Redliners(32)

Al-Ibrahimi smiled the way a striker might when talking about dismemberment. "If necessary," he added, "I'll handle any complaints that arise from your fifty-three fellows."

"It seems to me that we're a small enough group for true democracy to apply," President Reitz said. "Even for matters like trials. A thousand people can run themselves without an institutional structure."

Tamara Lundie looked up sharply from her console. Al-Ibrahimi nodded minusculy to his aide.

"Ms. Reitz," Lundie said, "for the next six months and subject to extension, the structure of Colony BZ 459 is that of a Population Authority project under the sole control of the project manager which the Authority has appointed. We are not a democracy."

"Technically yes—" Reitz began, her argument cloaked as agreement by the use of the limiting adverb.

"And in practice as well, madam," al-Ibrahimi said. "A colony at its inception is too delicate for any government but tyranny. That's more true of this colony than most, perhaps more than any other before it. And I am that tyrant."

Reitz gave the manager a level glance and spread her hands on her lap. "I see," she said.

Farrell was impressed by the president's calm. He'd gathered that Susannah Reitz's wealth came from inherited investments. She'd taken the presidency of Horizon Towers to occupy her time, and the changed circumstances might have left her completely out of her depth.

That hadn't happened. Reitz had a cool appreciation of the realities of power. She might or might not use wisely what she had, but she didn't bluster when the authority was elsewhere.

"Major Farrell, do you have any concerns about your company's role that you'd like to raise here?" the project manager asked.

"I have one thing, sir," Farrell said, a little surprised to hear himself speak. "I don't worry about my people being able to operate on Bezant. Also we understand that our mission, our sole mission, is to protect your colonists."

He looked around the room. The three colonists watched the striker with concern, more or less well concealed. Al-Ibrahimi was calm; Farrell had never seen him any other way. Lundie kept her eyes on her console, but a hint of stiffness in her shoulders indicated she was intent on what he was going to say.

"C41 will do its best," Farrell said. "I've never known my strikers to do anything else on an operation. But I want to be clear this is on-the-job training for us and there's going to be a learning curve. We've never had to protect civilians before."

Suares blinked; Lock grimaced; and President Reitz's expression had a hard stillness to it that Farrell had seen all too often on the face of a wounded striker.

"I appreciate your concern, Major," al-Ibrahimi said. "There will be problems because this is new for all of us. There will be mistakes, and there will very likely be deaths that could have been prevented if we were all inhumanly perfect. That is understood."

The project manager glanced from one colonist to the next to focus their attention, then looked back at Farrell. "Before I end this meeting, Major, I need to correct one misstatement," he said. "You and your strikers have been protecting civilians throughout your military careers. The only difference on Bezant is that for the first time we civilians will be watching as that occurs."



Meyer entered the armory to check the plasma cannon and its ten cases of ammunition. In a manner of speaking it didn't matter: either the cargo locker had the correct contents or it didn't. The ship wasn't going back to Earth for a replacement if there'd been a screw-up during loading. Meyer had decided to look for want of anything better to do.

C41's weaponry didn't fill the compartment, so the strikers had shifted much of their personal gear here from the sleeping compartments. Strikers accumulated a surprising amount of entertainment electronics, souvenirs, and just plain junk. C41's deployment was categorized as a permanent change of base, so the clutter moved with the unit in 3-cubic foot shipping containers.

Professionals at Emigration Port 10 had struck the lockers of weapons and munitions neatly down around the bulkheads. Meyer climbed over a waist-high wall of containers stowed more haphazardly in the center of the compartment.

Nobody else was in the armory. That both bothered and calmed her.

Since Active Cloak Meyer was uncomfortable being around other people, even strikers. It was as though there was one-way glass between her and everybody else. They didn't see her, and she had no contact with them. She was afraid to be alone, but it made things worse to be in the presence of others and still be alone.

Meyer's boots hit the deck. There was a gasp and a muffled curse from beside the cannon locker. Nessman's head and shoulders rose from behind another stack of containers.