The Razor's Edge

by Seanan McGuire

  “That’s fine, but have him go around the village. The Techkons are kind of skittish if too many CASPers are walking around through town.”

  “Got it, Sarge,” Ramirez said. “I’ll go around the town and check it out.”

  “And I’ll stay here,” Cardelli added.

  Sergeant Enkh led Simmons off through the small village. On the way down the hillside, Simmons had studied the town the best he could. The biggest buildings were near the mine shaft, which he figured were processing plants. After those, the town proper began, with what looked like two streets of small shops, and then another couple of streets where the buildings looked like dwellings. There was also one building larger than the others; Simmons had pegged that the town hall or administration building.

  “How long have you guys been here?” Simmons asked.

  “Just a couple of weeks,” Sergeant Enkh replied. “We were supposed to set up some basic defenses to make the Balcons outside the town stay out, and the ones inside the mine stay in. It was supposed to be quick and easy—set up the defenses, you guys come rescue the hostages, and then we leave—but then you guys had to go and get bagged, which kind of threw our schedule out the window. Now our services have been extended here indefinitely.”

  “‘Had to get bagged?’” Simmons asked, making a mental note to be the one who killed Sergeant Enkh. “I had a lot of friends who were on those ships and got killed. I almost didn’t make it.”

  “Yeah. Sorry,” Enkh said.

  He didn’t sound sorry. Simmons was definitely going to kill him. “Well, if you guys are so awesome, why didn’t you just take over for us and rescue the president? Didn’t have enough people and CASPers to pull it off?”

  “Dude, we just do defenses; we don’t do smash-and-grabs or hostage rescue. It’s not our thing. They wanted us to take it over, but the captain said ‘no.’”

  “Captain? You guys are led by a captain? There must not be many of you.”

  “Nah, we only brought a platoon; that was all we needed for this mission. Easy stuff.”

  “I saw the guys in the towers were in CASPers. If you’re worried about the Balcons attacking, why aren’t you in them all the time?

  “Like I said, the Techkons hate having them walk through town. They’ll probably complain about you doing it, but fuck the little rodents. We’re really not that worried about the Balcons. We’ve got sensors on the ridgeline, so we’ve got time to mount our CASPers if they try to attack. As far as the mine goes, there can’t be more than a hundred or so down there, and they don’t have heavy weapons.”

  “You keep them handy, though, right?”

  The Horde trooper turned to look at Simmons, his brows knitting. “You know, you ask a lot of questions.”

  “Hey, when I’m in bad guy territory, I want to know who I can count on,” Simmons replied. “There were a lot of Balcons out there; I just want to make sure you guys have my back if they attack.”

  “Trust me,” Enkh said, “we can handle them. It’s what we do.” He gestured with his hand to a building where another man of Mongolian descent waited for them. “We’re here,” Enkh said.

  Simmons scanned the area. Not surprisingly, they had arrived at what Simmons had pegged as the administration building—the only three-story building in town. It was also where he expected the Techkon leaders to be … and where the queen was probably being held. There was a building alongside the admin building that appeared new and, at almost fifteen feet, was taller than any of the other single-story buildings in the area. Although it was almost as long as the admin building, it only had two doors. A smaller one probably led to the Horde’s offices and the other, a big roll-down door, to their CASPer facility.

  The other man waited for them in front of the smaller building, along with one of the Techkons. Although the aliens looked like dogs from further away, up close Simmons could see the resemblance was superficial at best. They had long claws that looked like they had evolved for digging and they lacked the sharp teeth of canines back home.

  Sergeant Enkh waved at Simmons. “This is Sergeant Simmons of Death From Above,” he said. “Sergeant, this is Captain Enkh and Governor B’wers.”

  “Enkh, eh?” Simmons asked. “What, are you guys brothers?”

  “Adopted, yes,” replied the captain. “Sergeant Enkh said you asked a lot of questions. I see he was telling the truth.”

  “I’m an inquisitive kind of guy,” Simmons said.

  “You’re a funny guy, too, I see,” the captain replied. “Why don’t you shut down your suit and come on out so we can chat about how we’re going to work together.”

  “I’m not sure I want to,” Simmons said. “Your sergeant told me you guys were preparing for an assault; I feel a lot safer in here.”

  The roll-down door on the building opened and a CASPer stepped outside. It turned toward the group and raised its arm, which had a heavy laser attached to it, and pointed it at Sergeant Simmons.

  “Oh, but I insist,” the captain said. “Governor B’wers doesn’t like people he doesn’t know walking around in his town armed … and neither do I. Shut your suit down.”

  “Okay,” Simmons said. “That’s fine. One last question though.” He paused to make sure he had their attention and then asked. “What floor are you holding the queen on?”

  “You couldn’t know—” the captain said, but Simmons was already in motion. He took a step forward and threw himself to the ground on the side of the captain opposite the CASPer and brought his arm up. The captain tried to dodge out of the way, but the first three MAC rounds hit him, shredding his chest cavity and removing his head. Simmons continued to fire as the officer’s body fell out of the way and the next five penetrated the CASPer.

  “Go, go, go!” Simmons transmitted. He half-turned as he rose to his feet and put a MAC round through the governor’s head. The creature flew backward with the impact, it’s head exploding like an overripe watermelon. He turned back to Sergeant Enkh, who put his hands up, knowing he couldn’t outrun the next round.

  Simmons took two massive strides forward. The meter-long blade on his left arm snapped down on the second step and he drove the blade completely through the trooper’s chest. He flicked his arm to the side and the sergeant was thrown to the ground. “Those were my friends on the dropships, asshole,” he said to the sergeant as a pool of blood formed around him.

  He turned toward the building where the CASPer had come from and jogged to the open doorway. Inside, he saw a row of CASPers down both sides of the facility. It looked like he had found the majority of the Horde’s CASPers. Going down the right side, he put a MAC round through the startup panel on each of the suits.

  “Two CASPers neutralized at the mine,” Ramirez radioed. “The Balcons are coming out, and holy shit there are a lot of them.” He paused, then added, “Oh, no—” His suit went red in Simmons display, with Ramirez’s life signs going straight to zero. Something had hit him and hit him hard. There must have been another CASPer Ramirez had failed to take down.

  Shit.

  * * *

  “Go, go, go!” Private Cardelli heard through the radio, and he armed the missile pack on his shoulder and designated the two towers as targets. As he was lining up the second one, he could see the trooper inside it spinning the laser to face him. Getting a lock, he fired two missiles at both towers as he activated his jump jets and rocketed upward fifty feet. Laser strikes from two directions passed through where he had just been, then his missiles hit the towers.

  The trooper in the further tower saw the missiles coming and jumped out of the tower, rising above the fireball in a pillar of flames from his jump jets.

  Cardelli got a missile lock on the trooper, fired again, and then dodged several rounds from the trooper’s suit-mounted laser.

  With a flash, the missile struck the soldier, turning him into a fireball that rivaled the one on the tower, and he fell from the sky like a shooting star.

  “Cardelli, report!” Simmons o
rdered.

  “I’ve taken both CASPers down here!” Adrenaline surged through his veins, making everything seem to move slower. “Both towers are destroyed.”

  “Do you see the Balcons? Are they coming?”

  “I don’t see any of them from where I’m standing.”

  “Got it,” Simmons replied. “Get to the mine. But be careful—something happened to Ramirez.”

  “On my way!”

  * * *

  Simmons began destroying the suits on the other side of the bay. A Human stuck his head in the door, but retreated before the salvo of MAC rounds Simmons fired could take him out.

  Keeping one eye on the doorway, he returned to his sabotage and finished wrecking the suits.

  “I’m on my way to the mine,” Cardelli called. “I decided to fly over the town. There is a whole shitload of the Balcons coming out of the mine.”

  “More than a hundred?” Simmons asked.

  “Yeah, lots more. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them.”

  “The Horde didn’t seem to think there was more than a hundred of them.”

  “They can think whatever the hell they’d like, Sarge, but I’m telling you—”

  Cardelli’s suit icon went red as it took significant damage. Cardelli’s life signs lasted a few seconds, then the entire suit went red and his life signs zeroed.

  “Fuck!” Simmons exclaimed.

  Whoever they had missed out there was good. Damned good. There couldn’t be more than one or two left. If he could just kill them, he’d be fine … and would get to collect both of the other troopers’ payments for the operation.

  He snuck over to the doorway—as much as a one-thousand-pound suit of metal and operating engine can do, anyway—and eased his way around the door frame.

  Several of the Balcons raced past. “Wait!” he called.

  Two of the creatures stopped and came back to him. They were armed with laser rifles.

  “There’s another Human in a suit somewhere. Have you seen him?”

  The two aliens looked at each other then turned to face him. One of them said something in its native language, but Simmons couldn’t understand.

  “Ishtok?” Simmons asked, trying a different tack. “Ishtok?” One of them nodded and he pantomimed as he spoke, “You … me … to him?” He finished by waving his finger around as if he didn’t know.

  The one who had spoken turned back the way he’d been heading, then looked over his shoulder and waved for Simmons to follow him. The two Balcons raced off and Simmons trotted after them. The pace was faster than he would have liked with enemy present, but Ishtok turned out to be only a block away in the town’s biggest intersection, surrounded by a large mass of Balcons. As he strode up, Ishtok sent a group of twenty off to do some task.

  “Which Human are you?”

  “Simmons.”

  Ishtok looked to the side of Simmons for a moment and then said, “Perfectly timed. Sergeant Simmons, please come out of the suit.”

  “I’m not finished yet—there is at least one enemy trooper alive. He killed my other men.”

  Ishtok made a sign and, before Simmons could move, ten laser rifles were pointed at him. Ten that he could see anyway. There were probably more behind him. The lasers looked powerful enough to cut into his suit. He took a second to judge his odds. Maybe if he flew—

  “Before you try to fly off, I need to tell you that there are three of my people with surface-to-air missiles behind you,” Ishtok said. “We can shoot you down like we did your other soldiers, but I would rather not if we don’t have to. I just got word that our queen is safe and I am in somewhat of a celebratory mood.”

  Shit.

  “Please come out of the suit.”

  As there was no way he could kill all the Balcons, he shut down the suit, opened his canopy, and climbed out. He put his hands into the air. Although he didn’t know if that had the same meaning in Balcon culture as his own, it seemed like the thing to do when staring down the business end of that many weapons.

  “Restrain the Human,” Ishtok said, and several of the Balcon troops circled behind him, staying out of the line of fire, to tie his hands behind his back.

  “Wait!” Simmons exclaimed. “What do you mean, ‘Restrain the Human?’ I just helped you free your people! With the amount of red diamonds in that mine, you’ll be able to buy the weapons you need to win your fight. Hell, if you wanted, you’ve now got enough money to hire mercs to come and do it for you.”

  “We have recovered our queen, so you have served your usefulness,” Ishtok replied. “It is, however, too dangerous to allow you to roam freely. You might turn on us and decide to help the Techkons and we cannot have that. Nothing can be allowed to get in the way of our return to power.”

  The Balcon troops stepped out from behind Simmons. They had done an excellent job; he couldn’t move his hands or arms at all.

  “Take him to the pens,” Ishtok ordered.

  “So this was all a lie?” Simmons asked. “You really do want to rule them after all?”

  Ishtok made the buzzing noise of a Balcon laughing. “Silly Human, they taste far too good to rule them; we eat them. Throughout history, our race has preyed on theirs. It wasn’t until the Galactic Union arrived that things turned around. How were we to know the red trinkets the Techkons wore as jewelry would be valuable, and that the newcomers would give them advanced weapons for them? They overthrew us and forced us to this continent to work as miners for them, thereby perpetuating our servitude. Every red diamond we produce gives them the opportunity to buy more weapons to help them keep us as slaves.”

  “You’re going to …” Simmons looked down the streets. The Balcons were picking up the Techkon bodies almost reverently and loading them in the backs of wagons. The Balcon bodies, however, were left where they had fallen. Simmons shuddered as the realization of what he’d done came over him; his shoulders slumped and his eyes fell to the ground in front of him, unable to watch the collection process any longer. “Eat them,” he finished, his voice a whisper.

  “Indeed we are,” Ishtok replied. “And now that I think of it, you might taste good with a spicy red sauce, as well.” He gestured to his soldiers. “Forget taking the Human to the pens; take him to the kitchen!”

  The Liberator

  L.E. Modesitt Jr.

  In the early late-summer evening, the white-violet starbursts filled the purple sky just dark enough for the fireworks that marked the fiftieth anniversary of independence. A thin white-haired man sat with a much younger woman at a rear table of the Café Verite. He occasionally took small swallows of the limoncello from the tall beaker-like glass. The younger woman scarcely touched the white wine.

  “Ser Herryn …” The voice of the young man approaching the table was respectful and deferential.

  The older man looked up, his faded green eyes alert as he took in the young man and the compact vidfax unit he carried. “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if I could persuade you to share a few words for posterity. You’re the last of the Seekers, the last one to know the Liberator closely …”

  “Can’t you leave him alone?” asked the woman.

  “He has a point,” said the older man wryly. “Since Karrl died last month …”

  “But … you’ve always said …” began the young woman.

  “I’ve always said it wasn’t time. Now … it might be.”

  “You were with him from the beginning, weren’t you?” asked the young vidfaxer. “How did you get involved? What was it like? What was he like?”

  “The Liberator? You know that. He was tall, dark-haired, thoughtful, and always spoke well. He planned the Revolution from the time he was an advocate for the miners …” As he spoke, the older man’s thoughts drifted back…

  * * *

  Raak had just finished his last period class and was standing in the concrete-walled instructor’s room, in front of his locker, when Donnal burst through the door.

  “You really s
houldn’t be here, you know?”

  “No one cares after the last period,” replied Donnal. “Besides, I’d like you to meet someone.”

  “I’m expected at Karrl’s in less than an hour.”

  “This won’t take long.”

  Raak considered, then smiled. Genial as Donnal was, he’d argue ever so politely and lengthily. “I can spare a few minutes.”

  “You won’t regret it.”

  Raak closed the locker, checked the lock, and turned. “Who am I meeting?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The man standing in the collegium foyer, a concrete walled and floored space eight meters on a side, was an imposing figure a good fifteen centimeters taller than Raak. His black hair glistened, and, as he saw the two approaching, he offered a warm, wide, and welcoming smile, both with his entire face and with thoughtful gray eyes.

  “Raak,” said Donnal expansively, “this is Stannal Ferra.”

  “The advocate?” asked Raak. “You’re the one who usually represents disabled miners?”

  “The very same,” insisted Donnal. “He’s starting a new political group.”

  Raak understood the careful use of the word ‘group,’ since the Ascendency had banned political parties more than a century earlier.

  “More like a club,” said Ferra, his resonant baritone voice somehow as confidential as it was penetrating. “One where people can discuss current affairs thoughtfully and openly—among themselves. Donnal thought you might be interested. If you are, drop by the Pilot on Thursday night around eight.”

  Three days later Raak found himself walking toward the Pilot, a small restaurant and tavern located just at the edge of the university quarter. Like most buildings in Sanjak City, the one containing the Pilot was a single story extruded-stone structure with a lacquered copper roof, and inset cupridium-edged windows. The door was more copper than bronze, hardly surprising given the amount of copper that needed to be mined to obtain the rhenium that had been the major rationale for colonizing Bartolan.