In the shaft, as in the corridors and other spaces, the cloying machine voice repeated, “All passengers must return to their cabins at once.” Bridge had dropped the request to avoid Corridor 4, because by now the Grantholmers had penetrated the Empress of Earth like snake venom in a victim’s bloodstream.
“Oh my god, my god,” a woman in the drop shaft gasped into her hands. “I’m going to be raped, I’m going to be raped!”
“For god’s sake, Frances, shut up!” snarled the man beside her. “They’ll have better things to do than poke you, whoever they are.”
Ran’s lips tightened. It would be easy to forget that the husband was under as much strain as his wife, so that he wasn’t responsible for his words either.
The passengers got off in couples on Decks B and A, scuttling quickly toward their cabins. Ran hadn’t seen any of the bombast and disbelief he’d have expected among people whose wealth was implied by the feet they were traveling First Class on the Empress. The Grantholm troops looked like exactly what they were: merciless killers. So long as passengers realized that, the loss of life in the operation could be very low.
Not that the government of Grantholm really cared how many neutral civilians died, so long as they got their war-winning prize.
The Stewards’ Pantry and quarters were on Deck 1, beneath the passenger spaces but above the holds and the Engineering Deck, 4. Ran got off the drop shaft nervously, aware that if he’d been planning the assault, there would be at least one Grantholm team here before him.
Instead, a dozen stewards waited in the receiving area around the lift and drop shafts, chatting tensely and listening to their transceivers. They jumped to attention when Ran appeared, recognizing him despite his civilian jacket There were no soldiers present
The Grantholm planners hadn’t served as officers on passenger liners. They didn’t know that the stewards were the people most likely to face a passenger emergency, and that they therefore had to be equipped for one.
“What are your orders from the bridge?” Ran demanded sharply. Every time he focused on a steward, the steward’s eyes clicked off in the direction of Ran’s ear or a corner of the moldings.
“Get moving,” Ran ordered. “Check all the corridors, all the public spaces. When you find passengers, guide them to their cabins. Carry them if you’ve got to!”
He paused, glaring around the foyer. More faces peered out of the pantry beyond. Some ducked back, but a few joined those Ran was lecturing.
“Nobody needs to be hurt at all if we just get the passengers out of the way till things settle down,” Ran continued more gently. “That’s our job, the safety of the passengers. Let’s do it.”
He nodded toward the lift shafts. After a moment’s hesitation, one steward and then the whole mass of her fellows moved to the shafts. They disappeared upward toward their duties.
Ran walked into the pantry. A few more brown-uniformed stewards pressed themselves against the freestanding consoles and smooth equipment lockers. All told, the shirkers on Deck 1 amounted to less than ten percent of the three hundred-plus stewards aboard the Empress of Earth.
“Go on,” Ran said tiredly. He poked his thumb back over his shoulder toward the lift shafts. “You heard me. Get the passengers to cover and then we can sit on our hands.”
The Chief Steward was a thin, puritanical-looking man named Medchen. The voyage to date had taught Ran that Medchen was a greater crook than Mohacks and Babanguida together, and that he lacked the ratings’ genuine willingness to do their duty—or a long ways beyond it if someone had the guts to lead them in the right direction.
The Chief Steward stood in front of his alcove at the far end of the long room. “My duty post is here, Mr. Colville,” he said, “and you have no authority over me anyway. Besides, you’re out of uniform.”
“And going to be more so,” Ran agreed in a mild voice. “Get me a steward’s uniform. One of yours ought to do—”
He smiled at Medchen. It wasn’t a nice expression.