by O. J. Lowe
“Fucking lunatic,” Wilsin had muttered to himself when he’d heard that.
Wilsin was just glad that the order had been given for Unisco agents to get out of the kingdom as fast as possible. The order had been made the moment the Coppinger fleet had approached Tripoli. The Senate had told the right thing to do, they’d abandoned Nwakili and Vazara to their enemy. Just because the order had come, didn’t mean that he had to personally feel good about it. He’d met Nwakili, had liked him despite the undisputable fact he’d been a slippery son of a bitch who could talk his way out of a snake pit.
A snake pit, if not a full-on invasion of his city. No matter how talented or skilled you might be, there always would be events beyond your control. Overwhelming force was a good way to win a battle, if not a war. Outnumbering and outgunning your opponent was a hard tactic for them to counter.
Brendan sighed, reached into the wagon and fumbled with the tarpaulin, callused hands playing with the edges of the sheet. “I don’t expect it’ll go to hells for us. But I need to be sure. I asked a contact here to procure us a little something as insurance, just in case things go south.”
Wilsin wasn’t surprised. It would have been irresponsible not to have done so. He didn’t have many contacts in Vazara and most of them had run for cover, or he would have done the same. Brendan yanked the sheet back, Wilsin nodded in appreciation at the boxes beneath, the sleek black blaster rifles. They still carried their weapons, neither had found cause to draw them so far.
“Managed to have them stolen straight from the Suns,” Brendan said, pride in his voice. “Brand new BRO-80’s. No arguing with these. We run into a situation we can’t talk our way out of, we break them out and to hells with the consequences. Consider yourself under silent hunt conditions if that’s the case. Split up. Run like the hells are trying to swallow you up. Don’t worry about me. Don’t worry about Reeves or these doctors.”
“Sir, I’m not sure I can do that,” Wilsin said. He heard the order. He acknowledged it. He wanted to voice his discomfort with it. “I have a duty…”
“To a group of kingdoms that have been broken, David. Remember the oath you took when you graduated the academy? To serve the five kingdoms? They’re no longer acknowledged as the five kingdoms. I’d say you’ve done your duty and that oath has been nullified.”
“Brendan, that isn’t what I signed up for. I signed up to do my duty and protect the people that needed protecting.” The urgency in his voice must have registered as Brendan let out a snarl of bitter laughter.
“David, I appreciate your show of loyalty. I’m glad you’re here to watch my back, but I don’t want you dying for me here in this shithole kingdom. This mission isn’t worth it. I’m here as a scientist. Nothing more. I want to know what’s in that jungle and where it came from. Maybe something’ll come of it. Maybe Coppinger is building weapons there. She didn’t do it just for the people, I’m sure of that. If I’m wrong, I won’t lose sleep. I don’t have much time left with Unisco. Hells, maybe the organisation doesn’t have much time itself. We’ve reorganised at a time of crisis, we’ve made ourselves weak when we should be strong.”
He reached out, patted him on the shoulder. Wilsin fought the urge to flinch, the gesture was strangely familiar, something almost paternal in his face. Maybe the heat was getting to Brendan. “David, I’m giving you an order with this. If you must, you run. You don’t try and save me. Reeves can look after himself. The doctors won’t be harmed if we’re not here to taint them by association. They’re here on an official visit. They can’t be harmed without serious repercussions from the Senate. They might not have an official relationship with Vazara any longer but that works for them. They will go to war over it if they need to.”
Wilsin blinked. He wondered if there was some deeper meaning here. It was too hot to start delving into double-speak. He’d heard Nick Roper talk about how much he despised it and if he was honest, he felt the same way about it. Out in the cold and the wind, he could tolerate it all, play along with it. Here where it was hotter than the damn hells, he didn’t have the patience.
Brendan smiled at him. “Mazoud knows that. He was sent a message by Cosmin Catarzi upon this visit being approved.”
Wilsin said nothing. He didn’t think much to Catarzi and whatever he might have to threaten Mazoud with. Catarzi hadn’t exactly shone during his time in office. The kingdoms had broken apart under his watch for one thing. That was the sort of thing that history tended to remember. He’d become a typical modern politician, in Wilsin’s opinion. Anything beyond posing for photographs and memorable soundbites, he made look difficult. He wished that they’d had a say in voting for Catarzi for Chancellor of the Senate. That hadn’t been the case. They’d vote for their own senator to represent them, the senators as a collective voted for their leader. The problem with Catarzi was the charisma he’d spent his entire life working to develop had finally flowered, he’d managed to get the majority on his side and he’d been all smiles as he’d accepted the role.
“Catarzi wants this resolved peacefully,” Brendan said. “He doesn’t want to turn this into war unless he absolutely has to. He wanted Mazoud to know what would happen if he interfered with this investigation.”
“So, if we get attacked…” Wilsin started to say. The gears in his head might be rusty but they still turned under encouragement. He rubbed at his temple. Normally, he wasn’t this slow. Months of recuperation had left him out of mental shape. That was the problem with healing. You could do it fast or you could do it properly. Too many agents went for the former option and found themselves sensationally fucked up later in life. He hadn’t wanted that, not this time. With the way things had been going, the way Coppinger had declared war on the kingdoms and Unisco, he’d made the quiet choice that being out of the line of fire might not be the worst thing.
It was probably cowardly. Doubtless if he ever aired those private reasons, they’d condemn him. Screw them. It was his body, it was his choice. He might live long enough to reap the benefits. He might not. Only time would tell.
This mission was ideal to get back into the swing of things, really. If they kept their heads down and didn’t attract attention, it would be a cinch.
“If we get attacked, you want me to run. You’ll do the same?”
Brendan nodded. “Catarzi doesn’t want a war. Intelligence from Five Point Island though says that if these scientists are attacked while on a research mission, he might just take it as an excuse to crush Vazara and Mazoud. It’ll be bloody.” He glanced to the sky as he said it. Wilsin didn’t have to follow him. They’d seen enough Coppinger ships in the air since they’d gotten here. An entire kingdom occupied by the enemy wouldn’t fall easily. It had taken Coppinger three months to bring down Vazara but that didn’t tell the full story. Leonard Nwakili’s support from the Senate had never come. They’d been betrayed from within, collaborators to the Coppinger cause doing their best to destabilise any effective defence against the conquerors. The Vazaran Suns had shown their true colours early and finally they set about their attack, bases had been assaulted and aircraft shot down before it could be mobilised properly.
Three months. It could be five times that if the circumstances weren’t as favourable. A year or two assaulting Vazara to try and drive out Mazoud and his Coppinger allies wouldn’t do anyone any favours. The casualties would be huge. More than that, it would be manpower and equipment that the Allies would lose elsewhere. They’d leave gaps in the formations they’d prepared to counter the Coppingers should they move elsewhere.
“War wouldn’t be good,” Wilsin said softly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“David, we always have to hope for the best but prepare for the worst. To do anything else is an exercise in foolishness. In our position, we cannot do that. It is not only careless, but dangerous. There is enough danger in the kingdoms without adding to it, therefore we must always be prudent.”
“I know, Brendan, I know.” He jerked
his head towards the rifles. “That’s why we brought them, right?”
“Correct.”
“I’m still not happy about leaving you, if it comes to it, Sir.” He recognised the use of the final word, he decided he didn’t give a damn. He had a lot of respect for Brendan King, he wasn’t about to let it go without him knowing that. King had done plenty to earn that respect. He’d had the chance to work with him, not just here but on Carcaradis Island and he’d considered it an experience. He’d looked up to him growing up as a boy, then as a teen, then as a man and a spirit caller.
“You aren’t paid to be happy, David. You’re paid to follow orders. Report. If this goes badly wrong, then make sure that every story is told in full details. Make sure that everyone who needs to hear it, hears it.”
Bryce had a bottle in his hand, Wilsin could hear the low hum emanating in his throat, he sounded far too cheerful for a place like this. Fazarn shot him a bemused look then returned to his data pad. The two made for mismatched companions, almost as unlikely as him and Brendan. They’d set up camp for the night in as good a spot as they were to find, far enough outside the closest town to avoid attracting unwanted attention.
Tomorrow, they would reach the edge of the jungle. At the rate it was rumoured to be advancing, perhaps it would reach them first. That felt, to Wilsin anyway, just a little depressing.
Mind you, he thought, it’d solve the problem. Let Mazoud rule over a jungle. What happens when it swallows him and his whole messy kingdom up? He’ll rule over trees and planets. Wilsin laughed, couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.
Bryce looked across at him, extended his hand with the neck of the bottle pointing at him like the barrel of a blaster. “Drink, Davey?” His voice was slurred, thick with drink and emotion. Maybe he wasn’t as cheerful as he’d thought. Now he turned his face to the dimming half-light of the fire, Shane Bryce looked tired. His shoulders sagged, like the weight of his own thoughts were forcing him to the ground.
He shook his head. “I’ll pass.”
“Shame, it’s good stuff, yeah?”
“You’ll have to excuse my inebriated friend,” Fazarn said. His eyes rose from his data pad, he set it down in front of him. The screen glowed for a moment, dropped to a dimness that his eyes missed immediately. “He does this on a night.”
“Damn rights,” Bryce said. He dropped back in his seat, folded one long leg over the other and let out a contented sigh. “If I could be a poor man…” He started to hum again, mingling occasional words into his moans. He probably didn’t have a future as a singer, Wilsin thought.
“Why though?” Wilsin asked. Regret that he’d let it slip out filled him the moment that the question left his lips. It wasn’t any of his business. Curiosity didn’t do him any favours in this instance.
Fazarn only smiled at him, showed fake teeth beneath his toothbrush moustache. Most Vazarans who’d worked their way up from nothing to something had fake teeth. If you were poor, the dentistry in the kingdom was nothing short of shocking. About the best you could hope for with toothache was that they’d take the right one out and give you painkillers you wouldn’t have an allergic reaction to. “You’d have to ask him yourself. Preferably when he’s sober, though. He throws a mean punch.”
Not at me, he wouldn’t. “Oh yeah. Shadow fighter and all that,” Wilsin said. He tried to sound impressed. He couldn’t manage it too much. Shadow fighting was an art more than a serious form of combat. Something for people to judge the artistic merits of. He appreciated the skill involved, but most of them folded with one good punch. When you were a master in a sport where they weren’t allowed to touch each other, it tended not to do wonders for your jaw.
“He’s got a temper,” Fazarn said.
“He’s got a lot of pain in him,” Reeves said, sitting up from behind the bags. Wilsin hadn’t seen him, realised now that he’d laid out across the ground on his side. “He does a job of hiding it. Not as well as he thinks.”
“We’ve all got pain,” Brendan said, moving himself closer to the fire. He gingerly took the bottle out of Bryce’s hand and put it on the ground next to him. His nose wrinkled as he caught the smell. “Filthy stuff,” he said. “I’m surprised he’s not pickled himself drinking that.”
“Shane’s got a high tolerance,” Fazarn said. “I’ve known him years. We were students together, he always liked his drink. Even when he was fighting, he still drank more than he should.”
“Probably the reason he got injured,” Reeves offered. All eyes went to him. “Sorry. I remember that. You know how they don’t touch each other in shadow fighting?”
Wilsin did. It was a display that involved anticipating what your opponent was going to do, reading their body language and countering it with a mirror of the move. They’d done it back at the Unisco academy in combat classes, used the theory to teach them to read an opponent. Shadow fighting on its own was like teaching spirit calling without showing your spirits how to go for the kill.
“Bryce got touched. He got touched badly.”
Wilsin smirked at that. Reeves could have made that sound so much better. He made it sound like someone had interfered with him in the ring. Maybe they had. If they had stuff like that involved, it’d have been worth a cheap laugh or two. The first time it happened anyway. It was a joke that would get old very quickly.
“Misjudged an opponent, took a strike to the knee. Snapped his ligaments and his Achilles when he went down. Messed up bad.”
“It’s true,” Fazarn said. “I was ringside, he was a real mess. Never heard anyone scream so loud.” He drew a deep breath, swallowed from his water canteen. His eyes shone with nostalgia in the firelight. “Those were the days. Shane was in the hospital for weeks. They thought he might not walk again.”
“Damn,” Wilsin said. He couldn’t think of anything else. Wasn’t sure that he wanted to dwell on the subject. Getting crippled was an all too sensitive subject where he was concerned. Not something he wanted to think about. He’d been luck to avoid serious damage during the last fight he’d had. Permanent damage. They’d fixed him up well, he accepted that. Every little twinge of movement no longer set his nerves on fire. “And now he’s a botanist.”
“Oh, he’s always been a botanist,” Fazarn said. “Now he just does it full-time. Says it keeps his mind focused.”
Wilsin looked at the slumbering Bryce. A snore broke out from him. Poor bastard. He nodded. “I get that. I really do.”
“Everyone has their sore points,” Brendan said. “I have a feeling we’re all going to find ours before the end of this expedition.”
“I hope not, Brendan,” Fazarn said. “I want as little extra-curricular excitement as is possible. I hope we find a logical explanation, we can record it as harmless and we can get back to civilisation without being harassed by the local militias.”
“We all hope that,” Reeves said. “Doctor Fazarn, don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
A Vedo Reeves may be, Wilsin thought. He had a lot to learn about not tempting fate. He’d have a word with Baxter about that when he next saw him. Hey Ruud. When you’re teaching your students, tell them not to jinx the mission.
He laughed at that, saw the looks they gave him and fought the urge to explain. They wouldn’t find it funny. Hells, he didn’t find it that funny and he’d thought it up. The morning would be here before they knew it and the first day of their expedition proper.
Exciting times, he wanted to think. Some part of him couldn’t allow him to do that. Experience. Intuition. Maybe an inbound sense of pessimism that had accompanied this whole damn war. Whatever he wanted to call it, the sensation lurked out in the back of his mind. Watching. Waiting.
This was supposed to be a simple mission. He knew it was going to be anything but.
The rest of the team had long gone ahead to arrange their route into the jungle with Fazarn leading them into the distance. Wilsin preferred that. Large groups of people attracted attention. They’d made their way i
nto the closest town to the jungle just before mid-morning. Him. Brendan. Reeves and Bryce. If he was suffering the ill effects of the previous night, Bryce made no show of it. Just meandered, hands in pockets and a grin on the face beneath the sun shades. He didn’t take to the sun well, Wilsin thought, his skin had already taken on a reddish tingle. If he didn’t take precautions, he’d look like a lobster.
He’d already lathered his skin in protection, he didn’t feel much different. The heat bore down on them all, stifling them until the air choked from their lungs and they wanted to drink all week. They’d need plenty of water for the jungle. Water and sterilisation tablets for any that they found. They could be out there for a very long time, he realised. With the wave of Green getting bigger every day, who knew what would happen. They could enter, come back and find that their starting point had been overrun.
Brendan dropped into a walk next to him, his weathered face thick with sweat, his clothes already bearing white stains across them from the salt. He gave Wilsin a weary grin. “You know, it’s not too late to back out, David. I won’t think less of you for it.”
Wilsin chuckled. Would have laughed more, the heat made mirth oppressive. Anything more, he might have passed out. Would it be as bad as this in the jungle, or worse? He didn’t think this could get worse. Up above their heads, the sun bore down hard, didn’t care that they were suffering.
It could always get worse.
“I’ll pass, Brendan,” he said. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth, a useless muscle he couldn’t control if he wanted to. “I made a promise to come out here and help you with this whole damn thing. I don’t break my promises.” Sweat dribbled into the corners of his mouth as he smiled at his boss. “Besides, who’s going to come save you when it does go wrong?”
