Counterweight (33 page)

A young male in red coveralls meekly surrendered a
magister’s disintegrator. “H… how did you…” he trailed off, shaking his head in
mixed fear and amazement.

“Never mind how,” Rick replied, pitching his voice to carry
to the rear of the crowd. “This is not the time for rash stupidity. If it was,
I’d probably be given a lot more responsibility than I currently have.”

Chuckles and outright laughter peppered the low buzz of the
crowd.

“We just came down here because Cal promised us the chance
to join your fight against the company magisters,” he explained, having already
tested several comments to find the best fit, and his efforts didn’t go to
waste.

The chuckles were replaced by cheers.

“You see what I mean about making his own luck?” Cal
whispered to Freya.

“Remind me to explain when we have the time,” she replied.
“Where do you need us?”

The wind peaked and died abruptly as the second pod slid
into the carrousel.

“The magisters have pulled in their patrols,” he explained.
“Their stationhouse network was designed to let them restrict any traffic in
the atrium in the event of martial law. They’ve concentrated force at the
atrial stations and they’ll shoot down any vehicles that try to fly in the
open.”

“You’d like us to crack open the stations?”

“Yes, they’re spread through the atrium, one every five
levels,” Cal replied. “They alternate; the top station is in the middle of the
atrium, then the next is five levels down, at the south end, a thousand meters
from the middle. The next one is at the north end, also a thousand meters from
the middle.”

“How many personnel in each?”

“Roughly four hundred per station.”

A short pause. “So you have roughly thirty thousand security
personnel who need to be removed?”

“Yes,” Cal admitted. “So fighting them all is probably not a
viable alternative.”

“Not with a century and a half of warriors.” she agreed,
waving her hand at the imposing but small group of Midgaard. She could scrape
up more troops from her ships but time was running out.

“How much air do you have left?”

“Maybe eight centidays. We have a man working on that but we
have no contact with him. If he fell to his death, we’re doomed.”

“If we get inside one of these stations, can all the other
stations see what we’re doing?”

“Yes,” Cal hesitated for a moment. “We might be able to get
at the cables and cut their signal but…” He narrowed his gaze, looking at her
eyes for a few heartbeats. “You
want
the other stations to see what’s
happening, don’t you?”

She nodded grimly. “I have to balance the lives of four
hundred magisters against twenty million citizens. If I force the surrender of
forty stations one at a time, we’d end up taking one station before everyone in
the city dies from asphyxiation. If we take the first station with blades
only…”

She frowned. “Do the stations have separate air supply?”

“No,” Cal sighed. “By keeping us trapped up here, they’re
killing
themselves
but they trust the company to look after them, all
the same.”

“All right, what’s the best way into the top station?”

“They build the main patrol stations on the bridges across
the atrium and they cover the approaches from both sides with clear fields of
fire.” Cal grinned. “But they don’t seem to give much thought to what happens
under their floors.”

For
the Encouragement of Others

Tsekoh, Capital of Chaco Benthic

“
A
n
awful lot of fiddling around just to blow a hole in the ceiling, isn’t it?” Rick
stood well back from the charges Cal had placed. “Wouldn’t a bigger hole let us
provide cover fire to the initial insertion team?”

“It would,” Cal admitted, “but it would also mean blasting
through those carbon fibre beams.” He sketched his finger in imitation of the
network of dark grey supports.

“Breathe that stuff into your lungs and you’ll be dead by
seventy. I plan to hit a thousand years old at least, so no thanks.” Cal
pointed at the carefully placed steel channels intended to direct the explosive
force upwards. “That’s why we’re just cutting through the concrete pad.”

He raised an eyebrow at Rick. “Any other questions, Milord?”

Rick sighed. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Cal grinned. “Anything you say, Sire. Thing is, I’m staying
down here and you two are going to be the Warlords of this planet, so…”

“Just make the damn hole,” Rick growled then jumped as Cal
pressed the detonator immediately. His ability had failed to show him the
detonation because his own interference had changed the sequence. Cal’s
immediate reaction to his demand had caught him completely off guard.

A cloud of dust and debris shot downward, concealing the
fall of a large section of concrete floor. Two Midgaard raced forward with a
grey ladder, shoving it up through the hole as two others aimed their G-23’s up
through the opening.

Freya leaped onto the ladder, landing her right foot on the
third rung and scrambling up like a monkey. The sight shook Rick into action
and he managed to get to the ladder just in time to pull another warrior out of
the way.

As with Freya, it was his duty to lead from the front. The
Midgaard invading this magisters’ station should see their leaders taking the
greatest risks.

A head tumbled through the opening, bouncing off his
shoulder – he’d already felt a moment of relief at realizing its hair was
short. He climbed into a dust-hazed chamber that appeared to be a washroom. He
could hear heavy breathing to his right. “Freya?”

“Here,” she answered. “Watch the…”

Rick stepped neatly over a headless form, having already
seen his own stumble.

“…body.”

He reached her side and, seeing she was holding her short
axe, he holstered his side arm and reached over his shoulder to draw his own
axe.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. “In-bound,” he whispered.
“I’ve got it.” He moved away into the haze, drawing his weapon back, ready to
strike.

A magister burst in through the door. “What the hells…”

Rick’s swing severed the magister’s head cleanly, the body
stumbling on for several steps before falling. There were ten warriors in the
settling haze now.

“Let’s move,” Freya called out. She sheathed her axe and
drew her Colt-Caseless.

Rick was about to switch weapons and rush through the door
but he stopped and laughed, turning back to face the assault party. “Watch
this,” he said simply, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Several blasts struck his EVA suit with no effect. “They’re
useless against our suits!” He hefted his axe and charged the three magisters
at the end of the hall.

The three simply fled, one down a connecting hall to the
right and the other two broke to the left. Rick went left, his adrenaline
wanting more targets than his common sense could agree on.

The Human height advantage came into play, his longer
strides bringing him within striking distance of the slowest magister and he
brought his axe down in a one-handed swing. The Dactari went down with a
vicious wound to the back and his comrade swung around to fire wildly at his
pursuer.

Rick hadn’t recovered from the swing and so he slammed his
axe up and forward, driving the eye of the handle into the magister’s throat.
The Dactari was done for, his windpipe too restricted to allow breath, but Rick
drew his weapon back and gave him peace. Thorstein had been training him during
their voyage to 3428 and also on the way to Chaco Benthic and he’d steadfastly
insisted that you didn’t leave a live enemy at your back in combat.

He paused to catch his breath and a rush of warriors flowed
past him. He looked down at the two bodies. He wasn’t sure what he was looking
for; remorse perhaps? He’d just taken three lives and, yet, he felt curiously
neutral.

He had no illusions about the magisters. He knew they were
killers, oppressors, thugs with authority. He also knew he was rationalizing
their deaths but it still didn’t make him feel any sympathy for his victims.

Did that make him a sociopath? He felt a brief moment of
alarm until he realized he’d been concerned about Ted’s chances of survival,
even after he’d managed to escape from 3428. He’d managed to evade any chance
of consequences for his role in the stabbing but he still hoped Ted would
recover, even though the poor fool had planned to castrate him.

The magisters were swaggering, murderous thugs – Ted was just
an idiot. Rick sighed. Rationalization or not, he had work to do.

He looked up to the ceiling and, seeing one of the camera
domes, grinned at it before trotting off after his warriors.

He caught up with them as they entered the main bullpen
where the company lawmen logged their data at the end of a shift. The room was
roughly twenty meters square and it was a charnel house.

All of the magisters carried knives and the word had gotten
out that their disintegrators were ineffective. A vicious battle was raging and
Rick waded into it, swinging his axe without even having to look for threats.
Whether attacking or defending, his ability allowed him to flow with the
knowledge, putting his blade where it needed to be.

He brought his axe down, severing the hand that was about to
stab one of his warriors in the neck. He kept the blade going in an underhanded
swing, pivoting to the left to avoid a knife thrust from his right and knocking
away a third attacker’s arm with the upswing of his blade.

The third attacker dropped his knife, grabbing the deep gash
in his forearm, and Rick pulled the axe straight back, hammering the handle
into the mouth of the magister whose thrust he had sidestepped.

Roughly half the weight of steel, the titanium nitride blade
actually weighed less than his bow and it felt almost too light in his hand.
The cutting power was coming from his massive archer’s muscles but they were
accustomed to drawing his bow and the sustained effort of combat was beginning
to tell. Each swing required a slightly firmer force of will to complete the
stroke.

And then there were no further attacks on his pre-cognitive
horizon. He looked around the huge room, breathing heavily.

Not a single magister was standing. Some still moved but
they were bleeding out.  The message had been sent to the remaining
magisters – if you want a fight, it’s going to be ugly. He looked down at a
headless Dactari body and still felt strangely unmoved. This had been even less
difficult for him than the first three.

And he knew he was good at it. He was new to combat and he’d
only ever been in one fight before that involved a blade – the one that ended
with Ted’s near death – but his abilities gave him a distinct edge.

After a lifetime of avoiding fights, of knuckling under to
hateful idiots, he was free of restriction and, yet, he hadn’t given it any
thought while fighting. He’d felt no displaced rage in the heat of battle, only
a calm dispassionate evaluation of the continuing risk.

A warrior thumped him on the shoulder, his blood-spattered
face grinning as he heaved for breath. “You certainly took more than your fair
share!” He croaked from a dry throat. “Ymir’s windy crevice! I might just have
to ask Thorstein for a few sparring sessions!”

Before he could answer, an expected hand grabbed his
shoulder. Cal looked troubled and Rick wasn’t in the mood to drag it out. “Our
men in the shunt were killed?” he prompted Cal.

Cal looked at him for a moment. “Yeah. Caught at the second
diverter. We’d sent a man down to call to them but he found the bodies after
the first floor.” He shook his head. “Crushed in half when the diverters
activated.”

“Sure didn’t get very far.”

Cal released an explosive exhalation. “He died shortly after
starting the descent and we don’t have time to try again, at this point.”

Freya joined them. “Do we have anyone else who knows what to
do?”

Cal shook his head. “Not up here and we don’t have time
anyway.”

“Not up here,” Rick asked, sheathing his axe, “but we have
some down below?”

“There probably aren’t any atmo-techs on the mine level. And
we don’t have a way to contact…”

“Never mind the atmo-techs,” Rick cut him off. It was a lot
easier to cut to the heart of the matter when you could see where the
discussion was heading. “Who has explosives on the bottom level?” He pre-empted
Cal’s answer, poking a finger at him. “Your prospector pals, that’s who.” He
waved off Cal’s pending response.

“We
can
contact them,” Rick insisted. “They’re on the
one level that we can be sure of sending messages to.”

He picked up a bloodied knife, held it out and dropped it.
“Good old gravity. The magisters can interfere with the maglev engines but they
can’t stop the progress of a standard Mark I rock with optional message
attached. It’s an express ride – straight to the bottom level.”

Cal’s eyes grew wide. “Son of a clone! All this time we’ve
allowed ourselves to tunnel-vision on climbing down and blowing the dampers
from the inside but we could blow the pivots.” He looked around the room.
“Paper!” he yelled. “We need paper.”

“And rocks,” Rick shouted, “or any fist-sized, reasonably
heavy items.”

It was almost a universal truth that paper refused to
disappear from societies. Most Republic worlds still used some version of the
fibrous, single-use medium. Seeing as the office was still connected to the
power grid, Cal opted to use electronic paper.

Using a charged stylus, he wrote out quick instructions,
detailing where to find the shunts and where to place the charges. Tiny spheres
embedded in the laminated paper rotated in response to the stylus, turning to
present the charged, darkened side.

When he finished, he lifted the paper from the writing pad,
killing the charge in the sheet and fixing the information until the next time
the sheet was placed on a pad. It was a simple matter of setting each
successive sheet on the pad and synching it with the stored data from his first
set of instructions.