Downbelow Station (9 page)

Now there was some kind of alert on, ugly and urgent; he had come as other councillors had come, brought in by a message that a special meeting was called.
 
His heart was still hammering from the exertion. He keyed in his desk unit and his mike, listening to the thin com chatter which occupied council at the moment, with a succession of ship scan images on the screens overhead. More trouble. He had heard it all the way up from the dockside offices. Something was coming in.

“What number do you have?” Angelo was asking, and getting no response from the other side.

“What is this?” Jon asked the woman next to him, a green sector delegate, Anna Morevy.

“More refugees coming in, and they’re not saying anything. The carrier Pacific.
 
Esperance Station: that’s all we know. We’re not getting any cooperation. But that’s Sung out there. What do you expect?”

Other councillors were still arriving, the tiers filling rapidly. He slipped the personal audio into his ear, punched in the recorder, trying to get current of the situation. The convoy on scan had come in far too close for safety, above system plane. The voice of the council secretary whispered on, summarizing, offering visuals to his desk screen, none of it much more than what they had before them live.

A page worked through to the back row, leaned over his shoulder and handed him a handwritten note. Welcome back, he read, perplexed. You are designated proxy to Emilio Konstantin’s seat, number ten. Your immediate experience of Downbelow deemed valuable. A. Konstantin.

His heart sped again, for a different reason. He gathered himself to his feet, laid down the earplug and turned off the channels, walked down the aisle under the view of all of them, to that vacant seat on the central council, the table amid the tiers, the seats which carried most influence. He reached that seat, settled into the fine leather and the carved wood, one of the Ten of Pell; and felt an irrepressible flush of triumph amid these events—justice done, finally, after decades. The great Konstantins had held him off and maneuvered him out of the Ten all his life, despite his strivings and his influence and his merits, and now he was here.

Not by any change of heart on Angelo’s part, he was absolutely sure. It had to be voted. He had won some general vote here in council, the logical consequence of his long, tough service on Downbelow. His record had found appreciation in a council majority.

He met Angelo’s eyes, down the table, Angelo holding the audio plug to his ear, looking at him still with no true welcome, no love, no happiness whatsoever.
 
Angelo accepted his elevation because he must, that was clear. Jon smiled tightly, not with his eyes, as if it were an offer of support. Angelo returned it, and not with the eyes either.

“Put it through again,” Angelo said to someone else, via com. “Keep sending. Get me contact direct to Sung.”

The assembly was hushed, reports still coming in, chatter from central, the slow progress of approaching freighters; but Pacific was gathering speed, going into comp-projected haze on scan.

“Sung here,” a voice reached them. “Salutations to Pell Station. Your own establishment can attend the details.”

“What is the number you’re giving us?” Angelo asked. “What number is on those ships, captain Sung?”

“Nine thousand.”

A murmur of horror broke in the chamber.

“Silence!” Angelo said; it was obscuring com. “We copy, nine thousand. This will tax our facilities beyond safety. We request you meet us here in council, captain Sung. We have had refugees come in from Russell’s on unescorted merchanters; we were constrained to accept them. For humanitarian reasons it is impossible to refuse such dockings. Request you inform Fleet command of this dangerous situation. We need military support, do you understand, sir? Request you come in for urgent consultation with us. We are willing to cooperate, but we are approaching a point of very difficult decision. We appeal for Fleet support.
 
Repeat: will you come in, sir?”

There was a little silence from the other side. The council shifted in their seats, for approach alarms were flashing, screens flicking and clouding madly in their attempt to reckon with the carrier’s accelerating approach.
 
“A last scheduled convoy,” the reply came, “is coming in under Kreshov of Atlantic from Pan-Paris. Good luck, Pell Station.”

The contact was abruptly broken. Scan flashed, the vast carrier still gathering speed more than anything should in a station’s vicinity.
 
Jon had never seen Angelo angrier. The murmur in the council chamber deafened, and finally the microphone established relative silence again. Pacific shot to their zenith, disrupting the screens into breakup. When they cleared, it had passed on, to take an unauthorized course, leaving them its flotsam, the freighters moving in at their slow, inexorable pace toward dock. Somewhere there was a muted call for security to Q.

“Reserve forces,” Angelo ordered one of the section chiefs over com. “Call up off-duty personnel—I don’t care how many times they’ve had callup. Keep order in there if you have to shoot to do it. Central, scramble crews to the shuttles, herd those merchanters into the right docks. Throw a cordon of short-haulers in the way if that’s what it takes.”

And after a moment as the collision alarms died and there was only the steady remaining report of the freighters on their slow way toward station: “We have to get more space for Q,” Angelo said, staring around him. “And with regret, we’re going to have to take those two levels of red section… partition them in with Q—immediately.” There was a sorrowful murmur from the tiers, and the screens flashed with an immediate registered objection from red-section delegates. It was perfunctory. There were no supporters on the screen to second their objection and bring it to vote. “Absolutely,” Angelo continued, without even looking at it, “we can’t dislodge any more residents, or lose those upper-level routings for the transport system. Can’t. If we can’t get support from the Fleet… we have to take other measures. And on a major scale, we have to start shifting population somewhere. Jon Lukas, with apologies for short notice, but we wish you could have made yesterday’s meeting. That tabled proposal of yours… Our on-station construction can’t handle security-risk workers. At one time you had plans in some detail for widening the base on Downbelow. What’s the status of those?”

He blinked, suspicious and hopeful at once, frowned at the barb Angelo had to sling, even now. He gathered himself to his feet, which he did not need to do, but he wanted to see faces. “If I had received notification of the situation, I would have made every effort; as it was, I came with all possible haste. As for the proposal, by no means impossible: housing that number on Downbelow could be done in short order, with no difficulty… except for those housed there. The conditions… after three years, I can tell you… are primitive. Downer labor making pit housing, airtightened to a reasonable extent; enough compressors; and the simplest locally available materials for the bracing. Downer labor is always the most efficient down there; no inconvenience of breathers; but humans in great enough numbers can replace them—field work, manufacture, clearing land, digging their own dome shells. Just enough Pell staff to supervise and guard them. Confinement is no problem; particularly your more difficult cases would do well down there—you take those breathers away, and they’re not going anywhere or doing anything you don’t want.”

“Mr. Lukas.” Anton Eizel stood up, an old man, a friend of Angelo’s and a stubborn do-gooder. “Mr. Lukas, I must misunderstand what I’m hearing. These are free citizens. We’re not talking about establishing penal colonies. These are refugees. We’re not turning Downbelow into a labor camp.” “Tour Q!” someone shouted from the tiers. “See what a wreck they’ve made out of those sections! We had homes there, beautiful homes. Vandalism and destruction.
 
They’re tearing up the place. They’ve attacked our security people with pipes and kitchen knives, and who knows if we got all the guns back after the riot?” “There’ve been murders over there,” someone else shouted. “Gangs of hoodlums.” “No,” said a third, a strange voice in council. Heads turned to the thin man who had taken a seat, Jon saw, in the place he himself had vacated above. The person stood up, a nervous, sallow-faced individual. “My name is Vassily Kressich. I was invited to come out of Q. I was a councillor on Russell’s Station. I represent Q. All that you say did happen, in a panic, but there’s order now, and the hoodlums have been removed to your detention.” Jon drew a breath. “Welcome to councillor Kressich. But for the sake of Q itself, pressures should be relieved. Population should be transferred. The station has waited a decade on the Downbelow expansion, and now we have the manpower to begin it on a large scale. Those who work become part of the system.
 
They build what they themselves live in. Does the gentleman from Q not agree?” “We need our papers cleared. We refuse to be transferred anywhere without papers. This happened to us once, and look at our situation. Further transfers without clear paper can only add to our predicament, taking us further and further from any hope of establishing identity. The people I represent will not let it happen again.”

“Is this a threat, Mr. Kressich?” Angelo asked.

The man looked close to collapse. “No,” he said quickly. “No, sir. Only I—am speaking the opinion of the people I represent. Their desperation. They have to have their papers cleared. Anything else, any other solution is what the gentleman says—a labor camp for the benefit of Pell. Is that what you intend?” “Mr. Kressich, Mr. Kressich,” said Angelo. “Will everyone please settle themselves to take things in order. You’ll be heard in your turn, Mr. Kressich.
 
Jon Lukas, will you continue?”

“I’ll have the precise figures as soon as I can have access to central comp. I need to be brought current with the keys. Every facility on Downbelow can be expanded, yes. I still have the detailed plans. I’ll have a cost and labor analysis available within a matter of days.”

Angelo nodded, looked at him, frowning. It could not be a pleasant moment for him.

“We’re fighting for our survival.” Angelo said. “Plainly, there’s a point where we seriously have to worry about our life-support systems. Some of the load has to be moved. Nor can we allow the ratio of Pell citizens to refugees to become unbalanced. We have to be concerned about riot… there and here. Apologies, Mr.
 
Kressich. These are the realities under which we live, not of our choosing, nor, I’m sure, of yours. We can’t risk the station or the base on Downbelow; or we find ourselves all on freighters bound for Earth, stripped of everything. That is the third choice.”

“No,” the murmur went around the room.

Jon sat down, silent, staring at Angelo, reckoning Pell’s present fragile balance and odds as they existed. You’ve lost already, he thought of saying, of standing up in council and laying things out as they were. He did not. He sat with his mouth tightly closed. It was a matter of time. Peace… might afford a chance. But that was far from what was shaping out there with this influx of refugees from all these stations. They had all the Beyond flowing in two directions like a watershed, toward themselves and toward Union; and they were not equipped to handle it under Angelo’s kind of rules.
 
Year upon year of Konstantin rule, Konstantin social theory, the vaunted “community of law” which disdained security and monitoring and now refused to use the clenched fist on Q, hoping that vocal appeals were going to win a mob over to order. He could bring that matter up too. He sat still.
 
There was a bad taste in his mouth, reckoning that what chaos Konstantin leniency had wrought on the station it would manage to wreak on Downbelow too.
 
He foresaw no success for the plans he was asked for: Emilio Konstantin and his wife would be in charge of the work, two of a kind, who would let the Downers take their own time about schedules and protect their superstitions and let them do things their own leisurely, lackadaisical way, which ended with equipment damaged and construction delayed. And what that pair would do with what was over in Q offered worse prospects.

He sat still, estimating their chances, and drawing unhappy conclusions.
 
ii “It can’t survive,” he said to Vittorio that night, to his son Vittorio and to Dayin Jacoby, the only relative he favored. He leaned back in his chair and drank bitter Downer wine, in his apartment which was piled with the stacked expensive furniture which had been in the other, severed, rooms. “Pell’s falling apart under us. Angelo’s soft-handed policies are going to lose it for us, and maybe get our throats cut in riot into the bargain. It’s going, you understand me? And do we sit and take what comes?”

Vittorio looked suddenly whey-faced as his habit was when talk turned serious.

Dayin was of another sort. He sat grim and thoughtful.

“A contact,” Jon said yet more plainly, “has to exist.” Dayin nodded. “In times like these, two doors might be a sensible necessity. And I’m sure doors exist all over this station… with the right keys.” “How compromised… do you reckon those doors are? And where? Your cousin’s handled cases of some of our transients. You have any ideas?” “Black market in rejuv drugs and others. That’s in full flower here, don’t you know? Konstantin himself gets it; you got it on Downbelow.” “It’s legal.”

“Of course it’s legal; it’s necessary. But how does it get here? Ultimately it comes from Unionside; merchanters deal; it comes through. Someone, somewhere, is into the pipeline… merchanters… maybe even station-side contacts.” “So how do we get one to get a contact back up the pipeline?”

“I can learn.”

“I know one,” Vittorio said, startling them both. He licked his lips, swallowed heavily. “Roseen.”

“That whore of yours?”

“She knows the market. There’s a security officer… high up. Clean paper all the way, but he’s bought by the market. You want something unloaded or loaded, want a blind eye turned—he can arrange it.”