Blood Binds the Pack

by Alex Wells

  They’d had four days to prepare for their arrival, Shige knew; that was how long it had taken them to get into orbit and then land – nothing compared to the scheduled three weeks. He was glad that he’d doctored the documents for Ms Meetchim first thing. He hadn’t had time for anything else, and the files he’d acquired from Dr Ekwensi’s office remained unopened. “Yes, well, Mr Yellow was very eager to start work.”

  “That, I am glad to hear,” Ms Meetchim said. She made no move to come around the desk or get any closer to Mr Yellow and Shige, but that was to be expected. One did not shake a Weatherman’s hand. “It has been… challenging to be completely without an on-site Weatherman.”

  “I’d noticed the lights,” Shige offered.

  “Lights, most of the laboratory equipment, just about every bit of civilization. The supposedly secure electrical grid has proven to not be as advertised.”

  “I am very glad for our early arrival, then. And I can assure you on behalf of the program director that Mr Yellow is… state of the art and one of a kind.”

  “As it should be,” Meetchim said.

  Shige divided the stack of flimsies he carried and set them on Ms Meetchim’s desk. “These are the documents for you from Corporate. These are the care instructions that are to go to… I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten her name.” He’d done nothing of the sort.

  “Kiyoder,” Ms Meetchim said, picking up her stack. “You’ll have to escort Mr Yellow down to the basement level yourself, I’m afraid. The intercom isn’t currently working.”

  “Hopefully that will soon be corrected. Would you like me to do that now?”

  “Please do,” she said, not looking up. “And once you’ve seen him settled, I’ll need you back up here. Things have gotten rather disorganized in your absence.”

  Disorganization meant opportunity, and he was eager to start on that. Shige was aware of the short span of time he’d been given. He ushered Mr Yellow back into the elevator. The Weatherman hummed as they descended into the sub-basements, and Shige felt simple relief that he did not speak, or try to look at him again.

  “Ah, Mr Rolland. That was quick.”

  Shige offered Ms Meetchim a practiced smile. He felt far steadier now that there were about forty floors between him and Mr Yellow. “Dr Kiyoder was very eager to get started, and so was Mr Yellow.”

  He took a seat across from Meetchim at her desk and fished a notebook and pen out of his pocket. The routine, for all it was a routine belonging to a persona, felt very comforting. Ms Meetchim was methodically going through the documents he’d brought for her. “I know that your correspondence doubtless needs my attention, but is there a place you’d prefer I begin?”

  Not looking up from the flimsy in her hand, she opened one of her desk drawers and offered him a folder from it. “Nothing so pedestrian, I’m afraid. The miners have gotten obstreperous in your absence.”

  Shige took the folder. A glance at the first page showed unauthorized buying and selling of firearms, reported by a redacted source. This had to involve some local company agents, he imagined, since the firearms that had existed on the planet before TransRift’s takeover were getting very long in the tooth. “I see.” He kept his tone carefully neutral, though he found the news heartening. It was so much easier to start a revolt if people were already heading in that direction on their own.

  “Mariposa is ready to seize the weapons and the would-be rebels, as well as find and sack the few greedy idiots in our own ranks who have enabled this nonsense, but I want the HR documentation in line first. I want them and their entire families on the blacklist.” Meetchim turned a page. “That ought to set an example.”

  It would, Shige thought. And if played properly, that would definitely be the declaration of war that he needed the inspector to witness. The problem was timing. It was too soon. He needed to find a way to delay the fuse and yet not jeopardize the work he’d already done here. Mind racing, he thought over the historical reading he’d done while on Earth, looking for inspiration. “If I may, Ms Meetchim?”

  She glanced up, one pale eyebrow arching. “Is there a problem, Mr Rolland?”

  “While I understand these people must be dealt with, I feel I must remind you that they are always looking to make themselves out to be martyrs. Recall the case of the miner from Rouse?”

  She frowned. “Remind me.”

  “Philip Kushtrim. He was severely contaminated and thus blacklisted, and his family removed. He had been very popular with the miners, and they took exception to this. There were protests in several towns and this probably led to the bandit attack in Rouse.”

  “All the more reason to make an example of these people.”

  It was dangerous, but he had to hope he could thread this needle. “With all due respect, Ms Meetchim, the witch hunt was supposed to accomplish that as well.”

  Meetchim set the document down on her desk and leaned back in her chair. She eyed Shige coolly. “Mariposa has had a free rein in keeping these ungrateful vermin under control for years.”

  “And I cannot fault them for it,” Shige said smoothly. “Nor would I want such contemptuous activity to go unpunished. But in making an example, we risk making more martyrs. We are not dealing with rational, educated people.”

  “You obviously have an idea. Let me hear it.”

  He smiled, the picture of an eager underling. “We’ve been paying the miners with universal currency – but why is that necessary? There are no companies here but us. They can only purchase from us, or whatever trifling little handicrafts they make for themselves.”

  “Go on.”

  “If we pay them in company currency, that will cut off any sort of bribery at the knees. Corporate and security employees aren’t going to want something that will be completely useless on the outside market, or in Newcastle. And we will of course punish those who took bribes before, but this will provide us with a solution going forward. Better, when we first roll out this new payroll system, we make the company currency monetarily more valuable than universal credits and offer the miners a chance to buy them up. These are not people who are known for their long-term thinking.” This would provide him with a fuse as long as he needed, if he could convince Ms Meetchim. He could time the implementation of the pay system to ratchet up tension at the right moment.

  Ms Meetchim sat quietly, expression thoughtful, and then began to laugh. “Why, Mr Rolland, you have a more subtle hand than I credited you.”

  Shige bowed in his seat. “Thank you, Ms Meetchim.”

  “Write up your proposal with a full financial analysis and I shall go over it with the head of Mariposa.” She held up one finger. “If you impress me.”

  He bowed again. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

  Ms Meetchim smiled. “It’s in TransRift’s best interests to encourage talent within its own ranks. I’d have to be blind to have missed your efforts, Mr Rolland.”

  Another bow didn’t seem amiss. “Would you care for a coffee?”

  Ms Meetchim laughed as he rose to his feet. “Oh, it is good to have you back.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  38 Days

  Hob had just come in off a message run with Raff out to one of the survey camps; she could have done it on her own, but Coyote had started making up some damn song about hypocrisy and she couldn’t stand the sound of him caterwauling. The camp had been populated with people from Primero, and they’d had some interesting news – like many of them not being miners, but cooks and launderers pressed into service. TransRift was going all in on this.

  She hadn’t even walked fully out of the garage, Raff abandoned behind her to take care of the motorcycles, when Coyote was on her. “Oh Hob, just the woman I’ve been waiting for,” he sang out.

  Hob squinted at him. “I remember that smile. I don’t trust it.”

  “I’m hurt,” he said.

  “No, you ain’t.”

  “No, I’m not. Would you like to hear a bit of gossip?”

 
Hob pulled her cigarette case out of her pocket. “Oh, ya know. I just love me some girl-to-girl jawin’. Ain’t you back early?” She’d sent him and Lykaios off on another message run.

  “We had a tail wind. Anyway, I heard in Walsen that there’s a new group of bandits that robbed one of the wildcat sites. Didn’t hurt a hair on anyone’s little head, but robbed them of all their cash.”

  “Bless their hearts,” Hob said. She tucked a black cigarette between her lips and lit it with a snap of her fingers, outwardly calm. But she felt it coming: Coyote had the bit in his teeth, and she was always ready to wipe some bandits off the map – if there was a profit to be had. “And you just so happen to know where they got to?”

  “I might have an idea or two,” Coyote smiled brightly. “Though best we move quickly, yes? You know how these reprobates like to scurry about.”

  Hob grunted, sucking in a long drag of her cigarette. “Who all’s come back? Just you’n Lykaios?” With her and Raff, that would be four. She wanted better odds than that on a bandit hunt when they were going in practically blind.

  “Davey is here, and I think he could do with a bit of airing out. And Lobo. A little adventure will help him work those kinks out of his joints.”

  “Bala?” The man was still hobbling around on crutches, but if it was close enough that Coyote was proposing a single day roundtrip, they could put him on Lobo’s supply cart with a gun. That was a fun thought, and she wondered why she hadn’t come up with it before now.

  Coyote considered. “It’d certainly put him in a better mood.”

  “Float it past Davey. See how loud he screams.”

  Coyote grinned. “You give me the best gifts.”

  Davey didn’t scream, but he muttered. And he kept muttering over the shortwave channel, until Dambala told him to shut the fuck up. It couldn’t have been comfortable, bouncing around in the little cart behind Lobo’s trike, and it looked damned ridiculous considering he’d still put on his leathers and helmet so he had his radio and didn’t get his tattoos sandblasted off. But Dambala didn’t complain, just sat there patient as a mountain with his shotgun, the crest of spikes he’d put on his helmet going slowly orange-red with dust. A low black butte, softened by drifts of sand, humped up on the horizon.

  “Found them,” Coyote said over the radio. He and Raff had gone ahead to scout. He was barely audible over the static of distance, but good enough. “Bear southeast. They’re camped on the lee of the butte.”

  “How many?” Hob asked. If it was a full camp, seven might not be enough unless they got really creative. It had taken the whole company to clear out the last one, and then they’d unknowingly had Coyote working as one hell of bloody distraction.

  “All I got’s two guards,” Lykaios said. “Awful quiet in there.”

  “I’d guess that the rest are out doing a bit of work, since it’s a sizable camp,” Coyote said. “You know, how we tend to conduct ourselves.”

  “All right and proper of ’em,” Hob said dryly. Maybe they were just really organized for bandits, but it stank of Corporate something fierce. “Keep your eyes on the horizon, case they come back in,” Hob added. “Lobo, you bring that damn plow of yours?”

  “I’m sittin’ on it,” Dambala answered. “Ass ain’t ever gonna be the same.”

  “You bend it, I’ll bend you,” Lobo growled.

  “Let’s get it on once we’re on the shadow side of that butte,” Hob said. “Hope you’re feelin’ frisky.”

  Lobo laughed. “Always liked bein’ a batterin’ ram.”

  Electric motors were good for the element of surprise; no engine noise loud enough to sound over the wind to give them away. There was plenty of creaking and thumping from the cart still attached to the back of Lobo’s trike, but that wasn’t enough to be a warning until it was too late.

  Lobo, the angled sand guard bolted onto the front of his trike, led the charge at the low humps of the bandit’s camouflaged tents. He aimed straight for one of the sentries that Lykaios called out. The man or woman – impossible to tell which – had their back turned until it was almost too late, then screamed and jumped out of the way. Their fast reflexes didn’t save them from taking a blast from Dambala’s shotgun in the chest an instant later. Lobo plowed through one of the tents. A cloud of fabric, flimsies, and the shards of who knew what else exploded into the air.

  Hob, Raff, and Davey had hunkered down directly behind Dambala’s wake, so they weren’t visible. Davey and Raff went left and Hob went right. The other guard, pants flapping open as he bolted from behind a tent, tried to draw a handgun. Davey, the machete he’d insisted on trading for in hand, arrowed past him. One cut and the guard went down. Davey slammed on his brakes and threw his bike into a skid, turned, and came back around to hit him again. Blood arced up from the blade as he drew his arm back.

  “Think you got ’em good,” Raff said, idling by with a pistol in his hand.

  Hob braked to a stop in the middle of the small camp. “Check all the tents. We don’t want any surprises.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Coyote and Lykaios rolling in. “Oh, and good work, Diablo.”

  There was a pause as that got absorbed, and then the man formerly known as Davey Painter whooped. Hob had been meaning to give him his Wolf name at the last raid since it had been a damn sight bigger of a deal, but Coyote showing up out of the blue had turned everything on its head. She might as well make up for it now.

  She left shiny new Diablo to get his back slapped and his arms punched black and blue by the other Wolves, and yanked open the flap of the first tent. Inside were the usual supplies – tins and ration packs, some of them marked as coming from the company store, couple of water bags, some personal items, and an ammo box. Hob ducked back out. “See how much of this stuff we can pick up and fit in saddlebags or around Dambala,” she ordered. “Water first, that’s what we need most. Then ammo. Lykaios, stay on watch.”

  “We waitin’ for ’em to get back?” Lykaios asked. “I always got time to fuck up some bandits.”

  Hob paused and did a quick count of the tents. She could just about feel the others watching her, listening for her answer. “Don’t like the odds, so no.”

  “But–”

  Hob turned on her. “Don’t fuckin’ argue with me. We’re dumpin’ everythin’ we can’t take and I’m firin’ the tents. You wanna go on a revenge that we ain’t gettin’ paid for, do it on your own time.”

  Lykaios took a step back, her solid form hunching in a little. Sullenly, she said, “You got us killin’ all them bluebellies, sure like revenge.”

  Hob bared her teeth. “I got us a double payday for that. ’Less you got that in your back pocket, shut the fuck up and get to work.” She turned and headed into the next tent, pulling out her cigarettes as she did.

  Behind, she heard Dambala’s amused rumble of: “Some day you’ll learn to not try pissin’ further than your CO. And them Ravanis got a mighty back pressure goin’.” She’d got the impression Dambala and Coyote had known Lykaios in their previous life, but it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about.

  Hob bit back a laugh around her cigarette and set into the routine of rifling through the supplies, tossing what she wanted outside the tent for the others to collect.

  “Boss, I have something for you to see,” Coyote called. She caught sight of him waving out the flap of the tent nearest the butte.

  Inside the tent wasn’t so different – except for several canvas bags. Coyote had one open next to him, and tilted it toward her as soon as she poked her head in. The bag was full of brightly colored, universal credit chits.

  “That’s more’n you’d get off one work party,” Hob said.

  “Even better, these bags are tagged.” Coyote slipped a knife out of his boot and cut away a section of the canvas to reveal a familiar round, silver button: short range transmitter, recognizable as company issue.

  Hob sucked at her teeth. “Startin’ to think real bandits are a dyin’ breed.”


  “Well, when one creature goes extinct, another fills its niche,” Coyote said. He tossed her another bag. “We ought to be able to carry all of these. We’re keeping them, right?”

  “We ain’t a charity.” She had ammunition to buy and mouths to feed. Hob felt the canvas of the bag he’d given her until she located the hard round button of another transmitter. She drew her own knife. “Though mayhap I’m a good enough citizen to warn Mag there’s some new fuckery afoot.”

  “I never doubted,” Coyote said piously.

  Chapter Fifteen

  36 Days

  “Clarence, I got somethin’ here you need to see.” The miner poked her head in his kitchen door. “Oh. Didn’t realize you had company.”

  “You ain’t interruptin’,” Odalia said. They’d been having another meeting, working out supply plans, going over information from other towns.

  The woman nodded. “Y’all lookin’ better at least. Last I saw, you was half dead.”

  Clarence smiled, lopsided out of his new habit to hide the teeth the greenbellies had broken. After three weeks, his bruises had faded away to nothing. “You know we’re tougher’n that. Come on in, Rosa. You want some lemonade?”

  The miner closed the door behind her, then shook her head. Pores on her cheeks were darkened with the rock dust on her brown, round face; the areas around her eyes, nose, and mouth relatively clean where she’d been protected by her goggles and bandana. She waved away the glass of thin, vaguely lemon-scented water that Mag offered her. “Gonna head on home after we have us a talk. My girls are missin’ me fierce, I bet, and I wanna make sure their other mama didn’t spoil ’em too bad.”

  Mag realized then that she had to be one of the miners that had volunteered for the newest survey crew. The exploration promised to pay more money even if it had bigger risk, and they were still playing it quiet in town, gathering their strength. It also meant they had people out there who could tell them what was going on.