The Sky is Filled With Ships

by Richard C. Meredith

  *

  Petrinja was one of several towns in the Balkans with that name. This one was probably the smallest, hardly more than a village, and technically a part of the Skopje Complex, though it was an independent town for all practical purposes. In Petrinja was a magistrate who prided himself on his knowledge of interstellar affairs and his loyalty to the glorious Chairman, Jonal Herrera. This magistrate had a daughter whom he had unimaginatively named Katrina—and she, just as unimaginative as her father, had married a young man named Peter. Peter, however, was an outspoken admirer of rebel General Henri Kantralas, which brought no ease to the magistrate’s household.

  On the day the news of the Federation’s defeat escaped from behind locked doors in Geneva, the magistrate called a special meeting in the Petrinja town hall, and young Peter attended, with a long, sharp hunting knife tucked under his coat. As the old magistrate cursed and reviled the names of Kantralas and of the Alliance of Independent Worlds, young Peter leaped up onto the stage—and sank the knife into his father-in-law’s heart.

  *

  Claude Smith-Henderson, titleless leader of the Brethren of Deliverance, upon hearing that the Battle of Armageddon had at last been fought, rejoiced at the imminent coming of his Savior Lord. Smith-Henderson, his long, graying beard blowing across his shoulder, quickly ran to tell his flock of the news.

  After listening to a short sermon and joining in a brief prayer service, the Brethren and their wives abandoned their homes in the town of Big Bell, Perth Complex, Australia, and sought the higher lands to the west of Meekatharra.

  As Smith-Henderson led them north and then west, out to where the Deliverer could more easily find them and distinguish them from the uncounted multitudes of unrighteous who populated the Earth, their burning homes filled the sky with a pillar of smoke by day, a pillar of fire by night.

  When they at last reached their sanctuary, a high spot of ground covered with no more than yellow spring grass, Smith-Henderson erected an altar and knelt to pray. And then he and his flock waited for the world to end.

  *

  Smoke also billowed skyward in the Tientsin Complex of East Asia as a mob attacked the Federal Governor’s mansion, smashing windows, screaming insults to the Chairman and his henchmen, raping the Governor’s youngest daughters, setting fire to the building, and demanding that the Federation surrender before the rebel warships began bombing Earth.

  The Governor had fled for his life in an official staff hovercar, leaving his two pretty daughters to the mercies of the mob. One of the girls, fifteen years old, survived to tell the story.

  *

  Citizeness Vivian Franz, a twenty-three year old model and sometimes 3-V actress, stopped in the middle of the ancient “Times Square” district of Manhattan, North Atlantic Complex. Her head was spinning with the frightful news she had just heard: the Federation fleet had been destroyed and the rebel general, that Henri Kantralas, had sworn to bomb Earth like the Federation had bombed Antigone.

  In her mind she could see it: the ships coming down through the sky above the Manhattan skyline, great terrible blasts of flame wiping that ancient town away, boiling the East and Hudson Rivers, destroying everything that mattered to her. And what was there she could do about it?

  Vivian stood beside a weathered statue of some ancient Chairman of the Federation—she didn’t know his name—and laid her purse down on the grass plot that surrounded it.

  There was nothing she could do, she told herself. In a few days, maybe even in a few hours, the rebels would be there and Vivian Franz would die—die!

  She shook her head, trying to drive the idea away, but it would not leave her. It clung there, stark and awful in her mind, the rebel ships in the sky and Vivian dying as they destroyed Manhattan. And there was nothing she could do.

  Suddenly she knew what she would do. If she were going to die then at least she was going to do something before she did, something wild and crazy, something to give a kind of insane meaning to the last hours of her life.

  Foot traffic around her came to a halt to watch, though no one tried to stop her, not even the officers of the law, who did not seem to care, not anymore.

  First she carefully removed her shoes and set them beside the wall that surrounded the plot of grass under the statue. Then she removed her blouse, folded it neatly, and placed it on the sidewalk beside the shoes. Finally she took off her skirt and panties, folded them as well, and laid them on top of the blouse.

  Standing stark naked under the imposing bulk of the age-spotted statue, Vivian Franz took loose the hair that was piled high above her head and let the dark curls tumble down her back. After climbing over the low wall, she sat down on the spot of turf, just wide enough to hold a human body stretched full length, and looked back at the people watching her.

  “We’re all going to die, you know,” she said with a voice that surprised her with its calmness. “We don’t have much time.” She paused and looked into the eyes of the man standing nearest her. “If any of you want me,” she said, “take off your clothes and come here.”

  She had more than a few acceptances before her strength gave out.

  *

  Walter Duncan carefully bolted the door and then proceeded to push as much furniture against it as his strength would allow. When he had finished he stood back for a moment to survey what he had done, whispering to himself, “That ought to do it.”

  “Walt?” Ledith, his term-wife, called from the landing at the top of the stairs, “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Duncan pushed a thin strand of white hair out of his eyes and turned to look up at the little old woman that his wife, over the decades, had become.

  “Just takin’ a few precautions, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Walt,” Ledith called down. “Come up here and get to bed this minute.”

  “Be up shortly, dear,” Duncan said, turning to the antique firearm that hung above the pseudo-fireplace. He took down the old weapon, worked its action and hoped that the shells would still fire. “Haven’t used this damn’ thing in better than fifty years, must be,” he said to himself.

  Tucking the rifle under his arm, Duncan started up the stairs.

  “Walt, what do you think you’re going to do with that?” Ledith asked indignantly.

  “Never you mind,” Duncan replied cryptically as he went into the bedroom.

  Crossing to the nearest window he pulled the curtains aside and looked out toward Alford, two kilometers or so away. There was just enough light left in the sky for him to make out the silhouettes of the town’s buildings, spotted now with lights. The outskirts of Aberdeen Complex itself were too far away for him to see them, but he knew that Aberdeen would be one of the targets of those hell-born rebels. Well, Duncan told himself, if they did decide to attack Aberdeen, and if they did decide to come up the Don toward Alford, they’d find at least one man ready for them, by God!

  Duncan smiled toward his wife, propped the old rifle beside the bed, and began to undress with the slow deliberation that comes with age.

  Chapter XXI

  Janas unceremoniously pushed Altho Franken and Bilthor into the hands of the men who leaned out of the helicopter. Behind him he heard shouts. One of the men in the helicopter’s open hatch straightened up, an energy pistol in his hand, and fired a blast across Janas’ shoulder. Shoving the .45 into the waistband of his trousers, the starship captain grabbed Maura around the waist with both hands and half threw her into the chopper. As soon as she had gained a foothold, he leaped upward behind her and into the craft.

  He was motioned into the empty copilot’s seat beside Jarl Emmett and strapped himself in as Emmett revved the engine and the machine lifted from the deck. While they rose there were shots aimed in their direction, but they ignored them.

  “We got them,” Janas said.

  Emmett nodded, not looking away from his controls, and then asked: “Paul?”

  “Dead,” Janas said tonelessly, his voice sou
nding loud in the quiet, acoustically padded cabin.

  An expression of pain briefly crossed Emmett’s face. “He was a good man.”

  Janas nodded but did not speak. With great deliberation he withdrew the clip from the butt of his .45 and replaced the five shells he had expended. He then slipped the pistol back into his waistband, almost hoping that he would have the opportunity to use it again—he wanted them to pay for Paul D’Lugan’s death, but who they were he was not sure.

  One of the men from the rear of the ‘copter came forward to ask Janas about his shoulder. When Janas replied that it was painful but not really serious, the man ripped open the scorched cloth of his shirt, swabbed away the blood, and sprayed on a temporary anesthetic bandage.

  “We’ve got twenty, maybe thirty minutes,” Emmett said. “If we can’t get the orders changed and Luna notified by then we’ve lost.”

  Janas looked at him. “What do you mean? The Pinkers won’t do anything drastic as long as we have them.” He tilted his head back to indicate the Franken brothers.

  “No,” Emmett said, “if it were only the Pinkers we could hold out for several days. Operations is virtually impregnable, short of nuclear weapons, that is. It was built to withstand a crashing spaceship and it would probably take a pretty good-sized nuke to do much damage.”

  “The Federation?” Janas asked.

  Emmett nodded coldly. “As soon as they get wind of what we’re doing they’ll send everything they’ve got to stop us—and that’ll include hydrogen bombs.”

  Janas sat back in the seat. Then we aren’t home free, he thought.

  “When you were on Earth the last time,” Emmett said as he raised the helicopter high above the buildings of STC Central and turned the craft out toward the huge, lonely building that housed the heart of the Solar Trading Company Operations Division, “ten years ago, and you told me what things were like Out There, I never imagined that it would end like this.”

  “No,” Janas said, shaking his head, “I didn’t either. I don’t know whether I would have started it if I had known.”

  “You would have,” Emmett said. “We’re doing what we have to do.”

  “What about Miriam?” Janas asked.

  “Safe,” Emmett answered. “I sent her to the lodge this morning. Not many people know where it is. This’ll all be over before they can find her.”

  Silently Janas hoped that the same were true of Enid. He was sure that Franken’s men had not been able to find her. Franken’s bluff would have had more substance had he really known where she was. But what about the Federation, he asked himself. They’re not amateurs at this like Altho. With all the power and wealth of the Federation behind them it would only be a matter of time until Herrera’s agents found her—if they were looking for her. But, and this was Janas’ hope, as Emmett had said, perhaps it would all be over before then—twenty or thirty minutes. Then it wouldn’t matter if they found Enid. They could not use her against Robert Janas, for then, win or lose, he would be dead or captive and the STC would have been saved or lost. Oh God, Enid, he cried to himself, I didn’t want you mixed up in this.

  Three armed helicopters, marked with the code colors of the STC Pinkers, part of a larger group that hovered in the air above the huge Operations building, rose higher into the air, swinging up to intercept Emmett’s chopper.

  “Well,” Emmett said, “we have a reception committee waiting for us. I wonder what took them so long.”

  The helicopter’s radio burst to sudden life as the Pinker’s siren broke in. Janas’ hand grasped toward the volume control to cut back the screaming.

  “Identify yourselves,” a strident voice said via radio as the siren abruptly ceased. “This is Lieutenant Halpern, STC Pinkers. I demand that you identify yourselves.” With that a rocket burst from the nearest of the Pinker ‘copters roared past the Operations craft, missing it by no more than a few meters.

  “They didn’t mean to hit us with that one,” Emmett said.

  “Shall we contact him?” Janas asked.

  Nodding, Emmett pointed out the small 3-V communications tank located in the center of the broad control panel.

  “Lieutenant,” Janas said into the microphone portion of the 3-V unit, “this is STC Operations Division helicopter—” he searched for an identification number “—number 545. Will you please switch to visual communications.”

  The Pinker officer did not speak but the receiving light above the ‘copter’s 3-V tank came to life. Janas adjusted the controls, brought into focus a grim face above a Pinker combat uniform.

  “Lieutenant,” Janas continued, “we have STC President Altho Franken and Vice President Bilthor Franken on board.” Then Janas yelled back across his shoulder: “Bring ‘em up so that he can see them.”

  The Franken brothers were roughly forced to the front of the chopper where their faces could be seen by the Pinker lieutenant.

  “Any action you take against us will also affect them,” Janas said when the Frankens had been taken back. “I suggest that you leave us alone.”

  The approaching Pinker helicopters slowed.

  “We’re going to land on the Operations building roof,” Janas told him. “Their lives are in your hands, lieutenant.”

  “If they’re hurt in any way…” the lieutenant said as the helicopters veered away. “Go on, dammit!”

  The helicopter surged forward, past the point where the Pinkers would have intercepted it, and then swung down toward the roof deck of the ancient Operations building. As they came in Janas could see a dozen or so armed men on the roof, dressed in the work tans of Operations Division. There were two or three limp bodies, and here and there the roof deck was scarred and smoldering from recent energy blasts.

  “They’ve held out,” Emmett said as the ‘copter’s skids touched the deck.

  Moments later, the huge blades still spinning, Emmett, Janas and the men who had been in the helicopter hustled the Franken brothers out and across the roof deck toward the elevators. Maura followed, blank faced, silent, brooding within herself.

  “Jarl,” a woman’s voice called.

  Janas turned to see Syble Dian, dressed in the tan coveralls of an Operations worker, an energy rifle tucked under her arm.

  “Syble!” Emmett said. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “Good afternoon, captain,” she said to Janas as she came up to them. Then she looked at Emmett and shrugged. “Well, the legal department’s not much use to us now, so I joined the ‘illegal’ department. I’m pretty good with a rifle, you know.”

  “I imagine you are,” Emmett said, “but for God’s sake, be careful. You could get yourself killed up here.”

  “So could those other fellows,” she said seriously, gesturing toward the men who stood around the roof deck, armed and waiting for the Pinker helicopters. “Anyway, Hal put me in charge up here.”

  “You in charge?” Emmett asked. “I asked him to stay up here.”

  “He said he had something else he had to do,” Syble told him. “He seemed quite anxious about it.”

  “Okay,” Emmett said. “Be careful anyway.”

  “I will,” Syble said slowly. “And you, Citizen Franken,” she said to Altho, “you be careful too. Don’t do anything foolish like not signing those papers.”

  Franken glared back at her, his lips a thin line cutting across his face.

  “We’d better get on down,” Emmett said, gesturing toward the open doors of the grav-elevator.

  A few moments later they had entered the cramped elevator car. There was room enough for only five: Emmett, Janas, Maura and the two Franken brothers. As the doors closed behind them, Emmett glanced at his watch. “How long?” Janas asked.

  “Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most,” Emmett said stiffly. “Everything’s ready below. All they’ve got to do is to sign the orders, get thumb and retinal prints, and we can shove the orders into the computer. I already have tapes prepared with detailed orders for message capsules. We c
an get them off as soon as the computer accepts the policy changes. I’ve alerted Luna that orders will be coming through soon.” “Will Luna accept your orders?” Janas asked. “I hope so,” Emmett said. “I don’t think that anyone’s informed them that I’m no longer Operations Supervisor. We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You don’t expect me to sign those orders, do you?” Franken asked bitterly.

  “You’ll sign them if you want to live, Altho,” Emmett said. “And I can’t decide that for you. But let me tell you this; if I don’t kill you myself, Federation bombs will. Now you decide.”

  Precious seconds rushed by as the elevator dropped them down toward the surface and below, down into the sub-basements of the huge, ancient Operations building, down toward the computer vaults and the machine that organized and supervised the operations of the vast starfleets of the Solar Trading Company. Janas had turned, about to add a comment to strengthen Emmett’s words, when the compartment was plunged into darkness.

  “What!” Emmett cried loudly as Maura stifled a scream.

  Janas recognized the feeling at once—free fall. Power had failed in the Operations building, or at least in the elevator shaft, and with it the Contra-grav unit that raised and lowered the small car. The compartment in which they rode was plunging toward the bottom of the well, 980 cm/sec2.

  “Friction locks,” Emmett said, “why don’t they stop us?”

  The mechanically operated friction locks that should have snapped from the sides of the car, grabbed into the walls of the shaft, and lowered the car slowly to the next exit were not operating. The car was not being slowed in its plunge down the long tube into the Earth, meter after meter into the rock that underlay the Operations building.