Company Wars 01 – Downbelow Station

stomach.

A rifle clubbed him. His knees loosened, refusing to drive him to his feet; a

second blow, on the arm stretched on the table. He went out, doubled as a boot

slammed into him, stayed doubled against the blows until they knocked him half

senseless. Then they hauled him up between two of them. “Josh,” he said dazedly.

“Josh!”

They had Josh up too, slumped between two of them, trying to shake him into

life, and he managed to get his feet under him. His head rolled drunkenly. He

was bleeding from the temple. For Kressich there was no use in urging; he was

still moving, gut-shot and bleeding fast. They were leaving him.

Damon looked about as they were taken out into the main room. Ngo had fled or

they had taken him. The patrons had fled. There was only a scattering of

corpses, and a few troops standing about with rifles.

The troops hauled him and Josh outside, into the corridor. A few at Ngo’s stood

outside to stare as they were marched along and Damon turned his face aside,

shamed to be publicly paraded in his arrest.

He thought they would be taken to the ships across the docks. And then they

turned the corner onto the docks and headed left, and he realized otherwise.

There was a bar the troops had taken for themselves, a headquarters, a place

civs avoided.

Music, drugs, liquor—anything the civ sector had to offer—Damon stared numbly as

they were hauled inside, into a lowering smoke and a thunder of music. A desk

was there, incredibly enough, a concession to something official. The troops

brought them to it and a man carrying a drink sat down and looked them over.

“Got ourselves something here,” said the leader of the group which had brought

them in. “Fleet’s looking for these two. Konstantin, this one. And we’ve got

ourselves a Unioner here. Adjusted man, the rumor says… but Pell did the

Adjusting.”

“Unioner.” The sergeant at the desk looked past Damon, grinned unpleasantly at

Josh. “And how did the likes of you get onto Pell? Got a good story, Union man?”

Josh said nothing.

“I do,” a harsh voice said from the door, fit to shake the walls. “He’s Norway

property.”

Laughter and conversation stopped, if not the music. The newcomers, armored as

most in this place were not, came in with a brusqueness that startled the rest.

“Norway” someone muttered. “Get out of here, Norway bastards.”

“What’s your name?” the newcomer bellowed.

“Or you shoot all of us?” someone else said.

The short man with the loud voice punched the com button at his shoulder and

spoke something the music drowned, turned and waved his hand at the dozen

troopers with him, who fanned out. He looked then at the rest, a slow circuit of

the room. “You’re none of you in fit condition to handle anything. Straighten up

this den. Any of our people in here I’ll skin ’em. Is there?”

“Try down the row,” someone shouted. “This is Australia territory. Norway’s got

no call to be putting us on report.”

“Hand the prisoners over,” the short man said. No one moved. Rifles of the

Norway troops leveled, and there were outcries of shock and rage from the

Australia troopers. Damon stood with his vision hazing as two of the dozen moved

in on him and Josh, as a rough grip seized his right arm and jerked him from the

hand which held him, hauled him along toward the door. Josh came without

struggling. He did. As long as they were together… it was the most they had

left.

“Get them out,” the little man bellowed at his troops. They were pushed and

hastened outside; two troopers stayed with their officer, in the bar. It was not

until they were passing the niner corridor that other troops intercepted them,

other Norway troopers.

“Get to the Australia post,” one yelled at the others, a woman’s voice.

“McCarthy’s. Di’s got them all at rifle point. He needs some numbers in there,

fast.”

The troopers headed past them at a run. Four of those escorting them kept on,

taking them toward the blue dock access door, where guards stood.