by David Drake
As Emilio reached for the gate-latch, he noticed the Frisians for the first time. He recoiled abruptly. The boy’s father grabbed his arm from reflex, but both of them stared over the fence at the strangers instead of carrying on their quarrel.
“You there!” the headman called. “Strangers! Come away from there at once!”
Margulies made a quick decision and turned toward the headman’s compound. “We’re here to see a friend of mine,” she said. “Angel Tijuca. Can you tell me where he lives?”
Emilio snatched the gate convulsively open and darted into the street. His father gestured toward him, but the near presence of the Frisians kept him from following the boy. Emilio carried a short staff and slung his possessions from it. The bindle was so slight that its presence was better proof of poverty than nothing at all would have been.
“Blood money!” his mother cried. The boy bent forward, as though he were hiking toward Potosi against a sleet storm.
“We don’t have any Tijucas here,” the headman said. “You should go away now, before the guards arrive.”
The fellow was short to begin with. He splayed his legs deliberately so that his eyes barely glinted over the fence. Margulies had the impression of a turtle peeping from a shell of palings.
“There’s a vehicle with four driven wheels on the way, Mary,” Barbour said. He looked doubtfully at the sub-machine gun she’d insisted he carry. His expression wasn’t so much frightened as confused, that of a bachelor confronted with a squalling baby.
Margulies wasn’t sure how Barbour had gathered the data—so far as she knew, the intelligence officer wore a commo helmet just like hers, with only the standard sensors. She’d have been willing to take Barbour’s word for the situation, even without the headman’s confirmation.
“That’s no problem,” she said, her voice reassuring. Though the implication was that there wouldn’t be any trouble—and probably there wouldn’t—Margulies’ mind was considering the quantity of troops and weaponry carried by a patrol vehicle, and the degree to which she could count on Barbour for backup in a firefight.
Not far, she was afraid. Of course, he might draw attention away from her by shooting himself in the foot.
“Angel was from Silva Blanca before he joined the Slammers,” Margulies continued calmly to the headman. The local shifted his weight from one leg to the other, at a rate which increased with the intensity of Margulies’ gaze. “And I got the impression he intended to return here after he retired. I just—”
An open car roared up from the other end of the town’s only street. It had four oversized tires mounted on outriggers to keep the vehicle from tipping during off-road travel; a 2-cm tribarrel was mounted on a central pintle. There were four men aboard, one of them at the grips of the big gun. The muzzles swung as the vehicle swayed on its long-travel suspension.
The patrolmen wore red; red gloves, in the case of the driver.
Emilio’s parents disappeared within their house The boy was out of sight also, though Margulies thought he might have ducked behind a hedge. She didn’t think there’d been enough time for him to have walked around the sweeping curve of the road to Potosi.
The vehicle shimmied to a halt. “Drop those guns!” shouted the man at the tribarrel. “Drop them right now or s’help me, I’ll kill you!”
The driver was extending the collapsed shoulder stock of his sub-machine gun. The other two L’Escorials pointed weapons as well. The fat bore of the grenade launcher wavered between Margulies and Barbour without ever quite aiming at either one of them.
Margulies set her fists deliberately on her hips and faced the car, arms akimbo. “I’m Lieutenant Mary Margulies of the Frisian Defense Forces,” she said in a harsh, hectoring voice. “An ally of L’Escorial if your Masters Luria can come to terms with President Hammer. Who in the hell told you to point a gun at me, boy?”
The driver’s foot slipped off the brake. The car had a hub-center electric motor in each wheel. Their torque jerked the vehicle forward. The gunner fell back, lifting the tribarrel’s muzzles. It was pure luck that he didn’t manage to trigger a burst while he was at it.
The back of the vehicle was full of food and personal gear in wicker baskets. The tribarrel’s gunner untangled himself from the clutter, awkwardly helped by one of his fellows. “Shut it off, Plait!” he shouted. “Shut it off, you dickhead! D’ye want to kill us all?”
The driver, a rabbity-looking fellow, cut the power. The motors’ singing wound down against friction, leaving the village quieter than it would have been without that contrast.
The gunner slapped the grenadier on the shoulder to point him out of the crowded car, necessary so that the gunner too could step down behind him. The driver and the remaining gunman got out also. They stood on the other side of the vehicle; perhaps for the sake of cover.
The headman scurried out his courtyard gate to join the group in the street. “I told them they had no business here,” he said. “And I called you right away, just like I was supposed to, sir.”
“We do indeed have business here,” Margulies said, frowning at the gunner, the apparent team leader. “I came to visit an old friend of mine from the FDF—Angel Tijuca. He was my driver for a year and a half.”
The grenadier stared at the gunner. The gunner frowned in turn. “You know Angel, then?” he said.
“Yes, he was my driver,” Margulies repeated. The L’Escorial didn’t sound hostile for a change, so she didn’t add a gibe to the statement. “He got me out of a tight spot. A really tight spot.”
“Why’s she here, then?” the driver asked plaintively. “Why this dungheap?”
Jalousies covered the windows of the houses. Corners of the slats tilted up as eyes peered from within. The Lord knew what the tableau would seem to people who couldn’t hear the discussion.
A naked child opened the door of a house halfway down the street. An adult arm shot from the shadows and dragged him back inside.
“Look, if you’re friends of Angel, then there’s no problem you being here,” the L’Escorial gunner said. He scratched his beard stubble in puzzlement. “But he’s not here, lady, he’s in Potosi.”
“Where in Potosi is he?” Margulies demanded. She massaged the palm of her left hand with her right thumb.
“Well, he’s in headquarters, I suppose, lady,” the gunner said. He was unsure of himself and nervous of giving offense—under circumstances where, moments ago, he’d thought he and his tribarrel were the Lord God Almighty.
“He’s our training officer, lady,” the driver blurted. “He’s training officer of the L’Escorial syndicate.”
“Well, you missed the live show,” Sten Moden said as Coke opened the door of Hathaway House, “but you’re in time for the first rerun.”
The logistics officer had been sitting at the console the whole time Coke’s party was gone. He stretched, reaching up to the lobby’s high ceiling. His lopsided figure looked like an archaeological treasure, an oversized monument dragged from the midst of ruins.
Evie Hathaway stuck her head out from the kitchen. She ducked back, though she could still overhear the Frisians’ conversation.
The team had effectively commandeered the lobby, the only volume in Hathaway House big enough to serve them as an operations room. They had to treat the Hathaways as allies. Georg might be ambivalent, but Evie’s support was willing. Coke and his team had proved they were willing to stand up to the syndicates—if only to get a better price for the FDF’s services.
“Getting good signals?” Niko Daun asked as he stripped off his cloak.
“Clear as a bell,” Moden agreed. “The guards on the tin can at the gate think Dobrynyev, who quit the poker game a winner, was cheating. Though they’re not sure how.”
“Dang!” Niko Daun joked. He was brilliantly cheerful from success, from the end of immediate danger, and from having been part of a dangerous and successful team operation. “Now I gotta go back and stick a personal shadow on Dobrynyev so we c
an be sure. Knew I should’ve done that!”
“Let’s see how the leaders’ conference went after we were gone,” Coke said. His tone was a little sharper than he’d intended. The men had a right to be pleased; it was just that the job wasn’t finished yet
“Ready to roll,” Moden said mildly. He touched a control.
“We can’t pay that!” Roberson’s recorded voice said in impotent fury.
“I’d pay anything if I thought it would work,” the Widow said. Despair made her empty, while it drove the merchant to frustrated anger. “But if we hire them, then the Lurias will simply bring in more foreigners of their own. Thanks to Suterbilt, they have first look at possibles coming through the port.”
“You don’t understand, Little Star,” Peres interjected. His tone was disdainful, only lightly screened by a pretense of affection. “In a fingersnap, these mercenaries will go through anything L’Escorial can put up. Spaceport toughs and petty criminals, that’s all their best is.”
“Good assessment,” Coke murmured.
Vierziger gave the other men a lazy smile, like that of a cat awakening. “I don’t like them with brains,” he said. “But I’m not convinced that Master Peres has disqualified himself as yet.”
“A gun is a gun,” Roberson muttered. “And just how did you expect to fund these wonderful troops, Peres? Out of your purse?”
“I didn’t expect to fund them at all, old man,” the gigolo sneered. “After all, the transaction can’t go through the Bonding Authority.”
“Will they agree to that?” the Widow asked.
“Smart lady,” Niko said to show that he’d picked up something from the discussion among the officers earlier.
“Not smart enough just to hire us and be done,” Johann Vierziger said. “Wait and see.”
“They’ll have to agree to it,” Peres insisted. “They know as well as we do that the Marvelans would have to take action if they heard we were bringing in a mercenary regiment. If the Bonding Authority’s informed, the Marvelans will hear about it. The Frisians are here to deal, so that means they’re willing to go outside the normal chan
nels.”
“Maybe,” Coke said. “Maybe we’re willing.”
“I don’t see how that follows,” Roberson said, but his voice had lost its vehemence.
“So our Frisian visitors arrive,” Peres caroled, “they clean up our problem. They board the ship we provide, though they don’t know the ship’s ours. And the ship never gets home. The credit chips are aboard the same vessel, so they’re never presented for payment. End of story, yes?”
“You see?” Vierziger said. “My type after all.”
“But can we be certain they’ll agree to act outside the Bonding Authority?” the Widow said. “Surely they’ll recognize the danger.”
“It’s not our doing, you see,” Peres insisted. “The Marvelans really would quash the operation if they heard about it. We’ll offer Master Coke a lagniappe of his own, five percent say. Enough to retire on happily, if he sees matters the right way and explains them to his superiors.”
“I wonder,” Sten Moden observed, “how carefully Mistress Guzman has gone over the contracts her friend lets on her behalf?”
Vierziger tittered. “Definitely my type,” he said as he stretched his delicate, deadly fingers before him. “Dumber than dog squat.”
Daun glanced at the gunman uneasily.
“I’m not sure…” muttered Roberson, but he wasn’t sure enough even of his objections to proceed. Generalized fear hung over the merchant, darkening his vision and blurring details into a miasma of formless danger.
“We don’t have any choice,” the Widow said abruptly. “Every day our situation gets worse. I should have sold my interests to the Lurias when Pablo died, but it’s too late for that now. I’ll call Major Coke.”
“Not yet, Little Star,” Peres said. “We don’t want to look too eager and make them suspicious. Wait for this evening and we’ll say we’ve been able to raise the money after all.”
“In a way,” Sten Moden said, “it would be surprising if clients understood just what they’re buying from soldiers, and how much it’s really worth to them.”
As he spoke, he unconsciously kneaded his left shoulder with his remaining hand.
“All right,” the Widow said. “If you say so, Little Heart. That’s what I’ll do.”
Moden switched off the recording. Mistress Hathaway looked out of the kitchen again.
“And our move, Matthew?” Vierziger asked. He had his pistol out. He was rubbing the metalwork with a synthetic chamois which he carried folded in a pocket.
“L’Escorial doesn’t seem to think they need us,” Coke said, pursing his lips as he considered. “We should do something about that.”
“Pepe Luria is off Cantilucca,” Evie Hathaway volunteered from the doorway. “He’s the active one, though he’s the grandson. Raul and Ramon are probably waiting for him to get back before they start the killing. In earnest.”
Coke nodded. “Do we know where the syndicates’ installations are?” he asked Moden.
The logistics officer grimaced. “I can make some guesses,” he said. “For fine tuning, we’re going to need Barbour. Though if”—he turned toward the kitchen doorway—“Mistress Hathaway is willing to provide some local knowledge, I think we can do a pretty good job right now.”
“What are you planning to do?” Evie said crisply.
“Something very costly to the syndicates,” Coke said. “Are you in?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. Her voice was just as flat as Coke’s had been.
“Get on with it, Sten,” Coke said. He looked at Johann Vierziger. “Come along, Johann,” he said. “You and I are going back to Astra headquarters to give helpful advice.”
“Yes, I thought that might be the case,” Vierziger said, rising easily from his chair.
His fingers twitched the pistol in and out of his holster twice, to be sure that it didn’t bind. He was smiling.
“Patrol One to Base,” announced the console. The voice was recognizably that of Margulies, despite the stitching and compression of spread-band radio. “We’re coming in. So don’t get nervous when the door opens, Johann.”
Coke paused with his hand halfway to the latch of the front door. It swung in, pushed by Barbour while the security lieutenant watched the street in a would-be negligent fashion.
“When did you become Patrol One?” Moden asked.
“Well, it didn’t seem right to identify ourselves in clear,” Margulies said in mild embarrassment. “If you like, sir, I can be Three from here on out. We don’t know who’s listening in.”
“On this benighted planet, nobody is,” Barbour said as he seated himself at his console.
He obviously didn’t want to look like a mother desperate to check her child after the first day of school. Equally obviously, that was how he felt about having handed his equipment over to somebody else, however apparently trustworthy.
“Johann and I are going out,” Coke said. “I’d like to hear about your trip when we get back, though.”
He reached for the door again.
“Just a moment, sir,” Barbour said. “Let me find Peres for you. He’s left Astra headquarters.”
Coke blinked at the intelligence officer. “You were listening in on all this while you were gone?” he asked.
“Yes sir,” Barbour said. “Through the console. Ah—perhaps I should have asked your permission?”
He looked up in sudden concern. Barbour’s sandy hair and unlined face gave him the appearance of being a boy at least a decade younger than he really was.
“I won’t tell you how to do your job,” Coke said. “I just—well, I didn’t know you could do that from a remote location. Without special equipment.”
“Yes sir,” Barbour said. He grinned suddenly, unexpectedly. “Commo helmets are more special than most people realize. If you know how to program them, which isn’t any great trick.”
>
Right, thought Coke. He’d heard exceptional cooks talk the same way, in absolute honesty. Oh, there was nothing to it. Nor was there, for them. As opposed to 99.7 percent of the people who might have attempted the same dish, with results ranging from mediocre to disastrous.
The console display shifted fluidly as Barbour spoke. It locked into a section of streetscape five hundred meters west of Astra HQ. “Here’s where he’s gone, sir,” Barbour explained. “I think he’s on the third floor.”
Coke hooked a finger to Evie Hathaway to join the group about the display. “How in blazes did you determine that?” he asked. “How did you even know Peres had left the building?”
“Voice print,” Niko Daun said/guessed.
“Right in one,” Barbour agreed. “I told the software to analyze audio inputs and track Peres through it. He’d gone out past the bug at the courtyard gate a few minutes after you’d left, telling the guards he was going to the Bucket.”
“The Bucket of Blood,” Mistress Hathaway said. “Yes, it’s in that building all right. It’s an Astra bar. No worse than most places, not really.”
“I tracked him through the external sensors here on Hathaway House,” Barbour said in obvious—and justifiable—pride. “He was traveling with three companions, talking frequently enough that I could follow the audio after I lost video …though even with enhancement, I’ll admit that there was a lot of guesswork at the end, sir.”
“Your guesswork is what laymen call genius,” Coke said. “You don’t need to be modest with me, Bob. And Via! Call me Matthew, all right?”
“We need to place more sensors up and down the road,” Daun said. “Visual, too. I’ll get on that right now.”
“Would you prefer to find Roberson, ah, Matthew?” Barbour asked. “Mistress Guzman hasn’t left the building.”
“No, no,” Coke said. “Master Peres is the choice for this approach.” He smiled tightly. “He’s a gambler. That’s what we need.”
Niko Daun opened his case. He sorted through it with practiced fingers, pulling out items from several different pockets.
