Jates analyzed the situation before replying. “This is a steaming pile, and all we’ve got to eat it with is a fucking cracker, Czajka.”
“You can have the cracker if you like,” Dave’s lips curled in the ghost of a smile.
“Shit. I need to call this in.” The Surgun recorded a message, and sent it via burst transmission to the commando leader. Because of enemy jamming, the message was set on repeat so it would have a better chance of getting through. While they waited, the two anxiously watched the action in the valley below. The lone man had run out of rockets and was retreating, dashing from cover to cover while firing wildly behind him. Just as Jates was about to send a new message, the man fell in a hail of fire from the enemy, his body jerking as it was struck again and again.
“Jates, you dumb shit,” came the scathing reply from Vinchla. “Do NOT engage. You do not engage the enemy unless you have to. Your orders are to proceed to the evac point, period. Acknowledge.”
Surgun Jates surveyed the scene in the valley, where seven Kristang warriors, none of them wearing powered armor, were running down the road, firing intermittently at the humans in front of them. The humans were very obviously going to lose the race. Jates looked over at Czajka. And he made a decision. “Your message was broken up,” he said over the transmitter. “Please repeat message after ‘Jates you dumb shit’.” Then he toggled the receiver off.
Dave drew his head back in surprise. “You sure about this, Surgun?”
Jates pointed down to the valley. “Killing lizards in that direction.” He pointed behind them up the ridge. “Not killing lizards in the other direction. I vote we kill lizards.”
“Damn straight,” Dave replied with a growl. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure about this, Czajka?”
Dave made an exaggerated shrug. “I figure,” his mouth was suddenly dry and he had to swallow. “We’re not getting out of this anyway. Might as well take some of those motherfuckers down with us, right?”
Jates set off down the slope at a trot, waving for Dave to follow. “You humans are primitive, slow and stupid. But sometimes, you have the right idea.”
The Deal Me In’s crew had lived up to their part of the bargain, carrying Jesse and Nert out to the nearest Jeraptha fleet unit. What the Deal Me In’s crew expected was to find one or two destroyers at the rendezvous point. Instead, they found the entire Mighty 98th Fleet of the Blue Squadron. At first, Jesse’s plea to speak with someone in authority was ignored, until somehow Admiral Tashallo heard they had two curiosities: a visitor who had come from Feznako, who was also a human.
Because Tashallo had nothing else to do, and because he was currently bored out of his mind, he invited the human and his young Ruhar companion aboard the flagship. The admiral expected a few moments of diversion, perhaps he would assign a junior officer to give the aliens a tour of areas of the ship that were not too sensitive for foreigners to see.
Instead, the human had boldly and rather crassly offered to bargain, for the Mighty 98th to rescue the Alien Legion force that had become mired in a stalemate on Feznako. Tashallo and his officers got a good laugh at the absurd notion, and at the idea the lowly humans might have anything worth bargaining with.
“I am sorry, Sergeant Colter,” Tashallo said gently when he was able to stop laughing. “It is quite impossible.”
“Uh, well,” Jesse was uncomfortable with that part. Perkins wanted him to bring home the bacon, without giving away the store, or some other metaphor he couldn’t think of right then. The Elder power tap was a priceless artifact that should not be given away just for a ride back to Fresno. “What if I could offer you something to make it worth your while?”
Tashallo chuckled, a dry wheezing sound that made the hairs on the back of Jesse’s neck stand up. “Human, there is nothing you could offer me that would be worth me intervening in the situation on Feznako.”
“Because, uh, you’re prevented from helping lower species by treaty or something?”
“That, too,” the fine antennas above the admiral’s eyes rose and dipped. Perhaps he was surprised by the human’s knowledge of interstellar politics. “What I meant is, I already have a substantial wager against your ‘Alien Legion’ holding that planet. No offense to you.”
“Ah, yeah, none taken,” Jesse reminded himself that he needed to be polite even if it killed him. “You bet against us?”
“Of course. It is not a lucrative wager, because the odds are so stacked against your Legion that the payout will hardly be worth my while to wager. But,” his main antennas bounced. “I need the action, you see.”
“I don’t know much about betting,” he shrugged as an apology for not appreciating the activity that was nearly a religion among the Jeraptha. “My folks don’t hold with gambling, so I didn’t grow up with it. Some fantasy football, that’s all.”
Tashallo’s head lifted slightly, and cocked to the side as he listened to the translation again. “I understand that this ‘foot-ball’ is a sport played with an egg-shaped object?”
“Uh, yeah, I guess. Yeah, that’s right, close enough.”
“Why did you say ‘fantasy’ before the word ‘foot-ball’? My translator is, confused.”
“Well, it’s, you know. You don’t bet on games between real teams. You make your own team out of real players on real teams. Maybe the word ‘fantasy’ ain’t the best way to describe it. I mean, it’s not a fantasy like, uh,” he stumbled to a halt. He wanted to explain the difference between fantasy sports and a more pleasurable type of fantasy, but talking about sex with beetles made him queasy. “It’s not fantasy like dragons and stuff. It’s make-believe you know?”
The admiral shifted in his couch, sitting more upright with evident interest. “Please, Ser-geant Jeh-see Coal-ter. My translator is having difficulty with your, unique language.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. I am sorry about that.” He recalled the instructions given to the Expeditionary Force when they were given zPhone translators way back on Camp Alpha, what seemed like a million years ago now. Speak clearly and slowly, and avoid using slang whenever possible. That wasn’t always easy to remember.
“Explain, please,” Tashallo leaned forward, mildly interested. “A person betting on fan-tasy foot-ball does not bet on the actions of two real teams? This makes no sense.”
“Ah, yeah, that’s what a lot of people say. But it’s fun! Unless you get stuck with a quarterback who suddenly forgets how to throw the ball. Um, look, you create a, uh, a virtual team,” he found the word he had been trying to think of. “Your virtual team is made of real players on real teams, but you can pick the best players from all the real teams, to be on your virtual team, get it? Of course, you can’t really pick all the best players ‘cause other guys in the league get to draft players also.”
“A virtual team, composed of real players,” Tashallo said in a near-whisper. “Tell me, human, how are points awarded?”
“Well, that depends on the rules of the league you’re in, you see? Different fantasy leagues have different rules. Like, in a PPR league-”
“Pee pee are?”
“Oh, sorry. Points Per Reception. A receiver doesn’t need to score a touchdown to earn you points, in a PPR league you get points for how many catches, or how many yards a receiver gets. Some leagues score yards after a catch separately. Anyways, you also get points for actual touchdowns, and yards gained rushing. Most leagues just score an entire team’s defense, but you can get really complicated and draft individual defensive players. They get points for sacks, tackles, uh-” he realized he had lost his audience, for the admiral had risen on his couch and gestured excitedly to his staff. “It’s, uh, complicated?” He added while drawing his shoulders in and placing his arms closely in front of him. Beetles had rushed over and squeezed into the small briefing room, jabbering excitedly while he spoke. They surrounded him and his translator could not keep up with the cacophony of alien voices. “Hey,” he protested gently as someone bumped him from
behind. “Did I say something wrong? Listen, I’m sorry if I-”
Tashallo roared and gestured with his main antennas, making the crowd give Jesse space. “It is I who needs to apologize, Sergeant. My crew became overly excited when I told them what you explained to me. This fantasy, or concept of virtual sports teams, is very exciting to us.”
Jesse was bombarded by questions that stretched his thin memory of a casual hobby he had not participated in since Columbus Day. Was football the only sport that had a virtual equivalent?
“Nah, I was in a fantasy baseball league one season, but that took too much time, because there are so many games every week. You have to keep track of starting pitchers of the real opposing team your batters are playing against. And you need to know your own rotation of starting and relief pitchers. Plus,” he shook his head, “sometimes teams will use an opener pitcher as well as a long reliever, a set-up man and a closer, with the starter covering only four to five innings. That is too much work for a hobby.”
There were many more questions. How did playoffs work, if the real team of your chosen players did not make the playoffs? How did-
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jesse waved his arms slowly in a manner he hoped was seen as non-threatening. “Are y’all telling me you don’t have sports? What do you bet on?”
Another dry, wheezing creepy chuckle from the admiral. “We do have athletic contests you would call ‘sports’ and we do wager on them. However, the athletes who participate in our professional sports are from dedicated religious orders. In your society, you would think of these players as ‘monks’.”
Jesse’s idea of monks was guys wearing robes and shaving their heads. “You have to be a monk to play sports? Why?”
“Why, to keep the cheating to a manageable level, of course,” Tashallo explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the galaxy. “With sports controlled by religious orders, the cheating is expected to be within allowable limits, which reduces the risk to wagerers.”
“You know there will be cheating,” Jesse said slowly.
“Certainly. We often place side wagers on how much cheating there will be in a game, as determined by a post-game analysis. It is also possible to wager on how much cheating went into the analysis, although that is considered to be in poor taste,” he chuckled. Tashallo tilted his head and looked at Jesse. “There is no cheating in your human sports?”
Jesse shrugged. “If you ask my buddy Ski, the refs must have been paid off every time the Packers lose. There is probably cheating going on, as far as I know you can’t bet on it.”
“Ah, I understand. Sergeant Colter, there is so much we must know about this concept of fantasy sports. Please tell us-”
“Whoa, Admiral Sir.” Jesse saw the glimmer of an opportunity. While he answered the barrage of questions about a truly trivial subject, he had been watching the growing excitement of the beetles. They were literally vibrating with excitement. One unfortunate beetle had passed out and slumped against a bulkhead, when Jesse explained that sometimes coaches rested their starters at the end of the regular season, which could really screw up your fantasy team’s chances in the fantasy playoffs. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Sergeant Colter,” Tashallo spoke loudly to be heard over the buzzing in the compartment, a buzzing caused by mandibles and antennas being rubbed together with feverish excitement. “This concept of fantasy or virtual sports teams is, to my considerable knowledge, unique in the galaxy. This will be the greatest innovation in wagering in the past ten thousand years! My people simply must understand more about it.”
“You must, huh?” Jesse’s momma didn’t raise no fool. “Tell me, what’s it worth to you?”
“You wish to bargain for your knowledge?” Tashallo’s eyes narrowed but he did not seem displeased or even surprised.
Then the compartment erupted in shouting and frantic gestures that made Jesse’s translator go dormant. He waited out the uproar that lasted several minutes, until all the beetles went silent and leaned toward him with eager anticipation. Tashallo’s main antennas stood straight up. “Sergeant, please pardon the interruption. We had to wager on what you will ask in exchange for your information.”
“You bet on what I want? Oh, of course you did. All right, here’s the deal. You take me and Nert, that is, Cadet Dandurf, back to Fresno. Once we get there, you kick the lizards off the place, so humans can be pulled off the surface safely. Once you do that, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
There was a low buzzing like a murmur, as happy and disappointed beetles settled their wagers. Tashallo looked pleased, he had guessed correctly. “While I can arrange to transport you and the cadet back to Feznako, which I advise you against because the Kristang are very likely going to keep that world, I cannot justify interfering there. That fight is a dispute between client species. Your people were regrettably foolish to take on that particular fight.”
“I’m not the only reason you need to go there. I told you, I’m not an expert about fantasy sports. I know people who are experts, and they’re on Fresno. You want to know how fantasy sports really work, you need to talk with them.”
That statement sparked another round of agitated argument among the beetles, while Jesse stood stoically with arms across his chest.
Tashallo was unhappy, Jesse could tell that even through the completely alien facial structure, so he pressed forward. “You said you bet on Fresno, huh?”
“That is correct. Again, I intend no offense in telling you that I bet the Kristang would keep Feznako. Because I have an interest in the outcome on Feznako, I am prohibited from-”
“Uh huh,” Jesse took the risk of interrupting the powerful alien admiral. “Hey, question for you; is that wager still kosher if the Ruhar had their fingers in the pie?” Jesse knew he was mixing metaphors and knew it didn’t matter because the translator would change it anyway. The information about Glabosor’s treason had reached him aboard the Deal Me In just before that ship made the final jump to rendezvous with the Mighty 98th.
“The Ruhar cheated?” Tashallo’s head bobbed up and down with agitation. “I did not think they had such imagination. Ha ha, if they did cheat, they failed,” he laughed.
“They didn’t fail. I mean, the hamsters who cheated.”
Tashallo stopped laughing. “Explain yourself, Sergeant.”
Jesse told the admiral about Glabosor’s treason, while the beetles around him chattered excitedly with each other.
When Jesse finished, Tashallo held up his antennas for silence. “You have evidence of this, this perfidy?” Cheating on that level, a level that threatened to invalidate the wagers placed on the outcome, was a mortal sin in Jeraptha society.
“Perfidy? Heck yeah. We got perfidy, double-dealing and shenanigans and whatever you want to call it. My leader Colonel Perkins has the evidence. The hamster Commissioner agrees with her.”
The admiral’s eyes were downcast while his thorax expanded and contracted like a bellows. He was seething with anger.
Jesse unfolded his arms and clapped his hands once to get the attention of all the beetles. “Admiral, to make a wager valid, there has to be risk, right? Both sides have to be in danger of losing? The way I see it, the Kristang were never in danger, because this Glabosor company, a Ruhar company, cheated to help them. All your wagers about Fresno are bogus.”
There was a gasp from all the assembled beetles, and Jesse had to cover his ears to protect them from the loud shouting. Finally, Tashallo called for silence. “This,” he announced with his mandibles quaking from anger, “is a heinous crime. We must investigate! I will go there myself.”
One of the admiral’s aides raised up on her hind legs to get attention. “Admiral, the task force must remain here while there is a threat from-”
“Really?” Tashallo shook with laughter. “It is true the Mighty 98th must remain here. However, I believe the I Am Aching To Give Somebody A Beat-Down And Today Is YOUR Lucky Day is scheduled to rotate back
to base, for maintenance on some system or other.”
“It is?” The aide shook his head in confusion. “The Beat-Down’s daily reports do not mention any-”
“That is because I have just decided I am displeased with this ship’s jump drive, or maser cannons or some other damned excuse you can cook up for me.” The admiral clapped his main antennas together. “Prepare the Beat-Down for departure. I will be in my flag quarters, along with our distinguished guest Sergeant Colter and his fuzzy friend. The Beat-Down can swing by Feznako on the way back to base for repairs.”
The aide’s head drew back. “Admiral, Feznako is located in the opposite direction from the nearest starship servicing base.”
“It is?” Tashallo shook his head slowly. “Sadly, I was never very good at navigation.”
One of the stricken Swift Arrow warriors groaned and Jates spun toward the sound, striding over to the bloody Kristang warrior, who had one arm flailing in an attempt to reach his lost rifle. Jates stomped on the hand, trapping it between his boot and the hard concrete floor. The warrior shrieked curses at Jates and when that didn’t get a response, swallowed and spat mucus and blood onto the Surgun’s suit.
Their situation was bad, very bad. Going into the valley to engage the Kristang had allowed the Keepers to escape, at least for a while, but it meant the two junior commandos missed the only faint hope they had of being extracted by air until the following night. They had been chased into a village, their ammunition running low, skinsuit powerpacks more than half drained, constantly harassed by enraged Swift Arrow warriors. Dave thought the only reason they were still alive was that most of that clan’s warriors were too busy killing each other, in a fight for control of the clan, to bother with two unimportant Legion soldiers who were far behind the lines anyway.
Jates looked down at the gore dripping down his legs, the disgusting fluids automatically repelled by the suit’s surface to avoid compromising its chameleonware capabilities. To Dave’s surprise, the Verd said something softly to the Kristang.
Deathtrap Page 42
