Rebellion (14 page)

Keogh repeated. "But you do stand ready to protect American rights and citizens?" Draven worded his question carefully. The natives would no doubt be demanding Morris and Sullivan for scalping or some such punishment. If he could get an undertaking from Keogh to protect them

... "I don't know about individuals," Keogh said, stepping around the verbal land mine. "I'm to protect American interests. UMC personnel will of course be welcome inside this fortified camp in case of attack.

But I do not intend to undertake offensive or inflammatory action."

Draven suddenly switched battlefields. "Then how about some humanitarian aid? Professor Jackson has apparently taught the locals the principles of the boycott. Native merchants are no longer selling food to my people. The StarGate is being tied up with your reinforcements and their logistical tail. Perhaps you could share your rations-" "My own people are living on what Colonel O'Neil stockpiled,"

Keogh said. "Until our own supply situation is stabilized, I think sharing our food would be ... unwise." Draven's empty stomach rumbled in unhappiness. Still, he attempted to put the best face on the situation.

"Thanks very much for your input, General. I guess I'll go and talk to the city Elders. Perhaps you could lend me an all-terrain vehicle and escort?" Keogh gave him the smile of a man who has just discovered vinegar in his wineglass. "I'm sure UMC has transport available-and security people to provide an escort." Draven shrugged. It had been worth a try. Arriving at Nagada in an Army truck with a military guard could have given him the appearance of enjoying Keogh's support. But the general had seen through his stratagem. No, Francis Keogh was definitely not a stupid man. Rigid, yes. Draven tried to push away hunger pangs. But stupid, no. UMC's Abydos operation used jeeps instead of the government Humvees. When Draven announced his intention of going to Nagada, Lockwood immediately offered him a jeep and driver, plus a THREE-man security detail. "Fine," Draven had replied, "just get those boys out of their camouflage suits and into civvies." If the locals had developed a hatred for gray suits, it did not behoove UMC's negotiator to turn up surrounded by those uniforms. From the looks of his escort, some of the mercs hadn't bothered to bring civilian clothes with them.

One had a gaudily patterned Hawaiian shirt that hung around him like a tent. Another wore a white shirt that strained over his shoulders and had to be left unbuttoned because it wouldn't stretch across his beefy chest. Between their guns and the expressions on their faces, they looked more like a lynch mob than a guard of honor. Well, a lynch mob might well be what Draven would encounter inside Nagada. They fired up the jeep and headed out of the camp. Draven enjoyed the smooth ride as far as the mining pit. Whatever Lockwood's shortcomings, he'd planned and executed a well-graded road. "Does the native militia still maintain a watch post?" Draven asked his driver. The mercenary shrugged. "Sure do. We usually find a couple of slopes peeping at us up top of the next sand dune." "Then pull up the jeep," Draven ordered. "Hello!" he called, feeling like a perfect fool. "We're going to Nagada. Will one of you come with us?" A voice came out of the shadows, replying in passable English. "You're going to Nagada? I'll come." A young man seemed to flick into existence about halfway down the face of the dune, riding the hard-packed sand as if it were a slide. He was slim but sturdy-looking, and he seemed to notice neither the hostile looks nor the weapons of Draven's bodyguards. The young militiaman enjoyed riding on the jeep, much more so after they'd passed the mine and the road for all practical purposes seemed to disappear. Draven's jeep shifted and swooped over what seemed to be the best path for a mastadge to take through the shifting dunes. Draven noticed that their local guide didn't bother to fire a warning shot for the keepers of the gate. Then he realized that the sound of the jeep's engine obviated the necessity.

Trumpets mooed, but when they arrived before the great gates, they remained closed. "My name is Draven. I've come through the StarGate-all the way from Earth-to speak with Kasuf and the Elders." "Thought so,"

the youthful militiaman said. He called up to one of the adobe towers flanking the gates. After an exchange of shouts the portals grudgingly swung open. "You know where are the Elders?" the selfsufficient young man asked. "Ah, no," Draven admitted. "I'll take you," the boy soldier offered. Following their youthful guide's directions, the driver jockeyed the jeep through the hodgepodge city's twisting streets. Draven had paranoid visions of ambush, of the young militia seizing the jeep and his guard detail's weapons. Certainly, Draven didn't remember this part of town from his first visit. But then he'd been on foot, surrounded by cheering crowds. Now the streets were empty. The evening meal was either just on the stove or just ended, because smells of cooking filled the air. Yet again Draven's stomach rumbled, more deeply and despairingly. Draven noticed something else. Most of the mud-brick structures in this area showed signs of recent repair. The patch jobs didn't stand out ostentatiously. The new walls were already bleached by the desert suns and scoured by sandy winds. "This was all built over?"

Draven asked their guide. The young man nodded. "Blasted by RaThe houses we fixed, but many died." He abruptly shoved back part of the homespun cloak he wore, revealing the scars of a huge burn that had seared his arm. "Also blasted by Ra. I fought where your camp is. At the pyramid." Draven nodded, catching the unspoken message. These people had suffered destruction and death for their freedom. They wouldn't be pushed around. A few more twists and turns, and Draven found himself in familiar territory-the large square fronting the building where he'd met with the Elders. The jeep coasted to a stop, and the young man vaulted out. "Thank you," Draven said. "Glad to help," the boy soldier said. "Maybe you can help us." "Maybe," Draven said almost to himself. The Elders had obviously been alerted. Kasuf and his conferees sat in a large room. At their side was Daniel Jackson to act as interpreter. Draven took a shot at grabbing the initiative. "You've been busy making a lot of trouble, Jackson," he accused. The academic gone native gave him a look of pure disgust. "I wondered how you were going to start," he said, "but that has to be the biggest load of crap I've ever heard from you. This afternoon there were a few thousand miners who were just aching for a piece of your so-called company police.

Compared to the trouble you could have had, this STRIKE is a walk in the park." "So, you admit it's a STRIKE." Draven made his voice as portentous as possible. "Yes, the people here won't work for that clown Lockwood and his idiot flunkies. But you don't have to take my word for it." He turned to the Elders and spoke in the local dialect. All Draven got was the name Lockwood and the expressions of anger and dislike that appeared on the leaders' faces. "We made an agreement,"

Draven threatened. "Yeah," Jackson retorted, "and it's worth the nonexistent paper it was written on. Remember your wonderful words back then? These people do-that's the wonderful thing about folks who grow up in illiteracy: they've got a real memory for the spoken word. That's how Homer's poetry survived for thousands of years-and how the lies of Draven come back to haunt you. You didn't want a contract because, and let me quote: 'Certainly a bond of honor is sufficient between men of goodwill."' Draven stood with his mouth open as Jackson pressed on. "The only problem is that UMC has shown neither honor nor goodwill. Remember your last visit here? The Elders greeted you with a feast. Well, you don't see any food for you here now. When it comes to boycotts, these people catch on quickly." Draven pressed a hand to his empty stomach,

"Some might consider this action precipitate." "Your boy Lockwood has taken all sorts of precipitate actions unilaterally, too. He blew up part of a pyramid that's been here for thousands of years. He set up work rules that don't seem to have any connection to conditions in the mine. And he hired guns to enforce them. Not once has he come to the Elders, even to discuss situations with them. They might have explained why that rest tent was set up-and how difficult it is to lug stuff up and down those ladders." He glared at the UMC man. "I tried that climb when the Marines and I took on Ra's overseers. And I can say it was no picnic. Have you tried it? I know Lockwood hasn't." "Oh, I'm sure you'd like to put all the blame on Lockwood," Draven shot back. "But the locals haven't exactly been angels. Some of them are responsible for sabotaging the new equipment my company is installing in the mines."

"I've heard rumors," Jackson replied. "But that's all anyone here has heard-because Lockwood never came to the Elders. If he'd given Kasuf and the others something to go on, they might have been able to get to the bottom of things. But Lockwood has treated his plans for the workforce as top secret. He's excluded the Elders, and when he had a real reason to turn to them for help, he went to Earth to get hired guns-like your bodyguards over there-and a new commander for the military forces on Abydos. Lockwood obviously doesn't trust the Elders, so why should the Elders trust him?" "Couldn't you have done something?"

Draven burst out. "Since when did I start working for UMC?" Jackson shouted back. "You guys didn't even want me in the business of teaching English!" The renegade Earther calmed a little. "I've tried to explain to the Elders about corporations. It doesn't make much sense to them.

But they understood about the STRIKE and the boycott. Your people got a man killed today-a man named Zaid who worked his guts out in a back-breaking jobbecause he had a sick daughter. And what did he get? A handful of Susan B. Anthony dollars. Or perhaps you'd like me to translate while you explain UMC's death-benefits policy?" "Perhaps we can come up with something," Draven carefully allowed. "Like the medicine you promised for the local clinics here?" Jackson asked. "That was a big incentive to allow your company in-and we haven't seen squat."

"Well, we were actually thinking of a company clinic when the operation expanded a bit more," Draven retired to lawyerspeak. "After all, dispensing drugs would require appropriately trained personnel." "It's nice to hear that UMC is so finicky about the law when it comes to health-care issues," Jackson said sarcastically. "Because you've been downright illegal when it comes to pay and safety." Draven's complexion went ruddy. "You've had a lot to say, Jackson, but I'm not hearing much from the Elders. Kasuf," he said, turning to the town's leader, "are you sure it's a good thing for your people to turn away from the mine?"

Jackson carefully translated the speech. But Kasuf turned to the young man as he began answering. Jackson nodded. "Draven, you've never understood about the mine here. It's valuable to you, and it was valuable to Ra. But for the people who lived here, it's been a centuries-long drain on the economy. They've broken their backs and gotten nothing in return. If the people sweating in the mine were out digging irrigation ditches instead, agriculture would boom. The mine stayed open because of the goodwill of the Abydan people. Their friends from Earth wanted the quartz mineral, and they were happy to provide."

Kasuf's bearded face grew angry. Jackson continued to translate. "But now our friends feel belittled. Strangers tell us how much we should work, people die. And what do we get?" The leader of the city tossed down a handful of American coins. Draven sat in a moment of silence.

Then Jackson spoke again. "You don't have the economic clout you imagined. UMC needs the people to work that mine. But Nagada can survive without it."

The renegade stared hard at the troubleshooter. "If you want the miners back at work, you've got to give them justice-and give the government here a voice in planning for the future."

CHAPTER 13

BACKDOOR POLITICS Draven returned to the UMC camp in thoughtful silence.

His guards, however, were more vocal. "You going to let that blond poofter and a gaggle of wogs tell you off like that?" an obviously British merc complained. "I only went into the city to see how much give there was to the local government," Draven said. "Not bloody much," the mercenary observed. "They are a tough bunch of old men." "So we'll have to change that," Draven replied. "But first I think I'll rip a patch or two of skin off the THREE who got me into this." The gang of THREE was still in Lockwood's office, waiting like little children for Daddy to come in and tell them all was well. Needless to say, Daddy was not in a good mood. "You fool!" he raged at Lockwood. "I walked in to try pushing that council of Elders, and what do I find? We have absolutely no leverage. Zero. Zilch. Nada." "But sir, I assure you-" Lockwood began. "Don't you assure me of anything!" Draven shouted. "Thanks to your mishandling of affairs, we've got a mine that's far behind on production,

a STRIKE and a boycott, and a military commander who won't stick his neck out to help us." He rammed a finger hard into Lockwood's chest.

"The end result? These 'Abbadabbas' you've been so busily laughing at have you right where it hurts. They have UMC right where it hurts.

We're not a penny-ante outfit, Lockwood. Are we?" "Of course not, sir,"

the sweating manager replied. "Are we, Morris?" "No, sir." "Are we, Sullivan?" "You've always paid me a good buck," the mercenary responded.

Draven's empty gut began to hurt. THREE people he'd have to save, and the only one with a hint of spirit was the hired gunman. "We're a major multinational corporation, gentlemen. We have resources. And this is the biggest undertaking we've ever been offered. I came to this planet, to this city, to make the arrangements with the locals. I'll admit something here. In my first contact I underestimated the natives. I thought they were primitives, that the problem would be the leftover American, Jackson." The thin man's eyes began to glare. "But as I spoke with the Elders tonight, Kasuf was throwing my own words at me. How could this be? I left this world with considerable goodwill from the people here. What went wrong? The answer is you THREE. The locals want justice-that means you, Morris and Sullivan." Lockwood's voice was wobbly as he spoke. "Maybe-" "Shut up," Draven said briefly. "Don't even think of turning them over to the natives." The two subordinates glanced at each other in alarm. "If it would restore the workforce-"