by Steve Perry
“Damn!”
“I told you,” Butch said.
“Back off!” The Lojt yelled. He pointed his rocket pistol at the door and triggered it. The rocket reached the sound barrier just before it hit the door; there was a double boom. A burn scar flashed the steel, but the door held firm.
“All civilians out!”
When the room was clear of everybody but his men, the Lojt said, “Take out the window.”
A tall woman raised her Parker and let loose a blast. The densecris shook under the impact of the explosive slugs, but didn’t crack. It didn’t even star. There was a line of black scotches, no more.
“Goddamn!” The Lojt was so angry he shook. “Listen up in there, mister! You come out, now, or we’re going to implode the damned room, you copy that?”
There was no answer.
“Outside, everybody but the L-45!”
One of the Sub-Lojts said, “Sir, aren’t we supposed to capture—?”
“I said out!”
The troopers cleared the room, fast. In a minute, only the Lojt and the trooper carrying the L-45 were left standing in the doorway. “Blow it,” the Lojt said. He was grinning like a man on the wrong side of sanity.
“Not from in here,” the soldier said. “It’s liable to suck us in when it goes.”
“Blow it!”
The trooper looked at the Lojt’s face and decided disobeying him was a bigger risk. He raised the L-45 and pointed it at the sheet of densecris. He took a deep breath, held it, then fired.
The grenade hit the window and there came that muffled whuff! of an implosion device. Objects not tied down leaped at the sudden vacuum. The trooper with the L-45 was already scrambling backwards and he cleared the door. The Lojt stood like a rock, leaning against the wind. There was a bright flash of red light, going to blue, and a sonic blast which shattered glass for a kilometer around. Things got very quiet.
In the wreckage of what had been the Jade Flower, the drug vault and all its contents compacted into a sphere three meters around. Much of the space around the atomic particles which made up the seemingly solid material was eliminated. The ball sank through the pub like lead through feathers, until it buried itself deeply in the earth below.
Behind the faceplate of his armor, the Lojtnant was still smiling tightly. He didn’t know it, but the war on Greaves had just ended.
For now.
Chapter Twenty-Two
IT WAS, THE OB thought, a good thing Creg was laid away with Spasm poisoning; otherwise he’d wish he were. As it stood, the Senior Sub, a whipcord woman named Pease, was hearing most of what Creg would have heard.
“—inept management I’ve ever seen!” Over-Befalhavare Venture said. He paused for a breath.
Pease jumped in before the OB could take off again. “Sir, this man Khadaji, the leader of the resistance, was very resourceful. He was a Jumptrooper—”
“—a decade and a half ago,” the OB said. “Where was he between the time he deserted on—” he looked at the HX on the holoproj’s imager, “—Maro and his arrival on this backrocket dinge of a world?”
Pease took a breath, but the question was rhetorical. The OB continued. “Creg never would have caught him if he hadn’t sauntered into this very office and told him who he was.”
“The attacks on our troops have stopped,” Pease tried. “The death of their leader—”
“Sub-Befalhavare Pease, I know you heard the recording this man Khadaji left. Did it occur to you the reason the attacks have stopped might just be because what he said was true? That maybe he was the resistance—alone?”
The woman stood at parade rest, as formal a position as full attention, despite the term. She looked pale, but determined when she spoke. “Impossible, sir. The logistics of the attacks, the sheer numbers preclude that. He was lying.”
The OB nodded, as if to himself. Yes. He had seen the numbers. It didn’t seem likely, even if possible, that one man could have done so much damage. Word of the resistance to Confederation forces on Greaves had spread to other worlds, of course, and was damaging enough when it was thought that hundreds or thousands were responsible. If it were even suspected that a single man could do such… well, that was not a pleasant thought, not at all.
Venture looked at the holoproj again. “So, in the two weeks since Khadaji was imploded, there have been no attacks on our troops whatsoever?”
Pease allowed herself a small smile. “None, sir.”
“And we are certain this pub owner is dead?”
Pease nodded at the computer. “The chemist’s report is in the files, sir. With an implosion device, the only way to be sure a human was included in the condensation is a deep-spec analysis of the material. The breakdown indicates the constituents of a human body were present, within normal parameters, and allowing for error due to compressed mass.”
Over-Befalhavare Venture nodded. That much was good, anyway.
The intercom came to life.
“Yes?”
“Sir, we have a report on the rebel leader.”
“Well, stick it into the computer.”
There was a slight pause, then the Lojt said, “I—ah—don’t think that would be—ah—wise, sir. We in MI think it should be classed A1A—ah—pending your approval, of course. Sir.”
Venture sighed. A1A. Top Secret, Eyes Only for Full-Clearance Personnel. Damn. Now what? “All right. Bring it in.”
The door slid aside and a starch-spined Lojt marched in, carrying a small reader. He handed it to the OB and stood back at attention. Venture stared at the reader. “All right, Lojtnant, what am I about to look at?”
“Sir, this is a report on the inventory taken of the rebel Khadaji’s personal effects.”
Over-Befalhavare Venture stared at the young officer sourly. “Son, I have a lot on my mind. Why don’t you tell me precisely why MI thinks how many pairs of socks and tunics this man had is important enough to make Al A noises over.”
The Lojtnant swallowed and took a deep breath. “Sir, if the Systems Marshal will punch up code A-slash-S-slash-D, I think the answer will present itself.”
Venture glared at the man. “It had better, Lojtnant.” He tapped in the code. The inducer in the desk’s computer picked up the signal from the reader and put the file onscreen. The military jargon was there, but it had been fifty years since it had caused Venture any problems. At eighty, he might be a bit past his prime, but he was still sharp.
FLECHETTES / ANTI-PERSONNEL / SPASM / SPETSDOD
BOXES / 25 TOTAL ROUNDS / 7500
UNBOXED MAGAZINES, COMPLETE / 9 TOTAL ROUNDS / 108 UNBOXED MAGAZINES, PARTIAL / 1 TOTAL ROUNDS / 04
INVENTORY TOTAL / 7612
The OB looked up from the read at the Lojt. “I am impressed. MI knows how to count—obviously the canard about ‘Military’ and ‘Intelligence’ is not an example of oxymora, after all. Is there a point to this, Lojtnant?”
The younger man seemed to sag a little from his stiff posture, without any movement the OB could detect. He said, “Sir, the Spasm darts in Khadaji’s possession, along with fourteen gas-operated fully automatic dorsal hand weapons—spetsdods—were stolen from an arms shipment to this base seven-and-a-half months ago. Twenty spetsdods and ten thousand rounds of ammunition, to be precise.”
“So he was shooting our men with our weapons. Not uncommon during guerrilla warfare, son. The point?”
The man sighed and swallowed again. “Sir, if I might beg the Systems Marshal’s indulgence a moment longer, please add file T-slash-W-slash-S to the screen.”
Venture shook his head. “Why is it I get the impression you’re trying to get me to say the horse is dead, Lojtnant?”
The Lojt was silent, and the OB shook his head again and punched in the second code. Another jumble of military acronymity lit the air, and Venture scrolled to the basic data enshrouded in the tangle.
CONFEDERATION TROOPERS HOSPITALIZED FOR CONTRACTURE POISONING, TOTAL / 2388.
Venture looked up.
The Lojt didn’t wait for permission to speak. “As the Systems Marshal is no doubt aware, most of our casualties in the conflict on Greaves have been due to Spasm darts.”
The OB smiled. “The Marshal is also aware that those injuries not due to poison are, at best, suspect. There have been rumors of troopers shooting themselves in the feet, then claiming they were attacked by fifty of the Scum.
“Sir. If the Systems Marshal would examine the screen again—”
“Dammit, boy, I’m tired of playing games! What are you trying to avoid saying?”
The Lojt swallowed again. “Sir, the numbers.”
Systems Marshal Venture, Over-Befalhavare for all of the Orm System, looked at the holoproj before him. What was the boy so scared shitless about? Khadaji’s ammo consisted of 7612 rounds, from 10,000. Which meant he’d fired off, let’s see, ten minus two is eight, nine minus one—
Venture stared at the screen as if it had suddenly told him to go fuck himself. It couldn’t be. He checked his subtraction, but the numbers were right. Ten thousand darts. Take away those which had been recovered, seven thousand six hundred and twelve, and that meant the man had used twenty three hundred and eighty-eight. Venture’s gaze travelled across the holoproj’s split-screen to the number of poisoned Confederation troopers.
Two-three-eight-eight. The number was identical.
Venture looked up. “Are we certain of these figures, Lojt?”
“Yes sir. They’ve been checked and rechecked a dozen times.”
“Holy Buddha’s left nut,” Venture said softly. “I can’t believe it. The ratsucker was telling the truth! I will be goddamned.” The awe vanished, replaced by concern. “This can’t get out, Lojtnant. I want to see some altered figures, stat. Some of those troopers were shot with other small arms, some wounded by explosions and what-not, do you understand? I want the changes in the computer within the hour.”
“Sir.”
“I also want arrests made, a few of the ringleaders of the Scum, let the records show, say, fifty were caught and executed, understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
“One final thing. I want this damped. Anybody who came within a hundred meters of this information is to be cleaned thoroughly, this has got to be kept quiet! I don’t want any of the troops to talk about it to anybody, I don’t want rumors, I don’t want the slightest hint of these numbers to get out. The Confed Military will be made to look like morons, including me personally, and anyone in my command who does that will regret it in ways you could not begin to believe, you copy?”
“Yes sir.” The Lojt swallowed dryly.
But even as the young man executed a snappy about-face and marched from the office, Over-Befalhavare Venture knew it was probably too late. The soldiers’ comline was faster than White radio; what one man or woman knew would be passed to another, despite attempts to prevent it. The story would out, eventually. They could deny it, of course, and PR would begin working on it ASAP, but it would be even worse if it smelled like a cover-up. Ah, damn! Why? What could have been on the man’s mind, to take on an army, alone? And why give it up the way he did? The fucker must have been something else, too! One dart per trooper. Never missed. Buddha, wouldn’t that stir the fucking underground! One goddamned man! He had to know it would get around, maybe even arranged it, maybe he had allies in the Military. Damn!
Pease cleared her throat politely, but Venture ignored her. After a moment, she spoke anyway. “It doesn’t matter, sir, does it? I mean, the war on Greaves is over.”
Blind and stupid, he thought. Aloud, he said, “Yes, the war on Greaves is over.”
“And we won, sir.”
It seemed to take him a long time to look away from the holoproj and up at the woman before the desk. Won? He laughed, and then spoke as if to a slow child. “No, SubBefal Pease, we didn’t win. All we did was kill him—that goddamned miserable elbow-sucker Khadaji won!”
And, of course, Over-Befalhavare Venture didn’t know the half of it.
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