High-Opp by Frank Herbert
O’Brien nodded. “Right.” He left the room.
“Janus, get your guards into the tunnel, see that O’Brien’s Security force is alerted. The Fall poll preliminary starts in a few minutes.”
“What about Grace?” asked Navvy.
“I’m hoping the confusion will give Cecelia a chance to act.” Movius compressed his lips. “We can’t carry off an open attack. They’d use Grace as a shield.”
O’Brien returned. “Couldn’t reach Cecelia. If she sees them bring in Grace, she’ll know what to do. She knows their methods of questioning.”
Movius picked up a phone, punched the button which put him into a special section of the master switchboard, dialed a number, waited. “Give me Gerard, please . . . Gerard? This is Dan. Monkey-shines.” He waited for Gerard to respond to the code word, said, “We’re ready to move. Call in every fighting man you have. Bring them across to the Bu-Psych Building. Ferry them by copter.” He put down the phone, went to the map, stared at it.
O’Brien joined him. “Quite a few danger points, Dan.”
Movius nodded. “Charts and pins in a map don’t tell it all. Bu-Con has been throwing its weight around. Raids on the Warrens. People disappearing. Our own rumor campaign about Bu-Con torture chambers has people raging.” He turned to O’Brien. “That’s the important thing to watch—the temper of the people. Now, all we have to do is make Glass show his hand, come out from behind that front of high and mighty legality.”
“If you could make him take over full control without the opps,” said O’Brien.
“We’ll have more recruits than we can use,” said Movius.
“Delicately, Dan. He mustn’t suspect what you’re actually trying to do.”
Movius turned, thrust his hands into his pockets. “It’s one minute to seven. The preliminary starts in one minute.”
Phil Henry sat down at the transceiver.
“Tap the beam,” said Movius.
Henry swung a control board in front of him, flicked a switch. The screen above a transceiver gleamed silver, a pulsing purple rope stretching diagonally across it. The purple rope suddenly showed a moving white band, juggling, dancing, shimmering. Henry’s fingers darted over the controls. Another purple rope came up from the bottom center of the screen, matched itself to the moving white band, contacted it. The white stopped. Immediately, the transceiver in front of Henry began to clack out a message.
Movius and O’Brien stepped forward to look over his shoulder.
“Just warming up,” said Henry.
On the printer tape they could read,” BXBBG . . . MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. NOTHING MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR OPPS. MAY THE MAJORITY RULE.” The machine stopped typing, continued a low humming.
“Won’t they know we’ve stopped the message?” asked O’Brien.
“Not a chance,” said Movius. “This isn’t the door they’re guarding. They believe the beam can’t be tapped. It’s in all the manuals. There is no way to tap a communications beam short of its terminal.”
The transceiver clacked twice—“XX,” began to chatter with its message.
Work had stopped in the room. People stood in a quarter circle around the corner looking at the activity. The four men at the table pulled note paper to a handy position. They were the star performers now.
Movius ripped the printer tape out of the machine. “They’re after Bu-Trans first.” He read it aloud: “Would you favor reducing the number of government employees through a merging of the Bureau of Transportation and the Bureau of Control under the direction of the Bureau of Control?” He put the tape on the table.
The doodler took up his stylus. “I hope they’re all this easy. How does this sound?” He began to write as he composed. “Would you favor giving greater police power to the Bureau of Control by merging that Bureau with the Bureau of Transportation?”
The other three men at the table nodded.
“That’ll do it,” said O’Brien. He passed the revised question to Henry at the machine.
Henry clipped the question in front of him. “What code number? Theirs?”
Movius fingered the number on his lapel. “Use the first three from mine—six, six, two.”
“Right.” He punched out the numbers and question.
“One minute, fifteen seconds,” said O’Brien. “They’ll never notice the delay.”
Navvy moved over beside O’Brien. “They’ll try to bargain with us for Grace. What do we do then?”
Through Movius’ mind ran the words from his father’s book: “ . . .nothing is important to a revolutionist except his cause.” He felt himself trembling. He’d have to go ahead as planned. Have to! Damn them!
Again the machine began to clack. O’Brien read the tape: “Code 089.” He looked at Movius. “The Coor’s private number.” He held up the tape. “In the event of a Separatist uprising, would you give the Coordinator unilateral powers to restore order?”
Movius got to his feet. “Let that one go.”
“What?” O’Brien spoke. The four men at the table looked up at Movius.
“This is exactly what we want,” said Movius. “He has played right into our hands. We want him to show his dictatorial powers.” He took the tape, handed it back to Phil Henry at the transceiver. “Send it through—code and all.”
“That’s dangerous,” said O’Brien. “Unilateral power means he can do anything legally to restore order. He could take the opp on this one, strike right out at us.”
“Let’s hope he does,” said Movius. He turned to Phil Henry. “Start punching this: To All LP’s—Coordinator Helmut Glass has this day by-passed the opp to make himself dictator. The numbers 089 are held by High-Opp friends of the Coordinator’s and were put in the Selector in an illegal manner. The opp requires that the Coordinator must open the Selector for public inspection upon demand. This demand is hereby made.” Movius put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Signed Daniel Movius, Separatist.”
“If they harm Grace,” said Navvy, “I’ll . . .”
“You’ll do nothing,” said Movius. “Glass and his friends are to be the focus of public hate. If they survive the revolt, they will have public executions.”
“I thought so,” said Navvy. “You’re just like . . .”
“Shut up!” raged Movius. “I’d like to hang them up by the thumbs and pour acid on them! But I won’t. I’ll . . .”
“Sorry,” said Navvy.
A Bu-Psych runner ushered Warren Gerard and his gladiator secretary into the room, pointed to Movius and his group in the corner. Gerard, his bald head glistening under the room lights, made his way across the room, nodded to O’Brien. “Hello, Nate. Didn’t know you were acquainted with Dan.” To Movius, “What is all this, Dan?”
“This is Sep headquarters.” Movius looked at Navvy, nodded toward Gerard and bodyguard. Navvy pulled a gun from his pocket, covered the two from behind.
“Quite an organization you have here,” said Gerard. He looked around with a proprietary air, caught sight of Navvy’s gun.
“Don’t move,” said Movius.
The bodyguard made a motion as though to grab a lapel gun.
“You’d be dead before you touched it,” said Movius. He extended a hand, found the gun in its lapel holster, took it. Gerard and aide had five guns between them.
Gerard’s eyes blazed. “So you were going to make me the Coordinator?”
“On an island somewhere,” said Movius. “You won’t have a thing to worry about for the rest of your life.”
“Loyalty index!” said Gerard.
“I’m returning the favor,” said Movius. “I’m saving your life. You and O’Brien may be the only top officials to escape public execution.”
“You’re damned confident of winning!” blurted Gerard.
“I can’t lose,” said Movius.
Navvy snapped manacles on the men’s wrists, led
“Your men on the relay ship were late,” said Movius. “It’s sixteen minutes after seven.” He turned to Phil Henry. Before he could speak, the transceiver began to chatter. Movius bent to read the message, felt Navvy beside him.
“Would you approve a two-rank advance for information leading to he capture of Separatist leaders Daniel Movius, Nathan O’Brien, Warren Gerard, Quilliam London, Navvy London . . .” The machine went on clacking out names, district organizers, cell leaders.
“That means they’ve made Grace talk,” said Navvy.
“Give the word,” said Movius. “The revolt is on!”
Phil Henry typed out the signal, a phrase Movius had remembered from an ancient history book.
“FIRE ONE!”
Movius turned to the ring of watchers. “You have work to do. Get on it.”
They dispersed to desks, phones. Some picked up weapons, went out. A tight-wave radio transmitter was warmed up on one desk.
A dead feeling settled into Movius’ stomach. Grace . . . They’ll pay! Damn them! First the revolt. Nothing else could occupy his attention now. Still he felt the numbness inside him. He wondered if other commanders had felt this way when the battle was joined and the outcome depended on the planning that had gone before. The history books never mentioned it.
The distant roar of an explosion echoed up the conduit tunnels, created a momentary ear-clicking vacuum in the headquarters room. Movius put a green pin into the map at Tampico. Another city secured for them. The radio operator came across the room with a message, scuffing his way through scattered balls of crumpled paper. “Campobella has just capitulated in Manila,” he said.
Movius looked to this watch. Two a.m. They’d been at it seven hours almost. He felt no tiredness, only a dull ache every time he thought of Grace.
O’Brien straddled a chair, his back to the table the four analysts had used. “We’ve done it, Dan. You should be . . .”
Janus Peterson hurried into the room, ran across to Movius. “The remnants of The Coor’s force are holed up in the Bureau of Communications Building. Shall we bring the place down with explosives?”
“What was that explosion I just heard?” asked Movius.
“They were trying to blast open one of the tunnels. We’ve got them all knocked down and sealed off with rubble.”
Movius turned away, looked at the map. Is Grace with them? he wondered. Do I have the right to send men to their deaths storming the place on the chance we could save her? He shook his head. This should be a decision for someone else.
The transceiver beside him, silent since they’d sent the order to revolt, came to life. It clacked out a single word: “MOVIUS.”
He looked at the message tape, turned to O’Brien, and at that instant saw Navvy enter the room. Navvy stepped heavily over the sleeping forms of Gerard and bodyguard where they were manacled to the pillar. A Bu-Psych medic had given them shots to knock them out when they’d started interfering by yelling curses at Movius. Navvy shifted a stutter gun from his right to his left arm, stopped at the desk and leaned against it. “North and East sections cleared. The rest is mop-up.” He wiped at his face, left a stream of grime down one cheek. “A Bu-Con squad took over a Warren in Lascadou, killed every man, woman and child inside. Then they had the guts to beg for mercy. A mob tore ’em apart, literally.”
Again the machine beside Movius began to chatter. “WE WILL BARGAIN WITH YOU.” It was signed, “HELMUT GLASS.”
Navvy joined Movius at the transceiver, looked at the message. “I told you they’d offer to trade Grace for their hides.”
Movius sat down at the machine, found the RR button for Registration Reply, remembered all the times he had punched that button in the kiosks to register for opps. He typed with two fingers: “THIS IS MOVIUS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The machine remained silent.
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Nate.”
O’Brien stepped forward. “Yes?”
“We’ve won, haven’t we?”
“You know that as well as I do. No doubt about it.”
The transceiver rapped out, “ARE YOU WILLING TO BARGAIN?”
Movius sighed, typed, “DELIVER GRACE UNHARMED AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR LIVES.”
There was a longer wait this time, only the humming of the transceiver indicating the beam was open. Again the machine chattered: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Do they want to deliver her here?” asked Navvy.
“They may already have killed her and be fishing for information,” said O’Brien. “Remember, they’re desperate men.”
Movius put his hands to his face, leaned against the transceiver. Yes, they’re desperate men, he thought. There was a way to be certain of Grace’s fate, but he couldn’t ask anyone else to take the risk.
The machine clacked: “CALL OFF YOUR MEN OR WE WILL KILL HER IMMEDIATELY.”
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Janus, tell them to hold off the attack.”
Janus ran to the door, relayed the message to a courier, returned.
“I HAVE SENT THE ORDER,” typed Movius.
The transceiver came right back: “MOVIUS, WE ARE ON ONE OF THE TOP FLOORS OF BU-COMU. COME OVER AND TALK OR WE KILL HER.”
“You can’t do that!” exploded Peterson. “Maybe they’ve . . . Well, maybe they just want to get both of you to kill you.”
Movius ignored him, typed, “I AM COMING.”
“Janus is right,” said O’Brien. “Send someone else.”
“Send me,” said Peterson. “I let her get caught.”
Something compounded of all the hate, the ambition, the fear for Grace became a hard lump inside Movius. “I’m still the commander here!” he barked. “I give the orders!”
Navvy said, “I’m not letting you go,” started to grab his arm.
Movius slapped down the hand. “She’s your sister, Navvy; my wife. I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.”
“Let him go,” said O’Brien.
The streets were dark, strangely silent. Only in the distance could he hear the whooshBOOM! of rocket launchers to tell him the battle was not ended. A lackluster moon ducked in and out of clouds, showed a scattering of wrecked cars on Government Avenue, a few sprawled bodies.
Three blocks to Bu-Comm. Navvy walked silently on one side, Janus Peterson on the other. They met a Sep patrol which recognized Movius and, strangely, lined up along the sidewalk, stood at attention while he passed.
“Do they know where I’m going?” asked Movius.
“I told the runner,” said Janus Peterson.
Attack squads around the Bu-Comm Building opened up to permit Movius and his companions to pass. The men stood at attention until Movius had passed. There it was—tallest building in the city with its transmission facilities and huge tower. Movius looked at the building, wondered why the men were so respectful.
As though answering his unspoken question, Peterson said, “You’ve given us LP’s back our pride, sir. We’re never going to forget that.”
Movius realized the big man was crying, thought, Janus believes I’m going to my death. Maybe I am. He could sense the presence of many men around him, could distinguish the still outlines of bodies sprawled in the street in front of the building.
“Does someone have a hand light?” he asked.
An arm came out of the darkness beside him, pressed a metal tube into his hand. A receding voice whispered to someone, “I gave him my light.” Movius had the sudden feeling of looking into the future and knew he had seen the genesis of a story. “I gave Daniel Movius my handlight the night he climbed to the Bu-Comm tower.”
Movius said, “I’ll signal from the south parapet. Three flashes means come on up, they’ve surrendered. Two flashes means wait. One flash, a delay and another flash, attack. Give me an hour. It’s a long climb.”
Movius squeezed the man’s arm. “No, it isn’t. Grace brought it on herself. She did it trying to protect me from her father.” He released Peterson’s arm. “Good opps, men.”
Out into the dark street, a dark cloud obscuring the moon. A body. He walked around it. It sound of a door opening. Someone said, “In here.” Movius could discern the outline of a man holding a stutter gun, heard a voice talking on a phone. “He just came in. I’ll bring him right up.” The phone clicked. “Elevator’s over here.” A hand took his arm, guided him.
“Elevator,” said Movius. “I thought there was no power.”
“This is the Communications Building,” said the voice. “Big emergency generators here.”
Of course, he thought. There would be.
They remained in darkness all the way up. His escort opened the elevator door, said, “To your right. Don’t use that handlight.” Then, oddly, the man whispered, “Good opps, sir.”
He walked down the hall, heard a door open. A voice said, “In here.” Another hand came out to guide him. The door closed, lights came on. It was a stuffy room, full of tobacco smoke. Thick layers of blankets had been nailed over the windows. Movius looked around. Loren Addington sat behind a table, a fat owl, nervously chewing on something. The table held a row of stutter guns, all pointing toward the door.
“A cornered rat,” thought Movius.
Helmut Glass sat on a leather couch against the right wall. A stutter gun rested in his lap. His head was swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling. A rough night for The Coor.
The man who had pulled him into the room turned out to be vapid-face, the one who had brought Grace to Gerard’s office. He carried a gun in his right hand.
“Where’s Grace?” demanded Movius.
Glass stood up from the couch. He carried the stutter gun loosely in his right hand. “In good time.”
“I see Grace or we don’t bargain,” said Movius.
Glass raised the muzzle of his gun. “I could kill you right where you stand.” The Coor’s eyes looked like two ball bearings, grey steel, glaring from beneath the red-stained bandage around his head.