Instead of heading back to rejoin his crew, he hung around with us for a while, but with me instead of the kids, which was also interesting.
“What would you do, were you in the place of Commander Fong-Ramirez?” he asked me.
I shrugged.
“Maybe exactly what he’s doing now. He’s playing the hand he was dealt. I think if I were him, I’d be getting ready to run a bluff, though, because it’s not nearly as strong a hand as I think he thinks it is, if you know what I mean.”
“I am not sure,” he answered, “but I believe so. You are talking about the card game poker? I have watched it played once or twice, but I did not really understand it.”
“No? Well, some day we’ll sit down and I’ll teach you. Bring your money.”
“I would like that,” he said, and I caught the briefest flicker of a smile, swept back into hiding as soon as it appeared. So, among other things, TheHon was a hustler. I think I liked the guy a little more, then.
“What bluff?” he asked.
“Well, the Fitz is only overhead a few hours a day, because it’s got other responsibilities, and it’s the only armed ship up there, right? But there are those transports. Suppose Gasiri put deadfall ordnance on one of them and parked it in a synchronous planetary orbit overhead. We’re still close enough to the equator to pull that off. So then there’s a looming presence overhead always ready to drop hot spikes on anything that we paint with a laser down here. That would make them think twice before hitting us again.” Of course “deadfall” was a bit of a misnomer, as you had to give the spikes a pretty good shot downward or they’d just hang around in orbit with you, but that’s what everyone called them, and TheHon knew what I was talking about.
“But it would take time to modify the transport for this new ordnance, would it not?”
I looked at him for a second.
“You really don’t understand the concept of a bluff, do you?”
“Ah!” he said, as the light came on in his little lizard head.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, the Marine runner returned and headed for TheHon’s two pals. He was still standing with us, asking about what I’d do if I were in Fong-Ramirez’s place—just idle talk, of course. The Marine talked to the other two guys for a minute, and then they both looked over at TheHon, who stood looking silently back at them for a few seconds.
“I was expecting this,” he said, his voice heavy. “I have to go.”
“No,” I said. “He does,” pointing to the tall, distinguished-looking Varoki standing next to Borro the bodyguard.
“I think I should go instead,” he said quietly.
“Let that man do his job,” I answered. “You do yours. What, did somebody tell you this was going to be easy?”
He looked at me and shook his head. Then he walked over to the group.
Marfoglia was standing right next to us as we spoke, but she had no idea what we were talking about.
“What’s happening?”
“I guess the uZmataanki district commander wants the special envoy to come to the talks, too.”
“Why?”
“Probably so he can kill him. I doubt that’s the reason he gave, though.”
“Kill him? My God, that’s horrible,” she said, eyes wide with shock. “Would they really do that?”
I shrugged.
“And Mr. e-Kavaa wants to go in his place. That’s very noble of him,” she said.
“Yeah. Noble and stupid,” I replied. She shot me an angry glance, but she didn’t say anything.
The three Varoki spoke quietly but earnestly amongst themselves for a minute or so, then TheHon and the tall guy embraced, and the tall guy went off with the Marine runner.
“You shouldn’t have talked Mr. e-Kavaa out of going,” she said. “They wouldn’t know which one was which, and if something did happen, at least the special envoy would still be here alive.”
“Dr. Marfoglia, don’t give up your day job for a career in security. If TheHon went, and something happened to him, we wouldn’t still have the special envoy—we’d have his two bodyguards.”
She looked confused, but just for a moment, because she wasn’t stupid.
“Oh . . .”
* * *
We didn’t have access to a broadcast transmitter, but of course they did, so the proceedings were televised. We had vidscreens; they made sure of that.
They had them kneeling, hands bound behind their backs, and an officer walked behind them with a gauss pistol.
First was Captain Leona Rosetti, the Human “gangster” who had ordered her men to shoot down uZmataanki soldiers trying to surrender. All bullshit, of course, but what difference did that make?
SNAP!
Down she went, to twitch on the pavement, this odd little fountain of blood bubbling up from the gunshot wound in her skull for the last two or three beats of her heart.
Next was Lieutenant Palaan, the uHoka “turncoat” who was in league with the uBakai, and who had participated in the unprovoked attack on the uZmataanki cruiser at Mogo.
SNAP!
e-Lotonaa, the Cottohazz’s special envoy, who was actually a paid agent of the uBakai and whose actions had corrupted the institutions of Cottohazz governance. That’s not who was kneeling there, of course. The tall, distinguished-looking Varoki was actually a security specialist named Bammatats. I’d made it a point to find out his real name. Mr. Bammatats made no effort to correct the record.
SNAP!
Last was Lieutenant Commander Edward Fong-Ramirez, the “criminal” who helped mastermind the attack on an unsuspecting and peaceful uZmataanki cruiser. Fong-Ramirez, young for his rank and responsibility because he was so smart, and a really good kid, even if he was way too serious about stuff, who should have gone home a hero and got laid a lot, and maybe he’d have loosened up some, but he never got to.
SNAP!
* * *
An hour later, the Marine NCOs were still arguing. Because they’d lost their platoon sergeant on the way down, there were four buck sergeants and as many corporals, but a couple privates were getting in on the act as well. Eloquence and passion carried as much weight in this council as stripes.
The uZmataanki had sent Private Lee, the platoon runner, back to us as a gesture of good faith. The executions had settled any scores, they said. Now they were ready to ship the rest of us back to T’tokl-Heem.
This time they really meant it. Honest.
Some of the NCOs wanted to take the deal, because they didn’t see any other way out. Others wanted to go after the uZmataanki and get payback for what they’d done. There were variations on the theme, but those were pretty much the two options—at least as they saw things.
I could follow the argument closely because I was digging through the pile of supply canisters—stocking up.
“What do you need, Mr. Naradnyo?” one of the Marines asked. I looked up and recognized him as the other Marine still on his feet from Wataski’s original guard detail. What was his name . . . ? Aguillar.
“Just topping off with ammo, Aguillar. Never know when we’ll need it.”
He looked at the two rucksacks I was carrying, and his eyebrows went up a bit.
“And some ration packs,” he said.
“Yeah. Gotta eat.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything else.
In everything you do throughout your life, people are the critical variables. You got to pay attention to people, every one of them, not just the big shots. Most people don’t. Every server in every restaurant you’ve ever been in starts by telling you their name, and most people have forgotten it halfway through the list of daily specials. I remembered Aguillar’s name, because I pay attention to people.
Now think about this for a second: what can you tell me about Aguillar? Here’s what I can tell you. He knew I was bullshitting him about topping off with ammo, because I was taking rations, too, but he didn’t make a fuss about it. Why? Maybe because he was hearing the s
ame dead-end crap from the NCOs I was hearing, and thinking along the same lines . . . stock up on ammo and rations and make a break for it on your own.
The thing is, I wasn’t exactly looking for travel companions, but I also needed Aguillar as at least a neutral. Not that I was really worried Aguillar wanted to tag along—he was a Marine, and he’d probably cut his nose off before he’d bug out on his unit.
I reached down into the supply canister, pulled out a ration pack, and looked at it.
“You like pad Thai with shrimp?” I asked.
He smiled and nodded, but it was a sad smile. It was the smile of a twenty-year-old who didn’t figure on making it to twenty-one, but couldn’t see anything to do about it but take it like a man.
I tossed the ration pack to him, and I felt like a worm. Here was a kid who wanted his life, and instead I gave him maybe his last meal.
And he smiled in melancholy gratitude.
* * *
I sat down beside Marfoglia, both of us with our backs against the concrete wall. I offered her a drink from an energy bottle, and after she shook her head I took a long pull myself.
“How bad is it?” she asked.
That was the big question, wasn’t it? And I was back to that same problem I always seem to bump up against—how much to tell? I needed her thinking, functioning, if we were going to get out of this alive, so I didn’t want to shock her into depression. But what did that leave me with? I was tired of trying to second-guess how much truth other people could take.
“It’s about as bad as it gets,” I said.
“Is there any chance they’ll . . . just let us go?”
“Nope.”
And then I felt the tingle in the back of my neck, the sweat break out on my torso and face, as panic’s long bony fingers closed around my chest, made my heart race and my breathing come faster. They were coming to kill us, every one of us, and I couldn’t stop them. What the hell good was I? What did I know? How to blend in? How to make it on the city streets? See how far that gets you on a boonie-rock where you’re the only Humans. I was about as useful here as an Eskimo in the desert.
“Do you have any idea what to do?” Marfoglia asked.
“Of course,” I answered.
I had no idea.
“We’re going to get out of this,” I told her. It was a bluff, but it would have to do until I came up with something better. “Right now, you’re going to go back to the kids. Keep them together in case we have to move quickly. Keep them calm, too. Can you do that?”
I looked at her and she nodded. There was determination in her eyes—determination and hope. She looked frightened, but not as frightened as I felt. That’s because she had someone to count on. Sasha would get her and the kids out of this. However bad things got, Sasha could handle it.
Sasha wasn’t so sure of that, which was why Sasha was scared shitless.
Ten minutes later I was still sitting with my back against the wall when TheHon sat down next to me.
“Who is winning the dispute?” he asked, gesturing to the arguing Marines.
“Doesn’t matter,” I answered. “Go for revenge or trust to mercy—either way they’re dead.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “What does Commodore Gasiri think? Do you know?”
“Near as I can tell, she said she’ll back any decision the ground makes. No choice, really; she can’t micromanage things from orbit.”
He nodded in agreement.
“I would like revenge for my friend Bammatats,” he said. “Perhaps you would as well, for Commander Fong-Ramirez. He was one of those who saved you, was he not? But my duty is to all of these people here. Yours is as well, I think.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You agree?” he asked after a while.
“No.”
“I am surprised. Surprised and disappointed that you would put revenge ahead of your responsibility.”
I turned and looked at him. I knew that Borro was watching us, so I didn’t make any threatening moves, because there was no point in risking a gunfight here in the warehouse, and I needed stuff from TheHon anyway. But aside from that, I wasn’t in a very good mood.
“Listen, you fat fucking lizard, I liked that kid Fong-Ramirez a lot, but I know what my responsibilities are, and they aren’t to ‘all these people’ around here. They are to exactly three people, and you aren’t one of them, so don’t waste your time trying to play me.
“I’m getting those kids out of here. There are some things I need if I’m going to pull it off. Are you going to help me get those things? Yes or no.”
A lot of emotions struggled for control of his face as he sat there, but eventually acceptance triumphed over resentment.
“What is it that you need?”
“A good set of maps, and the best current intel on the local military situation. And I need it downloaded into this.” I held up Private Coleman’s helmet.
“Is that all?”
“Nope. The Marines have Picketwire sensors scattered all over the town—I put a couple of them out myself. The Sammies will have a transport park somewhere in the town, and the Picketwire system should have identified it. I need to know where it is.”
He studied me for a moment.
“You have a plan?”
“I got a notion, which I think I can parlay into an idea, that with luck I can bootstrap into a plan.”
He nodded thoughtfully.
“Very well. I will get you what you need. Borro and I will accompany you.”
“Nope.”
I started to tell him why, but he beat me to the punch.
“Of course not,” he said. “Why would you endanger your lives by traveling with me, when I am possibly the most sought-after target of the local officials? And why make your party any larger than it needs to be? Better to travel in a small group, and attract less attention. I could tell you that I won’t get you the information you need unless you take us along, but that would be a lie—an obvious bluff. Instead I will say three things.
“First, the local officials do not know that I am alive. They will likely find out eventually, but they do not know yet, and that will give us some time.
“Second, although I may be of little use to you, Mr. Borro is quite capable. You will need another experienced . . . operative, I think.
“Third, it is my understanding that while Dr. Marfoglia speaks aZmataan, she is not as conversant with it as she would like. Both Borro and I are fluent, and Borro’s accent is good enough to pass as native.
“Finally, your small group will not go unnoticed, because there are no Humans on K’Tok. You and Dr. Marfoglia will be jarringly out of place, no matter where you go. Two adult Varoki will make your party less conspicuous, not more so.”
“That’s four things,” I said, “not three.”
He tilted his head to the side.
I thought about it for a little while, but there wasn’t that much to consider. Everything he’d said had been right on the money, and I’m not one to cling to a losing hand out of stubbornness or pride.
“Have you talked this over with Borro? I asked.
“No. I had not even considered it until I realized you had an escape plan in mind.”
“Well, he’s going to shit bricks when he hears this. Even if the deal makes sense from my point of view, it really stinks at his end. In terms of keeping you alive, we are nothing but trouble.”
“Mr. Borro will follow my orders.”
“Yeah, that’s why I shudder at the thought of VIP security as a career. You people hire guys like Borro and me to keep you alive, then you do whatever you feel like and leave it up to us to keep all the balls in the air, as if we’re supermen. Marfoglia may be a pain in the ass, but when it comes to security, she does what I tell her.”
“Then you are a fortunate man,” he said, and smiled.
“You think this is funny? Okay. Here’s my condition. If you two come with us, I am in charge, one hundred percent. Borro is number two
if something happens to me. Then Marfoglia, then the kids, then you. You understand? You have resigned as potentate, effective immediately.”
“Plenipotentiary,” he corrected me.
“Well, you’re just baggage now, pal. If we get you out of this alive, you can get back to the noble calling of screwing up entire planets, but meantime, you’re the cook and dishwasher.”
He frowned at that.
“That is an unfair assessment,” he said. “My responsibility is to correct difficulties, not create them.”
“Sure. You’re from the government and you’re here to help. And let me tell you, you’re doing a hell of a job. While you’re sitting here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. The war between the Sammies and the uBakai—you got a dog in this fight?”
He frowned in confusion.
“I do not understand.”
“What nationality are you?”
“Ah. I see. Yes. I am uKootrin—in that sense I do not have a dog in this war.”
“In that sense,” I repeated. “But in some other sense?”
“In some other sense, we all—even you—have a dog in the war.”
Trust a government guy to give you an answer which was probably truthful, but definitely not very satisfying. I let him off the hook, though, and shooed him away so I could go back to figuring out our next move. I had the start of a plan that at least had a chance of not getting us all killed. Turns out, I wasn’t the only one. Jarheads can surprise you once in a while.
* * *
“We’re going to pretend to go along with their deal, but when they send the trucks, we’re going to hit them instead. Hit them hard, then grab the trucks and head west.”
It was an interesting plan—flawed, but interesting. I thought it was even more interesting that Wataski was explaining it to me.
Wataski had never developed what you’d call a fondness for me in our brief association, and yet here she was, explaining the plan. Remember what I said about paying attention to people? What does this tell you about Wataski’s state of mind? She didn’t need my permission, but she wanted my opinion. Why?
Because decapitation attacks work. That’s what this had been—a nice, surgical decapitation of the unit. The NCOs weren’t dummies, but they were NCOs. What NCOs do is execute a mission. That’s their job. Give them a mission, they’ll execute the hell out of it. But deciding what the mission ought to be—that’s not their job. And if you make them change mental gears this quick and this hard . . . well, that’s why decapitation attacks work.
How Dark the World Becomes Page 23
