"Registry's right here," LaRone said, handing over a data card as Marcross walked across the anteroom and lowered the other ramp. "As we told port guidance, we don't have any cargo."

The five men on the Suwantek's other side trooped up the portside ramp and joined the others. "Crew?" the sergeant asked, plugging the card into his datapad and glancing at it.

"Us, plus three in the c.o.c.kpit," LaRone said, pulling out his freshly minted ident.i.ty tag.

The sergeant didn't even glance at it. "Fine," he said, handing back the registry card. "We'll start with two hundred for the docking fee."

Gesturing to his squad, he started aft toward the crew lounge.

"Wait a second," LaRone said, frowning. Even given his lack of experience with the financial end of these things, two hundred credits for a third-rate docking bay seemed a little high. "We'll start at two hundred?"

"No, we'll start at two fifty," the sergeant retorted, his eyes narrowing. "You want to argue some more about it?"

I wasn't arguing, LaRone thought, annoyed. He was opening his mouth to say so when Marcross's warning touch on his arm stopped him.

"That's right-listen to your friend," the sergeant said sarcastically.

"Where's the cargo hold on this flying nerf trap?"

"Straight aft, left, and right, just before you reach engineering,"

Marcross told him.

"Thank you," the sergeant said with exaggerated politeness. He started to turn, then c.o.c.ked an eyebrow.

"By the way, I trust you're not carrying any weapons aboard?" "Just the two laser cannons mounted in front of the boarding ramps," Marcross said.

The sergeant grunted. "Good," he said. "That's another hundred fifty each." For a moment he stared at LaRone, his eyes daring him to argue the point. But LaRone had learned his lesson. He remained silent, and with another grunt the sergeant gestured again to his men and turned aft.

Touching the door release, he led them into the lounge.

LaRone waited until the whole squad had pa.s.sed through and the door was closed before saying the word that best described his feelings. "What kind of gleening shakedown is this?" he muttered.

"Probably the usual kind," Marcross said. His voice was even, but it was clear that he was already well beyond annoyed himself. "You didn't have this sort of thing at your home s.p.a.ceport?"

"If we did, I never knew about it," LaRone said. "Still, I suppose whatever they want to gouge from us, we can afford it."

"That's the spirit," Marcross said approvingly. "Nice and low-profile, and we can spit the dust of this world back into the wind on our way out."

"I suppose," LaRone said. "Come on-let's make sure they're not stealing the galley flatware."

The lounge was deserted when they entered. So was the crew section when they pa.s.sed through the lounge's aft door. LaRone opened the first cabin- Quiller's-but there was no one inside. "Must have decided to go straight to the cargo holds," Marcross commented as he checked Grave's cabin across the corridor.

"Good," LaRone said, closing the cabin door and continuing aft. "Maybe this'll go quicker than I thought."

They were pa.s.sing the galley when two of the patrollers stepped into view through the starboard hold door. They caught sight of LaRone and Marcross and beckoned. "Come on, kleegs," one of them called. "Whisteer wants you."

The rest of the patrollers were standing silently around the hold; their eyes turned to LaRone and Marcross as they stepped inside. In the center of the group was the sergeant, a tight smile on his face, his left elbow resting casually on the handgrip of one of the two speeder bikes. "So much for no cargo," he said. "You have a permit for these things?"

LaRone stifled a curse. He'd lived around military hardware for so long that it had never even occurred to him that civilians would see it in an entirely different way. "We bought them at a surplus sale," he improvised. "Banged-up and wrecked equipment." "They don't look very banged up to me." "We've been working on them." "Ah." Whisteer patted the saddle. "And of course, before they sold them to you they would have removed-" He craned his neck to look at the underside. "Why, look at that," he said in mock surprise. "Someone forgot to take off the blaster cannon." He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at LaRone. "And someone else forgot to list them among their weapons."

"I forgot about them," LaRone admitted. "But it was purely accidental-you can see we made no effort to hide them."

"True," Whisteer agreed, his voice going silky smooth.

"But with contraband, that doesn't much matter, does it? Purposeful or not, the stuff gets confiscated."

LaRone looked sideways at Marcross. The other's expression was mirroring his own thoughts: Bright.w.a.ter would flay them both alive if they let some ground-hugger walk off with his precious speeder bikes. "Is there any way to appeal that?" he asked, looking back at Whisteer. "I mean, if we file the proper forms and pay the necessary fees, of course."

Whisteer smiled again, his eyes glittering. "There might be a way," he allowed. "Could be expensive, though."

"We understand," Marcross put in. "What's the procedure?"

"Come to Patroller Central at eight tonight," the other said. "Market Street at Fifth. I'll have the forms ready for you to fill out."

"We'll be there," LaRone said. "I don't suppose you'd have some idea of what the filing fees might run?"

Whisteer shrugged. "Won't know till I look up the regs."

Translation: it would depend on how many more people he had to cut-in on the deal. "But it will be expensive, you think?"

"Could happen," Whisteer said. He jerked a thumb at one of the other patrollers. "Speaking of expensive, Chavers has the rest of your list.

You can pay him while we get these things out of here."

LaRone took a deep breath. "I'll go open the safe."

Ten minutes later LaRone and the others stood at the foot of the portside ramp and watched as the patrollers drove away in a pair of repulsor-sleds, the speeder bikes strapped carefully to the rear storage racks.

"You should have called us in," Bright.w.a.ter said, his voice dark and menacing. "We could have taken them."

"You would have gotten your heads blown off," a voice said from behind them.

LaRone spun around, his hand darting automatically toward his hidden blaster. A man in a dirty coversuit was walking toward them beneath the Suwantek's belly, dragging a thick fuel hose behind him. "Who are you?"

he demanded.

"Name's Krinkins," the man said, clearly startled by the reaction. "Fuel service. You did call for a fill, right?" "Yes, we did," Quiller confirmed. "And we wouldn't have gotten our heads blown off," Bright.w.a.ter added stiffly.

"Sure you would." Krinkins paused, measuring them with his eyes. "Well, maybe not you," he conceded. "At least, not right away. But sooner or later they'd have gotten you. There's way too many of them to fight."

'You saying Whisteer's squad isn't running this alone?" LaRone asked.

Krinkins snorted. "Whisteer's not the one running it at all. That, plummerine goes to Patroller Chief Cav'Saran."

"The chief?" Marcross echoed disbelievingly. "What, that surprises you?"

Krinkins asked. "Yes, it does," Marcross said. "The sector government's supposed to screen the credentials of people appointed to high-ranking law enforcement positions." Krinkins snorted. "Yeah. Right." "I mean it,"

Marcross insisted. "There are bureaucrats all over Shelkonwa whose only job is to watch out for this sort of thing."

"Well, the one in charge of Ranklinge apparently takes long naps at his desk," Krinkins said bitterly. "We complained plenty in the early days.

Didn't do a sc.r.a.p of good. Now, of course, Cav'Saran makes sure messages like that never make it onto the HoloNet." "What about the Empire?"

Quiller asked.

Krinkins laughed, a short, derisive bark. "The Empire? We've had one Imperial ship come by Ranklinge in the past eight years, and that was an old Republic cruiser picking up a couple of diplomats who'd given up trying to mediate South Cont's civil war. The Empire doesn't even know we exist. Or care."

"What about you and the other locals?" LaRone asked. "Or don't the citizens of Ja.n.u.sar care if their officials shake down visitors?"

"The rest of Ja.n.u.sar hates it," Krinkins said bluntly. "And it's not just visitors, either-they lean pretty hard on all of us. But it's blamed hard to fight blasters with your bare fists."

"I thought everyone seemed way too interested in our weapons," Marcross murmured.

"Yours and everyone else's," Krinkins said. "Eight months ago, right after Cav'Saran took over, they went through every house for two hundred kilometers and confiscated all the weapons they could find. Probably no more than a dozen slug rifles left anywhere in the whole four districts, and most of those are out on ranches where they need 'em to protect the herds from predators." He glanced furtively around. "I don't suppose ...

no-never mind."

"We don't have any weapons for sale, if that's what you were wondering,"

LaRone said, flicking a warning glance at the others. They had no way of knowing whether or not Krinkins was really what he seemed. "How many men does Cav'Saran have?"

"About three hundred," the fueler said. "All the uniformed patrollers-he fired or squeezed out the honest ones after he took over-plus a few plainclothesmen who wander around watching for troublemakers."

"Aren't you worried about talking to us this way? Grave asked. "How do you know we're not informers?" Krinkins snorted and started attaching the hose to the Suwantek's intake port. "I don't," he growled. "But I'm at the point where I don't even care anymore. You want to call Cav'Saran and have me locked up for sedition, go right ahead."

"I admire your courage," LaRone said. "Any more like you who are sick enough of this to take a chance?"

Krinkins frowned at him, an odd look on his face. "What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"I just thought that anybody ready for a change might want to gather together outside Patroller Central tonight,! LaRone said. "Say, about seven o'clock."

Krinkins snorted. "If you're talking about a protest, forget it

" he said. "They just ignore things like that. At least, until they get tired enough of the crowds to break 'em up with a little scattered blasterfire." "You just get them there," LaRone told the fueler, sternly forcing back his rising anger. There was no room for emotion here. "And make sure you invite all those honest ex-patrollers you mentioned."

Two minutes later the five stormtroopers were gathered in the crew lounge. It was Bright.w.a.ter who stated what LaRone knew the others were thinking. "You realize, of course," he said, "that doing anything at all here would be totally insane."

"Agreed," Grave seconded. "We haven't got the manpower or the support system."

"Not to mention the authority," Quiller murmured.

"I disagree," LaRone said. "We took an oath of allegiance to serve the Empire. These people are citizens of that Empire."

"And Cav'Saran is clearly violating his own oath," Grave said. "I agree the man's a sc.u.m sorter. That doesn't change the fact that we can't take on three hundred armed men all by ourselves."

"It won't be all by ourselves," LaRone said. "If I'm reading Krinkins right, we should have a good-sized crowd waiting when we pull up to Patroller Central tonight."

"All of them unarmed," Bright.w.a.ter reminded him. "Not for long," LaRone said. "We're talking a patroller station. There should be plenty of blasters sitting in racks inside."

"And you're going to hand them over to an angry mob?" Quiller countered.

"No, that's why I asked Krinkins to bring the ex-patrollers," LaRone said. "Hopefully, they'll have both the training and the moral authority to take charge."

"It's still insane," Bright.w.a.ter insisted. "Marcross? You're being awfully quiet."

"Of course it's insane," Marcross agreed. "My only question is how exactly we want to put it together."

Bright.w.a.ter looked at Quiller and Grave, a stunned look on his face.

"You're kidding," he said, looking back at Marcross. "You, of all people, want to do this?"

"You do remember we're on the run, right?" Grave asked.

"And we're on the run ultimately because we didn't like being ordered to abuse our authority," Marcross countered. "Are we going to be selective as to which abuses we stand up to and which we turn our backs on?"

"Are you sure you're not just mad at people like this running around your own sector?" Quiller asked pointedly.

"I'll admit there's some of that," Marcross conceded. "But my personal feelings don't change the reality of the situation." He gestured to LaRone. "A minute ago LaRone mentioned moral authority. If we as representatives of the Empire don't have that, who does?"

"Except that we aren't representatives of the Empire," Quiller reminded him. "Not anymore."

"Cav'Saran won't know that," LaRone said. "And if we do this right, he also won't know we don't have a whole legion behind us."

For a long moment the lounge was silent. Then Grave shrugged. "As long as we all agree it's insane, I don't mind going along. Besides, we have to get Bright.w.a.ter's speeder bikes back."

"There is that," Bright.w.a.ter said reluctantly.

Quiller shook his head, expelling his breath in a soft huff. "Oh, sure, why not," he said. "a.s.suming we can come up with a halfway workable plan."

"Don't worry about that," LaRone a.s.sured him grimly. "The only real question is how much damage we want to inflict on Cav'Saran's people.

Here's what I had in mind ..."

Chapter Eight.

THEY SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY BUYING THEIR Supplies, doing some quiet reconnaissance in the Patroller Central area, and preparing and fine-tuning their plan.

By the appointed time, they were ready.

There was a surprisingly good crowd waiting outside Patroller Central as LaRone maneuvered the speeder truck along the road. At least four hundred of them, he estimated, three to four times more than he'd expected.

Apparently the citizens of Ja.n.u.sar really were serious about dealing with their oppressors.