by Daniel Gibbs
More gunfire cracked as the truck dove away. Kiel smiled. It was just like his men had done to intimidate the masses aboard the freighters. Desperate? Yes, they’d be desperate, and that would make them dangerous.
4
Dean Forest
Canaan—Terran Coalition
13 July 2464
Chief Warrant Officer Ehud Dwyer banked the shuttle over the thickest forest Jackson had ever seen. Towering evergreens crowded the expanse to the horizon in each direction, with tall hills obscured under the verdant carpet. Here and there, rock had sloughed off after eons, leaving behind jagged limestone cliffs.
“There’s a gorgeous sight.” Dwyer’s accent hinted at the Appalachian settlements on the far side of New Washington, Jackson’s homeworld, but Jackson wondered if Dwyer had seen the planet at all since he was born on a freighter running supplies prior to the start of the war. “Don’t often get a close-up of terrestrial beauty, eh, Cap’n?”
“I wouldn’t mind more chances, Sparks.”
“Us pilots spend so much time in the skies and among the stars. I think we take it for granted.”
Brant shifted in his seat, sweat beading on his forehead. “Is that why we’re skimming treetops so close they could inspect the fuselage for missing bolts?”
Dwyer snorted. “Easy there, LT. I won’t sully my record with a dead officer on a milk run.”
“I’m more worried you might have high explosives under the floorboards when you belly flop us onto the landing pad.”
“I keep all the high-grade stuff for operational use, sir.” Dwyer glanced over the back of his seat, a grin brightening his olive complexion. “ I won’t let Hashem find anything aboard this bird except a plasma grenade or two.”
Jackson chuckled at the old joke. It wouldn’t be the end of an assignment without Sparks needling Home a bit—a good way to blow off steam. He checked rangefinder on the console. “Eyes up, Warrant. Target in six klicks.”
“Roger that, Cap’n. Already have a visual.”
A visual? Jackson didn’t see anything except trees and a cliff face looming to the northeast. Wait. There. A wisp of smoke curled from the right base below a jumble of boulders. Jackson squinted. It might be a red roof…
“Target acquired.” Dwyer dropped the shuttle into a steep climb, arcing at the top so he could put them on a descent right for the coordinates. “Clearing sighted. Looks plenty wide. Shouldn’t have to scorch any trees to make ’er fit—that would have been a damn shame.”
“No argument there, Warrant.” Jackson’s stomach lurched as the shuttle swooped across the trees, banked sharply again, then set down among a stand of pines. Engine exhaust whipped pine needles into a storm as the gear touched the ground.
“Smooth flight.” Jackson unbuckled and clapped Dwyer on the shoulder. “My apologies for any mess my XO made on your deck.”
Dwyer laughed as Guinto unstrapped, following Jackson out the rear ramp. The scent of pine sap and scorched grass wafted into the compartment. Jackson stopped for a deep breath of fresh Canaan air, his first taste of the unrecycled stuff since leaving Hebrides Major. It was so quiet there, beyond the dying whine of the shuttle’s engines—branches shuffling in the breeze, a hawk screeching overhead, but not much else. Tranquility.
The projectile caromed off the shuttle’s fuselage in an explosion of sparks, seconds before the rifle’s report reached Jackson’s ears. His hand went to his sidearm, but he knew better than to draw it—unless he wanted the next one in his heart.
“I guess he’s home,” Brant muttered.
“Sev! It’s Captain Adams!” Jackson hollered. “We’ve got a new contract, if you’re interested.”
The front door to the cabin hung open. Jackson saw the glint of a weapon’s barrel, then the whole long, customized sniper rifle emerged from the portal. The man holding it was tall, slim like an athlete, with broad shoulders, in his late thirties. The breeze brushed his shaggy blond hair. Blue eyes tracked Jackson then Brant then the shuttle. “Yes?”
“Nice place, Sev,” Brant said. “I guess you don’t get many visitors.”
Sevastopol Rast shrugged his left shoulder. The right supported the rifle, which didn’t waver—or lower. “It is.”
“The pay’s already authorized.” Jackson stepped forward, a plastic chit in the palm of his hand. “All yours, if you sign up and accompany us back to Lawrence City.”
“Did he shoot at my bird again?” Dwyer stomped down the ramp. He scowled up at the shallow dent above the open hatch. “Come on, now, Sev!”
“Easy, Sparks.”
“It’d be better for team morale, Captain, if Sev didn’t shoot at us every time we came to visit,” Brant said, “no matter where we find he’s living when we go looking.”
“It would, Brant, but it’s his way of reminding us of his sovereignty.”
“My land.” Sev leaned the rifle over his arm and stepped down from the porch. “Mission?”
“Infiltration of a trafficking ring out on the border.”
“League?”
Jackson nodded.
Sev spat on the ground. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Jackson handed over a slip of paper with the mission basics but hung on to the payment chit. “Take whatever you need. We’ll clear it with the higher-ups.”
Sev’s eyes narrowed. “Orders?”
“Only from me. We’ll keep the same chain of command. You do what I tell you, and I’m the one who answers to the brass.”
“Reckon you shouldn’t sock any more Marines in the jaw.” Dwyer rubbed his thumb at the depression, as if he could remove the dent. “I bet word’s gotten around.”
Sev smirked.
“I’d prefer nobody had any run-ins with fellow servicemen and women,” Jackson said. “This isn’t us playing in our own sandbox then shaking it out of our shoes before we get called in to dinner. We’re tied into a command structure with other units attached.”
“Headaches,” Sev said.
“For me, not you. But it also means more resources—and more backup when the shooting starts, which we will avoid at all costs.”
Sev nodded slowly. “Gear?”
“Any and all.”
He turned and walked back into the cabin. Jackson heard shuffling from inside.
“Does that mean he’s on board?” Brant asked.
The smoke from the chimney dissipated until it was gone. More shuffling. A rucksack flew through the door, skidding across the deck.
“I’d say it does.” Jackson smiled.
“Cap’n, I hate to be the purveyor of doom and gloom, but this is the fella who killed a nest of drug dealers to make himself the perfect lookout perch on our last op.”
“He did.”
“You think it’s likely the police on that planet are still wantin’ to prosecute?”
“I’m told CIS intervened, but I’ll keep him on a shorter leash this time around.” I’d better unless I want true innocents to die in the crossfire. “I know you have your reservations, Sparks, but this is the guy we need on the team—the one who’ll do the things no one else can stomach when we’re in our direst spots.”
“Roger that, Cap’n.” Dwyer didn’t seem happy with the answer.
“Just do your part, and make sure when you set off your next round of charges, you don’t accidentally blow his eyebrows off,” Brant said. “I think he’s still mad about that one.”
Sev came up to them carrying two duffel bags with the rucksack on his back. The rifle was nowhere to be seen, but Jackson wagered it was disassembled and stowed in one of the bags. “Ready, Captain.”
“Good to have you back, Sev.”
“It’s the League. I’ll go.” He brushed past Jackson, ignoring the open hand with the chit. “Get paid later.”
“That easy?” Brant muttered.
Sev stopped just shy of the ramp. He stared down at Brant. “Trafficking? Refugees? League killed my parents, sisters. I was eight. Came to Terrans. This is my life, my w
orld. League won’t make anyone slaves again.” Then he disappeared into the compartment with a muttered, “Sparks,” as he passed Dwyer.
“That went better than expected,” Jackson said.
“I guess so.” Brant raised an eyebrow. “Which leaves Gina.”
Four hours later, Jackson threaded a path through the teeming masses cramming into Magemill Market. He knew exactly who he was looking for, and though half the crowd hailed from Gaelic ethnic roots, the rest were a mix of African, European, and Arabic peoples from across the Terran worlds. The independent commerce post boasted sixty thousand residents. Jackson would have sworn a quarter of them were buying and selling among the hundreds of booths. The scents of exotic foods, sounds of merchants haggling, sights of riotous colors, and roars of persistent conversation assaulted his senses.
Gina was there, somewhere, watching him. He locked onto a cloaked, hunched old woman with a cane, ready to step in front of her when she turned—except her tall granddaughter took her hand, revealing wrinkled skin and varicose veins. Next, Jackson followed a slender young lady in grease-spattered coveralls. He got within a meter of her before she turned aside to answer a friend’s shouted greeting. Wrong face.
Two more had the same features he sought—tanned skin, hazel eyes, curly black hair. Jackson shook his head. At least he could rule out the ladies shorter than he was. Gina would stand nose to nose with him when she showed up.
After half an hour of attempting to track her down, Jackson stopped at a stall hawking repurposed home robots for cleaning and repair.
“Got a DRD Six you’d like.” The merchant was kicked back in a chair, boots up on the table, tapping a steady beat. Baggy trousers and a leather jacket, the arms folded, obscured the person’s gender. So did the slouched hat with the brim lowered deep over the face.
The chin, though—and the smile. Jackson snagged the hat’s brim and lifted.
Gina Wilkes winked at him. She seemed more tan, more relaxed, like she’d spent the past few weeks sunning on the southeastern coastal beaches—which she very well may have done. Jackson would have to examine Sinclair’s records in greater detail. “Hey, Jack.”
“Gina.” Jackson put his hands in his pockets. “Nice to see you.”
“Same here.”
“Selling bots these days? Seems boring.”
“It is.” She kept up the beat with her boots. “I paid the vendor to take a fifteen-minute walk and let me meet with someone. For as much money as I gave him, I’ll be shocked if he ever returns.”
“All it took was money. Is that right?”
“Possibly persuasion.” She batted her eyelashes at him then laughed. “It was fun watching you get so close, and yet so far.”
“Not as far as you’d like. I noticed your booth from a block away.”
“Darn. I must be slipping.”
“You weren’t selling anything. Everyone else cares about making the money they need to support their families.”
“Goodness knows I don’t.” She stopped the tapping and let her legs slip underneath the table. “Either you’re here for a new toy, or Intelligence is about to make my life more interesting again.”
“It is a new assignment.”
“The border?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Gina shrugged. “Lucky guess. It’s all over the news. The talking heads aren’t talking about anything except whether to dump millions of people back on the League’s rocks or find rocks of our own to dump them all.”
“Got it in one.”
“And you’re here to put the band back together.”
“Ehud flew Brant and me out this morning. We’ve come from Sev’s place.”
“Oh?” Gina leaned forward. “I didn’t think Sevastopol wanted any interruptions, but if it’s the League—”
“He’ll make exceptions.”
“I’ll bet.”
Jackson slid the paper across the table with the pay chit atop, like he was buying himself a new floor-scrubbing bot.
Gina’s eyes widened as she read the details. “Wow. You’ve got some admirers up top, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. So, are you in?”
“Depends. How’s the pay?”
“Same as usual. Good. Better support, more leeway—”
“For me, not for you.”
“I’m the one in uniform, remember?”
“Not today. How long did you last before slipping back into the civvies? Twenty-four hours?”
“Probably less.” Jackson had on a simple sweater and pants.
Gina scanned the rest of the document then slid it back to him. “I’m intrigued. This ought to be a real PR coup for the Coalition. Rescued babies, tearful mothers. Is this why your bosses want it done quietly? So there’s no one to blame if it fails?”
“That’s the Gina I remember—cheery and optimistic. Are you in?”
She balanced the pay chit on her finger like a seesaw. “I’m weighing my options. You haven’t convinced me yet.”
“Then you can’t have the money. You know how this works.”
“I do. What’s my role? The same as usual? Infiltration and acrobatics?”
“Unless you’re joining a tech division to put your newfound bot-repair skills to work, then yes. Aphendrika is one of several trade hubs along the border. It gets a lot of neutral traffic—plus less legitimate business.”
“So, you really do need me.” Gina smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.”
“Standard conditions apply. Disavowal, limited lines of communication…”
“No need to rehash the particulars from that end, Jack. I’ll follow your orders like a good girl. But I’m not turning my life upside down again. It’s been nice having free time. I’ll join for this mission, to see the problem through to the end, and when it’s done, so am I.”
“We don’t have an end date, I’d better tell you. No guarantees about it being a few weeks or months. The operation could stretch longer.”
“That’s okay. You have good judgment when it comes to striking at the right time.” Her expression remained cool. “Not the best, though, when it comes to some snap decisions.” So, she was still sore about their last mission and was finally getting around to saying what she really meant.
“You knew the op, Gina. If you’d moved out when I’d ordered you to instead of hanging back—”
“Then the last ship out wouldn’t have left me. I understand. An officer has to do what the brass tells him, doesn’t he?”
Jackson frowned. “Either I left then or the whole op would have been compromised. Lives other than mine and yours were at stake.”
“I said I was over it.”
“Somehow, I’m doubting your truthfulness.” Jackson glanced at his wrist communicator. He’d sent off a message during the last flight. No response to it. “Can you pack up? We’ve got a shuttle ready.”
“I know where to be, per your briefing paper there. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Tell you what—keep the chit.”
She cocked her head to one side, as if she were listening for something or waiting for the catch. “What if I don’t show up?”
“Then I was wrong about you, and you were right.” Jackson smiled and gave her a friendly salute, two fingers to the eyebrow. It was his turn to fade into the crowd.
He felt Gina watching him the whole way.
Dwyer powered up the shuttle as Jackson took his seat. “Any luck?”
“She’ll be there.” Jackson checked his communicator again. Still nothing. He didn’t want to show up unannounced because that would just make Harry mad, probably precipitate. But seeing how the result wouldn’t be any different…
“You left her the money, didn’t you?” Brant looked up from a tablet.
“I did. She’ll be there.”
“Always is,” Dwyer added.
“One of these days, you’ll both be wrong, and I’ll be a happy man.”
“Until then, you’ll have to be cont
ent with us being right and you being surly.” Jackson leaned forward. “Warrant, I need you to drop me by the homestead. You and the lieutenant can return to the fleet yards. I can catch a tram into Lawrence City.”
“Sure thing, Cap’n.”
Brant grimaced as the shuttle raced into the sky. “I’d ask if you want backup, but you’d refuse, and honestly, I don’t want to be there for it. I would if you made the request, keep in mind.”
“Thanks, but this is Harry we’re talking about.” Jackson shook his head. “If my brother’s going to take out his anger on a target, it should be me, without innocent bystanders.”
5
Adams Ranch, Western Steppes
Canaan—Terran Coalition
13 July 2464
The Adams ranch was hemmed in by some of the tallest mountains on Canaan. Green hills butted up against their flanks. Clouds shrouded snow-covered peaks. In the long, broad valley leading onto the steppes, thousands of cattle roamed.
Jackson leaned on the railing of the skiff as it floated over the nearest herd, forty head of longhorns. Even thirty feet in the air, he could smell them. The stench made him long for the homestead and filled him with relief that he hadn’t chosen that life, all at once.
“You came all this way and don’t have much to say, Jack.” Harrison Adams, his big brother watched a monitor mounted on the skiff’s bulkhead. ID numbers for each animal filtered in as scanners pinged embedded tracking chips. Harry was taller than Jackson, broader, his features weathered by the outdoors. “Am I supposed to be glad the spy decided to grace me with his presence?”
“Start by not being an ass about it, Harry. I thought I would offer whatever help I could.”
“By help, you mean money. Government pay must be good, siphoning off whatever you can from the taxpayers.”
Jackson made a face. “It’s not like I’m sitting behind a desk, pushing data. I’m risking my neck for the Coalition, for our people. I earned every bit.”
