Counterweight (28 page)

It had been exactly what Rick had advised. Startle them with
a show of strength and then put them on the bottom of the decision cycle. Make
them
react,
rather than act, so the small Midgaard force could establish
their authority before any talk of resistance could materialize.

Given enough time to think it through, the Humans of 3428
would realize a squadron in orbit meant an entire Alliance that knew of their whereabouts.
Fighting would be futile in the long run but, in the shock of discovery, hotter
heads might just prevail.

“Ormurin – Guadalcanal.
Wait one. Over.”

So, they were still scrambling to find the right code
sequence. One that had been used and discarded by the fleet more than a century
ago but which still lived in the
Guadalcanal’
s
antiquated data.
At least someone had the sense to ask for time.

“Ormurin – Guadalcanal.
Authentication is – Hotel,
Quebec, niner, seven, seven. Over.”

“Tell ‘em we’re coming down,” Rick ordered before turning to
follow Freya to an opening in the center of the bridge.

“Roger,
Guadalcanal
. Authentication confirmed. Stand
by to receive inspection party at main forward hangar door. Over.” The signals
officer switched the feed to shipwide so the young couple could follow the
exchange while en-route to the drop-cycler.

“Uh, roger,
Ormurin…
will stand by. Out.”

Rick knew they wouldn’t have time to organize a proper
reception and he grinned savagely. The idea of standing inside the main entry
while the elite of 3428 scrambled to greet him was almost enough to make him
forget how he was going to get down to the surface.

They descended a shaft to the lowest deck of the ship. The
gravity compensators slowed them at each level but, unless they grabbed a
railing, their momentum would resume, bleeding off gradually to give them a
soft landing at the bottom. Rick followed Freya out of the shaft and down the
corridor to where Thorstein held the door open to a chamber filled with two
hundred Midgaard shock troops.

They were all heavily armed. Each carried the venerable G-23
assault weapon. Developed on Weirfall from an old Earth design, the weapon used
caseless ammunition and a rotating breech mechanism that could put out a
three-round burst before the weapon even began to recoil.

Each also carried a fully automatic sidearm based on the
same caliber of caseless ammunition, but the scariest item was the personal
edged weapon.  A mix of sword hilts and axe handles protruded over their
shoulders.

Their firearms were deadly but the blades were what put fear
into the enemy. There was something about an edged weapon that gripped the
imagination and wouldn’t let go. It gave one reason to ponder the mind-set of
warriors who actually carried such weapons into battle.

Fighting a professional soldier was one thing but fighting
against troops who enjoyed getting in close enough to use a blade on you was
quite another. A professional was usually willing to accept a surrender,
especially when it meant he could stop fighting.

A warrior with a sword in his hand and blood lust in his
eyes might not be so willing to stop the fight. It was, somehow, more personal.

Rick and Freya already had their axes strapped to their
backs and they took assault weapons from the rack inside the door, slinging
them as they moved to the front of the group.

“Open,” Freya ordered.

They all elevated by an inch and the floor split in two
beneath them, snapping out of sight in an instant. It still felt like they were
standing on solid decking but they could see the ravaged vegetable plots below.

“Drop,” she called out.

Rick’s breakfast tried to climb back out his throat as he
suddenly accelerated toward the path leading to the
Canal
. Thorstein had
explained the process and Rick’s engineering background allowed him to trust
the concept.

But it was a
theoretical
trust. He wasn’t happy about
putting that trust to the test.

The drop-cycler was similar in function to the shaft that he
had just descended through from the bridge. It arrested your fall just before
hitting the ground. It was a lot less frightening in an enclosed space on a
ship where the only gravity was, usually, what you wanted it to be.

Now, watching the muddy path rush up to meet him, he had to
fight to remember to flex his knees in preparation for the touchdown.

He could see, at the lip of the
Canal’s
hangar bay
door, at least a score of faces staring up in surprise at the falling figures
and he suddenly found the resolve to put on a proper display of confidence. His
knees began to bend as a gravity field, projected down from the ship, began to
ease the natural pull of 3428.

His feet hit and he went down into an almost kneeling
position before rising with the rest of the landing party and stepping off
toward the long-lost ship. He felt a tightening in his chest as the watching
Humans murmured in surprise. He knew they’d never seen such a novel method of
deploying troops.

He and Freya led the way up the rain-slicked, packed-clay
ramp and into the massive hangar bay of the
Guadalcanal.
He’d have to
get used to calling her by her true Alliance name.

The
Canal
had been a ship of mutineers.

They kept their helmets up while the crowd slowly grew in
front of them. The two hundred warriors deployed in two ranks, their backs to the
open hangar door. Rick and Freya stood in front of them and the crowd left a
healthy gap in between.

It was the quietest he’d ever seen the hangar deck. The huge
open space was easily the busiest on the ship. It provided free space for a
host of craftsmen and vendors – a sort of open-air market.

Twenty minutes earlier, he knew, the soft patter of rain
outside would have been inaudible over the noise of the market.

It should have been a mad-house of shouting and laughter, especially
with the rain making it too dangerous to venture outside, but the only sound,
beyond a low murmur of nervous speculation, was the clatter of feet on a wooden
stair connecting the hangar deck to the command center above.

Once the ship had been grounded fifteen decades ago, it
quickly became apparent that the ascender shafts were useless for travel
between decks. The planet’s gravity reached to every part of the ship and
several crewmembers had followed long habit, stepping into the shaft and falling
to their deaths before the openings could be sealed.

Now, wooden stairs were the only means of transit between
decks and Rick could see Sam Fletcher rushing down the steps, red faced
deputies in tow.

He’d expected to feel a fierce pleasure at this reversal of
status but he was surprised to feel pity instead. The stumbling man approaching
them had just seen his universe turned upside down. He no longer looked
powerful to Rick.

Before Rick had snuck aboard the
Foxlight II
, Sam had
seemed larger than life. He was the captain – the undisputed ruler of Rick’s
universe. Now his perspective had changed. The universe was much larger than
3428 and Sam Fletcher’s little corner of it now seemed almost pitiful.

Even though Sam and others like him had made life nearly
unbearable for people like Rick, he was still the product of his upbringing.
Rick’s own father was quick to point out that hate wasn’t something you were
born with; it was something you learned.

The people of 3428 had learned hate from childhood. Their
own parents had taught them that people like the Heywoods weren’t to be trusted
because their ancestors hadn’t kept the faith when the
Canal
had broken
away from the fleet.

It wasn’t like Sam Fletcher had decided on his own, one day,
to create a sub-class of social outcasts. He was simply the caretaker of an
institutionalized lie.

And now he was the one left holding the bag.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and the crowd parted,
giving the small group room to approach the visitors. To his credit, Sam stopped
at the base of the stairs and collected his dignity before crossing to greet
the imposing troops.

He drew up in front of Rick and Freya, glancing between the
two.

Before he could speak, Freya retracted her helmet. “We claim
this unaligned world in the name of the Alliance,” she announced in a strong,
clear voice. “All who wish to leave may do so. All who wish to remain are also
welcome.”

She turned to Sam. “You lead this community?”

A nod and a confident smile. He’d managed to regain his feet
and remember what advantages he brought to the encounter. “Sam Fletcher,
Captain of the
Canal…”

“Captain,” Freya cut him off. “Wouldn’t mayor be more
fitting?”

Sam might have a pre-cognitive advantage but, when his own
words caused the young Midgaard to take a new tangent, he had very little
warning. Rick had coached her, and many of the crew, on techniques that could
minimize the pre-cog advantage.

Not every resident had his impressive fourteen second reach.
Over the decades, those with shorter lead-times had managed to develop coping
mechanisms to counter their relative disadvantage. One of the most effective
was to formulate responses on the fly, often basing your reply on something the
other person had just said.

In normal situations, it was wise to act first and force
your opponent to react. On 3428, it was often better to
react
because it
gave your opponent less warning. They had less time to consider your response
if it came to your mind just before you spoke.

Debate on 3428 was usually a very tangential affair.

While Sam considered her response, Freya decided to shift
back to her previous line of attack. This was another tactic she’d learned from
Rick. Never abandon your speaking points entirely. Let them drift for a moment
while you follow a new tack but come back to them at random if you’ve managed
to put your opponent on his heels.

“Very well.” She waved a hand to concede the point. “If
we’re going to talk like this is still a ship, report your divisions.”

“Er, yes, ma’am.” Sam turned to the small group behind him,
motioning his cousin, Chris, forward. “This is our morale officer…”

Freya held up a hand, palm facing Sam. It was another
perfect chance to react. “You should know the proper order, Captain. Can the
ship fight? Can it keep the crew alive?” She waved Chris back. “Who’s in charge
of the weapons division?”

Barry stepped forward. “That’s me, ma’am. Barry Fletcher.
All weapons on the dorsal surface are test fired with a single round every nine
months and all small-caliber weapons on surfaces facing the canyon floor and
walls are similarly tested using sand traps to avoid hull damage. I warrant the
weapons at a minimum effectiveness of seventy nine-percent tested and proved –
ammunition load out currently at thirty percent.”

“So you can fire but not for very long.”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

She looked back at Sam. “Engineering?”

Sam probably saw that one coming. “As the ship is
stationary, we don’t typically include our chief engineer in any…”

“You bring a weapons officer but not your engineer?” Freya
retorted. “Whether this is a ship or a city, you need lights, air circulation,
heat... Where is your chief engineer?”

Sam darted a nervous glance over his shoulder, flapped a
hand helplessly, then seemed to come to a decision. “Pushkin,” he called out. “Pushkin,
where are you?”

Rick, still hidden behind his helmet, felt a stirring of
fear. Anatoly Pushkin was a good engineer but he wasn’t a Heywood, which meant
he didn’t have the full knowledge needed to be the chief engineer. Why wouldn’t
Sam be asking for a Heywood and why was Sam about to…?

“I’m right here.” Anatoly moved to the front of the crowd.

Sam took a deep breath. “You’re the chief engineer now.” He
gestured toward Freya. “Report.”

“No, I’m not!” Anatoly nearly choked on his own response.
“With all due respect, Captain, you’re off your nut. I told you I’m not
stepping back into an engineering compartment until you let them go.”

“Let them go?” Freya’s tone was a dark warning to both men.

Sam looked back in her general direction, his eyes wandering
as he cast about for the right phrasing. “For too long, our lead engineering
staff has held an unfair monopoly on their knowledge.” He gestured at Pushkin.
“It poses a threat to our future because promising young engineers like
Pushkin, here, cannot advance to the lead position simply because he wasn’t
born to the right family.”

It was galling for Rick to hear this. Was Sam really trying
to portray the Heywoods as elitist? He almost retracted his helmet, but Pushkin
saved him the trouble.

“Family?” the young engineer retorted. “
You
only call
yourself captain because of who your father was, so how is this any different?”
He shook his head. “No, you’re just using that business with Ted and Rick to
strip the Heywoods of their birthright.”

“Damn right,” Barry chimed in. “If you ask me, Ted had it
coming, or does anyone here think he was just hanging around down there with
his buddies because they like the dark?” He waved off the possibility, turning
to stalk away in disgust.

Anatoly looked at Freya. “Ma’am, he locked up the Heywoods
after Rick disappeared but I’m not qualified to act as chief. I’m sorry but
you’re going to need one of them to report for our division.”

Good old Anatoly, or good
young
Anatoly, to be more
accurate. If nothing else, the rage on Sam’s face would have been enough to
prove to Rick that the young Russian was good people but he’d worked with the
young man for years. In truth, he was probably good enough to take on the lead
job but his loyalty was too strong.