Sten

by Chris Bunch

  Bet showered a handful of firepills across the room, then the two fell alongside the servers.

  Seconds passed and there was stunned silence from the other side of the serving line, then screams. And an all-enveloping blast.

  Sten lifted his head and eyed Bet. She was laughing. He scrambled to his feet and pulled her up. Shook her. She came back to reality as he pushed her toward the garbage vent that was their escape hole. He did, in fact, understand her a little better.

  * * * *

  "This is the voice of Free Vulcan. We know what it is to be a Mig. To live under the bootheels of the Company. To know there is no law and no justice, except for those who have the stranglehold of power.

  "Now, justice will come to Vulcan. Justice for those who have lived for generations in terror.

  "Migs. You know what a terrible joke your Counselors are, and how your grievance committees are echoes of the Company's brutality.

  "There is an end to this. From this shift forward, Free Vulcan will enforce the rights that free men know everywhere in the galaxy.

  "If your foreman forces you to work a double shift, if a coworker is toadying to the Company, if your sons and daughters are being corrupted or stolen by the Company—These evils will end. Now. If they do not, Free Vulcan will end those who commit them.

  "If you have a grievance, talk about it. You may not know who is Free Vulcan. Perhaps your shiftmate, another worker down the line, the joygirl or joyboy in the Dome—even a Tech. But your words will be heard and our courts will act on them.

  "We bring you justice, people of Vulcan."

  * * * *

  COMPANY POLICY—ALL COUNSELORS AND SECURITY EXECS-EYES ONLY

  The sudden lack of participation by Mig-Unskilled workers in our grievance program has been brought to my attention. It is our opinion that concern about the tiny band of malcontents that styles itself “Free Vulcan” is excessive, since, in fact, we are now able to grasp terror by its throat.

  Security Executives are evaluating the main areas reflecting such lack of involvement since the absence pinpoints areas where malcontents are located. Appropriate measures, of the severest kind, are imminent. It is strongly suggested that all Counselors make the workers for whose welfare they are responsible aware that, once these malcontents are dealt with, those who have encouraged them by participating in their kangaroo “justice” system will also be disciplined.

  Thoresen.

  * * * *

  "The thought has occurred to me,” Ida drawled as she passed around glasses of alk, “that none of us are the people our parents wanted us to associate with."

  "Some of us,” Bet said evenly, “are the kind of people who wouldn't want to associate with our parents in the first place."

  "Are we no bein’ grim, lass?"

  "Parents?” Frick shrilled. “Why would, colony, our colony care?” Frack squealed agreement.

  "If you humans aren't creating traumas for other people,” Doc said, “you can't wait to set them up for yourselves, can you?"

  Sten was interested. “How do pandas get along with their progenitors, Doc?"

  "It is not a factor. First, in the breeding process the male sheds his member after copulation and quickly—bleeds would be an analog—to death.” Doc waved several tendrils. “Once the young hatches, inside the female, it exists ... ah, as a parasite until born. Birth, naturally, occurs at the moment of female death."

  Bet blinked. “That doesn't leave you with much of a sex life, does it?"

  "I have wondered why the human mind isn't physiologically below the umbilicus,” Doc said, “since most of its thought is concerned with that region. But, to answer your question, those of us with a proper concern for the future arrange to have ourselves neutered. The operation also extends our life span for nearly a hundred E-years."

  Sten couldn't decide whether to laugh or be embarrassed.

  "I can see it now,” Jorgensen drawled. “Amblin’ up the road. Farm spread out in front of you. You duck down behind a bush, spray the windows for snipers, then zig-zag up to the door, boot it open, heave in a grenade, roll in firin', and come to your feet, ‘Ma! I'm home!’”

  "Ah no ken why ye gie wha’ we are so much concern,” Alex finished. “Th’ none a’ us'll get oot'a Mantis alive.” He upended his drink and went for another, not looking particularly concerned.

  * * * *

  Sweat dripped from the Counselor's face onto his torn, filthy robes. “There was simply no truth to that story. My dealings with you Migs—"

  "Mebbe we use that word,” a brawny Mig said, “but that don't make it sound right comin’ from you."

  "Excuse me. You're quite right, of course. But ... truthfully, I never attempted to deprive any ... migrant worker of his rightfully earned time for personal benefit. It's a lie. A story created by my enemies."

  The five cell leaders managed to look disbelieving in unison.

  Sten watched closely from behind the one-way panel to one side of the “court,” set up in an abandoned warehouse. He found it interesting that he didn't hate the Counselor that actively anymore. On the other hand, he felt less than no desire to intervene.

  "You can examine my record,” the Counselor went on. “I've always been known for my fairness."

  Bitter laughter drowned whatever else he was going to say. “We'll cut you a skate on that one,” Alvor said. “Still leaves you assignin’ Migs to shifts to get ‘em killed ‘cause they wouldn't give you whatever you wanted. I know two, maybe three people you set up for brainburns."

  The Mig at the end of the table, who'd been silently staring at the Counselor, suddenly got up. “I got a question, boys. I wanna put it to his scumness personal. What'd you want from my Janice, made her cut an’ run to the Delinqs?"

  The Counselor licked his lips. The Mig grabbed him by the hair and lifted the Counselor out of his chair. “You ain't answered my question."

  "It—there was—just a misunderstanding of my attempt to communicate."

  "Communicate. ‘Sat it? She was ten."

  Sten got up. But the Mig holding the Counselor was keeping himself back. He looked over at the other cell leaders. “I don't need any clottin’ more. Vote guilty."

  And the chorus answered in agreement. “Unanimous,” Alvor put in. “What's the sentence?"

  Sten kicked the screen over. “Give him to his friends. Outside."

  The Counselor's eyes flared open. Who? And then he was screaming and clawing as the cell leaders had him. They jerked the double doors open and pushed. The Counselor half fell, half staggered into the arms of the workers waiting outside.

  Alvor pulled the door to. But the sound of the mob outside was very clear.

  That was the first.

  * * * *

  "Just like pushin’ dominoes,” Sten said. He and Alex were headed back for the ship. “Three more cycles and we can stop hidin’ behind bushes, start the revolution, and get the Guard in motion."

  "Dinna be countin’ your eggs afore they're chickened."

  "What the clot does that mean?"

  "Ah no ken. But ma gran used it t'mean things gang aft aglay."

  "Would you speak Imperial, for clot's sakes?"

  "Ah'm spikit proper, it's just your ears need recalibratin', lad."

  "Bet me. But look. We're all set. A, we get a resistance set up. B, we start rightin’ wrongs and killin’ every Exec we can get and every Tech that can count above ten with his boots on."

  "Aye. There's naught wrong so far."

  "C, we build weapons and train the Migs how to use ‘em. D, we set up our own alternate government, just like the conditioner taught us. Then, E, we're gonna snap our fingers in three cycles and the revolution has started."

  Alex unslung his rule—their sector was secure enough for most of the Migs to go openly armed now—and stopped.

  "You no ken one thing, Sten,” he said. “Man or woman, once they get their hands on th’ guns, there's no callin’ what'll happen next. Ah gie ye example. Ma
h brother, he was Mantis. Went in to some nice barbarian-class world our fearless Emp'rer decided needed a new gov'mint.

  "Ye trackin’ me yit? Aye, so they raises the populace, an’ teaches ‘em how to stand an’ fight. Makes ‘em proud to be what they is, ‘stead of crawlin’ worms."

  "I am not trackin',” Sten said.

  "So they runs up the blawdy red flag a’ revolution, an’ it starts. People slaughter a’ th’ nobility in th'r beds. My braw trots up wi’ the gov'ment they've set up to replace the old baddies. An’ the people're so in love wi’ blood an’ slaughter, they turns the new gov'ment inta cattle fodder like they done the first. My braw gets offworld wi'out an arm, an’ the pro’ don't take. So he's back tendin’ sheep on Edinburgh, an’ I goes out to keep the clan name fresh. Now, I'm takin’ the long road aroun'—but best ye rec'lect. When ye're giein’ bairns the fire, ye no can tell wha'll be burnt."

  He reslung his willygun, and he and Sten walked in silence to the airlock into the ship.

  To be welcomed by Ida screaming, in a dull roar, “Clot! Clot! Clot!” A computer terminal sailed across the room to slam into a painting.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing at all. But look at what your clotting Migs did!” She waved at the screens around the room. Sten noticed the other members of the team and Bet were silently staring.

  "These are all the security channels. Look at those fools!"

  "Dammit, Ida, tell me what happened!"

  "As far as we can estimate,” Doc said, “the Sociopatrol was transferring several unregenerate Migs South, to Exotic Section. One of the Migs in the shipment must've had some friends."

  Sten glanced at the screens then walked to the alk container and poured himself a shot.

  "So they decided to rescue him,” Ida continued. “Naturally, the patrol reinforced, and so did the guy's friends. Which sucked in most of our cells in South Vulcan. Look.” Sten stared at the sweeping screens. Every now and then he recognized a face from the resistance.

  "'Pears,” Jorgensen said, “like they dug all the weapons out and went huntin’ for bear."

  Ida sneered at Sten, then started cutting in sound from the various screens. Fascinated, Sten sat down to watch. He saw screaming Migs charge a formation of patrolmen sheltered behind upended gravsleds. Riot guns sprayed and the Migs went down.

  On another monitor a Mig woman, waving the severed head of a patrolman, lead a vee-formation of resistance fighters into a wedge of patrolmen. The camera flared and went out, but it looked like there were more patrolmen down than Migs.

  A third screen showed a static scene at the entrance to Exotic Section. The lock was barricaded, and patrolmen had blockades set around it. Migs sniped at them from corridor and vent openings.

  Sten turned away and poured the drink down. “Clot. Clot. Clot."

  "I already said that,” Ida noted. Sten turned to Jorgensen. “Miyitkina.” Jorgensen's eyes glazed. He went into his trance. “Observe occurrence. Prog."

  "Impossible to compute exact percentages. But, overall, unfavorable."

  "Details."

  "If a revolution, particularly an orchestrated one such as this, is allowed to begin before the proper moment, the following problems will occur: The most highly motivated and skilled resistance men will very likely become casualties, since they will be attacking spontaneously rather than from a given plan; underground collaborators will be blown since it becomes a matter of survival for them to come into the open; since the combat effort cannot be mounted with full effectiveness, the likelihood of the existing regime being able to defeat the revolution, militarily, is almost certain. Examples of the above are—"

  "Suspend program,” Sten said. “If it's blown, how long does it take to put things back together again?"

  "Phraseology uncertain,” Jorgensen intoned. “But understood. Repression will be intensified after such a revolution is defeated; reestablishment of revolutionary activity will take an extended period of time. A conservative estimate would be ten to twenty years."

  Sten didn't even bother to swear. Just poured himself a drink.

  "Sten!” Bet suddenly shouted. “Look. At that screen.” Sten turned. And gaped. The screen she was pointing at was the one fixed on the entrance to the Exotic Section.

  "But,” he heard Doc say, “those are none of our personnel."

  They weren't. “They” were a solid wall of Migs. Unarmed or carrying clubs or improvised stakes. They were charging directly into the concentrated fire of the patrolmen grouped around the entrance. And they died, wave after wave of them.

  But they kept coming, crawling over the bodies of their own dead, and, finally, rolling over the defenders. There was no sound, but Sten could well imagine. He saw a boy—no more than ten—come to his feet. He was waving ... Sten swallowed. Hard. There were still threads of a Sociopatrol uniform clinging to it.

  More Migs ran forward, teams with steel benches ripped from work areas. They slammed at the doors to the Exotic Section, and the doors went down.

  Jorgensen, still in his battle-computer trance, droned on. “...there are, however, examples of spontaneous success. As, for example, the racially deprived citizenry of the city of Johannesburg."

  "Two Miyitkina,” Sten snapped.

  "Ah hae a wee suggestion,” Alex said. “Ah suggest we be joinin’ our troopies, or yon revolution may be giein’ on wi'out us."

  * * * *

  Sten stepped through the smashed windows of the rec dome's control capsule and looked down at the faces staring up at him in their thousands. Sweaty, bloody, dirty, and growling.

  It made no sense. Militarily. One rocket could take out not only the assembled Mantis team, but all the resistance workers they'd so laboriously trained and recruited over the months.

  Clot sense, Sten thought, and nipped the hailer on.

  "MEN AND WOMEN OF VULCAN,” his voice boomed and echoed around the dome. He assumed that there were still functional security pickups, and he was being seen. He wondered if Thoresen would be able to ID him.

  "Free men and women of Vulcan,” he corrected himself. He waited for the roar to die. “We came to Vulcan to help you fight for your freedom. But you didn't need our help. You charged the Company's guns with your bare hands. And you won.

  "But the Company still lives. Lives in The Eye. And until we can celebrate that victory—in The Eye—we have won nothing.

  "Now is the time ... Now is the time for us to help you. Help you make Vulcan free!” Sten chopped the hailer switch and walked back into the capsule.

  Alex nodded approvingly. “Ah, ye can no dance to it, but Ah gie yer speech a’ fair. Now, if we through muckin’ aboot, ye ken we'll shoot away our signal, an’ gie on wi’ our real business?"

  * * * *

  MYOR YJHH MMUI OERT MMCV CCVX AWLO...

  Mahoney moved aside and let the Emperor read the decoded message:

  STEP ONE COMPLETE. VULCAN NOW IN COMPLETE INTERNAL TURMOIL. BEGINNING STEP TWO.

  The Emperor breathed deeply.

  "Deploy Guard's First and Second Assault according to Operation Bravo, colonel."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Baron stared at the figure on his screen. Frowned. It was familiar. He tapped keys, and the camera moved in on Sten. Thoresen froze a frame. Studied Sten's face. No. He didn't know him. Thoresen punched the keys ordering the computer to search its memory for a possible ID. With a little luck, it would just be some Mig with a loud mouth and tiny brain. Somehow, Thoresen didn't think it would work out that way.

  * * * *

  Ida's model of the Bravo Project lab looked like a gray skinny balloon, half full of water at one end. There wasn't much to study; Ida had still been unable to penetrate security.

  The team members and Bet eyed the model morosely. Sten, Alex, and Jorgensen wore, for the first time since they'd been on Vulcan, the Mantis Section phototropic camouflage uniforms. Ida and Bet were fitted into the coveralls of a Tech
ist and 3rd Class.

  There wasn't much to say. Nobody was interested in inspirational speeches. They shouldered their packs, silently got into the gravsled, and Sten lifted it off, into the corridors of a Vulcan gone insane.

  * * * *

  Vulcan was quickly collapsing as the Migs took to the streets. Images of pitched battles, looting, and Sociopatrol defeats floated up on the Baron's vidscreen.

  The Baron turned the vid off. It was hopeless. There was nothing more he could do to put down the revolt. He would just have to let it burn itself out, then try to put his empire back together again.

  A light blinked for attention. Thoresen almost ignored it. Just one more report from a hysterical guard. No, he had to answer. He flicked his computer on.

  His heart turned to ice. The computer had identified the Mig leader. Sten. But he was—How?—And then the Baron knew that his world was about to end.

  There was only one possibility: Sten; the Guard; Bravo Project. The Emperor knew and the Emperor was responsible for the Mig revolt. Sten was part of a Mantis Section team.

  Desperately, Thoresen searched for a way out. What would happen next? How was he supposed to react? That was it—The Emperor was looking for an excuse to land troops. Thoresen was expected to call for help. He would be arrested, Bravo Project uncovered and then...

  And then Thoresen had it. He would go to the lab. Get the most important files. Destroy the rest and flee. The Baron would still have the Emperor where he wanted him as long as he had the secret to AM2.

  He rose and started for the door. Paused. Something else.

  Something else. The Emperor would have ordered the lab destroyed. Sten and his team could be on the way now. He hurried to his comvid.

  The frightened face of his chief security man came into view. “Sir!"

  "I want as many men as you can spare. Here. Now,” Thoresen snapped. The security chief started to gobble. “Get yourself together, man."

  The chief stiffened. “Yes sir."

  He disappeared. Thoresen thought quickly. Was there anything else? Any other percautions? ... He similed grimly to himself, opened a desk drawer, and pulled out a small red box. He shoved it into his pocket and raced out the door.