THE BELTERS’ WAR

Christopher Stasheff

CHAPTER 2

The airlock wasn't big enough for them all, but kit managed to jam herself in with the first three. When the outer hatch opened, they shot out like cannon balls in free fall, lasers out and moving from rock to rock.

There! Space-suited figures at the boat's mooring points.

As she and Charlie broke loose, and Lucky the small, slender, and wiry managed to worm his way to an outthrust of ice, Flanagan’s drovers were hard at work on the moorings, fumbling at the latches with fingers made clumsy by space-suit gauntlets. Kit gave a shout of rage and toggled her radio to the public frequency as she pulled her work laser and took aim at the nearest of the figures—Pepper, by the black dots on his helmet. As her finger jabbed at the button, though, Pepper shot upward, tossing the freed cable aside, and Kit's laser beam shot beneath his boots by a good half-meter. He rose to the burro-boat's door and slapped the access panel. Kit hoped Orgy’s had the good sense to secure the door—and sure enough, he had; it didn't open. She felt relief, but only for a moment until another drover shot up next to Pepper with a drill and a crowbar, this one with a lever and fulcrum on his helmet. "Duck, Long Jack!" Kit shrieked as she triggered her laser.

A rocket sled nosed up toward the duo of burglars—Jessie had taken the time to mount her sled with its more powerful laser and her own prybar. "You’re going down, Long Jack!”

The radio must have blasted her voice right into Long Jack's ear, because he reeled backward just in time for the laser beam to flash over his head. He turned the reel into a dive, hit the asteroid and shoved off against it to spring into the saddle of his sled. The rocket flared, and the nose turned toward Kit.

She didn't hesitate a second, just hit her trigger before Long Jack could hit his. He must have read her mind, because his sled looped over the burro boat, trying to put it between them, but he was just in time to intersect with her laser. His scream tore through her helmet as he cartwheeled back, falling off his sled as a puff of vapor exploded from the gash in his suit. She turned to add hers to the four beams walking toward Pepper, but he knew when to cut his losses and dove for the surface of the asteroid and the shield of his sled. Just before he passed from sight around the tail of the burro-boat, he turned back for a quick shot at Trail and his drovers. The pencil-thick ruby beam stabbed Agatha's shoulder. Her scream tore through Kit's helmet as she fell off her sled and vapor exploded from the hole in her suit.

Three other sleds converged on her instantly. Kit didn't delay even as she shouted, "Blast you, Pepper!" The laser beam would have cauterized the wound itself; how long Agatha lived depended on how quickly someone could slap a patch over the hole in her space suit.

Charlie got to her first, and Kit turned back to stitching the darkness with bolts of fire to keep Flanagan's drovers away. Hindmann's helmet and shoulders poked up from the curve of another asteroid, and a ruby beam stabbed back at him, making him duck down. Startled, Kit glanced back along the scarlet shaft and saw an unpainted helmet ducking down behind the igloo, then ducking up again ten feet away. Fear chilled her—the only one new enough to the Belt not to have his own paint-job would be Spindrift. She had to save her boss! "Keep down!" she called.

"No need to worry," Charlie's voice said. "She'll live, and I gave her a painkiller spray."

Guilt stabbed; Kit had forgotten about her friend.

"Cover me," Charlie called. "I've got to get Agatha aboard.”

"Yeah, sure." Kit slid around the asteroid with her laser pointed away from the burro-boat and held down the trigger button while she scythed the beam back and forth. It was a wasteful maneuver, but she had two spare power cells in an outside pocket, and it sure kept Flanagan’s men down.

"Okay, she's aboard," Charlie said.

Kit could hear the muffled screams of rage and pain behind him. They cut off. "Charlie! What did you do to her?"

"Anesthetic spray," Charlie answered. "It just took hold. I'll leave another bulb with Orly." A minute later, he said, "Cover me again."

This time two beams scythed the air—Kit's and one from the top of the igloo. She felt a glow knowing that her new boss was brave. Dumb to still be behind the igloo where a Flanagan hand could sneak up on him, but brave.

The air lock opened and Charlie swung out onto his sled, released the mooring clamp that held it to the boat, and shot out to the cover of a ten-foot asteroid that put him behind Flanagan's drovers.

Looking around, Kit saw no sign of Jessie or Skurly. Triumph started to build—she knew they had dodged from asteroid to asteroid to work their way behind Flanagan's crew. If Kit, Charlie, and Spindrift could keep them busy a little longer, they'd have Pepper and his hands caught between two fires.

They weren't going to have to stall, though—Orly had warmed the burro boat now; it turned like some great bear scavenging for picnic scraps and not being picky about what was a camper and what was a scrap. A string of asteroids behind it turned wavy, showing where the boat’s tractor beam latched onto a fifty-foot asteroid, hauling it in by one jolting step. Flanagan's drovers didn't need to be told what was coming; three sleds shot away from the asteroid where they'd been hiding, straight back toward Roberts' sector—and Flanagan's. As they did, the burro-boat's rocket flared; superheated steam shot out to sterilize the asteroid.

"Belay that, Orly," Trail's voice said from Kit's earphones. "They took the hint."

The steam cut off and Skurly's voice said, "The boat answered before I lit the torch, Boss."

They all knew what that meant—a full tank plus a hefty reserve for reaction mass, which meant they'd slept at least six hours—most of the "night," as they measured it without a sunrise or sunset.

"We didn't lose much sleep, then," Trail said. "Time for breakfast."

Repelling the would-be thieves didn’t seem to have lessened anybody’s appetite—maybe increased it. Even taking their time over an extra cup of coffee, they were out on their sleds within the hour. The fuel gauge read full, the burro-boat's water plant having melted the ice and broken it down into hydrogen for the fusion engine and oxygen for breathing, so they were off in good time and arrived in Port Alice when the clocks in Greenwich on old Earth would be striking noon. The town nestled under its clear glittering dome with several smaller ones around it. Kit went along to the little regional hospital to make sure Agatha was tended. When they were sure she would be in good hands, Trail sent them to do whatever they wanted, saying he’d take the first stint by her bedside.

Kit drew the duty of going to the terminal in one of the satellite bubbles to welcome the new lawyer. Reluctantly, she left the hospital—and drew a breath, feeling re-energized just looking at the settlement, then set off in twenty-foot strides toward the hospital.

Coming through the hatch, she glanced at the board to make sure the shuttle wasn't in the dock yet. It wasn’t, so she strolled into the inter-planet lobby to wait.

It was a cozy place, a round room thirty feet across but with only an eight-foot ceiling—Belters didn't like too much space overhead when they came in from the vacuum; they had too much of it at their work. There were four fireplaces around the edge with armchairs and throw rugs, giving the miners an illusion of home and new arrivals their last touch of Earth's civilization until they came back on their way out.

They were planning to go back home to Earth, of course. Nobody came to the belt to stay—just to get rich. Most of them didn't, though—they spent their lives trying to save up a stake to buy their own sectors, or to strike the mother lode—or died trying. A lot of them died. The rocks could be pretty unpredictable, swerving to crash together at the last moment, and most of them were bigger than a human.

Kit was going to live, of course—and while she could, she was going to enjoy what pleasures there were. Such as Spindrift.

She went to the nearest empty armchair, sat down, and pulled the viewscreen over as she rummaged in her belt-pouch for her card—should be at least a dozen credits left on it.

"Save your money, drover. Network's down today."

Kit looked up in surprise, then grinned as she saw the grizzled old spacer limping toward her. "What’re you doing here, Mr. Roberts? Finally cashing in and going home to New Moscow?"

Roberts shook his head in disgust as he pulled himself down to the chair next to hers. "Mars gravity? Too much for an old rock-dodger like me. How could I sail over to my bunk back there? No, I've taking a liking to the Belt, Kit."

"Nothing else could keep you here when the Rangers kicked you out, old man."

"Kicked me out—right." Roberts grinned. They both knew he had retired from the Asteroid Belt Rangers with full honors—and a fat pension. "No way they're going to get rid of me, little Kit. Why, I'm so ornery I've decided to stay around and hunt for gold."

Kit gave a laugh of surprise; she couldn't help it. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror at her own rudeness, but Roberts only grinned. "I know—all the things I might find in the Belt, gold ain't one of 'em. But where's the fun in hunting for something if you know where it is, Ms. Kit? That's like placing a bet after the race is over!"

"Why don't you settle for uranium, old man? Might make enough to get your leg fixed!"

Roberts shook his head. "Have to go back into Mars gravity for a new shinbone, or maybe even Earth's. I'd scarcely be able to breathe in that soup they call atmosphere, Ms. Kit! Why, it'd be as likely to kill me as cure me!"

Kit knew very well that wasn't true and, moreover, knew that Roberts knew. But she also knew that his leg didn't hurt much out here, with little gravity and no water in the artificial atmosphere, even though it hadn't been set as well as it could have. She didn't ask how he'd broken it, of course. Some things just weren't polite. "Not much prospecting to do on that asteroid of yours. It can't be more than a hundred meters long!"

"And forty thick." Roberts nodded. "No, I'm planning to buy myself a piece of a sector, Ms. Kit. Plenty of rocks to turn over that way."

Kit grinned to cover up her concern. "A sector? All to yourself? Kinda greedy."

"I've earned it," Roberts said, amused.

"Where's it at?"

"Thirty-two degrees east of Home Bend."

Kit stared, then said, "'Fraid you're a little late, Mr. Roberts. Trail just sold that one."

"Oh?" Roberts' eyes narrowed. "Who to?"

"A new boot name of Spindrift." Shiny boots were the mark of someone so new to the Belt that his footgear hadn't been scuffed yet.

"The kid, huh?"

Kit had to give him a rueful smile. "You don't miss much, old man. How long has he been here—three days?"

"Most of a week," Roberts said, "and I'd guess he doesn't know that sector gives him Flanagan as a neighbor."

"Oh, he knows." Kit felt a little better about the sale. Had Mr. Trail let Spindrift buy it because he knew the young man could make a quick profit, selling it to Roberts? "Mr. Trail told him."

"And he's fool enough to be right next to the Miracle Sector, hmm? Mustn't care much what happens to his asteroids."

"You must not either, Mr. Roberts, buying in so close to Flanagan."

Roberts' smile hardened. "I can take care of Flanagan."

He could, too, Kit was sure—the Rangers only took the smartest and toughest. Besides, Flanagan was retired from Earth’s Space Navy, and the two forces had never had much love for one another. Kit's money was on the Ranger.

A calm, intimate voice beside her ear said, "Shuttle from Mars City arriving at Gate Number Thirteen."

Kit didn't turn to look—she knew the public address system was arranged so that it seemed to speak next to each waiting person. She stood up. "That's the party I'm sent to escort. Good luck prospecting, Mr. Roberts."

"And to you, Ms. Kit." Roberts stood and shook her hand. "Hope you find your party."

For a second, Kit wondered if he somehow knew about her plans for Spindrift. Then she realized he meant the party she was supposed to meet, and grinned. "Thanks." She turned away, hurrying toward the gates.

Roberts watched her go with a glint in his eye. Pretty little thing, even in the sagging mantle of a deflated space suit. Prettier because she didn’t know she was. Made him wish he were twenty again.

He sat back down, winced at a twinge from his leg, then looked after Kit and grinned. There were still adventures waiting, out on the rocks. There was still pleasure to be had talking to young people bursting with eagerness to go out and live. Life could still be good.

* * *

Kit hurried along the concourse, fishing in her thigh pocket for the self-inflating sign. It popped open as she held it up, displaying the name "Swayne." She stepped up to the waist-high barrier opposite the gates with the sign in front of her chest.

The big airlock finished cycling and the green bar lit up, proclaiming the shuttle to be "Arrived." The door opened and the passengers began to file through. Kit scanned the new arrivals for one who looked like a lawyer.

There he was, a tall, lean, pale man with a woman on his arm who was only a few inches shorter than he. He wore a sober businessman's suit and she wore a quiet, understated ensemble that was nonetheless cut to show off a spectacular figure.

"Swayne!" Kit waved, holding the sign higher. "Over here, Swayne!"

The woman turned, frowning, but the man faced Kit with an easy, friendly smile. Kit liked him on sight—and disliked her.

"Alexander Swayne here," the man said.

"Alexander Swayne, Esquire!" the woman said. "And his wife Joan."

"Squire it is," Kit said. "I’m Kit Kildare, from Mr. Trail."

The man opened his mouth, but the woman beat him to the talking. "Mr. Trail is who we've come to see."

"I know the way! See you on the other side of Customs." Kit turned away, but not before she'd seen the woman's thin-lipped frown of disapproval.

Customs took a while in the Belt, because everything had to be brought in from Mars or Earth, except rocks and the metal and minerals in them—including water, which still needed machines from Earth to break it down into oxygen and hydrogen. Kit whiled away the time watching the Mars news—amazing how interesting things happening back on the home planets were, when you weren't there. To Kit, who couldn't even remember her mother leaving Earth and had grown up on Mars, anything happening back on old Earth was like a fairy tale, something happening in a strange faraway place. Tumbling rocks were the real world for her now, had been since her mother died and she'd had to shoot the bastard who'd tried to make her his property. The Belt had been a refuge then. Now, it was home.

Swayne and his wife came through the revolving door and Kit went to them. "Didn't find your contraband huh?"

Joan stared, horrified, but Swayne laughed. "Good joke, Ms. Kit. As though a lawyer would try to smuggle."

Joan breathed a sigh of relief, then glared at Kit, who wondered what she really was smuggling. Oddly, she was sure Swayne didn't know about it. "Lawyers are people like everybody else, aren't they, Squire? So why not smugglers, too?"

"Because I wouldn't be very good at it."

Kit stared, then laughed.

"He was a minister before he was a lawyer," Joan explained.

"A minister?" Kit tried to cover her surprise. "Decided to switch to something that could make you some money, huh?"

"He certainly did," Joan said, in a tone that made it clear who had really made the decision.

Kit felt sorry for Swayne, and she scarcely knew him. “Come on, Squire—this way to Mr. Trail." She turned and started off.

Joan hustled Swayne up right behind her and said, too sweetly, "And what to you do for a living, Kit?"

Kit bridled—the "Ms." and Mr." were important, until you knew someone well. "I'm a drover, Ms. Swayne. I catch asteroids for Mr. Trail and bring them back to the holding net until we have enough to take them to Ceres for the smelter."

"Really! I'm surprised you're able to earn a living riding a rocket sled, instead of selling what little you have."

Kit's grin turned feral. "I'm just a rocket jockey, Ms. Swayne. I'll leave the buying and selling to those who understand it."

Joan looked shocked for a moment, then scowled. Kit turned away quickly to hide a smile and led them out of the terminal and through the tunnel into the main dome. Joan stopped and stared, horrified.

Kit frowned and looked down the street; it didn't look all that bad to her. On Old Earth, only rich people lived in stone houses, but here, everyone had them, because that's all there was. Some of the houses were made of blocks cut directly from stony asteroids, some from brick-sized castings from the slag that poured out of the smelters. They all had large windows—silicon was cheap, since so many asteroids were made of it. The street stretched away from the depot, straight as a rule and made of stone planed smooth by lasers, lined with one-story houses roofed with rust-red tile and the one two-story building of Flanagan's store.

Joan's face was pale as planet-light, or the dim radiance of the distant sun. "Is this all there is?" she asked in a whisper.

"It's a beginning." Swayne held her arm. "It's just a beginning, dear. We'll make our first fortune here, then move on to Mars, then to Earth.

Joan seemed to revive a little. Kit turned away so Joan wouldn't see her face. The only people who got rich out here were the ones who owned several sectors. Most folks owned only one, or a slice of one, and counted themselves well-off. Could Swayne really think he was going to make enough money off being a lawyer to buy his own sector?

Kit turned back, trying to be bright. "You can go shopping. Let's go to the Store." She started off. After a minute, he heard the Swaynes' footsteps behind her.

The Store (“The” because Flanagan’s was the only one) was a slag-brick box, but it did have big display windows, so you could see what goods were featured this week. The left-hand window had fancy dresses and gentlemen's robes. Kit made a face—who'd have occasion to dress up out here? Though if she did, a really pretty dress like that might be nice—she'd never worn a skirt. Didn't fit well into a space suit.

"This is the... the only store in Port Alice?" Joan asked.

"Yes'm," Kit said. "It's got everything we really need. Everything else, we save up for the next trip to Ceres." She turned away toward her employer, but behind her, she heard Joan say, not as softly as she should have, "Alexander, I can't, I just can't! You don’t really think I can live in a place like this."

"There now, darling—it won't be so bad," Swayne said. "It's only for two years, after all, till I've a record of some cases won. Besides, we've spent all our relocation money just to come this far."

Kit deafened her ear to Joan's complaining and pressed the pressure patch beside the door. It valved open and she went in. Reluctantly, Joan and Swayne followed.

They found themselves in a store like any other Kit had ever seen—walls lined with screens displaying the store's catalogs and, toward the back, a corner with a sofa and loveseat and armchairs with drink dispensers behind end tables for holding those drinks. There were only a few people scrolling through the catalogs. By the door, a meter-wide pneumatic tube coughed up a package. A shopper picked it up and went out as the door valved open.

Kit stepped up to a catalog and started paging through, but Joan only turned a paler shade of white and glared at Swayne.

“I’m afraid we haven’t much choice,” he said, “and we would never have any chance to become rich on old Earth. Here, at least, there’s opportunity.

“I want a piano,” Joan demanded. “Not a keyboard, or an electronic organ—a real acoustic piano. I’ll stay if you’ll promise me that.”

“Of course dear. We’ll grow rich, and order your piano,” Swayne promised.

No, he hadn’t said “I promise.” Good thing, because there was no way he could ever afford to have a real wooden piano sent out from old Earth. Kit imagined what the shipping would cost, and her head spun. She guessed that Joan wasn’t very good at facing reality.

“I think I’d like to meet our employer,” Swayne said, “Mr. Trail.”

“Sure thing, squire. He’s over at the sector office next door, helping a new boot buy his own slice.” Joan’s look of indignation barely registered as Kit turned away. After all, she was the one who’d said her husband was a squire.

She led the Swaynes out into the single street that was Port Alice and felt cheered by the brightness of the sunlight reflecting off the dome’s struts overhead. Domes lined both sides of the street. In the center of town stood Flanagan’s store and the sector offices; the rest were people’s houses. Through the clear plastic of the dome, she could see the control tower for the spaceport. You could see it from anywhere on Port Alice.

She led her charges over to the sector offices, keeping up a stream of chatter so that Joan wouldn't have a chance to get another word in.

Trail and Spindrift were standing in front of the two-story slag-brick building in easy conversation, and Kit wondered whether they'd already changed the deed to Spindrift's name or were on their way in. Trail looked up, saw them coming, and said, "Excuse me, Mr. Spindrift—a new acquaintance come to see me." He sauntered over to the Swaynes, offering a hand. Halfway there, he got a good look at Joan, and his eyes widened.

Kit remembered her manners. "Mr. Trail, this is Joan Swayne and her husband Alexander Swayne." She caught Joan’s look and added, “Esquire.”

"Pleased to meet you again." The lawyer shook Trail's hand. Then Joan reached out and Trail shook her hand, holding it a bit longer than he had to, his eye gleaming. She smiled, then looked down at their hands, and her voice was lower, more musical. "Certainly a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Trail."

Hussy! Kit thought. Witch! She'd heard of women who felt it necessary to seduce every man they met, but hadn't ever run into one—'til now.

But how? Joan wasn't that pretty—was she?

Before Trail could reply, they heard a voice say, "Well, young Spindrift! Thought any more about that slice I was offering?"

They looked around and saw a stocky man ambling up to Spindrift with his helmet tilted back over his shoulders.

"Flanagan." Trail made the name a swear word. "You may be starting work right now, Mr. Swayne."

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