by Sharon Lee
The commander extracted something small from the belt and handed it to the captain, then turned to Nelirikk, a pistol in his hand.
“Beautiful, we’re sending Redhead’s Irregulars out in harm’s way, and she refuses to budge without you.”
The big man extended the pistol, butt first. Nelirikk understood that he was to take it, and did so, stunned by the purity of its balance, its perfect, deadly elegance. The grips were carved of wood, the metal a wondrous satiny. . .
“Took me the same way, first time I saw it,” Captain Redhead said from his left. “But listen up, Beautiful—Commander Carmody ain’t done yet.”
Nelirikk snatched after his wandering wits, raised a hand to snap a salute and was waved into stillness. The commander pointed.
“That pretty belongs to Senior Commander Rialto and if anything happens to it—or to Captain Redhead—she’ll give me hell. Bring them both back. That’s an order.”
His salute was waved away again and the commander held out another large hand.
“You’ll want the ammo, too, boyo.”
***
Some things, you didn’t question.
Like when the man you’d married, thinking it was bad enough he was Liaden and thodelm in a House she’d figured out by now was one of the fifty called High—when the man you’d slit your own throat before you saw him hurt came to you the night he left for something that might not let him back alive and murmured, “Cha’trez, you must know this. I am Nadelm Korval, by lineage. You are nadelmae, by right of our mating. Should I fall, you must claim the Ring and as delm keep Korval safe.”
You heard that, you just nodded, and pulled him close in the dark, and you didn’t ask, So, who do I claim this Ring from and why should they believe me? and you didn’t say, What makes you so sure I’m gonna outlive you? You just nodded, and held him and listened to his heart beat, strong and steady next to your ear, and then you kissed him and you let him go, the night swallowing him up, like he’d never been at all.
Likewise, Miri thought, looking down at the golden gyrfalcon in her palm, you didn’t ask why Jase Carmody picked you for the hot seat, if he happened to find Nirvana, this war. You just took the token and didn’t make a fuss, kept it close and hoped to every possible god of war and peace that you never had to show it.
Miri pinned the token to the lining of her sleeve, then sealed the battle jacket and looked up at her tall shadow.
He looked down at her, dark blue eyes alert, brown face expressionless. She’d gotten used to him, mostly, but there were times, like now, when she felt ice sweep down her backbone, remembering what this man was.
Going into battle with an Yxtrang at your back. Robertson, if I’d’ve known you were going to turn out a nut case I’d’ve left you on Klamath.
Miri sighed and straightened, giving her aide a grim smile.
“OK, Beautiful. Let’s round ’em up and move ’em out.”
***
They sat in what order they could in the back of a large farm truck bouncing its way along unpaved track. The captain had appointed of her troop three lieutenants, naming them properly First, Second, and Third, and she also appointed the sergeants. The under-officers then appointed the squads.
It was what one might expect of a unit put together of remnants and volunteers, moving in all haste toward its first blooding. Still.
The captain sat to his left, her eyes closed, though her grip against the catch-rope was not that of a sleeper. Nelirikk cleared his throat.
“Captain?”
The fierce gray eyes snapped open. “Yo.”
“I have not had time to finish properly, but I have been working on something for the troop, if you allow.”
She sat up straighter, looked into his face with a curious expression.
He reached among the hastily stowed supplies, and pulled a plain cloth sack from between several sealed containers of explosives.
“I had hoped to make it more complete, but glory comes upon us quickly . . .” he said, deftly fitting together the lengths of tubing.
Holding the staff in the crook of his elbow, he then took the square of labored-over cloth from the bag, unfolding it as gently as he could in the crowded, lurching truck.
The captain stared, and for a moment he thought that he had offended, that she would reject his gift to the troop—
“That’s some piece of work,” she said, taking a portion of the flag in her hands. She looked up at him, feral eyes bright. “Your idea?”
“Captain. Yes. A gift for the unit for being permitted as a recruit. If it pleases.”
The nickname of the unit, 1st Irregulars, was rendered in the trade language, as befit a troop made from as many different sources as theirs: bronze letters on a black stripe fully a third of the flag deep. The symbol—ah, that had been a hard night’s thought!—a knife in silver with two sets of wings, one black, one white, set on a green field. One set of wings were dragon’s wings, to honor Jela’s arms-mate, who had founded the House of the scout. The blade was Jela’s own symbol, of course; and the other set of wings was from the bird of the Gyrfalks.
“It pleases,” the captain said amid the growing buzz of interest as others of the troop began to take notice.
“Hang it up,” she said, then, and he did so, fastening it to the top of the distaff, where it hung, brave in its solitude, without yet the proper complement of captured enemy flags to adorn it.
“That’s good,” the captain said, softly. “That’s real good, Beautiful. Turn it around now, so everybody can see.” She came to her feet and jumped lightly onto the seat, one small hand on the catch-rope.
“All right, listen up! We still got us a bit of riding before we start our march, and we got one more important decision to make. First off, I want squads together.”
In a remarkably short time and with only a little too much jostling, the squads formed themselves.
“OK!” called the captain. “Some of you close by saw what I have here. The rest of you take a good look at the unit’s flag! Now you got a choice. You can go out there and fight and hope no one notices you. Or you can go out there and fight and let ’em know you’re there. Which squads ain’t interested in carrying the unit flag into our first fight? Hold your hands up and sing out!”
The close-packed squads were abruptly silent, sitting as still as they could.
The captain let the silence stretch, then flashed a grin at the assembled soldiers.
“Darn,” she called out, “that’s gonna make my job harder. Be sure you understand that this is serious stuff. Which ever squad carries this flag is gonna get a lot of heat. It’ll be noisy and it’ll be for keeps. You’ll have to run with it and protect it, and, most important, you’ll have to bring it back safe.”
Nelirikk, holding the standard high, felt his heart lift. For here, indeed, was a captain. On the spot, she created a competition, offering the flag. It was the preparedness check-and-drill, with officers standing by to see what needed remedy, what weapons were underprepared, which squad’s knives were out of place.
The truck cranked, lurched, and ground to a halt that shuddered every bone in the back. Nelirikk glimpsed forest through the open hatch, with hills sloping away, and an overgrown path too narrow to permit passage of the vehicle.
“All out!” the newly appointed sergeants bawled. “Fall in!”
“Troop Beautiful.” The Captain spoke quietly under the noise of evacuating the truck. “Please do the honor of marching the unit’s flag down to squad three and turning it over to their bearer.”
He stared. After a moment, he remembered to breathe. “Captain,” he said, though it was not his place to remind a captain, “I am not in the line of command.”
She grinned at him. “Orders, Beautiful. And always remember—volunteering is its own reward.”
FENDOR:
Mercenary Headquarters
The door guard looked first at Nova, taking in the leathers, the face, and the frown. The second look caugh
t Liz, who nodded easy-like and lifted two fingers in casual salute. The guard nodded back.
“ID?”
“Lizardi,” Liz said and obediently stared down the bore of the retina-reader. It beeped positive and the guard slung it back over her shoulder.
“Her?” A jerk of the head at Nova, standing silent and astonishingly patient at her side.
“She’s with me.”
“Recruit?” Palpable disbelief, there.
“Lookin’ to hire.”
The guard’s face cleared. She nodded to Nova and touched a stud on her belt. The door behind her slid back along its track and she stepped aside to let them pass. “Cleared to Dispatch. Need a guide, Commander?”
“I remember the way, thanks,” Liz said and stepped forward, Nova yos’Galan following a respectful two steps behind.
Fendor ’quarters doubled as Home and it was always hopping. This evening, the place was wall-to-wall with mercs, many with kits on their backs. Liz frowned. Something was up. Something big was up. She lagged half-a-second and let a crew of six pack-bearing techies get in front of her.
“Might be hard for you to hire,” she muttered as Nova came abreast. “Looks like some big doings.”
“Only lead me to Dispatch, Angela Lizardi. I anticipate no difficulty in hiring.”
Liz snorted and lengthened her stride as much as conditions allowed. A couple minutes later, she took the right into Dispatch, which was crazier and more crowded than the main hall, and forged ahead toward the counter without bothering to make sure the Liaden woman was still with her.
She broke into the clear space before the counter and grinned in sudden delight.
“Hey, Roscoe!”
The square built little guy hogging the main screen looked up, bald head gleaming under the lights. Raisin-colored eyes scanned the crowd, pinned her. The enormous mustache—black like he was twenty instead of rising sixty—lifted in a grin.
“Lizzie! I known this one bring you out from hidin’! Come over an’ tell me who you got.”
She shook her head and walked over to him, reaching across the counter to grab both shoulders.
“What happened to your pigtail?” she asked, remembering the shiny, foot-long braid that had been his pride, even above the mustache. Roscoe pulled a long face.
“Ah, I sell it to buy a watch for m’wife, but you know what? Bitch leave me anyway.” He laughed—a roar that belonged to a man twice his height—grabbed her forearms and squeezed—gently, because Roscoe was stronger than he looked. “Lizzie, you lookin’ damnfine. I get relief in two hour. You stick aroun’ an’ we do a mattress test, eh? I book you in second wave.” He dropped her arms and bent to the computer. “Tell me who you got.”
“I don’t have anyone,” Liz said quietly.
“We wish to hire,” Nova yos’Galan added from her side. Roscoe looked up, blinking his hard little eyes.
“You want to hire? You got to wait. Suzuki’s hiring everything got a gun.” He made a shooing motion with his hands. “Come back two, three day, we maybe got a couple ’prentices lef’ for you to hire.”
Nova shook her head. “My business is urgent and I will hire soldiers,” she said, firm, but not with the blaze of temper Liz had expected. “Please let it be known that I will double the payout on Suzuki’s contracts.”
Roscoe stared at her for a beat of three before he looked over to Liz.
“Who the hell this?”
“I will pay,” Nova stated, cutting Liz off before she could answer, “in cantra.”
Roscoe pursed his lips. “She crazy?” he asked Liz.
“You could say.”
“Fine.” Roscoe looked back to Nova. “You crazy. You gotta hire. You pay in cantra. Nothin’ I can do. You talk to Suzuki, cut you own deal. Then I make it OK wit’ the ’puter. Ichi?”
“Su bei,” Nova said surprisingly. “Where may I find Suzuki?”
“You stay put. I bring her here. No way I miss this one.” He grinned and flipped a toggle on the board. “Suzuki, you come front Dispatch,” he said into the mike. “Somebody you gotta meet.”
***
She had expected another such as Angela Lizardi—rangy, tough, and tall. But the woman for whom the crowd parted minutes later was no taller than herself, sturdy and efficient. Her hair was very short and very black. Her eyes were chips of blue ice, set at a slant in a composed, determined face.
Nova straightened, for if Val Con himself had named Angela Lizardi first speaker, then the woman who came now was surely a delm.
The woman stopped at the edge of the crowd with a nod.
“Liz,” she said and her voice was quiet and clear. “We can use you.”
“So Roscoe said,” Angela Lizardi replied in her laconic way. “But I’m here with her.” She jerked her head and Nova found herself caught by those slanting blue eyes.
The owner of the eyes bowed, not a generic, Terran, surrogate handshake bow, but something that recognizably approached the proper mode between strangers of unknown rank.
“Suzuki Rialto, Senior Commander, Gyrfalks Unit.”
Nova bowed as between equals and saw interest move in the blue eyes. “Nova yos’Galan, Clan Korval,” she returned. It was perhaps not best wise to give her true name within this crowd of unknowns, but one wished to deal honorably with honorable persons. She straightened.
“You may know us as Tree-and-Dragon Family.”
The other woman’s interest intensified. “Indeed, the unit has done business with Tree-and-Dragon in the past. What may I be honored to do for you, ma’am?”
Good. A person of integrity and quick wit. Nova inclined her head. “I have need of soldiers, Commander. Many soldiers, and at once. I am informed by this person here,” she used her chin to point at Roscoe, “that you are hiring everything that has a gun. I submit that my need is at least as great as your own and ask that we work equally toward equal ground.”
She heard Angela Lizardi snort, but did not deign to look at her. Suzuki Rialto’s face betrayed slight interest, and a tinge of regret.
“It must of course pain me to deny Tree-and-Dragon Family this consideration,” she said, most properly. “However, my need overrides every other conceivable need in this galaxy or the next. I am blunt with you, ma’am. You will forgive me when I say that I have people trapped upon a world under Yxtrang attack.” She swept a small, square hand out, indicating the now-silent crowd.
“What you see here is a rescue force. You may outbid me—in fact, I don’t doubt that you can. But I do not believe you will hire one soldier until we have rescued our own.”
But Nova was staring at her, feeling a certain sense of wonder unfolding within her and tasting, tasting the tang of the luck, Korval’s curse and Korval’s blessing.
“Under Yxtrang attack?” she repeated, to gain the time she required to assimilate it and then shook her head as her mother had often done, not to express negation so much as baffled amaze.
“Commander Rialto, it may be we have a common goal.”
Suzuki Rialto tipped her head. “Please explain.”
“My brother is on that planet—local name Lytaxin. And the lifemate of my brother, as well.”
“That’s Redhead she’s talking about there,” Angela Lizardi put in and the other woman looked at her sharply.
“She says,” Liz added. “I don’t put much stock in that side, myself. Last I knew, she was calling him her partner.” She pointed her finger and Nova raised an eyebrow. “Show Suzuki your picture there, Goldie.”
She reached into her sleeve pocket for the folder, opened it and offered it to Suzuki Rialto, who took one quick look and laughed.
“Him? Last I saw them, she was as likely to kill him as kiss him.”
Nova felt her lips twitch, all at once in sympathy with her new and unknown sister. “It is a common dilemma, when one deals closely with my brother,” she said solemnly, closing the folder and slipping it away.
Suzuki grinned, then let the expression fade
to one of calculation. “It seems our goal is the same, ma’am, as you have pointed out. I suggest that I am skilled in the hiring and outfitting of soldiers, as is Commander Lizardi. You are yourself perhaps skilled in an area where my expertise has currently fallen short.”
Nova inclined her head politely, acknowledging the truth of the other woman’s words and her own willingness to hear more.
“In what manner might I assist you toward attaining our common goal, Commander?”
The blue eyes met her straightly—the look of a delm, in truth.
“We need ships,” said Suzuki Rialto.
Nova truly smiled, then, and bowed.
“As it happens, I can locate ships.”
“I thought you could,” Suzuki said gravely and offered her arm. “Let us retire and discuss particulars.” She looked over to Miri Robertson’s first speaker. “Liz? Are you in?”
“Couldn’t keep me out with a battalion.”
EROB’S BOUNDARY:
Quarry War Zone
There had been opportunity to kill more Yxtrang, on the way from the pocket of brush to the quarry entrance. Dustin had accounted for two and Shan three—one of those a lucky shot into the impenetrable treetops, prompted by the very faintest of out-of-place leaf rustle.
But the quarry. The quarry was where the heavy action centered.
“Looks like they’re after your boat, sir.” Dustin whispered, as they crouched behind a conveniently placed boulder. The lifeboat was precisely where he had left it, upright in the entrance to the quarry, closer to the mercenaries’ line than the Yxtrang.
“Indeed it does, Corporal, but why? It has no fuel. It has no weapons. It has a radio, but surely the Yxtrang have their own radios?”
Dustin looked at him oddly. “Hard to tell why ’trang’ll do anything. Maybe they want it for a war prize. Important thing is, if they think it’s worth arguing over, we gotta be sure they don’t win the argument.”
At the moment, it appeared that Sub-Commander Kritoulkas’ regulars were holding their own in the argument. The Yxtrang liberally sprinkled throughout the trees opposite were actively involved in the dispute, but had made no push to advance their position. Shan sank a little lower behind the shielding boulder, thinking about that.
