by Steve Perry
– – – – – –
Jo marked Gunny and Singh as they entered the hotel lobby behind her.
If the period piece they had stepped into bothered Kay, Jo saw no indication of it.
Fascinating what people will spend their money on.
Kay got a few stares as they crossed the lobby to the lift.
Along the way, they heard the whispers nobody knew they could hear:
“Look, Mama, a Vastalimi!”
“I never saw one in person before!”
“Man, that’s an ugly-ass critter! Look at that face!”
Kay ignored the whispers.
They achieved the elevator. Although such things would not have been found in a hotel of the period represented, it being pre–Industrial Revolution, it had been made to match the decor: There were wrought-iron gates that slid back to allow entrance to the elevator cage, a space large enough to hold a score of people. The inside was carpeted, some floral design, with plush red velvet, pleated into a tuck and roll on three of the walls. There was a mirrored ceiling.
A man in colorful livery stood to one side, by a mechanical device, brass and dials, that looked like it belonged on an ancient ship’s wheelhouse. He smiled at them. “Floor?”
“Fiftieth,” Jo said.
The man cranked a lever on the control, and the elevator started to rise. With nothing but ornate bars blocking the entrance, one could see out of, or into, the cage as it passed each floor, and it was moving slowly enough to give good views either way.
A few floors up, a mother and a little girl of maybe three got onto the lift. The child lurched closer before her mother could stop her. She put out a tiny hand to touch Kay’s leg fur.
“Soft!” the little girl said.
Kay smiled at her, an expression that made the mother’s eyes go wide.
“Come here, Darla!”
“She won’t bite,” Jo said, but the mother pressed herself against the elevator’s far wall and got off at the next stop.
Kay waved at the child, who smiled and waved back. “Bye!”
There were a pair of guards in civilian clothes outside the room, but they opened the portal without speaking or asking for weapons. Just as well; Kay’s weapons were biological, and Jo wouldn’t have given up her flat-pack pistol if they’d asked for it, even though she did have a one-shot electrical zapper built in.
Inside, the rep who had called was waiting. He smiled at them.
“Fems, come in, come in! I am Dhama, delighted to meet you!”
There was an almost inaudible hum in the background, something electrical, and the air was overfiltered and lacking any real scent.
Single-name Dhama had the look: tall, well made, handsome. Black hair, a few streaks of gray at the temples, a four-day stubble of beard. He had a firm jaw, perfect teeth, green eyes. Old enough to look as if he knew what to do, young enough to look as if he could do it. He wore a perfectly tailored uniform, understated in gray silk, a holographic Dycon patch over the right breast pocket, his name shimmering over the left pocket. He sported handmade boots of some kind of patterned, mottled leather Jo didn’t recognize. The Willis 4.4mm pistol holstered on his right side had grips of what looked like ivory and rode in a holster that matched the boots.
If he was as good as his clothes, he would be formidable.
According to her radiopathic pickups, her olfactories and otics, he had several augs running, nothing esoteric she could tell.
Right out of an entcom vid casting director’s top choices for a soldier-of-fortune officer; couldn’t miss him.
Jo was not one to put a lot of stock in looks, however, and while Kay could tell the difference between humans visually, she wouldn’t be impressed by anything so superficial, either.
“Fems, this way.”
He turned to lead them down the hall.
Kay subvocalized quietly: “He does not move well.”
Jo responded in the same way: “No. Though he looks as if he should.”
“Bukvan,” Kay said.
Jo didn’t know the term, but before she could ask, Kay continued:
“A preener. We have them on Vast. They make themselves appear better than they are.”
“You just described most of the human race.”
“I am aware of this.”
Jo chuckled.
They arrived at the conference room, a large space with a small oval table and three chairs, no other furniture. Dhama gestured. “Please, sit.”
Kay and Jo sat on opposite sides, to be able to watch each other’s back. Not that such was likely to be necessary, given their hearing if somebody tried to sneak through the walls, but better safe than sorry.
Dhama sat at the head of the table, accompanied by a creak of his holster leather. He leaned back in the chair, affecting a relaxed pose. He smiled but didn’t speak.
We are beings of the galaxy here, ho-hum.
Jo returned the smile and the silence. He had asked for the meeting, let him offer the reason.
After a few seconds, he said, “Well, I’m sure you are wondering why I wanted to speak with you.”
Jo and Kay said nothing, waiting.
His smile faltered just a hair. “We at Dycon Limited seek to represent the best interests of our employers. There are ways, and then there are . . . ways . . .” He gave her another of his shiny smiles.
Jo waited. She knew where this was going; she had done it herself a few times. Wars were expensive. Sometimes a client would make out better by channeling the money into bribes or payoffs to achieve the same results as a battle. For the cost of a few missiles, a key opposition figure might be socially engineered to look the other way at the right moment, or maybe forget to enter a coordinate into a targeting computer. Even Monitors might be influenced though that was tricky. As a result, the bribed could walk away richer, and one’s client would save a lot of money and grief.
“I don’t think we can help you there,” Jo said.
“You haven’t heard what I have to say.”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter.”
“We are prepared to be extremely generous to our friends.”
“Not how we do things at CFI.”
“Never?”
“Not so far.”
“How would three million New Dollars sound?”
“Like a lot of money,” Jo said.
He smiled. “It is.”
A bribe offered without actually offering anything.
“Thank you, but, no.”
“Four million.”
“You have deep pockets.”
“And full ones. My clients want this to go their way.”
“We’ll pass.”
“Six.”
Skipped right over five. Jo stood. “Thanks for the meeting, we appreciate it.”
He looked entirely nonplussed. He frowned. “Seven.”
Probably as much as either side would spend on ammo and then some. “Save your breath. Like I said, that’s not how we do business.”
He stood. The holster and belt creaked again. Some kind of reptile skin, maybe? Lizard? Serpent?
His puzzlement shaded into a controlled, but apparent, anger. “You are making a mistake.”
“Possibly.”
He stepped closer. She could smell his hormones roiling. Yep, definitely pissed off.
Jo stood her ground. She wasn’t worried. He might be augmented so he was stronger, but he wouldn’t be better than Formentara’s tweaks, and he was within reach. He blinked crooked, she would deck him.
Kay came up like hot smoke on a cold winter’s day.
Dhama glanced across the table at her motion.
She gave him a wicked smile though he probably didn’t recognize it as such.
The sight of the Vastalimi
and augmented human warrior focused on him must have finally arrived. Caution kicked in. He edged back a hair.
Which was the smartest thing he had done so far.
“Fems . . .”
“We don’t fault you for seeking to help your clients, M. Dhama, that’s what you are supposed to do, but you have asked, and we have answered, and we are done here.”
She could smell his sweat, which now had a sharper odor than before.
When Jo and Kay entered the elevator, Gunny and Singh joined them. Nobody spoke as the lift descended. It might look like something from a long-past century, but Jo knew the building was modern, and she could feel the surveillance cams looking at them.
They trooped across the lobby, accompanied by raised eyebrows and furtive looks from the staff and patrons of the hotel.
They split up for their separate carts in the parking area.
Back in the roller, Kay said, “He thought we would accept his offer. It seemed to surprise him that we did not.”
“That’s a bunch of money, many people would have gone for it. It’s kind of fun to think about what a small fortune can do, a nice fantasy, but that’s all it is.”
“It would not be honorable to deal with such a person,” Kay said.
“Nope.”
Kay was silent.
Jo said, “What?”
“I am reminded now and again of something Em said recently: that we chose the right group of humans to associate ourselves with.”
“Yeah, I suppose we could have done worse on the Vastalimi front, too.”
Kay whickered.
– – – – – –
The warmth of the semitropical afternoon lay over the camp like a damp blanket. The ferrofoam stink from the buildings was something you tended to tune out after a while, but you noticed it after you were gone and came back. It would fade away eventually, but they wouldn’t be here long enough for that to happen.
As Cutter got to the HQ, Gramps stood in the doorway, looking grim.
“What?” Cutter asked.
“Commanding general of the local GU Army sector wants to see you.”
“Not a real surprise. Why the face?”
“It’s Junior Allen.”
“Oh, fuck,” Cutter said.
“My feeling exactly.”
– – – – – –
Sixteen of the thirty largely-human-settled planets and twenty-eight major wheelworlds scattered across a thousand light-years of space still remained at least partially outside the GU’s control.
Morandan, in the Meyer System, was one of these.
Morandan was where the revolution had gotten to its ugliest. It was the world where eight thousand civilians had been slaughtered due to incompetence and arrogance and the offhand banality of careless evil.
They really hated the GU on Morandan. It was one of the most dangerous postings you could get, as a soldier or an ambassador. Assassinations were ongoing and frequent.
Here was one of the main reasons for that hatred.
The man sat behind a desk made of rare and terribly expensive endangered Brazilian Rosewood; he wore a shit-eating grin. He was the man responsible for the deaths of those eight thousand civilians on Morandan—as well as the end of Cutter’s career in the GU military.
Major General John D. Allen II.
Cutter had taken the fall because Allen was smart enough to rig that much. CMA was in the man’s soul; he always covered his ass first, before he did anything else.
Cutter’s DGF unit had been there, and it was take the bullet or let them take it, and Allen had known how that would go. Cutter protected his troops at whatever personal cost, and while Allen wasn’t particularly smart, he was sly. He knew.
If you reveal a handle to some people, they will grab and use it.
It was complicated. Politics had to be served. The military powers that were had their hands tied. Cutter had enough friends among them so that he wasn’t court-martialed, he was allowed to retire. Those who knew the truth couldn’t go directly at Allen for the atrocity, but he hadn’t escaped entirely. He never got the third star; he was overranked for running a minor post on a world where he would have no chance to do any real damage, and, no doubt, being monitored, to be sure he didn’t get into trouble.
And yet, Allen was still in the Army, still able to draw active-duty pay, still looked like a cat full of cream and canary with his two stars.
Cutter knew that real-time justice was out of the mix. He hoped that karma might still operate.
Not that he ever expected to see the man again, but he had considered this moment theoretically now and again for years. He had thought about killing him. Hand-to-hand, with the satisfying feel of fist on flesh, a beatdown ending in a boot to the throat, maybe a broken neck.
He had considered a long-range shot, a klick or two away, single sniper’s round to the head or heart. It had been long enough so he wouldn’t be at the top of the suspect list though he would have to avoid being seen. If authorities knew he was on the same planet as Allen, they would want to speak to him.
He had thought about it. Mostly, after the fantasies, he had let it go. It was done, history, no point in bumping into the furniture while looking back over your shoulder. Mostly he had let it go, but not entirely. The man who had gotten away with mass murder by blackmailing Cutter into taking the heat was right here in front of him, and even a saint would have trouble smiling and forgiving.
Cutter wasn’t anybody’s candidate for saint.
A lot of choices presented themselves: Allen’s father had been a four-star general, a rank his son would never achieve. It was a small barb, but the man’s ego was such that it would sting.
“Hello, Junior.”
The smile vanished, and rage danced briefly over Junior Allen’s face.
Cutter’s own smile arose.
“Just so you know: If you spit crooked, you’re going away,” Junior said. “You will have more eyes on your operation than a swarm of horseflies on scat. Anything, anything at all, give me a reason.”
“Not a problem, Junior. I know you’re behind me this time. I’ll watch my back.”
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
As he walked away, Cutter felt only a little better. Dinging the man’s ego was nothing compared to what he had done. Nothing Cutter could possibly do would compare. It was still hard to think about, after all the years since.
Hard, but unavoidable.
– – – – – –
Cutter’s Detached wasn’t within two klicks when the shooting started though the official records were altered to show they were on-site. That they had pulled the first triggers. He had heard the noise, but it was distant, and by the time he’d sorted out the reports and sped to the site, it was far too late.
He looked at the vids, and they were gruesome.
Amazing how many people you can kill with full-auto carbine fire and fragmentation grenades when you open up on a plaza full of demonstrators.
Average-density-event-space put the crowd at ninety thousand, mostly human, men, women, children. Some were armed, but a scattering of hidden sidearms didn’t matter, wouldn’t have mattered if there had been ten times the hardware in the plaza. Anybody who tried to shoot back would have bounced non-AP bullets off military-grade armor.
It was an out-and-out slaughter.
– – – – – –
—sound was a mix of gunfire mostly overridden by screams of terror as the crowd mind realized it was trapped. The main opening between the buildings at the entrance to Strout Plaza was essentially a funnel, and no more than thirty people wide. The designers had never envisioned the possibility of what happened. Those in front couldn’t move fast enough for those being shot at the rear. The stampede turned into a cru
sh, tight enough so people were carried along. To fall was to die underfoot, and dozens perished that way—
—the shooters never appeared on cam. How anybody could not see that as unbelievable seemed impossible. There was the constant chatter of full auto, punctuated by the odd grenade. It was like shooting animals trapped in a pen—
—Cutter was a soldier, he had seen soldiers die, he had killed more than a few himself, but this was stomach-churning to watch. He had to watch it, he couldn’t not, but still. How had those troops kept it up? What was it in them that made them keep firing, keep replacing spent magazines, when there was no threat? Had it been spontaneous? Had somebody given an order? Shoot until you run dry?
Until they are all dead?
Man’s inhumanity to man was made manifest.
Eventually, it stopped. It lasted nine minutes and forty-three seconds.
In the course of nine minutes and forty-three seconds of sustained action, eight thousand people were killed. Most died by bullets or grenade, some by being trampled. Some died of density suffocation. Some from organ injury, people pushed together so violently that they were crushed. Some suffered heart attacks, some probably perished from outright terror.
Twelve thousand more sustained wounds, some of which involved amputations, shattered bones, torn flesh.
To watch was to weep.
– – – – – –
Martial law clamped hard and fast. News media were shut down, cameras and recorders confiscated, spindocs came up with stories. There was no way to hide what had been done, too many people had been there, and too many cams escaped the roundup.
How it was spun:
It was the mob’s fault, they attacked the military, but the Army admittedly had overreacted a bit, and those responsible had been disciplined. Because there was a war on, details were necessarily kept secret . . . and in the end, Cutter’s was the only senior officer’s head to roll. His not so much because the uplevels knew he wasn’t really the guy, but, well, that’s how it goes. Somebody had to take the hit. No hard feelings.
Right. No hard feelings after all the years of loyal service . . .
Well, done was done, and he had managed to build CFI into something of which he was proud. But it still rankled that he had gotten blindsided that way. He’d known how Junior operated; he should have prepared himself better . . .
