Part 11 (1/2)
The stormtroopers hadn't tried to get inside the headquarters on their earlier probes, but from the building's design they'd concluded it had probably started life as a regional a.s.sembly center, with a large domed gathering room in the center and a single-story ring of offices and smaller meeting rooms wrapped around it. The protesters were gathered on a small gra.s.sy park area just in front of the building, the park separated from the building itself by a wide pa.s.senger-drop drive. From the building side of the drive a wide flight of stone steps led up to a set of ornate double doors.
Standing in a line in front of those doors, scowling and fingering their holstered blasters as they gazed out across the gathered citizenry, were six uniformed patrollers.
The crowd had spilled from the gra.s.s onto the drive, but they moved aside with only scattered hesitation as LaRone eased the speeder truck slowly through the ma.s.s toward the building. A few peered intently in at him, or tried with shaded eyes to pierce the rear windows' privacy tint and see who might be seated on the two bench seats behind him, and LaRone found himself wondering what exactly Krinkins had told them about the strangers.
He reached the front of the building, but instead of parking alongside the curb he gave the vehicle a hard ninety-degree turn, leaving it straddled across the drive with its nose pointed toward the scowling guards at the top of the stairway. ”Hey!” one of them called as LaRone lifted the swing-wing door and got out. ”Get that bantha dropping out of there!”
”Yeah, yeah, just a second,” LaRone called back, waving vaguely at them as he closed the door again.
He'd expected Krinkins to be close at hand, and he wasn't disappointed.
Even as he turned to survey the silent crowd the fueler detached himself from the front line and walked over to him. His face was grim but with an edge of cautious hope. ”You came,” he said, his eyes flicking to the privacy-tinted windows. ”I wasn't sure you would.”
”Did you get any of the ex-patrollers?” LaRone asked.
Krinkins nodded back over his shoulder. ”I found eight. They're all here.”
”Good,” LaRone said. ”When I signal you, bring them forward.”
”Wait a second,” Krinkins said. ”What are you-”
Without waiting for him to finish, LaRone turned and strode up the steps.
”You deaf, sluggy?” one of the patrollers growled as LaRone reached the wide landing. The man had a single-ear headset with a wire mike curving along his cheek and wore a lieutenant's insignia on his shoulders. ”I told you to move that thing.”
”Don't worry, I will,” LaRone a.s.sured him, taking another step to close the gap between them. ”I'm just here about some property your people seized earlier today.”
”Oh, you're Whisteer's guy,” the man said, eyeing him with contemptuous curiosity. He gestured over LaRone's shoulder with his blaster. ”You the one responsible for this, too?”
LaRone half turned to look at the crowd. ”You mean them?” he asked, his left hand waving out toward the a.s.sembly. Under cover of the movement, his right hand dipped into his side tunic pocket. ”Yeah, them,” the man said. ” 'Cause if you are-” And in a single simultaneous motion all four of the speeder truck's rear doors swung up and the other stormtroopers stepped out, their armor gleaming in the streetlight, their BlasTech E-11s pointed at the line of patrollers.
The lieutenant's threat broke off in midword as a startled gasp rippled through the crowd. ”No noise, please,” LaRone said quietly, pressing his hold-out blaster into the notch at the base of the other's throat. With his other hand he pulled off the headset, shutting it off as he did so.
”No sudden movements, either,” he added.
From the expressions on the patrollers' faces, it didn't look like any of them had the slightest intention of making trouble. They stood as stiff as six hardwood trees, their hands frozen well clear of their holsters, as the four stormtroopers marched up the steps. Catching Krinkins's eye, LaRone gestured him forward. The fueler nodded and made a gesture of his own, and with five men and three women behind him he headed up the steps behind the stormtroopers. ”These your patrollers?” LaRone asked as he pulled the white-faced lieutenant's blaster from its holster.
”Yes, sir,” Krinkins said, his voice crisp and vibrant with a sudden new hope as he nodded to a middle-aged man with streaks of gray through his hair. ”This is Colonel Atmino, senior officer.”
”Forcibly retired,” Atmino added, a glint in his eye as he looked at the patrollers.
”Consider yourself reinstated,” LaRone told him, handing him the lieutenant's weapon. ”I hereby deputize you and your squad. Disarm these men, and put them under arrest pending prosecution for any crimes they may have committed.”
”Yes, sir,” Atmino said, straightening up to full parade attention as he waved three of his people forward. ”Other orders?”
”Just stay here and guard the prisoners,” LaRone said. ”We'll take care of Cav'Saran.” He looked over Atmino's shoulder. ”And keep the crowd under control. When you inform the governor's office about this, you won't want your claim muddied by charges of disorder or rioting.”
”Understood,” Atmino said, getting a firm grip on the lieutenant's arm.
”We'll take care of it.” LaRone gestured to the other stormtroopers.
”Let's go.”
The double doors opened on a wide, marble-floored lobby area that stretched fifteen meters ahead to a curved wall and a second set of double doors. To the right and left the lobby narrowed into a pair of corridors that curved around the central core, their elaborately frescoed walls interrupted at intervals by the doors of private offices.
At this hour, LaRone guessed, most of the outer offices would be vacant.
Leaving them for later, he strode to the double doors, dropping his hold-out blaster back into his side pocket. He gestured to the other stormtroopers to stay out of sight, then pulled the doors open and stepped inside.
As they had surmised earlier, the inner room was indeed a single large chamber, which the patrollers had converted from a meeting hall into a squad room. Packed onto the main floor and the ring of small balconies set into the upper wall beneath the dome were almost two hundred desks and workstations. Nearly all the desks were occupied, LaRone noted, though only a few of the patrollers seemed to be actually working. The rest were just sitting there, fiddling with data cards or their blasters, or conversing in low tones with the other fifty, or so patrollers who were standing or wandering around the room. In response to the protest outside, Chief Cav'Saran had apparently pulled in most of his force.
Perfect.
LaRone made no effort to downplay his grand entrance, but even if he had, he doubted it would have made any difference. The patrollers were on hair-trigger, and even before he'd made it all the way into the room all heads had snapped around.
”What do you want?” a bulky patroller demanded from his perch atop a tall reception desk just to the right of the door.
”I'm here to see Whisteer,” LaRone said, putting enough air behind the words to make sure they carried all the way across the room. ”And Chief Cav'Saran.”
”You're early,” Whisteer's voice growled back, and LaRone saw him straighten up from a conversation by one of the desks. ”The forms aren't ready yet.”
”That's okay,” LaRone said. ”I wasn't going to fill them out anyway.
Which one of you is Cav'Saran?”
There was a moment of silence, and then a man with a badly scarred face detached himself from one of the conversation groups. ”I'm Chief Cav'Saran,” he growled, his tone making it a challenge. ”You have a problem?”
”I have a complaint,” LaRone said. ”Some of your men tried to shake me down this morning.”
Cav'Saran's eyebrows lifted. ”Really?” he asked in a tone of feigned politeness. ”How?”
'They charged excessive fees and stole some of my cargo.”
”Did they, now,” Cav'Saran said, an amused smile starting to tug at the corners of his mouth. ”And who exactly was responsible for this outrage?”
”Sergeant Whisteer, for one,” LaRone said, pointing at Whisteer as he let his gaze sweep across the room's occupants. The circular floor plan allowed for no blind corners, and though the desks would provide cover in a gun battle, there wasn't nearly enough room behind them for everyone.
More problematic was the high ground being held by the men on the balcony workstations. Most of the ones up there were wearing officers' insignia, though, and seemed more curious or bemused than hair-trigger hostile.
Still, there were plenty of the latter type scattered around the main floor. Mentally tagging their locations, LaRone pointed to three of the others who'd been aboard the Suwantek that morning. ”Those three were there, too,” he added, ”plus seven more.”
”And what exactly would you like me to do about it?” the chief asked, still playing along.
”I want them arrested,” LaRone said. ”They're to be charged with extortion, theft, and abuse of power.”
”And if I refuse?”
LaRone looked around the room again. The sense of hostility was starting to grow as the novelty of the confrontation faded, but so far none of the patrollers seemed to have considered it worth drawing their blasters.
”Then I'll have to find someone else to do the job,” he said.