Mike Resnick - Birthright

“For the same reasons: lobby, organization, and propaganda. And if you're to stay on this world for fifteen more years, you wouldn't have a chance to spend it anyway.”

“What are you going to offer us in exchange for all this?” asked the same man, still dubious. “Offer is the wrong word,” said Coleman calmly. “We are going to demand a piece of the action. Every miner will get one three-hundredth of what he produces. No salary, no matter how astronomical, can possibly match that. We will also insist on political representation; the details of this haven't been worked out yet. Representation based on our population is wholly unacceptable to us; basing it on our economic power is too much to expect at this time. But we shall and will work out an equitable arrangement.”

“And when the Republic says no?” asked a man.

“They won't say no,” said Coleman.

“But if they do?”

“Then every mining world in the Republic will go on strike. For the next decade and more, you will be carefully and thoroughly conditioned to do whatever is required of you. And how long do you think the Republic could stand a galaxy-wide strike? A day? A week? Surely not a year. Think about it, gentlemen. Cartography may be the great force behind our expansion, but you, and you alone, are the major power insofar as utilizing what we already possess. You've been a sleeping giant up until now, but the time has come to arise and flex those long-dormant muscles.” There was a low buzzing in the room.

“Gentlemen, it is not my intention to rush you,” said Coleman, “but I must ask for a vote tonight. Tomorrow morning I'm taking off to visit your less fortunate companions of Gamma Leporis X, and—” “What do you mean, less fortunate?” demanded a miner. “Your air may be cold,” said Coleman, smiling, “but at least it's breathable. As I was saying, I'll be very happy to answer any questions at this point; but I must have your decision one way or the other, by sunrise.”

To nobody's great surprise, least of all Coleman's, Gamma Leporis IX voted overwhelmingly to join the Federation of Miners.

* * * *

It didn't take twelve years. Things had gone even faster than Coleman had expected, and now, seven years after his visit to the Gamma Leporis system, he stood before the Secretary of the Republic as that graying politician bounced from one tirade to the next, barely pausing for breath. “Just what the hell are you trying to pull, Coleman?” he demanded for the dozenth time. “This is blackmail, plain and simple! The Republic will not be railroaded into any action by a bunch of militant malcontents.”

“I beg to differ, sir,” said Coleman. “Respectfully, of course. But if the Republic wasn't scared out of its wits, I think our problem would have been handled at a lower level.” “Your only problem is your so-called Federation!” snapped the Secretary. “And I'm not going to handle it, I'm going to grind it into the dirt!” “I think not,” said Coleman. “May I sit down while we discuss it?” “No!” bellowed the Secretary. “You may not sit down, and we will not discuss it! Had you come in here like a reasonable man, I'd have been happy to talk with you. But no, you toss a list of ultimatums on my desk and demand that the Republic knuckle under to a bunch of hooligans.” “Had I acted like a reasonable man,” said Coleman, “and had I not come prepared with a list of

demands which are absolutely nonnegotiable, I wouldn't be here. I'd be cooling my heels in office after

office while everyone in the government hoped the problem would go away. My very presence here attests to the efficacy of our methods.” “Who the hell are you, anyway?"’ demanded the Secretary. “You're no miner. How did you come to be part of this organization? And where is the Federation's headquarters? Who are its officers?” “I don't believe that I'm going to tell you,” said Coleman calmly. “None of that information could possibly help our cause, and I can certainly conceive of numerous ways by which releasing any further facts about ourselves could only work to our detriment.” “In what way?”

“It is not inconceivable that knowledge of our headquarters would precipitate an immediate attack on them,” said Coleman. “We have absolutely no intention of using force, but we do intend to protect our existence. Our power is economic and moral, not military.” “You're about to learn just how unmilitary your power is,” said the Secretary. “When is this galaxy-wide strike supposed to take place?”

“At midnight, Earth time.”

The Secretary pressed one button from among the multitude on his intercom set. “I want the 27th Fleet sent to Spica II immediately. At precisely midnight, Earth time, they will demand that the miners turn over fifty tons of iron. Should the miners refuse to do so, they are to take whatever action is deemed expedient to secure the iron. Is that understood?” He flicked off the switch without waiting for a reply. “All right, Mr. Coleman. Now let's see just how much gumption your Federation has.” Coleman pulled a small transistorized communication device out of his pocket and activated it. “This is Coleman.” He waited until his voiceprint had been cleared. “It's Spica II, tonight. Get a camera there on the double.” He replaced the communicator in his pocket and looked up at the Secretary with what he hoped was a confident smile. “It's your move now, sir.” “You talk about this as if it were a chess game, instead of a crime of treason against the Republic,” said the Secretary. “But since you've made the ground rules, I hope you'll be willing to play by them.” He flicked on the intercom again. “Intercept and detain all ships traveling within one parsec of the Spica system for the next five days.” He looked steadily at Coleman. “Still think you have a chance?” “Tell me when you're ready to agree publicly to our demands,” said Coleman. He turned and left the office.

At exactly midnight, the Federation of Miners went on strike. At eleven minutes after midnight, the flagship of the 27th Fleet demanded that the miners of Spica II relinquish their daily quota of iron.

At twelve minutes after midnight, the miners refused. At fourteen minutes after midnight, the 27th Fleet gave the miners a ten-minute ultimatum, after which they stated that they would take the iron by force and arrest the miners.

At twenty-two minutes after midnight, the seventy-two miners who formed the total population of Spica

II gathered by the largest single refinery on the planet and set off a series of three nuclear bombs. And at three minutes after one in the morning, Coleman was ushered into the Secretary's office under armed guard.

“Just what the hell are you trying to prove?” demanded the Secretary, who had obviously just been aroused from a sound sleep.

“We're not trying to prove anything,” said Coleman. “We're trying to win something: our rights. These miners have undergone three hours of intense hypnotic conditioning every day for more than a decade, and are fully prepared to die for their rights if need be. In fact, they are so completely conditioned that they have no choice in the matter; any opposition by the Republic will trigger this reaction. I assure you that there can and will be no weakening of our resolve.” “Dammit, you're the best-paid men in the Republic!'’ “Not in relation to the service we render to the Republic,” said Coleman. “Are you ready to agree to our demands yet?”

“You can blow every last mining world to hell before we'll submit to this kind of coercion!” snapped the Secretary.

“I doubt that, sir,” said Coleman. “Once the Republic discovers how deeply these miners believe in their cause...”

“The public won't find out a damned thing,” said the Secretary. “We stopped your ship, and we'll stop every other ship that attempts to approach a mining world.” “Then ultimately your own conscience will force you to yield to us,” said Coleman. “Get him out of here,” said the Secretary disgustedly. “Is he under arrest?” asked one of the military aids. “Hell, yes! Charge him with treason and lock him up!” Coleman was escorted to an electrified cell. He was well fed and was treated with the utmost cordiality. Each morning he was allowed to view the newstapes. He could find nothing about the results of the strike, nor even any acknowledgment of its existence, but he knew it would be continuing. The Republic could get along without the mining worlds for a week or two, possibly three. But then all interstellar traffic would come grinding to a halt. Before long the hospitals would be screaming for supplies. They'd be the first to feel the pinch, and for that he was sorry; but they'd be followed in short order by the huge spacecraft cartels, and they'd scream good and loud. Even the Secretary couldn't keep the lid on this for too much longer.