less said the better.
In the meantime, Micah had other troubles. An active underground resistance, for example. All Fleet property had to be constantly guarded, and even so, in many cases the guard disappeared along with the guarded. Moreover, even with the patrolling and guarding, Fleet weapons and equipment were sabotaged or destroyed.
Early on, Micah had tried to use detachments of marines to protect his people and equipment. However, every time they left the palace grounds, jeering crowds pelted them with garbage, insults, and taunts. When individual marines or small groups tried to go on liberty, if they didn’t end up retreating to the palace, they found restaurants that refused to serve them, and girls that cursed and assaulted them. When small parties began disappearing or turning up dead, Micah had no choice but to keep them close by.
The marines weren’t used to being treated as invaders and criminals. If a solution wasn’t found soon, their commander warned that Micah would begin seeing wholesale desertions.
Micah was not impressed. “Damn it, Colonel, Haven City has less than two million people. You have over six hundred marines and a shipload of weapons and equipment. Surely you can maintain control of a city that size!”
The Colonel struggled in vain to rein in his flaring temper. “Admiral,” he grated. “Haven’t you figured out yet that we’re the targets of a very well planned and executed guerrilla campaign?”
Micah grunted. “Pah! I thought marines were supposed to be good. What do they have to fear from an unarmed rabble? Patrol with sensors and detect every power cell in the city,” he continued. “That should lead you to them in no time. Really, Colonel, I shouldn’t have to do all your thinking for you!”
The Colonel flushed. “They are neither unarmed nor a rabble. They are very well armed and very well led. Moreover, we’ve been doing what you’re suggesting for days. Every power cell in the city has been located. But the resistance is using weapons that don’t use power cells. I have something to show you, sir.” His emphasis on the last word effectively conveyed his disgust with his superior. He spoke into his wrist comm. “Sergeant, bring in the stuff.”
The door opened and a sergeant and a private brought in armloads of what were obviously weapons. They placed them on the conference table then assumed the parade rest position.
“Private,” the Colonel ordered, “tell the Admiral about your patrol last night.”
“Yes, sir,” the private snapped. “My squad was ridin’ around in a hovertruck. I was talkin’ t’Snerson. Then alla a sudden this dart’s stickin’ outta his neck. He barely had time t' look s’prised before he collapsed. I looked around, and three more of the guys’re down. There was no way a’ tellin’ where the darts come from, no noise, no flash. Just guys dyin’.”
Micah shivered slightly. It wasn't a pretty picture.
“At first we all jus’ sprayed fire at anything and ever’thing within range,” The private continued. “Then I heard the screams. I turned aroun’, and Smiley’s face is melting! And the two guys on either side of him are screamin’, too. They was all screamin’ and squirmin’ around on the floor of the hovertruck. ‘Fore we cud even react, there’s this explosion, an’ the whole back end of the hovertruck was flames. I get blown outta the truck, and when I go to get up, I see Smitty jump down from the truck’s bed. His tunic’s on fire an’ he’s screamin’ somethin’ awful. So, I grab ‘im an’ roll ‘im like they taught us; but these flames wasn’t smothered. I grabbed my canteen to douse the flames, an’ the water just makes ‘em spread! I couldn’t do nothin’ but stand by and watch Smitty burn. I finally give ‘im a shot from my blaster, just t' stop the screamin’.
“By the time the Reaction Squad got there, they was only three o’ us left.” He shuddered. “An’ we never saw nobody the whole time. Nobody!”
Micah was shaken. The Colonel nodded to the Sergeant and the Private, and they trooped out.
The Colonel swept a hand toward the display on the table. “These are what we’ve managed to pick up after fights with the enemy,” he began. “They usually manage to take their dead and wounded with them, but they’re not as careful with their weapons.”
He picked up an object that looked like an oversized, bulky sporting shoulder-laser stock. But there was no laser crystal, no projector. The Colonel fumbled with it for a moment, and then threw something on Micah’s desk.
It was about twenty centimeters long, with a wicked-looking barbed point at one end, and rudimentary fins at the other. Micah picked it up and examined it. The fins were angled and hinged at their fronts, and pivoted to fit within the stubby shaft of the object. It was all metal. “So this is the dart the private mentioned?” His anger with the Colonel was forgotten.
The Colonel shrugged. “It appears that our enemies have been digging into the history books, coming up with primitive weapons that don’t use power cells. That thing you’re holding is called a ‘bolt’ or ‘quarrel’, and this is the launcher. It’s called a ‘crossbow’. The sergeant who identified it for us says that this one’s an improvement over the originals. It uses a coil spring for power, and has a magazine that holds ten bolts. Evidently the ancient ones used a leaf spring of some type.”
Micah's brow wrinkled. “Spring powered? Surely they couldn’t be powerful enough to be dangerous?”
The Colonel smiled grimly. “This one has a pull of over five hundred pounds. It launches those darts at more than three hundred meters per second. It also doesn't produce a flash, and is almost completely silent.”
He picked up another weapon from the table. This one appeared to be a child’s toy, a simple plas handgun. Micah had seen them advertised. They were powered by a light spring and fired two-centimeter balls of paint. The Colonel picked up three balls, his exaggerated care telling Micah that they didn’t contain paint.
The Colonel indicated the balls in his hand. “This weapon is a modified version of the kid’s toy, of course. They’ve just put a slightly more powerful spring in it. But the balls! Some of them contain acid, some explosives. Again, no noise, no flash. And they have a range of about ten meters.
“The resistance has other toys, as well. A pneumatic slugthrower, for instance. Muzzle velocity of several hundred meters per second and a range of two to three hundred meters. Explosives based on something the lab boys call ‘black powder’ that can’t be detected by our sniffers. One of the nastiest, though,” he continued, picking up a clear cylinder twenty centimeters in length and ten in diameter, “.. is this. The cylinder is thin glass, not plas, and contains a highly flammable liquid.” He indicated a length of fabric protruding from one end of the cylinder. “To use it, you just light the fabric, and then throw the cylinder. When it hits, the glass breaks, and the liquid bursts into flame. Notice the stuff floating around inside,” he continued. “We had a devil of a time analyzing it. Seems it’s something called ‘white phosphorus’ that burns when it comes into contact with air and heat. Moreover, water won’t put it out. The stuff just burns until it's gone.”
Micah shuddered again. Then he looked thoughtful. “You’re right, Colonel. This isn’t a spur-of-the-moment resistance movement,” he concluded. “These people were prepared well in advance. Do you have any idea who they are?”
The Colonel looked uncomfortable. “We got lucky yesterday. There was a skirmish, and one of the men covering the enemy’s retreat was hit just as they were retreating. The Lieutenant commanding the squad was smart enough to have his men drive off anyone who tried to help the man escape. By the time they could get to him, the man was dead. But we found this in his pocket.” He tossed a coin-sized object on Micah's desk. Micah examined it. “A marine ident disk!”
The Colonel nodded. “I think we’re facing Wil Tor and his marines.”
Micah snorted. “Tor! Certainly, he shouldn’t be a problem! An uncultured provincial.”
The Colonel’s half-smile was grim. “I suggest you call up his record again. Uncultured, maybe. But Wil Tor is a veteran of over a dozen actions, and his last assignment prior to coming to the rim was as a student at the War College — in Strategy and Tactics. I can’t think of anyone I'd rather not have opposing me.”
Micah looked troubled. “I’ve been trying to preserve the illusion that we’re here to save Haven. But now… What about taking civilian hostages, Colonel?”
The Colonel shrugged. “That’s the classic tactic, sir. However, I’m not sure I could muster up a firing squad if Wil called your bluff. Don’t forget, to my marines, these people are civilians, citizens of the Empire.” He sighed and removed a sheet of paper from his tunic. “Then there’s this, Admiral.” He tossed it on the desk in front of Micah.
It was a poster, obviously professionally printed. In large lettering at the top, it began “MARINES!” Beneath that heading, the actual message began.
“Is this why you joined the marines? To help a corrupt criminal take over an imperial sector? To harass, injure and even kill unarmed civilians? Look at them. They could be your family. Your sister, your mother!
