Star Bridge (23 page)

“What happened?”

Redblade shrugged. “The Warden cut off the food until we cleared the ditch out. A lot of us died. You see, though, that it's hopeless.”

“In ordinary circumstances,” Horn agreed. “But conditions have changed. The Empire is breaking apart; it's every man for himself to pick what he can out of the pieces.”

Redblade's eyes blazed. “What's happened?”

“Rebellion!” Quickly Horn briefed the pirate on what had happened in the last few days.

Redblade growled deep in his thick chest. “Ahr-r-r! I'd give ten years of this life to dive into a real fight once more, to feel the flesh give and the bone break, to see the blood run.” He sighed. “You think Eron's really in trouble?”

Horn nodded. “It's not just the fighting on Eron, though that's dangerous enough. Every conquered world in the Empire will be up in arms. There won't be many troops to spare for Eron itself, and ships are useless against the fighting inside. Guard detachments will be rebelling. The top leadership is gone.

“A few strong men might swing the balance either way, and one name could make all the difference: Peter Sair.”

“He's dead,” Redblade said casually.

“Did you see him die?”

“He was never out here with the rest of us. They kept him in the fortress. Newcomers brought out the news of his death.”

Horn sighed. It was just rumor, then, like the rest; it was something the Empire would deliberately release. Sair had to be alive.

“So we wait,” Redblade said disgustedly, “until someone releases us.”

“I can't wait,” Horn said. “And I'm afraid we might wait forever.”

“Then you've got a plan?”

“If you're willing to take a chance.”

“Anything,” Redblade spat out.

“How many men are there out here?”

Redblade shrugged. “Three or four hundred. Nobody ever counted. Men die. Others come out of the fortress.”

“What would you do if you were the Warden?” Horn asked. “You've only got a few men to do a big job: taking over the north cap with its vital control room. You've got no scruples—”

“I'd use the prisoners!” Redblade exclaimed. “I'd put guns in their backs and throw them into the fight. There's lots of times guns are no good anyway. A few hundred real fighting men would swing most battles; they'd get killed, but they'd swing it. But it's dangerous letting us into the fortress.”

“Not as dangerous as losing,” Horn said. “Remember, this comes as a surprise. We're called in suddenly, jammed into a carefully guarded room, taken out under guard a few at a time—”

“Yeah,” Redblade said. “It would work.”

“But if we've outguessed him, if we're ready to make a break before he expects it, then we've got a chance. Not a good chance, but a chance.”

“Any chance to get off Vantee is a good chance,” Redblade muttered and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “What do we need?”

“A handful of men we can trust,” Horn began.

“There aren't any. If they were trustful when they reached here, they soon learned better.”

“It's freedom, man!” Horn exploded. “Won't any of them take orders for that?”

“They might,” Redblade admitted. “But don't trust any of them.” He hesitated. “Not even me. You can lure us with freedom and promises or force us with blows, but you can't trust us.”

Horn stared fiercely into the pirate's eyes. “Stick with me,” he said, “and we'll whip the Empire and get our pick of the pieces. Go off on your own, and you'll get nothing except a quick death.”

“I might do it,” Redblade muttered. “I might do it. I will do it. But don't trust me.”

“I'm going to,” Horn said firmly. He had no choice; he had to count on this amoral giant to guard his back. “We need weapons.”

“Knives, blackjacks, slings, or bone clubs?”

“Those that can be concealed are all right,” Horn said, “but we need something small that will kill from a distance.”

“Like this?” Redblade asked. He pulled something metallic out of his rags.

Horn took it and turned it over in his hands. It was a gun, crudely made with a small, rolled barrel, a bone handle, a trigger, and a crank of some kind on the side. “What is it?” he asked dubiously.

Redblade dumped the contents of a small sack into his broad palm. The dim sunlight glowed along slim, pointed darts. “It shoots these. Inside the barrel is a spring. The crank pulls it back until it's caught by the trigger. Drop in one of these”—he dropped a dart into the barrel of the gun, lifted the gun, and aimed at a boulder—“and pull the trigger.”

Twang-g-g! S-s-s-s. Ping-ng-ng!

“Not very accurate, but it'll kill a man if you're close enough,” Redblade said.

“You didn't make those out of belt buckles.”

“There used to be metal troughs where the trench is. We took them out, hammered the metal, rubbed it against the rocks. It took a long time, but we had lots of that.”

“With two of those,” Horn said reflectively, “we might do it. See if you can round up half a dozen men who are quick and will take orders. Nobody else is to know.”

The men came sullenly, herded in front of Redblade like sheep in front of a sheepdog. But as Horn outlined the opportunity and the plan, they caught fire from him. When he asked them if they would take orders, they nodded eagerly.

He gave them the same incentive to follow him that he had given Redblade, and then he added, “And if you don't, we'll kill you, Redblade or I.”

The pirate growled agreement, and the ragged prisoners shrugged as if the terms were obvious.

Horn paced off the fortress dimensions, assigned them their roles, and drilled them in the plan until they were able to go through it in unison with their eyes closed. It was uncomplicated, but the simplest plans are the best. Its success depended on surprise and timing.

At last Horn realized that he had done all he could. “Nobody else gets told,” he said. “They'd give it away or interfere. There's only one way to keep it to ourselves. Nobody leaves.”

They accepted it, not gladly but with resignation to the realities of the situation.

“Now,” Horn said, “all we have to do is wait and hope the Warden gets desperate enough to use us.”

They were still fired and enthusiastic then. They gathered just out of sight of the footbridge that led to the solid, forbidding black door of the fortress. As the hours passed, Horn watched the unity of the group breaking apart.

Horn stared at the door and turned the plan over and over in his mind. He realized how feeble it was and how feeble were the instruments he had to work with. A ragged handful of treacherous rogues with a few, poor, handmade weapons to throw against a fortress. It was folly, but even folly is preferable to resignation; any chance is better than none.

Once, during the long wait, Redblade pulled him aside. “Look, man,” he said. “I've been thinking over what you told me. I'll go along with you.”

Horn felt then that he could trust the man—within reason. It was a moment of cheer in a deepening depression.

He tried to keep his conviction that the Warden would call on them for help and that they could succeed, but it faded in front of the grim, black reality of the brooding fortress. There were too many things that could happen, too many reasons the Warden could find for not using the prisoners. He would have to be desperate or careless to let in these doomed, desperate men, unarmed as they were. Horn didn't think that the Warden was a careless man.

Time moved slowly. The sun arched lazily across the dark sky. It reached the horizon. The darkness crept in again. A clamor announced a new flow of food from the pipe into the trough. The men stirred, but Redblade glowered them back. Only he left. He returned quickly with a heavy, cloth bag. They ate moodily, staring at the black barrier that kept them from Eron.

Before they were finished, the silence and the waiting ended. A voice boomed out of the fortress, amplified, urgent:

“Prisoners! You have been condemned to spend the remainder of your lives on Vantee. Now you are given a second chance.

“The Empire is at war. All of you who will fight her enemies will be admitted to the fortress and shipped to Eron. Survivors will be given a pardon and their freedom.

“There will be no chance for escape. You will be heavily guarded at all times. Only those sincere in their repentance need enter. Others will be shot down without warning or mercy.

“In five minutes the door will open. You, who wish to take advantage of this offer, file into the hallway.

“A second warning: violence means death!…”

Before the voice had reached the end, Horn and Redblade had shepherded their men toward the footbridge. A crowd had already collected. They forced their way through and stopped at the ditch.

The crowd grew behind them. Tensions grew with it as the minutes passed and the dark door did not lift.

A crack of light became a torrent. The door went up. There were four guns trained on them: the two mounted guns in the wall slits and unitron pistols in the hands of the two guards. It was just as Horn had visualized it, and it was firepower to make even desperation hesitate. The mounted guns could spew projectiles that would cut men down like a scythe, and the pistols weren't much slower.

The mass of men surged forward. Redblade planted his feet at the edge of the ditch, spread his arms wide, and braced his back. “Easy,” he bellowed. “One at a time.”

Redblade trotted across the bridge. Behind him came Horn. Behind Horn came the men he had drilled so thoroughly. Behind them, hurrying, came the rest. They filed into the hallway, blinking, wary, like long-caged animals.

Horn and Redblade matched strides at the head of the rabble, Horn counting under his breath. They moved toward the two guards. The guards backed away in front of them, guns ready, eyes shifting back and forth cautiously.

Horn walked a little faster. Redblade lengthened his stride. The guards couldn't back up fast enough. The distance closed. Perhaps, at that moment, a premonition struck them. One gave a little lift to his gun; the other opened his mouth. Horn was already diving, feeling Redblade moving beside him, fast and low, and the air was exploding from his lungs in a scream of “Now!”

They hit the guards. A shot echoed and whined through the hall. One of the mounted guns chattered briefly, violently. Horn was too busy to worry about anything else. He shoved his guard's arm straight up. The pistol went off into the ceiling. Horn's fist plowed into the guard's belly. The man grunted, doubled a little, but his own hand came around. Horn took it on the shoulder and swung a chopping backhand at the man's neck. There was a dry, snapping sound. The guard dropped, his head lolling at an impossible angle. As he fell, Horn twisted the gun from his hand.

Horn swung around. The mass of men were still frozen. The action had elapsed in less time than it took them to absorb the meaning of what was happening and move again. A few men were crumpled on the floor, but the wall guns were silent. A man was supporting himself by the muzzle of each of them, peering through the slits, spring guns ready. Below them, two more men were frantically winding little cranks.

Redblade's guard was down and motionless. The pirate had a gun in his hand, too, and he seemed more complete. He smiled gleefully at Horn.

“Quick!” Horn shouted, without a pause. “There'll be gas. Run.” And as he said it, he was turning, running. Behind him began the thunder of feet.

The hall was long and straight, but there were no more guns in the walls. If they could make it to the end, they would be in the barracks area. Beyond that was the Tube room. There were doors in the walls they passed. They were closed. Horn didn't know what they were and didn't stop to investigate. He glanced beside him at Redblade. The pirate was running with long, loping strides, his red mane floating behind him, his teeth bared in a fearsome grimace. Perhaps, Horn thought, it was a smile.

At the end of the hall a door opened. A man stood in the doorway, blinking into the light, looking toward the running men and the noise. He was an old man, small and stout; his white hair glistened like an ice-cap seen from space. Horn's eyes widened. Out of one corner, he saw Redblade's arm lift. There was a gun at the end of it.

Horn's hand swept out and up. The bullet whined off the ceiling.

“That's Sair!” Horn shouted. “That must be Sair!”

Still not a minute had passed. Redblade glanced at Horn and back to the figure at the end of the hall.

Behind them, over the sound of the stampeding feet, the corridor began to hiss. That was gas, Horn knew, and it was quick; but not quite quick enough.

And then, a few meters ahead, a partition began its swift, deadly fall from the ceiling.

 

THE HISTORY

Crisis.…

It comes, inevitably, in the affairs of men and in the affairs of empires. The little decisions pile one atop another until the Big Decision must come. Men must live or die. Empires must rise or fall.

The Big Decision. When it comes, it is only a little thing after all. Among the great sweeps of history, among the massive forces moving races and empires toward success or extinction, one man can make all the difference.

A man is an insignificant thing. But so is a mote of dust. And if the scales are delicate, if they are perfectly balanced, a mote will bear down one pan as certainly as a lump of lead.

A mote or a man.…

 

 

17

LIVING SYMBOL

As they leaped forward, Horn realized that he and Redblade could get past the falling door without trouble; but few of the men behind would be able to follow. They would be trapped back there with the gas, and two men would be helpless against the fortress guards.