Unfinished Business Chapter Twenty One

“There is an inspector coming,” Colonel Chen said, his Alliance boots making a distinctive clang as he paced slowly but purposefully in front of the Browncoats he had ordered assembled as ordered in the Gymnasium. Colonel McNab, as was his want, stood in the middle of them, at the front in a visible position of leadership, while the Colonel paced. Some tried to hold to a semblance of a formation, but there were just too many for the space, and a few hundred clung to the sides of the ancient, rust-stained walls like human residue. It bore little resemblance to a real gym, of course. It was merely an unfinished cargo container, once used to move atmo plants to the Rim. It had been gutted of everything but a floor during the retrofit that had converted the Suri Madron. It was just large enough to play football in, if you weren’t too picky about field size regulations, and you could run around and do calisthenics to your heart’s content. Some of the Chinese played catch in their spare time, and there were classes in Tai Chi and yoga every couple of days. They’d even had a cricket game going for a while before the makeshift bat was confiscated as a “weapon”. But while it lacked typical recreational amenities, it was also the only place large enough to assemble any large number of prisoners. When the call went out over the intercom to do so, anyone who wasn’t on a work assignment was required to drop what they were doing, and right now that put nearly twelve hundred people in the place. All of them nervously watched as Colonel Chen – flanked by two squads of heavily armed Alliance guards – addressed them. “There is an inspector coming,” the purple-uniformed man repeated, more loudly. “An Alliance inspector. Needless to say, we want to make a good impression on him. To that effect, work crews will pull double shifts until every spot of rust is shiny.” There was the expected chorus of groans – no one in any military anywhere liked preparing for an inspection – but everyone knew that this was the softening-up before the real speech, like an artillery barrage before an infantry charge. Extra duty shifts would have been announced at regular roster assignments. No reason for Colonel Chen to make a personal appearance unless there was something much more important to relate. “Not only that, but I want to . . . ensure that there will . . . be . . . no . . . disciplinary issues . . . whatsoever.” There was an expected silence as the old Colonel’s scarred face surveyed the crowd of his sworn enemies with a contemptible sneer. McNab could feel the surge of expectation in the people behind him. It was almost as if their Warden was daring them to object. “There will be NO singing of the planetary national anthems of your misbegotten homeworlds. There will be NO singing of banned propaganda songs. NO display of forbidden emblems. NO shouting of slogans. NO fighting. NO rioting. NO action in ANY WAY that would convince the inspector that you are anything BUT happy little prisoners, content with your lot.” The grumbling had begun after a chortle about singing, but steadily built up to a loud rumble as the hated and feared Major rattled off a humiliating and impossible posture for them to adopt. McNab shouted for quiet, though he was inclined to let them gripe – he was of a mind to gripe himself. Had the stakes been any lower, he might have chanced it. “I have no doubt that you will be everything I want you to be, children,” Chen continued with his practiced sneer. “No doubt whatsoever. As you know, I am not known for my leniency. I would take any disruption of the inspector’s visit very . . . personally. The consequences of any unpleasantness would be most . . . dire.” There was silence, now, as the threats became more explicit. “Let me assure you, the effects of this inspection will be felt by every person on this ship. The war goes well, but resistance continues. They are always in need of men of my caliber at the front lines to put down the insurrection. A few thousand extra prisoners, more or less, are not going to turn a head in such desperate times. So I trust that every . . . man . . . here will be careful to tell the inspector just what happy little prisoners you are. There are worse places in the ‘verse than the Suri Madron, children. Much worse.” He turned and continued his address. “To this end, not only will there be a near constant buzz of activity in an effort to turn this tub into a shining example of prisoner productivity, but there are a number of repair details that must be accomplished before the inspector arrives. One, in particular, I’d like to recruit for now. It seems,” he said, smiling evilly to himself, “that a junction box is in need of repair in order to bring the sternward lifts back on line. While not, strictly speaking, an essential bit of maintenance, I’m certain the Inspector would prefer not to have to traverse the ship by stairwell. So I’d like to have the following twenty prisoners step forward for the detail.” He accepted a flexi from his assistant without looking at the man, and gazed down at it, imperiously. “Anderson, Louis. Baker, Alonso. Cho Wen Lo. Chin Wu Wen. Chandra, Mohammad. . . .” As he read, the sighs and groans began to grow, and as he finished the last few names the crowd was nearly riotous. One by one Colonel Chen was naming some of the most popular and charismatic men and women among the Browncoats – the real social leaders, not necessarily the ranking officers. The people most likely to start organized trouble, in other words. Slowly, the named soldiers made their way grudgingly to the front of the room to stand between their people and the Alliance infantry. “. . . Tessarollo, Martin Royce. Ui, Zhenchen. Wu, Xiaomin. Wu, Tommy. Xue, Martha.” Chen looked up and feigned surprise at the raucous commotion when he had read out the last name. “What is this? So much ado, about a little work detail?” When the noise didn’t calm on its own, he made a single motion to his assistant, who blew a whistle. The growling died down to a mutter. “These fine examples of Independent soldiery will accompany me to the forward sections, where they will be placed in detention and await . . . training. Should there be any disturbances, ANY DISTURBANCES AT ALL, then they will be deployed to repair this errant junction box. On, I believe, W deck. Below.” There was further commotion at that remark, and McNab put forth a mighty effort not to lead an insurrection on the spot. But he couldn’t – not now. That would have doomed them all. Instead he called ineffectively for calm, then shrugged at his impotence. Colonel Chen wasn’t afraid, but he wasn’t impressed, either. He made another motion and his armed escort all took a step forward and brandished their guns threateningly. “That’s quite enough,” he said, a disgusted tone in his voice. “Half rations for a day, for that. Let’s not send these gentlemen down Below prematurely, shall we?” “Sir,” McNab forced himself to say, as he stepped forward and offered a lazy salute. “Might we know how much time we have to prepare for this inspection? It might help us to prioritize . . .” “As to that, I have no idea,” admitted the old soldier, gruffly. “It is a surprise inspection, after all. It could be three days from now, it could be a month. But until the inspector leaves, these men will await their work detail as guests of the guards, forward. For your purposes, assume that he will be here tomorrow, and work accordingly. I meant what I said about disturbances, Colonel,” he said, menacingly. “Not only will I send these men to a horrible death, but I may add you to the search party that goes after them.” McNab kept all expression from his face. “Understood.” “I’m so glad. Guard detail! Escort the prisoners forward!” he bellowed, causing the armed soldiers to fall in around the men and women dressed in un-dyed cotton. “Forward!”

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, we have our orders,” McNab said with a tired sigh, after the Colonel and his honor guard and their hostages left and everyone broke from formation. The buzz in the gym was loud – everyone was speculating on the inspection and expressing outrage at the hostage-taking. Being in nominal charge, he was quickly surrounded by Browncoats eager for orders and consolation. “We are all to be happy little peasants for the inspection.” “You’re kidding, right?” one young turk asked, eyes wide. McNab looked around, noted that none of the people they had identified as spies were in earshot. “Bloody well right, I’m kidding.” Most took solace from his bitter determination and dispersed, leaving only a few of his best people looking for orders. He casually separated his “staff” from the protective throng of other prisoners, and when he could gather them in a huddle, he spoke in earnest. “We aren’t going to suffer this without some shenanigans. Wouldn’t be proper.” “Isn’t that going to be dangerous?” Heinrich asked, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “They aren’t going to fire on this wreck with a bloody Parliamentary representative aboard,” McNab reasoned, in a low voice. “That might look awkward in someone’s promotion review. But the moment he leaves they could decide to kill the project – and three thousand sterling examples of defiant resistance to paternalistic hegemony – without another thought. But while he’s here, we should be safe.” “Won’t they be expecting something like that, Sir?” “Not with twenty of our best ready to be sent Below. No, they’ll count on us being on our best Sunday behavior. Which is what I’m counting on. I, for one, will be just as dead in a failed insurrection as I would be in a successful nuclear explosion. But when I’m trying to bargain my way out of Hell, I’ll have a much better story to tell.” “What about the gorram Pax?” demanded one gruff old trooper. “We start something, they’ll just flood the compartments with it and we all take naps and wake up Below.” There was a murmur of agreement and matching shudder that ran through the crowd. Everyone had been exposed to the withering effects of the chemical. No one had enjoyed the experience enough to want to repeat it. McNab shared the shudder. “Sod the Pax,” swore McNab. “I’ve got some people on that. Don’t worry about it. In fact, don’t worry about anything but sharpening your knives. You heard the Warden. The gorram inspection could happen at any time, and we need to be ready.” There was some more grumbling, but that had pacified them, and they started to drift away in ones and twos quietly voicing their thoughts to each other. They were torqued-up high on emotion. He couldn’t blame them. After twelve, years – longer for some – they were facing a major disruption in their lives, an inevitable turning point awash with uncertainty. A palpable fog of desperation had settled over the whole ship, he could feel it. And it wasn’t confined to just the prisoners. They were scared and tired and bored and eager to do something, and he had given them what he could to occupy themselves. The “escape plan” was nightmarish, almost certainly doomed to failure in the face of well-armed Alliance troops. The plan had its merits, of course, plenty of subtlety and guile involved. It was precious little, but it was what he could do. He tried to keep a brave face on it, but he knew in his heart that this whole endeavor was merely an elaborate way of committing group suicide. He made a few more empty, ostensibly morale-boosting comments then broke away from the knots of anxious Browncoats, making his way aft, towards the residential section. He had to hand it to Chen. He had picked well. All the worst troublemakers. But he had actually made things a lot simpler for McNab. Like most complex gatherings of human beings, the prison population was not monolithic, or even necessarily under the same command structure. There were a hundred-odd Imperial factionists, and three or four hundred Greens, a small cabal of Royalists, and odds and ends that didn’t fit into any convenient faction – but who had earned the respect of the rank-and-file Browncoats by taking up arms against the Purplebellies. But not even all of his own people would necessarily follow him, in a fight. While most were sworn Independent soldiers ostensibly under his command, only about two thirds acknowledged his authority, forming small self-protecting groups based on ethnicity, common religion, or pure happenstance. These “independent” Independents were frequently a cause for headaches for him (he had anticipated a fair amount of negotiation to get them to come along with an uprising) but Chen had isolated most of their leaders and taken them out of the equation. The irony was, without their leaders those groups were far more likely to look to McNab for commands. The Warden’s spite had solved a persistent problem for him. It wasn’t all tea and roses though, he mused as he walked through half-empty corridors. Among the twenty hostages had been some of his best people. Alonso Baker had been deep in his counterintelligence operation, ferreting out the Warden’s stooges among the prisoners. Tessarollo had been one of his best squad leaders. He would dearly miss them, once things got underway, and he regretted that he wouldn’t be able to free them once the shooting started. It was a hard thing, knowing that people under your command – friends, even – may well die even if everything went perfectly. McNab couldn’t focus on that, however. He had to keep his attention on the task at hand. This new information needed to be taken to Analysis, and he wanted to do it himself. And hear for himself what the Brains had to say. He checked his pockets and found a few pieces of hard candy he had gotten from his unofficial quartermaster. It was always better to go to the Brains with a bribe. It got quicker results. In most prison camp situations the smartest people were usually the officers ostensibly in charge, plus maybe some wise noncoms. Not in this case. On the Suri Madron the hated Purplebellies and their fiendish experiments had provided him with resources far greater than his peers in other camps. Dr. Romano’s research into advancing cognitive functions had had a lot of successes – the chess-playing monkeys, for example – but also a lot of failures. Those failures that hadn’t been terminal (or so belligerent that they were sent Below) had been returned to the general population after their “voluntary” surgeries. And they were a mess. Some were nearly vegetables, needing constant personal care. Some were wildly insane, going about incessant repetitive tasks or lost in their own deep thoughts. Some were clearly idiot savants. And some were just . . . odd. But they were all smart, in one way or another. He had assigned them all to the same compartment for the simple reason that they made really lousy roommates, and it gave them someone to talk to. Most of them weren’t very happy about it, but when the alternative was a very temporary berth Below . . . He knocked on the door and waited for Beatrice, the most lucid of the Brains, to open it. She was a thin, worn-looking woman who had shaved her head like the rest of them. They claimed that their greater cerebral activity was so high that hair on their heads reduced the free release of excess heat from the capillaries on their scalps. It didn’t sound unreasonable to McNab, and the style did have its uses. While their heads weren’t physically larger, their shaven pates gave them a certain distinctive look that set them apart from the rest of the prisoners. “G’day, my sweet,” McNab said with a casual smile. “How’s the prettiest lookin’ smarty pants in the whole ‘verse today?” “I’ve got cramps,” Beatrice said, bluntly. She was by far the most lucid of the group. Still, her eyes bothered him. Indeed, all of the Brains had a far-away, almost autistic look to them that made them seem otherworldly. Beatrice’s admission was a welcome reminder that the cognitively accelerated group was still, indeed, subject to the same human condition the rest of the ‘verse was. Of course, the ones who sat around in their own feces did that, too. “Got some fresh data for you, pet,” McNab said, coming in and taking a seat at the ancient folding chair in the compartment’s common room. “Just had a visit from On High. They took twenty of our best – present company excepted, of course – and put them on ice. Say they will flush ‘em Below if we act up during the inspection. I want you and your mates to sort over the feasibility of launching an attack during the inspection. Chances of success, plan-of-action, possible contingencies, the works.” “I . . . I need more data,” Beatrice confessed, guiltily. “You shall have it. Just let your liaison officer know what you need. But I’d like a top-of-your-gorgeous-head estimate on the advisability, so I can make some preliminary plans.” “Okay . . . you got any . . . candy?” she asked, eagerly. While McNab was largely ignorant of the specifics of their functioning, he did understand that the hard thinking the Brains did made them crave neuron-supporting glucose like drop fiends. He smiled and dug his bribe out of his pocket. “Of course, darling. One sesame watermelon, one cherry. Enjoy!” The bald woman grabbed the treats with the eagerness of a schoolgirl and popped both in her mouth at once, immediately moaning in pleasure. “Better than sex,” she sighed. “Okay, here’s my initial impression. The confluence of events surrounding the inspector should provide adequate cover for preparation. However, launching a strike the moment he arrives is inadvisable for multiple reasons. There is a higher probability for success if he and the other Purplebellies are lulled into a false sense of security first.” “Stands to reason,” McNab nodded. “Seizing control of the ship will involve taking control of five separate locations – you should have a separate team for each one, with back-ups. That includes the Bridge, Engineering, Life Support, Security Control . . . and the Labs.” “The Labs?” McNab asked, eyebrows raised. “Why the bloody labs? They don’t have any strategic value, and damn little tactical value.” “The Warden will want to strike back with lethal force at once,” she reasoned. “He will deploy strike teams to all the affected areas. In each case he can use excessive force to re-take control of the area without much fear of damage or retaliation. All except Life Support and the Labs, that is. But he can by-pass the controls for Life Support and re-route through either Engineering or the Bridge, if need be.” “Right,” agreed, McNab, encouraging her to continue. “But the Labs, they have something that he cannot risk damaging, not without getting significant go se from Dr. Romano.” She said the name with evident disgust. None of the Brains liked Romano. Considering how many of them he had maimed or sent Below, Colonel McNab couldn’t rightly blame them. “The Labs have all the hard, uncooked data for all the projects in their computers. Security-sealed, away from the main system, to avoid system failure in the event of emergency. Grabbing the Labs will ensure that not only will there be dissention in our enemy’s ranks, but that they will deploy scarce resources in an effort to recapture the area intact and undamaged – an area which, as you have pointed out, has limited strategic and tactical value.” “That’s a rutting good point,” agreed McNab. “I can’t see the good doctor walking away from the only thing he sees is of value, even in the middle of a riot.” “Further, there are seven subsidiary areas that it would be highly desirable to take control of, for tactical reasons. I’ll include them in my report, and most will be easy to take and annoying for the bastards to re-take.” “I like to be annoying,” McNab nodded. “Just ask my wife, some day. Off the top of your head, sweets, what do you put our chances at?” Beatrice closed her eyes. “Of launching a successful riot and insurrection, seventy one percent. Of successfully capturing all five areas, fifty-five percent. Of successfully holding them long enough to substantially undermine the prison security infrastructure, thirty nine percent. Of avoiding large-scale deployment of Pax and other area-of-effect non lethal weaponry being used on the prison population, twenty-eight percent. Of achieving effective control of the ship and enabling it to depart its present course under willful power, nineteen percent. Of avoiding a retributive strike by outside Alliance forces, nine percent.” She opened her eyes and looked at him, as if he had just materialized out of thin air. “Sorry, Colonel,” she said, pouting. “Whatever for?” McNab scoffed. “Nineteen percent chance of success? That’s great news!” Beatrice looked puzzled. “That means that there is a eighty-one percent chance of failure,” she pointed out. “With a slightly smaller chance that we are all going to die before we win.” McNab looked amused. “Big, fat odds like five-to-one? Show me a cobber who won’t jump all over those juicy odds, and I bet he won’t be wearing brown! Beatrice, do you know what they pegged the odds that the Independents would survive for the first two years of the War at?” The Brain shook her bald head. “Eleven percent. Eleven bloody percent! And here we are, over a decade of grueling battle under our belts, and our mates are still out there, holding on against the Purplebellies! Browncoats take odds sane people would whimper at. Because we keep getting told what we want is bloody impossible, and every time God makes sure that we get it done!” “I had not calculated the influence of divine intervention,” Beatrice said, drolly. “Shall I re-figure?” “No, no, let’s let the Old Girl surprise us. Be nice to get some pleasant surprises from Her for a change.” “Blasphemer,” Beatrice said, sticking her tongue out. She was a staunch Euroimperial Catholic, and didn’t like McNab’s casual reference to the gods and goddesses. “There is one thing that might improve our chances a few points,” Beatrice added, hesitantly. “What would that be, sweets?” McNab hummed. “I can forecast an over-all success rate of twenty four point five percent . . . with the successful capture and detention of the Inspector,” she pointed out. “It could even be a decisive factor, in some scenarios.” “Then consider the bugger snatched,” McNab agreed, heartily. “One more or less Purplebelly isn’t going to make much difference. Already have a team in mind, in fact. We’ll take him – say, half a day after he gets here, when everyone is lookin’ elsewhere – and we’ll stash him in some cozy cubby hole until we need him. And if the Colonel and Romano and Chen won’t play . . . well, we can send him home. A finger at a time.” He looked at the small bald woman, who had returned to the ecstasy of flavored gChencose, and smiled gently. “Maybe if we threaten to send him Below, they’ll back off. But one way or another, the inspector is the key to all of our hopes.”

“Good evening, Colonel,” Sgt. Marcus said, pleasantly, as McNab ambled by. “Got time for a cold one? Just finished a batch of juice this morning. Orange flavored, this time.” Marcus ran one of six illicit distilleries that took raw protein and sugars from their unappetizing rations and fermented and distilled them into some of the filthiest tasting liquors on the ship – if not in the ‘verse as a whole. Running the still was a violation of both the prison’s policies and the Independent Judicial Code Of Uniformed Services regulation, but both were so frequently overlooked on the Suri Madron as to become laughable. Prisoners took their leisure where they would, and for some that meant spending their chits with Marcus and sopping up juice. McNab wasn’t about to get rid of the operations, and Colonel Chen had learned long before which regulations were the important ones not to enforce. Taking away the illicit liquor would start a riot quicker than any other thing. So everyone left the gin joints alone. It was a well-known fact that McNab, himself, would frequently pop in to inspect the fare . . . for health and safety reasons, he loudly assured everyone. Marcus smiled and ushered the Colonel into his compartment with all the grace of a matre d’ hotel. The vacuum still took up most of the sergeant’s room, and a metal shelf next to it was cluttered with bottles both empty and full, and goods the man had traded for his fare. Marcus put up the universally-respected “DO NOT DISTURB” sign and poured the Colonel a drink of something red-colored. “I thought you said it was orange?” he asked, skeptically. “I said it was orange flavored,” Marcus demurred. “But it started out gray colored. I thought this was an improvement.” After a single sip, McNab had to agree. Swill that strong that looked gray would have been passed over as a biohazard. As it was, it seemed to burn like reactor fuel in his throat. “To the banner yellow black and green,” he said, with a loud sigh. Marcus raised his beaker-turned-tumbler and nodded. “Hear there was a to-do in the gym, a while ago,” the sergent said, casually, as he swirled his alcohol around and inspected the color. “Yeah, the Warden wanted to chew our ears about the bloody Alliance inspector,” McNab admitted. “Took twenty hostages to ensure our exemplary behavior. Including Alonso and Royce.” Marcus flinched. “That hurts,” he agreed. “Yes, yes it does. So I’ve decided. Twelve hours after the Inspector arrives, that’s H-hour.” “So I’m assuming this isn’t merely a social call?” Marcus chuckled. “You want to see ‘em?” “Why not?” shrugged the Colonel, sadly. “It’s gonna be their big day, soon.” Marcus nodded sagely, and then began painstakingly moving the shelf. McNab would have helped him, but the non-com was picky about other people touching his merchandise. When the shelf was pushed out of the way, he spent twenty minutes unfastening six bolts that held a large metal panel in place. Only then did McNab pitch in – that bugger was heavy. When the panel fell away, McNab gasped in spite of himself. Laid out neatly in rows were hundreds of improvised munitions and weapons that the craftsmen among the Browncoats had assembled over the years, against the day they would rise up. Some of them had been built over a decade ago. Zip guns made with stolen cartridges, improvised knives and machetes, hundreds of shiruken and caltrops, garrotes, clubs and cudgels, even a highly dubious homemade laser. A short row of empty beakers could be filled in moments with the can of lighter fluid that had been stolen from the lab three years ago and turned into serviceable Molotov cocktails. And then there were the real weapons among them, three service pistols and two submachine guns that had been stolen over the years. He had been responsible for one of them, himself. It was right next to the battered samurai sword that had been here since before he had learned about this place from his predecessor. “Bloody gorgeous,” he breathed, picking up one of the subs. “Be nice to get my hands on one of these, again,” he sighed, drawing back the action. “Make sure you save me a pistol . . . and that bloody sword. And you’ve looked at the other caches recently, too?” “All three,” agreed Marcus. “We have enough to sustain a riot. Maybe even capture some territory. Sure to make a hell of a mess, if nothing else.” “Good, good,” McNab agreed, putting the submachine gun away, reluctantly. “We’ll need to. Hard, fast, and all at once. Surprise is going to be our ally, lad, and the only one we’ll have.” He let out one last reluctant sigh, then looked over to his host. “How much do I owe you for the drinks?” Marcus shrugged. “On the house,” he said. “Hopefully, you do this right, I’ll be going out of business, soon.” “In that case,” grinned McNab, weakly, “I think I’ll have one for the road.”