The Privateer 2: AN HONEST LIVING

by Zellmann, William

  Their guide waited until the patrol faded from their enhanced view, and then tapped Zant on the shoulder. "Go," he whispered. "We will follow them. Good luck." He disappeared almost instantly.

  His troops were beginning to rise, and he made sure he had all ten before they began moving north as fast as their burdens would let them.

  Zant was using the farms as a guide, keeping them just in view on his left. It was the longest mile he'd ever walked, he decided. Finally, a small building appeared on his right. Zant was pretty sure the General did not have enough capacitance alarms to equip all his guard posts; he hadn't planned on having to alarm several miles of perimeter road. Now Zant prayed to any god that happened by that he was right.

  One by one, the men slid slowly, silently, stealthily past the guard post. These were men who could creep to within a few yards of a mountain dino, and Zant doubted that, lacking star technology, they would be spotted.

  He was right. Eventually all of his men had passed the guard post. Three of them split off with a nod; they were assigned the heavy lasers, and had the farthest to go.

  Zant had decided to accompany the trio responsible for the flitter. The disruptor could be fatally damaged by a blast on the charging coil, and the lasers could be rendered useless by shattering or even just misaligning their lenses and mirrors. But Zant knew that his mountain ruffians would have no idea how to permanently damage a flitter.

  Oh, if all of them just threw their demo packs underneath the flitter, it should be enough. But Zant had to make sure. It was vital that the General not be allowed to keep a flitter that could sneak into Valhalla silently, and Zant and his extra demo packs would ensure that. Zant had also been concerned that the pad might be better lit and more populated than the weapons emplacements. An extra man might provide the extra bit of force necessary for success. They split off from the last three and headed for the landing pad.

  Zant's caution had been justified. The heavy schedule the flitter had been flying meant it required a lot of maintenance, and at the moment, two men were doing just that. Since there was no hangar for the flitter, the pad was brightly lighted.

  Worse, there was a guard post less than fifty yards away. Zant whispered that the others should wait until he cleared the guard post, or until he was seen. Then he headed for the guard post, slipping from shadow to shadow.

  He peeked around the corner of the tiny building, and then jerked his head back. Only one man, but he was awake, and watching the workers service the flitter. Zant carefully tried the guard post's door. Locked. He reached for his tomahawk.

  One side of the tomahawk's head featured a razor-sharp three-inch wide axe blade, the other a conical spike. It was mounted on a two-foot hardwood handle. It was a poor design for chopping or other camp chores, but it was a very effective killing tool. Zant was not very good at throwing a knife, but with a tomahawk, he was lethal at any distance up to six meters.

  He backed a few feet away from the guard post, to minimize his visibility. Then he stepped into the light from the guard post and let fly almost simultaneously, and then jumped back into the darkness.

  He didn't even have to step out to check his work. The hollow 'thock' told him everything he needed to know. Still, he peeked around the corner again. The man was slumped against the wall of the tiny shack, the tomahawk's blade buried deep in his head. Zant smiled slightly with relief. The man hadn't had time to cry out. A quick glance told him that the workers were still working on the flitter. One of them straightened and stretched, trying to loosen cramped muscles. Suddenly a crossbow bolt was protruding from his neck. His eyes widened, and he must have produced a sound, because the other man slid out from under the flitter asking what was wrong. A shadow slid silently up behind him. The shadow grabbed him, pulled his head back, and a ceramic blade slid across his throat. The shadow held him for a moment, to make certain he was dead, and then lowered the body to the ground. The other two mountain men hurried across to the flitter, carrying the shadow's pack, and Zant hurried to join them.

  The others passed him demo charges one by one, and Zant placed two of them in the impeller nacelles, one under the dashboard, and one in the engine compartment. If even one of them went off, the flitter would never fly again. He set the last timer, lowered the engine cover, and found his frontiersmen waiting for him.

  "What are you doing?" he stage-whispered urgently. "Get out of here! Spread out and plant those bombs and booby traps, and then make for the forest or the river."

  "What about you?" one of the men said.

  "Don't worry about me," Zant whispered furiously. "I've got some packages to deliver myself, and then I'll make for the river. Now, split up and get out of here!" He turned and jogged for a building without looking back. Besides their main demo charges, each man carried a supply of bombs and home-made booby traps. If possible, they were to set them on their way out, though they had been cautioned not to waste them on farmers; the target was the militia.

  Zant had identified two places where he particularly wanted to leave souvenirs: the Great Hall, and the only warehouse bordering the landing pad that had a guard patrolling around it. Zant was almost certain that a man with Ochoa-Mariden's ego would take over the colony's multipurpose building, the large building called the Great Hall, as his headquarters, and he had a nice incendiary pack ready for it.

  As for the warehouse, the fact that it was guarded told him it contained things the General wanted protected. And if the General wanted them protected, Zant wanted them destroyed.

  But the warehouse was on the other side of the landing pad. Zant headed for the Great Hall first. He relaxed slightly as he moved farther from the lights of the landing pad.

  He had no trouble working his way to the Great Hall; the colony's central area was deserted and dark. He set a shaped-charge incendiary pack against a wall, with a trigger on the door. Anyone opening that door would get a surprise, and turn the building into a burnt-out hulk.

  He checked his wrist comp. Eight minutes until all the demo packs began going off. He would need every minute to reach the warehouse and set the explosives while evading or killing the guard. He quickened his pace. He crossed the central plaza, and started up the side of the warehouses farthest from the landing pad. This put him dangerously close to the perimeter road, but it was worth the risk.

  At the third warehouse, he dropped flat and waited for the guard. He had decided to simply evade the guard, instead of risking an attack. The guard came around the corner of the big building, and Zant cradled his crossbow and tried to make himself small as the guard's night-vision glasses scanned casually toward the road. He breathed a sigh of relief as the guard continued his boring rounds.

  Zant waited until the man disappeared around the corner of the warehouse, then, taking a bomb in each hand, he slipped out of his now-empty pack and hurried to the building. He had planted and set the first one when there was a sudden flurry of laser bolts and the crackling of blasters far across the landing pad. Lights flared and shouts sounded.

  Suddenly the building's guard came jogging around the corner. He skidded to a stop as he saw Zant, Shouted "Hey!" and started to swing his laser from its slung position.

  With no time, Zant thumbed the bomb's timer and threw it at the guard before spinning and pounding off in a zigzag toward the river. A line of light glared, and a sudden burst of agony flared in his left shoulder. He expected a follow-up shot that would be more accurate, but a sudden boom! and blaze of light behind him relieved some of his fear.

  The explosion would bring others, though. He dropped his crossbow as he pounded across the perimeter road. He needed speed more than armament. There was a vacant area some thirty yards wide between the road and the riverbank, and Zant neither slowed nor looked back for pursuers. Ignoring the searing pain in his upper arm, he simply lowered his head and sprinted for the water.

  He was almost to the water when he realized that he was a hundred yards north of the bridge. The river's current was going to
take him directly beneath a bridge that was certain to be crawling with soldiers by this time.

  The dun-colored mountain man's garb he was wearing would help, as would the waterproof color he'd smeared on his face. Still, the soldiers on the bridge would be alert, and would be looking for swimmers.

  He paused on the riverbank, and quickly scanned for twigs, leaves and small branches, particularly dead ones. Conscious of every second and with a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, where he expected a laser or blaster bolt at any second, Zant hastily wove a rough pad of branches and twigs about a foot in diameter. After risking a quick scan of the area, he took off his night-vision glasses and slowly lowered himself over the six-foot bank and into the cold water.

  The Great River was just that. Jumbo's light gravity had permitted the waterway to widen over its entire length. The colonists had built their bridge at the narrowest part near the Cursed Lands, but even here, it was several hundred meters wide, though slow flowing and turgid. Zant lowered himself into the water inch by inch, trying desperately to avoid making even the smallest splash. Finally, he was all in, and was relieved to find that the twig bunch floated high, as he'd hoped. He flattened himself into the water face up, using two fingers to hold the twig pad directly over his face.

  He hugged the bank as he allowed himself to float noiselessly with the current, using only small hand movements to keep himself on course. He hoped that those looking over the edge of the bridge would simply see a tangle of vegetation drifting downriver instead of a swimmer in a desperate bid for freedom. It was far from ideal, but it was the best he could do. If he was spotted, he was dead. It was that simple.

  At first, the weight of his sodden clothing tended to pull his face beneath the surface. He fumbled around and released his weapons harness, hoping the extra buoyancy would let him keep his nose and mouth above water while the wet clothing kept his body out of sight. It seemed to work. He now had no trouble breathing, and he could still occasionally feel his boot heels drag lightly on the river bottom.

  He guessed he was still ten yards from the bridge when flashes of light began to lighten Jumbo's moonless gloom. Zant couldn't really hear the explosions. His ears were beneath the water. Only his nose and chin were in air. All he could hear was a vague rumble.

  But he'd have been smiling if he could. The number of flashes and the flickering light of fires told him they had at least hurt the General. He'd have to wait for orbital high-res photos and vids to know how much. Assuming he was able to stay alive long enough to view them. With any luck, he thought, the explosions would divert the attention of the soldiers on the bridge, and the blinding glare in their night vision glasses would let him slip past.

  The hardest part, he decided, was suppressing the urge to raise his head, to gauge his progress and to check for soldiers. He continued to force himself to stillness.

  It was the fires that let him suddenly realize that he was under the bridge; the sudden increase in the darkness almost made him smile. He had passed the upstream side without being detected! The downstream side, while probably having its own watchers, should be easier. The shadow of the bridge against the brightness of the explosions and fires would probably cover him long enough for the pad of twigs to fade into Jumbo's inky night.

  It worked, or at least something did, but Zant took no chances. He counted off an extra ten minutes in his head before straightening in the waist-deep water. He closed his eyes and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  He considered his situation. He realized that this side of the river bordered the Giant Forest. He could probably emerge from the river and follow the riverbank until he reached the fishing village, some five miles south of the colony. Or, he could emerge and try to hide in the underbrush until morning, or stumble into the forest itself, hoping the hunters would find him before the rainbow cats. Finally, he could stay in the water and swim/drift downstream. He was completely unarmed after dumping his weapons harness; it had contained even his knife. Swimming the wide river to the more open western side would be difficult and futile; he would be on the opposite side of the river from the fishing village.

  He knew little of the forest predators except that there were a lot of them and they didn't fear man much, but he knew even less about river predators.

  He hoped desperately that what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and resumed his downstream drift. This time, though, he could see, though the inky blackness of Jumbo rendered the value of that sense useless. Still, there was comfort in at last having his whole head above water, and his eyes and moving hands to his front.

  It seemed many hours before he realized that he could dimly make out the riverbank, and he greeted the oncoming dawn with a relieved grin. He struggled to the bank and pulled himself from the river. Then he sat patiently with crossed legs until the sun rose and day arrived.

  The two ruts that were the road to the fishing village were only a few feet away. This led him to wonder whether he had passed the road between Ham's Town and the hunters' village. Of course, he didn't remember seeing the crude wooden bridge that spanned the river, but in the depth of Jumbo's night he wouldn't have seen it if he'd bumped into it.

  Zant's spirits climbed. Now he could see, and had a road to follow. Whether it led to the road or to the fishing village really didn't matter. Either way, he could get a message to the hunters and through them to Cale. Ignoring the cold clamminess of his soaked clothing, he set off briskly, whistling.

  Two hours later his path crossed the sketchy road that led to the hunters' camp. Wearing a broad grin, he turned left toward rescue.

  ********

  Colonel-General Ochoa-Mariden, Santiago Army, retired, surveyed the stack of damage reports with a mix of alarm, fury and despair. His great plan for the accelerated development of Jumbo was in ruins, and it was all the fault of that blasted Rankin!

  He'd lost the only real artillery he'd been able to afford to buy, that big disruptor. He'd been counting on that to break the discipline of the massed army he'd expected to face. And his flitter was a burned-out hulk, with not even enough salvageable parts to rebuild his other shot-up hulk. The last of his eyes-in-the-sky had been taken from him. Only the ultracoms gave him a tactical advantage over the locals now; and that was a very limited advantage. If he couldn't see the blasted battle, having ultracoms to issue orders was little comfort.

  The heavy lasers were gone, too, but they had been mostly psychological weapons anyway. They used up power cells so fast that they barely paid their way when he could recharge the cells; now that Rankin and his people had cut off the powersat, the heavy lasers were almost a liability. Still, it hurt to lose weapons whose searing lines of light the locals considered magic.

  It seemed that those had been the main targets of the commando raid. Ochoa-Mariden admitted a grudging admiration for Rankin and Jenfu. The raid had been well-planned, and very well executed, for a bunch of leather-clad woodsrunners. And they hadn't stopped with the three main targets. They'd planted several dozen bombs and booby traps to sow confusion and permit the commando to escape. He'd lost over a dozen men, including four officers.

  His men had killed six of the attackers, but he was under no illusion that they'd got them all.

  He glanced down at the crossbow one of them had been carrying. It was a sweet little design. Spec Ops troops used quite a few nonstandard and low-tech weapons, crossbows among them. But these didn't have the cumbersome bow; they could be easily operated while prone. They also permitted lightning-fast repeat shots, another feature the common design lacked. Oh, they used power packs, of course, but each pack would obviously be good for hundreds of shots, instead of the eight of a laser and twelve of a blaster.

  He'd also examined one of the snipers' rifles a few weeks ago. Another imaginative design, well suited to Jumbo's limited capabilities. Whoever was designing Rankin's weapons, the General decided, should have been working for him!

  He slammed a fist down on the table that replaced his des
k. He should have been in complete control of the inhabited portion of Jumbo by now, and well on the way to pacifying the nomads. Instead he had lost almost half his force; the six leather-clad bodies outside were no consolation.

  His hundred and sixty-three men were no longer enough to execute the plan. Most of his strength would be required just to maintain control here, and protect the colony from the nomads.

  But he couldn't afford to just sit on his butt, either. Those sheol-damned snipers were slowly but surely bleeding him dry. He'd quickly reach a tipping point where he could no longer control Nirvana and Gorby as well as New Home. He'd have to pull his forces back to New Home and fort up. But that wouldn't work, either. With hostile nomads on one side and hostile kings on the other, there was only one inevitable outcome, for his troops and for the colony they'd sworn to protect.

  There was one other factor he hated to confront, but must. Spec Ops troops make terrible garrison troops, and even worse prison guards. The number of troops on report for drunk on duty, fighting, and other infractions was climbing dramatically. Very soon he'd start seeing desertions. The only reason they hadn't been a problem yet was Jumbo's low tech level. If the planet had real toilets and real booze instead of just sour beer, he'd have already lost some.

  Ochoa-Mariden was haunted by the feeling he might finally fail in his sworn duty. Oh, of course Santiago had surrendered to Ilocan, but that war was lost in space, not on the ground. He hadn't failed, and neither had his men.

  He'd quickly spotted the threat, though. Ilocan wanted revenge. There was little doubt that wimp Calderon would give in to the Ilocan demand for blood. And the best Santiagan troops on Ilocan had been his. Politicians didn't understand total war; they were always being pushed around by bleeding hearts. So it was obviously only a matter of time before they came for his spec ops command, and he didn't intend to wait around.

  He'd learned about the Greeners by accident, but the timing had been perfect. A new world. A new colony. A new start for the troops that had served so well. He'd retired, and bought into the group. Then he began using his own finances to help his troops buy in. He'd made certain they had sworn a new allegiance to the colony; he was a soldier, not a pirate.