"Have you had any recent word from Central, Simeon?" Channa asked him.
"Basically no more than an acknowledgement of the… ah… incident in the vein of 'Gee, that's too bad, but you're equipped to handle it and when your reports are filed, we'll see what we can do.' But of course that's based on what happened yesterday; this may get us action."
At least I hope it will, Simeon thought. Three hundred ships! Shit! Simeon opened a tight beam to Central with a mayday flag attached. Hopefully he'd have some hard news before too long.
"What sort of armament did they have?" Gus asked while the rest of the station's leaders sat, trying not to look at each other and especially not at Amos and Joseph. Amos had gone even paler and the blue of his eyes had faded. He just sat there. On the other hand, Joseph was watching each and every one of the station heads with a critical gaze and the slightest of knowing smiles on his full lips.
Simeon could see that the initial numbness his people had felt was giving way to fear. Gus was fighting it with trained reflex, but the others were edging slowly toward panic.
"You must have something to fight with," Joseph said, suddenly leaning his arms on the table and directing a piercing gaze from one face to another. "We fought, and we had much less than you did who turned the vessel from your station yesterday. With what did you blow it into pieces? Do you have more? That is something. It is more than we had who saw our ships withered to slag. Our city…" He broke off and struck his fists impotently into the table. "We have brought you warning. We had none!"
Amos caught his friend by the wrists before he could damage his hands. "Peace, my brother," he said softly.
"Oh, youah brothas?" Patsy said in mild surprise, peering closely at both to find some familial resemblance.
"Not of the blood," and Amos touched his temple with his index finger, "of the mind."
"Unh-hunh!" Patsy blushed and tightened her lips into a straight line.
"I've sent a message to Central Worlds," Simeon told them in a brisk voice that he hoped sounded as if he had matters well in hand. "They're consulting with the Space Navy brass-to see what to do. I was hoping they'd tell me what they were doing, and or what we can do. I should've anticipated a full fledged diplomatic-bureaucratic-governmental-gunfight, complete with quarrels over jurisdiction. Everyone with something to say about this has to be tracked down and given an opportunity to give his fardling opinion in triplicate. Amos, believe me, kid, I know just how you feel about elders. The good news is that Navy intends to act fast, only there aren't any Navy units close. The nearest is eighteen days away. This is assuming the brass cut movement orders today and not sometime after we've become the subject of mere academic debate, because we don't exist anymore.
"Which means that at best we can look forward to thirteen lucky days with our naked butts hanging out waiting for a kick from a booted foot. That nearest Navy unit is a patrol corvette, a warship only by courtesy."
"Then you must flee!" Amos leaned forward urgently. "You cannot hope to defeat them. You must leave this place."
"Great idea," Simeon agreed, "in principle. Only the station can't move. That's why it's a station. It's stationary. Get it?"
"You mock me most unfairly," Amos replied with solemn and offended dignity. "I have no knowledge of space stations or of your capabilities. Further, I am not wrong. If the station itself cannot move, then its people must."
"As far as such advice goes," Gus cut in, "he has a point. We should evacuate as many as we can-children, the sick, nonessential personnel. Whoever we can, or whoever's hot to go."
"By my calculations," Simeon said, finishing them in that instant, "given the number of ships currently in or near me at the moment, we should be able to evacuate over a thousand souls." He liked that touch. "Not counting crews."
There was silence for a moment. A thousand was a fraction of the average ever-shifting population of the station.
Amos broke the silence hesitantly. "How many people will that leave on the station?"
"Fifteen thousand, or so," Channa said grimly. "Our population varies. Simeon, does your estimate include emptying cargo bays and stuffing our people into them in suits?" A desperation procedure and liable to result in some fatalities.
"No, we could evacuate a few hundred more that way."
Although, given the average softperson's reaction to long-term confinement in tight spaces, we probably won't get many volunteers for traveling that way.
"And before you ask," Simeon continued, "no, I haven't even asked the captains their views on such an… exodus. That's a best case scenario. We can't prevent those who aren't docked in the station physically from leaving, so the scheme is still just inside this room. I think that before we start bringing anyone else into this, we should have at least one plan to present, preferably more than one."
"Evacuation plans?" Chaundra asked, his brow farrowed.
"Those," Simeon said, "and plans to fight for the station."
There was a certain brightening around the table. Nothing visible, but the lift in attitude was almost palpable.
"That's right up your alley, Simeon," Channa said gently, "even if this isn't a military installation."
"To fight," Joseph said, his dark eyes glinting with revived hope. Or was it vengeance? "Yes, this is what we would like to do, but how? Did you not say that you had no weapons? And surely they will not give you a chance to combat them. Why should they not simply rush in and destroy you? That would be but child's play for them."
"We will employ guile." Geeze, their lingo is contagious, he thought. "Remember, you said these people were pirates?"
"Yes," Amos said. "When they made their initial demand for surrender-they mentioned deliveries of materials, machines, labor. Pirates, but they speak as though they were a people, a nation. The High Clan, they sometimes named themselves. At others, the Divine-" his mouth puckered in distaste "-the Divine Seed of Kolnar."
"Right." Simeon spoke briskly. This is just another exotic scenario, he told himself firmly. Games theory experience-don't freeze up now. You've done things like this thousands of times. "So they're no more than criminals, not a true army, disciplined, strategically trained. More like guerillas. Jump in, grab what they can, jump out. Right now, they're pursuing you, and these four ships aim to destroy you to keep you from spreading any nasty rumors about them. So, what we better do first, is get their minds off killing by distracting them with the material things they wanted from you in the first place. Right?"
Every station officer thought about this. Then Gus nodded slowly.
"If these people are space-based, and from the description I think they must be-what a prize the SSS-900-C would be!" He turned to Amos and Joseph. "What sort of industries does… did Bethel have?"
"Very few," Amos said, rubbing a thoughtful hand along his stubbled jaw. "We could maintain equipment and manufacture some components for in-system work. We traded rare foodstuffs and organic molecules for what little else we needed. Traders came perhaps once in a generation. The latest only last-"
Joseph swore antiphonally with Gus, Patsy, and Simeon. Channa snapped her fingers. "They must have been… what's the phrase?"
"Casin' the joint," Patsy said for she had a store of such archaic phrases.
"Spies!" Joseph said. Tears welled in his eyes, tears of pure rage.
"Always someone who can be bought," Simeon said, giving his holo image a wise appearance. Or so info tapes say, but I've never had to use that tactic.