Things were calm for several days after the meeting. The base commander increased the security force in the commissary during meal times. Other than that, no further action was taken. This was not a military base, and he feared that making too big a show of force would only feed the simmering fires of rebellion.
The following week, an armed mob attacked the kitchen.
Late in the evening, as the kitchen staff were cleaning up, several people entered the commissary and sat down. This was not uncommon. The commissary was a central meeting place and was kept open round the clock to support workers on various shifts. Even now, with shift work halted and no food available outside of strict mealtimes, people often hung around the tables chatting. What was uncommon is that these people did not chat. They brought nothing to read. There was nothing for them to eat. They just sat at the tables, glancing at each other. Also, they were each carrying some sort of tool. A couple of them had wrenches. Another had a shovel. Another had a section of heavy plastic pipe.
The custodian sweeping the commissary noticed all this and realized something wasn’t right. He continued sweeping and whistling the song he had been whistling, but he altered his path to move toward the kitchen. When he got there, as soon as he was out of sight of the dining room, he ran to the nearest intercom. The base commander had just groggily said “Yes, what is it?” when the plastic pipe came down on the custodian’s head and he sank to the floor.
“Ow!” he said. “Man, you don’t gotta hit me with that. I’ll just sit here and be still.”
“See that you do,” said the pipe-wielder. The others were standing behind him, swinging their various tools and looking menacing. The pipe-wielder looked up at the rest of the staff. “Any other heroes here?”
The kitchen staff all shook their heads.
“Then go,” said the man. “Now!”
The staff quickly stumbled out of the kitchen and left the commissary.
“Well,” said the pipe-wielder. “Let’s get on with it.”
Food supplies were stored in a pantry, refrigerator, and freezer in the back of the kitchen. None of these were secure. The developers of the base had not anticipated a need to lock up the food. Members of the mob entered all of these and discovered a bewildering array of bulk food items waiting to be made into meals by the kitchen staff. They all looked at the man with the pipe, unsure where to start.
“The pantry!” he shouted. “How we gonna keep stuff cold?”
Somebody in the pantry tossed a bag of dried beans through the door, followed by a bag of flour.
“Oh for crying out loud!” yelled the man. “Grab things that are ready-made. What are we gonna do, cook stuff?”
The pantry only fit three people. Those inside were supposed to pass items to those waiting outside, but, hungry as they were, they couldn’t help pausing to eat things in the process. Those outside shouted at those inside. The pipe-wielder left his post near the dining room and came over yelling.
“Stop with the eating!” he said. He slapped a protein bar out of someone’s hand. “Gather as much as you can and let’s get outa here!”
The mob was just coming out of the kitchen, arms loaded with dry goods, when the security team arrived. There were no guns in the base. The security team carried only expandable batons and CEDs. Brendan Byrne was at the front. He raised his CED and fired at the closest member of the mob, a big man with arms full of food stores. The little darts landed on the man’s shoulder and forearm, and electric current flowed with a sharp chatter through the wires they pulled behind them. The man dropped all he was carrying, fell to the floor, and writhed unnaturally.
Seeing this, the others broke into a run. Most dropped the food they were carrying. They dodged this way and that to avoid the security personnel. Two more fell to the floor from CED fire. The rest escaped.
Brendan helped the one he’d shot get to his feet. He recognized him from a parent meeting. “Everett, right?” he said. “Everett Cook?”
The man looked at him dizzily, still shaking a little from the CED shot. “Yeah,” he said. “I was just tryin’ to feed my kid.”
Brendan looked at the man. He couldn’t agree with the method, but he understood the motivation. These were impossible times to be a parent. “I get it,” he said. He helped the man to the nearest table and sat down next to him. “Your’s is the older girl, right? Ro, is it?”
The man nodded.
“Mine’s twelve,” said Brendan. “Keiron. Normally eats like a bear. It’s hard to watch him now. But we have to make what little we have last.”
The man’s eyes looked a little clearer. His mouth worked into sneer. “I’m sure Steinitz takes care of you security guys just fine.”
Brendan laughed. “I wish!” he said. “But no, no special perks there, I’m afraid. Well, other than getting to shoot people with these things.” He held up the discharged CED. He’d meant it as a joke, but Everett did not laugh.
One of the two professional security guards came over, and Brendan stood up to talk with him.
“We’re going to cut them loose,” the guard said.
“I figured,” said Brendan. He wasn’t surprised. There was a brig in the security office, but it was small and not really suited to long-term stays. What else could they do with them?
He turned and helped Everett to his feet. Everett looked at him questioningly.
“That’s it,” said Brendan. “Go back to that daughter of yours. And maybe don’t try this again. I don’t really like shooting people.”
Everett grunted and left.