by Steve Perry
The younger fems were likewise dressed.
Among the young were older people, some of them looking as if they’d been outfitted for a Western period vid, some more conservatively.
It was early and not full yet, but maybe sixty people there. No aliens.
It was noisy, loud talk, laughter, glasses and bottles clinking. Music was playing in the background, some off-key singer lamenting the loss of his girlfriend, who had, apparently, left the planet with the singer’s best old buddy . . .
Waiters and waitresses moved through the crowd, delivering or retrieving drinkware, and what looked to be greasy sandwiches and fried vegetables in plastic baskets.
“Just like Ma’s home cooking,” Gunny observed.
“It has a certain rough charm.”
There were a couple of score tables with attached seats, securely bolted in place, and what looked like a slope to the floor that ran to a big, circular drain in the center of the room. She nodded at the drain, which looked as if it had a built-in disposal unit.
“Must make cleanup easier, spilled booze,” Wink said.
“And maybe food and blood,” she said. She had seen its like a dozen times around the galaxy. Great minds and all . . .
“That, too.”
Gunny and Wink were in civilian dress, guns and blades tucked discreetly away, and they made their way to a two-person table toward the rear exit.
They sat. A couple of minutes later, a waiter appeared. “How do you do, folks, what can I get you?”
In the local accent, it came out: Howdy, fokes, whutcannagitchu?
“What’s the house brew on tap?” Wink asked.
“Lone Star.”
“We’ll have two of those.”
The waiter left.
“Lone Star?” she said.
“How bad could it be?”
The waiter came back a few minutes later and put two plastic steins on the table. “Five noodle,” he said.
Wink handed him a ten coin. “Keep it.”
“Thanks.” He hurried off.
“Aren’t you the generous soul.”
“Hey, man is getting a nice tip, maybe he won’t spit in our beer because we aren’t locals.”
Gunny sipped the brew. It was cold. Past that? “Well, this answers the question how bad could it be,” she said.
“You’ve had worse.”
“Not lately.”
They sipped at their beers, listened to the music, watched the locals move and interact.
“Look at the size of the hat on that one.”
“That’s a sombrero.”
“What’s that mean?”
“‘Shade,’ Ah think.”
“I can see why.”
A couple of fights started to crank up, but there were a trio of big bouncers who appeared quickly to quell them. It was still early, not enough really drunk or stoned patrons to get really raucous. Yet . . .
A big, florid man dressed in his cowboy weeds and a big gray hat came over to the table and grinned down drunkenly at Gunny.
“Hey, there, little darlin’, let me buy you a drink?
Gunny smiled. “Ah have one, thank you.”
“Well, then, why don’t you bring it over to my table and set a spell.”
Gunny looked at Wink. He shrugged. “Sounds kind of like your people, Gunny.”
“Thanks, but Ah’m comfortable right here.”
“I’d offer you my seat,” Wink said, “but I’m not sure there’s room here for that buckle. Of course, I guess the waiter could use it as a tray or something.”
Gunny stared at him. “Ah knew this was a mistake.”
The barroom cowboy’s brain was pretty fogged by whatever he had been drinking or smoking, but something in Wink’s tone must have seeped through.
“Say what there, pardner?”
“Oh, sorry, I was just remarking on what a fine-looking belt buckle you have.”
The cowboy grinned. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Ah won first place on the mechbull at Salty’s last year.”
“What did the guy who came in second get? Two buckles?”
“No, he didn’t get—are you fuckin’ with me, son?”
“Well, no, you’re not really my type. Not hers, either.”
The cowboy looked at Gunny. “That right, darlin’? You’d rather be with this micro-dick than a real man?”
“Got your number, doesn’t he?” Gunny said. She smiled at Wink. “Micro-dick. M.D.”
“Why don’t you just run on back to punch your cows or whatever, ‘pardner.’ My friend and I are trying to enjoy our beer. Though that’s a lost cause with this snake pee.”
“You insultin’ Lone Star?! You outland asshole—!”
He drew back his fist for a punch—
Wink grinned and came up. He got in one good punch before the bouncers arrived, but that was enough to set the cowboy back on his heels. When he recovered enough to charge back in, Gunny stuck her foot out and tripped him, so he sprawled into the first bouncer and sent them both to the floor.
The second and third bouncers were not amused, and apparently, neither were the cowboy’s friends; several of them came out of their seats and headed for Gunny and Wink.
“Time to go, Doctor Fool.”
“So soon? I’m just getting warmed up.”
“You aren’t that good bare-handed, and if we pull hardware, we’ll get cooked; half the people in here are carrying. Out, now!”
Wink headed for the door in a hurry, Gunny right behind him. The bouncers cut off pursuit.
“Got to go, folks,” Wink said. “Maybe we can stay longer next time.”
“Ain’t gonna be no next time, Wink, you lyin’ asshole.”
“Thanks for your support,” he said. “You know I feel better.”
She grinned. That was true . . .
– – – – – –
The days passed, and as they often did just before the action began, the time moved quicker as it approached.
Of a moment, it was only seventy-two hours out, and Rags called a staff meeting.
The stink of the ferrofoam, that hot-gun-lube odor, had faded some, but it was still obvious to Jo. Something you got used to when you lived and worked in such structures a big part of your life. Part of the military experience, the sights, sounds, smells. They faded and became the background.
Rags said, “Okay, let’s have it.”
Jo started. “We have completed our ranges, updated our maps, and interfaced with General Wood’s staff. What we know, they know. Our gear is clean and ready, our troops are getting enough practice to stay sharp but not too tired. Come the fire, we are ready to cook.”
He nodded. “Gramps?”
“Well, there is a new development, just in. I’m not sure what it means on the face of it, but my sense is that it means something we need to explore.”
They all looked at him.
“What do you know about the Bax?”
Jo shrugged. “Probably what most people know. An intelligent species from an E2 world off a G-class, out the Orion Arm. Achieved N-spaceflight nearly a thousand years before we did, colonized a couple of stellar systems. Not particularly warlike, they do a lot of trade around the galaxy. Don’t know any personally, but I’ve seen a couple here and there. I think they look like upright red wolves with more muscle and less hair. Why?”
Gunny said, “Where is this going?”
The older man said, “I sicced our C-AI folk into GalaxCorp’s Legal Entities.”
Jo looked at Rags. “Wow. You let him do that?”
“Sometimes you have to spend the money,” Rags said.
“That’s not what you tell me.”
Rags shrugged. “He does the banking. He’d just do it anyhow. I’m surrounded by liars
and cheats who take advantage of my good nature.”
That got laughs.
“So what are we talkin’ about again?” Gunny asked.
Gramps said, “I’ll spare you the endless detail, fascinating as it is, the kind of questions they have to ask to properly narrow the search, the circular shell corporations and cutouts, but the bottom line is, there is an 87.6 percent chance, according to the C-AI runner, that UMex and thus Dycon LTD, are working for the Bax.”
That gave everybody pause.
Jo got to it first: “The Bax? Why? What would the loopies want with water rights on Earth?”
“I haven’t gotten that part yet,” Gramps said.
Gunny said, “The other side is working for aliens. Don’t that beat all?”
“Actually, no,” Gramps said. “It doesn’t beat all. Because our C-AI runners are passing diligent as long as you keep paying ’em, and I let them run for a while, there’s something even more interesting.”
He waited, a dramatic pause.
“You gonna tell us or just sit there grinning that shit-eating grin?”
“According to the AI, there is a 84.4 percent chance that we are working for the Bax, too.”
That shut everybody up for a few seconds; then they all started to talk at once.
– – – – – –
Cutter calmed everybody down. Gramps had given him this intel only an hour ago, and while it was odd on the face of it, it didn’t seem to have any direct effect on what they were doing here.
Probably.
Maybe.
Gunny said, “Not like there’s any shortage of water in the galaxy, nor that the Tejano version is any better than anything you can make at home with a couple of gases and a spark. What are they gonna do? Pipe it onto ships and haul it off? Doesn’t make sense.”
“Something we might ought to figure out,” Cutter said.
There weren’t any dullards here. Wink picked it up: “Whatever their reason, they want it really bad. Because no matter which side wins, they win.”
Jo said, “Maybe not. Maybe it’s two different factions of Bax at odds with each other.”
“And you say this because . . . ?” Wink said.
“Dhama’s attempted bribe. Why would he do that if we are both working for the same people? They get the rights no matter what.”
“Misdirection?”
Jo looked at Wink. “Seven million noodle on the off chance that we’d have somebody good enough to figure it out? No. In that case, it would be a complete waste. Makes more sense that it’s two different sets. Likely the same reason, but competitors.”
“Bax,” Cutter said. “Trying to get property on Earth. That would contravene the ASA.”
“My education is lacking,” Wink said, “I thought ASA was the medical abbreviation for acetylsalicylic acid.”
“The Alien Species Act,” Gramps said, “a provision of which forbids members of intelligent species other than humans to purchase or own real estate properties on Earth, Luna, or Mars.”
“Really?”
“Technically. There are some who have sneaked around the clause and used beards to buy parcels here and there, but if they get caught, it gets confiscated, there are huge fines, and somebody goes to prison. Several of the more intelligent sentients would apparently love to have access to Terran land.”
“How come?”
Gramps looked at Gunny. “Back in the prespace days, when there were still more discrete countries than multinationals, one country would often buy property in another, for political, social, or financial reasons. Species that value property still do that. There are human landowners on other worlds.”
“None known on Vast,” Kay said.
“Death penalty?” Jo asked.
Kay nodded. “Just so.”
“Maybe the loopies want to influence local politicians to vote for things that favor them in trade. Maybe they want a place where they can seduce our women—or men—drink the local wine, pee on the ground. Maybe just to be able to point at it and brag to their friends? Who knows why aliens want what they want? Who knows why anybody wants what they want?” Gramps said.
“Ain’t you ever the long-winded philosopher.”
Cutter said, “I don’t want us to have any part of this, but we are on the ground, and if we just report it and walk away, that maybe doesn’t fix things enough. General Wood knows what we know, and she has people who will pursue it, too.”
“You think they know about each other? The Bax?”
“I would not be surprised.”
Cutter thought, Well. One more variable to be taken into account . . .
Gunny said, “Well, sheeit. So much for having a nice, plain shooting war on our plate. Ah hate all this fuckin’ intrigue.”
Jo said, “Knowledge is power.”
“And ignorance is bliss,” Wink said. “Except if it might get you killed.”
NINE
War Day arrived:
“HOSTILITIES WILL COMMENCE IN TEN SECONDS,” the Monitor broadcast announced.
Jo, leading her team, looked around as the Monitors did the countdown:
“FIVE . . . FOUR . . . THREE . . . TWO . . . ONE . . .”
The oogah horn sounded.
“Okay, the war is hot, people, asses and elbows!”
The cart accelerated, rolled past the Monitors stationed on the road.
One of the Monitors behind her camera waved.
Jo shook her head.
The entrances to the battle sites had been divided into two 180-degree sectors, and those randomly assigned. Neither side offered any overwhelming tactical advantage, but their assignment put them almost a kilometer closer to their destination, and since it was the only high ground in the area—such that it was—and it overlooked two of the main roads in and out, they needed to get to it first and occupy it.
Easier to protect your people on the flats if you had the high ground.
“High ground” in this case was something of a reach; this was mostly dead-level terrain, some river and lakes. Save for the planted forests of the mineral-laden cypress trees and some fast-growing black cottonwood pulp-crop plantations, it was nearly all scrub, with scraggly bushes and grasses. Once upon a time, this had been territory primarily farmed with cotton, corn, wheat, and the raising of bovines. They still grew a lot of grain, not so many cattle.
Their destination was not a natural rise, but a man-made trio of hills, constructed from excavations that made a reservoir nearby. A hundred years ago, they had dug a big hole and piled up the dirt. The elevation of the tallest hillock was only 150 meters; the other two were slightly lower. The newly created real estate had quickly sprouted some expensive houses, but during the Mutant Plague Years late in the previous century, the rich people who owned those houses had somehow suffered infection worse than the poorer folks around them. The houses were, according to local superstition, cursed, and while some of the structures were still there and more or less intact, home to a few squatters, the enclave had become mostly a ghost town.
The squatters had been kicked out for the duration of the war.
The name of the fake mountains was ironic: Montoncillo de Habas. Which meant, more or less, according to Gramps, “Hill of Beans . . .”
Singh drove, having shown a talent for operating small armored vehicles. On the field, nobody trusted the computers to pilot if they didn’t have to do so.
The road was narrow, barely wide enough for two lanes of traffic, though both lanes were one-wayed toward the upcoming action, and the column Jo led was double-stacked and rolling fast. Twelve vehicles, two of them troop carriers, the rest lightly armored, some heavy machine-gun platforms, 10mm-caseless Fraleys, and supply transports.
High ground didn’t mean as much as it once had, given aircraft and satellites, but water still ran do
wnhill. It was harder to ascend than descend, and the ability to eyeball incoming traffic was sometimes critical. One of the first things that happened in combat, even a small war, was that high-tech gear went wonky. Coms failed, sat overflies that could pick out individual troops taking a leak somehow missed a column of tanks, drones developed engine problems. The fog of war obscured everything.
If you looked out over a road and saw infantry marching in your direction with your own eyes, that was probably closer to reality.
“Singh,” Jo began.
“Six minutes, sah.”
Jo activated her opchan. “Gramps, how—”
“Nine minutes before they get there,” Gramps said. “You’ll have all kinds of time to set up and start plinking.”
“Big talk, old man,” Gunny said. She was in the caboose, bringing up the rear. “Takes you three minutes to find the Velcro to untab your fly.”
“Yeah, but then I have overwhelming firepower.”
Jo grinned.
– – – – – –
Kay ran, working her way through the forest. Her com was shut down. Even though it was encrypted, using it would produce a signal that might be detected, and that was more information than she wanted to reveal, and she didn’t need to talk to anybody yet.
Yes, they would know enemy scouts were in the woods, but they might be able to determine some kind of location using field-strength metering, and she didn’t want to give them anything.
The enemy had ATVs, small single- and double-wheelers, a couple of two-person quads, but no GE or hovercraft—the woods were too thick to operate those safely. Kay’s side also had similar vehicles, but she was faster on foot than most of those in a wood this dense.
There was a choke point half a kilometer ahead, a deep stream that would have to be bridged to allow vehicles and troops to move over it quickly. Kay’s assignment was to get there as soon as possible and slow the construction of a crossing until more of her own troops could arrive.
Control of the stream was not likely to win the war, but it was a factor.
The enemy had the advantage in that their entrance to the forest was closer, and they should reach the stream first. Control of the forest might be key since the wells themselves were just past the northern edge. It was not critical for Kay’s army since their plan was to approach from a different angle; however, it seemed that the opposition had elected to work from this venue.
