Just Compensation

by Robert N. Charrette

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So Jefferson is out when?”

  “Election this November, sir. Inauguration of successor in January.”

  “So that means . . .” Steele looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I don’t recall hearing his name coming up much among the Democrats.”

  “Rumor puts him out of favor with the party, sir.” The aide put an odd emphasis on rumor, suggesting that he meant some other source he was unwilling to name in the present, more-or-less public company.

  Steele seemed to accept the aide’s statement far more readily than Tom’s information. “So he won’t be taking the success track following Hahn or Wilkie to Congress. Our Mr. Jefferson could very well be a hungry man.”

  “Or an embittered one.” said a blonde aide in a trim Sarmani suit. “Or an ambitious one. I expect he’d be eligible to govern a reunited Virginia, and Virginia has always been fond of heroes as candidates. Any of these motivations could make the man amenable to blandishments from outside sources.”

  Steele nodded. “If what Major Rocquette alleges is true, this situation is very serious.”

  Thank you, Mr. President, for stating the obvious.

  The President turned to Trahn. “What about our military being involved in this plot? Is it true?”

  “Mr. President, I will state here and now, and at any venue you care to name, that neither myself nor my staff is in any way involved in selling any part of this country to anyone. None of us joined the military for any reason other than that we are patriots.

  “Personally, I’ve no truck with traitors who would sell out their country, even a small part of it, Mr. President.” Trahn said with conviction. “I can have troops on Governor Jefferson’s doorstep in fifteen minutes, if you order it. It might be best if we had Governor Jefferson where he could answer some questions.”

  Was Trahn being honest, or just throwing a confederate to the wolves? The former seemed more likely. If Jefferson were to answer questions, he would surely provide the names of his co-conspirators; it was the way of traitors to want to take others down with them when they fell. But if Trahn wasn’t part of the conspiracy, just what was his connection with Telestrian?

  Trahn was still talking. “We may be overreacting, however. Major Rocquette’s allegations seem to be only speculation and innuendo. He hasn’t presented any hard evidence.” Everyone looked at Tom. “I had a reader with pertinent files.” he said. “It was confiscated by Colonel Jordan’s MPs when I was . . . detained.”

  “We have no reader, nor any record of a reader.” Jordan said without waiting to be asked. He mined and tapped at his console. The screen changed to an arrest report; Tom’s. “See for yourself, Mr. President. The records show that only a side-arm and webbing gear were confiscated from Major Rocquette when he was, as he says, detained. Oh, and of course the truck he commandeered without orders and drove here.”

  “I was reporting as ordered.” Tom said.

  “And you have given your report.” Trahn said before Tom could say more. “You have given the President more than enough to think about. Major. And since he’s got a lot of important decisions to make as soon as his staff corroborates your accusations, I suggest we get back to our jobs and leave him to his.”

  “An excellent suggestion, General.” said the blonde presidential aide. “The President is indeed pressed for time.” The aide launched into orders to the presidential staff to prepare to relocate. Trahn gave his own orders and the TOC blossomed with sudden, bustling activity.

  Tom realized what had been done. The issue of his detention and what lay behind it had been shunted aside. He was out of the spotlight, forgotten. But not by everyone. Jordan appeared at his side and ordered the MPs to take him to the general’s van. Tom was hustled away.

  Fifteen minutes later Trahn joined him. “At ease, Rocquette.”

  Tom most certainly wasn’t, but he tried to appear so. Trahn slumped into the worn, leather-covered chair that was the one luxury appointment in the caravan-office.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Major. Your impulses were good, but I’m sorry your judgment didn’t match. You were misled into believing I had a part in this conspiracy. You should have checked your facts. If you’d come to me, perhaps I could have set you straight without involving those civilians. Some of the President’s staff are not sympathetic to the military, and I’m afraid you’ve fed their paranoid fantasies about us. And you’ve embarrassed yourself. It didn’t have to be this way. I hope you’ve learned something by this.”

  Trahn didn’t mention the order to kill the prisoners. “Oh, I have, sir.”

  “Good. You should have known I wouldn’t have been involved in any plot to weaken the Union.”

  But he was involved in other things. “I didn’t really believe that of you, sir.”

  Trahn offered a sympathetic smile. “Misunderstandings can occur quite easily, as I am sure you would agree. We’ve all had our share of misunderstandings recently.”

  Were they coming to the matter of the illegal orders now? Tom intended to make sure they did. He was tired of misunderstandings. “Like with the prisoners?”

  “By your own evidence, they were likely insurrectionists.” There was controlled anger in Trahn’s voice, but curiously, Tom didn’t feel it was directed at him. “Whatever they were doesn’t matter right now. We’ve got a job to do. We can overcome misunderstandings when we’ve got a job to do, can’t we, Major?”

  “Sometimes, General.”

  “This had better be one of those times.” Trahn said in a voice that brooked no disagreement. “If you’re correct about the conspiracy, this rioting is an intolerable threat to our country and it must be put down with all alacrity so that we can turn our attention to other matters. We need every soldier we can get on the streets, doing his job. So I’m sending you back out there. It will give you a chance to work off your aggressions. I’m offering you another chance, a chance to prove you’re a team player. Do you want to take it?”

  Tom swallowed, thinking hard. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. But the general, involved or not, had a point: if the Confed-inspired riots weren’t put down, the country was in trouble. If Tom was locked up in the stockade, there wouldn’t be anything he could do about it. “I’ve always considered myself a team player, sir. But I’ve always needed to know the score as well. I think I’m up to speed now, sir, having seen the scorecard. I want to be on the winning team, sir.”

  “Very good. You’re going back to Furlann’s team, but not in command. You’ll be under her orders until this blows over. I’d rather not deal with the mess of a formal rank reduction, even a temporary one, so I don’t want you making trouble for her. You understand?”

  Combat in the streets would offer plenty of opportunities for Tom to be taken out of the general’s hair. Tom understood all right; he understood that his death would simplify the general’s problems. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  Trahn rose from his seat and walked to the ramp. “Jemal, arrange transportation for Major Rocquette. He’s going back to work.”

  >WFDC LIVE FEED

  -[23:29:22/8-25-55]

  REPORTER: DERRY DALE [DALE-365]

  UPLINK SITE: FREDERICKSBURG, NORTH VIRGINIA

  Dale: “This is Derry Dale coming to you live from the Statehouse press room in Fredericksburg, where I’ve just been informed that there’s been another delay. As you know, Governor Jefferson scheduled an unprecedented emergency press conference this evening, but he has yet to make an appearance. Speculation is rife among those gathered here. Many think the governor will be addressing the rumor that Confederated States troops are massing on the border. But one thing everyone here agrees on is that the state press secretary’s preliminary teaser about the governor making an important announcement is without a doubt true.

  “I’ve just been promised by the Statehouse official that the governor will be arriving shortly. Wait a minute, wait a minute—I believe we have confirmation. We’re
going to cut now to Jane Kateway of local WFRD at the Governor’s estate. [Inset screen added] Jane, I understand you have word the governor is on his way.”

  Kateway: “That’s right, Derry. Just moments ago a sleek, swing-motor Orion aircraft lifted off from the grounds of the governor’s mansion. We’ve been told that Governor Jefferson is aboard and headed for the Statehouse. In fact, if you look out the window, you should be able to see the running lights of his aircraft approaching.”

  Dale: “I’ll take a look. I don’t see any—Wait, wait. Yes, those are running lights. The aircraft is—Ohmigod!

  [Image shift, full screen: smoke cloud in night sky, trailing to ground; fire erupts beyond treeline]

  Dale [offscreen]: “No, no. It couldn’t be. It—it is? No. I don’t believe it.” [Pause.] “I’m told that it’s the governor’s aircraft. We have no word on what’s happened. Stay tuned to WFDC. We’ll be staying on the feed as we investigate.” [On screen: fire spreads to the trees]<<<<<

  23

  Fire skipped along Wilson Boulevard, marking the death ripping from the Consie machine gun as it hosed down the street. Tom and the others huddled in the lee of the team’s command car were sheltered, but they could hear the patter of the tracer and anti-personnel rounds and the frustrated scream of the interspersed penetrator rounds as they spanged off the Ranger’s armor. In close where the penetrators hadn’t bled off as much of their energy, the car’s armor wouldn’t be enough to shrug the rounds aside. But the vehicle was better off than the grunts. Even out here, the penetrator rounds still had more than enough punch to blow through the infantry-issue torso armor Tom was wearing.

  “Rocquette, you go with Hanley and take command of the second squad. Listen up. I want both of your squads to advance across the Wilson School grounds, pinning down the hostiles from the front.” Captain Furlann indicated the path she’d chosen on the mapboard. “I want you moving on them hard and keeping them very busy.”

  “The open approach is suicide.” Tom told Furlann. He hadn’t had time to assess the situation, but at first glance it looked really bad. It wasn’t in his long-term interests to talk back to her; but if he didn’t, he might not have any longterm interests.

  “He’s right.” Hanley agreed. “Ground’s too open. Most of this bunch are blue berets, and they shoot straight. The Consies have been trouble every time we’ve run into them, and those others didn’t have any heavy stuff.”

  Furlann wasn’t buying. “All this bunch has is that machine gun and enough charms to keep me from doing more than annoy them. If they had any really heavy stuff, they’d be punching their way out instead of letting us bottle them up.”

  Hanley looked down at the ground. “We’re still too short to assault them. We saved Captain Black’s butt, maybe he’d like to return the favor.”

  “Not an option.” Furlann said. “The armor’s still busy on the other side of the river. Besides, we’re the ones in the butt-saving business. That’s what being a fire brigade is all about. That’s why we’re here in Rosslyn dealing with this particular knot of resistance. We’re plugging a hole that command wants plugged. You think we’d be here if they had a better option? You got any real ideas, Mister, I want to hear them.”

  Furlann snapped off the mapboard, forestalling Tom’s effort to find another option. “We haven’t got time to fool around.” she said, picking up and slinging the captured Steyr autorifle she’d adopted to add to her image as a combat commander. “Get your people moving. Fischer’s bringing up drones from the Fort Myer perimeter to get them in on the hostiles’ left flank and he’s only got time for a couple of passes. If the Consies aren’t pinned, his attack won’t do half the job we need.”

  The drones should have been making the frontal attack. Tom said as much.

  “You got a problem with your orders, Mister?” Furlann asked.

  He did, but he understood what she was asking. Her orders were not illegal, just stupid. If he failed to make a good attempt to follow them, he could be found guilty of refusing to obey an order, dereliction, and a few other choice things.

  “Well?”

  “We’ll go forward.” he told her. But he’d be looking all the way for some out.

  “Move.” Furlann snapped.

  They moved. Out of earshot of Furlann, he and Hanley had a chat. It had been a long time since Tom had been on the ground, so he ceded tactical control to the groundpounder—after making it clear they ought to take a more circuitous route to the target. Hanley agreed; he had no more interest than Tom did in losing people unnecessarily. As they moved toward their jumping-off point, Tom discovered that it really had been a long time. He wasn’t used to the weight of the combat armor and lagged behind. The squaddies didn’t wait for him when Hanley called for a sprint.

  Tom hustled after them, losing ground as the troops cut through the residential blocks and worked their way toward the Key Street approach that would shield them from the Consie fire for most of the route. Then his foot caught against something, nearly causing him to stumble. No, not against—something had grabbed his ankle. He looked down. Nothing there. The squad was still moving forward, oblivious to his delay and making their best time. They had their own butts to worry about.

  He started after them. Something snatched at his arm, half spinning him around. It felt like a hand, but there was no one there. Another invisible hand wrenched his weapon away.

  A long list of unpleasant possibilities flashed through his brain. One thing was certain, this wasn’t anything he was equipped to fight.

  He tried to back away. Hard grips closed on his arms, forcing him to stand still. It might have been a troll holding him, if trolls were invisible. He wasn’t going anywhere. His unseen captor tugged him around.

  Furlann walked down the street toward him, her long hair drifting in the eddies of thaumaturgic power that crackled and eddied around her.

  “The manual calls the spell Magic Fingers or some such nonsense, and treats it quite trivially,” she said, “but as with most spells, a strong will can improve the physical manifestation quite dramatically. I’ve a strong grip, wouldn’t you say?”

  She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Most users feel themselves confined by the spell, finding their effects constrained to a double-handed manipulation. Never having much like for constraints, I’ve done a little work. Just tinkering, but effective.”

  The captured Steyr autorifle unslung itself from her shoulder and moved to float in the air before Tom’s face, muzzle directed between his eyes. “I find that a third hand improves the effectiveness of the spell quite a bit more than half. What do you think?”

  He thought she was playing with him, enjoying having him at her mercy, of which there was none. “Do it and be done, bitch.” he told her.

  “Don’t take it personally, Rocquette. This is bigger than you know. Like a good set of ritual protections, it’s all layers on layers, but you messed where you shouldn’t have. I thought you were smarter than that.”

  She hadn’t said it yet, but he was sure she was going to kill him. Tom had suspected that Trahn had sent him out here to get himself killed honorably, but apparently the general didn’t trust Tom to do the job right. He’d enlisted Furlann’s aid.

  Furtive motion in the shadows behind Furlann caught his eye. Help, or more trouble? There were people slipping from house to house, much as the troops had done, but by their silhouettes, they weren’t soldiers. Tom’s helmet augmentation opened the shadows for him, revealing Andy, Markowitz, and Kit running toward him and Furlann. His mind put the three of them into nineteenth-century horse cavalry uniforms. As they drew near, they slowed, making their approach more stealthy. Suddenly Tom was not so anxious for Furlann to get on with things.

  “You can’t get away with this.” he stalled. If he could keep her talking . . .

  “Of course I can. Invisible hands leave invisible fingerprints, and there won’t be anyone looking for them around here anyway. Not that it matters. You’ll be
just another casualty on a long list. Nobody will think twice about finding you shot with a Confed weapon. Why, in some quarters, it may even confirm your status as a patriot.”

  “So I’m just going to be another unfortunate soldier who got killed in the line of duty.”

  “I’d have thought you’d appreciate such an epitaph.”

  “As epitaphs go, it’s not bad, but I’d rather go without one for a while.”

  Furlann chuckled. “No doubt you expect your friends to arrange that. Oh yes, I know they’ve arrived.”

  The newcomers abandoned stealth at her comment. Markowitz took up a firing stance and leveled his weapon at her.

  “Let him go.” he ordered. “Or you're history.”

  “Let him go?” Furlann glanced casually over her shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

  “She’s dangerous, Harry.” Kit said.

  “Very.” Furlann agreed.

  “Got a cure for that.” Markowitz said. He fired his weapon. He missed; he fired again. And missed again. “What the frag?”

  “She’s distorting our vision.” Kit said. “I can’t seem to get a grip on her spell.”

  “Tom’s dead if you don’t.” Andy said, voicing Tom’s own conclusion.

  “You’re meddling where you don’t belong again, Marksman.” Furlann gestured at him. With a curse, he flung his pistol away. It landed with a clatter, began to glow red, and exploded as the ammo cooked off. Furlann laughed. “You won’t find me as easy to escape as that Yellowjacket.”

  “Furlann!”

  Tom was tugged around as Furlann shifted to face the new voice. The Steyr went too, its muzzle and unblinking eye staring at him.

  The new speaker was Cinqueda, the street samurai. Once again she’d appeared out of nowhere. She stood half crouched, one hand extended before her, the other cocked back and holding a heavy-bladed knife ready to throw. Such a weapon wouldn’t throw worth spit for an ordinary person, but he didn’t doubt that the augmented Cinqueda had the strength for it.