Rebellion (12 page)

In moments, the lieutenant and the corporal arrived. Spotting the strange general, they immediately saluted and stepped into the brace position. "Kawalsky and Feretti, sir," O'Neil said with a crisp salute of his own. -"Present as requested "Gentlemen," Keogh said, though his tone of voice made the honorific doubtful. "You see in me the new commander of this force. Sizable reinforcements are arriving even as I speak. The new troops will present a major logistical drain on our stockpiles. Because of this, Lieutenant, I am appointing you supply officer. And you, Corporal, will assist him." Supply duty was a slap in the face to a pair of combat Marines. But Keogh wasn't finished. "To insure your full and undivided attention to these great and serious duties, I am confining you to this base. Departure, even going into the desert-will be construed as desertion. In addition, your sensitive employment will preclude all fraternization with the natives of this planet. Is this understood?" Faces blank, Kawalsky and Feretti both snapped salutes like a pair of automatons, their eyes not focusing on the general. "Yes, sir!" they chorused. "Excellent. Dismissed, the pair of you." As Kawalsky left, his hard-bitten features lost their rigid cast as he glanced at O'Neil. Damn! his eyes seemed to say, we dropped you right in it! O'Neil carefully schooled his own face into mask-like blankness. He shouldn't have let Kawalsky talk him into seeing what progress Skaara and his boy warriors had achieved. The colonel had been expecting some fallout from Lockwood's discovery. But he'd hoped for more support from General West. Keogh waited until the tent was empty before he addressed O'Neil again. "In studying the supply situation for this base, Colonel, I noticed an excessive stock of hand-held surface-to-air missiles. These seem unnecessary given local conditions. Perhaps you can put Kawalsky in charge of shipping them back." "Sir, when we were fighting Ra's guards, our greatest problem was their air mobility. Their udajeets-flying gliders-and blasters pinned Lieutenant Kawalsky and a group of native ancilaries-" Keogh interrupted with an aphorism: "'The military mind,"' he quoted, "'is always prepared to fight the last war." What you're talking about is ancient history, Colonel. Our concern should not be with incursions from the air, but with counterinsurgency preparations." He glared at his subordinate.

"You not only ignored such a danger, you actually allowed the training of an insurgent cadre." Keogh's body was long and lanky, and he made himself taller by drawing himself up stiffly. "I'll continue to use you, O'Neil, as local liaison. But you are to limit yourself to formal contacts with the local government. I am not happy about this home-grown militia you fostered. Neither is General West." The general turned to more mundane matters, demanding a map of the plateau that served as home for the base camp and UMC's local presence. "We'll need to expand the camp significantly to accommodate the new troops. In addition, we'll require a maintenance area for the armor I'm bringing in-" "Tanks, sir?" O'Neil said. "Best weapons available for projecting strength in a desert environment," Keogh replied. "North Africa in World War II. The Arab-Israeli wars. Desert Storm. By my calculations the StarGate's size should accommodate both Abrams heavy tanks and the lighter Sheridan units. We will, however, need assembly areas for the helicopter gunships. They'll have to come through in pieces." Although O'Neil struggled to retain his military mask, Keogh trained keen eyes on his second-in-command's face. "You don't believe all this is necessary, do you? Well, I think it's required to undo the damage you've caused.

Heavy ground strength-so we'll have lots of rifles in case the worst happens. But I'm still betting we can over-awe these Abbadabbas when they see our technological edge. The tanks and helicopters are key to that strategy." "Yes, sir," O'Neil said tonelessly. These people fought anti-gravity gliden and energy weapons, he thought, and this clown thinks he's going to caw them with a few helicopters and a demeaning name. Keogh was again examining O'Neil's force dispositions on the map.

"I'm not impressed with your defensive arrangements, Colonel. These strong points and guard posts wouldn't stand up to a human wave assault-which is, I think, the only tactic the locals could conceivably use. Almost all of their weapons are hand-to-hand, are they not?" "Yes, sir," O'Neil replied again. "Starting immediately, I want a defensive wall around this entire plateau. An earthen berm should do-reinforced with strong points-perhaps some defense towers. We'll leave that to the engineers. Requisition materials and earth-moving equipment from the UMC

people as necessary." Lockwood will love this, O'Neil thought. "You can also tell Mr. Lockwood that effective immediately, I am dispatching troops to support the UMC security personnel in the mine." O'Neil's mask slipped as he saluted again. Keogh caught the shift in expression.

"Look, O'Neil, I don't need you to like me to get this job done." Scorn poured from the general's voice. "That's the problem with you short-timers. You don't really understand the military mystique."

"Sir," O'Neil replied, "I've been in the service for more than twenty years." "My family have been officers in this man's army for generations," Keogh snarled. "Since the Civil War!" "Of course, sir."

O'Neil gave him another salute as he left the tent. "There was a Keogh with Custer, wasn't there?" Lockwood waited until O'Neil left his office before he indulged himself in a full-scale gloat. In almost frosty-cold air-conditioned comfort, the mine manager rubbed his palms together as a show of satisfaction. How the mighty are fallen, he thought. One hot-shot Marine Colonel reduced to the level of messenger boy! Turning from the clutter on his desk, Lockwood picked up the radio communicator he used to keep in contact with his subordinates. "Get me Ballard," he said into the receiver. A moment later, Vernon Ballard's static-fuzz came out of the box. "Mr. Lockwood?" "Get over to the military camp and introduce yourself to the new commander there. He's detaching men for pit security, so it's up to you to figure how they'll work with your people. One thing-I want a complete cordon around the rest tent. Got it?" "Yes, sir!" Ballard happily signed off. Lockwood's lips stretched off his teeth in a hard grin. Now they could get down to business, he promised himself. "Here's another one that needs explaining." The company security guard, clad in gray camo fatigues, turned to Charlie Morris. The image of an ice-cold beer vanished like a pricked thought balloon as the mine supervisor moved to deal with the latest recalcitrant. "Hey! Underwood!" Morris yelled to the language expert hiding from the noonday suns under the shade of the rest tent. Today they had finally implemented the rule of five round trips before a rest, no exceptions. A cordon of gray-clad UMC security guards and newly arrived Army men in olive drab cut all access to the rest tent. The baffled worker whose way was being barred was pure fellahin. His skin had been broiled to the color and consistency of dark leather by at least forty years of exposure to the THREE suns of Abydos. But there was an ugly grayish tinge to his complexion, his white beard was matted with sweat, and he wobbled slightly on his feet. The worker seemed unable even to summon the strength to protest as Morris raised a hand before his face. "Five times," the supervisor said loudly, as if volume could push his meaning into the man's mind. He spread his fingers wide. "Five times around before you can come in here." The worker spouted a brief string of gibberish. Morris turned to Underwood, one of the UMC language specialists. "You tell him." In halting ancient Egyptian, Underwood tried to explain the situation. The workman protested again, seizing Underwood's hand and trying to draw it to his head. With brisk economy of movement the UMC guard swung his rifle butt and knocked the hand away. "Don't know what diseases they got," he said laconically.

Underwood shot Morris a nervous look. "This fellow says the suns are getting to him. He needs water and salt." "Bastard's probably faking."

A grim expression settled over Morris's simian features. On closer examination, this Abbadabba looked remarkably like the one who'd screwed around with the elevator. "If we let him in, we'll have a whole parade of 'em, all claiming to be sick. Underwood, you tell him to get back to work and not come back here till he's got a chit." "I dunno," said an Army pfc who'd been standing off to the side. "This guy looks pretty much out of it. Are you sure?" "How long you been on this planet, soldier?" Morris loved using that comeback. He'd been waiting for someone with even less experience than he had. Since the soldier had only been on Abydos for hours, and the alternative to guard duty was shoveling sand to make a defensive wall for his camp, he subsided.

Underwood again set off on a limping speech. The elderly worker gave a vehement negative, pointing toward the rest tent. "He's not listening, Sullivan," Morris said to the guard. In a single jerking move the security man rammed the butt of his gun into the pit of the workman's stomach. Argument ceased as the older man folded in half, clutching himself and gasping. "Now go. Imshi!" Sullivan yelled, using some Arabic he'd picked up in the Middle East. He had a hard time distinguishing the natives from the Muslims he'd guarded UMC executives from. The man was down on his knees. Sullivan yanked him upright and sent him tottering back to the ladders that led down to the pit. They watched the man's slow progress as he joined the line of carriers, half leaning on the man in front of him. He reached the ladders and disappeared below the lip of the gorge. "See?" Morris said harshly.

"You gotta show 'em who's boss or they'll-" A cry came from the mine pit, a wordless yell of terror that was obliterated yet amplified by the shouts of many voices. The line of carriers abruptly stopped. Leaving his place in the cordon by the rest tent, the Army pfc walked to the edge of the slash in the earth. He shuddered, then headed back. "What?"

Morris asked, his mouth suddenly very dry. "That guy you turned away-he fell off the ladder." The soldier's face was pale under his incipient sunburn. "He fell all the way down-ten, eleven stories? And it looks like he bounced off a couple of those terraces." He glared at Morris. "I guess you showed 'em good-huh?" Azar and Gaden were both on the carriers' line when their fellow worker died. They heard the scream.

Then something flashed past their places on the ladder and struck a glancing blow to the terrace below them. They heard a sound like a ripe melon smashing open after a fall. When they looked down, they saw a smear of blood and a limp, twisted human figure growing steadily smaller as it fell into the depths of the pit. First came shock and horror as the men slowly learned the identity of the accident victim. Old Zaid lived in the same neighborhood as Gaden. He was a widower with a sickly daughter. Every coin he got for his mine work went to doctors and medicines for his girl. Then the mood turned to anger as various versions of the events before Zaid fell began to filter down the pit.

"The gray-clothes beat him with sticks because he fell on the line and couldn't get up!" "Whelps of mastadges!" one man swore. "I heard the gray ones threw him into the pit." "They're worse than the Horus guards!" Another worker contributed the story he'd heard. "But bad as they are, the ones in green are worse. I hear that they shot Zaid as he begged for mercy." "The green ones can't be that bad," Gaden objected.

"Black Hat and the ones who followed him wore green. So did Daniel.

Most of them died helping us defeat Ra." "Well, the new ones in green must not be the same," the first worker said. "They stand around the tent of rest drinking water and not letting anyone in." "Yes," said his friend, who'd propounded the green men as murderers story. "Besides, the ones friendly to us now wear the colors of the sands he added, as if that were a clinching argument. "One thing is certain," Azar finally said, turning to the ladders. "Someone must carry word to Kasuf and the Elders." Daniel was not at his best after a wildly bounding journey by mastadge across the dunes. Kasuf had acted as quickly as possible when reports of trouble at the mine had reached town. He'd gotten the Elders mounted and riding, along with Daniel and Sha'uri to act as translators.

Skaara had disappeared at the news. Daniel sincerely hoped he wasn't out activating his militia. The jouncing ride ended just as motion sickness was about to set in. Daniel's legs were rubbery as he made his way down from the mastadge howdah. How I know I am not a hero? Proof

#999, he thought. Heroes do not have an urge to vomit right at their big entrances. I do. The light of the suns was striking him like a physical blow, not merely blinding him but accentuating the churning in his gut. Daniel blinked, gulped, and tried to concentrate. A dead body lay on the sands in front of the rest tent. The late Zaid, Daniel figured. Behind the dead man stretched a vast crescent of angry miners.

It looked as if all work had ceased by the time the Elders arrived. The workers looked like a sea of humanity at a low boil. Angry muttering from thousands of throats struck Daniel's ears, nothing that he could make intelligible-except as proof that the workmen were in a fury. He could tell that by the way some of the men handled their picks and mattocks. From the expressions on their faces, they wanted to hew more than stone. The Abydans had come a long way from the time when a blow from one Horus guard could make the whole workforce lower its head and scurry. That had been before one of Ra's guardsmen had made the mistake of striking Jack O'Neil-and gotten his guts blasted in return. Before Daniel Jackson had removed the Horus mask to reveal that Ra's slave masters were human, after all. This was history that UMC and its overseers had apparently never heard. The cordon around the rest tent had now extended itself into a rough skirmish line. Lockwood's gray-clad company police readied their assault rifles. Beside them, fingering their weapons much more nervously, stood regular Army troops in green fatigues. Skaara's watchers had sent word of the arrival of reinforcements. The fresh troops must have come with a new commander if they were being deployed beside UMC's bully boys. Jack O'Neil would never had allowed his people to get dirty by such associations. Daniel looked from one group of men to the other. The miners were nerving themselves for an assault, First Dynasty digging tools versus top-of the-line assault weapons. The guards, both corporate and government, prepared to drive the Abbadabbas back into the pit with a storm of lead.