This is worse than the captains' meeting, Simeon thought.
It was absolutely amazing that so little rumor had leaked out. In that alone was an indication that they might be able to bring the whole thing off. SSS-900-C personnel had an uncanny instinct for keeping their mouths shut when silence was more than golden.
Not so at this meeting, where everyone was sounding off-barring Channa and Amos-and no one was listening to a word being said.
The meeting was being held in the largest auditorium on the station. Which, thank Ghu, Simeon thought with relief, is not nearly large enough to hold all of the station's population. The sensible had stayed in their quarters watching the whole spectacle on holo. The skeleton crew now running the station would have their own briefing later. Just as well I didn't bother to activate sound from the private quarters' screens, he thought wearily. He was getting a good enough cross section of opinion right here. For the first time in my life, I think I'd like to be able to sleep through something. I can always turn the audio off… No, that's useless.
He contacted Channa on the implants in her mastoid. "This was a mistake. We should have briefed their counsel-reps, who would have briefed their aides, and so on. This could build panic to critical mass." For some reason the shouting in the auditorium rose to a higher pitch. "Or simply get so loud the noise shakes the station to pieces and saves the damn pirates the trouble."
"Hindsight," she said softly, "is always so clear. Actually, they look more angry than frightened to me. I've gotten more used to the smell of fear than I like, but the ambience here has a different reek. Of course, I can't hear what they're saying, they're all yelling so loud."
Simeon picked out phrases from the uproar with directional sensors:
"… those goddamned assholes in that colony ship…"
"… yeah, how many ways are they going to try to get us killed…"
"… where's the damned Navy? That's what I want to know. They cripple us with taxes and…"
"… this is crazy. They don't even know this is what's gonna happen? Meanwhile, I'm sittin' here losin' money… what do they expect us to do?"
"WHAT DO WE EXPECT YOU TO DO?" Simeon asked in a tone that overrode the babble. He added in a stew of subsonics intended to stun and intimidate. The noise dropped off abruptly, pleasing him.
"For starters, shut up and listen!" he suggested in a reasonable tone. "We expect you to take the emergency seriously, to listen to instructions and to carry them out." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "This meeting will give you what you need to know on how to handle yourselves during the anticipated emergency. Remember, what you don't know, you can't reveal. From this point on, I remind you that rumor helps the enemy, not you or me, and not this station.
"If you hear something you think is a rumor, report it to your section leader, who's the same person who leads your ordinary emergency evacuation team. If it's true and it concerns your safety, he'll know about it. If he hasn't heard it, he can check with me and I'll confirm or deny it. I will tell you the truth. Do not spread rumors. Remember that. We fully expect shortly to be occupied by an enemy force which has a very bad reputation for space piracy."
Echel Mckie, station newscaster, waved both arms for attention. Simeon acknowledged him.
"Pirates?" he asked. "Look, is this another one of your damned games, Simeon?"
"Absolutely not. This is as real as death. They'll be here in less than three days. We've notified Central and the Navy, who assure us that a rescue mission is already under way. But it won't be here before the pirates are likely to arrive. Therefore this station and its personnel must initiate such delaying tactics as possible. To stay alive!" That silenced the last bit of muttering.
"Why weren't we told this earlier? Every ship has left-we're stuck here!" Mckie's face was a study in outrage.
Channa moved forward to the front of the dais. "You weren't told because we used the available space to evacuate children and the sick," she said crisply. "Any objections to that, Mr. Mckie?"
"As I said," Simeon went on, "we are not only expecting to be occupied, we are hoping we will be." He paused again to see that they had absorbed that distinction. He was proud of his people! They got it in one! Shocked pale faces now accepted what he did not, after all, have to spell out.
"Listen up now. These are your station manager's orders. Don't offer direct resistance. Cooperate whenever necessary but don't volunteer anything. We expect that most of the enemy won't speak Standard, so misunderstand when you can. Make your answers as brief as possible, when you can't be silent. If you don't know, say so, but do not tell them who does know. Stay in your quarters as much as possible. Keep your emergency suits ready to use. Listen to information passed to you by your group leaders rather than anything you may hear over the vid. Remember, we're on your side. They won't be.
"Finally," he said, "this is Simeon-Amos." Amos stood up and bowed politely. "This is the only Simeon on the station. He is co-manager with Channa Hap, the term Simeon means co-manager. We have a longstanding tradition of having the male station managers carrying that name. It's in honor of one of the first station managers. There is no brain or brawn on this station, there never has been. Shellpersons are only used on ships."
He paused to gauge their reaction, studying their grim faces. "If they don't know about me, I'll be able to continue running the station unimpaired-literally behind the scenes. If they disconnect me from the station-and they will, if they find out about me-we're all in trouble. So, as of now and for the duration, I don't exist. This is Simeon-Amos, your station co-manager."
Amos smiled and nodded. The audience had that stillness of about-to-boil-over. Faces began to reflect expressions now; mild alarm, disbelief, skepticism.
"This… this backworld mudfoot is supposed to manage us in an emergency?" somebody said, with all the hauteur of the space-born. Amos' head went back, and he stared down his classical Grecian nose with ten generations of aristocrats behind his eyes.
"To pretend to run things," Simeon said. "Furthermore, he volunteered to front for me! Not a role you'd get many to take under the circumstances," he added, and got a few snorts of agreement. "So, before anyone frets over Simeon-Amos' leadership qualifications, I'd like to replay the man in action. The tape's authentic. I've checked it." Nobody could do that better than a brain.
What Simeon screened for them then were shots that he had accessed from Guiyon's files. It began when a wall flashed with intolerable brightness, then diminished to show troops in black combat armor trotting down a burning street of brick-and-timber buildings. The sensor was pitched low, looking up from a half-basement window or a hole in the ground. Across the way, a human figure hung out of a window, long black braids trailing in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. A child's body lay there too: its crushed skull suggesting it had been thrown against the wall.
The screen was abruptly blank. Then lit up again with a dimmer scene.
Amos' recorded voice cut through the blurr-roar of flames. "Now," he said.
The picture shook as the ground heaved, and the burning walls cascaded across the street, drowning the black figures in a tide of brick and flaming timbers and glass. Other figures darted forward, Bethelites to judge by their rough, improvised uniforms. When the first powersuits began to claw their way out of the rubble, the defenders were ready. Amos was unmistakably leading them, an industrial jetcutter in his hands. He plunged it down on the massive sloped helmet that jerked itself free of the ruins, and helm and head exploded in steam.