Payne’s Fleet dropped hyper a Sol System radius from The Broken Wings. Danion formed the point of the arrowhead of ships flashing toward the planet. Accompanying the harvestships were a hundred service ships borrowed from other fleets.
The Seiners wanted to make an impression. They believed this show of strength would rivet all eyes on The Broken Wings.
While the credit from the auction was important to them, distracting attention from Stars’ End meant even more.
Almost all Seinerdom had taken hyper for the fortress world. The harvestfleets had gathered. A hundred harvestships, a thousand service ships, and untold millions of people would be involved in the effort to recover the citadel world’s weapons. That gargantuan armada, bearing the hope of a nation, was avoiding traffic lanes, flying easy, awaiting word of the success of the auction diversion.
A confrontation with Confederation had to be avoided. The Seiner leadership understood the swift doom inherent in a two-front war.
A one-front war was a terrible enough hazard.
“We’ve got trouble,” Jarl Kindervoort told his staff. “We’ve just received a scout report from Stars’ End. The Sangaree have moved in there.”
Mouse made a sound suspiciously like a purr. “Won’t hurt my feelings if they get crunched again.”
“Somebody’s going to get crunched. The report says there’re hundreds of raidships there.”
Storm and benRabi became more attentive. Mouse asked, “Hundreds? That would take . . . Hell, the Families would all have to be working together. They don’t do that.”
Kindervoort replied, “They seem to have their hearts set on grabbing Stars’ End.”
“They aren’t the only ones,” benRabi muttered. He snorted in disgust, shook his head. “Who’s fault is that, Jarl?”
“What do you mean, Moyshe?”
“Consider our last run-in. Consider one Maria Elana Gonzales, technician, alias Marya Strehltsweiter, Sangaree agent. Remember her? The lady who tried to kill Danion? I shot her and stopped her. And you nice people politely patched her up and sent her home with the other returning landsmen. Bet you she ran straight to her bosses and set this up. Nice doesn’t pay, Jarl.”
Mouse shifted his chair so he could stare at benRabi. He said nothing.
Once upon a time, on a faraway world called The Broken Wings, a partner of Mouse’s, wearing the work-name Dr. Gundaker Niven, had stopped him from killing a Sangaree agent named Marya Strehltsweiter.
Moyshe reddened.
“Let’s not cry about what we should have done,” Kindervoort said. “We’re here now. Let me have those situation reports, Amy.”
Amy pushed a sheaf of flimsies across the tabletop. “Navy is damned interested in this end of the universe, too. Three heavy squadrons off The Broken Wings. Squadrons Hapsburg, Prussian, and Assyrian.”
“Empire Class?” Mouse asked. “All of them? They mean business, don’t they?”
“There’re battle squadrons at Carson’s and Sierra, too. Our friends the Freehaulers couldn’t get close enough to identify them.”
“And no telling what’s in the bushes,” benRabi mused.
“Moyshe?”
“They’re playing poker, Jarl. They’ve shown us a couple of aces face up. What you have to worry about is their hole cards. What have they got cruising around a couple of light years away ready to jump in?”
“You think they’ll try a power play?”
“No. Not like that. But it might behoove us to spend a little brain power figuring what they’re up to. Navy doesn’t put that much power together unless they’re scared they’ll have to use it. You hardly ever see a patrol of more than two ships.”
“You know Service thinking better than me. Why’re they so excited?”
“The dispositions look defensive,” Moyshe said. “And that leads us to our lack of landside intelligence. What’s the Planetary Defense Forces alert level in the Transverse? Have they activated any reserves? If so, which units? We could extrapolate their fears from that kind of information.”
“We have the liaison team report.” Kindervoort shuffled flimsies.
Mouse and benRabi had insisted on sending a few men ahead, weeks ago.
“I’ve seen it,” Moyshe said. “They’ve given The Broken Whigs the usual temporary free planet status. They’ve pledged an open auction. The city authorities are so nervous they’ve called up their police reserves and asked Marine MPs to help. They expect trouble. Nobody is saying why.”
The coded reports said there were three hundred privately owned ships orbiting The Broken Wings. Each had brought a negotiating team hoping to carry off a supply of ambergris. Most of the vessels appeared to be armed.
All known space was, apparently, in the grip of an undirected war fervor. No one was behaving normally. The auction had a potential for becoming a wild brawl.
“Mouse, Moyshe,” Kindervoort said, “I don’t mind telling you, this thing has me scared. It’s too big, and it looks like it could get bigger. Be very, very careful.”
“It could get too big for anybody,” Mouse said. His voice was soft and thoughtful. “It could roll us all under.” For two days Danion and her sisters drifted slowly toward The Broken Wings, watching and listening. They kept their presence secret longer than Moyshe expected. He and his compatriots obtained two days’ worth of observations.
They provided no comfort. Angel City was hell incarnate. Armies of undercover people had materialized there. They were warring with one another with a fine disregard for reason and local tranquility.
The war scare had set off a chain reaction of insanity.
As a landing team leader benRabi now rated his own office and a part-time assistant. His wife filled the assistant’s role.
Till this is over, at least, I’m important, he thought. He put little stock in Mouse’s theory that they were being groomed to master a Starfisher secret service. He had been able to make no independent corroboration of the claim.
BenRabi’s intercom buzzed. “BenRabi here.”
“Jarl, Moyshe. I need you over here.”
“Now?”
“Right. Final meeting.”
“I’m on my way.” He gathered his papers, donned fatalism like a cloak, and stalked toward Kindervoort’s office. He met Mouse outside Kindervoort’s door.
“Broomstick fly,” Mouse said.
“No lie. Anybody with any sense would cancel the auction.”
Mouse grinned. “Not the Seiners. You got to remember, this auction is part of their big picture.”
“I think they’d go ahead even if it weren’t.”
“Come on in,” Kindervoort called. A moment later he began introducing them to the Ships’ Commanders and Chiefs of Security of the other harvestships of Payne’s Fleet.
The gentlemen were present only as holo portrayals. Kindervoort, Storm, and benRabi would be aboard their vessels the same way. They and the holo equipment and technicians reduced Kindervoort’s office to postage stamp size.
“You bring your final reports?” Kindervoort asked.
BenRabi nodded. Mouse said, “Right here. But you’re not going to like them.”
“Why not?”
“They’re reality-based. Meaning they recommend that you cancel or postpone.”
BenRabi added, “We can’t handle security with what you’ve given us. Not under the conditions obtaining.”
“We’ve been talking about that. How many more men would you need?”
“About a brigade of MPs,” Mouse growled.
“Moyshe, you look surprised,” Kindervoort said.
“Just thinking that this isn’t like working for the Bureau. You ask the Admiral for more than he gives you, he takes half away and tells you to make do. I’d say another hundred men. And two more months to train them.”
“Mr. Storm. Are those realistic figures?” one Ship’s Commander asked.
“Minimum realistic. My partner is one of your incurable optimists. But there is an alternative. Cancel this shore leave plan. Don’t send anybody down but members of the auction team. We can set up a compound . . . ”
Danion’s Commander interrupted. “Sorry. No can do, Mister Storm. We promised our people liberty. Mister benRabi, we’ll give you as many men as you want. But the thing has got to be done now.”
“You’re going to lose people,” benRabi protested. He was so irritated he stamped a foot. “Shore leave is stupid. The more people you let wander around down there, the fewer I’m going to be able to protect.”
He had lost this argument several times before. The brass had promised everybody a chance to see what life on a planet was like. They would not go back on their word despite having learned that the Angel City situation was more deadly than expected.
Moyshe had begun to suspect that the complication was deliberate, and purely for the propaganda possibilities inherent in potential dead or injured tourists. If his guess was correct, then someone upstairs was as cold-blooded as his old boss, Admiral Beckhart.
“This’s the way it’s going to be, then,” Moyshe said. “You’ll have ten thousand tourists on the ground all the time. That’s going to make the Angel City merchants happy and me miserable. I’ll have half of a hundred fifty men if you give me the hundred I just asked for. That doesn’t divide out too good, so the tourists will be on their own. If they get into trouble, tough. I’ll cover auction people and VIPs. God can take care of the rest.”
He surveyed his audience. He did not see any sympathy there. “You pushed me into this job,” he growled. “Why not let me do the damned thing?”
Mouse backed him up. “The same goes for my shift, gents. That’s the real world down there. The world of Confederation, espionage, and bad guys, I should say. Those people don’t do things the Starfisher way. I’ve been led to believe that Moyshe and I were given our jobs because we know The Broken Wings and Confederation. And the intelligence viewpoint. I wish you’d accept our expertise. And quit trying to make other realities conform to your views about the way things ought to be.”
Storm winked at Moyshe. They had taken the offensive. They had gotten in their licks.
Kindervoort said, “Let’s calm down. This’s no time for tempers. The job has got be be done, like it or not.” Kindervoort’s comm buzzed. “Security.”
“James, Radio, sir. Is the Ship’s Commander there?”
The Ship’s Commander stepped to the comm. “What is it?”
“We’ve noticed an increase in coded traffic, sir. It could mean that we’ve been detected.”
Within minutes several other departments reported similar suspicions. The interruptions kept Mouse and benRabi from arguing their case. The Ship’s Commander excused himself, as did his Executive Officer. The holographic visitors faded away. The holo technicians started packing their equipment.
“Well, damned me,” Moyshe grumbled.
“What do you think?” Kindervoort asked.
“It’s hideous,” Mouse snapped.
“Moyshe?”
BenRabi spread his hands in a fatalistic gesture. “What the hell? Nobody listens to anything I say.”
“You think there’s any chance they could lay hands on somebody who knows something worth their while?”
“Of course there’s a chance. You’ve seen the damned situation reports. They mean business down there. I’m trying to do a job. If nobody will let me . . . ”
“Moyshe, I’m not the Ship’s Commander. Just between you and me, I think you’re right. I argued your case harder than you think. The Ship’s Commander just doesn’t see the rest of the universe in anything but Seiner terms. He thinks Confederation is just like us, only working against us. He thinks this is some kind of competition between fleets. He’s wrong, but he’s in charge. If he wants shoreside liberty, that’s what he gets. Do what you can, and grit your teeth if you lose a few. Just don’t let them find out what’s going on at Stars’ End before we get hold of the weapons.”
“That will mean fighting the Sangaree again, Jarl. Which means we won’t get any back-up here if this show blows up in our faces.”
“True. We’re on our own. So we stall. We go slow. We keep the auction piddling along. With luck, Gruber will finish before we’ve lost our distraction value.”
“That’s candy,” Mouse grumbled.
“From hunger,” benRabi agreed. They had begun to slip into landside idiom again. “You’re all hyper bent.”
The public address system came to life. The Ship’s Commander asked for volunteers willing to join the auction security effort down in Angel City.
People started showing up immediately. Amy was the first applicant.
“You’re not going,” Moyshe told her. “That’s the final word.”
She fought back. The argument became bitter.
“Lieutenant,” Moyshe said, “you will remain aboard ship. That’s an order. Jarl, will you support my directives?”
Kindervoort nodded.
“Damn you, Moyshe benRabi . . . ”
“Honey, I’m not letting you get killed. Shut up and go back to work.”
There were thousands of volunteers. Everyone wanted an extended vacation landside. No one believed there was any danger. Previous auctions were reputed to have been long, wonderful parties.
“You got your list?” Moyshe asked.
Storm nodded.
They had interviewed the candidates who had survived an initial screening. Each had noted the most likely names. They had agreed to take the first hundred names that appeared on both their lists.
Orbiting in to The Broken Wings, Moyshe found the recent past beginning to feel vacationlike in retrospect. He and Mouse would not make overnight soldiers of their volunteers. Even the old hands were terribly weak. Seiner lives revolved around space and ships and harvesting. They would make perfect Navy people. Groundpounders, never.
The toughest hurdle was to make them understand, on a gut level, that someone they could see could be an enemy. A given of Seiner life was that those you could see were friends. Their enemies always existed only as blips in display tanks.
“It’s a hard lesson for landsmen,” Mouse said. “That’s why Marines stay in Basic so long. Our culture doesn’t produce the hunter-killer naturally. We ought to build us a time machine so we can go recruit in the Middle Ages.”
Moyshe chuckled. “They wouldn’t understand what the fighting was about, Mouse. They’d laugh themselves sick.”
Danion and her sisters went into geosynchronous orbit well above Angel City’s horizon. The message was not lost on anyone. If there was too much foolishness downstairs, the fire could fall.
Moyshe, in spacesuit, wrestling a load of armaments, joined Storm for the journey to their departure station.
“Wish we had real combat gear,” Mouse said. “These suits won’t stand much punishment.”
“Be nice.”
“Get any sleep?”
“Couldn’t. I kept watching the news from Angel City.” Moyshe had been shaken by the reports.
“Me too. Something big is happening. There’re too many undercurrents. Be careful, Moyshe. Let’s don’t get bent with it.”
“You ever feel like an extra cog?”
“Since the first day I worked for Beckhart. There was always something on that I couldn’t figure out. Here we are. And Jarl looks excited.”
Kindervoort was overseeing the loading of the four lighters that would make the initial landings, in pairs at fifteen minute intervals. Storm and benRabi would command the teams aboard the lead pair.
“You’re going overboard, Jarl,” benRabi said as they approached Kindervoort.
“Why? The more we impress them now, the less trouble we’ll have later.”
“You won’t impress them. Not when they have three squadrons here. Go take a look at what Operations has on those ships. Three Empire Class battlewagons, Jarl. The Second Coming wouldn’t faze them.”
“I smell Beckhart,” Mouse said. “Something about the way things are going . . . He’s back in the woods somewhere, poking holes in our plans before we know what they are ourselves.”
Kindervoort said, “Make sure that . . . ”
“I know! I know!” benRabi snapped. “We’ve been over everything fifty times. Just turn us loose, will you?”
“Go easy, Moyshe,” Mouse said.
“You take it easy, Mouse,” he replied, gently. Storm had begun shaking. He was thinking about the long fall to the planet’s surface.
“I’ll be all right when things start rolling. I’ll go AM if I have to.”
“Things are rolling now,” Kindervoort said. “Get moving. Take your musters.”
Work helped settle Moyshe’s nerves. He mustered his men, checked their suits, made sure their weapons were ready, and that they had the first phase of the operation clearly in mind. He rehearsed it for himself. The lighter sealed off from Danion. Moyshe joined the pilot. He wanted to remain near the ship’s radio.
“All go, Moyshe?” from Kindervoort.
“Landing party go.”
“Pilot?”
“Ship’s go.”
“Stand by for release.”
The pilot hit a switch. His visuals came up, presenting views of Danion’s hull, stars, and The Broken Wings in crescent. The planet was a huge, silvery scimitar. Its surface lay masked by perpetual cloud cover.
The Broken Whigs was a very hot, very wet world, with a nasty atmosphere. Its handful of cities were all protected by huge glassteel domes.
“Dropping,” Kindervoort said.
The magnetic grappels released the lighter. The pilot eased her away from the harvestship. Radar showed Mouse’s boat, almost lost in the return from Danion, doing the same a hundred meters away.
They picked up their service ship escort and began the long plunge toward Angel City’s spaceport.
Kindervoort would lead the second wave. Behind him would come armed lighters from other harvestships, ready to provide close air support if that proved necessary.
The planet grew in the viewscreens. On infrared it looked rather like Old Earth. Moyshe told his pilot, “The first survey teams thought this would be a paradise.”
The pilot glanced at the screen. “It’s not?”
“It’s a honey trap.”
A greenhouse effect made it a permanently springtime world. It was a riot with a roughly Permian level of life. Its continents lay low. Much of the so-called land area was swamp. Methane made the air unbreathable. The planet was on the verge of a mountain-building age. Three hundred kilometers north of Angel City lay a region locally dubbed the Land of A Million Volcanoes. It added a lung-searing touch of hydrogen-sulfide to the air.
The first wisps of atmosphere caressed the lighters. The escort braked preparatory to pulling out. The landing teams would be on their own the last 100,000 meters.
Mouse’s boat screamed down less than a kilometer from benRabi’s. Their pilots kept station almost as skillfully as Marine coxswains. They had handled atmosphere before, somewhere.
Moyshe became ever more tense, awaiting some sudden, unpleasant greeting from below. There was none. It was a picnic fly, except that it was a penetration run without thought to economy or comfort, just getting down with speed. Moyshe kept a close monitor on the radio chatter of the second wave, already in the slot and coming down.
The lighter rocked and shuddered, braking in. BenRabi staggered back to his men.
There was barely time for him to hit his couch before, with a bone-jarring smack, the ship set down. Moyshe sprang up and turned to the opening hatch, lase-rifle in hand. Behind him came two men with grenade-launchers, then the rest of the team.
Moyshe jumped out, dodged aside. Two hundred meters away Mouse hit tarmac at virtually the same instant. His pathfinders spread out to place the target markers for vessels yet to arrive.
The thing became anticlimactic. No one was home. The field was naked of ships and people.
Then a stiff-necked, thin old man in a bubble-top, The Broken Wings swamper’s outsuit, stepped from a utility shed. “Beautiful landing, Thomas,” he said on radio. “Ah. And Mouse, too. You’ve taught well, boys. But you had the best teachers yourselves.”
“Beckhart!” Mouse gasped.
“You were expecting St. Nick, son?”
“You said you smelled him,” benRabi snapped. “Mouse, raise Danion. Tell them to stand by on the main batteries. General alarm. Have Jarl come close circle with the air support.”
“Thomas, Thomas, what are you doing?”
“The question is, what are you doing?” He covered Beckhart while Mouse handled the communications chores. Kindervoort came up on the suit frequency, chattering wildly. He wanted an explanation for the panic.
“I just came out to welcome you,” Beckhart said. “I wanted to see my boys.” All operatives were “son” or “my boys” to Beckhart. He treated them like family—when he was not trying to get them killed. BenRabi had strong love-hate feelings for the man.
He stifled his emotions. For the moment Beckhart had to be considered the most dangerous enemy around. His presence altered everything.
“What is all this?” the Admiral demanded. “An invasion? This is a free planet, Thomas.”
BenRabi foresaw a sorry, sad old man act. The act that so often won the Admiral his way. One means of beating it was to throw him a hard slider. What the hell was his first name? Using it would rattle him.
“We heard there was some dust getting kicked up here,” Mouse said. “Nicolas! Will you get those men deployed? What the hell do you think this is?” The Seiners were standing around gawking, stricken motionless by the sheer hugeness of the planet. How could you be military the first time you saw open spaces and an infinite sky? “We don’t take chances, Admiral.”
Beckhart chuckled. “There was a spot of trouble. I’ve got it under control.”
“We heard something about martial law,” benRabi said. “How does that fit with your standards of neutrality?”
“We pick on everyone separately but equally.” Beckhart chuckled again. He glanced around at the Starfisher landing parties, then at the sky. “There’s no violation in spirit, Thomas. I need what you’re selling. You’ll sell it in peace if I have to break every head on the planet. That’s why I elected myself your welcoming committee. Now then, I think I’ve got everything ready for you. Why don’t you ride in with me and tell me about your adventures?”
Mouse and benRabi exchanged glances. This was not what they had expected. It stank of Beckhart scheming. But . . . if the Old Man said things were under control, they were. He rarely lied, though he enjoyed razzle-dazzling you from the other room.
“Right,” Moyshe said, making a snap decision. “Nicolas. Kiski. Pack up your weapons and get over here. Admiral, what’s the transportation picture?” The spaceport, like any built with an eye to safety, was well removed from the city it served.
“Excellent. It should be arriving . . . Ah. Here it is.”
A column of Marine personnel carriers rumbled onto the field.
“Did you bring the Guinness?” Mouse asked. “We might as well be sociable.”
“A shipload,” Beckhart replied. “And with any luck von Drachau will show up and share a few before we close up shop.”
“Jupp?” benRabi asked. “Really?” He looked forward to that. Jupp was still a friend, though he was on the other side now.
He and Mouse shuffled their men into the first few carriers, advised Kindervoort of the altered situation, and left for Angel City as the second wave began rumbling down the sky.