He shoved his card in again. Still nothing. He slammed a meaty fist into the machine. “Gimme!"
"I am Company property,” the machine informed him. “Violation of my being carries severe penalties."
The Mig kicked the machine in answer. Alarms went off at five Sociopatrol centers. They steamed to the rescue. Only to find empty domes. Empty except for the twisted hulks of beer machines. All looted of their contents and groaning on the floor.
* * * *
Doc shook his head.
"No. Too obvious. Not gray enough. Skip talking about the beer, Ida, and go to the food situation instead."
Ida turned to her microphone.
"Fellow workers, the Company is pleased to announce a new health program. They have discovered that we are all getting much too overweight.
"Therefore, beginning next shift, all food rations will be reduced thirty percent.
"That thirty—Sorry, we're in error. That program will not take effect until ... until—What? Wrong announcement? Oh, kill it! The program is no go!
"Fellow workers, there is no truth to the report that food supplies will be cut thirty percent next..."
* * * *
Sten side-stepped a drunken Mig, sloshing a little beer, then pushed through the crowd to Bet. Set down their beers and settled into a seat beside her.
"I'll tell ya,” a Mig said to his companions, “they've gone too far now. Too clottin’ far."
Sten winked at Bet, who smiled back.
"They cheat us. Mess with our sex lives, try to screw with our beer. Now they're gonna increase all work contracts one year."
"Where'd ja hear that?"
"Just now. From that woman on the radio."
"But she said it was just a rumor."
"Yeah. Sure it is. If it's a rumor, how come they're tryin’ to deny it so hard?"
"He's got a point,” Sten broke in.
The Mig turned to Sten. Peered at him, then grinned. Slapped him on the shoulder.
"Sure I do. That's the way the Company always works—feed you a rumor, get the reaction, then spring it on you for real."
"Remember last year,” Bet said. “There was that rumor we were all gonna lose three paid holidays? What happened?"
"We lost ‘em,” the Mig said sullenly.
His friends all sipped beer. Thoughtful. Angry.
"What the clot,” someone sighed. “Nothin’ we do
about it ‘cept complain?"
Nods of agreement.
"I tell ya,” the first Mig said, “I'd sure do something about it if I could. Hell, I got no family, I'd take the risk."
The other Migs glanced about. The conversation was getting dangerous. One by one they excused themselves. Leaving only Sten, Bet, and their Mig friend.
"You mean what you said?” Sten asked.
"'bout what?"
"About gettin’ even with the Company."
The Mig stared at him suspiciously. “You a spy?"
He started to stand up.
"Well, so what if you are. I'm fed up. Nothin’ make me feel better'n to break you—"
Bet took him by the arm. Gently pulled him down and bought him a beer.
"If you're serious,” Sten said, “I got some people I want you to meet."
"To do what? Gripe like all the others?” He waved an arm at all the Migs in the bar.
"We're gonna do more than gripe,” Sten said.
The Mig eyed them. Then smiled a big grin. His hand reached across the table. “I'm your man."
Sten shook his hand. “What are you called?"
"Lots of things from the clottin’ supervisor. But my name's Webb."
They rose and left the bar.
* * * *
"I think I finally got the idea how this whole thing works,” Bet told Ida and Doc.
"The gray actions?” Ida asked. Bet nodded.
"Poor humans,” Doc said, “torturing what little brain they have over the obvious."
Bet gave him a look to shave his tendrils at neck leveL Turned, and started out the door.
"Wait,” Ida said. Bet stopped.
"Doc,” Ida said. “You're the all-seeing being, but sometimes you miss what's in front of your pudgy little face."
"Such as?"
"Like maybe we ought to find out what Bet has on her mind."
Doc thought about it, tendrils wiggling. Then exuded his warmest feelings at Bet. “My error,” he said. “Blame it on genetic tendencies to rip and tear."
Mollified, Bet returned and settled into a chair. “What I was thinking about,” she said, “was the ultimate gray action. For Migs."
"Like?” Ida asked.
"Like the old legend that's been going around Vulcan since the first Mig."
"Legends?” Doc said. “I like legends. There's so much to build on."
Bet took a deep breath.
"Story says someday there's gonna be a Mig revolt. A successful revolt led by an offworlder who was once a Mig himself."
Doc was still feeling a little slow—his apology had put him off.
But Ida got it right away. “You mean Sten?"
"Yes. Sten."
"Ah,” Doc said, finally getting it. “The mythical redeemer. Sten leads the way to salvation."
"Something like that,” Bet said.
"The perfect rumor,” Ida said. “We spread the word that the redeemer is here.” She looked at Doc. “Have we reached that point yet?"
"Yes,” Doc said. “It's the ultimate point of intermediate stage."
Bet hesitated. “One problem."
"Such as?” Doc was anxious to be about his work. “What will Sten think about it?"
Ida shrugged. “Who cares? Just wish it were me. There's a lot of money in redemption."
* * * *
The rumor spread like a virus colony on a petri dish. All over Vulcan, Migs were tense, angry, waiting for something to happen. But knowing, still, that nothing ever would. Without prodding, the dissension would dissipate to everyday acceptance.
"You see?” the old Mig told his grandchildren. “It's like I been tellin’ your dad all along. There is a way off Vulcan. And clot the Company."
His son and daughter-in-law ignored the obscenity. Nodded to their kids. Gramps was right.
"Dad,” his daughter-in-law warned.
"Tell us about him, gramps,” a child said. “Tell us about the Mig."
"Well, to begin with, he's just like us. A workin’ clot. And then he got offworld. But he never forgot us, and..."
* * * *
"And like I been sayin’ all the time, it's a Mig that'll shove our contracts right up the Company's—"
"Ah didna ken Ah was servin’ wi’ th’ Redeemer,” Alex said. He bowed ceremoniously and held the mug out to Sten.
"Sharrup,” Sten growled. Bet giggled.
"Ay, Bet. Tis wonderful ye brought th’ weenin’ hole in m'theology to light. Here Ah was, servin’ in darkness, havin’ naught save th’ Trinity t’ keep me safe."
"Trinity?” Bet asked.
"Aye.” The heavy worlder bent, and effortlessly picked a struggling Sten up by the hips. Held him high overhead then to either side, then dumped him back in the chair. “In nomine Bobby Burns, John Knox, an’ me gran'sire."
For once, Sten couldn't find an Imperial obscenity foul enough to fit the occasion.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
"Begging your pardon, sir,” the Counselor said, “but you don't know what it's like out there. Lies. Rumors. Every Mig ready to cut your throat."
"Nonsense,” the Baron said. “It's a normal Mig stage."
The Counselor sat in Thoresen's garden, waiting for the ax to fall. But it wasn't what he expected. Here he was with a drink in his hand, chatting with the Baron. That's not what usually happened when Thoresen summoned an employee. Especially with all those stories going around about the Counselor.
"I asked you here,” Thoresen said, “because of your well-known frankness."
The Counselor beamed.
"And that matter,” Thoresen continued, “of certain, ah, shall we say alleged indiscretions on your part."
The Counselor's face fell. It was all a setup after all.
"There have been accusations,” Thoresen said, “that you have been dipping a bit too deep into Mig credits."
"I never—” the Counselor began. Thoresen held up a hand, silencing him.
"It's expected,” Thoresen said. “It's the way it's always been done. The Counselors make a little extra for their loyal efforts, without cost to the Company, and casual labor contracts are extended without expensive book work."
The Counselor relaxed a bit. The Baron's description was accurate. An informal system that had worked for centuries.
"My difficulty,” the Counselor said, “is the rumors. I promise you—on my life—I've never taken the amount I'm being accused of."
Again, Thoresen motioned him to silence. “Of course, you haven't. You are one of my most trustworthy—well, at least, discreet—employees."
"Then why-?"
"Why did I summon you?"
"Yes, sir."
Thoresen rose and began pacing. “Actually, I'm calling in all of my key officers. The Migs are moaning and groaning again. It happened in my grandfather's time. And my father's. I'm not worried about them. What I'm concerned about is the overreaction of my own people."
The Counselor thought about the ugly looks he had seen lately.
It was more than Mig grumbling. He started to say something. Then decided not to.
"As I said,” Thoresen continued, “it's just a cycle. A normal cycle. But it must be handled delicately."
"Yes, sir,” the Counselor said.
"The first thing to remember,” Thoresen said, “is not to aggravate them. Let them blow a little hot. Ignore what they say. And identify the leaders. We'll deal with them after things calm down.” He looked at the Counselor. “Am I understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Now I plan to take a personal hand in all this."
"Yes, sir."
"I want all incidents—no matter how minor—brought to my attention."
"Yes, sir."
"No action—no matter how minor—is to be taken without my go-ahead."
"Yes, sir."
"Then it's settled. Now, is there anything else I should know about?"
The Counselor hesitated, t
hen said, “Uh, yes. The broadcasts on the Mig radio. They've been a little heavy-handed?"
"An excellent example of what I've been talking about. Overreaction. The people responsible have denied releasing that information, but facts are facts."
"If I may ask—what did you do?"
Thoresen smiled. “Dismissed them. And ordered all broadcasts cleared by me."
There was an uncomfortable pause, until the Counselor realized he had been dismissed. He rose, almost bowing.
"Thank you for your time, sir."
"That's what I'm here for,” the Baron soothed. “To listen to my people."
He watched the Counselor exit. Measured him. A clumsy man, he thought, but valuable. If things got worse, he could always throw him to the Migs. No. Not necessary. Not now. Events were just being blown out of proportion.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
For a person who had just pulled off a minor coup, Ida looked glum. She had found Bravo Project. Even with Sten's help, it had been a nasty problem. It was, obviously, near The Row. Or, what had been The Row. But the whole area was a warren of corridors, factories, homes. And specially constructed computer dodges, worked out by a genius whom Ida had grown to admire.
"What I did,” she told the group gathered around her terminal, “was make the assumption that Bravo Project was sealed from the rest of Vulcan."
"Naturally,” Sten said.
Ida glared at him. “That means all the people who worked there have to be kept under ultralight security. But these are special people. Not prisoners. So I figured they gotta be kept happy. The best food. Drink. Sex. The whole shot."
Doc smiled a nasty little teddy-bear smile. Ida had more brains than he gave her credit for.
"I set up a monitor on gourmet food shipments. Livees for highbrows, things like that."
"What's the problem, then?” Sten asked.
Ida tapped some keys. A three-dimensional model of the Bravo Project lab blossomed out. Silence as they all studied it.
"Projection,” Jorgensen said. “Direct assault unacceptable casualties. Mission in doubt with conventional tactics."
Doc looked it over. His tendrils waved in agreement. The others waited for his conclusions.
"Under the present circumstances,” he said, “Jorgensen is correct. But what if we move it up a stage?"