Freehold (26 page)

He nodded. “I'll be there.”

She smiled. “Good.” She crossed over and gently kissed his cheek. Then she was gone.

Half an hour later he had shaved his face and his scalp, slipped into a fresh uniform, eaten a huge sandwich, and popped a stim cap, in that order. He didn't feel wonderful but he felt better, and as Bull Strom used to say, “Son, the price for feeling’ good, is feelin’ bad once in awhile.”

As he approached the wardroom, he heard Sergeant Major Flynn shout, “Attention on deck!” and heard the commotion as everyone stood to attention. Everyone that is, except for Wilson Nars. He sat, overflowing one of the wardroom's chairs, staring dejectedly down at the deck.

Stell nodded at Flynn, and ran a hand along the smoothness of the old oak bar as he entered. Seeing Nars, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Somebody's been busy, he thought to himself as he took his seat. “At ease,” he said, looking them over as they sat. Boyko, Nashita and Kost were there, as were Falco, a couple of his senior pilots, Major Wang, Samantha, and Mueller. The rest of the seats were occupied by staff officers and senior noncoms. Good, everybody who should be there, was, and that meant relatively light casualties. He didn't have to ask how the battle with the pirates had gone. Their smiles spoke louder than words. Clearly, they'd won, and come straight to Fabrica as ordered.

Once everyone was seated, Mueller spoke first. “With your permission, General, I'd like to open the meeting.”

Stell smiled. “It's good to see you, Hans. Of course you can open the meeting. But I thought number crunchers always wanted the last word, not the first.”

Mueller chuckled, along with everyone else. When the laughter died, Stell said, “Just one thing before you start, though. I'd like to thank you and Sergeant Stickley for saving my life.” Mueller blushed, and looked down at the surface of the wardroom table. Toward the rear of the room, Flynn jabbed Stickley in the ribs, and he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Stell saw the interchange and smiled, remembering what Boyko had told him while he'd inhaled his sandwich. She'd described to him how Mueller and Stickley had towed him across the freighter's cavernous hold, each gasping for breath, as their own supplies of oxygen ran out; how they'd refused to give up, struggled to open the lock, and pushed him through first when the stubborn hatch finally gave way. He remembered coming to, and looking up into the amazed eyes of the freighter's Captain, his lungs sucking pure sweet oxygen from the mask over his nose and mouth. He remembered a promise to pay for damages, followed by a quick shuttle ride to the
Zulu,
a sedative, and ten hours of sleep, which was probably responsible for his headache.

Mueller coughed, and looked up. “Thank you, General ... but as everyone here knows ... the Sergeant and I would be dead on the surface of Fabrica ... along with the rest of the ground party ... if it hadn't been for you. So you don't have to thank us. But there is the question of how we wound up in that situation, which brings me to this.” With a little flourish he produced his vocorder and set it on the table in front of him. He switched it on, and the voice of Lady, or, to be more precise, robot Almanda Kance-Jones flooded the room. Turning the vocorder down for a moment, Mueller said, “You gave me the idea, General ... when you suggested that Nars probably kept on recording after the negotiations were complete. I figured what the hell ... two can play that game.”

Stell chuckled. Mueller, as it turned out, was a very resourceful man.

Then they all listened, as Kance-Jones revealed its plan to kill Stell and the rest of the ground party. Nars got some nasty looks as the robot revealed
his
participation in the plan, and identified Intersystems as his employer.

Nonetheless, the fat man listened impassively and did his best to ignore them. When it was over, he found all eyes turned his way. Nars forced a smile. “I have nothing to say. It's all lies. Who'd believe a robot, anyway? The conceited pile of junk has obviously blown a board.”

Mueller nodded in mock sympathy. “A predictable defense, Administrator Nars. However, I spent some time with this ship's computer. And I found some interesting precedents. As it happens, the testimony of robots has frequently been accepted by Imperial Courts ... following full diagnostic procedures to make sure they were not malfunctioning. And I don't think Kance-Jones was malfunctioning. I'm sure you don't either. We both know Kance-Jones is simply the product of its programming. In fact, I suspect a check will reveal that Kance-Jones was programmed in a most unusual way—one that left out all the normal prohibitions against taking human life, for example; that would hardly generate sympathy for your company. Quite understandably, everyone wants to know which robots might kill you, and which won't. Everyone knows an Autoguard is potentially homocidal ... but being knocked off by one's Autobutler is considered an unpleasant surprise. In any case, I'm sure you'll agree that as a Class Ten robot, having high intelligence and quasi-human self-awareness, Kance-Jones would have the court's full attention. What's more, through an appropriate court order, we could have its entire memory scanned. I'll bet the court would just love to hear some of the conversations you two had. And guess what? Because robotic memories aren't subject to the same vagaries that ours are, every word would have the status of fact. Yes, I think even an Imperial Court, filled to overflowing with Intersystems lawyers, would find you guilty of attempted murder.” Mueller paused for a moment, looked Nars up and down like a recruiter eyeballing a fresh greenie, and shook his head sadly. “Frankly, Nars, I don't think you're equipped for life on a prison planet.”

For the first time, the color went out of the fat man's cheeks, and in spite of his bulk, he seemed to shrink in on himself. But he still managed a snarl of defiance. “That's big talk, Mueller ... or would be if you had the robot and we were in an Imperial courtroom. But you don't ... and we aren't—so you don't have shit.”

“Ah, but we do,” Stell inserted with a smile. “We have you.” He admired Mueller's case, but privately he agreed with Nars—without the robot it was nothing but their word against his. So an appeal to Imperial authorities wasn't likely to accomplish much. But they might be able to scare Nars into providing them with more information.

“By the way,” he added turning to the others, “who's responsible for rounding up our chubby friend here?”

All heads turned towards Sam. She squirmed a little in her chair, and then defiantly puffed another dopestick into life. “She went down looking for you, General,” Captain Boyko said. He noticed there was disapproval in her voice. “When word came that you'd decided to stay on the surface for another day, she didn't believe it. So she took a shuttle and went dirtside. And when she came back, she had that,” Boyko indicated Nars, “with her.”

Stell looked from Boyko to Samantha and back again. His instincts told him there had been more to it than that. They also told him to leave it alone, at least for the moment. He had a sneaking hunch that Sam had taken the shuttle against Boyko's express orders, and if so, she'd opened herself to a court-martial. On the other hand, she'd been right ... and that had saved more than one disobedient officer over the last three thousand years.

Sam blew out a stream of perfumed smoke. “Sorry I didn't find you, sir, but since I was there, I thought I'd bring fatso back as a souvenir.”

Stell kept his expression carefully neutral. “Well, I'm sure I speak for the entire ground party when I thank everyone for their support. Now, I get the distinct impression that there's some kind of plan brewing, and I'm the only one who doesn't know about it. Would anyone care to fill me in?”

There was a moment of silence as they all looked at each other. Finally, Mueller said, “Well, it's not exactly a plan. It's just an idea. A way to get our money back. If you agree to it,
then
we'll need a plan.” He smiled. “Actually, a miracle is more like it.”

Stell's blood ran suddenly cold. He knew what their idea was. He couldn't help but know, since there was only one way to get their money back. They'd
take
it back ... and that meant an attack on Intersystem's Sector Headquarters, the Bitch. Without a doubt, that's where Kance-Jones had taken their money. The idea wasn't new to him. He'd stashed it in the back of his mind when he'd ordered Sam to gather intelligence on Intersystems Headquarters. Of course, then it was just another move on the chess board, something you set up just in case. Now it was no longer theoretical. It was the only way they could save Freehold.

He scanned their faces, searching to see if they understood the implications of such a decision. Even if they succeeded, the cost would be high. Mueller's eyes met his squarely, as if to say, “Yes, I know what's involved, but it's the only way, just as surely as one plus one equals two.” Samantha stubbed out her dopestick and grinned, as if saying, “Count me in.” Falco brought his eyes down from the overhead, and nodded once, before looking back up. Boyko looked at her two fellow Captains and then back to Stell. For the first time in weeks, she smiled. “They're asking for it, General.”

Stell smiled in reply. “Then we shouldn't disappoint them, should we, Captain?” A nervous chuckle ran around the room.

“You're all insane!” Wilson Nars was looking around as if he'd suddenly found himself confined with lunatics. “Sector Headquarters is a fortress. It's surrounded by orbiting weapons platforms. Nobody could get by them alive. But even if you did ... the planet's crawling with security troops, and they're as well equipped as you are. And finally,” he added with a triumphant tone in his voice, “even if you won, the entire might of the empire would be turned against you!”

Stell nodded his agreement. “A nice summary, Administrator Nars. I agree we have some problems to solve. However, I'm sure we can count on your cooperation.”

“Never!” Nars said vehemently.

Stell shrugged philosophically. “Have it your way. Sergeant Major!”

“Sir!” Flynn responded, coming to her feet.

“Be so good as to place Administrator Nars in the brig.”

“Yes, sir,” Flynn answered cheerfully, and motioned for the two troopers at the door to take Nars away.

“And Sergeant Major,” Stell added, “make sure that Citizen Nars has a front row seat on the first assault boat to go in.”

Flynn grinned. “Yes, sir!” She turned to the two troopers. “You heard the General, take him away.”

As the two troopers led an ashen-faced Nars from the wardroom, Stell turned back to the matters at hand. “Captain Mosely, I take it you completed your mission?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied.

“For those of you who may not be aware of the fact,” Stell said, his eyes moving from Mueller to Falco, “Captain Mosely is the brigade's intelligence officer. Shortly after we secured the services of Falco's Falcons and left Endo, I ordered her to do a reconnaissance on Intersystems Sector Headquarters. I can't claim any particular foresight. I was simply following the ancient military dictum of ‘know thy enemy.’ Anyway, the good Captain recently rejoined us, just in time to round up our friend Nars. So, with that in mind, we're ready for your report, Captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Samantha replied. Her expression became serious as she looked around the table. “As General Stell said, I was ordered to perform a reconnaissance on Intersystems Sector Headquarters. It took a little doing, but I was able to get a temporary job filling in as co-pilot on one of the speedsters used to ferry company VIPs around this sector. As such, I was able to get dirtside twice.” She paused for a moment, as if visualizing what she'd seen there. “Essentially, Nars summed it up pretty well. Intersystems’ pilots call the planet the Bitch primarily because the orbiting defenses make navigation so difficult.” She rose and walked over to the thin gray panel covering a large part of one bulkhead. Picking up an electro-stylus, she quickly sketched in a planet, surrounded by an orbiting layer of heat-sensitive mines. The lines of her drawing glowed electric blue as she stood back to survey her handiwork.

“Needless to say, the mine field is a major problem. There are safe paths through it, but they are so complicated that only a computer can handle it. And, for some reason, I couldn't find any copies of that program just lying around,” she added dryly. They all chuckled. When it was quiet once more, she caught Falco's eye before continuing.

“So, somehow we get through the mine field alive. Then, just to make sure we don't get bored, they've got plenty of interceptors to keep us busy. I can't be absolutely sure, but my best guess is that you'll be slightly outnumbered.” If Falco was worried, it didn't show, and Stell saw Carla, one of his senior pilots, make a face to show what she thought of being outnumbered.

Sam smiled too, as she turned back to her sketching. “Now, assuming we find a way to neutralize the mine field,
and
take out the interceptors, our assault boats are going to get a hot reception dirtside. While we outnumber the actual security forces about two to one, lots of the administrative personnel have had military training, and represent a sort of rough-and-ready reserve. Plus, Nars wasn't kidding when he said the security troops are well trained and equipped.” Here she paused, looking at Stell with an expression that was part pain and part sympathy. “I'm afraid that's due, in large part, to their new commanding officer ... one Colonel Malik.”

They all turned to look at Stell. Even Mueller had heard about the renegade officer. Stell was silent for a moment as he felt the surge of hate, anger, and disgust that Malik's name evoked. Then it was gone, replaced by a feeling of rightness, of completion. Things had come full circle. This would be the final payment on their future. He smiled, and a shiver ran down Mueller's back, because in that smile there was no humor, only the satisfaction of the predator who has found the prey.

Malik lay back on the bed, watching Lady Kance-Jones through half-lidded eyes. A trickle of smoke dribbled out of his nostrils and drifted slowly toward the ceiling. The long ash on his cigarette crumbled and the ashes spilled unnoticed onto the expensive fabric of the bedspread. She was naked—a fact that occupied all of his attention, and hers as well. She sat in front of a wall-size mirror, inspecting herself inch by beautiful inch. Gently, she touched and probed, as if looking for damage. They'd just made love, and Malik basked in the afterglow, his body relaxed, yet wonderfully alive. As always, it felt good. And, as always, something was missing, but he didn't know what. When he did it with other women, he not only had a physical orgasm, but an emotional one as well. As he entered them he felt strong, invulnerable, and in control. He determined the position, the pace, and the final moment. But not with this bitch. Somehow, when they came together control eluded him. Somehow, she took control. It was always there, but just beyond his reach, and it drove him crazy.