Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 4

by Eric Flint

  The Scout stood with Station Chief Thurton some distance from the weeping girl, his face half-averted, as if he, too, wished to grant her seclusion. Dr. Boylan, the planetologist, stood at the intern's side, apparently taking the part of kin.

  She looked up as Brunner approached, face grim.

  "Ah, here you are, Weatherman. Estrava," she said, carefully touching the intern's shoulder, "was following up on my request for drift correction. We've been using the dome of the Governor's Hall as a target, it being gold-plated and reflective in a number of useful frequencies." She took a hard breath and nodded at the screen. "We need you to confirm a disaster."

  The monitor she indicated displayed a looping series of images, first in false-color infrared mode, then in visible wavelengths. It repeated: an area of relatively lush valley giving way to random buildings, then to an actual urban conglomeration dominated by a bright-lit structure all out of proportion to the rest. Suddenly smoke—or possibly fog—intruded, deepening from a vague white mist to a frothy greenish mass, drifting down from the hillsides, filling the valley and the town until only the top of the building remained visible. The image cut back to infrared . . .

  "An unusual flow," Brunner said slowly. "It seemed very dense. Were this some backworld I would say smog. But this is Klamath, after all; fluke winds might conceivably have trapped a sulfur exhalation and created such a fog."

  "Not fog," the intern moaned, half-bent over the counter, like a bird favoring a broken wing. "Not fog. Not fog."

  Brunner turned to her, keeping his face politely neutral, which was the least he could do for her distress. He'd had little enough to do with Estrava, the planetologist having laid claim to the bulk of her hours, and she nervous of Liadens in any case.

  "It's not fog," she said shrilly, straightening to stare directly into his eyes. "Look at it! The spectrum is wrong, the flow is wrong . . . people are dying!"

  Brunner looked as directed, frowning at the lack of definition.

  "What have we, then?" he asked the room at large, stepping forward, his fingers already on the fine controls.

  It was the Scout who answered.

  "Death," he said, his voice neutral to the point of aggression. He bowed, firmly, a bow of duty required.

  "As we need to know for certain, Ichliad Brunner. First, please confirm that what we see here is a poison gas. If this is the case we will wish to know of its dispersal range, potential mixing, and to track it if we might . . ."

  "Scout, this station is to remain neutral!" The station chief gestured with his hands, not with sense as the pilots might, but conveying urgency nonetheless. "The treaty requires that we not interfere."

  "I require information!" the Scout interrupted. "Your station is here at my whim, Chief Thurton."

  "I think Phaetera might have something to say to that, sir!" the chief snapped.

  Brunner turned from the monitor and raised his hands, one to each combatant, seeking instruction.

  Chief Thurton drew a hard breath, turned his back on the Scout, and walked away.

  "Do as he says, Brunner. You'll give me a full report of all actions you perform for this man, and we will both sign a statement that you act under duress, as I do."

  Brunner bowed at the retreating back.

  "And these coordinates," he said to the helpful room, "do I have them?"

  "In the south," the intern whispered. "Chilonga Center."

  * * *

  On civilized worlds, among civilized people, disasters are accidents or acts of nature; they are not premeditated.

  In such times, a meteorologist's declaration of disaster insures the issue of world-wide warnings and unleashes a gathering of willing assistance. Emergency plans bring together medical teams, rescue teams, housing teams . . .

  Klamath hung below the station, uncaring, uncivilized.

  Still, it was his necessity as meteorologist to confirm and declare the wind-borne poisons, the act of intentional war, a disaster.

  Perhaps someone would be listening, and thus be warned and saved.

  So his thoughts went, and he recorded the thing, and set thumb to it.

  The Scout bowed.

  "A disaster declared, I hereby interdict and quarantine Klamath as a hazard to space travelers."

  Brunner stared at the Scout.

  "You cannot," he said, hearing the protest as if it was spoken by someone else.

  "I can and I do," the Scout responded, weariness and sorrow apparent on a worn face. "Believe I do it lightly if you must."

  Brunner brushed the words aside. They were alone in his lab and had been for several hours. Brunner had backtracked the flow; the Scout, on an auxiliary machine, had taken to himself the tedious task of identifying the chemicals by their spectrographic signatures and dispersal fugacity.

  "The mercenaries," Brunner said now, arguing, gods, with a Scout! "The off-world techs serving the Chilongan government. The natives who have filed for immigration . . ."

  The Scout slid off the stool and bowed the bow of accepting necessary burdens.

  "I must," he said, and waved unsteadily at the microphone.

  "Tell the girl—you see? I take that burden, as well. Tell her, then get some sleep, comrade. You will be needed at your board soon enough."

  * * *

  "Quarantined," Brunner said into microphone, taking especial care with his pronunciation of the Terran.

  "I repeat, the Scout has interdicted Klamath, and placed it under quarantine." He took a breath, knowing his words were potentially recorded in records besides that of the Stubbs unit.

  "Poison gas has been deployed against civilian targets in contravention of general usage of warfare."

  The planetologist's equipment was powerful enough to allow him to see bodies lying on the streets, to see fires burning in the city, to watch Klamath's fickle winds sweeping the vapors out of the city in a strong flow to the south.

  Not one, but three aerosol dispersants had been loosed upon Chilonga Center. The first sank rapidly, displacing oxygen, and suffocating some quickly. The second gas, more mistlike, hovered and flowed in every breeze, torturing the lungs and eyes of any who survived, eating at their skins. The third hung higher, and featured a potential late-stage crystallization so that it might precipitate and leave a residue of skin-dangerous toxics.

  Cursing the winds under his breath, he had checked the Stubbs' last reported location, all but weeping when he found it east to northeast of Chilonga Center. Miri Robertson, Corporal Redhead—the winds blew past her. In a planetary day, perhaps two, the chemicals would have dispersed entirely, and what was left of the city could be entered.

  All of this he told the Stubbs, remote and unreachable, and when he was finished, he whispered, "Please acknowledge."

  There was no reply. He told himself that it was the middle of her night; that her pattern was to report in the evenings, and sometimes very early in the morning. He told himself that she was safe, well away from the destruction in the city; that she would call, if she had need of him.

  He kept the line open anyway, the microphone clipped to his shirt, the Stubbs' uplink window open in the corner of his work screen.

  In the meanwhile he started literature searches: toxic flows, aerosol dispersal, plume pollutants, plume tracking, micro-climactic poison control, history of planetary quarantines and interdictions, general usage of warfare, strategic poison, tactical toxics, history of Terran Mercenary Units.

  The histories held an uncomfortable number of references to merc units being lost without record. He put them aside for later reading and turned his attention to those things he might do that would increase the chances of one particular mercenary unit surviving its odds.

  * * *

  His work was twice interrupted by crew looking for updated information for the on-going betting. He dealt with them—not as they deserved—locked the door, disabled the bell and returned to the literature. Eventually, he found a treatise specifically on defensive meteorology and the tra
cking of dangerous atmospherics. In the information about aerosols there were unpleasant images, but also some useful approximations he could add to the station's regular monitoring.

  He might even be able to—but motion distracted him, and then sounds.

  Information was flowing from the Stubbs to his monitor; from the speaker came sharp cracking sounds, then—

  "You there, Brunner?"

  He touched the microphone. "Here, galandaria."

  "Good! Hey, nothing like a little gunfire to get you focused, right?" Despite the cheery phrasing, she sounded . . . breathless. Worn. Brunner frowned, closing his eyes so that he might hear her better.

  "Yeah, that was bad, what happened in the city. We lost a couple of ours in the hospital over there. I—not the way I'd wanna go, y'know? Anyhow, business—Liz wants to know what that means if we get a recall, that quarantine. She sent it upline to our employer but no answer yet. Got anything you can tell me? Before I forget—this Stubbs? It's great! Got some dings in it but it took a couple for me and bounced 'em right out. Pretty open here, don't think Liz is gonna keep us—Right. Gotta go. I'm glad you was there. Out."

  She was gone, pushed by her necessities, and he had not even said—What? he asked himself. Go carefully? Be alert? Don't breathe tainted air?

  Perhaps he should have demanded a fuller accounting of the damage to the Stubbs—but to what end? A glance at the screen told him that the self-test had registered no warnings, so the station's unit must be intact. Unlike Redhead's unit, which had "lost a couple of ours . . ."

  As to Commander Lizardi's query—certainly, there was nothing he, caught between the station chief and the Scout, could tell her. Chief Thurton was adamant in neutrality, while the Scout . . . while the Scout played whatever game the Scout was embroiled in.

  What he could do was have available the best possible wind charts, produce the most accurate weather forecast, and not forget that down there were people relying on him. On him!

  * * *

  Liz didn't say a word: just nodded as she went by.

  And what was Liz gonna say anyway, Redhead thought, not much more than half worried. Skel was a Lunatic, she was a Lunatic . . . and . . . and. Damn. She sighed and finished sealing up her uniform.

  She'd drawn first clean-up, and now here was Skel already, washed up himself and holding a cup of coffee out to her like it was a prize. That was nice, she thought. Warming. So she took the cup like it was a prize, grinned at him, and worried a little more.

  There was plenty to worry about, and not just maybe Liz not liking it that she'd partnered up with Skel. Folks had been skittish before word about Klamath being under blanket quarantine had gotten into the general need-to-know pool. Now—hell, Liz was skittish, Skel was skittish, Auifme was downright dangerous, and the liaison the Chilongan government'd given them was scared out of his prayer beads. 'Course, he'd been that way since day one, on account of being stuck all by his lonesome with a buncha Unpious, Outsiders, Orbiteers, Freelovers, and—damn if there wasn't a dozen more not-exactly-appreciative names the man had laid on the Lunatics. Scandal'd said it was a good thing they were on his side, else he'd really be calling in the long guns, which had made the knot of 'em crouched together over quick rations laugh, and the liaison rattle his beads.

  Now Skel, Redhead thought, turning her mind to cheerfuller things, he'd kinda surprised her last night; caught up to her right after she'd tucked the rig in with proper camouflage and getting ready to tuck in herself. Sat his pretty tall self down right there beside where she'd been going over her vitamins to make sure she was up to date and said it right out.

  "Hardly like it's a fancy invite, Redhead, but you know, we get along right well and there ain't no time presently for Liz to approve us a proper Hundred Hours to get all perfumed and slinky and everything."

  She'd blinked at him, not believing, on account of there was an unofficial moratorium on asking Miri since the Grawn brothers had cut each other awhile back about who was going to ask her . . . and she'd have told them both no, anyhow. Sorry about them, sort of; died in that damn hospital the liaison got them sent off to.

  But Skel'd said his piece, pointed out that weren't neither of them on guard schedule, and that he did have coffee, smokes, and stringent cloth too, among other supplies what could clean the sweat off and give them some distance from this land that moved like water and the 'way too many crazy people who were trying to kill them.

  She'd smiled, felt her heart beating faster—and faster again, when he lost a bit of his serious and smiled, too.

  "Hundred Hours is right expensive," she said. "Don't know I could buy in to it . . ."

  He'd laughed, and relaxed some more, like she'd said something right.

  "Oh, hell, I'd pick up the Hundred Hours. I mean, I know what a newer 'cruit's got to worry with, 'spense wise. But like I say, as is, even if we get to town down here ain't none of these folks'll rent us a side-by-side lunch seat much less a big soft room with a big soft bed . . ."

  He'd paused, looking some tentative, and she was sure feeling the same. It was funny, kinda, to see him that way when he could pick up four launch tubes and a long-arm and go wading into battle. She liked Skel fine—always had, and she wouldn't mind . . . but the man had a right to know.

  "Not sure," she said, glancing down at her boots, her uniform slacks, her shirt-front. "Umm . . . Not sure I can give you the best time, see? It'd be learning on the job mostly for me, kinda, not like . . . I mean."

  He didn't say anything but he'd rearranged himself, getting cross-legged, and close enough she could see the scrapes on his boot soles and the slot where he'd been knocked off his feet the other day, the bullet just creasing the shoe. Hell, if the shot had struck true he could have been back there in Chilonga Center with the Grawns.

  "Your call, Miri. We can bunk up here if you want, or I got me a spot with three ways out and some quiet, down in a little hollow. You want, you can just sleep."

  She smiled and realized that she was smiling so low and slow she was laughing, too.

  She looked into his eyes then. Still smiling.

  "Got coffee and stringent, huh?"

  He nodded, just his eyes smiling, and it came to her, forcibly, that she didn't want to sleep all alone, with just the weather machine to wake up to.

  She stood up and stretched, as much like a cat as she could, before reaching a hand down to him.

  "Let's see who snores first."

  * * *

  "'Morning." Robertson's voice was softer than usual. Brunner touched the volume control, increasing the gain slightly. "Smokey down here," she murmured. "Been that way the last three days; getting worse, seems like . . ."

  On the station, Brunner nodded, and carefully did not sigh.

  "There are large fires burning in the grain belts on both the major continents," he told her, keeping his voice merely informative. She had no need, after all, to carry the burden of his anger. Idiots, fools, and—but, no. That was for later. Now, there was there were other necessities to be served.

  "Some of the forests also seem to have been set on fire. I see plumes all over the planet from installations and communities that have been . . . set afire."

  "Yeah, they asked us to start burning things awhile back. Ain't in our job description. Seems they got some kind of fetish 'bout fire cleaning things up—you know, purifying."

  Robertson coughed; Brunner pushed a button to download a satellite image to the Stubbs' screen.

  "Your location is the blinking green dot," he said. "The other green dots are your most recent report points. The valley directly ahead is very smoky—you can see that there are four distinct plumes which then merge. . . I believe that all of the major communities in your area have burned or are burning; certainly the crop fields have burnt."

  A pause, broken by her sigh.

  "Guess we won't capture much there. We was supposed to be moving on one of them towns to meet . . . well . . ."

  He thumbed the plate, wai
ted.

  "Huh. What's this about winter? It got pretty cool last night, even for a girl from Surebleak. I'd have had damn frosty toes without help . . . Hey! That looks ugly as all get out!"

  She was multi-threading, though there was scarcely need—or maybe, he thought, there was. Who knew how long she had until the order came to move? Threading was an efficient way to share information.

  So. "Winter does come," he said, picking up each thread in turn. "A very strong winter on much of the planet, according to the records. The snowcaps triple in size at the poles. But there are still eighty to one hundred planet days until that is a concern for you. Yes, it is ugly. Easily one hundred and fifty major fires in both hemispheres; on the plains up north there is effectively a single fire half the width of the continent."