IV
My repair team has arrived from Vishnu.
But they have not arrived on Jefferson. Nor do they appear likely to do so in the immediate future. Heavy fighting rages across the Adero floodplain to the Damisi foothills. Repeated bombing attacks have crippled Port Abraham, destroying ruinously expensive shuttle gantries and smashing loading docks into rubble. Relentless attacks on highly placed officials — which appear to be coordinated through an alliance between Granger guerillas and urban insurrectionists — have speeded Santorini’s loosening grip on reality. Given these unstable conditions, the Star of Mali’s captain has refused to send her shuttles anywhere near Jefferson’s soil.
Vittori Santorini, himself, tries to coerce the Star’s captain. “You’ll land those damned specialists and supplies or I’ll use my Bolo to shoot your goddamned freighter out of orbit!”
“The way I hear it, that machine is too blind to see me and too crippled to shoot at anything. Besides which, I don’t think you can afford to pay for another load of parts. And Shiva Weapons Labs wouldn’t feel obliged to provide a second team of engineers, if you blow up this one.”
Santorini’s response disintegrates into incoherent screams which the captain cuts off, mid-shout, simply by turning off her radio. Eight minutes later, Milo Akbarr, Commandant of Internal Security, contacts the Star of Mali from his command post in the field. He is directing an attack on Klameth Canyon, where rebel troops are defending not only Granger residents, but also refugees who have flooded into the canyon by the hundreds of thousands. Akbarr’s attempt to coerce Captain Aditi is a simple threat to impound her ship.
Five point eight minutes later, rebel artillery opens fire on his communications shack, homing in on the conversation raging between him and Captain Aditi. His tirade is cut short by explosions which deprive Jefferson of its Commandant of Internal Security. Captain Aditi continues to sit tight on a shipload of parts I must have and which I begin to despair of ever seeing. Thirteen point nine minutes later, Sar Gremian hails the Star’s captain.
“This is Sar Gremian,” he informs her in the perpetually bitter, biting tone that is his standard method of conversation. His next words startle me. “I am Jefferson’s Supreme Commandant for Internal Security and the worst nightmare you’ve ever tried to shake down for more money. You were promised a whopping bonus to bring our cargo. Don’t make the mistake of trying to blackmail this government into paying more. That kind of mistake will be fatal, I promise you most sincerely.”
“Don’t threaten me, sonny boy. I was supposed to be at Mali two days ago and let me tell you, that’s cost me a pretty penny, wrecking my schedule for this run. Your government promised to pay a bonus worth my time and trouble, diverting here, but you can’t pay me enough to risk my shuttles to some bomb-happy terrorist at a spaceport you can’t even defend from your own people.”
“You agreed to deliver our order. You will, by God, put our equipment and our supplies on your shuttles or you’ll never dock at Jefferson again.”
“You call that a hardship?” She actually laughs. “I’m damn near the only freighter captain still willing to run this route and after today, I’ll be cursed for a fool if I make it again. There’s not enough profit to be made from your sordid little hellhole to put up with the crap your people dish out, let alone risk my cargo shuttles and my crew to a bunch of wild-eyed lunatics. You want the cargo in my holds? Fine. I’ll strap it all to that heavy lift sled you rented and send it down together in one tidy package.
“And just to round out the load, I’ll send along those riot-happy brats Vishnu kicked off-world. The Ministry of Defense shoved those kids onto my ship at gunpoint and told me to whistle for the cost of transporting them. I wouldn’t give a damn even if they were war orphans. I’m not running an orphanage. You want your supplies? You’ll take ’em in one load on the lifter and you’ll pay me the cost of transporting and feeding that unholy horde of brats, because that’s the only way you’ll get your spare parts, sonny boy. Take it or leave it.”
“Do you think I’m a fool? We’re fighting a civil war, down here! And we know that somebody on Vishnu is supplying the rebels with guns and high-tech equipment. Do you honestly expect me to authorize the kind of security violation you’re suggesting? Our inspectors will board your ship and go over that cargo load by load or I’ll impound your freighter and freeze your payment—”
“You try boarding my ship and I’ll dump your police and your precious cargo out the nearest airlock. Cut the crap, Gremian. Threaten me again and I will by God warp out of orbit and shake your dirty dust off my jump jets. And you can jolly well whistle up your ass, trying to get another twenty-billion shipment out of Vishnu’s weapons labs, let alone another heavy lift sled capable of flipping that war machine of yours back onto its treads.”
Sar Gremian breathes hard for seventeen point nine seconds. I am startled by the size of the price tag attached to the shipment circling above Jefferson’s skies. The inflation rate is literally double what it was two weeks ago. Jefferson’s currency is not merely declining in value against the Ngara system’s, it is imploding. I surmise that open civil warfare and the successful liberation of POPPA’s death camps have fueled this implosion. This bodes ill for Jefferson’s economic future, which is already grim enough to qualify as a star-class disaster.
Sar Gremian cannot afford to lose this shipment. “All right,” he snarls, “you have a deal. Load my property onto that sled, then get the hell out of my star-system.”
“With pleasure!”
The transmission ends, with abrupt finality.
Twenty-one minutes later, the heavy lift sled leaves the Star’s cargo bay and orbits Jefferson twice, dropping cautiously lower. The sled’s psychotronic control system signals its intended descent path, which will bring the sled down on the other side of the planet from Madison, above empty ocean. It is a logical maneuver, since rebel guns and missiles cannot easily open fire on a target thousands of kilometers away and cannot move into position to meet the descending sled, given the total lack of dry land in the zone of descent. The sled will cross open ocean in perfect safety and make final approach to my location from the sea-side escarpment five kilometers west of Madison.
Sar Gremian orders the federal troops stationed in Madison to clear a corridor of tightly secured airspace from the beleaguered spaceport to my overturned warhull and threatens mass executions of any federal unit that allows rebel antiaircraft missiles or artillery to open fire on that sled. The P-Squad commanders know Sar Gremian well enough to realize this is no idle threat. They must also know that Commodore Oroton will risk hell, itself, to take down that sled, since the cargo and technicians it carries spell repairs for me and death for his rebellion.
When the lift sled is seven kilometers west of the escarpment, with its spectacular waterfall, P-Squad commanders report missile launches from positions north and south of Madison. Commodore Oroton has made his predicted move against the incoming lifter. P-Squad artillery batteries destroy the missiles with ease and launch an immediate counterstrike, claiming direct hits on both targets.
The lifter holds course, coming in on final approach. It is less than one kilometer from the escarpment when a mobile Hellbore opens fire from behind Chenga Falls. The attack catches federal troops totally by surprise. The lifter’s pilot reacts far more swiftly, slewing the sled violently midair the instant the Hellbore powers up for the shot, which just misses one corner.