by Allan Cole
"Do you have a tracer?" Thoresen glowered.
"Nossir. And, Baron, I don't think we'll be able to get one." Thoresen blanked the screen, and keyed up another department.
"Semantics. Yes, Baron?"
"Do you have an analysis of that voice?"
"We do. Very tentative, sir. Non-Mig, non-Tech. Even though the voice of Free Vulcan—"
"You have been directed not to use that term, Tech!"
"Sorry, sir. Our theory is that the voice is synthesized. Sorry."
Thoresen flicked off, noted the time, and headed for the salle d'armes. He pulled a saber from its hanging and spun on the instructor.
"Come in," he growled. "As if you mean it!"
Sten eyed the hydroponics farm dubiously. It looked just as it had before Alex bustled off. The agribots still lovingly tended the produce intended for Exec consumption. "You sure it's gonna go?" he asked skeptically.
Alex patted him patronizingly. "Ah ken ye dinnae know what ye're glassin', lad. But dinnae tell your gran'sire how to suck eggs."
Sten followed him to the shipping port and ducked inside. Alex let the door almost close, then blocked it with a small metal bar. "Now ye see it—"
He touched off a small emergency flare, lobbed it into the middle of the farm, and yanked the bar out. As the door snapped closed, Sten saw the compartment fill—deck to ceiling—with a mass of flames.
"Ye ken," Alex said, as the shock slammed against the lock, "i's what's known as a dust explosion. Ye mere put the intake in the fertilizer supply, burn awa' the liquidifier, an' dust sprays aboot the room. Touch i' off"—the little man chuckled happily.
EXECUTIVE PERSONNEL EYES ONLY
We have noticed an inordinate number of applications for transfer, early retirement, or resignation. We are most disappointed. During this admittedly unsettling time, the Company needs its most skilled personnel to be most attentive to their duties. For this reason, all such applications shall be disapproved until further notice.
Thoresen.
Webb slit the dying Sociopatrolman's throat from ear to ear, stood, and brushed his hands off. He walked over to the only survivor of the ten-man patrol, held against the wall by two grim Migs. "Let 'im go, boys."
The surprised Migs released the patrolman.
"We're makin' ya a bargain," Webb said. "You ain't gonna get splattered like the rest of your scum. We're gonna let you go."
Webb's two men looked surprised.
"You just wander back to your barracks sewer, and let your friends know what happened."
The patrolman, near rigid with terror, nodded.
"An' next time they put you out on patrol, you don't have to crud around like you're a clottin' hero. Make a little noise. Don't be too anxious lookin' down a passage where somethin' might be goin' on you don't want to know about. Let 'im run, boys."
The patrolman glanced at the Mig bush section then he backed away. He sidled to the bend in the corridor, whirled and was gone.
"Y'think he's gonna do like you want, Webb?" one of his men asked.
"Don't matter. Either way, he won't be worth drakh anymore. An' don't you think security's gonna wonder why he got away without gettin' banged around?"
"I still don't understand."
"That's why you ain't a cell leader. Yet. C'mon. Let's clear."
The five-man patrol ducked as Frick and Frack hissed down from the overhead girders of the warehouse. One man had time to raise his riot gun and blast a hole through some crates before the white phosphorus minicaps ignited.
The two creatures swooped back over, curiously eyeing the hell below them as the phosphorus seared through flesh and bone, then banked into the waiting duct above.
"You! What's that? The brown drakh?"
"Soybeef stew," Sten replied. "May I offer you some?"
"Nawp. Don't need any extra diseases. I'll help myself." The med-Tech ladled stew from the tureen onto his tray, then slid on down the line.
Sten, face carefully blank, looked down the line of servers to Bet. They both wore white coveralls and were indistinguishable from the other workers in the Creche staff mess. Part of Sten's mind began the countdown, while another caught bits of conversation from the technicians at the tables.
"Clotting little monster! Daddy this, an' daddy that an' daddy I got to be a spacetug today and—"
"If we didn't need 'em, Company oughta space the little clots—"
"Tell 'em stories, pat 'em on the head, wipe their bungs when they mess. The Company don't pay us near enough."
"How you doin' with Billy?"
"Me an' that clot are reaching an understanding. I put him in a sewer supervisor, and just left him there for two shifts. Clottin' booger's gonna learn."
"Actually, doctor, there's no reason the Company has to maintain these creatures in the style it does. I'm theorizing that the program could be implemented with the use of atrophy amputation."
"Hmm. Interesting concept We might develop it. . ." Time.
Sten snapped the stock of the willygun to lock and brought it up, finger closing on the trigger. The two Sociopatrolmen lounging at the entrance dropped, fist-size holes in their chests.
"Down! Get down!" Bet shouted. . .the servers stared, then flattened as Sten lobbed two grenades from his pouch into the middle of the hall.
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 w
e 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. Mah 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 occurrenc
e. 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.