Freehold (22 page)

“Captain Boyko, have the Interceptors take a look at those ships. And while they're at it, have ’em check out the bigger pieces of junk, too.”

Boyko's eyes flashed as her mouth formed a thin straight line. “With all due respect, General, the Interceptors are running low on fuel, and by the time they return from your little tour, we'll have to take ’em aboard to refuel. What if someone picks that moment to jump us?”

“And what if some of that junk isn't junk?” Stell countered patiently. “But I can see your point. So let's send half the Interceptors, keep the rest here, and refuel ’em one at a time.”

Somewhat mollified, but far from happy, Boyko issued appropriate orders, choosing to interpret “half” the nine Interceptors as four, thereby keeping five behind for defense.

Stell noticed but chose to ignore it, rather than cause more friction between them. She was probably right, anyway.

Sure enough, when the four Interceptors returned, they had nothing threatening to report. The only activity they'd observed were the cargo pods continually launched from Fabrica, snatched by computer-controlled tractor beams as they cleared the atmosphere, and then pulled in by the huge cargo carriers. The pods were emptied by robots before being sent back down to Fabrica. So all the ships appeared to be exactly what they were supposed to be. Of course there was no way to be absolutely sure without boarding them. And that would certainly get a negative reaction from the DE. No, they'd just be careful and hope for the best.

“The Planetary Administrator has requested a visit from our representatives,” Captain Boyko said, breaking into his train of thought. “Any reply?”

“Yeah,” Stell answered, getting up. “Tell them we're on our way. I'll need a shuttle, and what's his name—Mueller.” Hans Mueller had been sent by President Bram to negotiate on behalf of Freehold. A few minutes later, Stell met him in front of a robolock. Mueller was a small man with wispy grey hair, pinched features, and bright, inquisitive eyes. He had a quick smile and a firm grip.

“Good to see you, General. Congratulations on the battle. For what it's worth, Kasten was right. There's no way we would have gotten this far without you. But now I'm afraid it's up to us number crunchers to win the final battle!”

Stell laughed. “It seems to me that number crunchers always win in the long run, anyway.”

“True,” the other man said with mock seriousness. “However, we go sadly unrecognized, while you military types hog all the glory. But this is more like it. I've never had a bodyguard before. Maybe it'll give me a psychological edge!” And with that he stepped into the lock. Stell followed, and moments later they were in the shuttle. Sergeant Stickley and five heavily armed troopers were already strapped in.

“Sorry, sir,” Stickley said apologetically. “I was told they wouldn't let us bring more than six bodyguards.”

“No problem, Sergeant,” Stell replied as he chose a seat and strapped in. “Six should be plenty. Besides, if that river couldn't kill us, then nothing can.”

Stickley looked pleased, and a little embarrassed, much to the enjoyment of his five troopers. Stell closed his eyes—not to sleep, but to think, to plan.

It seemed like seconds later when the shuttle's bucking woke him as it entered Fabrica's atmosphere. He flicked on the intercom and asked the pilot for a slow descent, and full mag on the large viewscreen that served the entire passenger compartment. At first, there wasn't much to see because they were in the clouds. Or, at least, he thought they were clouds. But he quickly realized that, below the cloud cover, a band of particulates lay over the planet like a shroud. When they finally broke through the haze, it was a barren surface that came up to meet them. Endless miles of badlands rolled by, devoid of all life; only the petrified remains of once-thick vegetation suggested it had ever been otherwise. Here and there, torpid rivers flowed. A thick scum of effluent twisted and turned with them as they made their way to dead oceans. Then came strip mines, which had peeled away the skin of the planet, creating lesions so deep that the robocrawlers moving like maggots within them were forced to use their lights even during the day. Next came miles of sprawling factories, mills, foundries, refineries, slag heaps, and waste canals. Each was sited according to maximum efficiency and minimum cost. They grew and multiplied according to their own needs, taking and consuming everything around them like cancer cells gone mad. The energy to power them came from a geothermal tap, which reached down to touch the core of the planet itself. It made sense to destroy one planet instead of hundreds, Stell supposed, but it was still sad somehow, and he was glad when the shuttle touched down on a worn but well-maintained spaceport.

It looked barren without the hotels, restaurants, and pleasure domes that surrounded most spaceports. But this one had been built for the convenience of machines, not people. And machines were everywhere. They unloaded a worn-looking shuttle from one of the tramps, serviced a sleek-looking yacht, and scurried, rolled, crawled and hopped around on a thousand other nameless errands.

As the shuttle rolled to a halt, Stell unsnapped his harness and stood with unexpected ease. He'd forgotten that Fabrica's gravity was about one-third of Freehold's, which, in turn, was roughly Earth normal. That explained how they could use self-propelled cargo pods without going broke. Less gravity meant less fuel, which in turn meant less cost. And Stell had a hunch that cost determined most things on Fabrica.

They all moved up and down the main aisle of the shuttle for a few minutes, getting accustomed to the lower gravity. The troopers took turns dropping things and watching them fall slowly to the deck, until Stickley's critical gaze came to rest on them. Stell tactfully turned his attention elsewhere as the Sergeant addressed them in low tones. “Where the hell do you bozos think you are? If you like low gravity so much, maybe you'd like some personalized, null-G, hand-to-hand combat lessons next time Boyko takes the spin off. Any volunteers?” Not too surprisingly, there weren't any. Stickley might not look imposing, but his skill in unarmed combat was well known, and lessons could be quite painful.

Just then, a boxy-looking, eight-wheeled vehicle rolled up, nudged the shuttle, and made lock-to-lock contact.

“Your chariot awaits, sir,” the shuttle's pilot said over the intercom from the sealed control room in the bow.

“Thanks,” Stell replied. “Would you care to join us for a beer?”

“I'd love to, General,” she answered dryly, “but I'm driving.”

“Some other time, then,” Stell answered, cheerfully. Within the next couple of hours negotiations would be complete, they would off-load the thermium, accept payment, and be on their way. The prospect put him in a good mood. Turning to Stickley, he said, “Well, Sergeant, let's check our gear.”

Mueller looked on with interest as the soldiers went over their space armor and weapons one last time. Stell wasn't expecting trouble, but being ready for it was as natural as breathing. Together, he and Stickley checked Mueller's borrowed armor. When the check was complete, Stell ordered everyone to seal their suits. You didn't need a degree in atmospheric sciences to know the air outside wasn't breathable. The yellow-brownish stuff even looked poisonous.

When the lock hissed open, Sergeant Stickley sent two troopers through for a routine check of the vehicle. A moment later they gave the “all clear.” The rest of the troopers went through the lock first, followed by Mueller, with Stell bringing up the rear. The inside of the bus had seats for about fifty, and was comfortable though not luxurious. He noticed there were restrooms at the rear of the main compartment. There was no driver or any visible provision for one. Stell couldn't tell if the vehicle was robotic or remotely operated. Each chose a seat and strapped in. A computer-generated voice flooded the intercom and was relayed to them via their external audio pick-ups.

“Welcome to Fabrica, gentlebeings. For your own safety, please fasten the restraints by your seats. An atmosphere appropriate to your race has been provided and you are invited to use it. This vehicle will depart in 31 standard seconds. The elapsed time to your destination will be approximately 14 standard minutes. Have a nice trip.”

As they waited for the bus to depart, a light, acid rain spattered against the window, cutting microscopic grooves into the plastic as it slowly dribbled down. Eventually it would pit the vehicle's durasteel body, eat away rubber fittings, and cause the whole bus to be junked and recycled within a year.

Moments later the conveyance smoothly wound its way through a steel labyrinth of gantries, repair facilities, and warehouses. A short distance later, and they were already moving between foundries, hills of ore, and stacks of finished metal.

Robots were everywhere. They tended rivers of molten metal, hauled enormous loads of ore, repaired each other, and did a thousand other tasks. Many of which were made possible, or at least easier, by Fabrica's low gravity. The vehicle went between and around them, on one occasion dashing between the legs of a huge, tri-pedal robolift, all without incident. Nonetheless, Stell felt the experience was comparable to an aircab ride through the hanging cities of Wist, on the Finthian home world, an experience he could have lived without. Then, without warning the bus dived down a ramp and into a tunnel not much larger than the vehicle itself. As they sped along, interior lights came on in response to the outer darkness. A few minutes later, they came to a stop. There was a pause, a sudden jerk, and the whole bus started moving upward. Evidently they had rolled into the bottom of a vertical shaft, where their vehicle had become an elevator. Very efficient, Stell thought. It saved the time and inconvenience involved in transferring everyone from the bus to an elevator or lift tube.

Their upward journey came to a smooth halt. Seconds later the lock opened, and Stickley sent two troopers through to check things out. As soon as they received the all clear, Stell followed the others through the lock, and found that a robot had been sent to guide them. It was basically human in appearance. It had arms, legs, and a head with rudimentary features. All of which suggested a human owner. Stell had observed that races tended to model their robots on themselves. Nobody minded the fact that a robolift looked like a giant, metal praying mantis with three legs instead of two, and a forklift in place of arms. After all, it was just intelligent machinery. But nobody wanted something like that hanging around their condo, or bringing them coffee in the morning. So Tillarian robots had crested skulls like their owners, Finthian robots had a distinctly bird—like appearance, and, while Stell had never seen an Il Ronnian robot, he wouldn't be surprised to find that they had tails.

As they followed the robot down a series of corridors, he noticed that this one had a distinctly human posterior. A short time later, the robot led them into a spacious reception area. Comfortable-looking furniture was scattered about, pieces of art gleamed from niches in the walls, and muted lighting cast a soft glow over everything. A large, curved desk dominated the area. Behind it sat a young woman who wore a frown of eternal skepticism. As she spoke, the robot slipped away. “General Stell and Comptroller Mueller?” she said, as though expecting them to deny it.

“That's us,” Mueller replied cheerfully.

“Administrator Nars will see you now,” she said. “Please follow me.” Stepping away from her desk, she led them to a section of wall that slid aside at her approach. They followed her into a room that could only be described as palatial. Ornately carved furniture dominated, its massiveness somewhat relieved by delicate pieces of sculpture and the soft landscapes decorating the walls. There were no windows, which said something about the room's owner, Stell thought to himself. An owner very much in residence. All four hundred pounds of him. In spite of his bulk, Administrator Nars rose easily from his oversized chair and moved to greet them. Due to Fabrica's lighter gravity, his weight was not the burden it would've been on Terra. Stell wondered if the man ever left Fabrica. But there was strength in the man's grip, suggesting a good deal of muscle under all the fat. And there was nothing weak about the eyes that met his.

“Welcome to Fabrica. I'm Wilson Nars. And you must be General Stell—no mistaking a military man. And that means that you are Comptroller Mueller. Welcome. I'd like both of you to meet Lieutenant Commander John Paul Jones.”

Stell instantly liked the man who stepped forward to meet them. He'd been named after an ancient naval hero, if Stell remembered correctly. He wasn't a big man, but he projected the aura of strength and confidence common to many big men. He had black skin, brown eyes, and a belligerent thrust to his chin, as though daring someone to hit it. He looked good in Navy black and he knew it. “It's a pleasure to meet you, General, Citizen Mueller,” Jones said as he shook hands with each. He glanced at Stell's shaved head. “Star Guard?”

Stell nodded. “A long time ago. I guess it got to be a habit.” He ran a hand over his scalp.

“If you'll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, I'll be right back,” Wilson Nars said, and headed for the reception area where his secretary was plainly waiting. Both officers watched him go before turning back to each other. Stell would have sworn there was revulsion in the naval officer's eyes. In fact, he got the distinct impression that Jones didn't like the fat administrator at all. But if so, there was no hint of it in his words. “So, you're selling something called thermium,” Jones mused aloud.

“You are well informed, Commander,” Stell answered, wondering where the conversation was going. Mueller remained silent but watched with interest, as though sensing that something unusual was taking place.

Jones shrugged and glanced toward the reception area. “Nars made no secret of it.” He paused, regarding Stell with a thoughtful gaze. “In fact, he went to some trouble to make sure I knew, and to set up this meeting,”

Mueller spoke for the first time. “Why would he do that?”

Jones smiled. “I don't know. But I do know Nars, and I'm sure he has good reasons; good for him, that is.”