Allegiance (15 page)

From the expressions on the patrollers’ faces, it didn’t look like any of them had the slightest intention of making trouble. They stood as stiff as six hardwood trees, their hands frozen well clear of their holsters, as the four stormtroopers marched up the steps. Catching Krinkins’s eye, LaRone gestured him forward. The fueler nodded
and made a gesture of his own, and with five men and three women behind him he headed up the steps behind the stormtroopers. “These your patrollers?” LaRone asked as he pulled the white-faced lieutenant’s blaster from its holster.

“Yes, sir,” Krinkins said, his voice crisp and vibrant with a sudden new hope as he nodded to a middle-aged man with streaks of gray through his hair. “This is Colonel Atmino, senior officer.”

“Forcibly retired,” Atmino added, a glint in his eye as he looked at the patrollers.

“Consider yourself reinstated,” LaRone told him, handing him the lieutenant’s weapon. “I hereby deputize you and your squad. Disarm these men, and put them under arrest pending prosecution for any crimes they may have committed.”

“Yes, sir,” Atmino said, straightening up to full parade attention as he waved three of his people forward. “Other orders?”

“Just stay here and guard the prisoners,” LaRone said. “We’ll take care of Cav’Saran.” He looked over Atmino’s shoulder. “And keep the crowd under control. When you inform the governor’s office about this, you won’t want your claim muddied by charges of disorder or rioting.”

“Understood,” Atmino said, getting a firm grip on the lieutenant’s arm. “We’ll take care of it.”

LaRone gestured to the other stormtroopers. “Let’s go.”

The double doors opened on a wide, marble-floored lobby area that stretched fifteen meters ahead to a curved wall and a second set of double doors. To the right and left the lobby narrowed into a pair of corridors that curved around the central core, their elaborately frescoed walls interrupted at intervals by the doors of private offices.

At this hour, LaRone guessed, most of the outer offices would be vacant. Leaving them for later, he strode to the double doors, dropping his hold-out blaster back into his side pocket. He gestured to the other stormtroopers to stay out of sight, then pulled the doors open and stepped inside.

As they had surmised earlier, the inner room was indeed a single large chamber, which the patrollers had converted from a meeting hall into a squad room. Packed onto the main floor and the ring of small balconies set into the upper wall beneath the dome were almost two hundred desks and workstations. Nearly all the desks were occupied, LaRone noted, though only a few of the patrollers seemed to be actually working. The rest were just sitting there, fiddling with data cards or their blasters, or conversing in low tones with the other fifty or so patrollers who were standing or wandering around the room. In response to the protest outside, Chief Cav’Saran had apparently pulled in most of his force.

Perfect.

LaRone made no effort to downplay his grand entrance, but even if he had, he doubted it would have made any difference. The patrollers were on hair-trigger, and even before he’d made it all the way into the room all heads had snapped around.

“What do you want?” a bulky patroller demanded from his perch atop a tall reception desk just to the right of the door.

“I’m here to see Whisteer,” LaRone said, putting enough air behind the words to make sure they carried all the way across the room. “
And
Chief Cav’Saran.”

“You’re early,” Whisteer’s voice growled back, and LaRone saw him straighten up from a conversation by one of the desks. “The forms aren’t ready yet.”

“That’s okay,” LaRone said. “I wasn’t going to fill them out anyway. Which one of you is Cav’Saran?”

There was a moment of silence, and then a man with a badly scarred face detached himself from one of the conversation groups. “I’m Chief Cav’Saran,” he growled, his tone making it a challenge. “You have a problem?”

“I have a complaint,” LaRone said. “Some of your men tried to shake me down this morning.”

Cav’Saran’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?” he asked in a tone of feigned politeness. “How?”

“They charged excessive fees and stole some of my cargo.”

“Did they, now,” Cav’Saran said, an amused smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. “And who exactly was responsible for this outrage?”

“Sergeant Whisteer, for one,” LaRone said, pointing at Whisteer as he let his gaze sweep across the room’s occupants. The circular floor plan allowed for no blind corners, and though the desks would provide cover in a gun battle, there wasn’t nearly enough room behind them for everyone.

More problematic was the high ground being held by the men on the balcony workstations. Most of the ones up there were wearing officers’ insignia, though, and seemed more curious or bemused than hair-trigger hostile.

Still, there were plenty of the latter type scattered around the main floor. Mentally tagging their locations, LaRone pointed to three of the others who’d been aboard the Suwantek that morning. “Those three were there, too,” he added, “plus seven more.”

“And what exactly would you like me to do about it?” the chief asked, still playing along.

“I want them arrested,” LaRone said. “They’re to be charged with extortion, theft, and abuse of power.”

“And if I refuse?”

LaRone looked around the room again. The sense of hostility was starting to grow as the novelty of the confrontation faded, but so far none of the patrollers seemed to have considered it worth drawing their blasters. “Then I’ll have to find someone else to do the job,” he said.

“Like that losers’ mob outside?” Cav’Saran asked acidly; and with that, all traces of levity were gone from his face. “Good; because along with the fines already levied, you’re now under arrest for sedition and incitement and unlawful assembly.” He raised his eyebrows. “And for
that
, I think we’ll confiscate your ship.” He gestured contemptuously. “Whisteer, dump him in a cell.”

“Fine with me,” LaRone said calmly. “A public trial would be most enlightening.”

“Good point,” Cav’Saran agreed as Whisteer strode forward. “You’re not worth that kind of risk. Whisteer? Dump him in a swamp instead.” He smiled maliciously. “Thanks for pointing that out.”

“And thank
you
for confirming the charges I’d already heard from some of the citizens,” LaRone said. “I hereby place you and your entire patroller contingent under arrest.”

Cav’Saran smiled. “Really. You and who else?”

It was the perfect opening, and Marcross had the flair to take him up on it. From behind LaRone came the soft clicking of armored boots on marble—but even without the sound he would have known the other stormtroopers had made their grand entrance. The sharply inhaled breaths, the jerking of heads and bodies, and the sudden widening of eyes were all the clues he needed. “In the name of the Empire,” he said formally into the brittle silence as he drew his hold-out blaster,
“you and your men are ordered to surrender your weapons.”

With a muttered curse, Whisteer yanked his blaster from its holster.

Or rather, yanked it halfway out. Brightwater’s shot caught him squarely in the chest, dropping him before he could so much as gasp.

Across the room to the right, three of the men LaRone had pegged as possible troublemakers went for their own weapons. LaRone was ready, dropping two of them as Marcross took out the third. There was a quick double shot from LaRone’s left, and he looked up to see the two officers in one of the balconies fold themselves limply over the railing, their blasters dropping from limp fingers to clatter onto the floor below.

And with that another, even more brittle silence descended on the room.

“That’s six who’ve chosen to opt out of the legal system,” LaRone said. “Any others?”

For a moment no one moved. Then, without warning, Cav’Saran grabbed the arm of the closest patroller with his right hand, pulling the man in front of him. Hooking his left arm around the other’s throat to keep him there, he drew his blaster.

Without even appearing to aim, Grave shifted his blaster slightly and sent a shot sizzling past the living shield’s ear to blow a hole in Cav’Saran’s face.

LaRone waited until the body had finished clattering its way across one of the desks and onto the floor. “Anyone else?” he called.

There wasn’t. An hour later, it was over.

“We’ve collected the ones who were out on patrol,” Atmino reported as the last of the former patrollers were escorted to the bulging holding cells. “Weren’t too many of them, as it turned out. I guess Cav’Saran was more interested
in being ready to grind our protest into the dirt than he was in actually protecting the city.”

“You’ll want to mention that in your report,” LaRone said. “You have enough former patrollers on duty now to handle things?”

“I think so,” Atmino said. “Though I’m a little confused as to why we need them. Aren’t you taking over security duty?”

“No, that’s your responsibility now,” LaRone told him. “We’re not in the business of taking over from the locals unless there aren’t any other options. The mayor and city council
are
backing you, aren’t they?”

“Oh, sure, now that Cav’Saran and his thugs are safely locked up,” Atmino said, an edge of contempt in his voice. “Though to be fair, I don’t suppose any of the rest of us have been showing much backbone lately, either.”

“Then you should be all set,” LaRone said. “All the council needs to do is send official word to Shelkonwa about what’s happened. They’ll either approve it directly or suggest some modifications.”

“As long as the modifications don’t involve putting Cav’Saran back in,” Atmino said. “You get back your bait all right?”

“Our what?”

“The speeder bikes,” Atmino said. “You
were
just dangling them out there so that Cav’Saran would pull that illegal confiscation, right?”

“Of course,” LaRone said. It was amazing sometimes how hindsight enabled people to jump to such incredibly wrong conclusions. “Yes, they’re in the speeder truck.”

“Good,” Atmino said. “Incidentally, I don’t know if you’re interested, but we’ve dug up an odd connection between Cav’Saran and some big pirate gang called the BloodScars. Had you heard about that?”

“No, we hadn’t,” LaRone said, frowning. A corrupt patroller chief and a
pirate
gang? “What kind of connection?”

“We don’t have that exactly nailed down yet,” Atmino admitted. “But we found a data card in his office with contact information for one of their message drops and an encryption system for him to use.” He dug a data card out of his pocket. “I made you a copy in case you wanted to follow up on it.”

“Thank you,” LaRone said, taking the card and tucking it away. Offhand, he couldn’t think of anything lower on their priority list than chasing down a group of pirates, unless it was going on a tour of the Imperial Palace. “Seems to me this falls more within the sector government’s purview, though.”

“Oh, I’ll be sending them a copy, too,” Atmino assured him.

“Good,” LaRone said, holding out his hand. “At any rate, we need to get going. Congratulations on taking back your city.”

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Atmino said, taking the proffered hand in a brief but firm handshake. He looked at the four armored men as if wondering if he should offer his hand to them, apparently decided against it. “Incidentally, I never did get your unit number.”

LaRone felt his throat tighten. For the past few hours, in the rush of defeating Cav’Saran’s men and bringing justice back to Janusar’s people, he’d almost been able to forget their situation. Now Atmino’s comment had brought it flooding back. “What do you need it for?” he hedged.

“So I can file an appreciation with your superiors,” Atmino said, sounding puzzled that LaRone would even have to ask.

“Ah,” LaRone said. “Actually, we’re on special assignment and don’t have an official unit number.”

“Oh,” Atmino said, a little taken aback. “But you must have
some
designation.”

“Of course,” LaRone said, trying to kick his brain into gear. But nothing was coming. Nothing except—“We’re known as the Hand of Judgment.”

“Ah,” Atmino said, his eyes flicking to the other stormtroopers. “That’s … different. Definitely suits you, though.”

“We like it,” LaRone said, trying to sound casual and relieved that the relative darkness would cover up any reddening of his face. What a
lame
thing to say. “Well, we’re off. Good luck.”

They’d driven two blocks, and none of the others had said a word, when LaRone finally couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right, I give up,” he said. “Somebody
say
it.”

The others let the silence drag on another few seconds before Grave finally spoke up. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “The
Hand of Judgment
?”

LaRone winced. It sounded even worse coming from Grave than it had when he’d said it. “I know, and I’m sorry,” he growled. “My brain froze up.”

“You could have just picked a unit number at random,” Quiller pointed out. “It’s not like he could have checked before we got offplanet.”

“Fine,” LaRone said, his embarrassment spilling over into grumpiness. “Next time
you
can be the officer and group spokesman.”

“Great,” Quiller said blandly. “Does that mean you’re promoting me from finger to thumb?”

“No fair,” Grave said, in the exaggerated tone LaRone remembered all too well from growing up with two younger brothers. “
I
want to be the thumb.”

“All joking aside, LaRone, there’d better not
be
a next
time,” Brightwater put in. “I know we needed to get our speeder bikes back, but we were pushing our luck
way
too far on this one.”

“Actually, I don’t think we were,” LaRone said.

“Trust me,” Brightwater said. “Stormtrooper armor may carry a psychological edge, but even at that five against three hundred shouldn’t have worked.”

“Except that it never
is
only five of us,” LaRone reminded him. “That’s the point. The presence of even a single stormtrooper always implies an organization of men and weaponry lurking somewhere in the shadows behind him. They saw five of us and assumed there were hundreds more.”