Downbelow Station Part 20

He had no breath for arguing. He kept going until his sight was fading from want of air, sank down on the steps trying to pull air enough through the breather to keep from fainting. He felt Josh leaning by him, heard him panting, no better off. "Docks," Damon said. "Get down there... get to ships. Elene would go there." "Can't get through."

He looked at Josh, realized he was dragging another life into this. He had no choices either. He got up, started down again, felt the vibrations of Josh's steps still behind him.

The ships would be sealed. Elene would be there or locked in the offices. Or dead. If the troops had hit him... if for some mad reason... the station was being disabled in advance of a Union takeover... But Jon Lukas was supposed to be up there in central. Had some action failed? Had Jon somehow prevented them from hitting central itself?

He lost count of the stops for breath, of the levels they pa.s.sed. Down. He hit bottom finally, a gridwork suddenly wider, did not realize what it was until he searched with the light and stopped finding downward ladders. He walked along the grid, saw the faint glimmer of a blue light, that over an access door. He reached it, pushed the switch; the door slid back with a hiss and Josh followed him into the lock's brighter light. The door closed and air exchange started. He tugged down the mask and got a full breath of air, chill and only slightly tainted. His head was pounding. He focused hazily on Josh's sweating face, marked with the mask, distraught "Stay here," he said in pity. "Stay here. If I get this cleared up, I'll come back; if I don't-decide for yourself what to do." Josh leaned there, eyes glazed.

Damon turned his attention to the door, got his breathing back to normal, rubbed his eyes to clear them, finally pushed the b.u.t.ton and put the door in function. Light blinded him; there was shouting out there, screaming, the smell of smoke. Life-support, he thought with a chill... it opened on one of the minor halls, and he headed out, started running, heard running footfalls behind him and looked back.

"Get back," he wished Josh, "get back in there"

He had no time to argue with him. He ran, down the hall... had to be in green sector; it had to be nine in this direction... all the signs were gone. He saw riot ahead of him, people running scattered through the halls; and some had lengths of pipe and there was a body in the hall... he dodged it and kept going. The rioters he saw did not look like Pell... unshaven, unkempt... he knew suddenly what they were, and flung everything into his running, pelted down the hall and up a turn, headed as close to the docks as he could get without going into the main corridor. He had to break into it finally, dodged a runner among other runners.

There were more bodies on the floor, and looters ran rampant. He shouldered past men who clutched pipes and knives and, some of them, guns... The entry to the dock was closed, sealed. He saw that, staggered aside as a looter came swinging a pipe at him, for no reason more than that he was in the way.

The attacker kept going, a half-circle that pulled him about and ended against the wall, with Josh, who slammed his head into the wall and came up with the pipe in his hand.

Damon whirled and ran, for the sealed doors... reached for his pocket, for the card, to override the lock.

"Konstantin!" someone shouted behind him.

He turned, stared at a man, at a gun leveled at him. A length of pipe hurtled out of nowhere and hit the man, and looters scrabbled for the gun, a surging mob. In panic he whirled, thrust the card for the slot; the door whipped back, with the vast dockside beyond, and other looters. He ran, sucking in the cold air, down the dock toward white sector, where he saw other great seals in place, the dock seals, two levels tall and airtight. He stumbled from exhaustion and caught himself, pelted up the curve toward them, hearing someone close behind him and hoping it was Josh. The st.i.tch that had started in his side unnoticed grew to a lancing pain... Past looted shops with dark, open doors, he reached the wall beside the huge seals, fetched up against the closed door of the small personnel lock, thrust his card into the slot.

It was dead. No response. He pushed it harder, thinking it might have failed contact, inserted it a second time. It was cut off. It should at least have lighted the b.u.t.tons, given him a chance to put through a priority code, or flashed the hazard signal.

"Damon!" Josh reached the door beside him, caught at his shoulder, pulled him around. There were people moving behind them, thirty, half a hundred, from all across the docks... from green nine, in greater and greater number. "They know you got a door open," Josh said. "They know you've got that kind of access."

He stared at them. s.n.a.t.c.hed his card from the slot. Useless, blanked; control had blanked his card.

"Damon."

He grabbed at Josh and ran, and the crowd started forward with a howl. He raced for the open doors, for the shops... into the dark doorway of the nearest. He whirled inside, pushed the b.u.t.ton to seal the door. That at least worked. The first of the mob hit the door, hammered at it. Panicked faces pressed close to the plastic, lengths of pipe hammered at it, scarring it: it was a security seal, like all the dock-front stores... pressure-tight, windowless, but for that double-thick circle.

"It's going to hold," Josh said.

"I don't think," he said, "that we can get out again. I don't think we can get out of here until they come to get us."

Josh looked at him across the s.p.a.ce of the window, from the other side of the door, pale in the light that came through it.

"They blanked my card," Damon said. "It stopped working. Whoever's in station central just cut off my card use." He looked toward the plastic, on which the gouges were deepening. "I think we just trapped ourselves." The hammering continued. Madness raged outside, not a.s.sa.s.sins, not any sane impulse toward hostage-taking, only desperate people with a focus for their desperation. Q residents with a pair of stationers within reach. The scars deepened on the plastic, almost obscuring the faces and hands and weapons. It was remotely possible they could get through it.

And if that happened there was no need of a.s.sa.s.sins.

Chapter Two.

Norway; 1300 hrs.

It was a waiting game now, probe and vanish. Ghosts. But solid enough out there, somewhere beyond system limits. Tibet and North Pole had lost contact with the incoming enemy; Union had about-faced, at the cost of one of Tibet's riders... at the cost of one of Union's. But it was far from over. The com flow kept up, calm and quiet out of both carriers. Signy gnawed her lip and stared at the screens before her, while Graff tended op. Norway held position along with the rest of the Fleet-having dumped speed, drifted, still not too remote from the ma.s.s of Pell IV and III and the star itself. Dead-stopped. They had refused to be drawn out. Had now to use ma.s.s to shelter them from an arrival close at hand. It was not likely that Union would be reckless enough to use jump for entry-not their style-but they took the precaution... sitting targets as they were. Wait long enough and even conservative Union commanders could circle their scan range to find new lines of attack, having probed things; wolves round the firelight, and themselves trying to sit within it, visible and dead still and vulnerable. Union had room out there, could get a good run started, too fast for them to handle. And for some time there had been bad news coming out of Pell, silence broken, rumblings of serious disorder.

From Mazian... persistent silence, and one of them dared breach it with a communication to question. Come on, she wished Mazian, turn some of us loose to hunt. The riders hung off from Norway in widest deployment, like those of the other ships, twenty-seven riderships, seven carriers; and thirty-two militia ships trying to fill up their pattern-indistinguishable on longscan, some of them, from riderships; two of them from carriers. As long as the Fleet sat still, not betraying themselves by tight moves and speed, whoever looked at scan had to wonder if some of those slow, steady ships might not be warships disguising their moves. Tibet's rider had gotten back to mother; and Tibet and North Pole had seven riders and eleven militia in their area, short-haulers incapable of running, turned brave by necessity: they could not get out of the way... so they made part of the screen. As if they could depend on attack coming from that direction. Union had felt at them. p.r.i.c.ked at the organism and vanished out of range. It was probably Azov out there. One of Union's oldest; one of the best. Feathertouch and feint. He had sucked in more than one commander too good to die that way.

Nerves crawled. The techs on the bridge looked at her from time to time. Silence existed inside as well as among the ships, contagious unease. A comtech turned at his station, looked at her. "Pell situation worsening," he said off com. There was a murmur from other stations. "Minds on your business," she snapped, on general address. "It's likely to come from any side of us. Forget Pell or we get it in our faces, hear me? I'll vent the crewman who woolgathers."

And to Graff: "Ready status."

The blue light went on in the overhead. That would wake them up. A light flashed on her board, indicating the armscomp board lit, the armscomper and his aides fully prepared.

She reached to the comp board, punched a code for a recorded instruction. Norway's sighting eye began to rove toward the reference star in question, to perform identifications and to lock in. In case. In case there was something going on unaccounted for in their plans, and Mazian, likewise receiving that Pell chatter, was thinking of running: their direct beam pickup was trained on Europe, and Europe still had nothing to say. Mazian was thinking; or had made up his mind, and trusted his captains to take precautions. She tapped a signal to the jump tech's board, as he had already to have noted the other move. The board went live, a stepped up power flow to the generation vane monitors, that gave them options other than reals.p.a.ce. If the Fleet broke from Pell, chances were they would not all arrive where they were instructed, at the nearest null point. That there would never again be a Fleet, nothing between Union and Sol.

The com flow from Pell became grim indeed.

iDowner access Men-with-guns. Keen ears could still pick up the shouts outside, the terrible fighting. Satin shivered at a crash against the wall, trembled, finding no reason for this thing that happened... but that Lukases had done this; and Lukases gave orders, in power in the Upabove. Bluetooth hugged her, whispered to her, urged her, and she came, as silently as the others. The whispers of bare hisa feet pa.s.sed above them, below. They moved in dark, a steady flow. They dared no lights, which might guide men to find them.

Some were ahead of them, some behind. Old One himself led, the strange hisa, who had come down from the high places, and commanded them without telling them why. Some had lingered, fearing the strange ones; but there were guns behind, and mad humans, and they would come in haste very soon.

A human voice rang out far below in the tunnels, echoing up. Bluetooth hissed and pushed, moved faster in his climbing, and Satin scampered along with all her might, heated by this exertion, her fur damp and her hands sliding on the rails where others had grasped them.

"Hurry," a hisa voice whispered at one of the levels, high, high in the Upabove's dark places, and hands urged them up still another climb, where a dim light shone, making a silhouette of a hisa who waited there. A lock. Satin tugged her mask into place and scrambled up to the doors, caught Bluetooth's hand, for fear of losing him where Old One should lead. The lock received them. They jammed in with others, and the inner seal gave way on a ma.s.s of brown hisa bodies, hands which reached and drew them out in haste, other hisa, who stood facing outward, shielding them from what lay beyond. They had weapons, lengths of pipe, like the men carried. Satin was stunned, felt backward after Bluetooth, to be sure of his presence in this milling angry throng, in the white lights of humans. There were only hisa in this hall. They filled the corridor as far as the closed doors at the end. Blood smeared one of the walls, a scent which did not reach them through the masks. Satin rolled a distraught glance in the direction the press was sweeping them, felt a soft hand which was not Bluetooth's close upon her arm and lead her. They pa.s.sed a door into a human place, vast and dim, and the door closed, bringing quiet. "Hush," their guides said. She looked about in panic to see if Bluetooth was still with her and he reached out to her, caught her hand. They walked nervously in the company of their elder guides, through this s.p.a.cious man-place, oh, so carefully, for fear, and for respect to the weapons and the anger outside. Others, Old Ones, rose from the shadows and met them. "Storyteller," an Old One addressed her, touching her in welcome. Arms embraced her; others came from beyond a bright, bright doorway and embraced her and Bluetooth, and she was dazed by the honor they gave. "Come," they said, leading her, and they came into that bright place, a room without limits, with a white bed, a sleeping human, and a very old hisa who crouched by it. Dark and stars were all about, walls which were and were not, and of a sudden, great Sun peering into the room, upon them and on the Dreamer.

"Ah," Satin breathed, dismayed, but the old hisa rose up and held out hands in welcome. "The Storyteller," Old One was saying, and the oldest of all left the Dreamer a moment to embrace her. "Good, good," the Oldest said tenderly. "Lily," the Dreamer said, and the Oldest turned, knelt by the bed to tend her, stroked her grayed head. Marvelous eyes turned on them, alive in a face white and still, her body shrouded in white, everything white, but the hisa named Lily and the blackness which expanded all about them, dusted with stars. Sun had vanished. There was only themselves.

"Lily," the Dreamer said again, "who are they?"

At her the Dreamer looked, at her, and Lily beckoned. Satin knelt down, and Bluetooth beside her, gazed with reverence into the warmth of the Dreamer's eyes, the Dreamer of the Upabove, the mate of great Sun, who danced upon her walls. "Love you," Satin whispered. "Love you, Sun-she-friend." "Love you," the Dreamer whispered in her turn. "How is it outside? Is there danger?"

"We make safe," Old One said firmly. "All, all the hisa make safe this place.

Men-with-guns stay away."

"They're dead." The wonderful eyes filmed with tears, and sought toward Lily. "Jon's doing. Angelo-Damon-Emilio, maybe-but not me, not yet. Lily, don't leave me."

Lily so, so carefully put her arm about the Dreamer, laid her graying cheek against the Dreamer's graying hair. "No," Lily said. "Love you, no time leave, no, no, no. Dream they leave, men-with-guns. Downers all stand you place. Dream to great Sun. We you hands and feet, we many, we strong, we quick." The walls had changed. They looked now upon violence, upon men fighting men, and all of them shrank closer together in dread. It pa.s.sed, and only the Dreamer remained tranquil.

"Lily. The Upabove is in danger of dying. It will need the hisa, when the fighting is done, need you, you understand? Be strong. Hold this place. Stay with me."

"We fight, fight mans come here."

"Live. They daren't kill you, you understand. Men need the hisa. They don't won't come in here." The bright eyes grew dark with pa.s.sion and gentle again. Sun was back, his awesome face filling all the wall, silencing angers. He reflected in the Dreamer's eyes, touched the whiteness with his color. "Ah," Satin breathed, and swayed from side to side. Others did, one with her, making a soft moan of awe.

"She is Satin," Old One said to the Dreamer. "Bluetooth her friend. Friend of Bennett-man, see he die."

"From Downbelow," the Dreamer said. "Emilio sent you to the Upabove."

"Konstantin-man you friend? Love he, all, all Downers. Bennett-man he friend."

"Yes. He was."

"She say," Old One said, and in the language of hisa... "Storyteller, Sky-sees-her, make the story for the Dreamer, make bright her eyes and warm her dreams; sing it into the Dream."

Heat rose to her face and her throat grew taut for fear, for a great one she was not, only a maker of little songs, and to tell a tale in human words... in the presence of the Dreamer, and of great Sun, with all the stars about, to become part of the Dream... "Do it," Bluetooth urged her. His faith warmed her heart. "I Sky-see-she," she began, "come from Downbelow, tell you Bennett-man, tell you Konstantin, sing you hisa things. Dream hisa things, Sun-she-friend, like Bennett make dream. Make he live, make he walk with hisa, ah! Love you, love he. Sun smile look at he. Long, long time we dream hisa dreams. Bennett make we see human dream, show we true things, tell we Sun he hold all Upabove, hold all Downbelow in he arms, and Upabove she make wide she arms to Sun, tell we ships come and go, big, big, come and go, bring mans from the faraway dark. Make wide we eyes, make wide we dream, make we dream same as humans, Sun-she-friend. This thing Bennett give we; and he give he life. He tell we good things in Upabove, make warm we eyes with want for these good things. We come. We see. So wide, so big dark, we see Sun smile in the dark, make the dream for Downbelow, the blue sky. Bennett make we see, make we come, make we new dreams. "Ah! I Satin, I tell you time humans come. Before humans, no time, only dream. We wait and not know we wait. We see humans and we come to Upabove. Ah! time Bennett come cold time, and old river she quiet..." The dark, lovely eyes were set upon her, interested, intent upon her words as if she had skill like the old singers. She wove the truth as best she could, making this true, and not the terrible things which were Happening elsewhere, making it truer and truer, that the Dreamer might make it truth, that in the turning cycles, this truth might come round again as the flowers did, and the rains and all lasting things.

iiStation central The boards had stabilized. Station central had adjusted to panic as a perpetual condition, apparent in the fevered attention to details, the refusal of techs to acknowledge the increasing coming and going of armed men in the command center. Jon patrolled the aisles, scowling, disapproving of any move beyond necessity. "Another call from the merchanter Finity's End," a tech told him. "Elene Quen speaking, demands information."

"Denied."

"Sir-"

"Denied. Tell them to sit and wait it out. Make no more unauthorized calls. Do you expect us to broadcast information that could aid the enemy?" The tech turned to her work, visibly trying not to see the guns. Quen. Young Damon's wife, with the merchanters, already trouble, making demands, refusing to come out. The information had already proliferated, and the Fleet had to be picking it up by now from the merchanters in pattern about the station. Mazian knew by now what had happened. Quen with the merchanters and Damon on green section dock; Downers knotted about Alicia's bedside, blocking number four crosshall in that area. Let her keep her Downer guard: the section door was shut. He folded his hands behind him and tried to look calm. A movement caught his eyes, near the door. Jessad was back after brief absence, stood there, a silent summons. Jon walked in that direction, misliking Jessad's grim sobriety.

"Any progress?" he asked Jessad, stepping outside.

"Located Mr. Kressich," Jessad said. "He's here with an escort; wants a conference."

Jon scowled, glanced down the hall where Kressich waited with a cl.u.s.ter of guards about him, and an equal number of their own security. "Situation as it was with blue one four," Jessad said. "Downers still have it blocked. We've got the door; we could decompress." "We need them," Jon said tautly. "Let it be."

"For her sake? Half-measures, Mr. Lukas..."

"We need the Downers; she's got them. Let be, I said. It's Damon and Quen who're trouble. What are you doing in that regard?"

"Can't get anyone on that ship; she's not coming out and they're not opening. As for him, we know where he is. We're working on it." "What do you mean you're working on it?"

"Kressich's people," Jessad hissed. "We need to get through out there, you understand me? Pull yourself together and talk to him; promise him anything. He's got the mobs in his hand. He can pull the strings. Do it." Jon looked at the group in the hall, his thoughts scattering, Kressich, Mazian, the merchanter situation... Union. The Union fleet had to move soon, had to. "What do you mean, need to get through out there? Do you know where he is or don't you?"

"Not beyond doubt," Jessad admitted. "We turn that mob loose on him and there won't be enough to identify. And we need to know. Believe me. Talk to Kressich. And hurry about it, Mr. Lukas."

He looked, caught Kressich's eyes, nodded, and the party came closer... Kressich, as gray and wretched-looking as ever. But those about him were another matter: young, arrogant, c.o.c.ky in their bearing.

"The councillor wants a share of this," one said, small, dark-haired man with a scar on his face.

"You speak for him?"

"Mr. Nino Coledy," Kressich identified him, surprising him with a direct answer and a harder look than Kressich had ever mustered in council. "I advise you to listen to him. Mr. Lukas, Mr. Jessad. Mr. Coledy heads Q security. We have our own forces, and we can get order when we ask for it. Are you ready to have it?" Jon turned a disturbed look on Jessad, obtained nothing; Jessad was blank of comment. "If you can stop the mobs-do it."

"Yes," said Jessad quietly. "Quiet at this stage would serve us. Welcome to our council, Mr. Kressich, Mr. Coledy."

"Give me com," Coledy said. "General address."

"Give it to him," Jessad said.

Jon drew a deep breath, suddenly with questions trembling on his lips, what kind of game Jessad was playing with him, pushing these two into the inner circle; Jessad's own, as Hale was his? He swallowed the questions, swallowed anger, remembering what was out there, how fragile it all was. "Come with me," he said, led the way inside, took Coledy to the nearest com board. Scan was visible from there, Mazian still holding steady. It was too much to hope that Mazian would be easily disposed of. Far too much, that it would be easy. The Fleet had the area pocketed... Mazian's ships, dotted here and there about the multi-level halo that was the merchanters' orbit about Pell.

"Move," he said to a tech, dislodged him, put Coledy in that place and himself punched through to com central. Bran Hale's face lit up the screen. "Got a call for you to send out," he told Hale. "This one goes on general override." "Right," Hale said.

"Mr. Lukas," someone called, breaking the general hush in central. He looked about. Scan screens were flashing intersect alert.

"Where is it?" he exclaimed. Scan had nothing definite. A peppering of yellow haze warned of something incoming, fast. Comp began to siren alarms. There were soft outcries, curses, techs reaching for boards.

"Mr. Lukas!" someone cried, frantic appeal.

iv Finity's End "Scan," the alarm rang out. Elene saw the flicker and cast a frantic look at Neihart.

"Break us loose," Neihart said, avoiding her eyes. "Go"! The word flashed ship to ship. Elene gathered herself against the parting jolt... too late to run for the dock, far too late; umbilicals were long since shut off, ships grappled-to only.

A second jolt. They were free, peeling away from station as the whole row of still-docked merchanters followed, counterclockwise round the rim; as any mistake in inside shutdown might mean a ruptured umbilical, as whole sections of dock might decompress. She sat still, feeling the familiar sensations she had thought she might never feel again, free, loose, like the ship, outward bound from what was coming at them; and feeling as if part of her were torn away. A second invader pa.s.sed... came zenith and disrupted scan, triggered alarms... was gone, on its way toward the Fleet. They were alive, drifting loose at their helpless slow motion rate, coming out on an agreed course, a general drift of all those undocking. She folded her arm across her belly and watched the screens before her in Finity's command center, thinking on Damon, on all that was back there.

Dead, maybe; they said Angelo was dead; maybe Alicia was; maybe Damon-maybe... she hurled the thought at herself, trying to accept it sanely, if it had to be accepted, if there was revenge to be gotten for it. She drew deep breaths, thinking on Estelle, on all her kin. A second time spared, then. A talent for leaving disasters. She had a life in her that was Quen and Konstantin at once, names that meant something in the Beyond; names which Union would not find comfortable for them in future, that she would give them cause to remember. "Get us out of here," she said to Neihart, cold and furious; and when he looked at her, seeming amazed by this shift of mind: "Get us out. Run for jump. Pa.s.s the word. Matteo's Point. Flash the word system-wide. We're leaving, right through the Fleet."

She was Quen, and Konstantin, and Neihart moved. Finity's End overshot the station and kept going, broadcasting instruction to every merchanter near and far in the system. Mazian, Union, Pell-none of them could stop it. Instruments blurred before her eyes, cleared again with a blink. "After Matteo's," she said to Neihart, "we jump again. There'll be others... in deep. Folk who've had enough, who wouldn't come to Pell. We'll find them."

"No hope of your own there, Quen."

"No," she agreed with a shake of her head. "None of mine. They're gone. But I know coordinates. So do we all. I helped you, kept your holds full and never questioned your manifests."

"Merchanters know it."

"So will the Fleet know these places. So we hang together, captain. We move together."

Neihart frowned. It was not characteristic of merchanters... to be together on anything but a dock-front brawl.

"Got a boy on one of Mazian's ships," he said.

"I've got a husband on Pell," she said. "What's left now but to settle accounts for this?"

Neihart considered it a moment, finally nodded. "The Neiharts will stand by your word."

She leaned back, stared at the screen before her. They had scan image, Union insystem, ghosts ripping across scan. It was nightmare. Like Mariner, where Estelle and all the other Quens had died, holding to a doomed station too late... where the Fleet had let something through or something had gotten them from within. It was the same thing... only this time merchanters were not sitting still for it.

She watched, resolved to watch scan until the last, to see everything until the station died or they reached jump-point, whichever might happen first. Damon, she thought, and cursed Mazian, Mazian more than Union, who had brought this on them.

v Green dock A second time G surged out of balance. Damon made a startled grab for the wall and Josh for him, but it was a minor flux, for all the panicked screams outside the scarred door. Damon turned his back against the wall and rolled a weary shake of his head.

Josh asked no questions. None were necessary. Ships had peeled away on the rest of the rim. Even here they could hear the sirens... breach, it was possible. It was encouraging that they could hear sirens. There was still air out there on the dock.

"They're going," Damon said hoa.r.s.ely. Elene was away, with those ships; he wanted to believe so. It was the sensible thing. Elene would have been sensible; had friends, people who knew her, who would help her, when he could not. She was gone... to come back, maybe, when things settled-if they settled. If he was alive. He did not think he was going to be alive. Maybe Downbelow was all right; maybe Elene-on those ships. His hope went with them. If he was wrong... he never wanted to know.

Gravity fluxed again. The screams and the hammering at the door had stopped. The wide dock was no place to be in a G crisis. Anyone sane had run for smaller s.p.a.ces.

"If the merchanters have bolted," Josh said faintly, "they saw something... knew something. I think Mazian must have his hands full." Damon looked at him, thinking of Union ships, of Josh... one of them. "What's going on out there? Can you reckon?"

Josh's face was drenched with sweat, glistening in the light from the scarred door. He leaned against the wall, lifted a glance at the overhead. "Mazian's liable to do anything; can't predict. No percentage for Union in destroying this station. It's the stray shot we have to worry about."

"We can absorb a lot of shots. We may lose sections, but while we have motive power and the hub intact, we can handle damage."