Deathtrap

by Craig Alanson

  “Colonel,” Irene didn’t know what else to say.

  “Striebich, not a word about this to anyone. Not anyone, that’s an order.” Perkins rose from her chair. “I need to contact General Ross right now, before he hears about it from the Goddamn lizards taunting him.”

  “There is nothing we can do?”

  “I will think about it. Maybe between UNEF, the Verd-Kris and the Ruhar, we can counter this bullshit. The Ruhar will know the lizards are doing this directly to harm our new working relationship.”

  General Ross was, as predicted, not at all happy about having the lives of seven hundred Keepers added to his list of complications. He kept a cool head and discussed it rationally with Perkins, not blaming her for bringing the bad news. After her profanity-laced outburst when she heard about it from Irene, she also was clear-headed and trying to think without her emotions getting in the way.

  That was not easy.

  Ross gulped coffee from a mug that had become cold, by that time of day he was drinking it purely for the caffeine. Tasting the surprisingly good brew reminded him that the reason humans on Paradise had luxuries like coffee and chocolate was due in large part to the woman sitting in his office, to Perkins and her team of Mavericks. Even in limited quantities, luxury foods went a long way toward boosting morale, having real coffee in the morning certainly lifted his spirits along with his heart rate. The night before his UNEF contingent boarded dropships for the flight off Paradise, he had been treated to a steak dinner at UNEF headquarters. Steak! With a baked potato, butter and green beans along with the usual salad. And chocolate cake for dessert! Yes, the steak had been grown in a lab, but that had not affected his enjoyment of the delicious slab of meat on his plate. "You know, I should have expected the lizards would pull some shit like this. The concept of an Alien Legion supplementing Ruhar manpower, especially for jobs at the margins that the hamsters don’t want to do themselves, has to get the Kristang leadership quaking in their boots.”

  Perkins looked out the window, to where a Buzzard was landing. The airfield that served as UNEF’s base on Fresno was busy, even with Ross wisely having dispersed his force including the staff of his headquarters unit, to avoid providing a tempting target to the Kristang. “They don’t care about us,” she reminded Ross, echoing the conclusion she had put into her report to UNEF HQ when she was trying to persuade the brass to get behind the idea of an Alien Legion. A report was scarcely needed, as what remained of the uniformed staff at UNEF HQ had jumped at the chance to resume being soldiers rather than shuffling papers. To her dismay at the time, she had to point out that her report had listed risks to UNEF of joining an Alien Legion, in addition to the potential benefits everyone had focused on. The major risk she highlighted was the strong possibility of the Kristang recognizing the danger an Alien Legion posed to them, prompting the Kristang to temporarily put aside the internal squabbles and band together to crush the Alien Legion at the first opportunity. “Even if the entire human population on Paradise signed up for the Legion, we don’t have the numbers to threaten the Kristang. The Verd-Kris getting into the fight on the side of the Ruhar, that has the Kristang’s attention. They know if the Verd-Kris prove they can be trusted, that could add millions of warriors to the Ruhar side. Skilled, advanced, highly-motivated warriors”

  “Highly motivated,” Ross snorted at the notion. “That’s like saying a momma bear is mildly concerned about her cubs. The Verd-Kris I’ve met, all of them, men and women, could give us a new definition of ‘fanatical’ about restoring their culture that the Thuranin perverted when they made the Kristang their unwilling clients.”

  Ross sighed. “The Verds are fighting to restore the culture that was stolen from them by the Thuranin, with the warrior caste selling their people out in exchange for power. What would we do, if that happened to us?”

  “Anything. We would do anything, whatever it took, no matter the cost,” Ross answered without needing to think about it. “That’s what concerns me about them. The Verd-Kris have their own agenda, and they are only serving the Ruhar as long as the Ruhar help them.”

  “For now, their goals align. The Verd-Kris see the Alien Legion as their best chance to take back their culture, one planet at a time. That is what the Kristang are worried about, not the combat manpower the Verd-Kris add to the Ruhar. They are worried about the ideas the Verd-Kris bring, that current Kristang society is a product of the Thuranin and the warrior caste’s hold on power is not legitimate. The Verd-Kris may actually have an ability to chip away at the fabric of Kristang society, a little bit at a time. We know from intel reports that a significant portion of the Kristang population is tired of war, and of the warrior caste.”

  Ross grimaced, waving a hand to indicate he was not convinced the Verd-Kris had any prayer of achieving their goals. “That would matter a lot more if the warrior caste didn’t have all the power. The Verd-Kris occupying planets on behalf of the Ruhar is one level of threat. If the ‘True Kristang’ philosophy spreads to worlds under warrior caste control, they are going to make an example of the first city or province that dares try to break, or even protest against, the warrior caste’s hold on power.”

  “Yes, Sir. I’m more concerned about our immediate problem, and I don’t mean a bunch of Keepers who sealed their own fates.”

  “The Ruhar have someone passing intel to the lizards, you mean? Yes, I picked up on that happy thought right away. Some asshole in the Ruhar government, high up in their government, does not want us taking Fresno away from the lizards. Either that, or their comm sec at the federal level is for shit. No way do I believe the lizards have penetrated that deep into hamster data systems, so someone talked when they shouldn’t have, or someone doesn’t like us. The timing of when the Keepers were brought here doesn’t leave any other possibility; the Alien Legion concept was still being debated back then.”

  “That concerns me, yes. General, there is something else that scares the shit out of me,” Perkins admitted.

  This time Ross looked at her sharply, not pleased that she was going to dump another burden on him. “What’s that, Colonel?”

  “The Keepers were brought here before the hamster federal government gave the official go-ahead to set up the Alien Legion. Here. They were brought here,” she jabbed a fingernail on the table. “To Fresno.”

  “Holy shit,” Ross breathed, blood draining from his face. “That means-”

  “It means someone, or more than one someone, planned for the Alien Legion to be assigned to take this planet, even before the Legion officially existed. Sir, I am getting a bad feeling we are being set up.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Irene nearly came to her breaking point two days after she learned about the Keepers being held on Fresno. She and Derek drew an assignment to fly a group of Legion officers to a Kristang city that was the capital of a province the Ruhar had not yet formally taken over. The mission was simple enough; the mixed UNEF and Verd-Kris group would meet with lizard officials and set a timetable for the Legion to begin taking over the province, beginning with outlying villages and then wrapping up with the provincial capital city. From the air, the capital city looked more like a decent-sized town, with a group of large, ugly buildings in the center. Irene supposed the center of the city was designed to impress the locals with the power and authority of the clan leadership. Either that, or someone had gotten kickbacks to put up large structures nobody needed, and they hired the cheapest architect they could find. Probably some official’s relative who needed a job.

  Irene banked the Buzzard as they approached the landing field, tilting the aircraft more than needed for the turn, so Derek in the left-hand seat could get a better look at the city. “Looks like whoever designed this place went to the Joe Stalin School of Design.”

  “Yeah,” Derek laughed. “And he flunked out. When they were done with construction, it looks like they hired a pimp and asked him to ‘class the place up a bit’.” There were cheap-looking gold and silver embel
lishments stuck haphazardly on the buildings, the shiny plating or whatever it was already tarnished and flaking away.

  “Looks like an abandoned casino,” Irene observed. “Lining up for approach, I see the beacon,” she reported as she returned the Buzzard to an even course, flying straight in toward the airfield. Derek was acting as lead pilot that day, he let her handle the landing as a way to keep her mind off unpleasant thoughts.

  The mission would be good for Irene, Derek thought. A simple flight to ferry a group of VIPs, with no trouble anticipated. There were a pair of fighter-gunships available nearby if needed, but the flight had not been timed to ensure a starship was overhead to provide orbital fire support. With only three warships available, there were large gaps in coverage of the planetary surface, and it might take up to sixteen minutes for a starship to adjust course to bring its close-space support fire cone over the target. The unforgiving mathematics of orbital mechanics did not care about any problems biological beings were having on the ground.

  Legion leadership was not anticipating any trouble on the mission. The four VIPs had two armored soldiers as escorts but even a full squad of skinsuit-wearing soldiers would not ensure the team’s safety if the lizards decided to play dirty. Six other similar missions, initial meetings to set up schedules for handover of a province, had been completed without a hitch and there was no reason to think this time would be any different. The only concern in the back of Derek’s mind was the fact that there was something different about this mission; the Mavericks were participating. If some ambitious young Kristang warrior wanted to make a reputation, he might see attacking the famous Mavericks as a sure path to everlasting glory. Derek also considered that among the Kristang, the Mavericks were considered infamous troublemakers, much hated by the warrior caste. As Irene began rotating the engines downward to transition from level flight to hover mode for landing, he looked at the city and wondered how many of the lizards down there hated him enough to violate the treaty by taking a shot at him or Irene. Two dead humans would be cause for ‘proportionate’ retaliation by the Legion, which would not do any good for Irene and Derek, and would really not do anything to deter fanatical Kristang from similar actions in the future. He warmed up the belly jets so they would be ready in case of main engine failure, and decided to suggest that he and Irene remain in the cockpit while the VIPs went into the city. If they drew another similar assignment, Derek intended to wear a full armored skinsuit, not just the much lighter protection of a Ruhar flightsuit.

  When the Buzzard landed and after the engines spooled down so it was safe to open the side door, Derek unstrapped and pushed down on Irene’s shoulder as she moved to stand. “Irene, we should stay right here.”

  She looked up at him, puzzled, her eyes flicking to the displays to identify threats. “Why?”

  He explained, and she tapped her sidearm. “Derek, honey, this whole planet is technically a warzone. You know protocol is we all greet the lizards,” one of the UNEF officers was already anxiously waving them toward the side door. “There wasn’t any publicity about us flying this mission.”

  “There didn’t have to be a bulletin about it,” Derek held up a finger to the impatient officer, “one jackass posting about it on the net is all we need to invite trouble.”

  “I know, but, I need to check that actuator on the starboard engine anyway. If we need to swap it out, we need to get started now.”

  Derek relented, knowing she was right about that. The engine on the right side of the aircraft had been slow to swivel from horizontal to vertical, if the pivot actuator got jammed on the return flight, they might need to land at an airfield with a long runway, or try trusting the belly jets to bring them down safely. That was if nothing else went wrong with their much-used Buzzard. “We go out, keep our mouths shut while the lizards insult us,” their pre-mission briefing had warned the Kristang delegation would offer passive-aggressive insults under the guise of not understanding human culture. The team had been instructed to smile and ignore the insults, being unfailingly direct and polite in return. Staying frosty and on mission was the best thing they could do to make the lizards angry. That sentiment had been repeated before takeoff by one of the UNEF passengers, an Air Force captain who officially was a psychologist, but who everyone knew worked intel for the Legion. “Pretend you don’t know you’re being insulted,” she advised. “The Kristang love drama and they will hate it when we don’t play along. If one of them overreacts, he will lose face in the clan. Let me do the talking.”

  The initial meet and greet was not nearly so bad as Derek had feared. The Kristang walked out of a rather dingy building at the edge of the airfield, with two dignitaries in the center of a retinue of aides, some of them wearing ceremonial armor and carrying swords too heavy and highly polished to be useful in combat. The two Legion guards, a human on one side and a Verd-Kris on the other, had their skinsuits set to full armor and their rifles ready, making a show of flicking the safeties off. The muzzles remained correctly pointed at the ground, although both soldiers interpreted ‘ground’ as the feet of the two lead Kristang dignitaries. If any unfortunate incident were to occur, those two Kristang were going to get their lower legs blown off, and they knew it.

  Although several of the Legion VIPs outranked her, US Air Force Captain Danielle ‘Dani’ Grace stood front and center and did the talking for the Legion. The Kristang pointedly did their best to ignore the Verds other than to glare daggers with their eyes, although Derek did notice the substantial crowd at the edge of the airfield were gawking with curiosity to see the Verd-Kris. One of the Verds, a woman, wore both a sidearm and a Ruhar rifle strapped across her chest, standing tall and to the side so she could be in clear view of the crowd. It was likely the Kristang civilian crowd had never seen a female of their species carrying a weapon, and this Verd made a show of barking orders to the two armor-suit wearing soldiers, demonstrating she had a level of authority that no woman under the dominion of the warrior caste was allowed to exercise. Derek thought she had perhaps overdone the show by attaching a fat rocket launcher tube under the barrel of her rifle, but the crowd of locals were impressed.

  Soon after the introductions were exchanged, the Kristang began hurling thinly-disguised insults which Captain Grace deflected in a manner that seemed bored to Derek. As she had done several meet-and-greets before, she might have heard all the insults already, or she was just very cool and controlled. After a minute, Derek’s attention began to wander as the insults weren’t very interesting, it felt like the lizards were phoning it in. Clearly, the Kristang were irritated when the Legion team looked away while he was talking, so their leader ramped up the intensity of his insults.

  The Kristang leader took a half-step forward, getting into Dani’s personal space and looming over her. “It is unfortunate that, while I am dressed appropriately for such an important occasion,” the tallest Kristang looked down at his resplendent uniform, the chest covered in ribbons and medals, “your own people could not afford anything better than the plain rags you wear. We appreciate that, though you must be humiliated by being clothed in such a shabby manner, you bear your shame bravely to meet us.”

  Dani’s tight and fake smile did not waver. “Do not be ashamed for me, Honored Kraplatt. We wore these plain uniforms because, since we are kicking your people’s sorry asses off this planet, we did not wish to rub your delicate noses in your abject loss of honor.” Her lips turned up ever so slightly at the corners as she added, “Sir.”

  Derek struggled mightily not to laugh, digging fingernails into the palms of his clenched hands. He could not, dared not, look at Irene standing by his side, or they would both burst into uncontrollable laughter.

  With that, the ‘Honored Craphead’, as Dani privately called him, spun on his heels and marched away. The Verd-Kris woman, who was actually in command of the mission, waved her team to follow the retreating enemy. “Captains Bonsu, Striebich, keep the bird ready,” she ordered, “I don’t know how long this
will take.”

  The trouble came not in the form of a stuck actuator, it came as the two pilots had temporarily fixed the balky unit and were testing it. Derek had wanted to swap the actuator with a spare they carried, Irene had argued that removing and replacing it would take at least an hour, during which time the Buzzard would not be able to fly. That was not a risk she wanted to take in hostile territory, and Derek understood the sense in that argument.

  So, Derek was in the cockpit and Irene outside standing under the starboard engine when the trouble arrived. “One more time, full deflection,” Irene instructed, and in the cockpit, Derek moved the controls. To Irene’s satisfaction, the actuator ran through its sequence fully and smoothly, if a bit slower than normal. “Cut it, leave it where it is,” Irene ordered. “Good enough.” She was wary of damaging the actuator by testing it too much, sometimes the added wear and tear of testing all components during a pre-flight check could shorten the useful life of critical gear. She was confident the repaired actuator would take them safely back to base, where there was a list of ‘squawks’ she wanted the maintenance crew to work on.

  Irene was bent over the toolbox, smiling as she thought Derek was likely watching her shapely behind through an exterior camera, when she saw a shadow moving on the tarmac. “Hello?” She straightened, dropping a tool and instinctively placing a hand on her sidearm.

  The shadow was not from a Kristang, but a human. A man, dressed in filthy clothes, with a collar around his neck and chains between his wrists and his ankles. The collar had rubbed the man’s neck and collarbone area raw, it was red and oozing, with blood trickling down to stain the already dirty shirt. “I-” The man glanced fearfully back at the Kristang warrior standing behind the tail of the Buzzard. “My master bids me ask if you would like a cool beverage, you, you must,” he stammered, “be thirsty from working on this hot day.”