Downbelow Station Page 7

  Barracks were ransacked. Gangs of the ruffians who had forced Griffin and Hansford gained membership among the desperate, the young, the leaderless and the panicked.

  There was quiet for a time outside. The fans had stopped; the air began to go foul. Among those who had seen the worst of the voyage, there was panic, quietly contained; a good number were crying.

  Then the lights brightened and a cool draft came through the ducts. The door whipped open. Kressich got to his feet and looked into the faces of 55

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  station police, and the barrels of leveled rifles. Some of his own band had knives, sections of pipe and furniture, whatever weapons they had improvised. He had nothing ... held up frantic hands.

  "No," he pleaded. No one moved, not the police, not his own. "Please. We weren't in it. We only defended this section from them. None ... none of these people were involved. They were the victims."

  The police leader, face haggard with wariness and soot and blood, motioned with his rifle toward the wall. "You have to line up," Kressich explained to his ill-assorted companions, who were not the sort to understand such procedures, except only the ex-police. "Drop whatever weapons you have." They lined up, even the old and the sick, and the two small children.

  Kressich found himself shaking, while he was searched and after, left leaning against the corridor wall while the police muttered mysteriously among themselves. One seized him by the shoulder, faced him about. An officer with a slate walked from one to the other of them asking for ID's.

  "They were stolen," Kressich said. "That's how it started. The gangs were stealing papers and burning them."

  "We know that," the officer said. "Are you in charge? What's your name and origin?"

  "Vassily Kressich, Russell's."

  "Others of you know him?"

  Several confirmed it. "He was a councillor on Russell's Station," said a young man. "I served there in security."

  "Name."

  The young man gave it. Nino Coledy. Kressich tried to recall him and could not. One by one the questions were repeated, cross-examination of identifications, mutual identifications, no more reliable than the word of 56

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  those who gave them. A man with a camera came into the hallway and photographed them all standing against the wall. They stood in a chaos of com-chatter and discussion.

  "You can go," the police leader said, and they began to file out; but when Kressich started to leave the officer caught his arm. "Vassily Kressich. I'll be giving your name to headquarters."

  He was not sure whether that was good or bad; anything was a hope.

  Anything was better than what existed here in Q, with the station stalling and unable to place them or clear them out.

  He walked out onto the dock itself, shaken by the sight of the wreckage that had been made here, with the dead still lying in their blood, piles of combustibles still smouldering, what furnishings and belongings had remained heaped up to burn. Station police were everywhere, armed with rifles, no light arms. He stayed on the docks, close to the police, afraid to go back into the corridors for fear of the terrorist gangs. It was impossible to hope the police had gotten them all. There were far too many.

  Eventually the station set up an emergency dispensary for food and drink near the section line, for the water had been shut down during the emergency, the kitchens vandalized, everything turned to weapons. Com had been vandalized; there was no way to report damage; and no repair crews were likely to want to come into the area.

  He sat on the bare dock and ate what they were given, in company with other small knots of refugees who had no more than he. People looked on each other in fear.

  "We aren't getting out," he heard repeatedly. "They'll never clear us to leave now."

  More than once he heard mutterings of a different sort, saw men he knew had been in the gangs of rioters, which had begun in his barracks, and no one reported them. No one dared. They were too many.

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  Unionizers were among them. He became sure that these were the agitators. Such men might have most to fear in a tight check of papers.

  The war had reached Pell. It was among them, and they were as stationers had always been, neutral and empty-handed, treading carefully among those who meant murder ... only now it was not stationers against warships, metal shell against metal shell; the danger was shoulder to shoulder with them, perhaps the young man with the hoarded sandwich, the young woman who sat and stared with hateful eyes.

  The convoy came in, without troops for escort. Dock crews under the protection of a small army of station police managed the unloading.

  Refugees were let through, processed as best could be with most of the housing wrecked, with the corridors become a jungle. The newcomers stood, baggage in hand, staring about them with terror in their eyes. They would be robbed by morning, Kressich reckoned, or worse. He heard people round him simply crying softly, despairing.

  By morning there was yet another group of several hundred; and by now there was panic, for they were all hungry and thirsty and food arrived from main station very slowly.

  A man settled on the deck near him: Nino Coledy.

  "There's a dozen of us," Coledy said. "Could sort some of this out; been talking to some of the gang survivors. We don't give out names and they cooperate. We've got strong arms ... could straighten this mess out, get people back into residences, so we can get some food and water in here."

  "What, we?"

  Coledy's face took on a grimace of earnestness. "You were a councillor.

  You stand up front; you do the talking. We keep you there. Get these people fed. Get ourselves a soft place here. Station needs that. We can benefit by it."

  Kressich considered it. It could also get them shot. He was too old for this.

  They wanted a figurehead. A police gang wanted a respectable figurehead.

  He was also afraid to tell them no.

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  "You just do the talking out front," Coledy said.

  "Yes," he agreed, and then, setting his jaw with more firmness than Coledy might have expected of a tired old man: "You start rounding up your men and I'll have a talk with the police."

  He did so, approaching them gingerly. "There's been an election," he said.

  "I'm Vassily Kressich, councillor from red two, Russell's Station. Some of our own police are among the refugees. We're prepared to go into the corridors and establish order ... without violence. We know faces. You don't. If you'll consult your own authorities and get it cleared, we can help."

  They were not sure of that. There was hesitation even about calling in.

  Finally a police captain did so, and Kressich stood fretting. The captain nodded at last. "If it gets out of hand," the captain said, "we won't discriminate in firing. But we're not going to tolerate any killing on your part, councillor Kressich; it's not an open license."

  "Have patience, sir," Kressich said, and walked away, mortally tired and frightened. Coledy was there, with several others, waiting for him by the niner corridor access. In a few moments there were more drifting to them, less savory than the first. He feared them. He feared not to have them. He cared for nothing now, except to live; and to be atop the force and not under it. He watched them go, using terror to move the innocent, gathering the dangerous into their own ranks. He knew what he had done. It terrified him. He kept silent, because he would be caught in the second riot, part of it, if it happened. They would see to that.

  He assisted, used his dignity and his age and the fact that his face was known to some: shouted directions, began to have folk addressing him respectfully as councillor Kressich. He listened to their griefs and their fears and their angers until Coledy flung a guard about him to protect their precious figurehead.

  Within the hour the docks were clear and the legitimized gangs were in control, and honest people deferred to him wherever he we
nt.

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  7

  i

  Pell: 5/22/52

  Jon Lukas settled into the council seat his son Vittorio had sat proxy for during the last three years, and sat scowling. Already he had been up against one in-family crisis: he had lost three rooms of his five-room lodging, literally sliced off by moving a partition, to accommodate two Jacoby cousins and their partners in alterday rotation, one of them with children who banged the wall and cried. His furnishings had been piled by workmen into what was left of his privacy ... lately occupied by son Vittorio and his current affection. That had been a homecoming. He and Vittorio had reached a quick understanding: the woman walked out and Vittorio stayed, finding the possession of an apartment and an expense account more important, and far better than transfer to Downbelow base, which was actively seeking young volunteers. Physical labor, and on Downbelow's rainy surface, was not to Vittorio's taste. As figurehead up here he had been useful, voted as he was told, managed as he was told, had kept Lukas Company out of chaos, at least, having sense enough to solve minor problems on his own and to ask about the major ones. What he had done with the expense account was another matter. Jon had spent his time, after adjusting to station hours, down in company offices going over the books, reviewing personnel and those expense accounts.

  Now there was some kind of alert on, ugly and urgent; he had come as other councillors had come, brought in by a message that a special meeting was called. His heart was still hammering from the exertion. He keyed in his desk unit and his mike, listening to the thin com chatter which occupied council at the moment, with a succession of ship scan images on the screens overhead. More trouble. He had heard it all the way up from the dockside offices. Something was coming in.

  "What number do you have?" Angelo was asking, and getting no response from the other side.

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  "What is this?" Jon asked the woman next to him, a green sector delegate, Anna Morevy.

  "More refugees coming in, and they're not saying anything. The carrier Pacific. Esperance Station: that's all we know. We're not getting any cooperation. But that's Sung out there. What do you expect?"

  Other councillors were still arriving, the tiers filling rapidly. He slipped the personal audio into his ear, punched in the recorder, trying to get current of the situation. The convoy on scan had come in far too close for safety, above system plane. The voice of the council secretary whispered on, summarizing, offering visuals to his desk screen, none of it much more than what they had before them live.

  A page worked through to the back row, leaned over his shoulder and handed him a handwritten note. Welcome back, he read, perplexed. You are designated proxy to Emilio Konstantin's seat, number ten. Your immediate experience of Downbelow deemed valuable. A. Konstantin.

  His heart sped again, for a different reason. He gathered himself to his feet, laid down the earplug and turned off the channels, walked down the aisle under the view of all of them, to that vacant seat on the central council, the table amid the tiers, the seats which carried most influence.

  He reached that seat, settled into the fine leather and the carved wood, one of the Ten of Pell; and felt an irrepressible flush of triumph amid these events— justice done, finally, after decades. The great Konstantins had held him off and maneuvered him out of the Ten all his life, despite his strivings and his influence and his merits, and now he was here.

  Not by any change of heart on Angelo's part, he was absolutely sure. It had to be voted. He had won some general vote here in council, the logical consequence of his long, tough service on Downbelow. His record had found appreciation in a council majority.

  He met Angelo's eyes, down the table, Angelo holding the audio plug to his ear, looking at him still with no true welcome, no love, no happiness whatsoever. Angelo accepted his elevation because he must, that was 61

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  clear. Jon smiled tightly, not with his eyes, as if it were an offer of support. Angelo returned it, and not with the eyes either.

  "Put it through again," Angelo said to someone else, via com. "Keep sending. Get me contact direct to Sung."

  The assembly was hushed, reports still coming in, chatter from central, the slow progress of approaching freighters; but Pacific was gathering speed, going into comp-projected haze on scan.

  "Sung here," a voice reached them. "Salutations to Pell Station. Your own establishment can attend the details."

  "What is the number you're giving us?" Angelo asked. "What number is on those ships, captain Sung?"

  "Nine thousand."

  A murmur of horror broke in the chamber.

  "Silence!" Angelo said; it was obscuring com. "We copy, nine thousand.

  This will tax our facilities beyond safety. We request you meet us here in council, captain Sung. We have had refugees come in from Russell's on unescorted merchanters; we were constrained to accept them. For humanitarian reasons it is impossible to refuse such dockings. Request you inform Fleet command of this dangerous situation. We need military support, do you understand, sir? Request you come in for urgent consultation with us. We are willing to cooperate, but we are approaching a point of very difficult decision. We appeal for Fleet support. Repeat: will you come in, sir?"

  There was a little silence from the other side. The council shifted in their seats, for approach alarms were flashing, screens flicking and clouding madly in their attempt to reckon with the carrier's accelerating approach.

  "A last scheduled convoy," the reply came, "is coming in under Kreshov of Atlantic from Pan-Paris. Good luck, Pell Station."

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  The contact was abruptly broken. Scan flashed, the vast carrier still gathering speed more than anything should in a station's vicinity.

  Jon had never seen Angelo angrier. The murmur in the council chamber deafened, and finally the microphone established relative silence again.

  Pacific shot to their zenith, disrupting the screens into breakup. When they cleared, it had passed on, to take an unauthorized course, leaving them its flotsam, the freighters moving in at their slow, inexorable pace toward dock. Somewhere there was a muted call for security to Q.

  "Reserve forces," Angelo ordered one of the section chiefs over com.

  "Call up off-duty personnel— I don't care how many times they've had callup. Keep order in there if you have to shoot to do it. Central, scramble crews to the shuttles, herd those merchanters into the right docks. Throw a cordon of short-haulers in the way if that's what it takes."

  And after a moment as the collision alarms died and there was only the steady remaining report of the freighters on their slow way toward station:

  "We have to get more space for Q." Angelo said, staring around him. "And with regret, we're going to have to take those two levels of red section...partition them in with Q— immediately." There was a sorrowful murmur from the tiers, and the screens flashed with an immediate registered objection from red-section delegates. It was perfunctory. There were no supporters on the screen to second their objection and bring it to vote. "Absolutely," Angelo continued, without even looking at it, "we can't dislodge any more residents, or lose those upper-level routings for the transport system. Can't. If we can't get support from the Fleet ... we have to take other measures. And on a major scale, we have to start shifting population somewhere. Jon Lukas, with apologies for short notice, but we wish you could have made yesterday's meeting. That tabled proposal of yours ... Our on-station construction can't handle security-risk workers. At one time you had plans in some detail for widening the base on Downbelow. What's the status of those?"

  He blinked, suspicious and hopeful at once, frowned at the barb Angelo had to sling, even now. He gathered himself to his feet, which he did not need to do, but he wanted to see faces. "If I had received notification of the situation, I would have made every effort; as it was, I came with all possible haste
. As for the proposal, by no means impossible: housing that 63

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  number on Downbelow could be done in short order, with no difficulty ...

  except for those housed there. The conditions ... after three years, I can tell you ... are primitive. Downer labor making pit housing, airtightened to a reasonable extent; enough compressors; and the simplest locally available materials for the bracing. Downer labor is always the most efficient down there; no inconvenience of breathers; but humans in great enough numbers can replace them— field work, manufacture, clearing land, digging their own dome shells. Just enough Pell staff to supervise and guard them.

  Confinement is no problem; particularly your more difficult cases would do well down there— you take those breathers away, and they're not going anywhere or doing anything you don't want."

  "Mr. Lukas." Anton Eizel stood up, an old man, a friend of Angelo's and a stubborn do-gooder. "Mr. Lukas, I must misunderstand what I'm hearing.

  These are free citizens. We're not talking about establishing penal colonies. These are refugees. We're not turning Downbelow into a labor camp."

  "Tour Q!" someone shouted from the tiers. "See what a wreck they've made out of those sections! We had homes there, beautiful homes.

  Vandalism and destruction. They're tearing up the place. They've attacked our security people with pipes and kitchen knives, and who knows if we got all the guns back after the riot?"

  "There've been murders over there," someone else shouted. "Gangs of hoodlums."

  "No," said a third, a strange voice in council. Heads turned to the thin man who had taken a seat, Jon saw, in the place he himself had vacated above.