Outies

by Pournelle, J. R.

  Zia switched next to the True Church genealogy index—and suddenly all of it made sense. The next-to last in Swenson’s female line was Serena McClellan Orcutt. Collie Orcutt’s youngest sister. Laurel Courter’s mother. The Orcutt men had been consolidating access to Swenson’s Mountain for four generations—ever since they’d arrived from New Ireland as outcast Himmists in 2964. By maternal line, Orcutt’s mother had been a Swenson.

  Collie Orcutt had had a vision, but he’d gambled wrong in his vain attempt to secure a promised land. Now Lillith Van Zandt had murdered and kidnapped and cheated and bribed and poached her way through to the other side with a very different vision of her own.

  Zia’s lips were white. It all went back to the warehouses. Warehouses in Saint George, where her own children were seized to paralyze Ollie; warehouses here, where Michael was scammed, presumably so that he’d shut down and slink away somewhere to hide. Warehouses full to the brim with the nasty detritus of Lillith Van Zandt’s scheming mind. Zia pictured it all again. This time, instead of Michael’s twenty-two kilos of opaline glitter, she saw the packing boxes, full of sand, like geological calling cards. She pictured her boys, and green-eyed Deela, and thanked Him for holding them in his Eye. And finally, leaving to tell all to Ollie, Zia began to cry.

  Orcutt Station, The Barrens, New Utah

  To the untutored eye, they were a posse of broken old men. They slouched in trucks wearing battered hats. They sat their horses like sacks of potatoes. Their faces were burned to leather; their movements a study in conservation of effort. They ringed Collie Orcutt’s house, waiting for news of those kids.

  The signal lights twinkled first—a head’s up none of them missed. They’d used the method themselves, more than once, organizing; practicing; marshalling all those years. Then the lights were obscured by haze, as a dust cloud boiled ever-nearer. Then its edges shimmered with half-seen movement. Then a shrill chatter reached their ears.

  Trucks didn’t react, but horses did: blowing and snorting and sending mules shying, riders sliding along with them like an outer hull of their own skin.

  And then there she was: Agamemnon’s head hanging, bobbing as he walked, catching his feet on every tick in the ground, neck curly-haired with dried sweat, flanks and belly tucked in, but ears still pricked.

  And then there they were behind her: wide-eyed and towering above the dust: a girl and two boys, bobbing along, hands in a death grip on their Porters’ ears, one great, hairy arm securing each pair of legs, the other swinging in the marching time of the pace.

  And behind that, Asach, on a braying mule, its compatriots in tow.

  And behind that, a Legion of Angels.

  “Well?” said Collie.

  The old men nodded. “Yep,” said one, “we see ‘em.”

  Then they called every gathering, instructed every Seer, and within the hour were passing Laurel reports of every movement on or along the SunFreight line; to or from or through OLaM Station; into or out of the OLaM hopper field.

  And Agamemnon got a long-deserved drink, and a rubdown, and hay, and even treats.

  Near Butterfield Station, The Barrens, New Utah

  The armor plowed southward like ships through whitecaps, each vehicle’s progress demarcated by a bow-wave froth of sheer skin wings edged and veined with aquamarine, the fat little bodies sparkling in the sun like splashing water. Hundreds; thousands; millions of the creatures emerged to molt, and fly, and mate, and die during the brief promise of desert bloom that followed the first winter rains. The tracks plowed through and over squat cycad trunks already fat with water, a-fuzz with the first emergent green of bud stalks, and bejeweled with umbrellas of the creatures extending and testing new wings. Startled to flight by the whining engines, they answered with their own sharp buzzing, boiling into the sky like silvery clouds of fish schooling off an ocean reef. The roar was both piercing and deafening.

  So, from a distance, the company lines approached like a thunderstorm rolling forward off the sea. From a height, they looked like lines of arrows drawn on a sand table, the better to indicate their objectives. Surprise was a sheer impossibility.

  The Warrior lines danced northward, the half-Runner Cavalry sprinting ahead; leaping with sheer exuberance to snatch and crunch the meaty little bodies from the air. They became living, jogging trees themselves, as the emerging nymphs struggled to climb any height; as the newly fledged saw them as handy roosts for hasty test-landings. They traveled light, surrounded and suffused with all that they could ever want for perfect food and drink. From a distance, they could not be seen at all: mere ripples in the flowing field of crawling aquamarine.

  The Miners wasted little time or effort. Assuming that they intended to recapture the sand mines, they would have to turn through the neck that led to Butterfield Station. South and west of that was already mired in marsh, the basin filled by early winter rains. Eastward was the mountain. The neck was an old, compacted river levee, now slightly elevated above the silty plain long since scoured away by the incessant wind. It was the only option for moving quickly.

  So, the conclusion was foregone. If they stayed on the levee, they would fry in their own reflected fire, or the fire of concentrators operated by the Mining teams. If they slithered down banks greased with the bodies of winter flies, they would be mired in the seasonal back swamps. If they attempted to breach the banks to the north and east, a honeycomb of sand-traps awaited them. From a hundred points, the trebuchets awaited, ready to commence flinging. Signal watchers lined the hills, day-dreaming of the feast to come, already tasting sweet winter fly meat. Farmers lined the levee, listening for their approach.

  The battle was vicious.

  The battle was brief.

  Those who survived remembered the buzzing din of Beelzebub; the grinning faces of demons; the sinking of an armored battalion beneath a rising sea of aquamarine.

  Like castaways, faces red with burns, eyes shielded with torn strips of rags, raw lips cracked and bleeding, they staggered back the way they’d come. Reduced to sucking bugs for juice, many fell to the slimy ground kicking, sweating, trembling, their pupils shrunk to pinpoints. The smarter scraped mud into shirttails, and sucked on that instead. The water squeezed out green, then brown, then not at all. Their wounds began blistering and peeling.

  Eventually, a clutch of Himmist kids on horseback was the best thing they’d ever seen. As they approached, the kids chatted briefly among themselves, then wheeled and bolted, horse’s tails flagging in the air like retreating banners. Some stood dumbfounded. Some sank down, sobbing. Some cursed. A sergeant said: “We’ll camp here.” Here was nowhere. No-one objected. Some were not going to make it. The least wounded commenced to digging. A few hours later, a shriveled old man in a pickup truck genuinely was the best thing they’d ever seen.

  Bonneville, New Utah

  It was a quiet coup. The first to notice were the devout, at four a.m., who did not awake to the strains of a muezzin. The next were the sacristans, who at four-thirty found themselves quietly, but firmly, escorted to join their brethren in Allah for morning coffee. At five, after it had been explained that they would be escorted by a number of burly young men employed by TCM Security, the remnants of the TCM tithe committee found it reasonable and expedient to accept an invitation to an ecumenical breakfast. By five-thirty, when the SunFreight pulled into the rail yard, the assorted primates, bishops, patriarchs, elders, imams, aldermen, and dignitaries discovered their plans for morning prayers and services drastically rearranged.

  For their part, SunRail yardmasters and transit police learned very quickly that the inbound cargo and passenger list from OLaM Station also had been altered rather dramatically from what they’d originally sent in the outward bound direction. By six, hands of Warriors and squadrons of Himmist cavalry had fanned out through the city, in time to greet the shift changes at the DAZ-E field, Hopper strip, transmission stations, and city police.

  By six-thirty, the assorted dignitaries had all been
briefed. The message was simple: an alliance of TCM Security and The Church of Him wished to ensure that there would not be any disturbances such as those suffered in Saint George. Bonneville’s cooperation was expected. Absent cooperation, the Himmists could and would prevent movement of anything at all into or out of the city by any means save the Lynx. Indefinitely.

  There were, of course, questions regarding how this might be done. Some of the questions were not especially politely phrased. Butterfield Station survivors were brought in to explain. Several in the audience expressed even less polite disbelief. A hissing Warrior led by a gleaming white Master was brought in by way of show-and-tell. The various factions recognized them in their own ways: Angel; Demon; Ape; Motie. When Enheduanna then addressed them in their own language, they nearly fell from their chairs. When Enheduanna gestured gently to the wings, to be joined enthusiastically by three goggle-eyed children, the youngest of whom proudly told the tale of how Tweety Kitties had saved him and his siblings from bad men, then reached out and took a hand of a sinewed Warrior, the buzzing of disbelief ensued again. When Enheduanna then explained the alliance of forces under the command of Sargon the Protector, two fainted, and all began to sweat. It was, the bishop would later explain, a rather sudden introduction to the neighbors.

  The need for haste was impressed. A common press statement was achieved. By eight-thirty, it was released. By nine, the various guests were released as well, and rushed to explain the rules of order to their flocks, islands, and employees. Saint George was notified by ten o’clock that morning: the city stood under His protection.

  "It’s no good, mother. You are finished here.” Wind whipped sand across the Lynx port hard enough to sting exposed skin. Lillith pulled her tunic close around her face.

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that they’ve already recorded appeal. It’s public record everywhere now—not just in Bonneville. Saint George, Maxroy’s Purchase, and filed for protected status at accession. They all know. You forcibly poached an existing mining claim.”

  She snorted. “Appeal? By whom? Protected? By whom? They’ll be admitted in Colony status, and we’ll have the concession. We hold all the cards from here. This setback is merely temporary. They’ve no basis. We bought out the Orcutt and TCM claims in legal, recorded transactions. The rest is commons.”

  Michael stared at his feet, the wind whipping his whites around his ankles. His face flashed resolute; quavering; blank; near tears. She reached out a languid hand, brushed hair from his face, patted his cheek—was startled when he snatched her wrist in a vice grip. He snarled without raising his head. “Appeal? By the legal heiress—who still lives. You screwed that up royally, Mother—or your keen little go-to did. As you well know, Orcutt’s claim only extended to the foothills. The Swenson line holds the rest. And get this, mother dear.” He looked up now, face contorted with disgust. “That patent wasn’t local. It was Imperial. So the claim will be heard by the Judiciary. We’ll be laughingstocks at Court, thanks to your nasty little mess. Or worse.”

  At this, Michael yanked her around and pointed into the dark. “And protected? By that!” A hand of hissing Warriors stepped forward from the shadows, heavily armed. “Nothing was ever enough for you. You’ve brought us to this!”

  Clegg made a move. Michael snapped, “I’d advise against it.” He was trembling—with anger? Fear? Disgust? It was difficult to assess. Lillith knew him like this. There were some things of this universe that were just too ugly for Michael to contemplate. They’d found the one thing that gave him backbone: sheer contempt.

  “You may think you have his ear, but the Emperor will never, ever forgive this. We’ll never see Sparta again.” He pulled her around to face him, his nose curled and eyes narrowed. “And more to the point, from what you care: neither will Imperial Autonetics, the ITA, or the Bury organizations. You’ve ruined us. I’ll be stuck here forever.”

  Lillith returned his look with an unruffled, unwavering stare, as she reached up and pried away his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about that, my dear. They’ll take it well enough. It’s only business.”

  But Michael was done. “Get out,” he spit.

  “Gladly.” She barked at Clegg. “Do whatever you must to get me off this planet under safe escort.”

  Clegg took a moment to think through this. He folded his arms, mentally calculating. He unfolded them, and counted off numbers on his fingertips. “That’s now Extreme High Risk. Extreme Hazardous Duty Bonus, with Lifetime Survivor Benefits.”

  “Yes, yes.” She was already turning toward the Lynx. Clegg did not.

  “You approve activation of the survivor benefits clause on behalf of Van Zandt Mining?”

  “Yes, I said! Just get me off this planet! Get on with it!”

  Clegg looked at Asach. “Witnessed?” Asach nodded.

  But still, Clegg remained immobile. “Then call it in.”

  Lillith gaped, about to object, but was confronted with the blank pane of Clegg’s shaded eyes. Whipped by stinging sand; confronted by those things hissing at the edge of the airfield, she was suddenly overcome with chill, sharing her son’s disgust at the sheer horribleness. “Oh, all right,” she snapped, and activated a ‘tooth, turning up the volume to cope with the howling wind. They could hear Van Zandt Operations in the background. She spoke briefly. The duty officer checked down his list of standard questions. “Yes,” came her icy answer to the final one, followed by her personal authorization. It was done. And then they crossed the tarmac and left, the Lynx’s engines flaming blue as it spiraled away to Saint George.

  Saint George, New Utah

  Trippe ran with devils on his tail. He was desperate, now. It was over. The battle was lost, the murder found out, and as far as everyone else was concerned, it was all his fault. He was out of facts on the ground. If they caught him, he’d hang.

  He ran through the shuttered streets of Moorstown, where no-one even dared look out, shedding his uniform as he went. He was down to his pants and boots. He cut through an alley and nearly jumped out of his skin at wild braying. A man looked up, startled himself. He’d been about to untether a mule, now spooking at the end of its picket rope.

  Trippe didn’t even pause. He shot the man, then shot the mule, scudding to a stop even as the poor creature fell. Trippe ripped off the man’s vest, then tunic, then baggy pants and boots. He jerked off his own footwear and uniform remnants; pulled on the dead man’s clothes. Slung his own utility belt as a bandoleer, slashed the picket rope at the stake, unbuckled the hobble from the dead mule’s foot, and coiled the rope as he ran.

  He headed for a section of fence behind the FLIVR pool hanger. The FLIVRs were all out. There was nothing to guard. He took a gamble, and won. He hurled the hobble at the top of the fence. It caught with a banging clang, first try. He scaled the fence, unhooked the hobble, jumped down, ran on.

  He snaked through abandoned buildings. There were no more battle sounds. He headed uphill, away from the surrendering ranks. His lungs were bellows. He kept the rope, but ditched the utility belt as he ran on.

  He hit the back fence. No-one was there. He did the rope trick with the fence a second time. He looked up, up, up past the Oquirr foothills, into the mountains beyond. He could see the Van Zandt compound. Sun glinted off the glass wall like a beacon as he ran. He settled in to marathon pace. He was dumb as a post. He had the judgment of a jellyfish. But God, could he run.

  His plan was simple. Nobody would guard the sheer cliff face. So he’d climb it. He’d climb it, like Alexander’s Macedonians taking the Rock of Sogdiana. They’d never see him coming.

  Trippe was nearly right, but for the wrong reasons. He might have saved himself a good deal of effort with more brains, and less brawn. Van Zandt’s personal security detail were contractors. They were contracted as personal bodyguards, in a civil zone. They were not an army of mercenaries. Per contract, they had delivered Lillith Van Zandt to a secure location—her own compound. They had fulfilled the terms of th
eir contract. Then, they had withdrawn. Except for one.

  Fit, but the worse for the battle, the run, and the climb, Trippe hove puffing into the corridor leading to the conference room. The rest of the building was empty. There was no-where else she could have gone. She’d be there anyway, watching his progress on the big screen. Or, from her viewpoint, the blinking, stationary pip that was his utility belt, lying within the Security Zone.

  Harlan Clegg blocked his way. “I figured you’d come.”

  Trippe did not wait to find out how, or why. He aimed high and fast, above the Plate, but Clegg was faster, and already diving for the ground. Trippe just kept running, and aimed dead center the second time. He heard the bam as Clegg hit the wall then thudded to the ground, face down. Trippe skidded; grabbed the conference doorframe, spun to a stop, facing Lillith Van Zandt down the long, long length of the room.

  Van Zandt was tap-tap-tapping on the conference table. As Trippe filled the doorframe, it went completely dark.

  She looked up, the unruffled, polite gaze of a social hostess. “Dressed for carnival?” she smiled, “how delightful!”

  He stood blinking for a moment, not comprehending the joke. “I’m not going down for this alone.”

  “How droll. Who’s going with you, then?”

  But there was to be no interesting repartee, not with Trippe. His long passages of militaria were memorized by rote. He possessed no wit of his own.

  “You are. It’s over. Azhad got to the MPs and shut them down. The Bishop’s confined the TCM to barracks. Your invincible Friedlander Amour is burning in The Barrens. Your own security detail’s run. And they hold the landing zones. There’s no way off the planet. There’s no way out of the Zone. Hell, there’s no way out of the building.”