by Chris Hechtl
Lieutenant Zevaya looked over to him, foot still pressing hard as the compartment snickered at Simon's discomfort. Finally, she let off and then lashed out to kick him in the mouth and nose. He went backwards, flat on his back, momentarily stunned as one hand reached for his now bloodied mouth and nose.
“I'd have you lick my boot clean but I don't want any more of your crap on me, least of all your slobber. Get him out of here,” Lieutenant Zevaya ordered coldly as she turned away. Simon clutched at his crotch and groaned softly.
“Geeze, I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Don stage-whispered from where he was. The lieutenant looked at him coldly, then went over to the captain. She murmured something to him.
“Hurry up,” the captain said in a normal voice as he took a sip of his drink. The lieutenant nodded and went to the head.
<)>^<)>/
“Feel better?” Lieutenant Mable Robinson asked a few minutes later when the lieutenant came out of the head. Zevaya eyed her coldly and then shrugged the woman's question aside as she took her customary seat on the right of Captain Zhukov.
Mabel sniffed at her friend's antics, then took her seat. She was a pilot; she was the personal pilot of the Death's Head Brigade, Charlie Battalion, Company Charlie, Beta Platoon. She was proud of it, just like she was proud of her short bluish silver locks and her love of flying.
She disdained flying for anyone else. Captain Zhukov had backed her up and refused her and her shuttle's services to anyone except the general. After all, she and her crew were supposed to be on call to move his troops on a moment's notice.
Being in a regular meeting was something of a rarity for her. She was technically supposed to be with her flight crew and their bird at the spaceport. She knew the captain wouldn't quibble her getting out and seeing what mischief the rest of the troops were getting into. She could hold her own in a suit too.
“Now that you've gotten that out of your system and put him and the rest in their place and on notice to behave,” Captain Zhukov drawled, “can we get down to business? We do have a planet and population to pacify after all,” he reminded her.
Lieutenant Zevaya nodded once. She deeply respected her boss. He was one of the few people who scared the hell out of her. It wasn't because he was sadistic like she was, far from it. He was just ruthless and brutally efficient. He was a strategic genius with suits. It was one of the reasons he'd risen through the ranks to where he was now. But the captain didn't want to rise through the ranks any higher than where he currently was. The higher you went, the more politics and ass kissing you had to deal with. He was a hands-on person.
The captain cleared his throat, getting everyone's attention once more. The audience settled themselves. “On to business. We have finished consolidating the perimeter around each town and the few cities this mudball has. There has been little if no resistance,” Captain Zhukov said, opening up the meeting. “I've consulted with our experts and the local militias we've activated. They concur that we aren't going to be facing any organized resistance, so it is time to move on to Phase II,” he said.
“So much for our being here,” Lieutenant Sng said with a shake of his head. “This planet is a cakewalk. We should have gone to Konahagakure. I heard it's still touch and go there,” he drawled, playing with a small pen knife.
“Questioning my orders, Rick?” the captain asked mildly as he took a sip of his drink.
“No, sir,” Lieutenant Sng said instantly.
“Good. You know I don't like that,” the captain said mildly, eying the lieutenant. Lieutenant Sng managed to hold his gaze for all of a second before he gently set the pen knife down in front of him and looked away. No one was foolish enough to try to stare down the alpha in the room. Not if they wanted to live long.
Captain Zhukov held his gaze on the wayward lieutenant for a moment more just to make his point before he returned his attention to the assembled staff.
“General Drier has graciously allowed us to move to the caves,” he said with a flick of his fingers before he set them together and touched tip to tip in a horizontal prayer gesture. “We'll have room to expand there, plus he's letting us have one of the backup fusion generators to power our armor and equipment. We'll have an engineering group with us to get it sorted out. They are going to direct what to do; we're going to have to do the work ourselves since it will be a secure facility.”
“Vigilante man,” Gunny Hioshi Brillo said softly, referring to a famous old children's show.
“Vigilante who?” Lieutenant Robinson asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion as she turned to the noncom. Gunny Brillo was the senior-most noncom in the unit. He wasn't the eldest; that fell on Sergeant Scornlan their armorer and engineer.
“Can it,” Lieutenant Zevaya growled, eying the miscreant.
“I prefer to think of it as proper staging and well, having a proper roof and set of walls around us. One we can easily defend unlike the brick building that is just a shade too small for us,” Captain Zhukov said mildly.
The gunny nodded once. “Yes, sir.”
“Good. We'll get sorted out with the move eventually. No real hurry, though I want to get it done by the end of the month,” the captain said mildly. He flicked his hands and then returned them to his favorite thinking position. “Dependent on weather and our current mission load of course,” he said. Both lieutenants and the gunny nodded dutifully and made a note.
Captain Zhukov eyed his XO and then took a sip of his drink. He knew Zevaya would do her damnedest to get the move done in a week. They wouldn't be able to get it done in a week, maybe two, but not one. He was fairly confident of that … just as he was confident she would be a total bitch until they got it done. That was fine with him. She might have a thing about her looks, but she was one hell of an XO. She tended to blitz with intense energy.
“Why not use local labor, sir?” Staff Sergeant Don Jensen asked, playing with his skull earring. Each of them had a skull earring to mark their passage into the Death's Head. Some were black, others chrome, silver, or gold. It was a tradition that had been passed down in the unit for centuries. The color of the earring denoted the number of kills a person had. Gold of course was the best and reserved for those who had over a thousand kills.
No one questioned why the captain was the only person in the room to have the gold earring.
“Secure facility. We don't want the locals getting a look at our hardware, let alone getting a hand on anything they might steal or sabotage,” Gunny Brillo drawled patiently, as if to a child. Sergeant Jensen flinched.
“Slave labor. We could work them to death. Kill them when we're done. Dead men tell no tales,” Sergeant James Scornlan rumbled. “Toss ‘em down an air shaft or play with them till they break,” he offered.
“No, we'll do it ourselves. I don't want your mangy lot getting bored and too comfortable,” Captain Zhukov said, putting an end to the matter. “Now, we also need to continue overseeing the robots. That means we're going to be divided between patrols, security around our current base, security around the caves, manning the drone oversight module, and doing the work. I know we'll be stretched a bit thin,” he said. “But that's tough. I will authorize the use of some of our hardware to knock the rough edges off.”
“As long as the idiots don't get too carried away and cause too much damage or a cave-in,” James said with a shake of his head.
“Agreed. And we've got the robots and drones with us. Those are coming over with us, right, sir?” Lieutenant Zevaya asked, eying the captain.
“True,” the captain said with a nod to her. “That's something we're going to have to keep an eye on. Also,” he paused, drumming his fingers, “we're moving into Phase II within the next week or so. So, we're going to step up the patrols, possibly go door-to-door in some of the communities.”
The tension in the air seemed to step up a notch. It was tinged with an air of excitement despite everyone doing their professional best to look bored by the meeting. Door knocking was tediou
s, boring, and sometimes dangerous. But therein was the rub: the danger was thrilling, the thrill of the hunt and killing was addicting, and there was a great chance for some loot. They might be a professional unit, but all of the Death's Head had come from the veterans of the Marines and Gather Fleet. That meant that deep down they still were pirates at heart.
“Well yo ho and blow me down,” Lieutenant Sng murmured.
“That's a bit much to take on, sir,” James said cautiously. Lieutenant Zevaya grimaced in mute agreement.
Dimitri's eyes twinkled. She was suddenly realizing her sudden impulse to blitz on the cave and get it done ahead of schedule to please him wouldn't be as easy as she'd thought it would be he thought cheerfully. Good. Both of them appreciated a challenge. She'd reap the rewards in his report if she did get it done and suitably impressed him. “I know. We're going to be relying on the robots to do a lot of the work for us. Quick and clean, you know the drill.”
“We've got what, air drones, satellites, the robot dogs, the androids … all that to cover, sir?” Gunny Brillo demanded.
“I never said it would be easy. If it was someone other than us would be doing it, now wouldn't they?” the captain said mildly.
“Right, sir,” the gunny replied, clearly nettled by the extra workload.
“I don't want any problems. The usual ROE apply up until we make the switch. Conserve ammo also,” he said. “Call in a sighting before engaging,” he ordered sternly. “Make sure our people don't go off half-cocked,” he warned.
Heads nodded around the table.
<)>^<)>/
“Don't,” Flo said, shaking her head desperately.
“I've got to. We need food. We've been out too long. Everyone is hiding,” Pete said.
“But they said its curfew … don't go out there!” Flo said desperately.
“I've got to go. The kids need food, Flo. It'll be all right. I'll stick to the shadows as much as possible. I'll nip down to the corner, see if Al is still open and has anything left. I'll be back before you know it,” Pete said as he kissed his wife on the forehead. He felt her whimper, then touch him on the side.
“Be quick,” she said as one of the babies woke crying from hunger.
“I'll do my best,” Pete said.
“Aren't you going to take your gun?” she demanded. He looked at her, brown eyes soft. “You keep it to protect you and the boys,” he said gruffly before he went out. He closed the door softly behind him.
Pete got about a hundred meters from his home before he saw the robot men walking down the center of the dimly lit street. A few curtains twitched as his friends and neighbors looked out, but no one acted as the robots surrounded him.
The Neochimp kept his head down and tried to walk around the lead one, but it blocked his path.
“By order of the Horathian Emperor, you are under arrest pending extermination,” the lead robot said.
He looked up in alarm, brown eyes frightened just as a blow to his skull from behind knocked all sense out of him.
<)>^<)>/
Isabel Sawyer saw Pete go down and whimpered softly to herself. She covered her mouth to stop herself from making a betraying sound, lest they come after her. Flo … the boys … gods above … She'd told him and told him not to go out. To hide, to find a different way, but he'd been insistent. His family was out of food he'd said. Al's market wasn't going to get a delivery in until the late evening he'd said. He had been cleaned out by the pirates and the desperate people twice before. Each delivery had been half of what he'd had before and had gone within hours of his opening.
Al and Pete had gone way back, Pete worked at the store off and on before word got around that the pirates were going after Neos. She kicked herself, but a small part of her mind was glad it was him and not her that had gone down. And at least it had been robots. Humans would have been more brutal … she shuddered and licked her lips as she looked away.
She bit her lip. She felt guilt for not doing something, for feeling glad someone else was going down instead of her. Guilt and shame—and she couldn't afford either one. She peeked again. Two of the robot men dragged the body to the side of the road, then left it. They continued on their patrol.
After they rounded a corner, Rudy rushed out to check Pete over. Isabel felt her eyes widen as her neighbor shook her head, then went through the dead chimp's pockets.
Isabel felt horrible about seeing such desperation but then her own situation hit her. She was a tailor, a clothes-maker in a desperate situation when no one was after clothes. When all anyone could think of was survival. Food, shelter, safety, and water—the basics she thought.
Pete had to have gone out with money to buy food she reasoned. Al wouldn't have let him buy on credit, even though he and Pete had gone way back. Pete might have been willing to work a bit of the load off, but no way would Al have let him stay too late.
After a moment of hesitation, she went out to join the woman to see if she could find something. If Rudy got to the money first … she hesitated at the door before opening it. No, she had known Rudy for her entire life. But maybe … maybe she could use the clothes … sell them … and she'd offer to help Flo bury the body ….
<)>^<)>/
Lieutenant Zevaya pulled Sergeant Scornlan aside once the meeting was concluded. “I know, ma'am. I'm gonna be carrying the ball widda engineering. Aye, I know,” the sergeant said soothingly before the lieutenant could finish opening her mouth.
“Good. And you remember what the boss said? His playbook?”
“About bloody bases? Of course,” the Celtic Viking said with a nod. The sergeant was a beefy man; he had a brown beard and top knot. He was all muscle; she'd seen it several times. She also knew he was battle scarred and tattooed all over. All over she thought.
The captain was mostly by the book—mostly. But whenever they built a base he preferred it underground, heavy security, with a back door in case they needed it.
“Don go worrying your pretty lil head over such a thing lass. I'll get it done,” the engineer said. “But,” he turned a glower on her, “not in any two weeks or less,” he said, shaking a thick callused and scarred finger at her. “Nay now, three mayhaps, perhaps four, but not two or one!” he said. “I got too much goins-on with the fiddlin about and all that,” he warned.
“Okay.”
“An you need to get yon engineer in to bloody well sign off on this and that too. I'm good at the fiddlin’ about but not rock. Just breakin’ it, not shorin’ it up and all that mess,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Okay, okay,” she sighed. The engineers were going to be a pain in the ass to book. They were all over the planet building firebases, bases, and working on power plants, factories, water supplies, and everything else. “I'll see what I can do.”
“Good. Good,” the sergeant said. “Anythin else, lass?” he asked.
She shook her head. “You sure you can't do it in two?”
“Well now, you get me an engineer, toot sweet, and I'll see how fast we can sweat it down to as close to two or three as I can get the boys to move. And I mean move,” he said grimly.
She nodded. James was one of the oldest in the platoon. He was a rarity in the service; he'd been born into it. His mother had been a Viking in Sigma sector. Word was she'd found a guy she'd taken a shine to in a capture, and she'd had her way with him before he'd taken a one-way trip out the lock. Ten months later James had been born. He'd grown up around engineering, learning it “as a wee lad on my mama's knee” or so he said.
Everyone knew he was a character. They also knew the Celtic thing was an act. All engineers did it; it was some sort of stupid tradition. Just like over-estimating the time it would take to get something done—in case something went wrong or so they'd look like “bonny miracle workers.”
“Two,” she said firmly, remembering a provision from the captain. “I'll get you an engineer. This week if I can swing it,” she said. They both knew the captain's saying about deadlines; the
y made people hustle and not dick around. It focused them on the job.
He eyed her and then heaved a sigh. “Aye, lass, two it is,” he said, “if you get me yon engineer within a day or so,” he said.
“No promises,” she warned.
“Well, there is only so much me and whoever you get me canna do before yon engineer shows up. And I'm not gonna do something only for them to come round and tell me to rip it all out again! I'm bloody well not going to make that mistake twice!”
She cracked a smile. “Okay. I'll see what I can do,” she said as she walked off. She heard him start to sing and turned her head.
“Oh, a Viking we will go, a Viking we will go …,” he definitely had a deep and nice singing voice she thought as she continued on her way.
<)>^<)>/
Captain Pablo Eronez nodded politely to people in passing as the made his way through the streets. He should by rights have an air car for his security, but he liked to show off his militia unit, nice outfit, and the robot sentries that followed him in his wake.
Sure it made him something of a target. He knew that. But anyone who pointed a weapon at him would draw the ire of the robots who watched his back. Plus, the unseen robots who hovered out of sight in the skies above.
He was a short man, barely standing a hundred and twenty centimeters tall. He made up for his small stature with energy and craftiness. He had been the first Horathian on the miserable planet, sent decades ago as a teenager to infiltrate the planet and prepare the way for them to assume control.
He'd almost forgotten who he really was in all those years. Since it had been so long ago, he barely remembered Horath since he'd spent most of his adult life on the miserable farming world in the back end of nowhere.
But things were changing he thought happily as he rested the palm of his hand on the handle of his jeweled dagger. A boy saw it, gulped, and got out of his way. Pablo smiled, gratified by the sight of the little shit scurrying off. As he should he thought as his mind turned to other matters.
