Exiled to the Stars Page 7

  They were combining their student lists with Cesar's shift lists almost an hour later when a broadly smiling Raymond Koh hurried into the mess room and clapped Ron on the back.

  "They're perfect!" He gushed. "You can attack, defend, and even if your opponent has one, without training he doesn't stand a chance!"

  Ron grinned. "So, when do you start organizing your militia?"

  Raymond's answering grin was wide. "I've already started. I've put together a list of about ten I already know I'll want to recruit. And Cesar has called a meeting with all the men between 17 and 50 for this afternoon.

  "17 and…That's me!"

  Raymond clapped him on the back again. "Yep. See you at 1400!" He sauntered out the door, grin firmly in place.

  Raymond conducted the meeting. He had brought a baton, and briefly demonstrated its use. He enthusiastically repeated and reinforced Cesar's plans for the dorm's survival and development. By the time he was finished, the men in the room were crowding his table to sign up for the militia.

  Ron joined them, but Raymond didn't write down his or Vlad's names. Instead he grinned. "I'll talk to you after the meeting." He said with a wink.

  Ron and Vlad waited, impatient with irritation. Finally Raymond escaped the crowd and came to join them.

  Ron demanded to know why Raymond hadn't signed them up.

  Raymond grinned. "Because I think you're going to be much more valuable. You've already admitted you have at least one stunner, and I would expect you have two. I also suspect you have other interesting weapons hidden somewhere."

  Ron started to protest, but Raymond waved a dismissive hand. "No, I'm not trying to take them from you. But our batons have one serious weakness. They're strictly hand-to-hand weapons. The most skilled baton man in the world would be helpless against an unskilled clod with a stunner.

  "No, I want you to be cover, to take out any of the enemy equipped with a distance weapon, like a stunner, blaster, or laser."

  He started to continue, but Tara Conner suddenly appeared at his elbow.

  "I want to join up," she said baldly.

  Raymond was surprised. "This is not women's work," he said in a tone of irritated disdain.

  But she didn't retreat. She shook her head. "If you're talking about fighting with clubs, you're right. But…" She suddenly whirled to confront Ron.

  "I saw you whispering with that scrounger upstairs. You gave him money. I don't figure you were buyin' bubble gum. And if you've got shootin' weapons, you need me." Her urban midwestern Noram accent was fading, changing. Ron decided her new accent was rural southern Noram.

  Her gaze swept the men. "Any of y'all ever kill anything? Man or animal?" She grinned at their uncomfortable expressions. "I didn't think so. Well, I was raised on a farm, and hunted with my daddy and brothers until I ran away to Nawlins. I've killed animals, domestic and wild. I've skinned them, and I've gutted them. Now, most of my experience is with old-fashioned rifles and pistols, but I'm damned good with them, and I've handled hand lasers, and shot a blaster a few times."

  Ron stared. "You're a farm girl? Do you have any idea how much we're going to need you when we find a planet?" But she just looked irritated and shook her head.

  "I'm not going to let you distract me. I'll bet the computer has a VR marksmanship training program. If I can't outshoot all of you, I'll shut up and go away. But if I can beat you all, You're gonna want me covering your club fighters!"

  Vlad nudged Ron. "Uh, Ron," he said quietly, "I've never fired a weapon in my life. Perhaps this young lady could make much more effective use of them than I could."

  Ron had already been thinking guiltily along similar lines. He turned to Raymond. "Let's give her a chance, Raymond. If it comes to fighting, you're going to want the best people you can get."

  The computer did have a VR marksmanship practice program. Fifty meters was a long distance, Ron decided. Luckily, it was only used for slow fire with a laser. But even the twenty-five meter rapid fire targets seemed far away. The seven-meter blaster range was more his style. The computer's VR simulation of a target range was perfect, and the fact that all of them could share the simulation made it even more realistic.

  Tara was unfazed. She simply stepped up and picked up the computer-controlled practice hand laser. Ron was a bit startled when she used both hands to hold the weapon, but then reflected that it was probably much more stable than his holovid-inspired one-handed grip.

  Standard rules for slow fire allowed one minute per shot, or four minutes for the normal hand laser's four shot magazine.

  Tara fired her four shots in less than a minute, and scored 36 out of a possible 40.

  Ron decided to copy Tara's two-handed hold, but even so, he scored only 26, despite using over three minutes.

  A clearly worried Raymond stepped up, and he, too copied Tara's grip. But it was obvious he had little, if any, experience with lasers when he scored 14, with only two hits within the scoring rings.

  Vlad simply begged off. He'd never even touched a laser, and joked that he really didn't need a hole in his own foot.

  On the rapid-fire course, with its shorter range and larger scoring rings, Tara scored 38 out of 40, easily completing her four-shot string of fire within the eight-second limit.

  Ron figured she had made her point, but he stepped up to the firing line and put the target in the sighting rings of his weapon, ready for the 'start' signal. Unfortunately, the buzzer still managed to startle him, and he jerked the firing stud for a complete miss. Bothered by this, he only managed three shots in the allotted eight seconds, for a score of 15.

  Raymond didn't even try. He simply admitted defeat. They removed the VR helmets and moved out of the classroom and the computer's hearing range.

  Raymond sighed, and turned to Ron. "All right, Ron, we all know you have weapons. I'd like you to get them and share them with our only militiawoman. While we're waving clubs around at each other, I want you two to get plenty of practice. You are the people who are going to keep the flies off us while we're taking care of business. Ron, I expect you to practice until you're almost as good as Tara. Tara, you coach him."

  Tara walked away with a satisfied smile, and Raymond approached Ron. "All right, Ron, how many and what kind of weapons do you have?"

  Ron had already decided to trust the burly young man. "Raymond, we're a part of this dorm now. Of course we'll share the weapons. As you saw, neither of us are warriors. We just had a lot of credits to get rid of, and a lot of scary people in our dorm. We have one blaster with three power packs, and two lasers with two each. We have a practice rig for the lasers, but we probably won't need it with the VR. We also have holsters for the blaster and lasers, and two stunners with four spare power packs, four fighting knives and four practice knives."

  Raymond whistled. "Wow! You're ready for a war! All right, you and Tara take the lasers. I'll check around to find someone who's good with a blaster." He grinned. "We also have a few good knife men." He paused. "I'll have to think about the stunners. They're very handy for taking prisoners!"

  Ron shook his head. "If it's all right, I'd like to keep one of those knives and a practice knife. I may need a hand-to-hand weapon some day."

  Raymond's grin faded. "Of course. Actually, Tara will need one, too. I'll find you a good man to help you learn knife fighting. There's probably also a good VR program for it. Damn!" he continued, "We just might be able to take care of ourselves!"

  "Anyway," he continued, "you should bring in all the weapons, so they don't get stolen. I want you and Tara to keep those lasers handy in your bunk at all times. We don't know when you might need them very quickly. If I could, I'd have you wearing them in the holsters. But I suspect we're all under surveillance, and even though the Captain knows we're on his side, I'm not sure he'd approve of colonists with lasers."

  Ron turned most of the weapons over to Raymond. He and Tara kept one laser and two power packs apiece, as well as a fighting knife and practice knife each.

>   Since the knives he kept were new and still in their boxes, Ron was smiling as he presented one to Tara. She was unexpectedly delighted. "Do you know what this is?" She demanded in an amazed tone. "This is a Drake Ceramic Fighter!" She answered herself.

  Ron was looking at the insert from the box. "This says it's a 'premium' knife. It must have been confiscated from some unlucky colonist."

  "If so," she said with a wide grin, "He must have been a rich one! Daddy used to drool over pictures of their skinning knives in the catalog. The fighters are the most expensive knives in the line, and that means about the most expensive knives in the world!"

  Ron's eyebrows rose. "Really? Why?"

  "Because of the ceramic! It's patented. It takes an edge like a metal razor blade, but holds it damn near forever!" She rummaged in the box, and came up with a ceramic rod with a wood handle. "Ha! It has the sharpener! Those alone cost five hundred credits, but if you have the knife, you have to have the sharpener."

  "Why?" He prompted her again.

  She shrugged, causing distractions for Ron. "Regular sharpeners won't work," she replied. "The ceramic is too hard. Diamond is the only thing that'll sharpen it, and even that works by friction, not by cutting."

  Ron looked at his knife. Except for the dull black finish, it looked like any other fighting knife; a seven-inch blade, double edged. It did have serrations on the blade side of the guard, which the information sheet claimed could catch an opponent's blade and, unless it was another Drake, snap it off. The handle was roughened for a good grip "even when wet", the sheet claimed. Ron looked in own box, and found the normal-looking ceramic rod sharpener as well as a plastic sheath, designed to hold the blade by the sides, not touching the supposedly super-sharp blade.

  Knife in hand, Tara jumped up and swung her arms around his neck, frightening Ron badly. But she just gushed, "Oh, Thank you, Ron! This is the nicest present anyone's ever given me!" Before he could react, she kissed him on the lips.

  Ron was startled, and struggled to figure out how to react. As suddenly as she had grabbed him, she released him and jumped back. She put her hand over her mouth.

  "Oh my God, Ron! I'm so sorry!" Her unexpected apology only multiplied his confusion, as did his own undeniable physical reaction.

  "Sorry?" his weak smile only emphasized his puzzled tone. "Why? Didn't you like it?"

  She was looking as confused as he felt. She looked as though she were trying to decide whether to break into tears or giggles. "Of course I did, silly. But, well, you know what I am…was."

  He shook his head. "I learned long ago on the streets of South 'Cago not to judge people by what they do to survive."

  She looked relieved, but her smile was rueful. "I'm afraid many of the women around here don't agree with you."

  He shrugged. "They'll come around. Do you want to swap bunks? I could ask Cesar…"

  His voice trailed off as she shook her head, her expression becoming determined. "No. If I'm going to spend the rest of my life among these straights, I'm going to have to deal with their prejudices." Her smile resurfaced. "I'm used to being looked down on. I've been looked down on by experts!"

  She looked around, her smile widening. "Oh, well, I've given them a gossip topic for at least a week!"

  Chapter 4

  15 November 2103

  By the end of three months, things were shaking down well throughout the dorm. Several of the older men had dropped out of the education classes, but they had quickly been replaced by eager volunteers from their sister dorm.

  Dorm 8 did not have a Cesar Montero. It was basically operating as if it were still a ghetto; a kind of anarchy. The dorm's thugs, who thrived on the disorder, had disrupted a half-hearted attempt to organize and form a government. Now, the thugs were in control, when they bothered to assert it. But the people of Dorm 8 watched Dorm 7's progress with envy.

  When half-a dozen of the dorm's older residents had dropped out of classes, a delegation from Dorm 8 pleaded with Cesar to accept students from their dorm. The thugs were demanding payment from those wanting to use the training room in Dorm 8.

  Cesar was angry that not all of "his" people were enthusiastic about his training plan, but Ron knew that not everyone is suited to academic education, and he had been expecting it. He was certain that if they began approaching a planet, many of them could be convinced to enroll in nonacademic practical training.

  Cesar, though, wasn't giving up. He insisted on calling them "the lazy ones," at every opportunity. Whenever he passed a bunk section where they were sitting and talking, he made it a point to look at them, and then walk away shaking his head. Frankly, Ron thought he was overreacting.

  But finally Cesar agreed, and eventually almost a dozen Dorm 7 residents had been replaced by Dorm 8 students.

  Since the communal mess room was the only place available with seats, it was never really deserted, and the mingling of dorms EarthGov had desired was slowly developing.

  Raymond had quickly convinced the Dorm 8 thugs that they would not be expanding their influence to Dorm 7, though two of them had to be taken to the med bay.

  The militia was coming along well. They had devised formations and tactics Raymond hoped would be effective in the ship's corridors and mess rooms, and they were drilling daily.

  Ron and Tara were also practicing daily, and it was obvious that they were becoming close.

  Surprisingly, it was Tara who was resisting the addition of a romantic component to their relationship. The man who had taken the young girl and turned her into a prostitute had thoroughly broken her spirit first. Her self-esteem was nearly nonexistent, and she could not convince herself that a normal man could possibly be interested in her for anything but sex.

  Many of the dorm's women, who were certain that Tara was trying to steal their husbands, only emphasized this attitude.

  So Ron swallowed his frustration, and tried to pretend he was satisfied to keep their relationship platonic.

  On the plus side, however, Ron was becoming an excellent shot with the hand laser. They had tried to devise tactics for what Ron called their "sniper" function. He and Tara would always seek "high ground"; in dorms, they would climb onto upper bunks. In mess rooms, they would try to get on top of or behind the delivery machinery, or even onto tabletops. In corridors, they would seek hatches, or any other raised surface. In any case, they would then look over the heads of the crowd of fighters, seeking those carrying lasers, blasters, or stunners. Then they were to kill them.

  Raymond continually reminded them that they had only eight shots each. They could not afford to be drawn into a "gunfight" with a laser- or blaster-armed opponent. He insisted they concentrate on body or head shots, and not try for disabling wounds. Ron was forced to agree.

  Tara simply nodded grimly. She had traded some of her beer ration to a man in Dorm 8 who had used a leather money belt to bring his credits aboard. She had cut the belt down to fit her, and modified her knife's sheath to mount it along the belt rather than hanging from it. She never left her bunk group without her knife and was taking VR knife fighting lessons. Ron noticed that she was now standing straighter and walking taller. She was no longer a victim, and Ron had no doubt she would kill if necessary to keep from ever becoming one again.

  One evening Cesar, Ron, Vlad and Raymond were complaining about the fact that their largest problems seemed to stem from the colonists' enforced idleness.

  Vlad chuckled. "My mother had a solution for that. Whenever she got bored, which was about once a week, she'd go off to the Bingo parlor for a night of Bingo.

  Raymond looked puzzled. "What is this 'Bingo'?"

  Vlad shrugged. "It’s a game of chance, played in large groups. Actually, each game usually lasts less than half an hour, so a 'night of Bingo' usually consisted of a number of games.

  "Basically," he continued, "each player buys a tablet card image for a small amount. At the top of the 'card' are five columns, each headed by a letter of the word 'Bingo.' Beneath the
word are five rows of numbers, making a 5X5 matrix, and all the numbers are in random positions. If I remember correctly, there were 75 numbers available. Each 'card' is different, of course. In addition to the cards, each player has some way of indicating which called numbers appear on his 'card'.

  "The leader is called the 'caller,' and his tablet has a random number generator. He calls off each number, and the players indicate it on their 'cards'. If the numbers called match all of the numbers in one of the rows, columns, or diagonals on his 'card', the player wins. The numbers are verified, and they usually win a small prize."

  A smile rose on Raymond's face. He had turned out to be a real entrepreneur. Early on, he realized that beer was an unsatisfactory medium of exchange. Storage was a problem. Besides, it did not divide easily, and therefore did not allow for fractional purchases. After giving it some thought, he had begun by going from dorm to dorm on both colonist decks, "buying" everyone's EarthGov credits for beer bulbs. Since the worthlessness of EarthGov currency was now well established, he found many takers. This led to setting up trading contacts with the other dorms. In Dorm 4, for example, there was a man who was skilled in hydroponics, and who, with help from the ship's crew, had managed to set up a small vegetable garden in a storeroom to which he had been given access. The ship had a large hydroponics establishment, of course, but this man was raising foods not available from the Ship's supply. Ron was happy to trade him beer for fresh vegetables. Residents of several other dorms had also come up with imaginative projects, and Raymond's trading was becoming very successful.

  Raymond grilled Vlad for details of the "Bingo" game. Within a week, he had a Bingo game up and running in the messroom. Raymond made a deal with Robert Franks to write him a pair of small tablet programs. The one for the "customers" required a code to activate for each game. The other was Raymond's own "caller" program.