Firemask

by Chris Bunch

  "What the hell happens if we catch anything?" a soldier wondered.

  "We sell it," Njangu said. "Put the money in the beer fund."

  "Better," Wlencing said from the boat deck, watching with possible amusement. "We dine on them."

  "How many fish can you eat?"

  "Many, many," Wlencing said. "Perhapsss we ssshall have luck."

  "Haul out," Alei shouted, and the laborious work of bringing the two nets up began. As the bunts surfaced, booms were secured to them, and, one at a time, lifted the nets on board. Irthing muttered, "Keeripus, but there's some ugly-looking things come up from the sea."

  "With a yo and a ho and a heave and a ho," Alei called, and the soldiers muscled the first bunt, the fish-carrying end of the net, onto the deck, and fish spilled everywhere.

  "Now what?"

  "Gut 'em and throw 'em in the cooling pen," Ton called cheerily, brandishing a knife that could serve as a cutlass.

  "I'm thinking," a soldier said, "there's people who work a lot harder than we do."

  Mar Henschley had a plate of fresh fillets on her knees, nicely rolled in meal and fried. But she was staring in distressed fascination at a Musth—she thought it was the same one who'd been in her Grierson.

  He had a plate of fish as well, still moving slightly after being gutted. Henschley held a forgotten bite on her fork, watching the Musth as razor claws slid out of his paws. He cut a fish apart along its spine, delicately lifted one half to his mouth, chewed two or three times, then swallowed.

  The Musth saw her watching, extended the other half of the fish, tossed the skeleton overboard.

  She hesitated.

  "Go ahead," Njangu Yoshitaro said, chewing, and Mar realized with a bit of horror his plate was also full of raw creatures. "Good."

  Reluctantly she tried, closing her eyes, chewing, not thinking about what she was eating until her tastebuds told her it was good. Very good.

  She offered some of her cooked fish in return, but the Musth held up a rejecting paw.

  Feeling a bit superior, she pointed at and got another piece of raw fish, and chewed vigorously.

  Njangu turned his head, hiding a smile.

  The next day, they came on a fishing fleet. The troops hid behind the UrumchV% high bulwarks or crowded into the small cabins.

  Alei Milot, on the bridge, scanned the boats ahead with stabilized binoculars. "All I can see is flashing signals from people watching us," he said to Njangu. "They're trying to figure out if we're the pirates. Pretty soon, somebody'll call us, on a voice channel. Fishermen don't use video much… too easy to tell when you're lying."

  Ton, at the Urwnchi's controls, said, "I'll beat them to it," picked up the boat's com, keyed a sensor.

  "Anybody catching anything?"

  "Who're you?" came a voice.

  "The Urumchi , out of Teku." Teku was the farthest-distant settled island of the Leeats.

  "Long haul from your waters."

  "Which means the catching better be good," Milot said.

  "Who's skipper aboard?" another voice asked, and Njangu could hear suspicion.

  "The Milot brothers. We're from Issus, decided to try fishing some distant waters. Got a contract to run this scow."

  Silence for a bit, then, another voice:

  "I know one of you. Alei, that's the name. You an' me got drunk, once. This is Juba Nushki. I came to Dharma Island, was mate on the Ayalew ."

  "Sure," Alei said, taking the com. "You were drinking wine and chewing herbs, chasin' whores like they wanted to pay you."

  "That's me. Caught one, too. Too trashed to do anything, though. And I had a head the size of a fish trap the next morning. Learned my lesson about you wild city people, so I came back where I belong."

  The region around Issus had a population of about five hundred.

  "So what's the catch like?"

  "Eh," Nushki said. "There's big runs of flatters, catch 'em at dusk, some say. But we're doing crappy. Nothing out here at all for us."

  "That means," Ton told Njangu, "he's fishing his nose off. There's never been a fisherman'd claim luck to anybody else with a net who might bust in."

  "Nothin' but nothin', like Juba said," another voice came, trying to sound gloomy, "Nothin' much but trash fish and waitin' to get hit by pirates."

  "We heard about them," Ton said. "Is it for real?"

  "You best know," another voice came. "Lost two ships from our island a month ago. Nothing this trip. We was thinking maybe you was one of them, not bein' able to spot your paint job."

  "Times don't improve," Ton said, "we might think about joinin' 'em."

  "Me too," Nushki said. "Best you fish right around here, stay not far from the rest of us. Strength in numbers."

  "And let you fools sniff around my nets when I shoot 'em? I'm dumb, but I'm not that dumb." Ton hung the com up. "So now everybody knows who we are. Nice, greedy fishermen, like everybody else out here."

  "Let's hope the pirates are listening."

  Two days later, after having seen nothing but fish and the occasional lone fishing lifter, which generally skittered away without closing, Wlencing had a suggestion for Garvin:

  "Isss it not posssible that thessse fissshermen have not the truth?"

  "Hell yes," Alei Milot said. The two humans and Wlencing were the only ones on the Urumchi's bridge. "A fisherman isn't happy unless he can get off one, maybe two lies a day."

  "Do you humans not have firmsss who ssspread the risssk for creditsss, so if sssomething happensss it's eass-sier on the many than the few?"

  "Insurance companies? We have them," Milot said.

  "A fissshing vehicle could vanisssh, then, and whoever paid the… insssurance companies… could collect the creditsss, and the vehicle be sssold in sssome faraway placcce?"

  "What about the distress calls?" Garvin asked.

  "Ssseasoning on the disssh," Wlencing said. "To make it appear more real."

  "Could be," Garvin said. "But you'd think the police would've followed up on whoever got paid off for losing a boat, and found out that the people who're supposed to be drowned are spending money somewhere."

  "Why?" Wlencing asked reasonably, "Would not the fisssher perssson's brothersss, who know about thisss de-ccceit, protect him or her? What do they owe sssome dissstant group of people they do not know? And are your human policcce infallible, are they without thossse who would take creditsss to keep sssilent?"

  Garvin considered.

  "That's not that bad a thought," he said. "And it'll get better in a few days if nothing happens. This frigging about is not only duller than watching rocks change into sand, but it's playing hell with the Legion's budget."

  Two days later, the pirates attacked.

  The Urumchi was passing through a long curving archipelago, almost an atoll. Its antigrav was on just enough to keep it skimming the almost waveless water, and it was moving at half drive.

  Njangu had the bridge watch, Alei at the controls beside him, staring dreamily at the small tropical islands on either side of the fisher and considering the possibility of deserting to one of them. Sunny, nice, soft breeze, no problems. Live on fruit and fish… maybe bring a few giptel with him. Chasing them down for roasts would give him exercise.

  Swim, lie in the sun, forget this goddamned army…

  Being alone could get boring. Bring a holo? Njangu shuddered, thinking what Cumbre considered great entertainment. Disks? Njangu wasn't that much of a reader unless there was something he needed to know.

  Company? Well, there was Deira… or maybe Jo Poynton. Or maybe…

  Njangu sighed, began constructing a partner from women he'd known or wished he'd known, trying not to remind himself what a city rat he really was and how he'd go berserk after a week by himself, when a lookout shouted.

  "Boss! Got some lifters coming hard on our right."

  Yoshitaro grabbed binocs, saw five small vehicles, about ten feet above the water, coming out of a hidden bay, coming fast.

  "Tu
rn 'em out," he said, and the alert team started booting drowsy soldiers into readiness.

  Jaansma clattered up the bridge ladder, Wlencing just behind him.

  The dots got closer.

  Njangu was about to tell Wlencing to get under cover when he IDd the lead vehicle.

  "Shit, it's a Cooke… and it's armed!"

  All five were Cookes, he realized, the borderline obsolescent small combat lifters the Legion was trying to retire as quickly as possible, and Njangu wondered where these outbackers had been able to acquire them.

  "Lead Cooke's got a cannon mounted," a lookout reported. "So does number three."

  "We've got a party," Jaansma called. "Cannon team, get ready. The rest of you clowns, load and lock, but stay down. I'll have the first one who shoots without orders grilled."

  One of I&R's 20mm autocannon had been set on a folding mount and was ready in the bows of the Urum-chi . Its team crawled to it, pulled the operating handle back, chambering a round from the drum magazine.

  Other I&R soldiers crouched, blasters ready, behind the bulwarks.

  "Deb," Njangu said, "honk up our air support, get the whole lot of 'em inbound. This is a little bit stronger than one lousy little putt-putt."

  Wlencing went back down the ladder from the bridge and called to one of his men, the one with the small pack. The Musth gave Wlencing a curved piece of metal, like a large bracelet. Wlencing clipped it to his throat, began speaking in Musth.

  It was very quiet then. Njangu could hear the whine of the Urumchrs drive, the pat of waves against the hull, even the distant hum of the incoming raiders' combat vehicles.

  Sirens howled from the incoming Cookes, no doubt intended to paralyze their targets.

  "Guess we know why there haven't been any survivors coming back with tales of woe," Njangu said.

  "Guess so," Garvin said. "Listen up, people! Don't shoot the last bugger up too bad. We want to be able to track 'em to their home. I'd just as soon not have to come back here again."

  "You're assuming they aren't gonna shoot us up too bad," Njangu murmured.

  "Of course," Garvin said. "We're the good guys, right? Good guys always win, right? Bad guys can't shoot, right?"

  "As an ex-bad guy, I resent that," Njangu said. "They're down to about two hundred meters, so I think—"

  Njangu's suggestion was interrupted by a roar from the cannon in the lead Cooke. It churned blue water into spray about five meters in front of the Urumchi , and a speaker blared:

  "Cut your engines! Cut your engines! Stand by to be boarded!"

  "Cannon up," Garvin called calmly, and the two assistant gunners muscled the two-meter-long weapon into firing position.

  "Gunner! Lead incoming Cooke! One seven five meters!"

  "Target!" the gunner shouted.

  "Five rounds!"

  The cannon roared for an instant. The first round was short, the rest blew the bow off the ACV. It pinwheeled, dug into the water, and spat cannon and crew into the sun-dappled waves.

  "I&R… up! Fire when you've got a target!"

  Individual blasters and Squad Support Weapons crashed, and Njangu saw raiders scream, fall, Cookes zig back and forth.

  The raiders' second cannon chattered, and tracers came toward Njangu very slowly, lazily, then whipped past, thudded into the boat's superstructure. Someone shouted in pain, and Njangu brought his blaster up, aimed, adjusted for the boat's rise, fall, touched the firing stud.

  Across the water, the gunner on the autocannon spasmed, arms going wide, rolled into the water.

  Njangu switched the selector switch, let a quarter of the drum magazine's one hundred rounds chatter across the Cooke.

  "I have Sibyl Scythe Six Actual," a com man intoned, as calmly as if he was on a field exercise, and passed the com to Garvin.

  "This is Sibyl Six Actual. Go."

  "This is Sibyl Scythe," the voice said—Ben Dill. "Golan Flight in support. You got something juicy?"

  "This is Sibyl Six, Ben," Garvin said. "Got four Cookes playing bad. Careful, they've got 20mam-mamamma breath."

  "Affirm. Have you under visual. About, oh, one five angels, inbound hot. Duck yo' little heads, sisters."

  "Air coming in," Garvin shouted, and saw three Griersons swooping down. Behind and above them were three of the massive Zhukov weapons ships. Smoke plumed from the Griersons, and missiles smashed down.

  One missile hit a pirate Cooke, and it vanished in iridescent spray, others splashing around it, a chain of explosions rolling across the water.

  Someone was behind the autocannon on the Cooke again, and shooting. Tracers climbed high, intersected with an incoming Grierson. It bucked, volleyed its missiles wide, rolled, and black smoke poured from its fuselage.

  "Shit!" somebody said into an open com.

  The Grierson rolled, straightened, then climbed.

  "This is Sibyl Scythe Beta," a voice came. "Hit, ECM wounded… losing power… breaking off. Returning to base. Should be 'kay."

  "Sibyl Gamma," Dill said. "This is Sibyl Scythe

  Six… Break off and accompany Beta home. I don't want either of you getting your feet wet."

  "Beta, understood, clear."

  A Zhukov dived past, 150mm autocannon churning, and the ocean geysered around the Cookes.

  "This is Scythe Six… coming in again," Dill said, and the Grierson dived down.

  Sunlight flashed from the right, and Njangu saw a crescent-shaped spaceship, maybe three meters above the ocean. Dill, in the Grierson, saw it, snaprolled away, almost losing control.

  An instant of green haze flashed at the aksai's wing, another Cooke exploded, and the aksai climbed at speed. Two others flanked it.

  "Son of a bitch," somebody beside Garvin said. "Where'd that come from?"

  "Are you in contact with him?" Garvin shouted to Wlencing.

  "I am."

  "We want at least one boat intact to follow."

  "I ssshall sssend to him."

  Wlencing touched a paw to the mike as the lead aksai rolled inverted, came down again, fired, and the next to the last Cooke blew up. The Musth fighting ship flashed over the Urumchi , and Njangu thought he could've touched the pilot in his sealed canopy.

  He climbed, came back, and Ben Dill's Grierson was between him and the last Cooke as the ACV scrambled back toward land. The aksai banked, tried to clear the Grierson, and Dill flat-spun, went out of control for an instant, then recovered, and at full power flew between the aksai and the Cooke, blocking its attack.

  Wlencing was talking loudly into his com.

  The Musth fighting ship skidded through a turn, then shot skyward and began orbiting overhead, high above the Grierson and the flight of Zhukovs.

  Garvin turned to Alei.

  "Stay on that goddamned Cooke, and… aw hell, medic!"

  Alei, still at the helm, was looking interestedly at a long sliver of plas from the cabin wall sticking entirely through his upper arm.

  "You know, what I'm charging you just got real expensive," he said calmly, then pain took him, and Garvin eased him away from the controls.

  Ton Milot was on the bridge, had the controls, as a medical tech and Njangu helped Alei down the ladder to the deck.

  He hurried back to the bridge. The Urumchi was at full power and antigrav, clear of the water, about an eighth the speed of the last pirate Cooke.

  "This is Sibyl Six Actual," Garvin said quietly into his com. "Ben, I want you just behind and above me. Jinking… the bastards might have AA capability. Don't kill him until we know where he's going. Bring your Zooks in just in front of me as soon as the Cooke hits land, wherever it's going, and hit anything that looks like a target."

  "Affirm," Dill said.

  "Wlencing, keep your fliers out of it!" Garvin said. "I don't want them to slip a little, and we're suddenly the target. Njangu, get downstairs and get the troops ready. Ton, look for something expensive to plow this heap into. Njangu, when the crashing stops, disembark everybody off the stern, and get 'em shoo
ting."

  "You hear that, troopies?" Njangu shouted, and there were rounds slashing overhead from Dill's Grierson.

  "When we hit, get away from the boat, form up, and go in," he ordered. "Anybody shooting's a target; try to keep from hitting anybody real civilian."

  He was pleased his voice was as calm as anyone else's.

  Njangu had an instant to look around, saw two casualties besides Alei Milot. Soldiers' faces were white, tense, scared, but determined.

  Ahead was the fleeing Cooke, just off the water, steadily pulling away from the fisher. It was heading for a cove with a boulder-lined inlet carved into it, and scattered buildings, mostly shacks or prefabs spreading under the trees. Fire was coming at the Urumchi from the buildings, from the Cooke.

  "We don't need the Cooke anymore," he called to Garvin.

  "Kill it for me."

  "Cannon! Target that last bugger."

  "Got it, boss," and the cannon roared. Flame flickered from the Cooke's rear, and it wobbled, then smashed into the beach just at water's edge, flipped high into the air, crashed into the middle of the inlet, and exploded.

  The Urumchi came up the beach, and Garvin was shouting to cut the power. The fisher smashed into a building, spun sideways, and the soldiers were jumping, falling off its sides.

  Somebody shot at Njangu and he shot back, without seeing whether he hit anyone. A soldier bumped him aside, ran down an alleyway. A blaster cracked, and part of a wall fell away. Njangu sprayed rounds in the blaster's direction, and somebody screamed, then was silent.

  A man, big, bearded, came out of a hut, weapon lifting. His chest exploded, and white worms writhed in the gaping wound, and Wlencing went past, hurling a wasp-grenade into the hut, shooting someone else as he did.

  Garvin was there, flanked by a com man and Irthing.

  "I'll take Gamma around the side. You keep on pushing the way you're going."

  "Take the easy part, why don't you," Njangu said, but Garvin was gone, shouting for Gamma to follow him.

  Njangu ran after Wlencing, came into a small square, saw a store; somebody was crouched behind a wooden counter.

  Njangu let a burst go through the counter, proving it to be rotten cover, and the woman dropped, her long sporting rifle clattering against the floor. A man appeared behind her. Njangu didn't have time to see if he was armed or not, shot him, ran on.