Solar Kill

by Charles Ingrid

  Jack felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

  Chapter 18

  The hangar door to the base opened as he pressed the transmitter, and his eyes were dazzled for a moment by the bright lights. The Purple was there waiting for him when the door opened.

  “Trouble?”

  “Just bad weather.” Jack reached back and threw the ten pound bag of rin into Purple’s solar plexus and grinned as his boss staggered back along the dock. “Getting soft?”

  “Hell no! What is this stuff?”

  “Rin. A local farmer was trying to peddle it to stores when some of Poonum’s overzealous Fishers tried to confiscate it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Me? Like a total innocent, I asked him how much he wanted for it, bought it, and split it three ways.”

  Purple laughed and shouldered his sack. As they walked along the bay to the inner offices, he asked, “Do you think he was with the rebellion?”

  Jack shrugged. “Might have been. If he was, the rebellion is seven flakes richer.” He halted long enough to put both feet into his jumpsuit, straighten up and zip up. He carried his boots in his hand as he padded after the Purple. “If he wasn’t, I got good PR on both sides.”

  “Well, thanks for thinking of me. I can use it.”

  “Anytime. Ah—have the chemist look at it before you take it home. There was some question about whether or not it had been poisoned.” Jack ducked over to put on his shoes, and the flying bag of rin missed him by a good hand’s width.

  “We’ve got trouble here.” The Purple’s tanned face, undiminished by weeks of bad weather, looked deadly serious as he leaned over the wall map and attached a marker on the transparent screen.

  “How much trouble?” Jack looked at the map. Overlays showed the lay of the land, and he soon recognized the downriver region.

  “When Dominion engineers came in and built a reactor here, they stayed to work on some other projects at the request of Shining fur-grinning tooth.” That was the name of the religious-political head that Poonum served. The Fisher’s name was totally unpronounceable and nearly untranslatable. Jack had long since gathered that this Fisher ruled the entire planet—whether or not anyone else wanted him to.

  Jack stabbed a fingertip at the map. “Like this? That’s the dam, isn’t it?”

  “Yes … and downriver, where the rebellion is centered, is suffering. The rain runoff from the floodgates has kept it from being totally disastrous, but a little drought goes a long way in these provinces. Not to mention the strain the dam is beginning to show upriver, where some of the smaller villages are getting completely washed out.”

  Jack scratched his head. “Must have seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said, before tapping the downriver regions. “Were they rebelling before or after the dam was built?”

  The Purple smiled. “Near as we can tell, they’ve been in rebellion the last three generations.”

  “Oh.”

  This was the first serious talk they’d had since Jack arrived. The Purple had had Jack touring with Poonum, learning a little of the language, and drilling the troops. As a result, Jack was now extremely familiar with the weather patterns, the burgeoning river which seemed to be the major highway of this continent, and much of the local geography. Jack had been very busy, but he hadn’t really been briefed on the true situation here.

  “I take it we’ve dropped the pretense of calling it a strike.”

  The Purple nodded.

  “Then you realize we could be in violation of Dominion law here. If the ruling power is using us to stay on top, in spite of the mandate of his own subjects, we have no right to treat with him. The Dominion only recognizes the popular government.”

  The Purple lowered his hand and moved away from the wall map. “We’re not working for the Dominion.”

  “No, but we’ve still got the dictates of the Emperor to consider.”

  Purple perched on the corner of a desk. He tapped the desktop with a rigid finger. “Jack, you’re treading on some dangerous ground here. We’re working at the behest of a private employer.”

  “And if that employer is wrong?”

  The Purple shrugged. He was as lean and fit as ever, inside his silvery uniform that reflected the sleekness of his silver hair. “That’s not for us to worry about.”

  “Treason is for everybody to worry about.”

  “Not you!”

  Jack straightened. “You said you wanted to hire a man of conscience.”

  “Conscience be damned. This is a military operation.”

  “If it’s a rebellion, it’s not that simple. We’re not supposed to interfere.”

  “And strikebusting isn’t interference?”

  Jack made a small movement, aware that the Purple was coiled, like a deadly snake ready to strike. “It’s not my job to argue politics or economic sanctions with you. It’s just that I—I don’t think we’re in the right here. I don’t think that Shining fur-grinning tooth has the right to declare himself ruler here, and be supported by the Dominion, if he’s not wanted.”

  “And what is it that makes you think he’s not wanted?” All humor had fled the brown eyes watching him closely.

  Jack dared to turn his back and eyed the wall screen map. He shrugged. “A voice or two in the local pub. That old Fisher out on the river whose hide I just saved. Maybe it was Skal’s attitude when I got here. I don’t know.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I suggest you don’t wonder. We have trouble downriver and you’re going to have to go in there and chill it down.”

  “With Poonum’s men?”

  “No … with the suit.”

  Jack spun around. He said nothing, but his pulse sped up. He had no wish to reveal to the Purple his fear of his own battle armor. “You want a show of force?”

  “I want them to know downriver what we can do—if we have to. There are silos there, of grain and rin. The rumor is that the locals have been tapping them, in spite of government protection, and His Highness wants to avoid food riots. There’s a very good possibility that the rin you bought today came from those silos—and was intended as part of a set up to tweak our noses.”

  Jack started to say something, then snapped his mouth tight. The Purple raised a gray eyebrow, challenging him to finish the statement, but Jack shook his head.

  “You leave tomorrow morning.”

  “By boat or skimmer?”

  “You can take your skimmer. And, Jack, don’t go native on this one. That’s not the kind of statement we want to make. But don’t avoid them either. Keep your ears open, and let me know what you hear.”

  “Even if it’s not something you want to hear?” “Especially,” said the Purple, getting up. The tenseness sloughed away with the graceful movement as he stretched. “Make sure Amber knows how to contact us if there are any problems.”

  Jack nodded. He left the war-room and listened to the dull roar of thunder, muffled by the massive building. If it kept raining, they might wish this place had been built on stilts as well.

  “You can’t take the suit.”

  “It’s my orders.”

  Amber sat, cross-legged on the floor, on top of a small, handwoven rug they’d bought from the natives. It was a beige and brown design of interlocking circles and she liked to use it for her meditation. She traced one of the circles now, not looking at Jack as she spoke. “It would be a slaughter. None of the Fishers use armor.”

  “I won’t fire on anybody if I don’t have to. The suit’s just for making an impression.”

  “Skal wasn’t that impressed by it.”

  She had a point there, but he wasn’t going to concede it to her. “Skal has never seen the suit in full operation—and besides, he’s a rebel commander. He’s in hiding. No one’s seen him since he approached us.”

  Amber looked up. Her long hair framed her face and, not for the first time since they’d arrived, Jack felt the stirrings of emotions he didn’t want to have. Not toward Ambe
r, anyway. He swallowed.

  “What did you call Skal?” Amber asked.

  “I called him a natural leader,” Jack said, turning away from her gaze. He buffed the Flexalinks exterior with a soft cloth, admiring the opalescent gleam.

  “Maybe he’s the one you should be taking orders from.”

  “I signed a contract, Amber.”

  She made a disdainful noise. Then added, “It’s not like a religious oath or something. You’d think you were a Walker and this was your life’s mission?’

  “My work is my life’s mission. Have you forgotten why we’re even here?”

  “No, but maybe you have.” They glared at one another.

  Jack dropped his polishing cloth. “I came to build a rep with the suit.”

  “But that’s only part of it! You came because somewhere along the way, you want to find out who ordered all your men stranded on Milos, and who ordered Claron burned off. You came because someone dirtied the “Pure” war, and you want to find out who it was, and make them pay. That’s why we’re here, Jack—and if it looks like the Purple is walking the same streets as that someone, then, I don’t know about you, but I don’t want any part of it!” She pushed herself up off the rug and stomped into the bedroom. A door slamming echoed her footsteps.

  Jack kicked the suit. The Flexalinks shimmered and, almost instantaneously, he heard, Hi, Jack! Going to wear me?

  “Oh, fine,” he groaned. Now the suit was awake. Amber must have shut down all her dampers, out of spite. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to wear you,”

  Why not?

  It was like arguing with a three year old. “Because I don’t want to.”

  Silence ensued, but he caught a mental wave of unhappiness. He picked the polishing cloth up and went back to work on the Flexalinks. He stopped. “Can you feel it when I do this?”

  There was a dip in consciousness, as though he’d tripped over a black hole in the midst of a thought, then I can if you want me to. Another pause. Do you want me to?

  “Not now,” Jack answered absently. He stopped again. “Do you know where you are?”

  Everywhere came the answer in a blinding flash. “No, I mean, inside the suit.”

  Not inside. Around you. Use the suit and I am all around you. A wave of pleasure.

  Jack shook his head. It was hopeless trying to deal with the beast. Amber hadn’t been able to pinpoint it any more than he had. The suit began humming that strange song of its own fashioning. “What are you doing?”

  A wave of surprise. Growing.

  He stopped polishing. It knew when it was growing now. “What are you?”

  Thoughtfulness. Then I don’t know. I—A very long pause, during which Jack almost felt something raking his own mind and thoughts. Then, a moment of satisfaction. I’m Bogie. “Bogie?”

  Yes. Unidentified object. Jack smiled, in spite of himself. “Right. Okay, you’re Bogie.”

  We’re going somewhere?

  “Definitely.” He gathered the suit in a hug and carried it to the door. The skimmer was tied to the veranda, and Jack loaded the armor with suitable huffs, puffs and grunts, intended to let Amber know that he could use her help. The sky had cleared. Overhead, the evening showed a canopy of stars, none of which he recognized, all of which he appreciated.

  He walked back into the house to get his duffel bag. Amber peered around the corner of the hall.

  “Were you going to leave without saying goodbye to me?”

  “Not if I could help it.” He paused. “I need you to put the restraints back on the suit.”

  Her eyelashes lowered, then she looked back up at him. “All right. I still don’t think it’s dangerous—”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” He stopped at her sigh. “Look, Amber, the suit has a whole different reaction when I’m fighting in it. Call it blood lust, whatever. And the berserker that’s growing is a mindless, fighting beast. The suit is treacherous and to treat it any differently can be fatal for me—and possibly you.”

  “Then get rid of it.”

  “I can’t … not just yet. When I make the guard, I’ll get a new one.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You just don’t want to get rid of it. You won’t admit it, but you’re kind of fond of it, just like you got fond of me, and you won’t admit that either.”

  Jack hefted his duffel bag. “Yeah, I guess I’m just good at picking up strays.” He regretted the words the minute they were spoken. Amber’s head snapped back and her face flushed as though she’d been slapped. She brushed past him without a sound, heading for the skimmer, and leaned into the back where the suit lay.

  She put her hands on it for a few minutes, then backed out. “That should keep it quiet for you,” she said woodenly. “By the way, if you’re interested, it’s named itself now. Calls itself ’Bogie’.”

  “I know,” Jack said after her retreating form, but the slam of the front door cut off his voice. He threw the duffel into the skimmer, climbed in, gunned it savagely and took off in a roar.

  He entered his room in the inn apprehensively, all too aware of the suspicious stares he received in the sparsely populated tavern below. Downriver was dry, for this part of the continent, dry, and its soil was brittle. Jack vaguely remembered from long ago days on Dorman’s Stand what a worry it was not to have the rains or the wells available for irrigation. Crops and animals both withered, the life sucked out of them. He paused after stepping into the room, trying to gather that memory that had all but been permanently wiped out by seventeen years of cold sleep, tried and failed, as it slipped beyond his grasp again.

  “Have a beer,” a pleased voice suggested from the shadows. “It may help ease the cares of the world.”

  Jack dropped the suit. Even before the sinuous form stood up and moved into his line of sight, he knew who it was.

  Skal grinned at him, whiskers flicking. A beam of starlight from the skylight glanced off the lethal-looking blaster in his hand.

  Chapter 19

  You have me at a disadvantage,” said Jack, moving slightly into a patch of darkness in the room.

  Skal flipped his tail. “With your pants down, eh?” he said with a laughing hiss. He put his gun away. “I wasn’t sure it would be you, after all.”

  “That would have been a surprise.” The Fisher stroked his whiskers against his right cheek. “It’s good to see you again, commander. You can come out of the dark now. In case you haven’t experienced it yet, we Fishers have excellent night vision.” He extended his now-empty hand.

  Jack shook it. “I’m told you’re the enemy.” Skal gave a body-long Fisher shrug. “Perhaps it depends on the point of view. Come in, sit down. I have some stew and cold beer—the imported stuff—waiting for you.” He indicated a small table, set with bottles and a clay crock which let off a savory smell. Bowls and wooden spoons awaited.

  Jack tilted his head. “Sounds good.” He settled down and let Skal serve him, taking care to keep his profile clear of the smallish window and his back to the wall of his room, rather than the door.

  Skal noticed and let out a barking laugh. “Once a mercenary, always a mercenary, eh? Not an ordinary dinner guest.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “No.” Skal held out a beer after opening it expertly. “Here’s to honorable adversaries.”

  Jack took it with pleasure, the beer still chilled and the stew, judging from the steam wafting up from the chunks of real meat, still hot. He took a long draught from the bottle, savoring the flavor of beer from off-world. It wasn’t Samson’s, but it was an excellent brew.

  Skal put his feet up on the wooden seat of an extra chair. “I think,” he mused, tilting his chin up, “I will invite breweries for industry when I take over.”

  Jack nearly choked. He wiped the foam off his lips. “I didn’t hear that,” he answered.

  “Of course you did.” Skal eyed him. He turned up the lamplight on the wall sconce behind him. The oily wick flared a little, and the room brightened. �
��You surprise me, Jack Storm. I had gathered, from our first meeting, that you had blood like the icy waters of our northern continents.”

  Skal hadn’t known, then, Jack thought, that he’d been mistaken. Jack sat back and took another pull while he thought of an answer. He decided no answer was the best one, and sat with what he hoped was an enigmatic expression.

  The Fisher’s whiskers flicked, once, barely. Jack took that for an edge in the conversation. He leaned forward on his elbows. “You must remember, Skal, that I’m considered a formidable fighter, with or without my battle armor. But, like all fighters, I prefer not to begin the conflict, but to see if it will be inevitably carried to me.”

  Skal pushed a little away from the table. “Shining fur-grinning tooth has done that already,” he said. “By inviting off-worlders to help him elevate his leadership so that no flood of unrest can possibly wash it away. But he’s a fool Fisher.”

  Jack took a bite of stew, determined to have something of a hot meal while he could. He chewed slowly, letting the juices fill his mouth. Amber was only a slightly better cook than himself, and that wasn’t saying a lot. “This is good.”

  Skal nodded. “My eldest litter mate will thank you for the compliment.” He relaxed a little and took up his own spoon. “I take it you’re not into politics.”

  “Not really. I’m generally not into rebellions either.”

  “Then perhaps I can convince you that my side has some merit to it.”

  “All sides have merit,” Jack answered, “even if it is only to subjugate and thereby avoid dying. Not much merit, but some.”

  Skal chewed his meal with much relish, flashing his sharp, white, teeth. “What would it take, then, commander?”

  “Nothing you could provide me with. I would need to find the motivation on my own and,” Jack scraped the bowl for a last bite, “I’m not going to be looking.”

  Skal said nothing to that, but his whiskers and face moved in a Fisher grin.

  In companionable silence, they finished their meal. Skal pushed back. “What is it you’re here for? The silos?”