by Chris Bunch
There was a crackle of static. He tried again. “Or death” came back.
“Inbound per your instructions,” Wolfe said. “ETA …” he glanced at Chesney.
“Fifty-eight minutes,” the pilot said.
“In five-eight. Will monitor this freq. Do not broadcast except for emergencies,” Wolfe said.
There was the acknowledging click of a mike button.
“Well,” Wolfe said. “Perhaps a professional. Or at least someone who’s read a book or two.”
“Here’s the plan,” Chesney said, and his fingers touched points on the map on a secondary screen. “I’m bringing it in over this ocean, hopefully without being noticed. I’ll low-fly to shore, then ground it here, which is the grid location they gave us, on what looks like a beach, next to this river here. If anything goes wrong, we withdraw gracefully, leaving big black streaks. Remember, my finances have been a little close lately, so the missile tubes are for show only. The only armament the Resolute has are the chainguns, so we shouldn’t play the bravo. Comments?”
“Other than it looks easy, which scares me, none.”
“Buckle up.”
Osirio swallowed their screens as they closed, and Joshua dimly heard atmosphere-roar. The screen went to gray for an instant, then came back with a real-time visual: thick cloud cover below, blanking everything. Chesney switched to infrared.
“Nothing much down there,” he said. Wolfe examined the blotches along the shoreline, saw nothing change, flipped the scanner through various spectrums.
“I’ve got a little wiggle about where we’re headed,” Joshua said. “Signals within the ninety-one-point-five megahertz range.”
“Diagnosis?” Chesney’s voice was tense.
“Don’t know.”
“Must be a village. I’d guess they’d have some kind of com to civilization. Just like amateurs to pick a place they can sit and drink beer in while they wait.”
“Maybe.”
“Wolfe,” Chesney said worriedly. “I’ve got a — ”
Alarms roared as the com blared: “Ambush! The Inspectorate’s holding the town! Break off! Go for — ”
“Strong radar signal,” Joshua said. “We are being tracked.” His voice was cold, emotionless, very clear.
“Understood,” Chesney said. His voice could have been a duplicate of Wolfe’s.
Another alarm shrilled.
“We are targeted,” Joshua said.
“Your call.”
“Maintain flight pattern … Stand by for evasive action …” A third alarm gonged.
“I have a SAM launch,” Wolfe said. The alarm rang twice more. “I have two more launches.” He could have been talking about the weather.
“Give me music. We’re blown,” Chesney ordered.
Joshua touched two sensors, skipped two, tapped three others.
“ECM broadcasting.”
“Results?”
Joshua waited.
“Results, dammit!”
“Negative on one and three — I have a lock on two — two is wavering — he’s lost contact with us … Two self-detonated.”
“Your call.”
“Stand by — wait — wait — roll right, dive 300 feet, jink left,” Joshua ordered. “On my command … four … three … two … NOW!”
Chesney’s fingers swept the control board, and the Resolute dove sideways, corrected, banked left.
“One toppled …” The slam of an explosion rolled the ship.
“That was three,” Wolfe said. “A bit close. Stand by … I have another launch — max evasive action — jink left — left — right — climb five-zero …”
Breathe … breathe …
“Two more launches,” he said.
“They’re trying to pin us against that ridge.” Chesney’s voice cracked.
“Continue evasive maneuvering.” Wolfe’s voice was quite calm.
Breathe … breathe …
“Christ,” Chesney moaned. “What I’d give for one lousy little air-to-air — ”
“Missile closing — jink right!”
Another explosion rocked the Resolute.
“Missile one — miss.”
Joshua felt death, felt the second missile, remembered a time he’d used his mind to warp a countermissile into a target, remembered the fear, felt death once more, and hurled a rocket, a ghost that never was, at the image onscreen.
He felt the power of the Lumina in the compartment behind him, felt it glow into life, felt its colors whorl around the empty room. He felt the missile in his hands, closed them like talons, and the missile image was gone.
“Missile two self-detonated,” he said, and again reached for the third. He felt nothing, there was nothing, there was no power within, nothing reached out. “Dive,” he ordered, and the Resolute dove toward the sea not 200 feet below.
hen there was nothing onscreen.
“Missile three missed,” he reported. “Evidently lost its target.” He touched a sensor, saw an exhaust flare. “I have it headed toward space.”
“And we’re going after it,” Chesney said. “This is too much like dangerous.”
“Negative,” Joshua said.
“I said — ”
“Remember the deal, Mister,” Wolfe snapped, and his tone had the long-disused sharpness of command.
Chesney caught his breath. “Sorry. Your call.”
“Over the village full-tilt and straight for those mountains,” Wolfe said. “Right over the SAM site.”
“Understood.”
A screen showed a cluster of buildings rushing at them, with gray-green lifters and three mobile launchers, two low-altitude chainguns that started yammering as they passed overhead. Then they were over the village and there was nothing but jungle onscreen and the rising mountain ahead.
“Take her over the ridge crest then the nap of the earth until I say. Then we’ll look for a hiding place to put her down on, and figure out what to do next.”
“Understood,” Chesney said, then the habits of the past took hold, and he automatically added, “Sir.”
• • •
The Resolute sat in dimness, sixty feet underwater. The lock slid open, and a man in a spacesuit floated out. There was a long, sealed roll tied to his shoulders. He unspooled a wire from a reel at his belt, opened a small door beside the lock, and plugged the reel in.
“Am I communicating?” Wolfe said.
“Very clear,” Chesney answered. “I still think you’re overcautious in wanting a wire for a com. They can’t be monitoring every freq.”
“Nobody had a SAM site in that village, either.”
“Strong point.”
“Stand by,” Wolfe said, and pushed away from the lock. The river’s sluggish current took him away from the ship. He activated the suit’s antigrav unit and came to the surface.
Fernlike trees reared high on either side of the river, with smaller growth below them and some brush on the ground. Water churned as the antigrav unit sent him toward a climbable bank. Half a dozen loglike objects lay along it. One of the logs slithered off into the water as Wolfe approached.
“There are some really big snakes in these parts,” he reported.
“Man-eaters?” Chesney asked.
“I’m not going to give them my arm as an experimental hors d’oeuvre.” Wolfe clicked on an outside mike, and jungle sounds poured in. One of the snakelike creatures opened a long, toothed slit of a mouth, and the booming roar deafened him until the mike automatically cut the volume.
“That was your friend the snake,” Wolfe reported. “He’s wondering whether he wants to fang me … He just decided it wasn’t worth the bother and went swimming.”
Wolfe waded ashore, unsnapped the roll, and took out a small cylinder. He moved to one of the trees, activated his antigrav to maximum power until he weighed no more than ten pounds, and climbed hand-over-hand up the trunk to about a hundred feet above the ground. Clinging to the trunk, he used his gun butt to tap a spike in
to it and hung the box from the spike.
“I hope,” he said, “this jerry-rigged bastard works.”
“No reason it shouldn’t,” Chesney said. “If it locates from a suit in space, it should work fine by itself with all this thick, smudgy atmosphere to go wading in.”
“I would’ve thought, after all those years playing sojer boy, you would’ve learned the basic rule that when it’s something you need, it’s guaranteed to break.”
“I’m a romantic,” Chesney said. “Speaking of which, I assume the air’s perfumed and smells of exotic spices.”
“Hang on a minute,” Wolfe said. He cut power a little, let himself drop down the tree from limb to limb until he thudded into soft, decaying leaves at the base. “Now I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” he said, unsealing his face plate.
“Well?”
“Not exactly attar of roses,” Wolfe said. “Try old armpit, shit, and stale beer.”
“Typical jungle.”
“Typical jungle,” Wolfe repeated. “One down, one to go.”
He went back into the river and drove toward another tree, a few hundred yards downstream.
• • •
“Freedom,” Wolfe said patiently into the two microphones in front of him. He heard nothing but dead air.
“Ah, the romantic life of a soldier of fortune,” Chesney murmured.
Wolfe waited fifteen minutes then tried again: “Freedom.”
“It appears the Inspectorate scooped our clients up,” Chesney said. “We’ve been doing this for three hours now. Do you know anybody else who might need a do-it-yourself bomb?”
The speaker suddenly crackled. “Or death.”
“They’re on freq one,” Chesney reported. “And their password’s not only stupid, but it’s now got a long gray beard.”
“I receive you,” Wolfe said.
“Name yourself,” the speaker said.
“Your supplier,” Wolfe said.
“Give name of person providing materials.”
“Almost enough for me to get a location,” Chesney said. “And what they want’s still crappy security. The Inspectorate could’ve pulled that woman’s toenails out by now.”
“Margot,” Wolfe said.
“Good,” the voice said. “Are you still onworld?”
“Perhaps,” Wolfe said.
“Are you still willing to make delivery?”
“Affirmative.”
“If you’re onplanet and close to where the meet was blown today, give us your location and we’ll come to you.”
“I have him,” Chesney said. “Lousy triangulation, but he’s broadcasting from — ” he looked at the onscreen map, and where two red Unes intersected, “ — about one ridgeline over, if this map is correct. They could get here in what, two hours?”
“You’ve obviously never hiked the bush,” Wolfe said, and keyed the mike. “Negative on your suggestion. Somebody’s leaking on your side, in case you hadn’t noticed. We’ll come to you.”
There was a long silence, then the voice came back. Even on the tinny FM band, it reeked suspicion. “We don’t know who betrayed us. Dislike idea of giving present location. You could be Inspectorate on our frequency.”
“True,” Wolfe said. “But I already know where you are. If missiles don’t start incoming in the next few seconds, suggest your paranoia unjustified.”
Again, a long silence. “Very well. We have no choice, do we? We’ll await your arrival. ETA?”
“Sometime day after tomorrow. Probably in the morning,” Wolfe said. “Out.” He shut off the com.
“Whyn’t you get behind the controls and ready for a fast getaway,” he suggested. “Just in case we’re the ones who got located and we weren’t chatting with noble freedom fighters.”
Chesney obeyed. “So we’re going to go for a walk,” he said. “And you’re right, I’ve done very little forest-crawling. Do we go in nice, air-conditioned spacesuits so we don’t have to get close to the local fauna?”
“Nope,” Wolfe said. “Too bulky, too slow, too easy a target.”
“I’d rather be an armored target than a naked one,” Chesney complained. “And how’ll we navigate? I understand a satellite positioning system can be a double-edged sword.”
“It can,” Wolfe agreed. “I’ve booby-trapped a few myself. We’ll print out the map, and I’m going to invent a brand new device you might’ve never seen. It’s called a compass.”
“Christ,” Chesney groaned. “The things I do for greed.”
• • •
The ship surfaced at dawn and slid to the bank; the lock opened. Wolfe and Chesney got out. They carried Wolfe’s two packs and pistol belts. Wolfe had a blast rifle slung over his shoulder. In the lock was the bulky case with the radioactive materials, a suit antigrav generator strapped underneath it. Joshua activated the generator, turned it to high, and picked up the case by a cargo strap as if it weighed no more than a pound or so.
“I wish I had a better arsenal,” Chesney complained as he stepped onto the bank. “Why is it, every time I take an assignment, I think I’ve got everything I could conceivably use, and the only things I don’t have are what I really need?”
Wolfe shrugged. Chesney took a small box from his pocket and pressed sensors. The Resolute’s lock closed, and it slipped underwater. “I always feel naked outside the ship,” he said.
“Good,” Wolfe said. “Naked men stay scared. Scared men stay alive. Let’s hoof.”
• • •
An hour later, they passed through the ruins of a village. The wooden huts had been burnt, and there were blast holes in some of the roofs. Three trees had rotting, sagging ropes looped around them, and a few bones scattered nearby.
Wolfe felt screams, agony, prolonged death.
“How long ago did this happen?” Chesney asked.
“Maybe a year, maybe a little longer.”
“Who did it?”
“Maybe rebels, maybe soldiers. As a guess,” Wolfe said, “I’d go for the government. The farmers would’ve come back if it’d just been ‘revolutionary justice.’ ”
“Nice people,” Chesney said.
“Would it have been any more civilized,” Wolfe said, voice harsh, “if they’d razed the village from the air? Or is it worse because somebody had to look in somebody’s eyes as he killed him? Or her?”
Chesney didn’t answer. They went on.
• • •
Wolfe counted paces, consulted the map, and stopped regularly to pour water from his wine-bottle canteen into its plas cap and float the tiny needle he’d magnetized atop it before going on.
• • •
They stopped when the glow that was the barely visible sun was approximately overhead. Chesney let the case down to the ground, and wheezed. “Gad. Weight-schmeight. It’s the mass somebody ought to figure out how to eliminate.”
“Einstein did,” Wolfe said. “And our customers are going to use his cookbook.”
“I meant — never mind what I meant.” Chesney opened his pack, took out two ration paks, and tossed one to Wolfe. He lifted out a small bottle of wine, looked at it longingly, but put it back. He touched the heater tab, waited a few moments, opened the pak, and grimaced.
“I’ve got to learn to not buy things just because they’re a bargain. What is this glop, anyway?”
Wolfe had his own pak open. “Interesting,” he said. “I’d guess some centuries ago it was intended for soldiers that might’ve been Earth-Japan émigrés. This would be bean paste, this pickled cucumber, this, well, some sort of mussel, shellfish, which you put on the rice. The small plas pak’s soy sauce.”
“What’s this green stuff?” Chesney said, sampling.
“Wait! That’s …”
“Hot — hot …” Chesney managed in a strangled tone, and unsealed the wine bottle that now served as a canteen and gulped down water.
“Some sort of ground-up root,” Wolfe continued. “Wasabi, I think I remember hearing it called.”
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“Sadistic bastards!” Chesney moaned.
• • •
“Doesn’t — this — damned hill ever end?” Chesney panted.
“It’ll be downhill tomorrow. And think how easy it’ll be on the way back.”
“I can’t — I keep thinking about the other side of this goddamned ridge that we’ll have to climb before then.”
“It’s easier if you don’t try to talk,” Wolfe advised.
“I’m a pilot, which means anything but a ground-pounder,” Chesney said, ignoring the advice. “Why I ever — ”
Underbrush rustled; horror rushed them. Wolfe saw pincered legs, claws, a glaring multifaceted eye as he pinwheeled sideways, blast rifle flying away. The beast clawed at him, missed, spun on its own tracks.
Chesney had his gun out and snapped a shot. The bolt blew off two of the creature’s legs, and it shrilled agony and rage.
It reared, segmented body towering over Wolfe.
He felt for its brain, found nothing but raw savagery as his pistol came up, fired twice, and dove away as the creature screeched once more, and came down. He put another bolt, then a third into its side as it writhed, then, forcing himself to stay calm, aimed and blew its single eye into spattering gore.
The nightmare flailed and thrashed about.
“Get around it,” Wolfe shouted, and Chesney, moving very fast for a man of his size, pushed through the brush to the uphill side.
“Come on,” Wolfe ordered, and the two men went uphill at a run.
The creature’s death agonies — if that was what they were — continued as they pushed on.
“Gods — no. That thing doesn’t deserve a god,” Chesney said. “What was it? That taradny or tarafny you were reading about? We should’ve looked at the holo.”
“Hell if I know,” Wolfe said. “But I surely don’t want to run into its big brother if it isn’t.”
Chesney nodded.
“I — notice,” Wolfe managed, “you’re not panting any more.”
“Too — scared.”
• • •
“Can we build a fire?” Chesney asked. “I assume you know how to rub two wet sticks together, and all that woodsy lore.”
It was dusk, and they’d just finished another ration pak. They’d crested the ridge an hour earlier, and Wolfe had found a campsite on the far side, where a spring began the long run down into the valley below.
