The Feeding of Sorrows

by Rob Howell

  I went to the side of the octagonal bar facing the door. Because sitting there put your back to the door, there were always seats available. I had long ago decided that if I was going to get backshot in the Lyon’s Den, it was my time to go. Besides, sitting there had made idiots underestimate me before and might do so again.

  The Lyon glanced up from the cocktail he was mixing. I nodded. In moments, a Center Boss Brewery Ragnar’s Ale sat before me, served at precisely ten degrees Celsius.

  “Hey Rick, how are things going?” asked the Lyon.

  “Mmmm,” I rumbled through the first, long drink.

  “That good?”

  “Oh, you know.” I belched. “I went to redacted and redacted redacted. Next week I have to go redact the hell out of some idiots who definitely need some redacting. The usual.”

  The Lyon smiled. He knew more about my work than most anyone. He also knew the importance of opsec. “Well, enjoy redacting the shit out of that Ragnar’s. I just got a full case in. Turns out others like it too.”

  I downed the rest of the first bottle, and before I set it down, the Lyon put another in its place.

  “What the hell kind of beer is that?” asked the young merc sitting a couple of stools over. His uniform bore a green insignia with three maple leaves. He held a bottle that bore another maple leaf.

  “It’s not something you’d get a two-four of at the Beer Store,” I replied.

  He squinted at the bottle. “Probably not.”

  It looked like he was trying to get good and drunk. Through the open door of the Den’s back room, I noticed a group of others wearing the same insignia, aiming for the same target. Even out here, the other patrons could hear them over the loud music.

  Not your business, I thought as I finished the second Ragnar’s.

  “Not your business,” emphasized the Lyon, sliding another into its place. The kid next to me drained his Canadian lager, and the Lyon replaced it without a word.

  It’s bad if the Lyon is letting them get smashed.

  I glanced around and noticed one of the Lyon’s Lumar stayed close to the door of the back room just in case the kid’s unit decided to bring their howling out here. The Lyon sent another tray of pitchers into the room.

  Shit, I thought; what the hell did they get into?

  I turned back and focused on my beer. Not. My. Business.

  “Why don’t you take that table, Rick?” The Lyon gestured toward an empty booth.

  I glanced back at the Lyon, who idly polished an already clean glass. “Damn, how bad was it?” I asked.

  “Not your business, Rick,” he hissed. “Now get over to the other table. Beer’s on me if you do.”

  “Can’t turn down free beer,” I said as I got up from the stool. I turned to walk away, but I heard the kid mutter, “Shoulda been us.”

  I glanced back at the Lyon. He tilted his head, urging me to walk away with his eyes.

  “Why wasn’t it us?” the kid repeated.

  “Who was it?” I heard a voice ask. From the disgust on the Lyon’s face, I realized the voice had been mine.

  “What?” asked the kid.

  The Lyon shook his head and went to the other side of the bar. Not his problem if I was an idiot.

  I sighed. Too late now. “Who got killed?”

  “All of them. Whole fucking platoon.” He grabbed my lapels. “It should’ve been us!” He shook with rage and self-loathing. He released my lapels, grabbed his beer, and downed it.

  A hand rested on my shoulder. It was the kid’s warrant officer, if I read the rank insignia right.

  “It ain’t nothing, sir. Let me buy you a drink, eh? I’ll have what you’re having. Better than that crap they’re drinking. These kids don’t taste the booze.” He thumbed the kid back to the room and took his place. “Who do you think will win the Tri-Bowl this year, eh?”

  “Depends on health. It always depends on health in tri-ball.” I looked at the NCO. “And in the field.”

  “Yeah, sometimes.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  The NCO shrugged and drank his Ragnar’s. “That’s good beer.”

  “The original brewer did a favor for some idiot writer he knew. Made him something special.” I drained mine and signaled the Lyon for another. “I don’t recognize the unit badge.”

  “Queen Elizabeth’s Own Foresters.”

  “The Foresters?” Something nagged at my memory, then it clicked. “Now I remember. You had something happen with the Peacemakers. That explains why your unit is out drinking.”

  He snorted. “I suppose.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “Yeah. We had ‘something happen’ with the Peacemakers.”

  “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

  “Nope.” He waved the Lyon over. “Get the lads another round, please.”

  The Lyon nodded.

  “It’s worse than the Peacemakers judging against you?” I asked.

  “It’s worse,” agreed the Forester.

  “What the hell happened?”

  The NCO’s head swayed. Not much, just enough for me to realize how drunk he actually was. “We were the platoon in the rotation.”

  “The one whose El-tee was executed by the Peacemakers?”

  He glanced back. “No. That was First of Bravo Company.”

  “And you’re which platoon?”

  “What’s left of Third of Alfa. But Fourth of Alfa just got bushwhacked on a cake patrol that should’ve been ours. Only reason Fourth took it was because their El-tee’s mom was dying, and he wanted to see her, so they were trying to rotate home quicker.” He idly peeled the label off the bottle and crumpled it slowly in his fist.

  “And it should’ve been you.”

  He finished his beer. “Yep.”

  The Lyon slid another in front of him.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Don’t entirely know.”

  “You never do. But what have you heard?”

  He stared at his beer. Finally, he shrugged. “What the fuck. Not like opsec matters to them now.” He turned to me. “The contract is one we’ve had for a long time. There’s a race called the Hilden in the Coro Region. They’re mostly smiths and metalworkers who only claim one planet besides their own. A couple decades ago, some Zuparti tried to muscle in because the planet’s so full of metals, especially iron.”

  “Which is why the Hilden claimed it.”

  “Yes. Anyway, the Hilden were smart. They knew the Zuparti could push them out at any time, so they agreed to share Peninnah. One continent held more than enough ore for them, and registering the planet in both names kept the Zuparti from legally claiming total ownership of it.”

  “Peninnah’s the world?”

  He nodded.

  “But the Zuparti don’t stop, do they?” I asked.

  “Ha!” He snorted. “Course not. We’ve been escorting the Hilden caravans for a while. Rarely a problem. Most of the mines are in big-assed forests, and we’re good in the woods, eh? We train in every forest analog we can find. This is one of the toughest we know of, and we’ve had this contract for decades. It’s made us sharp, as every merc the Zuparti hired over the years learned.”

  He turned toward the other room and cut through the carousing of the other troopers with, “Foresters!”

  “Tenacious and Versatile!” they shouted back, slamming their beers.

  The Lyon sent another tray to their room.

  He looked back at me. “Most days, we’re guarding against Peninnah’s damned megaboars, not mercs hired by the Zuparti. The megaboars look like pigs, but they’re six or seven meters long with huge claws and teeth, and they ain’t smart enough to be scared of anyone, especially something as small as a trooper in a CASPer.” He snorted. “Don’t blame them really, since their claws can rip right through CASPer armor. Least-wise, CASPer sixes. Do make good eating, though, even if they have an odd, metallic taste.”

  The Lyon came by w
ith another pair of Ragnar’s.

  “The Hilden have been continuously contracting a couple of our platoons. Every platoon of the Regiment has cycled through a bunch of times. For the last ten years, we ain’t never fired a shot against anything ‘cept them boars. Only had a few casualties along the way, and that was because a trooper got stupid.”

  “And that changed?”

  He was quiet for a while, staring at his beer. Finally he said, “Colonel Edmonds and the Hilden knew the Zuparti would do something eventually, so we spent most of that time working with them to protect that continent. IR, UV, audio, LIDAR, you name it. Whole damn EM spectrum. The caravan routes have redundant sets, using different networks with different security keys. Drones. Sats. Hilden-designed and produced, so no built-in malware or special backdoors.”

  “But Fourth Platoon still disappeared?”

  “We found their bodies. The rest of the company reacted just fine, but the damned Zuul hit all four sections of Fourth at the same time. A few of the troopers survived, but they were wounded and are probably getting pensioned off. Essentially a whole platoon wiped off the map.”

  “Zuparti hire them?”

  “Yeah, probably. They’ve hired a bunch of other units over the years on Peninnah, and the Zuul were just another.” He grinned harshly. “The doggies paid the ferryman, though. Fourth didn’t die alone, and the rest of Alfa hit them hard. The Zuul won’t want to face us again.”

  “They broke through your security?”

  He nodded and grimaced. “Yeah. Must have lost our edge somewhere in the last decade. We never saw any hint of them on those wonderful sensor systems we have, coming or going.”

  “And they knew when and where to strike.”

  The warrant officer finished his beer and sat quietly for a moment.

  “Let me buy you another.” I signaled to the Lyon.

  “Thanks, but I think it’s time to get these lads home. We’re flying to Owen Sound tomorrow to rebuild the company, and they’ll be hungover enough as it is, eh?” He waved his UAAC over the Lyon’s scanner and stood up.

  “Keep your powder dry.” I tilted my beer toward him.

  “Will do.” He corralled his troops and headed out the door.

  I turned back toward the bar. In the mirror behind it, I noticed four men get up and leave right after the Canadian mercs. They divided into pairs without saying anything to each other, but something about them made my ears twitch.

  “Lyon…”

  “Yeah. I saw it too.”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Not likely. You got your GP-90?”

  I gave him a flat look. The Lyon knew I’d carried my C-Tech GP-90 every day since I’d been in basic. I might have switched configurations over the years before settling on my current 10mm caseless setup, but I’d always had it.

  “And your…?”

  My look got flatter. I pulled out a small device that looked like a pad, but was much more than that. We called them sweepers, and they were the reason my company kept getting hired. I activated it and it began feeding data across my pinplant display.

  “Course you do. Want me to send Truugaahl with you?” He gestured toward the Lumar who had watched the unit.

  “No, but give me a bottle of your worst rotgut.”

  The Lyon snorted, pulled out a dusty bottle, and handed it to me. I reached for my UAAC, but he shook his head.

  “Just go.”

  I nodded and hurried out. The two pairs walked on opposite sides of the street, with the gaggle of Foresters just ahead of them, about a block away from me. I took a swig of the whiskey, running it around my mouth, and spat it out.

  I staggered after them. At the next intersection, one pair turned south.

  I ignored those two, figuring I’d find them later or they were innocent.

  Sure they were.

  The other pair ambled along, keeping pace with the Foresters. After a moment, I saw one raise his wrist and speak into a communicator.

  Good. We’re on my battlefield now.

  I leaned against a wall and pointed it at them. They were emitting enough radiation that my sweeper could track them so I set my pinplant to mirror their position and look for other sources on that frequency. The second pair appeared on my pinplant map.

  I closed my eyes and examined the layout of the streets on my pinplant display. It was an awful neighborhood, with most of the buildings shuttered and barred. The only lit street was this one, kept reasonably safe by the Lyon and a few other neighbors. All of the decent stores were here too. Decent, at least, in terms of honest brokers of goods. Not necessarily decent in terms of types of goods. Mercs gonna merc, after all.

  The second pair had gone up a street that circled around and rejoined this street at a five-way intersection about a half-mile ahead. If they hustled, they could trap the Foresters between them.

  Not good.

  The Foresters made it easy because they strolled. They peered into the shops, making crude jokes about the items on display. It was just as well, as I didn’t want to be obvious about chasing them.

  I opened my eyes and stomped after the pair trailing them, ranting and raging about nothing comprehensible. Every once in a while I’d stop to take another swig from the rotgut, each time blocking the opening with my thumb. I let some of it trickle onto my coat. It’ll clean. Or not. Might not matter in an hour.

  I crossed the street, making sure I stumbled in front of a passing vehicle and earning a horn blast. I responded with the appropriate salute.

  Having made sure the pair noticed me, with the Foresters still about forty meters ahead of us, I stomped after them, yelling, “And that’s another thing, you fuckers! It’s assholes like you that stole that bitch!”

  The two glanced at me. “Go away. We didn’t steal your slut,” said the taller one, raising his hand firmly.

  “So, now you’re calling her a slut!” I advanced, fists clenched.

  He shook his head and continued after the Foresters, while the shorter man turned toward me.

  “Look, sir, we’ve never met you before. We’re sorry about your girl, but you’re yelling at the wrong people.”

  “What?” I shook my head in confusion as we moved together. “Hell, I know you’re not the right ones. Fuck, she left me for a girl.”

  I started laughing maniacally until he got within a couple of steps, then I started bawling and collapsed into his arms. The bottle fell from my hand, sloshing and spinning as it bounced on the road.

  My crying on his shoulder startled the man so much he didn’t realize I picked his pocket. I couldn’t reach his gun, but hugging him kept him from reaching his shoulder holster. He pushed me off. Then I collapsed in a heap, sobbing, and he snarled and turned away.

  I ran his UAAC quickly through my sweeper.

  The basic ID info on the UAAC scrolled on my pinplant, but it didn’t tell me anything. John Smith. Sure he was. And he wasn’t from the Houston address listed, no matter what his UAAC said.

  I crawled over to the bottle, picked it up, and staggered after them. “Hey, wait a minute…”

  They ignored me, so I just kept staggering along behind them.

  My GP-90 rested in the center of my back. It would’ve been no challenge to get it and put a three-round burst of 10mm ammo into each of them, but I didn’t yet know enough.

  Had to let them make the first move.

  We approached the square where the other pair waited. The icons on my pinplants indicated they had halted minutes earlier in a perfect spot to ambush the Foresters.

  I followed, waiting for the right moment to strike.

  As drunk as they were, the Foresters remained aware enough to deal with normal muggers. The people trailing them weren’t normal muggers.

  The pair in front of me looked ready for action, their heads swiveling from side to side and their senses alert, as they prowled like hunters.

  I was ready to pounce. I tracked their comm frequency on my scanner, so wh
ile I couldn’t hear what they were saying, I’d know when to move.

  It turned out none of us anticipated what was about to happen. Two shots sliced through the night, and the pair I was following collapsed. Two more shots rang out, but I didn’t see what they hit as I dove for an entryway. It wasn’t much cover, but every little bit of concrete and brick comforted me when snipers were around.

  I still held the plastic bottle of rotgut. Probably not the weapon I needed in this battle. I tossed it away and peeked around the corner.

  The Foresters might have been drunk, but they had reacted quickly. They had crowded inside their own concrete storefront and had drawn their GP-90s. Their warrant officer defined their fields of fire, and they immediately turned their eyes to their sectors.

  That didn’t mean they were in a good spot. Properly aimed rifle fire could target some of them. The kid I had chatted with in the bar fell as the back of his head exploded, showering his buddies with blood and bone.

  I leaned back into the entryway and set my sweeper to auto search the area. It took ten long seconds before it located the commo frequency the snipers used.

  Ten seconds? That meant they’re using Galactic-level frequency-hopping. Not good at all.

  On the first pass, five sources popped up on my pinplant. Four came from what I suspected were two-man sniper teams. One perched in the building I cowered next to, and the other was three buildings away. There was a larger signal around the back of this building.

  My sweeper showed they had encrypted their communications. No surprise there. I set it to run through the database of commercial encryptions that everyone publicly insisted didn’t exist. If they were using private encryption, especially if it was based on Galactic tech, I had no chance of breaking it quickly, but if they were using one off the shelf, even an expensive one, my scanner would find it.

  It would still take minutes.

  I moved around the building to find the bigger source. As I did, more threat signals popped up. A pair on the side road. Single sources down two others. Three on another. At least four fire teams, then.

  We didn’t have minutes.

  The sniper fire continued in a relaxed, confident rhythm. A couple of times, I heard the sharper, lighter responses of the Foresters’ GP-90s, but I doubted they had hit anything. The snipers knew they had time to do things right, especially since all they needed to do was keep the Foresters penned up until the fire teams could take them out.