Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (17 page)

All known space was, apparently, in the grip of an undirected war fervor. No one was behaving normally. The auction had a potential for becoming a wild brawl.

“Mouse, Moyshe,” Kindervoort said, “I don’t mind telling you, this thing has me scared. It’s too big, and it looks like it could get bigger. Be very, very careful.”

“It could get too big for anybody,” Mouse said. His voice was soft and thoughtful. “It could roll us all under.” For two days
Danion
and her sisters drifted slowly toward The Broken Wings, watching and listening. They kept their presence secret longer than Moyshe expected. He and his compatriots obtained two days’ worth of observations.

They provided no comfort. Angel City was hell incarnate. Armies of undercover people had materialized there. They were warring with one another with a fine disregard for reason and local tranquility.

The war scare had set off a chain reaction of insanity.

As a landing team leader benRabi now rated his own office and a part-time assistant. His wife filled the assistant’s role.

Till this is over, at least, I’m important, he thought. He put little stock in Mouse’s theory that they were being groomed to master a Starfisher secret service. He had been able to make no independent corroboration of the claim.

BenRabi’s intercom buzzed. “BenRabi here.”

“Jarl, Moyshe. I need you over here.”

“Now?”

“Right. Final meeting.”

“I’m on my way.” He gathered his papers, donned fatalism like a cloak, and stalked toward Kindervoort’s office. He met Mouse outside Kindervoort’s door.

“Broomstick fly,” Mouse said.

“No lie. Anybody with any sense would cancel the auction.”

Mouse grinned. “Not the Seiners. You got to remember, this auction is part of their big picture.”

“I think they’d go ahead even if it weren’t.”

“Come on in,” Kindervoort called. A moment later he began introducing them to the Ships’ Commanders and Chiefs of Security of the other harvestships of Payne’s Fleet.

The gentlemen were present only as holo portrayals. Kindervoort, Storm, and benRabi would be aboard their vessels the same way. They and the holo equipment and technicians reduced Kindervoort’s office to postage stamp size.

“You bring your final reports?” Kindervoort asked.

BenRabi nodded. Mouse said, “Right here. But you’re not going to like them.”

“Why not?”

“They’re reality-based. Meaning they recommend that you cancel or postpone.”

BenRabi added, “We can’t handle security with what you’ve given us. Not under the conditions obtaining.”

“We’ve been talking about that. How many more men would you need?”

“About a brigade of MPs,” Mouse growled.

“Moyshe, you look surprised,” Kindervoort said.

“Just thinking that this isn’t like working for the Bureau. You ask the Admiral for more than he gives you, he takes half away and tells you to make do. I’d say another hundred men. And two more months to train them.”

“Mr. Storm. Are those realistic figures?” one Ship’s Commander asked.

“Minimum realistic. My partner is one of your incurable optimists. But there is an alternative. Cancel this shore leave plan. Don’t send anybody down but members of the auction team. We can set up a compound . . . ”

Danion’s
Commander interrupted. “Sorry. No can do, Mister Storm. We promised our people liberty. Mister benRabi, we’ll give you as many men as you want. But the thing has got to be done now.”

“You’re going to lose people,” benRabi protested. He was so irritated he stamped a foot. “Shore leave is stupid. The more people you let wander around down there, the fewer I’m going to be able to protect.”

He had lost this argument several times before. The brass had promised everybody a chance to see what life on a planet was like. They would not go back on their word despite having learned that the Angel City situation was more deadly than expected.

Moyshe had begun to suspect that the complication was deliberate, and purely for the propaganda possibilities inherent in potential dead or injured tourists. If his guess was correct, then someone upstairs was as cold-blooded as his old boss, Admiral Beckhart.

“This’s the way it’s going to be, then,” Moyshe said. “You’ll have ten thousand tourists on the ground all the time. That’s going to make the Angel City merchants happy and me miserable. I’ll have half of a hundred fifty men if you give me the hundred I just asked for. That doesn’t divide out too good, so the tourists will be on their own. If they get into trouble, tough. I’ll cover auction people and VIPs. God can take care of the rest.”

He surveyed his audience. He did not see any sympathy there. “You pushed me into this job,” he growled. “Why not let me do the damned thing?”

Mouse backed him up. “The same goes for my shift, gents. That’s the real world down there. The world of Confederation, espionage, and bad guys, I should say. Those people don’t do things the Starfisher way. I’ve been led to believe that Moyshe and I were given our jobs because we know The Broken Wings and Confederation. And the intelligence viewpoint. I wish you’d accept our expertise. And quit trying to make other realities conform to your views about the way things ought to be.”

Storm winked at Moyshe. They had taken the offensive. They had gotten in their licks.

Kindervoort said, “Let’s calm down. This’s no time for tempers. The job has got be be done, like it or not.” Kindervoort’s comm buzzed. “Security.”

“James, Radio, sir. Is the Ship’s Commander there?”

The Ship’s Commander stepped to the comm. “What is it?”

“We’ve noticed an increase in coded traffic, sir. It could mean that we’ve been detected.”

Within minutes several other departments reported similar suspicions. The interruptions kept Mouse and benRabi from arguing their case. The Ship’s Commander excused himself, as did his Executive Officer. The holographic visitors faded away. The holo technicians started packing their equipment.

“Well, damned me,” Moyshe grumbled.

“What do you think?” Kindervoort asked.

“It’s hideous,” Mouse snapped.

“Moyshe?”

BenRabi spread his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “What the hell? Nobody listens to anything I say.”

“You think there’s any chance they could lay hands on somebody who knows something worth their while?”

“Of course there’s a chance. You’ve seen the damned situation reports. They mean business down there. I’m trying to do a job. If nobody will let me . . . ”

“Moyshe, I’m not the Ship’s Commander. Just between you and me, I think you’re right. I argued your case harder than you think. The Ship’s Commander just doesn’t see the rest of the universe in anything but Seiner terms. He thinks Confederation is just like us, only working against us. He thinks this is some kind of competition between fleets. He’s wrong, but he’s in charge. If he wants shoreside liberty, that’s what he gets. Do what you can, and grit your teeth if you lose a few. Just don’t let them find out what’s going on at Stars’ End before we get hold of the weapons.”

“That will mean fighting the Sangaree again, Jarl. Which means we won’t get any back-up here if this show blows up in our faces.”

“True. We’re on our own. So we stall. We go slow. We keep the auction piddling along. With luck, Gruber will finish before we’ve lost our distraction value.”

“That’s candy,” Mouse grumbled.

“From hunger,” benRabi agreed. They had begun to slip into landside idiom again. “You’re all hyper bent.”

The public address system came to life. The Ship’s Commander asked for volunteers willing to join the auction security effort down in Angel City.

People started showing up immediately. Amy was the first applicant.

“You’re not going,” Moyshe told her. “That’s the final word.”

She fought back. The argument became bitter.

“Lieutenant,” Moyshe said, “you will remain aboard ship. That’s an order. Jarl, will you support my directives?”

Kindervoort nodded.

“Damn you, Moyshe benRabi . . . ”

“Honey, I’m not letting you get killed. Shut up and go back to work.”

There were thousands of volunteers. Everyone wanted an extended vacation landside. No one believed there was any danger. Previous auctions were reputed to have been long, wonderful parties.

“You got your list?” Moyshe asked.

Storm nodded.

They had interviewed the candidates who had survived an initial screening. Each had noted the most likely names. They had agreed to take the first hundred names that appeared on both their lists.

Orbiting in to The Broken Wings, Moyshe found the recent past beginning to feel vacationlike in retrospect. He and Mouse would not make overnight soldiers of their volunteers. Even the old hands were terribly weak. Seiner lives revolved around space and ships and harvesting. They would make perfect Navy people. Groundpounders, never.

The toughest hurdle was to make them understand, on a gut level, that someone they could see could be an enemy. A given of Seiner life was that those you could see were friends. Their enemies always existed only as blips in display tanks.

“It’s a hard lesson for landsmen,” Mouse said. “That’s why Marines stay in Basic so long. Our culture doesn’t produce the hunter-killer naturally. We ought to build us a time machine so we can go recruit in the Middle Ages.”

Moyshe chuckled. “They wouldn’t understand what the fighting was about, Mouse. They’d laugh themselves sick.”

Danion
and her sisters went into geosynchronous orbit well above Angel City’s horizon. The message was not lost on anyone. If there was too much foolishness downstairs, the fire could fall.

Moyshe, in spacesuit, wrestling a load of armaments, joined Storm for the journey to their departure station.

“Wish we had real combat gear,” Mouse said. “These suits won’t stand much punishment.”

“Be nice.”

“Get any sleep?”

“Couldn’t. I kept watching the news from Angel City.” Moyshe had been shaken by the reports.

“Me too. Something big is happening. There’re too many undercurrents. Be careful, Moyshe. Let’s don’t get bent with it.”

“You ever feel like an extra cog?”

“Since the first day I worked for Beckhart. There was always something on that I couldn’t figure out. Here we are. And Jarl looks excited.”

Kindervoort was overseeing the loading of the four lighters that would make the initial landings, in pairs at fifteen minute intervals. Storm and benRabi would command the teams aboard the lead pair.

“You’re going overboard, Jarl,” benRabi said as they approached Kindervoort.

“Why? The more we impress them now, the less trouble we’ll have later.”

“You won’t impress them. Not when they have three squadrons here. Go take a look at what Operations has on those ships. Three Empire Class battlewagons, Jarl. The Second Coming wouldn’t faze them.”

“I smell Beckhart,” Mouse said. “Something about the way things are going . . . He’s back in the woods somewhere, poking holes in our plans before we know what they are ourselves.”

Kindervoort said, “Make sure that . . . ”

“I know! I know!” benRabi snapped. “We’ve been over everything fifty times. Just turn us loose, will you?”

“Go easy, Moyshe,” Mouse said.

“You take it easy, Mouse,” he replied, gently. Storm had begun shaking. He was thinking about the long fall to the planet’s surface.

“I’ll be all right when things start rolling. I’ll go AM if I have to.”

“Things are rolling now,” Kindervoort said. “Get moving. Take your musters.”

Work helped settle Moyshe’s nerves. He mustered his men, checked their suits, made sure their weapons were ready, and that they had the first phase of the operation clearly in mind. He rehearsed it for himself. The lighter sealed off from
Danion.
Moyshe joined the pilot. He wanted to remain near the ship’s radio.

“All go, Moyshe?” from Kindervoort.

“Landing party go.”

“Pilot?”

“Ship’s go.”

“Stand by for release.”

The pilot hit a switch. His visuals came up, presenting views of
Danion’s
hull, stars, and The Broken Wings in crescent. The planet was a huge, silvery scimitar. Its surface lay masked by perpetual cloud cover.

The Broken Whigs was a very hot, very wet world, with a nasty atmosphere. Its handful of cities were all protected by huge glassteel domes.

“Dropping,” Kindervoort said.

The magnetic grappels released the lighter. The pilot eased her away from the harvestship. Radar showed Mouse’s boat, almost lost in the return from
Danion
, doing the same a hundred meters away.

They picked up their service ship escort and began the long plunge toward Angel City’s spaceport.

Kindervoort would lead the second wave. Behind him would come armed lighters from other harvestships, ready to provide close air support if that proved necessary.

The planet grew in the viewscreens. On infrared it looked rather like Old Earth. Moyshe told his pilot, “The first survey teams thought this would be a paradise.”

The pilot glanced at the screen. “It’s not?”

“It’s a honey trap.”

A greenhouse effect made it a permanently springtime world. It was a riot with a roughly Permian level of life. Its continents lay low. Much of the so-called land area was swamp. Methane made the air unbreathable. The planet was on the verge of a mountain-building age. Three hundred kilometers north of Angel City lay a region locally dubbed the Land of A Million Volcanoes. It added a lung-searing touch of hydrogen-sulfide to the air.

The first wisps of atmosphere caressed the lighters. The escort braked preparatory to pulling out. The landing teams would be on their own the last 100,000 meters.

Mouse’s boat screamed down less than a kilometer from benRabi’s. Their pilots kept station almost as skillfully as Marine coxswains. They had handled atmosphere before, somewhere.

Moyshe became ever more tense, awaiting some sudden, unpleasant greeting from below. There was none. It was a picnic fly, except that it was a penetration run without thought to economy or comfort, just getting down with speed. Moyshe kept a close monitor on the radio chatter of the second wave, already in the slot and coming down.