War To The Knife

by Grant, Peter

  War to the Knife

  Book 1 of The Laredo War trilogy

  by

  PETER GRANT

  Fynbos Press

  Copyright © 2014 by Peter Grant. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters

  and events portrayed in this book are fictional,

  and any resemblance to real people

  or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Phil Cold:

  http://philcold3d.blogspot.com

  Cover image supplied by Dreamstime:

  http://www.dreamstime.com

  Cover design by Oleg Volk:

  http://www.olegvolk.net

  This book is dedicated with gratitude to two authors:

  LARRY CORREIA, author of the Monster Hunter series;

  and SARAH A. HOYT, author of the Darkship series.

  You’ve both helped me with advice, encouragement and support.

  Thank you very much. I couldn’t have done this without you.

  For other books by Peter Grant,

  see his Amazon.com author page

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  February 27th 2850, Galactic Standard Calendar

  February 28th 2850 GSC, Afternoon

  February 28th 2850 GSC

  March 1st 2850 GSC

  March 3rd 2850 GSC

  March 4th 2850 GSC

  March 5th 2850 GSC

  March 6th 2850 GSC

  March 7th 2850 GSC

  March 8th 2850 GSC

  March 10th 2850 GSC

  March 11th 2850 GSC

  March 13th 2850 GSC

  March 14th 2850 GSC

  March 15th 2850 GSC

  PART TWO

  March 30th 2850 GSC

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 00:00

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 03:00

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 06:00

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 08:00

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 09:40

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 10:00 – Tapuria

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 10:00 – In Orbit

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 10:30

  March 31st 2850 GSC, 12:30

  April 2nd 2850 GSC

  PART THREE

  May 15th 2850 GSC

  May 16th 2850 GSC

  May 17th 2850 GSC

  About The Author

  PART ONE

  February 27th 2850, Galactic Standard Calendar

  CARISTO

  The burro whickered a complaint as Jake pulled at the reins, turning it towards the hitching rail in front of the saloon. He applied the brake and dismounted from the wagon, taking a moment to scratch Nellie behind the ears. She whickered again, affectionately this time, and nudged against him with her rough nose, craning her long green neck after him as he turned and walked towards the batwing doors.

  He stepped inside, feeling the momentary pressure against his skin of the force field keeping the air-conditioned interior at a tolerable temperature. He took a step to one side and stopped, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the glare of the noonday sun outside. The few regulars at the bar nodded greetings to him as they recognized him. He glanced incuriously at four uniformed soldiers sitting around a table in the corner, nursing their beers. They glared at him with the hostility he’d come to expect from the occupiers. A stranger sat at a table to one side of the room, looking at him impassively. Jake looked him over, eyes narrowing as he noticed the orange tint to the tan on the man’s smooth face, neck and hands. That came out of a bottle, he thought to himself, and his skin hasn’t been outdoors very often, and his clothes are much too clean. Still, a man’s business was his own, and questions were often unwelcome in these troubled times. He started towards the bar.

  The stranger examined Jake in his turn. The new arrival looked to be middle-aged or a bit older, tall, lean and wiry, his face lined and care-worn, weather-beaten, tanned to the color and consistency of old leather. His faded hair was unruly, wind-blown, the hat that normally covered it now hanging behind his neck from the long leather thong that served as a chinstrap. He wore a light blue long-sleeved shirt and gray trousers, both made from hard-wearing synthcloth that could handle the dust and dirt, rocks and thorns of this frontier environment. The belt at his waist was thick and broad to support the holster slung at his right hip, the butt of a heavy old-fashioned chemical-propellant handgun protruding from it. A big sheath knife balanced it on his left hip, with a snapped pouch ahead of it. His boots looked roughly made but tough and comfortable, patterned after military-issue jump boots.

  “Howdy, Jake.” The barkeep picked up a schooner and filled it at the tap. “Your usual?”

  “Thanks, Sib.” Jake lifted the mug and took a long swallow of the cool beer. “Aaahhhh! That hit the spot!” He set it down on the counter. “My son been in yet?”

  “Ain’t seen him.”

  “He should be along any time now.”

  “You heading for the hills again?” Sib gave him a knowing wink, inclining his head the merest fraction towards the soldiers.

  Jake nodded infinitesimally, acknowledging the unspoken warning. “Yeah. We shipped most of the last herd to the slaughterhouse last week, so it’s time to round up some more cattle.”

  The bartender shook his head. “Sooner you than me. Hell of a way to make a living, eating dust and drinking your own sweat for weeks at a time, gathering animals that like it fine where they are and don’t want to leave.”

  “Beats not eating at all. Besides, there’s only so many ways a man can make an honest living. Can’t all be bartenders.”

  “You got a point, an’ it keeps you out of the way.”

  The batwing doors parted once again and a younger man walked in, looking like Jake must have done a couple of decades earlier. He wore a gray shirt and blue trousers, the reverse of the older man’s outfit, and his waist supported a similarly-equipped gunbelt. His face was less lined and wrinkled but seemed older than his years, thin, drawn, eyes hard beneath heavy brows. He carried a thick, heavy rolled fur in his arms. He, too, glanced around the room before coming forward.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey, son,” Jake greeted him, the corners of his mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Beer?”

  “You betcha.”

  Jake nodded to the barkeep as his son unrolled the fur to reveal a brilliantly-patterned orange-and-black pelt. The lips were drawn back in a snarl over sharp pointed saber-teeth, tufts of hair spiking outward above the glass eyes set into the carefully-preserved skull. The body was just over two meters long, with another meter and a half of tail attached. The barkeep let out a long, slow whistle of surprise as the young man laid it out along the bar.

  “Damn, Dave! That’s gotta be the finest ganiba pelt I’ve ever seen!”

  “I’ve never seen a better one,” Jake confirmed as he reached out to stroke it, his hand sinking into the thick luxurious fur. “Quill did a first-rate job of tanning and preparing it.”

  “He charged me enough, so he’d better have!” Dave said, grinning. “You were right. A fur this good deserved the best preparation, and he delivered.”

  “Reckon that’ll bring five, maybe six thousand bezants in Banka from a visiting spacer,” one of the other regulars said, craning his neck from where he sat further down the bar.

  “No, it won’t.” The voice came from a Sergeant, the leader of the four soldiers who had risen from their table and were walking over to the bar. “For a start your capital’s been renamed – it’s Tapuria now, you hick scum! Second, that fur looks like smuggled goods to me, so we’ll just have to confiscate it and send it in for adjudication.” He grinned nastily, undoubtedly savoring the bezants he and his men would get for the pelt when they sold it for their
own benefit.

  There was a sudden stillness in the bar. The regulars turned away or shrank back in their seats.

  “I don’t think so.” Dave’s voice was matter-of-fact, but his hand brushed against the butt of his gun as he turned to face the oncoming soldiers, taking a few steps away from the bar to give himself room to move. Behind him Jake eased down the bar away from his son, trying to look as abject and browbeaten as possible.

  “Don’t get cocky with me, sonny boy!” The sergeant’s voice was hard. “You know what we’re gonna do to you if you give us any uphill.” He glanced at the bartender. “Kill the cameras.”

  “But I – ”

  “I said kill the cameras! Now!”

  “Do it, Sib. No sense you getting into trouble too.” Dave’s voice was steady. The bartender shrugged helplessly, turned to a console behind the bar, and switched off the security cameras and recorders that, by regulation, monitored everything in and around the saloon.

  “Better.” The Sergeant halted in front of Dave, thrusting his thumbs into his belt on either side of the tarnished brass buckle. His three men came to a stop on either side of him. “Like I said, boy, we’re confiscating that hide. If it’s cleared by the court, you’ll get it back.”

  “It’d have to get there for that to happen.” Dave kept his voice mild. “We’ve heard way too many stories of things being confiscated by folks like you, then never turning up in court at all.”

  “You accusing me of planning to steal it? That could get you into a whole heap of trouble, boy.”

  “You just ordered the barkeep to switch off the cameras. Without an independent record that you confiscated it, it’ll be your word against mine.”

  The man spat contemptuously on the floor. “Yeah – and the word of four Bactrian soldiers against a frontier hick means the court won’t even pause to draw breath before convicting you of whatever charges we feel like bringing against you. Now hand over that pelt!”

  “No,” Dave said flatly. “Sergeant-Major Garnati down at the garrison issued a certificate that it was legally taken, in accordance with regulations.” He winced internally as he remembered the size of the bribe involved. “If you ask him, he’ll confirm that.”

  “That old fart’s gotten far too lenient with you rebellious scum. No, we’ll leave him out of this and settle it right here, right NOW!”

  He shouted the last word, clearly intending it as a signal to his companions. The two troopers tugged at short, stubby truncheons in scabbards at their left hips, while the Sergeant and his Corporal reached for the flap-top holsters worn on their right hips. They knocked the flaps upward, grabbing at the butts of the pulsers inside.

  Dave’s draw wasn’t hampered by a flap on his holster; and despite its being cut for a much longer weapon his revolver proved to have a barrel only three centimeters long, without a front sight. His right hand moved almost too quickly for the observers to follow. The gun came level at waist height as his thumb cocked back the hammer. A needle-thin beam of intense green light shone from a projector built into the grip, rising along the Sergeant’s body and centering over the bridge of his nose as the young man pulled the trigger. Instead of the thunderous roar typical of such primitive weapons, the revolver emitted only a surprisingly quiet crack! The Sergeant’s head snapped back as a dozen small holes appeared across his upper nose, lower forehead and the inner halves of his eyes; then he collapsed to the floor like a sack of onions.

  Dave began to swing the revolver towards the second pulser-armed soldier, cocking the hammer again as he did so; but from his right another sighting beam appeared, centering on the trooper’s face, followed by another crack! as his father took a hand. The soldier’s face grew a pattern of holes like the Sergeant’s, but they were off-center and didn’t drop him immediately. Another shot sounded, and the hapless trooper spun around and fell forward onto his face.

  Dave didn’t waste time watching his father’s handiwork. He aimed his gun at the truncheon-armed soldier nearest him, triggering two rounds into the man’s head and sending him sprawling. He swung back in the direction of the last soldier on his feet, but the man threw his truncheon to one side as he raised his hands. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot me!” His face was suddenly ashen, his voice trembling.

  His father’s voice came from behind him. “When you meet your friends in hell, tell them it was a bad idea to try to steal from Niven’s Regiment.”

  The soldier’s eyes bugged out. “You – you mean – you’re – ?”

  Jake didn’t give him time to finish. He fired once more, the pellets from his revolver smacking into the man’s face over his right eye. The trooper gave a short, sharp cry and slumped to the floor.

  As he fell, Dave swung to cover the stranger seated at one side of the room. He’d slapped both his hands palm-down on the table before him, a clear sign that he didn’t intend to get involved in this fight. He glanced down at his chest where the green dot of Dave’s sighting beam was centered in the V of his open shirt, just over his sternum, then looked up at the young man, his lean face suddenly pale beneath its artificial tan.

  “You’re the only other person here we don’t know,” Dave pointed out, his voice cold. “We’ve learned the hard way not to trust strangers.” As he spoke, his father’s sighting beam tracked up the stranger’s body and settled on the bridge of his nose.

  The man spoke quickly, almost breathlessly. “If you’re from Niven’s Regiment, I have a message for your commanding officer. It’s from Reno.”

  Jake moved forward. “Reno? If you’re for real, there’ll be a series of challenges and replies to authenticate you. What’s the first?”

  The man replied without hesitation, “Castle Pass.”

  Jake blinked. “Well, well, well… I’d begun to think I’d never hear that particular passphrase. You’d better come with us.” He holstered his revolver, motioning for Dave to do likewise.

  The man shook his head. “Not yet. What about the first countersign?” Jake leaned forward and whispered into the man’s ear, and he nodded. “That’s it. The second challenge is – ”

  “Later. We’ve got to get out of here.” Jake turned to the bartender. “Sib, can you get rid of them” – he gestured at the bodies of the four troopers – “and clean up? If anyone asks, those four took Dave and the fur out the back way. You don’t know what happened to any of us after that.”

  “You got it, Major.” As he spoke, the barkeep gestured urgently to the regulars. Most of them started carrying the bodies to a back room, while one collected a bucket and mop from behind the bar and began cleaning the blood off the floor.

  The bartender rummaged beneath the bar, took out an unlabeled spray bottle containing a clear fluid and tossed it to the cleaner. “Spray this everywhere the guys walked or carried the bodies. It’ll neutralize any DNA left behind. We’ll dump the bodies way out in the bush after dark. Scavengers will take care of them by morning.”

  “What about the interrupted recording?” Dave asked, nodding towards the security console.

  Sib shrugged, face breaking into a grin. “What about it? It’ll show the Sergeant telling me to switch it off. I obeyed him, of course – I mean, I can’t argue with a garrison Sergeant, can I? When he and his men had gone, taking you and the pelt with them, I switched it on again. The others will back me up. No, of course I didn’t call the garrison to investigate their own troopers. They’d only have locked me up for wasting their time.”

  “Fair enough.” Dave looked around at the hard-working men. “Thanks, everyone. We owe you.”

  “No problem, Lieutenant,” one of them replied with a grin. “Niven’s Regiment takes care of its own. Now get the hell out of town before anyone starts to look for those sods!” He began to roll and tie the pelt on the bar.

  Another man came out of the back room. “Here’s the Sergeant’s wallet, and his Corporal’s. They had a few hundred Bactrian bezants between ’em and three military passes apiece.” He handed over the last tw
o wallets. “Less money in the troopers’ wallets, but still enough to be useful.” Finally he produced a communicator and both holstered pulsers.

  “Thanks, Brady.” Jake took the money from the last two wallets and handed it to Sib. “Beer and a good meal for everyone, courtesy of those scum.” He began to strip the charge packs out of the pulsers and communicator. “Got a bag to hold all this stuff? I don’t want anyone outside to see what I’m carrying.”

  “Sure, I’ll get you one.” Sib turned back towards the bar.

  Dave turned back to the stranger. “What’s your name?”

  “Marvin Ellis.”

  “Got any gear?”

  “Just this holdall.” He gestured to a bag next to his chair. “I arrived on the morning train. Hadn’t got a room yet.”

  “OK. Any electronics in there or on you? Anything with a battery or capacitor?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a – ”

  “Don’t waste time telling me. Take the charge packs out of everything, right now. Make sure nothing can emit any signature that might be tracked.” He glanced at the bartender as he approached, carrying a bag for Jake. “Sib, help him. Search his holdall, his clothes and his body, then scan them all. Destroy anything you’re not sure about and get rid of the remains.” He looked back at Marvin. “You’ll travel in the back of my wagon until we’re well out of town. When Sib’s finished, wait just inside the back door. I’ll drive past the rear of the saloon in about five minutes. As I pass, slip out the door and climb over the rear gate. Make it fast and smooth, because I won’t stop, then lie down and stay out of sight until I tell you different.”

  “Got it, but won’t they – ”

  “No questions yet – no time. Sib, don’t switch on the cameras until we’re well clear. That way they won’t show Marvin getting into my wagon.”

  “You got it.”