Afterwar

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Shit.” Swann closed his eyes for a moment. “Motherfuck.”

  “Amen.” Henny rubbed at his face, scrubbing with salt-slick palms. “You want to take one of them with us? I’d bring the skinny one; Fatso there is a much tougher nut to crack.”

  “And yet it’s the skinny asshole who had to lose a fucking finger.”

  “Well, Simmons didn’t have his big knife, he said. I’ll go to this local general—what’s his name?”

  “Bretagne.” And a stick-up-the-ass little French martinet that asshole must have been in another life, Swann thought grimly. His back hurt, and the hall smelled like burned baked beans and the sour sweat of men in pain.

  “General Bretagne.” Hendrickson nodded, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Wave the authorization in front of him. Smooth the ruffled feathers.”

  That was good news. “Worth your weight, Henny.”

  “I fucking well hope so.” The Fed scratched at the side of his neck with blunt fingertips. “So, do you want to bring one of them?”

  If Spooky were along, she’d have the location of the grave too, no need to drag extra weight along. How soon he’d gotten used to that sort of thing.

  There was a lesson in that, Swann thought. You could get used to pretty much anything in wartime. Maybe peace wasn’t any fucking different. There was just Before, civilian shit dogging you, and During. After was a lie. “Do we have to?”

  “Prototype probably got a couple scans we can run to find disturbed dirt and something rotting. We know the general area, and they buried him next to the road. Gave him a cross and everything.”

  “What are the odds One-Hand’s got the data?”

  “Pretty damn good, if he knew what the doctor was carrying.”

  “Shiiiiiiiiiit.” Swann dragged the single syllable out, giving himself time to consider the situation. “Suppose we go scavenging at the shithole they were using for a base.”

  “Our boys burned it. Clean sweep.”

  “Fuck.” This was getting to be a real headache.

  Henny looked like he had one, too. “I can go back and press the girl if you want.”

  “Nah. Just get Bretagne off his fucking fainting couch.” Swann touched his hat brim, and from down the hall, he heard Simmons curse good-naturedly at the guard, who replied in kind. A barracks song, and one Swann could have sung with his eyes shut.

  It was getting to where it felt suspiciously like home.

  Chapter Seventy

  It’s Protection

  August 6, ’98

  The cameras didn’t whir anymore, being digital, but enough of them massed in one place caused an electric susurration, almost audible. Leavy, standing at ease, stared across the crowd of journalists, waiting. Questions yelled in every accent, mostly from pirate outlets wearing badges, but a few resurrected big boys—CNN, KNAR, PBC—with ancient equipment jostling for a place. The good spots were taken by the proudly refractory—Ma Jones, the National, and that thorn in the Patriots’ sides, TeeVog. It was strange to see them in the front of the crowd instead of in the shame-pen off to the side, spat on and screamed at by good Patriots whipped into a McCoombs-rally frenzy.

  What’s your reaction to the verdict?

  Pride, the interim President said, unblinking. The military court had done a difficult job, and done it well.

  No drones in here, not even the minis that would capture shots from near the ceiling. Some of the smaller networkers had headcams, live-feeding out in real time. It was going to be a golden age for access, the new administration bending over backward to prove it was different, better, a return to the good old days of media freedom and scrutiny.

  What about the other trials?

  Well, they would have to wait their turn.

  Leavy was fucking glad he wasn’t under the glare of flashes popping and round black camera eyes drinking you in. His foot itched, but he didn’t move. Stone-faced, he stared at the back of Kallbrunner’s head. Thinning gray hair over an eggshell-fragile dome, the old man’s ears looking as cauliflowered as an old boxer’s.

  What is the medical condition of the accused?

  He was getting the best of health care. The President didn’t add that it was more than his victims had ever received.

  It was Bauer from Ma Jones who asked what everyone was thinking. “Sir, there are several charges in international court. Will McCoombs be extradited?”

  Kallbrunner, straight and natty in a dark wool suit, his tie good old Marine blue and his face filled out a little since rationing was being eased, looked as if he’d expected the question. “Well, son—Bauer, is it? Well, Bauer, I have to tell you, America is part of the international community, and has responsibilities. Mr. McCoombs has to pay for what he’s done.”

  Leavy’s back prickled with gooseflesh. He’d been goddamn certain Kallbrunner intended to put the pillow over that motherfucker’s face and press down. So had McCoombs, for that matter, and the sheer abject terror had distorted the asshole’s already messed-up face.

  It was one thing to kill a man in combat. It was another to murder him in his bed.

  Strangely enough, the thing Patrick Leavy had thought of that evening was his mother, standing in a clean yellow kitchen, her house shoes whisking over daily-scrubbed, worn linoleum and her mouth set in that particular way that meant she’d measured someone and found them wanting. Patrick, I’m gonna tell you, she’d said one day. Some people just need killin’.

  When Kallbrunner let the pillow drop, dangling pendulous from one liver-spotted hand, McCoombs gurgled frantically, the faint steel-clad smile touching Kallbrunner’s face enough to make a man’s eggs crawl up into his body for safekeeping. That’s what I thought, Kallbrunner had said. You’re yella, and you always have been, you son of a bitch.

  Leavy couldn’t make up his mind whether he was relieved or faintly disappointed the old man hadn’t solved the problem right then and there. He stood, stolid, under the flashing lights and other shouted questions: yes, the elections would proceed as scheduled; no, the uncertified would not be able to vote in them; yes, certification was proceeding; no, there was no truth to the rumors that Firsters were being hunted by extrajudicial teams.

  The last was from the rail-thin, chain-smoking bitch from the National, the one with dyed-black scraped-back hair who had been in a camp or two, each time barely escaping after severe diplomatic pressure was applied. Canada, in particular, loved that particular loudmouth. Kallbrunner called on her, probably, to show he wasn’t fucking afraid of the press any more than he had been of McCoombs.

  “Sir.” Her nasal voice carried without even trying, piercing the shuffle. “What about the victims of genetic experimentation being quarantined?”

  Kallbrunner didn’t even blink. “They’re being given the best of health care, too. It’s not a quarantine—it’s protection. For victims of the McCoombs regime.”

  Leavy swallowed a heavy, bitter taste. Kallbrunner thanked the press kindly for their time, and when he left the podium Leavy followed, trying to ignore the popping flashes and the shouting, heaving scrum.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Nada, Nada

  Breakfast time in the Helena base caf was full of shouts, horseplay, and the flat-edged reek of boiled-tar coffee. All normal, all usual, but Zampana was still uneasy. She kept touching the small lump right over her breastbone, her grandmother’s crucifix tucked under her shirt and kept safe. The pancakes were just as good as in Casper, but there was a shortage of bacon. Good-natured grumbling at the lack went around each table like clockwork, as if there hadn’t been rationing just a few short months before.

  Sal was dumping syrup into his oatmeal, alternating bites of sweetened goop with buttered pancakes. Why the fool didn’t put the syrup on the flapjacks like God intended was beyond her.

  Spooky had vanished into the showers, since they were likely to be empty while everyone was eating. After seeing the killing bottles, Pana didn’t blame her, but she also suspected the girl was avoiding f
ood, and that was a troubling sign.

  The raiders chose, by unspoken accord, one of the few tables with chairs instead of benches. Pana could see one entrance, and the boys the other. Just as usual, again.

  On the other side of the table, Chuck Dogg tensed, and so did Sal. Zampana had to wait for the half-glassed door to their backs to swing closed before she could catch the reflection of two straight-edge Feds, one dark and one fair, both with the same haircut. The female was tall and willowy, her face set in the disgust of an attractive woman used to assholes seeing only her looks; the male, blond and squat, just needed a cigar chomped in his teeth to be a cliché. Both had starched creases in their trousers, and their uniforms shouted INTEL. A pair of pseudo-spooks.

  Pana quashed the urge to hunch over her bowl. “Pair of Feds,” she muttered. “Could be anything.”

  “Except they’re heading this way.” Sal’s mouth barely moved. “Dummy up.”

  “Not a stretch,” Chuck Dogg replied, and Pana snorted half a laugh into her coffee mug. This base had heavy industrial ceramic ware, a far cry from zinc or catch-as-catch-can.

  She sensed them behind her before the woman spoke—a soft, deceptively quiet alto. “Swann’s Riders? Blue Company, detached with a Captain Hendrickson?”

  Sal blinked slowly up at her, playing the dumb-brown-immie card. Chuck’s toe bumped Pana’s boot under the table, twice. So that was how they were gonna work it.

  Pana didn’t mind, but Dios, it got tiring.

  “Shyooooot,” Chuck drawled, an outrageous thickening of an accent not his own. “Whatchu talkin’ ’bout?”

  “Copley, CentInt, SEC Three,” the squat blond man said, right behind Pana. Almost breathing on her braids, and she contemplated scooching her chair back hard. “We’re looking for one of your group. Anna Gray. Ring any bells?”

  The Dogg let the question sit for a while, chewing slowly, letting his mouth open a little with each steady rumination. Finally, he took a long gulp of coffee, and smacked his lips. “Don’t know no Annie. What ’bout y’all?”

  Sal shook his head. “Noooooope.”

  The woman moved to Sal’s right, examining the table. She peered at Zampana, probably counting on her partner right behind the seated raider to add pressure. Pana arranged her own face into a sulled-up mask, saved from outright hostility only by its watchful false stupidity, but not by much. She shook her head, slowly, her jaw working as she sloshed the overcooked coffee around. “Nada, nada.”

  “Come on.” The woman tried a smile. “We know she was in the camps. This is just routine.”

  Pana’s gaze met Sal’s, but it was Chuck who jerked his head up, scraping his chair back with a squeal of legs on worn-smooth concrete. “You wanna know about the camps?” He leaned forward a little, as if he were about to leap out of the wooden chair. “I can tell ya. I was there, man. I saw ’em.”

  Zampana pushed her own chair back, slow but inexorable, almost running over the male’s feet. He hopped back just in time, but she kept going until she had plenty of space, clipping the toe of a shiny wingtip at the very end of the motion. Chuck made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “Yeah, we was liberatin’ the camps.” Chuck wiped at his mouth with the back of one hand, tossed his fork to clatter on his plate. He fixed the asshole behind Pana with a steady glare, and a stillness spread through the caf as enlisteds noticed the tension. “Whatchu wanna know?”

  “Easy there,” the woman said. “We just want to talk to Specialist Gray, all right? We’re in the east wing of the big brick building on Delta Drive. Just let her know, okay?”

  Something told Pana this girl didn’t play good cop all that often, but she was making an effort. So Pana just grunted and shook her head again. “Nada, nada.”

  “We come ’cross any Annie, we letchoo know.” Chuck pointed at the male behind Pana. “Yo, mothafucka, she don’ like crowdin’, back yo’ ass up.”

  “Come on, Copley.” The blonde tried a smile. “Let’s let these soldiers think about it, all right?”

  Copley—it had to be a nickname—grunted. Pana rose slowly, just in case anyone decided going crazy was the way to head off these mofos. She turned, gave the man a once-over. He had the grace to look ashamed, and prickle-drops of sweat showed up on his forehead. “Nada,” she said again, and jabbed her fingers at him, like her grandmother warding off el mal de ojo. “Malo suerte, cabrón.”

  The gringo motherfucker grinned uneasily at her, showing a front tooth too white and shiny to be anything but an implant. Rear-echelon motherfuckers with time to get their teeth seen to, shit.

  “Yassuh, we let you know,” Dogg continued placidly, but he didn’t scoot any closer to the table or relax.

  It wasn’t like dummying up for Firsters, but it was kind of funny. The Feds hurried out, pursued by the watchful examination of enlisteds and a few officers slumming a lunch for whatever reason. Pana settled back down, and Sal muttered a string of hideously obscene terms into his pancakes. “Shit,” he said finally, reaching for the syrup again. “What they want with Spooky?”

  “Nothing good.” Pana grabbed a white plastic shaker. The coffee was only going to be palatable if she put a little salt in. “They’re gonna watch us now.”

  “Oh, yeah. If they ain’t been already.” Chuck shook his head, his dreads moving softly. “Christ, Swann better come back soon.”

  “Hope Spooky stays hid, too,” Sal added sagaciously.

  “That girl?” Pana snorted. “Probably why she ain’t here. Don’t you worry about her.”

  It was good advice, really. But Zampana found herself unable to follow it, and from the look on his face, so did Chuck.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Some Mad Genie

  August 6, ’98

  “Fuck, man,” Simmons groaned as soon as they cleared the stockade, stretching his legs to make his stride long and loose. “We got to get on that thing again?”

  “What, you don’ like my drivin’, sir?” Ngombe grinned, hopping over gravel like she couldn’t wait to take off again. “Gonna slide right through thunderstorms just for you. Boom boom.”

  “Fuck that shit.”

  Swann’s neck ached. He was not in a mood to listen to complaints. “Oh for God’s sake, Simms, just belt some booze and sleep on the way there.”

  Hendrickson shifted a new laptop bag from one shoulder to the other. Sleep had disturbed the circles under his eyes and given him a bit more bounce to his step. “So I gave him the clearance papers and he looked like he’d fucking swallowed a grenade. Sat back like he was afraid it was gonna go off.”

  Swann grunted. At least Bretagne had backed the fuck off and quit barking at him. If the jackass thought a missing fingertip on a Firster was unacceptable, it was pretty clear he’d never taken troops into combat. Fucking rear admirals.

  Part of Swann’s sour mood was the sunshine; another part was the uncomfortable sense of the situation reaching a boiling point. You didn’t last long behind the lines if you couldn’t sense when a particular set of circumstances was heating up, and this one had gotten there toot-sweet, as his daddy would say.

  He hadn’t thought of his father in years and wanted to keep it that way, so Swann quickened his pace. Ngombe was already ahead of them, moving along at a bouncing clip. Henny fell back with Simmons, the two of them bickering good-naturedly about what, exactly, General Bretagne resembled. Simmons said the man looked like Peter Lorre’s ugly cousin; Henny disagreed, saying he looked more like a frog version of John Wayne. The two had apparently seen every ancient black-and-white movie ever, and a few that were in color, too.

  It would, Swann thought, be fucking fantastic if they could find this one-armed fucker and finish this particular hunt. Why had he taken enlistment after the goddamn surrender in the first place? To keep them all together?

  One fucking sled crash later he had 40 percent casualties. Some mad genie had escaped his bottle, and the dying wouldn’t stop until he was crammed back in.

 
Swann’s nape prickled, and he was in a crouch before he realized it, slapping his sidearm out of the holster and drawing a bead. Simmons, catching the movement, hit the gravel, and Henny did too. Ngombe, hearing the scuffling of three male animals disturbing small rocks, whirled and crouched at the same time, almost landing on her ass, her eyes wide and white-ringed. Simmons let out a short bark, probably digging for his own iron, and Swann realized the running footsteps were friendly.

  The Federal private, out of breath and just barely out of school by the look of her, skidded to a stop a respectable distance away. Her boots were spit-shine, her dark hair regulation cut, her cheeks fresh and dewy, and her own sidearm was in a stiff new holster, obviously never used. She grasped a wad of flimsy and a small thumbprint catcher, and stared at them on the ground like she didn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “PFC Malbrook, looking for Captain Swann, sir!”

  “Fuck me,” Simmons groaned. “Friendly. Friendly, everyone! Friendly!”

  “Jesus Christ,” Henny weighed in, breathlessly. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

  Ngombe, grinning, was the first to bounce back up. “Man, I thought we was gonna hafta shoot someone. You all right, Captain sir?”

  “Captain Swann, sir?” The Federal private waved the flimsies. “Sorry, sir, looking for Captain Swann, sir!”

  “Yeah, you said that.” Swann’s knees ached; Henny gave him a hand up. “I’m right here. Mulder, is it?”

  “Malbrook, sir. Flimsy from CentCom, sir! High priority. Need a thumb.”

  Shit. It was probably more bad news. Swann took the flimsy, glanced at it, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He read it again, handed it to Simmons, and thumbed the small box with its heatfilm divot, acknowledging receipt. “Thank you, Malbrook. Good job.”