Star Bridge (24 page)

And Redblade was under the door, reaching up to catch it as it descended, cushioning it slowly to a stop. His muscles cracked. His legs trembled under the strain; cloth ripped as his chest expanded and his back tightened. As he held it there, straining, his face reddened to match his beard, and sweat dripped from it to stain the beard darker.

“Fast!” Horn yelled at the runners behind, and they came on, arms and legs working frantically but approaching with fantastic, dreamlike slowness.

But they were streaming under the half-descended door, ducking as Redblade sagged a little, and a little more, and then the only men in the corridor were collapsed far back.

“They're past,” Horn said.

Redblade released his tortured grip and threw himself forward. The door thundered against the floor.

As Horn drew close to Sair, he realized how very old and tired the man was. His blue eyes peered dazedly at the men milling around him. His mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out. But Horn recognized him.

This was the Liberator, hope of the Empire's enslaved billions. It would be tragic if age and imprisonment had broken him beyond usefulness. Even broken, Horn told himself, Sair was a symbol, and symbols live on when the reality which fashioned them has disintegrated.

“You and you and you,” Horn said, grabbing out of the passing throng three of the men who had helped in the assault. “This is Peter Sair. The Liberator. Guard him. If he's not safe when I come back, I'll kill you.”

They stared at him, nodded, and turned toward the doorway. As Horn looked back, he saw them leading the old man into his room again.

Horn sprinted until he was beside Redblade. There were others ahead, fanning out down the corridor that had turned a right angle. There was a doorway open on the left. Men hurled themselves through it—and died. More poured in; bullets whined through the packed bodies, but a few of them lived. The sounds of guns and splintering furniture and the shouts and screams of men were a cacophony of violence from the room. When Redblade and Horn reached the door, the room was quiet. It streamed with blood like an abattoir; the air steamed with still-warm flesh violently torn apart. A dozen ragged men trotted out of the silent barracks with guns in their hands.

Horn tried to split them up into groups of armed and unarmed men, but they were beyond direction. The fighting raged ahead. By the time they reached the end of that corridor, they had lost at least fifty men. In the battle for the Tube room, the original three or four hundred was cut to less than a hundred. They were all armed, all sound except for minor flesh wounds, and all fighters.

Only one scene stood out clearly to Horn in the whole kaleidoscope battle that shifted and blurred with meaningless colors. He saw Redblade throw open the door to the Warden's office. The pirate stood there, feet spread wide, blazing eyes fixed on the Warden's whitening face. Redblade roared, dropped his pistol as if he had forgotten it, and charged toward the Warden. He pawed frantically in a drawer, afraid to take his eyes away from Redblade long enough to find his gun.

Redblade slid across the wide desk and hit him. The gun spun away. The Warden staggered back. He recovered quickly. He was fully as tall as Redblade and perhaps even heavier. It was not all fat, either. They came together like wild bulls. The impact shook the room. Their arms worked for a hold. The Warden's knees came up like pistons, but Redblade twisted his body aside and got one massive arm around the Warden's waist. The other was under the Warden's chin, pushing backward, the outstretched fingers working into the Warden's face, reaching toward the eyes.

The Warden's fists thundered against Redblade's chest and belly for a moment, but the pirate ignored them. He pulled the man close with his arm while he pushed the chin away with the other hand. The Warden grabbed desperately for the hand under his chin, clamped it in two big hands and yanked at it, but he was off-balance now, his back arched, his feet straining to stay on the floor. It was too late. A moment later his neck snapped.

Redblade let the body fall away. It fell like a doll stuffed with rags and poorly stuffed, at that, because it was all crooked. He looked down at it for a moment while his chest heaved once. He looked up and laughed; it was a joyous bellow.

“I've dreamed about that,” he shouted. “He always hated a big man. Maybe he was afraid one of them would be bigger and stronger than he was.”

The fortress was almost quiet. The sounds of fighting had died away. Quickly Horn explained what had to be done.

“Try to get the men organized. Get as many as you can who will follow us to Eron and take our orders. Any of them who won't, let them stay here. If you have any trouble, shoot straight.”

Redblade nodded; Horn whirled and started away.

Sair was sitting in the little room. It was bare of everything except necessities: a metal-framed bed, a chair, a table, toilet facilities starkly in sight. A slot at the bottom of the door provided space for a food tray to be passed through. The Warden had allowed the old man paper and pen; several sheets on the table were covered with hieroglyphics of some kind. As Horn entered, Sair was eyeing the three silent guards with suspicion. He swung toward Horn, grabbed the sheets of paper, folded them, and thrust them away inside his flimsy coat.

The three men were on their feet.

“It's all over,” Horn said. “Report to Redblade in the Tube room.”

“Damn you, Horn,” one of them said bitterly, “you made us miss all the fun.”

“Don't complain,” Horn told them. “Two of you would be dead by now. Out.”

He motioned with the gun. They left quickly, and Horn was alone with Sair. The old man's head was shaking. It looked like a senile tremor.

“Who are you?” Sair asked. His voice was soft, hesitant, and old.

“Alan Horn. A prisoner, like you. We've conquered Vantee. We've taken the fortress.”

“I shall write an epic,” Sair said. “And now?”

“We're going back to Eron.”

“Ah-h-h,” Sair sighed. He folded his veined, wrinkled hands across his paunch.

“We want you to come with us.”

Sair looked up slowly. “What is there for an old man on Eron?”

“Rebellion,” Horn said. “Only you can unite it, make it work, keep it from reducing the Empire to savagery.”

Sair shook his head, and it rocked back and forth until Horn thought it would never stop. “My fighting days are over. I'm an old man. Let younger men do what they must. I'm finished, worn-out, half-dead.”

“It's a job no one else can do,” Horn said grimly. “It's not fighting we want. It's your presence, your mind.”
What's left of it
, he thought.

Sair's head continued to rock, but his eyes brightened just a little. “Rebellion, you said? Against Eron? It's hard to believe.”

“Kohlnar was assassinated. The Directors began fighting among themselves. When Duchane elected himself General Manager, the lower levels rose against him. What's happened since, I don't know. We've got to get back—quickly.”

“Kohlnar dead? He was a great man. It's hard to think of him as dead.”

Horn stared at Sair without understanding.
Kohlnar? A great man?
“But he conquered the Cluster and condemned you to Vantee!”

“Still, a great man. He kept the Empire alive long after it should have died. It was our misfortune that he was faithful to a dying dream.” Sair's head had stopped rocking. He seemed steadier, more alive.

Horn paced the room impatiently; Sair's faded eyes followed him curiously. Horn had to get back to Eron; every wasted moment was agony. But he had to have Sair, too.

“You know what will happen if Duchane wins,” Horn pleaded. “Or if he drowns in his own sea of blood and the leaderless mobs rage through Eron. They'll tear the Empire apart. They'll wreck the Tube system that holds the stars together, tear down the very walls of Eron itself, and die. They must be starving already; no food has come through for days.”

“Duchane.” Sair nodded, and then he sighed. His head shook decisively. “No. No. All my life I've worried about these things: freedom—starvation. Starvation and freedom. Between those millstones I wore my life away. Now there's only one freedom I want, the final one: death. Let other, younger men battle for their ideals. Let them throw their inexhaustible energy into the struggle and find it useless against the tides and currents that sweep men and empires to their destinies. Let them pawn themselves to causes and discover that they cannot buy themselves back. I have no strength to spare. There is barely enough to draw in one breath after another. I want only peace and time to die. Here is as good a place as another.”

“They said you were dead,” Horn said quietly. “Many people believed it. And the hopes of uncounted billions died, too. If they discovered that you were alive, it would draw them together; among the chaos of their own wild passions, unleashed for the first time, it would save them. They need you. It's useless to speak of other men; there are no others who can do this job. Even the Empire needs you. Only you can save it, for Duchane will destroy it, win or lose.”

Sair looked up, his face alive. “You believe that, don't you?”

Horn nodded.

Sair sighed heavily. “Perhaps it's true. A dying man must be dragged from his grave to serve the living. Is there no peace? No peace anywhere?”

Horn waited, scarcely breathing.

Slowly Sair raised himself to his feet. “What are we waiting for?” he asked. His lips curled wryly. “Let's go free the slaves and save the Empire.”

Horn let out his breath and turned to the door. He held it open for the old man. Sair's stride was surprisingly brisk as they walked toward the Tube room. Now that he had made his decision, he was full of questions about the situation on Eron and about how they took the fortress. He nodded shrewdly as Horn described the Warden's need for troops and the way they guessed it and the plans they laid to take advantage of it. By the time he had described the battle, they had reached the Tube room.

“Redblade,” Horn said. “This is Peter Sair.”

Sair's eyes danced. “The pirate?” He tilted his head back to stare into Redblade's bearded face. “Among other things, I have been called a pirate.”

Redblade laughed. “Your men, Liberator.” He swept his arm toward the cluster of men who had survived the attack. There were about seventy-five of them now. There were a few bodies on the floor, and a handful of men were gathered sullenly in one corner. The main body were in black uniforms, scavenged from the stores. To identify them from other Security agents, the sleeves of the tunics had been cut off above the elbow. The faces had a strange similarity; they were all hard, thin, and hungry. “Thieves, murderers, traitors,” Redblade went on. “Command us—and maybe we'll obey.”

Sair chuckled. “This young man has done a good job, even with me. Let him continue.”

Horn turned to the men. “Prisoners!” he shouted. “Redblade and I and a few others—we've done what everyone said couldn't be done. We're escaping from Vantee. Alone we wouldn't have a chance; together we can tear Eron apart and take what we want out of the pieces. We need one thing: discipline.

“We'll take you to freedom and give you a chance to live in a world where you can go where you want to go and do what you want to do without asking permission of any master. But you've got to take orders until we've won; those who refuse will be shot down. Redblade has given you one chance; this is your second and last one. Those who will obey my orders or Redblade's or Peter Sair's instantly, without question, step forward and turn around.”

The men looked at each other and murmured. Half of them stepped forward and turned, then most of the remainder until only five were left.

“All right,” Horn said. “Here's your first order.” He shouted, quickly, “Shoot down those men!”

The five died before they could reach their guns. In the corner the bunch of ragged men crouched warily.

“Good,” Redblade said admiringly. “Very good!”

“Salutory,” Sair agreed.

“Into the ship!” Horn ordered. “Let's go to Eron!”

They swarmed up the escalator into the waiting ship. The transport was not built to hold so many, but they jammed them in, seventy of them.

Before they followed, Horn turned to Redblade. “I'm going to trust you,” he said slowly. “Don't betray me.”

Redblade frowned; after a moment his face cleared. “I don't think I will. I think I wouldn't like to have you mad at me.”

The three of them took chairs in the ship's control room and strapped themselves in, Horn as pilot, Redblade as copilot, Sair as navigator.

Horn let his hands fall forward on the panel. “Three hours to Eron,” he said, “and the ship's clock won't have changed a second when we arrive.”

“An interesting detail,” Sair said. “How do you explain it?”

“Everything stops in the Tube,” Horn said. “No light, heat, sound—no energy at all. It must be connected in some way to how the Tube works.”

“You've discovered something generations of scientists have searched for,” Sair said intently. “How did you do it?”

Horn shivered. “I went through the Tube conscious. Never again.”

“It's too bad we can't do that now,” Sair said. “We could put those three hours to good use. But I'm afraid it's some kind of field effect, generated in the gold bands, perhaps. We haven't time to locate it.”

“And a shipload of madmen would be little use on Eron,” Horn added.

“I must ask you, then, to outline the situation before we depart—and arrive,” Sair said.

Horn went through it quickly from the political aspect to the strategic position. “The key, then, is the north cap. Whoever controls that, controls Eron.”

“Then we must control the north cap,” Redblade said simply.