Homefall: Book Four of the Last Legion Series (27 page)

“I wouldn’t use interesting so much as astounding, preposterous, absurd,” Ristori said. “Perhaps I should pour this fine engine-room juice back in the snifter.”

“Uh-uh,” Njangu said. “I want you to keep up with us, and what you’re coming up with can’t be any weirder than what Garvin and I are probably thinking.”

“Then talk to us, Gaffer Jaansma,” Froude said. “You’re the CO, so we’ll let you be the first to dangle it out there.”

“ ‘Kay,” Garvin said. “This stress Romolo talked about. I’d guess that must’ve been the riots we heard about when we passed through Centrum as recruits.”

“Maybe,” Njangu allowed. “Or maybe the stress was worse. Like uprising, maybe. Or riots that never stopped.”

Froude looked at Ristori, and both nodded tentative agreement.

“So when things fell apart, they really fell apart. I don’t have any idea what this frigging People’s Confederation is, or this People’s Parliament,” Njangu went on. “But this thing about records being lost lets me get very, very weird on what might’ve happened.

“Maybe,” he went on, carefully not looking at the other three, “in this period of stress somebody blew up the Military Records Division.”

“That’s reaching,” Ristori said.

“Besides,” Garvin said, “there’s always backups.”

“Yeh,” Njangu agreed. “And lemme stretch some more. Not only were the central records blown all to hooey, which I can see a mob doing who’s been shot up a few times by folks in uniform, but maybe the backups are either on other worlds or some of those sets of records nobody seems to have located.

“Shitfire, if they could lose any reference to Cumbre — ”

“And have Grimaldi’s records a few hundred years out-of-date,” Garvin interrupted.

“Why the hell couldn’t they forget about a few thousand grunts called Strike Force Swift Lance?” Njangu finished.

“Not enough,” Froude said, although Ristori, stroking his chin, was shaking his head in disagreement. “Why haven’t they sent anybody out to start touching bases?”

“I’ll give you the easy answer,” Njangu said. “And the hard possibility.

“The easy one is that if everything turned to shit on Centrum, everybody with any kind of authority was busy trying to keep his own ass behind the firing squad instead of in front.

“Think about it, Danfin. Everybody we know who comes from one of the Confederation worlds who got interested in politics has said they’d been sort of ignored for a long time before the bottom fell out. For some worlds it was five years, for some twenty, some even longer.”

“True,” Froude said. “I can remember trying to communicate with colleagues in other systems who’d done interesting papers, and never being able to make contact.”

“As can I,” Ristori said. “Even before I went on the road. It was a constant complaint at the conventions I used to attend, before terminal boredom struck, that whole segments of the Confederation were being lost, and valuable, long-term sociological studies would never be available.”

Njangu nodded smugly.

“Let me tell you a little story. As soon as I finish what’s in my glass, take the decanter away from Jaansma, then get some more of that chilled tea for a chaser.”

Njangu did as he’d promised, drank deeply, then returned to his chair, slouched back in it.

“When I was very, very small,” he said, “there was this group of tearaways a street or so over. I was far too young to join them, which was a good thing because they ended up getting nailed by the cops, given condit, and that was the end of that.

“Anyway, they were real dumb-birds, ‘cause they were stealing from people around them, which of course guaranteed somebody would eventually snitch them off, which is what happened.

“Now, I lived in a shit-poor part of the world, and nobody could afford proper security devices, but they sure as hell didn’t want to come home from work or a hard day’s thieving and find their flats stripped barebones.

“So they started putting in iron bars. Over the windows, over the doors.

“ ‘Course, you can cut through iron fairly easy, but that takes time and work, and thieves don’t fancy either.

“The point of the story is there was this one man, wife had left him with two kids, down two buildings. A fire started one night in his apartment, and he had all his ironwork neatly bolted in and locked.

“I guess he couldn’t find the keys to the locks in time.”

“The man burned?”

“To a crisp,” Njangu said. “And the kids.”

Garvin got it first.

“All those damned security devices we had to beep and burp and code our way through are like the iron bars?”

“Just that,” Njangu said. “The goddamned Confederation went and built itself a fortress, and then forgot how to get out of it.

“That’s why Romolo … and the boarding officer from that destroyer … were so curious about any difficulties we might have had coming into the Capella system, and why he wants to look at the logbooks, which I’ll be falsifying as soon as tomorrow’s hangover goes away.”

“That’s … well, not impossible,” Froude said. “And I’ll accept the codes were destroyed. But wouldn’t they push their way through, very carefully?”

“Why? They had troubles here at home. And as for people from the outside … how many ships do you think it takes to vanish … blown all to hell by those frigging robots … before people quit trying?”

Garvin followed Njangu’s lead, and poured himself a drink.

“I suspect,” he said slowly, “if that’s the explanation, or even just part of it, Centrum is going to be very goddamned interesting.”

“Not to mention borderline lethal,” Yoshitaro said.

The guide pilot was a wizened woman named Chokio with very wise eyes. Liskeard told her that
Big Bertha
wasn’t the strongest ship for gravitational stress, a complete lie, so he’d appreciate it if she’d approve a nice, quiet lowering approach that’d take them a while to reach ground.

“Cert’nly, Cap’n,” she said. “Besides, gives you a good chance to have a look at Centrum. Y’ been here before?”

“No,” Liskeard said truthfully. Garvin came on the bridge, heard her question, shook his head untruthfully, figuring a flash visit as a bare-ass recruit in the rear rank wouldn’t count for much.

“Give you a chance at th’ glory what were Rome. See how things can get totally screwed …” and she caught herself. “Sorry. Meant how things can change in not ver’ long.”

As they closed on the planet, she grinned, and told Liskeard to open up a screen and gave an aim point.

It showed long ranks of starships, drifting aimlessly in orbit, loosely linked together with kilometer-long cables.

“ ‘At’s th’ Confederation Fleet … that which didn’t get caught on the ground and tore up when things … changed, or was out Beyond, and never come back. Or left a’terward and never come back.”

“What was it like when … well, the way you put it, things changed?” Garvin asked.

“It was shit-ugly for anyone wearin’ a uniform, didn’t seem to matter if you were a soldier or a postman,” Chokio said. “I was very damned glad to be on th’ moon as a girl operatin’ a pushmepullme yard tug. Friends of mine on groundside said it got definitely nasty out.

“Not that it wasn’t warranted,” she said hastily. “Damned Confederation bureaucrats and their thugs’d been pushin’ folks around for too long. The people had enough, and so they started lashin’ out in all directions.

“Sometimes they got the right direction, sometimes …” She shrugged and pretended to consult a screen as
Big Bertha
entered atmosphere.

“Almost wish this ship of yours was like some of the oldies,” Chokio said. “Thin-skinned enough so you could hear air whip, and have lousy enough heat exchangers so it’d redden up. That was back when there was romance in space travel.

“Brought one of those back to Centrum not long ago,” she said. “It was some kind of old survey ship, and I guess they thought it’d have Confederation records or something.

“Never heard anything more about it.”

Big Bertha
made a first orbit, shallowly descending as it went. Every viewscreen, every port was crowded, and as they got lower, it was easy to see the “changes.”

Centrum was … had been … a carefully planned world, with huge islands of apartments near buildings that had to be governmental for their gray ugliness. In between stretched lakes and green belts.

In a closed compartment, Njangu and his Intel people were correlating what they saw with the map of Centrum they’d bought from Kuprin Freron, back on Tiborg Alpha Delta.

“See th’ parks?” Chokio said. “Kinda shabbied up, aren’t they? They were built not just for runnin’ and playin’, of course. Intended to cycle off CO
₂
, so folks could keep breathin’.

“When people got done rippin’ and tearin’, and realized th’ heat wasn’t on, some of th’ fools decided to get in th’ parks with saws, and
really
get back to th’ land.

“The Cits … citizens … wouldn’t listen to anybody telling ‘em about oxygen regeneration, thought anybody who did were bigbrains, prob’ly part of the Old Order, and thought they’d make good targets.

“Finally, had to give orders to the People’s Militia, made it a capital offense to cut down a tree.

“Not that anybody ever
considered
telling any Cit she didn’t have the right to breed ‘til we all have to breathe in alternate beats. Nawp, anything scientific was part of the old way of thinkin’.”

She shook her head, said, almost under her breath, “People always seem hell-bent on makin’ themselves into the worst damn’ fools they can, don’t they?”

Liskeard didn’t answer, and
Big Bertha
closed on the ground, flying over a huge, burned-out ruin.

“That was Riot Troops’ headquarters. Barracks, holding cells, landing platform on top. It went up like a torch, the first day of the rising. Heard there weren’t any of ‘em got through that night, which was at least one of the good things the change brought, and I think I’m talkin’ a bit much.

“Got orders to bring you down at Mainport. I guess th’ powers that be this week might want to see themselves a circus. Hell, I’m curious myself.

“Just hope the Mobiles approve of circuses, so everything goes smooth.”

“What are the Mobiles?” Garvin asked.

“Th’ Mobilization Party. They’re the cuttin’ edge, or at least they tell everybody they are, and seem to believe it, of th’ change right now. They … and their leader … make sure everything’s headed in the right direction.”

“Who’s leading them?” Garvin asked. “Might be a good idea to stay on his side.”

“Things, they say, are changin’,” Chokio said. “But then, they always are. A year or so ago, I would’ve mentioned the Freedom Party and Abia Cornovil, who’s always interested in things new. Now, it’s the Mobility. Next year …” she shrugged. “Who th’ hell knows.

“Anyway, The Mobiles’ current leader’s a Fove Gadu.

“Gadu’s one of those folks who knows better’n you what’s best for you, and doesn’t mind cuttin’ a few throats or givin’ a few lethal injections to those who disagree.”

• • •

Abia Cornovil was a big man, middle-aged, naturally muscled, going a bit to pot, who dressed simply and wore his straight hair almost to his shoulders. If this were another planet than Centrum, Njangu would have thought him an ex-farmer. He found later that Cornovil had been a statistician, but the shovel and hoe must not have been too distant in his genealogy, for he was the one who’d taken charge of keeping the parks as intact as possible.

Strangely, he’d had a bad complexion as a boy, which he never had repaired, on a planet that would have had the best cosmetic medicos.

His voice was as burly as his presence, and his booming laugh could be heard throughout the ship.

Cornovil had insisted on seeing everything and meeting everyone, and was fascinated with every detail, from how horses handled N-space to how Sir Douglas cycled the pungent cat shit.

He appeared no more than a cheerful peasant, and both Yoshitaro and Froude had to keep reminding themselves that this man had ridden the crest of what appeared to be roiling anarchy for almost a generation, and had to be a great deal more than he appeared.

Cornovil insisted on having a drink with Garvin and his staff. Jaansma, rather maliciously, served him their own triply distilled engine-room swill.

He purpled a little, but kept from choking.

“Great gods,” he said. “No wonder you’re so eager to get out of space. Does this crap improve with age?”

“Yours or its?” Froude asked. “I’ve almost gotten to liking it.”

“I’ll send over some brandy imported from Second World,” Cornovil promised. “If you people propose to keep the Mobiles entertained, you can’t be poisoning yourselves.”

“A question,” Froude said. “Someone implied that this Mobilization Party has a great deal of power. Just how does the People’s Confederation work, politically?”

“Quite frankly,” Cornovil said, “we’re still working things out, just as we’ve yet to be able to redeem the promise the Confederation made to other systems to provide peace and open trade.

“We have a Parliament of One Thousand, which supposedly is elected by the people. Anyone can run in the yearly race, at which one-third of the seats are at stake, and a simple majority qualifies you for admission. But in fact, there are a dozen parties. Since the Mobiles are now the strongest, you’d be advised to support their views if you wish a chance at election. My own, the Freedom League, is at least holding it’s own. Others …” he shrugged, “come up, go back down, sometimes after being found out as secret supporters of the Old Confederation.”

“How are the votes managed?” Njangu asked, and Cornovil looked at him warily.

“That’s a pretty sophisticated question for somebody as young as you are,” Cornovil said. “Does a circus require a political expert?”

“It’s hard, visiting a dozen worlds a year, and wishing to keep on the good side of everyone,” Froude said to get Njangu off the hook, “
not
to have an interest in politics.”

“Ah,” Cornovil said. “The votes are … handled, as you put it, somewhat carelessly. In the last three elections, in fact, there’ve been a number of accusations of fraud.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately, the accusations were all against the Mobilization Party, which, being the most active and militant at the moment, responded strongly.

“
Very
strongly.”

Njangu felt it wise not to inquire further, especially when Cornovil looked at him coldly, and Yoshitaro saw, once more, that slight gleam he’d seen before in the eyes of powerful men who’d gotten that power without any regard for honesty or legality.

But, three days later, two barrels of brandy arrived, as promised.

• • •

A man wearing a black sash, which made him an officer of the People’s Militia, arrived, and informed Garvin that the circus was given permission to occupy the Central Stadium, both for quarters and performing, and he was ready to escort them there.

“I don’t like this at all,” Garvin told Njangu.

“Me either,” Yoshitaro agreed. “This whole damned place feels shaky, and I’d surely like to stick close to the ship.

“You see any way we can get away with it?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s line up the troops and parade on in. But let’s give everybody who’s in the know a gun. And we’ll keep
Big Bertha
ready to lift and at standby. Plus we can maybe pray a little, if you remember any good gods’ names.”

• • •

The circus, elephants, cats, horses, clowns, little people, acrobats streamed toward the Central Stadium. The sidewalks on either side of them were packed.

But Garvin couldn’t make a call. On some blocks the people were silent, staring, almost hostile. On others, they cheered wildly.

He decided he’d have to play things as they came.

He didn’t find much comfort knowing the “possum bellies,” the storage compartments under the lifters, were packed with weaponry.

The route had been hastily papered with flyers for Circus Jaansma. Garvin noted, with considerable amusement, that all of the flyers on one building had been posted upside down.

That had to have been done by an I&R sort, who’d also learned more than a bit about circus lore — the upside posters were traditionally put up for Home Sweet Home, the season’s last play before they made for winter quarters.

Cumbre.

Garvin wondered if they’d make it.

They reached the Central Stadium. The best that could be said about the building was that it was huge, big enough for three or four circuses.

Fleam, the boss canvas man, was running around the arena, muttering, trying to determine where he’d put everything and everyone, trailing harried roustabouts in his wake.

Others explored the upper stories, found rooms for all.

The building smelled of decay, abandonment, and everyone, animals, people, felt uneasy.

But there was no other choice.

• • •

“I shall certainly try to appear for your opening show tonight,” Fove Gadu said to Garvin and his staff.

If Abia Cornovil had a slight megalomaniacal gleam to his eye, Gadu broadcast it. He was thin, hair disheveled, and he’d missed a patch here and there when he’d depiled last. His clothes were indifferently clean, and it seemed as if he might not have bathed in the last day or so.

“I understand Abia Cornovil visited you,” Gadu said, pretending to be casual. “What was your impression?”

“Why, he seemed quite in charge of things,” Garvin said. “He wasn’t really here long enough for me, at least, to make any stronger opinion.”

“I see,” Gadu said. “He made no mention of how he saw what place you might have here on Centrum, then?”

“None, other than he wanted to see our performance, and was most interested in touring our facilities.”

“Oh? Any comments?”

“None other than admiring.”

Gadu changed the subject, asked many questions about
Big Bertha’
s passage to Centrum. It was obvious he knew well about Capella’s self-imposed blockade. Finally, he seemed satisfied, quirked his lips in what he might have imagined to be a smile, and left.

“Whoo,” Garvin said. “Cornovil gave me the chills; this bastard made my dick fall off.”

“Mine just shriveled up and wrapped around my backbone,” Njangu said. “What about you, Monique?”

“He reminded me of a couple of sorts I ran across over the years,” Lir said. “Fortunately, both of ‘em are dead now.”

“By whose hand?”

Lir smiled, didn’t answer.

• • •

Darod Montagna did a backflip off her horse as she came out the Back Way, landed easily on her feet.

Rudy Kweik, leg wounds still healing, limped toward her.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” Darod said.

“What’s your call on the townies? I can’t get close enough to be sure.”

Darod shivered, not from any cold, hugged herself.

“I can’t make them out,” she said slowly. “One section’ll be cheering like bandits, the others look at you like they want to put a bomb in your shorts.”

“I don’t like this,” Kweik said. “Sopi Midt says the midway’s doing spotty business. Gambling booths do all right, but nobody’s interested in the games of chance that pay off in stuffed animals.”

“Maybe the gazoonies have figured out how fixed everything is,” Darod suggested, realizing how easily she’d started using circus jargon.

Kweik snorted.

“A gilly figure out a gaff? They know nanty, or they wouldn’t be gillies, now would they?”

“That’s one way to figure it,” Montagna said.

“The only way I figure it is that we’ll be damned lucky to make the run for home without a serious clem,” Kweik said. “You might want to make sure you take care of yourself.”