Kinsman saga, p.54
Kinsman Saga, page 54
Kinsman nodded. Even that was an effort. Slowly he said, "Yes, but yellow alert here means stand by to shoot down unfriendly boosters—not repel boarders. Good old S.O.P. Screws you every time."
The kid laughed.
Civilians were starting to phone the comm center, aware that something strange was happening elsewhere on the station. Some of them tried to climb up from their wheel to the inner levels, but they were turned back by Kinsman's guards, stationed at the connecting tubes.
"They're getting kind of panicky," said one of the men at a communications console. "They don't know what's happen- ing, and it's getting to them."
Kinsman said, "Pipe me through the P.A. system."
The kid studied the rows of buttons on the console before him, puckered his face into a frown, then carefully touched two of them in sequence. Turning back to Kinsman, he said, "You're on, sir—1 think."
Watching the display screens that showed the central corridor of Level One, Kinsman said calmly, "Attention, 447 please. May I have your attention, please."
In the display screens he saw conversations stop, people walking down the corridor come to an abrupt halt, heads turning up toward the overhead loudspeakers-
"My name is Chester Kinsman." Suddenly he did not know what to say, "Umm . . , today, a group of us from Selene—Moonbase, as you call it—have taken over com- mand of this space station, as well as Stations Beta and Gamma. Our Russian neighbors from Lunagrad have taken similar actions with their space stations. We have formed a new nation, which we call Selene, independent of the United States and Soviet Russia. Independent of all the nations of
Earth."
He watched their faces. Shock, incredulity, apathy, anger.
"We've taken the space stations as a matter of self- protection. We intend to transport anyone who wishes to return Earthside, just as soon as possible. In the meantime, please carry on your work as usual. Nobody's going to hurt you or bother you. But for the time being we'll have to ask you to remain in your own sector of the station. Please stay on Levels One and Two, and don't try to get any higher than that until we announce that it's all right. And, oh, yes—there will be no communications Earthside for a while, so don't try to get any messages through the comm center. Thank you."
He studied their faces in the display screens. They looked stunned, for the most part. Most of them looked frightened and angry. A few looked surprised, but not particularly uptight. Europeans, Kinsman surmised. Or Americans who can see past the ends of their noses. One or two faces even smiled. But only one or two. Within half a minute there were knots of babbling, arm-waving conversations filling each display screen.
Kinsman set up temporary headquarters in the rec area, up in Level Six, where the effective gravity was even less than lunar. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the big gymnasium were all padded. Appropriate, he thought. Amidst the rowing machines, oversized barbells, and a magnetic pool table, Kinsman and a few of his men pushed together some benches and a Ping-Pong table next to the only wall phone in the area. 448
Men scurried in and out constantly, bringing reports and problems to Kinsman. The phone buzzed incessantly, papers piled up on the table. They just grow. Kinsman thought of the papers, like mushrooms.
The captain of the waiting troopship was told to abort his docking with the station and retrofire for return Earthside. He sputtered indignantly about dropsick troops until told that there were several cases of an unidentified viral infection aboard the station. Then he blasted away gladly. Kinsman had the comm center call Earthside with a request for an immediate medical evacuation mission to take more than a hundred uninfected people off the station.
That brought up a bee swarm of calls from Earthside, including one from General Murdock. Kinsman's officers handled them all from the comm center, sticking to their story, claiming that they were on skeleton-crew status be- cause of the infection.
By 1800 hours Kinsman could relax enough to have a brief dinner brought up from the galley. He was just finishing a not-quite-thawed piece of soyloaf when the phone on the wall, just behind his ear, buzzed. "Kinsman here," he said into the speaker.
"Sir," the voice sounded worried, "one of the civilian scientists down in Level One is putting up a terrific squawk. Claims he has a crucial experiment on weather modification going on and he's got to get to the observatory section by 1900 hours or several years' worth of work will be wasted."
"The observatory's in the zero-gee area, next to the loading and docking facilities," Kinsman thought aloud. "What nationality is this man?"
"American, sir. But he claims he's working for the United Nations—UNESCO, if you can believe it."
"The Weather Watch." Kinsman thought it over for a swift moment. "Send him up here. I want to talk with him."
"Yessir."
Kinsman finished his small meal, wondering how Leonov was doing. Too early to expect any word from him. Shouldn't expect everything to go as smoothly for him as it has for us.
Within a few minutes a Lunik officer and a civilian entered the recreation area and crossed the padded floor to Kinsman's makeshift command post. The civilian did not look 449 like a scientist. He was well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, an athletic body. He glided smoothly across the padded floor; low gee did not bother him. His face was hard, hawk-nosed, set in a looking-for-trouble scowl. The stump of an unlit cigar was clamped in his teeth. He was completely bald, except for the thinnest white fuzz across his skull. He reminded Kinsman more of a Turkish wrestler than anything else—and an angry one, at that.
Kinsman stood up behind the Ping-Pong table as the trio of young officers working beside him made room for the newcomer.
"Ted Marrett," the civilian said, keeping his beefy hands at his sides. He loomed over them all.
"Chet Kinsman."
"Now listen. I don't have time to be polite or repeat what I say, so listen good. I've got a rainfall augmentation experi- ment project going—been working on it for six fuckin' years. Moving rainfall patterns along the upper Niger valley, trying to hold back the Sahara from creeping farther southward. If I'm not directing the catalysis experiment that starts at 1900, six years' work will fall through, a few million people will starve, and people down on Earth will know that something wonky is happening at this space station."
Kinsman let himself sink back onto the bench. "You're directing the experiment from here?"
"Where the hell else?" Marrett boomed, still standing. "I can see what's happening from here. Key to the whole motherin' setup is the wind and current patterns between the African coast and the Canary Islands. What do you think . . ."
"Whoa, slow down." Kinsman put his hands up, almost defensively. Grinning, he asked, "Do you understand what's happened here today?"
Marrett gave him an even sourer look. "Some of you Lunatics took over the station. Your glorious leader wants to proclaim the independence of the Moon. Big shit. I've got work to do, buddy."
"I see," said Kinsman. He looked into Marrett's steel- gray eyes. "I'm the glorious leader."
Now it was Marrett's turn to grin. "Should have guessed. My mouth always has been bigger'n my brains. But, c'mon, 450 time's wasting. I've got to be in touch with my people back on Earth. It's important."
Kinsman realized it would help to allay any suspicions Earthside if the experiment went through on schedule. "You won't mention anything about what we're doing here?"
"Hell, I'm no politician. As long as I can get my work done."
"I'll let you go ahead and do it," Kinsman said slowly, thinking it out as he spoke, "but I'm going to ask the lieutenant here to stay with you and make certain you talk only about your work."
"Fine by me," Marrett replied easily. "Only, this job might take ten, twelve hours."
"We'll send a relief if we have to."
Shrugging his big shoulders, Marrett turned to the young officer. "C'mon, sonny," he said.
It was not until they had left that Kinsman asked himself, How in hell would any of us know if he's sticking to his work or sending some sort of nonsense gobbledygook that'll stir up suspicions Earthside? It's one thing to trust Frank Colt;
Frank's with us whether he realizes it or not. But this Marrett character is a complete stranger. The one I'm really trusting is that kid lieutenant, and I can't even recall his name.
The phone buzzed again. From the speaker on the wall a scared, shaky voice said tinnily, "Sir, several of the station crew have broken out of confinement down here on Level Four. They shot two of our men, sir. One of them's dead. The other—he's hurt bad, sir."
Tuesday 14 December 1999:
1810 hours UT
KINSMAN SAGGED BACK on the bench, felt his shoulders slump against the padded walls of the gym. The young officers around him froze in their tasks: one was holding a sheaf of papers; another, sitting across from Kinsman, had been reaching for the coffee mug; the third simply stood staring at the phone on the wall, slack-jawed.
Strangely, Kinsman felt no surprise, no shock. You knew all along that it wouldn't go without fighting. They'd never give up so easily. There had to be blood.
His voice as bleak as his soul, he said into the phone grille, "Seal all the hatches leading into Level Four. Nobody in or out."
"But sir," the kid on the other end of the phone objected, "a couple of our men are still in there."
"Seal off Level Four," Kinsman repeated, with more iron in his voice. "Airtight. Get a couple of men EVA at once and dog down all the outside hatches, too. I don't want a molecule getting out of that level. Understood?" The barest of pauses. "Understood, sir." He punched the phone off. Turning to the officer with the papers in his hand, "How many men does Stahl have down there?"
The youngster pawed through the sheets. "Duty roster, personnel assignments . . . here we are!" He pulled a flimsy sheet from the stack. "According to this checkoff list there are thirty-five men down there—no, make it thirty-three. Two are in sick bay."
"How many of 'em are women?" asked the kid with the coffee cup.
"Looks like ten."
"They won't fight," the kid said smugly. 452
"The hell they won't!" snapped Kinsman. "Give them guns and they'll shoot you just as dead as any man." They fight, Kinsman knew. They die, too.
The officer who was standing seemed to pull himself together. "The small arms supply is down on Level Four. They'll have submachine guns."
They were starting to look scared. The seriousness of the situation was sinking in.
"If Stahl has Level Four, then we're cut off from the comm center, and ..."
"And they're cut off from us and the loading bay."
Kinsman nodded. "Which means that half our force can't get through to our escape route back to Selene."
"Jesus!"
Half turning on the bench. Kinsman touched the phone button. "Comm center," he called.
Swiftly he outlined the situation to the men at the communications center.
"Yessir, we can see them on the monitor screens here," answered the officer in charge. "They've got guns, all right. And they're starting to break out some of the emergency pressure suits."
"That's what I thought," Kinsman said. "Turn off their air."
"Sir?"
"Tell our guys at the power station to pump the air out of Level Four. In fifteen minutes they'll all be unconscious down there."
"Not if they're in pressure suits."
Kinsman said, "There's only a handful of suits down there. Not enough for all thirty-three of them."
"But they've got three of our guys in there, too. One of them seems to be hurt pretty bad. We've got to try to get him to sick bay."
Kinsman hesitated. "Put me on the P.A. system for Level Four only. Patch in their answers to this phone."
"Yessir."
The hatch at the far side of the gym swung open and a young officer burst through. His coveralls were stained with sweat as he lurched crazily toward Kinsman, trying to run in the low gravity. "Sir ... I got up here . . . fast's I could." 453
Kinsman recognized the voice; the fear also showed in his eyes. "All right, all right. Take it easy. Calm down. Just what happened on Level Four?"
"I ... Hard to say. Everything happened so fast. We were standing guard outside the hatch between the mess hall and officers' country. They just broke through the hatch. Popped the explosive bolts. Knocked us flat on our asses. Never had a chance. . . . Shot Polanski while he was lying there—right through his chest!"
"How'd you get away?"
One of the young officers handed the kid a cup of steaming coffee. Another was searching through the medical kit that he had opened on the table.
"The blast from the hatch knocked me behind a table." He took the cup in both hands; still the coffee sloshed from his trembling. "They didn't see me the first couple seconds. I got up and emptied my dartgun at them. Jumbled 'em up enough. They sort of fell over each other and ducked down. I ran out of the galley and then went up the ladder to Level Five. I sealed the hatch behind me."
"Okay, fine. You did the right thing," Kinsman said soothingly.
The kid gulped at the coffee. "I saw Polanski die. They just shot him , . . never gave him a chance." His face was flushed. The officer with the medical kit took out a hypospray syringe.
"It's all right. Everything's under control," Kinsman lied. To the officer sitting next to him he ordered, "Find another phone, fast. Get our men standing by the hatches to disarm all the explosive bolts."
"Yessir!" The youngster was on his way before Kinsman had finished speaking.
The kid finished draining the coffee cup as the other officer pressed the hypospray against his sleeve. "Tranquiliz- er," he said. "Settle your nerves."
"Shot him," the kid was muttering. "Colonel Stahl himself. Just pointed the gun at Polanski and shot him while he was still on the floor."
Warrior of the week, Kinsman fumed silently. Stahl will get a medal for heroism, shooting kids. Then he thought, And if we win, Polanski will be our first martyred hero. We'll 454 probably put up a statue to him. Big consolation.
The phone buzzed. "Sir, the air pumps to Level Four also supply parts of Level Three, including the comm center, where we are."
Shit! "Better get into pressure suits damned fast," Kins- man said.
The voice sounded distinctly unhappy. "Yessir."
"And what about that P.A- hookup to Level Four?"
"All set, sir, whenever you want it."
"Are they pumping the air out?"
A brief hubbub of background noise. "Yessir, they've just started now."
"All right," said Kinsman. "Plug me into the P.A."
"You're on ... now."
Kinsman hesitated a moment. Then, "Stahl, this is Kinsman. You'd better stop now, before anybody else gets hurt."
For a moment nothing but a sizzling hum came out of the phone grille. Then Stahl's voice crackled clearly, "Kinsman, the game's over! You've got five minutes to give yourself up, or we'll recapture the station, level by level. I've got the men and the weapons to do it!"
He sounds happy. Kinsman realized. Elated. The sonofa- bitch is enjoying this. He's high on it!
"Stahl, listen to me. You can't get out of Level Four. All the hatches are sealed."
"That's your story."
"We've disarmed the explosive bolts."
"We've got primacord and thermite from the engineering section. We'll get through the hatches. Come on, Kinsman, you're beaten. Give up."
It always comes down to this, Kinsman told himself. You knew it would. There's no such thing as a bloodless coup. Now you make your choice: let them win or be ready to kill them. No idle threats. You can't talk your way out of this one. You've got to be ready to kill them. All of them. That's all they understand.
"Come on, Kinsman!" Stahl snapped impatiently. "We've got three of your own men here. One of them's bleeding to death. You'd better give up quick so we can get him to sick bay in time to save his life." 455
Rage suddenly boiled past Kinsman's self-control. "You damned hypocritical bastard. You shot the kid, and now you're using him as a hostage!"
"Damned right! I only wish it was you—traitor^
And just as suddenly, with that word, Kinsman's rage turned glacier cold. It was not gone. The fear and anger were still there, greater than ever. But instead of bubbling hot within his guts, now they were frozen into an iron-hard purpose. Beyond all trembling. Beyond all self-doubt. Stahl was no longer a threat, a man to be feared. He was an obstacle that had to be hurdled, a barred gate that must be broken through. Kinsman almost smiled. Idly he glanced at the faces of the men around him: apprehensive, questioning, frightened.
