Ontos ignored his bed for now. He was watching a movie on his comm system.
"How's your access?" Alex asked.
"Fair. Varies. I'm at the edge of the connection range, so it's never great and sometimes stops for minutes at a time."
"Do they know you have access?"
"I'm partially spoofed, but it doesn't matter. The network is unshielded. It's not as if anyone can sneak in from outside."
"Good point. How amenable are you to letting us log in from here for research?"
"Can you mask your terminal ID and location?"
"Yes, and probably. I'd need to talk to my experts."
"If so, okay. But I have no desire to ship back to Earth. Be careful."
"Naturally. We need to stay hidden, too."
"Point."
Horace had slept worse places. No one was currently shooting at him, and he was dry and out of the weather. However, the rock was hard and sharp and cold for sleeping. The air was warm enough, and spare clothes and packs made for a lumpy insulation. It didn't seem to affect Bart, Elke or Aramis, but they were young and flexible. Caron acted very stiff and sore on rising. Horace knew he felt as if he'd been bent over a frame and worked over. Neither Jason nor Alex looked very happy. He tried to grab an extra nap, sitting on his pack and leaning back, and it helped.
"You snore," Jason told him when he twitched awake. He seemed to be in charge. Alex was asleep in the corner.
"Entirely possible," Horace agreed. "How are things?"
"Elke went out on patrol and found more boom."
"Good?" That sounded useful, but Jason's presentation was a little odd.
Elke spoke up, "We're going to need them. They use thousands of tons here. They'll never notice."
Horace asked, "Aren't nitrates one of the things they do import?"
"Some. They also scoop ammonia from the gas giant. This is fine."
"How are you fixed for caps?"
"Some. I'll get more."
Jason said, "We do need them, but I'm constantly leery of anyone going off, and of stealing stuff."
Horace said, "Jason, you're fundamentally an honest man. This type of thing is a problem for you. In general, that's good. In these cases, it's ultimately Miss Caron's property and she's fine with it. Approach it like that." And try to ignore the risk we face of getting found and killed, either by gunfire or being tossed into the corrosive atmosphere.
"That must be it. It doesn't feel like a war zone, but I should treat it as such." He seemed more relaxed at that concept, as insane as it was.
Aramis and Bart had not stolen explosive. They'd stolen rope, locking rings, boot spikes, gloves and a variety of other climbing gear to supplement what they had. Bart had a bag of filter media for Ontos.
Aramis said, "Rope is the hard part. The metal is made locally. The rope can't be."
Caron said, "One of the things on the list is fiberglass, and various silks and plant fibers. We can't get a useful result, though. Lots of splinters and fraying."
Ontos had been sitting back, politely pretending not to hear. He stood and took two steps, putting him in the group.
"So what's your plan then, as much as I need to know?"
Jason said, "I believe we're going to try finding a strong defensive position, announcing Miss Caron's survival, and relying on publicity. It worked last time, when we had actual governments trying to harm the principal."
"How are you going to make that announcement?"
"That's the question. We can tap into various sources, but it has to be fairly widespread, including to public persons who are either off planet or going that way. Then we button up until we get more support. Any harm at that point would be obvious. Then it comes down to a stock and proxy fight, which is not our concern, though we'll morally support Miss Caron of course."
"Do you think the miners will care? Let me rephrase that: right now, the miners like him a lot better than his brother and won't care about Miss Caron, the pretty debutante."
"They like him?" Horace asked.
"You realize he has control for the time being, and has just announced wage increases of fifty percent for the bottom, ten percent for team leaders."
Caron looked as if she would undergo fission with rage.
Then she exploded.
"Fifty percent? A thousand percent wouldn't be enough, backdated to the beginning! Additional insurance benefits and stock options as well! The nerve of that . . . murdering thief! First he robs our employees and blames us, then he attacks our household retainers, ostracizes us from the world, tries to have me . . . arrrgghhhh!" She turned and slammed a fist into the wall.
"OW!"
She jolted in pain, sank to her knees, and started bawling with deep sobs and wails.
Horace stepped carefully in to look at her abraded and bleeding knuckles. He caught a glimpse of Elke looking at Ontos, who stared wide-eyed.
"We want him alive," she said.
"I'll do what I can," Ontos agreed with a slow nod.
She hadn't broken any bones, though they were definitely going to bruise up, and they were skinned and torn, to shiny bone in a couple of spots. That had been a dedicated punch, the poor girl. He sprayed a topical, then a disinfectant, didn't see any need to debride, so just used tweezers to gently tug skin back into approximately the right place as she whimpered and shuddered and cried. It was about time she cried, he thought. Her father had been murdered and she'd been in shock from that, and stressed from all the other events. It also kept her distracted while he sprayed an artificial organic for the bruising and tearing, with a sealer over the knuckles. Her hands looked even younger than the rest of her, even with the recent labor. They were fine boned, aristocratic, and soft.
Once done, he resisted the urge to kiss her knuckles. She felt like a daughter at this point, and even that was not a good position. He simply stood and let her hug herself and cry. Elke nodded, moved closer, squatted down and patted her shoulder gently.
Alex had awoken during the excitement, stretched, rose and came over. He assessed things with a quick glance, gave an expression that indicated he grasped it, and looked around.
Jason said, "With Alex' approval, I think we should work on something that will attract a lot of attention and make it harder to hide things. A riot might be good."
Ontos cocked his head and scrunched his eyes.
"I'm not sure you want a riot," he said. "The last time I saw something like that in a mine was in Pakistan. The Uighur and Mongolian workers ripped things apart until the army showed up."
Alex grinned. "That's pretty much exactly what we want." Apparently, Ontos hadn't heard of their reputation.
"That's going to be an awfully big, dangerous mess."
Elke said, "I like big messes." She grinned her psychotic grin, that almost looked sexual.
"Well, I can do it," he admitted. "It's actually not that hard."
Caron looked quizzical. Taking a breath to control her sobs, she said, "What are you going to do? Tell a bunch of scary lies?"
"Not at all. I'm going to feed them the truth, or at least enough to piss them off. Do you want this now?"
Alex said, "Sooner generally is better. How long will this take?"
"I can call some friends and meet in a couple of days. Another couple of days will get the word out. Figure two more for things to be in place and people ready. A week. How big do you need it?"
"We don't want to destroy things en masse, just shake them up enough for the press."
"A few hundred, then."
"Sounds appropriate."
"A week it is, if that's good for you."
Horace said, "By definition it is not good, but it's the proper course of action."
"Then stay here and don't touch my stuff." Ontos checked his own security camera, then pulled the door open and slid out.
After he closed it, no one spoke for about a minute, then Aramis said, "I think we've achieved a level of trust."
Khan had only the one name
. He didn't feel poorer for it. In fact, he found it amusing that people might need three or four names to distinguish themselves. It was silly. The sensie he was watching had two people with complex names, though he saw them as He and She. It was a European production with a Eurocentric view, like most. He preferred the Indian or Persian productions, but this was tonight's option.
The man who slipped into the seat next to him had three names, but chose to go by one.
Khan spoke very softly, and not just to be polite to other viewers.
"Hello, Ontos," he said.
"Khan. I need a favor. It is time."
Khan took a moment to think about that.
"Now, while things are improving?"
"Exactly now. They're weak and we can get more, and I have a special ace to help. Mister Prescot will give us a lot more, and isn't in a position to make a scene. He doesn't want his brother's death investigated too closely."
"I see," Khan said. He'd wondered about that accident.
Ontos continued, "I need a small number of reliable men. I'll tell you where. A week from now." Then he rose slowly and slipped back out.
Khan pondered the news. It was exciting and a bit scary. He had no doubts that Mister Prescot could arrange immediate or painful deaths, and would never be questioned. On the other hand, the promised wage increases had only just now materialized, and far less than promised. On the other hand, he'd heard of that from the first rotation of miners, including his cousin. The hiring people always told you how wonderful things were, and the facilities were better than any other mine he'd been to, though the working conditions were comparable and the atmosphere was toxic.
He trusted Ontos. Especially as Ontos had been urging them not to react for a couple of years now. If he said it was time to be loud, he meant it.
He waited five minutes, then wandered out himself. The sensie wasn't conducive to thinking. He didn't need to think about the instruction. He needed to consider who to tell.
In a few minutes it came to him. Pacal was an old Mexican miner who enjoyed talking about the old strikes and agitations, the fights with mine owners and their hired thugs and the Federales.
He found Pacal where he expected to, sitting in the section lounge with his favorite tequila. Khan was Muslim and didn't drink, and he couldn't fathom how anyone could drink anything that even smelled like tequila.
"Ah, Pacal. I see you're more relaxed. Is your tequila budget big enough?" He took a seat. Pacal always sat well to the rear, near the emergency exit, facing the door. Khan moved into the corner so as not to obstruct Pacal's view, and to get a bit of one himself. He was nervous about this.
Pacal leaned back and laughed from his barrel chest.
"It is now. I no longer must decide between it and my family. I can afford both, and have a little left over."
"Very little," Khan said. "It's not a lot of money as it is."
"No, but it was more than we had."
"Yes, but I wonder about it. Mister Prescot blamed his brother, but he was the one here and in charge. His brother dies, and he gives us a small raise. It was not what he had hinted. The percentage hides the fact that it is only a few Marks more. They can afford a lot more. It seems the greed is still there."
"You say he talked a good game but didn't play." Pacal squinted and leaned forward.
Khan nodded. "Exactly. It was too easy. They're taking billions a month out of here, more tens of millions out of the resort, more in royalties on the equipment we helped them develop, and we're getting less than a hundred marks a week. He did not even hesitate. If he didn't have to even consider it, we could have gotten more."
"Maybe you are right."
"You know I am. Even if they paid all of us ten times as much it would not hurt the profits. Ten thousand of us at ten thousand each is one hundred million. Their profit is in the tens of billions. We are less than one percent of their overhead."
Pacal wrinkled his brow. Complex mathematics were beyond him, but it made sense. There had been a lot of talk of large benefits if Prescot could get his brother to agree. If his brother was dead, there was nothing in the way. He obviously was mourning, but was dealing with it, managing the mine, and had given them a raise, but only a token. Twenty-five Marks, even to all the miners, wasn't much when looked at compared to the huge size of the operation. It wasn't just a token, it was rude, condescending, and a slap at their manhood, really.
"We should strike."
Khan smiled slightly. "You are not the only one who feels that way, my friend. We've never struck here. But while the benefits for us are good, the pay is what supports our families. The facilities cost them near nothing. What we need is wages."
"I will talk to the Latin miners," Pacal said. "I will get back to you. In person. Write nothing down. Do not chatter on the radios. Let them think they were successful, then we can make our demands with a convincing strike for support."
Ontos wanted the strike anyway, but that should be easy enough to provoke if it didn't happen by itself.
"That sounds good, my friend. Enjoy your degreasing solvent."
Pacal laughed again at that, and downed the glass in a gulp.
"Another!" he said cheerfully, and raised his glass to the bartender.
Even with approval, Jason couldn't believe they were doing what they were about to.
He checked his bypasses again, hoped the codes were right and said, "And . . . go!"
Elke opened and eased through the door, crawled down and back into the tunnel, and rummaged. For three tense minutes Jason watched for anyone passing by, or showing on his readout of other entrances. For three minutes his pulse and blood pressure hammered in rushing waves.
Elke backed out ass first, and he wasn't sure how to help. She wasn't a person you touched and she seemed okay, just weighted down.
She stood and said, "I'm happy."
"I can't believe we're acquiring charges this way."
"Just walk and get the doors," she said.
"Roger."
Chapter 25
Aramis found the situation a bit amusing. From the finest suite on the planet, to a senior staff office, and now to a scraped out hole in the ground. He hoped this was as far down as they got. Much more and he'd have to learn to breathe sulfur.
Still, Ontos treated them decently enough, and it was probably quite secure. They could plan, and lurk, and not worry about cameras or oxygen consumption or visibility. Their host was unlikely to turn them in, as he was an outlaw himself, by choice.
The plan sounded simple in theory. Stir up the miners, head for the top, take down Joe Prescot. On the one hand, less dangerous than extracting someone from hostile territory. On the other hand, there really wasn't a surrender option at this point. Caron and they had to disappear to keep Joe's side of the story.
It also wasn't going to be as simple as the theory, of course.
Since no one else had yet asked, Aramis did. He sometimes jumped the gun and irritated people, but he was sure this was a fair question.
"So what exactly are rioting miners going to fight with, and how do you avoid having Joe Prescot simply evacuate their air, or worse, vent in the atmosphere?"
"We do have some weapons. It's not as if anyone was planning a revolution, but . . . "
"But you were planning a revolution," Jason said. "Why else?"
Ontos seemed embarrassed.
"The pay is not great. Revolts have happened elsewhere with better conditions."
Caron said, "But we don't want to stop you. Not anymore. We want to help. What do you have?"
He shrugged and stepped back to another alcove behind a rock pillar in the corner of his digs. He reached in easily, pulled out a long item and handed it forward.
He said, "Well, we can laminate plastics of different tensile strengths. A little grinding gives us this." He handed the curved staff toward Aramis.
"Interesting bow," Caron said. She reached for it, and Aramis let her take it.
In one smooth motion
, she raised it and drew it back to her ear, arching her body into the gap between string and limb, two fingers and thumb lightly holding the grip section, three fingertips on the string. She winced a little because of her knuckles, but the draw was steady.
Ontos said, "I use it outside in the corridor. There's a place I can set a target." He pulled out a light tripod with a thick foam disk.
"Go ahead," Caron said. "Arrows?" she asked, easing the string down.
"I'll bring some."
Alex said, "Bart, down hall. Shaman, up the way we came. Rest of us together."
With a check of all the sensors, they filed out into the bubble, and pulled their way up to the corridor. Ontos went ahead with the target.
He set it up in the dark, rocky bore. Aramis spun his torch to level 5, bright enough to illuminate it. Level 1 was for night vision. Level 10 was enough to blind.
Caron reached for an arrow from the quiver leaning against the wall. It looked like extruded plastic with cemented vanes. She spun it between thumb and finger while casting her eyes along it, flipped it over the grip, drew again, and let the string roll off her fingertips right over her jaw.
The arrow thwap!ped into the target, centimeters from the X.
"Nice shot," Aramis said, eyebrows raised.
"You seem surprised," Caron said with a coy smile. "Haven't you heard of the Welsh longbow?" She held it up. "This is a composite recurve, but the same principles apply."
"Yes," he said. He had. He just hadn't made the connection. "I didn't know you trained."
"Some time back, yes. Do you need lessons?"
A couple of years before, Aramis would loudly have declaimed any civilian, especially a woman, had anything to teach him about fighting. Elke had impressed him, though, and a Sergeant White from the Aerospace Force, and Agent Cady, and a few others. He'd never handled a professional bow, only arcade toys.