“Simon.” Maria's mouth tightened.
The door shut quietly behind him.
Tuesday (1170)
THE LITTLE DOG GROWLED SOFTLY.
Concealed in the forest shadows by the battledress he was wearing, Assistant Section Sergeant Kalle Kekkonen stroked her head “What is it, girl?” Then he touched his radio and spoke to his partner, Superior Private Denys Gordimer. “Recon point two- two. Kekkonen here. Gordo, stand fast for a second. Dolly thinks she's found something.”
Kekkonen and Gordimer both froze, and listened.
Cloaked with epiphyte mosses, the tall spiketrees of SuidAfrika's lowland forests were twilit at noon. Dripping water and eddying mists gave them a haunted look, and sounds traveled queerly, muffled by the hanging vegetation. A kilogram and a half of restrained energy, Dolly looked up expectantly.
Kekkonen touched his radio again. “Take it slow, bearing two- three-three, and let’s see what we've found”
“Two-three-three, it is. Probably another big beastie for Simon Beetje. Watch you don't get your feet wet, grandpa. Catching cold is dangerous at your age.”
Kekkonen grinned. Not counting time dilation and artificial hibernation in transit between worlds, Kalle K. was thirty-six years old, eight years older than Gordimer, and Gordimer rarely allowed him to forget it. Yet, while war is generally a young man's affair, older men held up better in the kind of patient war Coldewe's reconnaissance troopers fought. For recon troopers, the first enemy-often the only enemy-was the forest, or the desert.
Kekkonen found tracks a few moments later. He hunkered down, visually measured stride length, and stuck a finger into one of the boot prints to gauge its depth.
A moment later, Gordimer joined him. Kekkonen pointed to the boot marks, absently stroking Dolly's head.
“People?” Gordimer asked.
Kekkonen nodded. “Poachers. Two of them. The tall one is about two meters, massing maybe ninety kilos. The small one is about your size. City boys. They're maybe an hour ahead of us.”
“City boys?” Gordimer questioned.
“New boots.” Kekkonen stuck a thin whistle through the straw aperture in his face mask and blew a silent note. At his signal, Dolly bounded off through the trees, her battledress coat
shielding her from sight and infrared detection.
Moving quietly and deliberately, they followed her uphill. As the moments passed, the choked spiketrees gradually thinned out and were replaced by the fern trees that were characteristic of Suid-Afrika's uplands. Through his radio, Kekkonen heard two short barks and paused, cursing softly, to take a reading on the transponder Dolly wore on her collar next to her radio. “Recon point two-two. Kekkonen here. Gordo?”
“Gordimer here.”
“Okay. We're closer than I thought. They must have stopped for a break. I can't remember, have you done this before?”
“Amphtiles and stray hikers, yes. Poachers, no.”
“Okay. We'll cut in ahead of them and set up an ambush. Kekkonen out. Recon point one. Break. Kekkonen here.” He pushed his wrist mount to transmit his position. “We found some poachers. Get a platoon out here to back us. Kekkonen out.”
With another, deeper sigh, he set out to catch up with his dog, deeply disquieted by the appearance of poachers this far from the roads along the forest reserve's southern boundary. As a gen eration of would-be poachers had learned, the recon platoons always had at least three or four teams in the field, night and day. With aircraft patrolling open areas and billabongs to restrict passage, the odds of getting caught were reasonably high—higher the deeper one penetrated into the reserve and the longer one stayed.
These poachers apparently didn't understand that, or didn't care.
In accordance with her training, Dolly was following the two men at a discreet distance. Using Dolly to figure their line of advance, Kekkonen lengthened his stride to overtake them.
“Recon point two-two. Break. Kekkonen here. Gordo, they're following the curve of the ridge line.”
“So would anyone else with half a brain,” Gordimer replied. The thick vegetation of Suid-Afrika's bottomlands was rough going for the uninitiated.
“I think we can cut across the floodplain and get ahead of them.”
“Lead on. Gordimer out”
Nearly twenty minutes later, Kekkonen found himself a position with a relatively clear field of fire behind a toppled tree.
“Recon point two-two. Break. Kekkonen here. Gordo, take the patch of brush to my right Backup is on its way. Remember, don't shoot unless they mean to shoot at us.” Most poachers gave themselves up peacefully, but not all.
“I can hear them, grandpa. Sounds like two.”
“I will initiate. Kekkonen out.”
Kekkonen waited, tensed, until two men entered the clearing together. Then he whipped his rifle into position and yelled, “Halt! We have you covered! Drop your weapons, and lie down on the groijnd! Now! Do it!”'
Both men wheeled and began running.
“Shit!” Kekkonen wheezed and burst from cover after them. Gordimer emerged from his position to join in the chase.
“You idiots!” Kekkonen yelled. “Stop!”
The smaller man tripped over a log and fell, sprawling.
“Stop!” Kekkonen yelled.
The other man halted and turned, swinging his rifle up. Without thinking, Gordimer and Kekkonen each put a two-tap burst into him. Hit by at least nine bullets, the man reeled and flopped onto his back.
“Oh, shit,” Kekkonen said with feeling. He looked at the smaller man. “You! On your belly! Stretch out your hands. Now!”
The younger man immediately obeyed
“Cover me while I get his weapon.” Kekkonen told Gordimer. While Gordimer shifted position to give himself a clear field of fire, Kekkonen went over and grasped the man's rifle, tossing it out of reach. He spent a moment patting him down and then used a plastic tie to secure the man's hands behind his back. He then checked the corpse of the man he had shot “Colonel Hans is going to be pissed,” he said to no one in particular.
He touched his radio. “Command point one. Break. Kekkonen here. Colonel Hans? We got a dead poacher. . . . Oh, he's dead, all right Gordo and I both loaded him up. We will mark our firing positions and leave the body where it is until you get here. . . . Yes, sir.”
After Colonel Coldewe signed off, he looked at Gordimer and sighed. “Colonel Hans is pissed.”
After taking the call from Kekkonen, Coldewe handed the microphone back to Esko Poikolainnen and looked at his executive officer, Major Danny Meagher. “Hell just broke jail.”
The gaunt onetime mercenary, who had found himself stranded on Suid-Afrika, stretched out in his chair and intertwined the fingers of his hands behind his head. “You're right about that. While it’s advantageous to periodically remind our brethren of the poaching fraternity that stop means stop, I think for President Steen, Christmas just came early.” He unfolded himself languidly. “One of us needs to see what those two squirts have gotten us into, and given the mess this is likely to become, that someone had best be me.”
Coldewe thought for a moment and then nodded. “All right. You go. I'll let Anton know.”
As Meagher discovered when he arrived, both of the poachers were Nationalist party members, and the survivor was a minister's son.
“We screwed up, didn't we?” Kekkonen inquired, as a couple of Jan Snyman's troopers hustled the survivor away and began methodically photograpbiog the scene.
Meagher grinned and secured Kekkonen's weapon to hold for the inevitable inquiry. “I wouldn't say that. You're alive, and he isn't, which means that by the only completely objective standard, you two did just fine.”
Kekkonen wrung his bands nervously. “Sir, look. Gordo and I both know there's all kinds of stuff going on, and we both want to go on the mission to Neighbor. If it’ll help, we can both plead guilty to something. If we did that, maybe you could mayb
e talk the judge into kicking us off planet or omething.”
Meagher stared into space. “Thank you, Kekkonen. I shall die complete.”
“Sir?” Mystified, Kekkonen pulled off his face shield.
“Kalle, I consider myself deeply privileged to have heard such a hare-brained scheme from you direct. If you ever lie awake nights and wonder why you're a mere assistant section sergeant, think back to this moment.” Meagher patted Kekkonen on the shoulder. “If you and Gordo are telling the truth on this one, we are going to get you off if we have to start a war to do it. Which, of course, we very well might have to do.”
Wednesday (1170)
“UNCLE ANTON, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” HENDRICKA Sanmartin whispered as he took the seat next to hers.
“I have a friend or two in the Conservancy Front who pulled strings on my behalf.”
“God sy dank, “ Sanmartin whispered fervently. “I thought I was here by myself.”
“I had myself invited so that I could tell you about a serious incident yesterday. Two recon troopers killed a poacher. The surviving poacher is alleging murder, and they will undoubtedly be charged with that offense. Two minor Nationalist party figures spoke out at noon, demanding that Hans be suspended pending a full investigation.”
“Uncle Matti already briefed me on all of the details. It is all right.” She handed him a picture she was holding in her hand.
“A sea creature of some sort. Very pretty.” Vereshchagin raised one eyebrow. “What is it?”
“It is a hibiscus fan star. I took the photo myself, the summer I spent studying marine life in Nobosuke Bay. I keep a few pictures with me these days to look at. It calms me.”
As liveried waiters trundled out the meal, she stared down at the plate placed in front of her in uttec horror. “Dear God,” she murmured in a voice that only Vereshchagin was meant to hear.
“Not vulcanized chicken twice in a day.”
“You had a luncheon meeting?” Vereshchagin asked.
“With the businessmen of the Johannesbmg chamber of commerce, or whatever they call it. Sandwiched around three speaking engagements. I spoke to them about your expedition.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, I lied shamelessly. In the same breath that I spoke of the money Suid-Afrika will make trading with Neighbor if we send Suid-Afrikans along, I direly predicted alien spacecraft raining destruction on Jo'burg if my crafty old Uncle Anton isn't there to keep the Imps in line. I was a big success, peddling fears and potential profits out of both sides of my mouth.”
“And tonight?”
“Tonight, I shall speak blithely of environmental matters so that the concerned people who can afford to attend will fill my campaign coffers overflowing, so says the little cue card that Ssu laid on my dresser today. And I am so . . . so . . . very tired.”
“Can you take a day off?”
“No. That is the difficulty with a short campaign. It is like being a boxer--the last one standing wins. If I want this badly enough, I will do it.”
Vereshchagin looked at her, puzzled “What is that in your hair?”
She reached up. “Where?”
Vereshchagin pointed.
“Oh, that is just part of a jelly doughnut. It is astonishing what parents will give their children to eat. The rest is on my jacket.” She brushed the spot ineffectually. “Is it gone?”
Vereshchagin nodded.
She reached down and traced a mark on the back of his hand. “Your accolade. I told my staff that I was naming each of them knight commanders of the Holy Order of the Smeared Jelly Doughnut. I am thinking of asking my security detachment to frisk children for smearables.”
“Are you sorry that I talked you into this?” Vereshchagin asked.
Rikki smiled. “This is my heritage. And it is only the start. If I win, I will spend years fooling people into thinking that I am older and wiser than anyone has a right to be, and I am tired already. Fortunately, my crafty Uncle Anton is the only one who suspects.”
“Not even your staff?”
She laughed gently, causing a few heads to turn her way. “Especially not my loyal staff. They have to believe in me enough to fool everyone else.” She shook her head. “What people want
is another Joan of Arc--a Calvinist one, of course. And so, for sixteen more days, I play my part, as Steen plays his.
“This morning in Parys, six Silvershirts armed with sticks and truncheons went after three of my campaign workers, one of whom was a corporal in a reserve company. He tried to cripple as many of the six as he could. He came away with two broken ribs and a shattered jaw, and a student had her arm broken. And the Parys public prosecutor wants to prosecute him for defending himself.” She spoke out of the side of her mouth as she made a pretense of eating. “In the end, it is the people who matter. I saw a few of them today, in between engagements.”
Thursday (1170)
“HEER KEKKONEN, HEER GORDIMER?” THE OLD MAN TOOK A CIGAR from his pocket, looked at it longingly for a few seconds, and put it back. “My name is Abram van Zyl. Anton asked me to represent you. I was once the advocate for your battalion.”
“Sir, sir.” Kekkonen hopped to his feet “But. sir-”
Van Zyl smiled indulgently. “Yes?”
“I thought you were dead.”
“Well, maybe just a little. Are the two of you sure that you want me to represent you?”
Gordirner and Kekkonen looked at each other and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Van Zyl used his cane to help himself into a chair. “The preliminary inquiry into your case is set for this afternoon. The public prosecutor-a Steen appointee-has charged you with unpremeditated murder.”
Hours later, as the court was called into session, van Zyl whispered to his clients, “Remember that this is just a preliminary inquiry in front of a magistrate. The magistrate presiding is
Jan Oosthuisen. He is very fair.” Van Zyl chuckled. “Jan was a student of mine, which never hurts.”
Oosthuisen was a thin man with a pinched face, graying hair, and sharp, bright eyes. He said in Afrikaans, “The Republic versus Petrus van Blommenstein, Superior Private Denys Gordirner, and Assistant Section Sergeant Kalle Kekkonen. Heer van Blommenstein, are you to speak first?”
The blond poacher, now impeccably dressed, stood up. “Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Have you consulted with an advocate, and do you wish to give evidence under oath?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
As van Blommenstein proceeded to tell his tale, Gordimer felt the back of his neck turning red. He tugged at van Zyl's sleeve. “It wasn't like that at all. He was turned around with his rifle in his hand when we potted him.”
Van Zyl patted his hand. “The public prosecutor had to have some evidence to charge you with a crime.”
Oosthuisen adjusted the collar of his black robe. “Heer van Blommenstein. you are charged with violating the Wildlife Preservation Act. If I understand you, you are admitting guilt.”
Van Blommenstein hesitated less than a second. “Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Have you consulted about this with your advocate?”
The lawyer nodded, and van Blommenstein replied, “Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Why would he admit that he was poaching?” Kekkonen whispered.
Van Zyl chuckled. “Mostly because he is guilty as sin. In determining a sentence, Oosthuisen will consider the fact that he admitted his crime at the first opportunity. Also, President Steen won't grant him a pardon until he has been convicted, and to hedge his wager, van Blommenstein might want to be convicted before the election.”
Van Zyl stood. “Your Excellency, before this witness stands down, I have a few questions to certify to the court.” He passed them forward. As he sat down, he explained to his clients, “At a preliminary inquiry, only the magistrate has the right to ask questions.”
Oosthuisen frowned when he saw the
questions, but asked them anyway. “Remember that you can decline to answer any question that may tend to implicate you in another crime, and that you are under oath. Are you or the deceased members of the Suiwerheidwagte?” When he saw van Blommenstein hesi tate, he snapped, “Well?”
“Yes, both of us were, Your Excellency.”
“Whose idea was it to go poaching?”
The public prosecutor stood up. “Your Excellency.”
“Sit down,” Oosthuisen told him. “Whose idea?”
“It was Vlause's, Your Excellency,” van Blommenstein said hesitantly.
“Had he ever suggested anything like this before?”
“No, Your Excellency.”
“Why did he suggest going now?”
Van Blommenstein caught his advocate's eye. “I would rather not answer that question, Your Excellency.”
“Did Vlause Burger say what he planned to do with the hides of the animals you shot?”
Van Blommenstein's advocate rose. “Your Excellency, my client will have to decline to answer to this line of questioning.”
“I see.” Oosthuisen looked at van Blommenstein for a few moments and then dismissed him. “Heer van Zyl, are your two clients prepared to testify?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
Kekkonen and Gordimer related their stories.
“Are there any other witnesses to be heard?” Oosthuisen inquired.
The public prosecutor stood. “No, Your Excellency. The photographs of the scene and the pathologist’s report are appended”
“All right. With regard to the case against Gordimer and K.ekkonen, I find that the only issue of fact is whether or not the deceased, Vlause Burger, tossed aside his rifle before he was shot as was related by witness Petrus van Blommenstein. Does anyone disagree?” Oosthuisen addressed van Blommenstein's advocate. “With regard to the case against van Blommenstein, do you plan on presenting any mitigating evidence?”
The lawyer stood. “No, Your Excellency. The public prosecutor's report provides sufficient information on the boy's family and his background”
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