by Chris Bunch
The sole job of this giant engine was to tow the eighty-kilometer formation of barges trailing behind.
Hotsco started an automatic count of the container ships, then quit in awe as the sum reached into the scores.
And each and every one of them was filled with the most precious substance in the Empire—AM2.
Captain Hotsco, part-time pirate, full-time smuggler, was gazing upon a dream prize. The value of the AM2 train bound for Dusable's depot was unimaginable. Even allowing for a Kenna lie involving the quantity—clot, cut it in half—Hotsco knew she was looking at not one fortune, but as many as the number of ships in the convoy.
And it was just sitting there for the taking. Okay, she couldn't get it all. But she could certainly cut out enough to buy two or three systems the size of the Cairenes.
Wild would be livid enough to cut her pretty throat.
Clot Wild.
But, what about that cute Kilgour? It was his intelligence that had turned up word of the AM2 shipment. She had fallen in lust with the tubby Scotsman as he had laid out the plan to Wild and a group of his captains—which had included Hotsco.
The drill was for the smugglers to use their normal runs to the Cairenes—usually carrying expensive illegals for the pols and their cronies—as a cover to sniff out the AM2 train.
It was a damned good plan, too. Proof was looking out at her from the monitor.
And there was no one, but no one, around to know.
But if she followed her instincts, she might never learn the answer to that age-old question of what lies under a Scotsman's kilt.
Clot the kilt.
Look at all that AM2.
After all, she hadn't promised anything. Not really. She had only said she would take a look. And she was looking, wasn't she?
Then a terrible, dream-souring thought trickled through. What would she do with it? Who could fence that amount? And if she tried dribbling it out, someone would eventually fink. And the Imperials would soon be hot on her trail.
Clot the Imperials. Hotsco had practically been born on the run.
Yeah… But… She had never had to run from entire fleets. Which is what would happen. All that AM2 double-damned-guaranteed it.
Oh, well.
Hotsco decided to do the honest thing—no matter how much it hurt.
To cheer herself, she thought of Alex's broad, smiling face. And that short kilt.
She quickly coded the message, including the coordinates of the AM2 supply train. Then she sent it in one short, powerful blast.
Hotsco waited for two, or three breaths.
Her com unit bleeped.
It was the Victory.
Message received.
Hotsco quickly shut down and scooted out of the area, thinking, I hope you're worth it, Alex Kilgour.
Dusable's new AM2 depot was the size of a small moon. In looks, it resembled a quartered sphere. Each "slice" was placed in the corner of an imaginary square, then linked with its sisters by enormous tubes. All traffic and freight flowed through these tubes. Laid over this configuration was an elaborate spiderweb of com lines, repair walks, and pipes carrying everything from industrial liquids to recycled air and sewage from the life-form units.
The depot normally required six hundred beings to operate. But there was nothing normal about Dusable. Even here, parked in high orbit, the rules of featherbedding applied. There were twice that number lazing away when the AM2 shipment arrived.
Most of them were asleep. Or partying in the rec center. Kenna's announcement hadn't been a surprise to the depot people. They had been alerted days before to get ready for the shipment. Not that there was much to do. The depot was almost entirely automated.
A sleepy operator noted the approach in his log. He half checked that all automatic units were functioning, and then returned to his bunk and spooned up to his joyboy's smooth back.
For a moment, he thought about waking the lad for a little fun. His loins stirred mildly. Then sleep overtook him, and he was snoring away.
On the monitor, the image of the giant AM2 train closed in. Then it stopped as the convoy reached a synchronous orbit with the station. Signals went out. The com board lit up with computer-exchanged messages.
The first container units separated from the train. They moved in a slow arc toward the depot where 'bot units waited to snag them and guide them aboard.
If the operator had been looking, he would have seen one of those AM2 container units detach itself from the convoy and scoot away from its fellows.
The depot's shadow fell across the scene. And all became darkness.
"I'll never be able to hold up my head in the stregg halls again," Otho mourned.
"It'll do you good," Cind said, as she jockeyed the phony barge away from the pack of container ships closing on the yawning main depot bay.
"You could stand to lose about eighty kilos. Get your girlish figure back."
"By my mother's beard, you have no heart, woman," Otho said—keeping an eye out for the patrol boat it was his job to track.
He figured they had about fifty-five minutes before it completed its routine circuit.
"I, Otho, have been ordered to do a thing that is less than glorious."
"Poor baby," Cind mock-sympathized.
She was getting used to the controls now. It had been awkward at first. After all, she was basically piloting a hulk—except it had been gutted, and a standard ship's lifeboat hidden inside. The only clue that the container wasn't standard was the slight cutout in the stern for the boat's drivetube. It was so battered from millions of light-years of travel that only a close inspection would reveal the exit bay the Victory's sailors had cut out with torches under Kilgour's direction. The lifeboat contained herself, Otho, and half-a-dozen Bhor warriors.
"When my good friend Sten informed me that our first target was the quisling politicians of Dusable, I thought my old heart would break with joy," Otho said.
"By my father's frozen buttocks, I thought, but this is a true brother of the stregghorn. For there is nothing a true Bhor loves to hate so much as a politician. And here I was offered a whole planet of these vipers to slay.
"I tell you, Cind, I dreamed of a long-old age, spinning the tale of all the thick political skulls I cracked. Their blood would flow like stregg at a blessing. The only sorrow I foresaw was that there would be so many souls to drink to hell, I would not live to honor them all."
"Quit trying to soften me up, Otho," Cind said. "First off, you're not that old. Secondly, you've done more than enough killing to boast for six lifetimes. So, forget it. I'm not going to suddenly feel sorry for you, and say, 'Well… if you feel so strongly about it, dear… let the slaughter begin.' "
"A slaughter wouldn't be necessary," Otho said. "If only I could crush a throat or two, I would be satisfied. A happy Bhor."
"No," Cind said. "And that's my last word on the subject." Just then, the container coasted against one of the depot slices. It bumped once. Twice. Then she had it steady against the steel walls.
She applied small bursts of power, edging the container along the station's hull. Finally, it came to rest against a repair port. Cind locked on.
"Now, let's get inside," Cind said. "And remember, Otho… No killing. We're freedom fighters, remember? And a bloody trail of innocent civilian victims makes for a lousy image."
"If you insist." Otho sniffed. "I suppose I'll become accustomed to these modern ways in time."
A few blurred minutes, and they'd peeled the sealed port door with a small charge and were inside.
Cind clicked her com unit twice. A moment later, there was a return click from the Victory.
Step one complete.
Cind had never seen an AM2 depot in person, much less been inside one. Onscreen, the mission had looked easy. The schematic Kilgour had ferreted out of a reference library showed a very dull, functional structure. Only its purpose was dramatic. A storehouse and distribution center for the most efficient power source ever
discovered.
The schematic showed that almost the entire depot was devoted to this purpose. There was only AM2, in the Imperium X-shielded bays. Living and work quarters. And a big-son-of-a-clot computer to keep things humming along.
Onscreen, it looked easy…
Cind glanced around the corridor she and her squad were slipping silently along. Nothing but gray walls, gray ceiling and floor, bathed in a faint glow of indirect lighting. From the repair port, the corridor ran straight for half a klick. Then it elbowed to the left. A quarter of a klick more, and they had reached the central computer.
For a change, Cind thought, the practice looked as easy as the theory.
Then they reached the elbow. Turned. And it quit being easy.
"By the curly hair on my dear mother's chin," Otho groaned, "it looks like the inside of a streggan's lair."
His comparison was quite accurate. The streggan—a mortal enemy of the ancient Bhor, now hunted to extinction—had lived in deep caverns reached through elaborate mazes scraped out of rock. To this day, the Bhor played a complicated game based on those legendary mazes.
Cind was looking at something very similar. Dusable's engineers had only partly followed the schematics. Instead of one corridor leading in a single direction, the main tunnel split a dozen times.
There was not a clue which entrance she should take.
"How much time do we have?" Cind asked, a little desperate.
"It doesn't matter," Otho said.
"Dammit, it does. If that patrol boat—"
"You have surpassed your old mentor in many things," Otho said. "But I see there is still some things you can learn. By my father's scrawny backside, I tell you… that gives me hope."
His brows beetled fondly at Cind. "A maze," he said, "is a thing of purpose. The purpose can be to amuse, or to hide."
He glanced at the tunnels snaking out before him. Shadows deep inside each one indicated other corridors eeling off to who knew where. "The beings of Dusable," he said, "most likely are concerned with the second. From what I have heard, the politicians have almost everything to hide."
"Why would they want to hide their central computer?" Cind asked. "I would think quick access would be important."
Otho nodded. He strode down the center tunnel a short distance, thumping on walls. Solid. Then a hollow sound. He lifted a belt torch from his harness and quickly cut a small opening.
Otho peered inside. Then he chortled. "I knew it." He waved for the others to join him.
Cind peered into the hole. There was a large compartment beyond, stacked with crates and barrels of contraband.
"The depot serves a double purpose," Otho said. "To store AM2 for the Empire. And to enrich the black marketeers of Dusable. You see. I was correct as usual."
"Well, good for you," Cind said. "But that still doesn't tell us which corridor to take."
"Oh… That. No difficulty at all," Otho said. "I was merely curious as to the purpose of this puzzle."
"You mean you know the way?"
"Certainly. These dimwits of Dusable would have chosen the most basic maze design. We take the tunnel on the far left. From then on, no matter what opportunity presents itself, you always choose the left. Eventually, we will arrive."
"If you're wrong," Cind said, "then we could be lost for hours. The entire mission blown. Not to mention our own buttocks being held against the fire."
"You doubt me? I, Otho. The master of the maze game?" Otho's red-rimmed eyes were wide at her lack of confidence.
Cind hesitated, then shrugged. "Lead on," she said.
Otho did. They moved quickly down the left-hand corridor, which twisted and turned and then spread out into many other possible routes. But Otho always chose the left. Sometimes this route would dead-end. And they would have to retrace their steps. Then plunge on.
Suddenly, the corridor made a left elbow like the first that had confounded them. Ahead was a door. Behind the door came a gentle hum of electronics.
With high drama, Otho waved a hand at the door. "Our destination," he intoned. He beamed at Cind, expecting a gush of admiration.
Cind simply nodded and raced for the door. She unsnapped a listening device from her harness. Put it to the door and bent an ear. A moment later, she signaled the all-clear, palmed a switch, and the door hissed open.
Light flooded across the elaborate computer that controlled all functions of the AM2 depot.
Cind plunged inside, went directly to the computer. She stared at the various options, touched some keys, grinned, and then took a programmed fiche from a beltpouch and fed it into the machine.
Otho and the other Bhor took their preplanned security positions. "The young are so rude, these days," Otho complained. "They do not see value in the experience of their elders. Why, when I was a stripling—too young to drink stregg unless it was in my milk—my mother would have skinned me for showing so little respect.
"Oh… well… No sense complaining. At least I had the joy of playing the maze game."
He mumped his corporal's back. "Was that not a most splendiferous achievement?"
Before the corporal could respond, there came an incredible shrieking wail, followed by a loud hooting of alarms.
Cind sprinted out of the control center as the computer voice blared down the corridor and sounded all over the depot.
"The depot has just been impacted by a meteorite. Point of impact, the main AM2 storage center. An AM2 explosion is imminent. All personnel are ordered to abandon the depot immediately. Use emergency procedures 1422A. Do not panic. Repeat do not panic. Impact."
"Let's get the clot out of here before they do," Cind shouted. And they raced away—this time bearing to the right as they wound their way back through the maze.
All over the depot, beings scrambled for the lifeboats. As the alarms hooted and the computer advised them not to panic, they scratched and fought for positions aboard the boats. In a few minutes the depot had emptied. And a small area of space was filled with lifeboats hurtling for the safety of the planet's surface.
Cind's container craft quietly kicked off.
She clicked her com three times.
Mission accomplished.
Aboard the Victory, Freston keyed acknowledgment. Then he gave swift orders for the Aoife to scoop the team up and head for home.
Freston turned to Sten. "Ready, sir."
"Proceed."
As the AM2 train and abandoned depot swung in their orbits, the Victory suddenly appeared out of hyperspace. Missile ports swung open, baring the Victory's teeth. Six Kalis spat out.
Before they struck, the Victory was gone.
On Dusable, there was no sound as the Kalis hit home and set off the massive AM2 explosion. Kenna and the thousands of SDT workers still gathered at the shipyard election party were suddenly aware that something was different. It was an odd, swimming sensation as all objects suddenly lost dimension. As if they had all been transported to a world of dots on paper.
They looked up at the sky. And it was gone.
All they could see was blinding white light.
There were loud screams. The crowd wavered as a gut-gripping hysteria swept over it.
Kenna fought for self-control. He raised a hand—to plead for calm.
Then all was abruptly normal. The white light gone. Dimension returned.
Kenna sucked in breath. Then his heart jammed against his ribs as he saw the enormous vid screen at the edge of the crowd wiped clean of his transmitted image.
Another man's face looked down on them. Vague familiarity clawed at his memory. There were loud, frightened mutters from the crowd. Then Kenna knew.
It was Sten.
"Citizens of Dusable," Sten's voice boomed. "I bring you grim news. Your leaders have callously chosen to gamble with your lives. And they have sold your right to be a free and independent people to the Eternal Emperor. And now you are his slavish allies."
Kenna shouted frantically for his tech to wipe Sten's face f
rom the monitor. But it was no use. And it wasn't only at the shipyards that people were hearing and watching Sten speak. The broadcast was overpowering all transmissions, all freqs on the planet.
"Considering Dusable's importance to the Empire of Evil, I have no choice but to remove it as a threat to me and all freedom-loving beings.
"The first attack has already been launched. We have destroyed the AM2 depot the traitor Solon Kenna was boasting about. We have also destroyed the AM2 shipment that was the price your Judas leaders set for your betrayal."
The crowd was transfixed, hanging on every word that fell from those gigantic lips on the vid screen. Kenna was looking for a bolt hole.
"My forces are launching a series of attacks on your world," Sten said.
People in the crowd looked wildly about, as if missiles were going to fall at any moment.
"However," Sten said, "it is not our wish to harm innocent civilians. Therefore, I now give you warning on which military targets we shall strike. I urge you all to abandon those areas immediately."
Sten held up his doomsday list. And began to read out: "In Ward Three, the arms facility… In Ward Fifty-six, the tooling facility… In Ward Eighty-nine, the shipyard…"
Kenna and the union minions didn't wait to hear the rest of the list. Sten had just named the shipyard where they all stood and gaped.
Screaming, weeping, calling to forgotten gods for mercy, the crowd poured out of the yard and raced away for safety.
Kenna was too scared to be ashamed to be among them.
The missile swooped lazily out of the sky, dropped to twenty feet above the broad boulevard, and slowly made its way along the avenue, on a hastily installed McLean drive. Broadcasting as it went:
"Warning. I am a Kali missile. I carry a low-yield nuclear device. Please do not interfere with my progress. I have no wish to harm innocent civilians."
All over the street, beings scurried for cover. Windows slammed as the missile cruised by at second-story height.
In one apartment, a child reached out with a stick to touch the missile. His mother grabbed him just in time and pulled him back.