Before becoming a Marine, Rizer might have run at the mere sight of this deadly duo. They didn’t frighten him now; nevertheless he had no desire to deal with them.
The bald merc strode forth with a slight limp that did not slow his movement. He carried an M-17, with a magnum-sized drum of a hundred fifty rounds, lightly in his fingers. Concussion grenades hung like grape clusters from his load-bearing vest. DICK read the nametag over his badge. How many men have made fun of his name and lived?
“Afternoon, devil dog,” said Dick, who flashed him a rakish grin. “How’s the local suck gig today?”
“About usual, I guess,” Rizer replied.
“Raise your visor, son, I like to see who I’m talkin’ to.”
Why are you talking to me at all? Dick was obviously a merc commander. Rizer went ahead and raised his visor. No sense pissing him off. He still wasn’t about to fall for Dick’s nice-guy posturing.
The skull-capped swordsman, SAWYER, showed up. He scrutinized Rizer with one fox-colored eye and his jet-black prosthetic, then scowled and shook his head. “Is this what passes for a Marine these days? Fuck, it’s worse than I remember.” He had a deep and guttural voice, with an accent similar to Stubs’.
Dick laughed. “You’ll have to pardon Sawyer, Lance Corporal—” he leaned in to examine Rizer’s stenciled name “—Rizer. He used to be an Alliance Army commando. Bugs the shit out of him that he has to take orders from an old gunnery sergeant.”
“Fuck off, you old lizard,” Sawyer growled.
Rizer now noticed Dick’s age: thirty-five at least, with the wrinkles to prove it. Sawyer might have been twenty or fifty, his age impossible to determine through his burns. Whatever had fucked up his face must have gotten his teeth as well, which had been replaced with gleaming titanium dentures.
After another laugh, oblivious to the roundup in progress, Dick said, “You’re lookin’ a little haggard there, Rizer. Guard duty last night?”
“Early shift. Wasn’t too bad. I got some sleep.”
He nodded. “Well, you’re doin’ better than me. Shit, I just flew in from Theseus last week, and my arms are still tired!” He laughed at his own joke.
Sawyer rolled his good eye and continued scowling. “Ugh, shut the fuck up already. I don’t know what I hate worse, your shitty jokes or these fucking animals we have to round up.”
“Nobody appreciates classic humor these—”
“You just wait! You’ll all be dead soon!” shouted a male civilian in the square. “Long live the Union!” The dull thud of another rifle butt hitting home followed the utterance.
“Oh boy…” said Dick, shaking his head. “There’s always a few.”
Rizer turned. A sergeant from Ghost Squad was pummeling a large young man with a black beard hanging down to his belly. Two other Marines joined in. The mercs stood fast with Rizer and watched impassively. After finishing the beatdown, the Marines hauled the man to his feet and shoved him toward several men and one woman who sat separately from the rest, hands folded atop their heads. Ward stood watch over the malcontents, his rifle trained on them.
“File that guy in the dissident folder,” Dick said with a laugh.
“Stupid fuck,” Sawyer muttered.
A mustachioed man dressed in tan fatigues and a pith helmet appeared in the square, a Verdant Guardsman in dark green, open-air power armor close by his side. His cleanliness and regal gait, along with the bodyguard, told Rizer he was somebody important. Hot on their heels came three mercs surrounding an older man, slightly stooped, his clothes splattered with red mud. He looked dead on his feet as they shuffled him into the square.
Dick said, “Looks like they found the mayor or the chief or whatever the fuck they call him. Go take care of it.”
Sawyer shot him a pissed-off glare, then advanced into the square.
“Rizer!” Baltazar shouted from a few meters off. “Get the fuck over here!”
“Duty calls!” Dick called as Rizer ran off.
Rizer arrived before Baltazar, who slammed down his visor; he then spent the next thirty seconds chewing Rizer’s ass for missing his texted orders. Rizer had been on Verdant for two months now, yet Baltazar still had it in for him, hadn’t forgotten his fuckup in the woods on his first patrol.
Mustache and his bodyguard stood face-to-face with the mayor within a ring of mercs that included Sawyer, who made the rest appear about as threatening as a squad of kindergartners.
“Governor Misawa generously grants you and your people two-hundred hectares of fertile land on which to relocate,” said mustache, obviously a representative of the Verdant government. His diction could be called slimy at best, as if he spoke through a mouthful of mucous. “Sign za papers now, mayor, so we may all get on wiss our lives.”
The mayor shook his head. “I won’t sign this agreement; it isn’t fair.”
“Why? Zis is good land za governor promise you, far from mining operations. You will not be disturbed again; you have za governor’s word.”
“Misawa is only paying us for our land, not the mineral rights we hold. We’re being cheated. I will not sign those papers without payment for the mineral rights.”
“Zis is foolish! Zen you will be paid nothing at all. Surely you don’t want zat?”
Sawyer stepped between them, snatched the papers from the official’s hand.
“What?” the official said. “What is zis?”
“Go stand over there,” Sawyer growled in his face. “I’ll handle this.”
The official and his bodyguard removed themselves to stand several meters away. The mercs surrounding the mayor melted into the ring of watching Marines. No one, it appeared, wanted to get too close to Sawyer.
“Sign, old man. Just get it over with.”
The old man stood with his arms stubbornly crossed, shook his head. “No. I won’t sell for less than our land is worth.”
Sawyer leaned in, towering over him. “I’m not offering you a choice, old fool. Sign now, or—”
An explosion rocked the square, nearly knocking Rizer off his feet. His radio, silent for most of the day, erupted with calls from Lt Dupaul and SSgt Len. Two Marines and three mercs had fallen in the blast, which occurred close to where the official stood… or rather had been standing. He and his bodyguard lay motionless in the mud, scorched and bloodied, possibly dead.
Debris rained down. Something bounced off Rizer’s helmet—a hairless forearm that must have been a child’s. Baltazar, who had been close to the blast, was on his knees, shaking his head as if to clear it. You got a little concussion there, corporal?
Text calls to SSgt Len for support lit up his HUD.
Some of the civilians tried to bolt under the cover of chaos.
Lt Dupaul ran into the square, clad in new, squeaky-clean armor that had never seen combat. “Go, Doom Squad!” he shouted, his reedy voice barely audible in the tumult. “Run those people down!” He might not have been heard, or perhaps his men ignored him, for only a couple of Marines obeyed the order.
Sawyer’s machinegun crackled sharply as he fired into the air, one handed, aiming just over everyone’s heads. He spied one of the civilian runners and took him down with a burst of several rounds, the red-white bolts ripping him to bloody chunks.
It did the trick. Runners stopped dead, then resignedly turned back to the square.
“Enough of this!” Dupaul cried. “What the hell is going on here?”
“The mayor doesn’t wanna sign the eminent domain papers, Louie,” Dick said.
Dupaul raised his visor and stared at Dick. “Did you just call me Louie?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Second Louie. My mistake.”
Dupaul looked away from Dick, addressed his men. “What exploded? What happened?”
“Child suicide bomber,” Dick said from behind him. “Got the bureaucrat and his shield, but your men look okay.” Dick stepped in front of Dupaul. “Now stand down and let us handle this
LT.”
“All of you scum,” Sawyer bellowed, “get on the trucks now!”
No one moved. Their frightened eyes sought the mayor’s instruction.
“You,” Sawyer said, again in the mayor’s face. “Order your sheep to get on the trucks.”
“No!”
Sawyer backhanded him, easily knocking him down. Rizer noticed Sawyer’s right arm was bionic from the elbow down. The mayor bled freely from the mouth; a few of his brown teeth lay scattered in the mud. Sawyer grabbed him by his ear and hauled him up, the mayor bellowing in pain. “Now, one last time, old goat—”
“Get off my father, you freak!” shouted a tall man of about twenty with a strong, rangy build who dashed forward off a side street.
“Back it up, junior,” Dick said. “You’re makin’ a big mistake.”
“Get away from me, boy!” Sawyer shoved him away with his left arm.
The son stumbled a couple of meters, did not fall, and charged Sawyer when he recovered.
It happened in a heartbeat. The kid charged; Sawyer pulled his cannon of a pistol and fired point-blank into his face. The huge slug jellified his head.
“No!” shrieked a woman who ran forth, gray ponytail streaming behind her. His mother. Though the mayor frantically ordered her to get back, grief deafened her to his warning.
“Have you seen enough yet?” Sawyer asked the mayor. He reached into a pocket on his vest and pulled out an envelope, shoved it into the mayor’s hand. “There is your payment voucher from the governor for ten-thousand Alliance credits, more than you would ever make in a lifetime. You should be thankful, not asking more for your fucking mineral rights! Now stop being a stubborn ass and tell your people to get on the trucks.” He pointed the handheld cannon at his grieving wife, who sat cradling what remained of her son’s head. “Or she dies next.”
Though he knew he had no business doing so, Rizer stepped forth to confront Sawyer. Everything about the situation bugged him, demanded action. Dupaul angered him the most, even more than Sawyer—Rizer had never seen such impotent leadership. SSgt Len wouldn’t have allowed the situation to escalate, but he remained MIA, so Rizer had to draw the line. Nobody else will.
“Put your fucking cannon away, Sawyer!” Rizer said. “This can be done without more deaths.”
“Mind your fucking business, boy.” He stared at Rizer with his black prosthetic eye. “Or you die next.” He started to bring his pistol around.
Rizer pulled his head back, then whipped it forward, really getting his spine into it. His helmet struck Sawyer square in the nose, breaking it with a resounding crunch. The move surprised the merc, though it didn’t faze him in the least, merely knocked him back a step.
Sawyer flashed a titanium grin. “Oh, you want to settle it that way?” He holstered his pistol. “Fine. I’ll kill you with my bare hands.”
“Enough!” Dupaul tried to shout as he stepped in, his voice cracking like an adolescent’s. “Back off, Rizer! This is corporate business; let it go!”
“You mean let this freak shoot another—”
“That’s an order, Marine!”
Rizer stared at him for a moment in pure disbelief before turning to walk off.
“Yeah,” Sawyer laughed. “That’s an order, Marine!” Rizer had to admit that his Dupaul imitation was spot on. The merc turned back to the mayor. “Now sign already, old goat.”
The mayor signed. The citizens—cowed and beaten, their collective spirit broken—loaded into the trucks, putting up no further resistance. SSgt Len finally showed up with Fury, Evil, and a squad of mercs, surrounding about three dozen civilians they had rooted from a subterranean network of rooms and tunnels, probably dug in anticipation of this day.
If we hadn’t gotten them, the dragline would have.
But he couldn’t be too dismissive or critical of their efforts. He imagined his own community back on Arcadia would react the same way if they were being rounded up and unjustly evicted from their homes. Or maybe not. Maybe they would just lawyer up.
The last civilians boarded the trucks about two hours later. As he walked to rejoin his squad back in the square, Rizer encountered Sawyer.
“Next time, little bitch,” Sawyer said.
“Count on it, freak.” Rizer regretted the words immediately, not that they mattered. Silence wouldn’t make Sawyer forget the incident.
The merc snorted at him like a bull as he walked past.
“Hey, Rizer,” Dick called a few moments later, approaching him. “You got some pair of balls on you, kid.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“Too bad they’re in the wrong place. This is a messy business we’re in, so take an old gunny’s advice: stay in your own backyard. And watch out for Sawyer wherever you go. He ain’t exactly the forgiving type.”
“I will.” He shook his head. “This wasn’t what I expected when I signed up.”
“Never is, kid. We’re just pawns in a rich man’s game. Don’t take it personally.” He shrugged. “But the pay’s pretty good, at least for us.” He flashed a grin. “Good luck, Rizer. Keep yourself alive.”
“You too, Dick.”
As Rizer loaded into the Scorpion for the long ride back to Shaw, he took one final look at the deserted village of Duberville, where a column of gray smoke had arisen, quickly turning to black.
CHAPTER 19
“Raptor 4-1, this is Lighthouse 1, turn to heading two-nine-zero, how copy?” came the radio call.
“Raptor 4-1, good copy,” answered Lieutenant Commander Borland.
What the hell is it this time? Likely another cargo vessel interception; she’d performed dozens since arriving on Verdant three months before. But maybe we’ll get lucky. Though she had seen no air-to-air combat during the deployment, calls for close air support had grown more frequent over the past month as the ground war intensified. Firing on unseen targets in the jungle, mere blips on her scope, could never replace the action of dogfighting, but she preferred it to the drudgery of collaring inbound ships.
“Contact. Three-hundred-eighty kilometers. I have a flight of three heavies, Angels one-nine-zero. Turn to heading two-seven-five and intercept. The ships are not responding to our calls. Identify, over.”
“Raptor 4-1 copy. Heading two-seven-five. Angels one-nine-zero. ETA six minutes.” Lighthouse 1—Naval Air Defense Command Verdant—relayed the coordinates to her Raven automatically.
“Raptor 4-1, this is Raptor 4-3, coming up on your starboard,” said Lt Walker, her wingman on the routine air defense patrol.
Borland saw his fighter pull in beside her as they turned and climbed through a layer of thick gray clouds toward the contact.
“I see you.”
“What do you think this is about?” asked Walker.
From Air Station Phoenix, home of the deployed 733rd Naval Combat Wing, the Black Eagles, they conducted several sorties a day, operations ranging from combat air patrol to ground attack, usually as a pair of two aircraft, though sometimes as a formation of four or six. In the atmosphere at present, they also patrolled the space around Verdant.
Unwilling to give up his most experienced pilots, her former CO Captain Crawford had sent Walker with her to the 733rd. I could have gotten a worse wingman for sure. She liked Walker, an excellent pilot and stellar companion. She’d failed to bed him due to an absent girlfriend he remained loyal to, and she had since quit trying. No sense spreading misery to the unwilling.
Borland double checked that she answered on the flight’s frequency and not Air Defense Command’s. “Hard to say. Maybe their radio’s broken or the comm officer is asleep. Could be anything.”
“Yeah, but maybe we’ll get lucky.”
She heard the hopeful anticipation in his voice. He’s as bored as I am. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
With her fusion reactor fuel levels currently at sixty percent, she accelerated in a vertical climb toward the inbound vesse
ls. As they left the atmosphere, Tantus-4 loomed large in her canopy display. She couldn’t see the ships of Sixth Fleet orbiting the planet, but they were there someplace. If they were orbiting here, where they should be, I wouldn’t be dealing with this. The entire Verdant action, both ground and air, had to be conducted on tiptoes to get around the treaties and trade agreements between the Alliance and the Union. This was no way to fight a war, but Borland accepted it in lieu of a full-blown conflict between systems, where millions of innocents might perish.
“Raptor 4-3, radar contact. Here we go.”
“Copy 4-1, tally three.”
They got a distant visual on the ships and quickly closed. The fighter’s computer pulled up the ships’ classifications and schematics on her left display. The formation seemed innocuous enough: two sleek Swan-class ships configured for freight service, flanking a lumbering Deca-class freighter, round and big-bellied like some ancient seafaring trading ships. One of the most ubiquitous ships in the galaxy, CT-1200 Swans were easily adaptable for both freight and passenger service. HF-400 Decas were strictly freighters, their name signifying a cargo capacity of 10,000 metric tons. Both models were built by the Cygnus Starship Works of Albireo-12.
“Orion flagged,” Walker said as they neared the ships.
Borland noted the Orion Republic flags—black, studded with the stars of the Orion constellation—emblazoned on their hulls. “Not that that means anything. Let’s see what’s up.” She opened the universal trade channel used by merchant mariners and patched the feed into the command frequency so the brass at Phoenix could listen.
“Orion-flagged ships, this is Lieutenant Commander Sandra Borland, United Systems Navy. Identify your destination and cargo. Over.”
They did not respond. Borland and Walker flew above them as their orbit decayed, the ships now six minutes from atmospheric entry. She looped around, Walker following, for another pass. Again she hailed the ships, which remained silent.
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