by Sharon Lee
Brunner brushed the words aside. They were alone in his lab and had been for several hours. Brunner had backtracked the flow; the scout, on an auxiliary machine, had taken to himself the tedious task of identifying the chemicals by their spectrographic signatures and dispersal fugacity.
“The mercenaries,” Brunner said now, arguing, gods, with a scout! “The off-world techs serving the Chilongan government. The natives who have filed for immigration—”
The scout slid off the stool and made the bow of accepting necessary burdens.
“I must,” he said, and waved unsteadily at the microphone.
“Tell the girl—you see? I take that burden, as well. Tell her, then get some sleep, Comrade. You will be needed at your board soon enough.”
* * *
“Quarantined,” Brunner said into microphone, taking especial care with his pronunciation of the Terran.
“I repeat, the scout has interdicted Klamath, and placed it under quarantine.” He took a breath, knowing his words were potentially recorded in records besides that of the Stubbs unit.
“Poison gas has been deployed against civilian targets in contravention of general usage of warfare.”
The planetologist’s equipment was powerful enough to allow him to see bodies lying on the streets, to see fires burning in the city, to watch Klamath’s fickle winds sweeping the vapors out of the city in a strong flow to the south.
Not one, but three aerosol dispersants had been loosed upon Chilonga Center. The first sank rapidly, displacing oxygen, and suffocating some quickly. The second gas, more mistlike, hovered and flowed in every breeze, torturing the lungs and eyes of any who survived, eating at their skins. The third hung higher, and featured a potential late-stage crystallization so that it might precipitate and leave a residue of skin-dangerous toxics.
Cursing the winds under his breath, he had checked the Stubbs’ last reported location, all but weeping when he found it east to northeast of Chilonga Center. Miri Robertson, Corporal Redhead—the winds blew past her. In a planetary day, perhaps two, the chemicals would have dispersed entirely, and what was left of the city could be entered.
All of this he told the Stubbs, remote and unreachable, and when he was finished, he whispered, “Please acknowledge.”
There was no reply. He told himself that it was the middle of her night; that her pattern was to report in the evenings, and sometimes very early in the morning. He told himself that she was safe, well away from the destruction in the city; that she would call, if she had need of him.
He kept the line open anyway, the microphone clipped to his shirt, the Stubbs’ uplink window open in the corner of his workscreen.
In the meanwhile, he started literature searches: toxic flows, aerosol dispersal, plume pollutants, plume tracking, microclimactic poison control, history of planetary quarantines and interdictions, general usage of warfare, strategic poison, tactical toxics, history of Terran Mercenary Units.
The histories held an uncomfortable number of references to merc units being lost without record. He put them aside for later reading and turned his attention to those things he might do that would increase the chances of one particular mercenary unit surviving its odds.
* * *
His work was twice interrupted by crew looking for updated information for the on-going betting. He dealt with them—not as they deserved—locked the door, disabled the bell and returned to the literature. Eventually, he found a treatise specifically on defensive meteorology and the tracking of dangerous atmospherics. In the information about aerosols there were unpleasant images, but also some useful approximations he could add to the station’s regular monitoring.
He might even be able to—but motion distracted him, and then sounds.
Information was flowing from the Stubbs to his monitor; from the speaker came sharp cracking sounds, then—
“You there, Brunner?”
He touched the microphone. “Here, Galandaria.”
“Good! Hey, nothing like a little gunfire to get you focused, right?” Despite the cheery phrasing, she sounded . . . breathless. Worn. Brunner frowned, closing his eyes so that he might hear her better.
“Yeah, that was bad, what happened in the city. We lost a couple of ours in the hospital over there. I—not the way I’d wanna go, y’know? Anyhow, business—Liz wants to know what that means if we get a recall, that quarantine. She sent it upline to our employer but no answer yet. Got anything you can tell me? Before I forget—this Stubbs? It’s great! Got some dings in it but it took a couple for me and bounced ’em right out. Pretty open here, don’t think Liz is gonna keep us—Right. Gotta go. I’m glad you was there. Out.”
She was gone, pushed by her necessities, and he had not even said—What? he asked himself. Go carefully? Be alert? Don’t breathe tainted air?
Perhaps he should have demanded a fuller accounting of the damage to the Stubbs, but to what end? A glance at the screen told him that the self-test had registered no warnings, so the station’s unit must be intact. Unlike Redhead’s unit, which had “lost a couple of ours . . .”
As to Commander Lizardi’s query—certainly, there was nothing he, caught between the station chief and the scout, could tell her. Chief Thurton was adamant in neutrality, while the scout . . . while the scout played whatever game the scout was embroiled in.
What he could do was have available the best possible wind charts, produce the most accurate weather forecast, and not forget that down there were people relying on him. On him!
* * *
Liz didn’t say a word: just nodded as she went by.
And what was Liz gonna say anyway, Redhead thought, not much more than half worried. Skel was a Lunatic, she was a Lunatic . . . and . . . and. . . damn. She sighed and finished sealing up her uniform.
She’d drawn first clean-up, and now here was Skel already, washed up himself and holding a cup of coffee out to her like it was a prize. That was nice, she thought. Warming. So she took the cup like it was a prize, grinned at him, and worried a little more.
There was plenty to worry about, and not just maybe Liz not liking it that she’d partnered up with Skel. Folks had been skittish before word about Klamath being under blanket quarantine had gotten into the general need-to-know pool. Now—hell, Liz was skittish, Skel was skittish, Auifme was downright dangerous, and the liaison the Chilongan government’d given them was scared out of his prayer beads. ’Course, he’d been that way since day one, on account of being stuck all by his lonesome with a buncha Unpious, Outsiders, Orbiteers, Freelovers, and—damn if there wasn’t a dozen more not-exactly-appreciative names the man had laid on the Lunatics. Scandal’d said it was a good thing they were on his side, else he’d really be calling in the long guns, which had made the knot of ’em crouched together over quick rations laugh, and the liaison rattle his beads.
Now Skel, Redhead thought, turning her mind to more cheerfuller things, he’d kinda surprised her last night; caught up to her right after she’d tucked the rig in with proper camouflage and getting ready to tuck in herself. Sat his pretty tall self down right there beside where she’d been going over her vitamins to make sure she was up to date and said it right out.
“Hardly like it’s a fancy invite, Redhead, but you know, we get along right well and there ain’t no time presently for Liz to approve us a proper Hundred Hours to get all perfumed and slinky and everything.”
She’d blinked at him, not believing, on account of there was an unofficial moratorium on asking Miri since the Grawn brothers had cut each other awhile back about who was going to ask her—and she’d have told them both no, anyhow. Sorry about them, sort of; died in that damn hospital the liaison got them sent off to.
But Skel’d said his piece, pointed out that weren’t neither of them on guard schedule, and that he did have coffee, smokes, and stringent cloth, too, among other supplies what could clean the sweat off and give them some distance from this land that moved like water and the ’way too many crazy peopl
e who were trying to kill them.
She’d smiled, felt her heart beating faster—and faster again—when he lost a bit of his seriousness and smiled, too.
“Hundred Hours is right expensive,” she said. “Don’t know I could buy in to it . . .”
He’d laughed, and relaxed some more, like she’d said something right.
“Oh, hell, I’d pick up the Hundred Hours. I mean, I know what a newer ’cruit’s got to worry with, ’spense wise. But like I say, as is, even if we get to town down here, ain’t none of these folks’ll rent us a side-by-side lunch seat much less a big soft room with a big soft bed . . .”
He’d paused, looking some tentative, and she was sure feeling the same. It was funny, kinda, to see him that way when he could pick up four launch tubes and a long-arm and go wading into battle. She liked Skel fine—always had, and she wouldn’t mind—but the man had a right to know.
“Not sure,” she said, glancing down at her boots, her uniform slacks, her shirt-front. “Umm . . . Not sure I can give you the best time, see? It’d be learning on the job mostly for me, kinda, not like—I mean.”
He didn’t say anything but he’d rearranged himself, getting cross-legged, and close enough that she could see the scrapes on his boot soles and the slot where he’d been knocked off his feet the other day, the bullet just creasing the shoe. Hell, if the shot had struck true, he could have been back there in Chilonga Center with the Grawns.
“Your call, Miri. We can bunk up here if you want, or I got me a spot with three ways out and some quiet, down in a little hollow. You want, you can just sleep.”
She smiled and realized that she was smiling so low and slow she was laughing, too.
She looked into his eyes then. Still smiling.
“Got coffee and stringent, huh?”
He nodded, just his eyes smiling, and it came to her, forcibly, that she didn’t want to sleep all alone, with just the weather machine to wake up to.
She stood up and stretched, as much like a cat as she could, before reaching a hand down to him.
“Let’s see who snores first.”
* * *
“’Morning.” Robertson’s voice was softer than usual. Brunner touched the volume control, increasing the gain slightly. “Smokey down here,” she murmured. “Been that way the last three days; getting worse, seems like—”
On the station, Brunner nodded, and carefully did not sigh.
“There are large fires burning in the grain belts on both the major continents,” he told her, keeping his voice merely informative. She had no need, after all, to carry the burden of his anger. Idiots, fools, and—but, no. That was for later. Now, there were other necessities to be served.
“Some of the forests also seem to have been set on fire. I see plumes all over the planet from installations and communities that have been . . . set afire.”
“Yeah, they asked us to start burning things awhile back. Ain’t in our job description. Seems they got some kind of fetish ’bout fire cleaning things up—you know, purifying.”
Robertson coughed; Brunner pushed a button to download a satellite image to the Stubbs’ screen.
“Your location is the blinking green dot,” he said. “The other green dots are your most recent report points. The valley directly ahead is very smoky—you can see that there are four distinct plumes which then merge . . . I believe that all of the major communities in your area have burned or are burning; certainly the crop fields have burnt.”
A pause, broken by her sigh.
“Guess we won’t capture much there. We was supposed to be moving on one of them towns to meet . . . well . . .”
He thumbed the plate, waited.
“Huh. What’s this about winter? It got pretty cool last night, even for a girl from Surebleak. I’d have had damn frosty toes without help—Hey! That looks ugly as all get out!”
She was multithreading, though there was scarcely need—or maybe, he thought, there was. Who knew how long she had until the order came to move? Threading was an efficient way to share information.
So. “Winter does come,” he said, picking up each thread in turn. “A very strong winter on much of the planet, according to the records. The snowcaps triple in size at the poles. But there are still eighty to one hundred planet days until that is a concern for you. Yes, it is ugly. Easily one hundred and fifty major fires in both hemispheres; on the plains up north there is effectively a single fire half the width of the continent.”
A sound came out of the speaker, as if of a boot against rock, followed by a murmured question, Redhead’s soft, “I dunno—”
A new voice emerged from the speaker, crisp and tight.
“Commander Lizardi here. My weather reporter says it looks like the locals are burning themselves out of house and home. If the scout is available, relay this to his attention. News of the quarantine has been a catalyst for major upheaval within power structures. Violent upheaval, even by local standards. My groundstation for our tactical satellite has been destroyed by ground forces, and the Chilongan government that hired me has been in transition this last five-day, leaving me with no current contact up-line despite reports that the north is bringing a major invasion force down on the continent. If the government that hired me is gone, I need to withdraw. Repeat: we have no assurance of contracted withdrawal at this point. We also have attracted a few dozen off-world noncombatants who travel in our train. The scout has my contact radio frequencies and I expect them used appropriately.
“We’re moving now. Lizardi out.”
* * *
“Brunner, from this point on you will have an assistant on duty with you at all times while you are in the meteorology lab.”
Chief Thurton stood beside his own desk in his own office, hand clenching and unclenching nervously.
“An assistant?” Brunner stared, wondering if he looked upon madness, or only exhaustion.
“We have no such an assistant available,” he pointed out. “Shall you assign the intern’s hours to mine, it might be possible.”
“The intern . . . is on sick-call. She is . . . unreliable. I note that I don’t have your letter on file. I need it as soon as possible. You—through the orders of the scout, or by your own choice—are on the verge of violating our neutrality.”
“Indeed,” he murmured, keeping his voice calm, his posture non-argumentative. “By your direction, I follow the scout’s necessity. And the station’s—am I not to preserve the function of the monitor?”
“Liz Lizardi is a combatant, as is the operator of the equipment. You should not be carrying messages of a tactical nature for the scout from Lizardi!”
The chief spun, paced; he stared at the monitors with their images of smoke-streaked atmosphere.
“Am I,” Brunner asked carefully, “relieved of the command to follow the scout’s orders? The equipment on-world was supplied for our use by the scout.”
Abruptly, the chief sat behind his desk, still if not at ease. He closed his eyes, and spoke softly, enunciating each word with great care.
“Until such time as we are able to assign an assistant for you, you will record any and all activity within the laboratory, you will forward the text of any and all communications with the ground, with the Lunatics, as soon as it is completed. I have found a dozen or more conversations you’ve had with that soldier in the files, contacts you’ve never mentioned . . .”
Brunner bowed, keeping the wave of frustrated confusion in check with an effort. This conversation was far too similar to the senseless interrogations regarding melant’i, proper conduct, and “civilized behavior” that his halfling self had endured from delm and nadelm to be borne with true calmness.
“It is as you say, Chief. The conversations were brief and part of the record. It seems . . . profitable . . . to be in touch with the one operating the unit, and in fact to ascertain that the operator is intact enough to operate it properly. The unit is in a war zone, and I am told I am responsible for it!”
> The chief opened his eyes.
“I see. In fact, your motives are pure and your thought wise.” He took a hard breath. “Allow me to be specific. Do forward messages as they occur. Do not initiate any conversation with the ground which are not in response to their queries or actual operational necessity. Do not contact any other ground units or respond to any outside requests for information; all such must go through my office. Do not argue with the scout, but if he gives you further instructions, report them to me for clarity before carrying them out.”
Brunner bowed again and turned to—
“Brunner—” The chief called him back. “Maybe you don’t understand your situation—the precarious situation of this station with regard to the—situation on the planet. As a result of the scout’s declaration of quarantine, the so-called legitimate planetary government has vanished, giving rise to two entities who now claim to be in control. A third has announced its willingness—and ability—to destroy ‘all interlopers in the system.’ At one point, this was a civilized world and they had means to back that threat up. A space station, as I am sure I don’t need to tell you, is a very, very vulnerable habitat.”
Brunner bowed once more, speechless. The chief collapsed against the back of his chair, boneless with emotion and waved an incoherent hand.
“Go!”
* * *
Redhead shut the Stubbs down and pushed up off her knees. Skel looked ’round from where he’d been watching for her, his face black with ash.
“Get ’im?”
“Just static. I think that roll down the hill might’ve shook something loose,” she said, pulling the now-familiar burden up over her shoulders, and settling it with a wince. Truth told, that tumble hadn’t done her a lot of good, either. Skel’d wrapped the ribs for her, but there wasn’t much else to do about the bruises and contact burns than ignore ’em.
“Best let’s catch up,” she said. “I’ll try again tonight.”
* * *
There was activity in the Chilongan isthmus. Heavy equipment working between the mismatched sea walls. Brunner upped the magnification, trying to see what they were about, conscientiously recording to the planetologist’s queue.
