After War

by Tim C. Taylor

  Rao’s face creased in laughter. He regarded me for a moment, twirling the ends of his mustache. “Seriously, NJ, what’s going on?”

  I sighed. “I need new rootstock, new Earth bio-culture… Farm’s a bit of a mess, Rao. I’m desperate. I’ll take as much work as I can get.”

  Rao mulled it over. “Against my better judgment, I’ll talk with the captain,” he said without enthusiasm. “I promise, NJ. I will. I still think the CDF reminds you too much of the war to come back on a steady contract, but maybe we can start with some temporary work and build our way up. Today is not a good day to bother her, though, as you’ve probably worked out. I’ll wait for the right moment, and then put in a good word for you.”

  We shook hands. “Thanks, Rao. I owe you.”

  I felt a tingling in my mind, and got the impression that Silky felt the same way about me.

  “Probation only,” I growled when we were passing out of the main gates.

  “Copy that. Now, let’s go spend the last of your money. We’ve a farm to fix up.”

  — CHAPTER 10 —

  We left Dulnthorpe in silence.

  Actually, with the back laden with supplies the rear axle of my truck was far from silent. That expensive kind of grinding not-silent that lets you see into the future, a future in which a large quantity of money is transferred to a smiling mechanic.

  I suffered Silky, but I wasn’t prepared to talk to him.

  I had to admit it, given the way Silky talked shop at the agri-supplies stores, I had just gained a badly needed help with my enterprise, a companion, even the guardian of my sanity according to the digital echo of Sergeant Chinelo. My problems were over…

  Yeah, right. Like drent they were. I had the worst of this deal. I was sure of it.

  Oh, yeah, I know I needed to belong somewhere, and I needed something more than farming in my life, something more violent. I just didn’t expect all of that to happen to me as soon as it was turning out.

  The hinterland of Dulnthorpe was a rough scrubland with occasional outbursts of green and purple where irrigation had brought life into farmsteads and small settlements, but there is a natural greening of the scrub about five miles along the road east from Dulnthorpe. There wasn’t much more than overgrown shrubs here, but it was enough to conceal the two pickup trucks that revved out from cover and blocked the road.

  In case you’re imagining my farm truck was pimped up with blinder missile launchers, point defense mini-turrets and fusion-powered X-ray lasers that shot out through the front headlamps, the most lethal load I had ever carried in my truck was the specialized manure for Earth-based plants, seeded by the ever-bountiful buttocks that unleashed into the human latrines back at the CDF barracks. It was a neat little sideline to bolster the lean CDF funds. I’d done it myself when I was there officially. Shitting for Victory: that’s what the unofficial posters said.

  Blocking my route were the kind of trucks more likely to have a tripod-mounted heavy weapon in the back.

  I slid my truck around and tried running back for town.

  “Slid around” is maybe putting it too mildly. I slammed on the brakes, pulled the nose right, and then hauled the steering wheel to the left. Undercover of the dust storm I was throwing up, I overcooked it, smacking the right side of the truck against the thick bushes lining the road, and felt the heavy load in the back making my rear slide out so my 180 turn was headed for a 360. The bushes slowed my fishtail, and I managed to force the truck’s nose back into the direction I wanted and pushed forwards the lever to apply maximum thrust to all wheels. They fought for traction, throwing up a concealing cloud of more dust – I meant to do that, honestly – before finding their grip and tearing off like a geriatric bat out of hell.

  Like I said, I slid the truck around.

  Then I slammed the brakes back on and skidded to a halt just before I hit the other truck that must have been following me from town, but I had been so busy being annoyed at Silky that I must’ve been driving blind.

  “Wait there!” I shouted at the alien, as I grabbed the rifle behind my seat, opened the truck door and hurled myself out into the dwindling dust storm.

  I rolled into a firing position on one-knee with my gun loaded, ready, and aimed at…

  Oh, drent.

  Facing me, about ten feet away, were the same three men who had been staring at Silky in the security queue waiting to get into town.

  They presented themselves in an open stance, with hands open and held slightly away from their bodies.

  I glanced behind – for a fraction of a second – before covering the three men again. They hadn’t moved.

  I hadn’t time to see what was behind me, but my ghosts had the digital equivalent of weeks to pore over the visual snapshot and conclude that they couldn’t see anything either. The trucks had one-way windows, and whoever was inside was still inside.

  “No need to worry, Mr. McCall,” said one of the men standing before me.

  I shifted my aim to cover him. He didn’t shout or anything. Didn’t need to. He had the kind of voice that cut through background noise and made you pay attention. I recognized that kind of voice: it was just like mine.

  I took an instant dislike.

  “You know, you could have saved so much drama – not to mention wear on your rear axle, which you really need to get a look at, by the way – if you had answered my comm hail.”

  “And invite cyber-attack?” I replied.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “How do your friends contact you?”

  I let his dumb question hang in the air, until he nodded that he understood. My personal contacts list didn’t stretch as far as single figures. “I just wish to talk, Mr. McCall. I’m sorry, may I call you NJ?”

  “No, you cannot.”

  “We just want to talk, Mr. McCall.”

  The man glanced to his companion at his left, and as he did so I noticed a tell-tale scar and slight bulge at his right temple. I knew what he was. Most of the human personnel in the Legion had served as Marines, though there were many in the Navy too. But there were also those who had served in the Army, and they included more primitive variations on the baseline humans who had been taken from Earth as slaves many centuries ago. Our ancestors.

  Most Army humans were unfit for void duty. For a start, the bones and muscles of their bodies atrophied outside of a gravity well. Nor did they have the enhanced strength, self-healing, and wetware hooks that meant a Marine grew up with a combat AI for a playmate. That’s what the scar was. A retrofit wetware hook added by Legion surgeons so that Army personnel could operate combat armor, in a limited capacity.

  Even though he was younger, I was born centuries after this guy and was a more advanced fighting machine: less human; more cyborg. (I know that age can be confusing for some, but it’s an inescapable complexity from living most of your life in cryo storage). Marines born in my era liked to laugh at the little Army soldiers, but I’d won a respect for them when I served alongside them in Africa. Compared with us, they were small and relatively fragile, but they were tough bastards all the same.

  This one certainly looked the part; his sculptured cheekbones and sharp nose made him look like a honed spearhead.

  I took my time weighing them up, letting them know I wasn’t afraid of them, even though my situation was tactically impossible to fight my way out of. “Give me your pitch,” I said when I was ready. “Though I have to warn you, I haven’t paid off my new carpets yet, so if you’re trying to sell replacement windows or a new power system, you’re wasting your time.”

  The ex-Army man laughed. It didn’t sound genuine. “Even if you choose the life of a hermit, you must be aware that we live in troubled times, Mr. McCall.”

  “I can take care of myself.” I stood up, because I figured that a guy kneeling on the road didn’t come across as someone who could take care of himself.

  As if I hadn’t enough problems as it was, Silky picked that moment to get out of our truck and stand next to me.<
br />
  “I thought I told you to stay inside the pickup,” I whispered. Loudly.

  “You did,” he replied cheerfully.

  The ex-Army guy made a noise between a growl and a clearing of his throat.

  Reluctantly, I ignored the alien and concentrated on the more immediate threat.

  What followed was one of those unnerving experiences when you hold a conversation with another person, but their mind is completely absent.

  Words are dutifully dispatched in both directions, arguments are made and rejected. You know, all the drent that normally goes on with a conversation. Except in this case, the other guy didn’t even pretend to be interested in a word I was saying.

  He was only interested in Silky.

  All the way through, from the first word to the last, everything was about the vaguely fishy white alien but the other guy didn’t even look at Silky, never even mentioned him.

  Of course, that meant I spent the whole time expecting to leap into action… Or not. I didn’t exactly like my deserter, but nor did I like the idea of someone muscling in on my business and snatching my companion. Only if things turned ugly would I find out which dislike was stronger.

  You’re probably a little confused by this point. Well, so was I, because I wasn’t really paying attention to what was spoken. Naturally, I recorded the whole exchange – that’s why people are born with buffer memories, after all – and the conversation went something like this:

  “We live in dangerous times,” repeated the leader. I learned later on that his name was Viktor Denisoff. I wouldn’t normally time travel forward in the story to bring back details like this, but it’s important for you to be clear about who said what, and that you pay attention, because this isn’t the last time we will meet Denisoff.

  “I noticed,” I replied. “A citizen can’t even drive on a public road these days without being accosted.” I emphasized my point by spitting onto the dusty road surface at Denisoff’s feet.

  I admit I’d picked up some unsavory habits in the war, but spitting wasn’t one. The Earth people have an elegant phrase to describe my mode of engagement with Denisoff. This was a pissing contest.

  Denisoff didn’t feel the need to piss back, which riled me no end. Did he really think I was so outgunned? Instead, he smiled indulgently. “We are both men of the galaxy, Sergeant Joshua.” (Skangat! I just hate it when they know my real name). “People like us know how rapidly the world can turn to violence.”

  “That’s right.” I nodded. “Delivered a fair portion of that violence myself.”

  “I am aware of your record, Sergeant. Rest assured that you will not need to go to war with me today, despite the unneighborly manner in which we have approached you – and for which I apologize.”

  I waited expectantly for Denisoff’s alleged apology to edge smoothly into an explanation.

  It didn’t.

  “A wise person would protect himself against violence in this dangerous world,” he said instead. “You have invested your money and your future in Sijambo Farm, and yet your property is entirely vulnerable. My organization can help to prevent harm coming to your farm.”

  “I don’t respond to threats,” I growled. “I know I can’t protect my farm from all comers, but I guarantee that if you hurt me, I will hurt you back.”

  Denisoff smiled.

  Smile. Such a short word, yet it covers such a universe of variations. Denisoff’s smile wasn’t in the category of shared amusement at the absurdity of life, the kind that peppers our memories we call good times. His put me in mind of a predator who has separated out the weakest member of the herd, and is now convinced that his hunt will result in a kill.

  “Hurt me and I will hurt you back,” echoed the smug, predatory veck. “You have expounded our philosophy perfectly in a single sentence. I represent an organization called Revenge Squad.”

  I cut him off with his smiling and expounding. “You’re not listening. I’m not paying you protection money. Not now, not ever.”

  “I should think not, Sergeant Joshua. Revenge Squad is not a protection racket, nor are we technically a form of insurance. We specialize in revenge.”

  “And this specialty of yours… Let me guess, it doesn’t come cheap.”

  “Of course not. Good men and materiel are never cheap.”

  “And if I don’t pay your fee, Sijambo Farm will be whacked. How is that not protection?”

  Denisoff sighed, much the same way as Sergeant Rao had sighed at his particularly dimwitted recruits. “I repeat, this is not a protection racket. If you do not sign up to a Revenge Squad policy, then we leave you alone. We won’t hurt you, but if you or your property are attacked, neither will we act on your behalf. If the word revenge causes you difficulty, some clients prefer deterrent. If you sign with us, then we will mark your property as covered, and those who would do you harm will know the consequences of harming you.”

  A volley of chemical signals announced the obvious in my mind. The identification symbols on the back of the Revenge Squad trucks – I had seen the same symbol in a few locations in town. It was simple, and put me in mind of a military unit symbol I’d seen a long time ago. A white circle cut into a red square. In the most common form I saw, the circle bore an R and an S in English letters, but I had seen variations with alien script.

  “Suppose your truck carried our symbol, Sergeant Joshua. Imagine too that a dumb junkie, too stretched out into a pharmacological high to heed our symbol, breaks into your truck, looking for something to steal. Revenge Squad does not stop the break-in, but we will catch up with the wrongdoer and send them a message of revenge. Perhaps we will break their limbs – something of that order. And if someone shot you dead, we would deploy all of our considerable resources to terminate your killer’s existence in as public and as painful a manner as possible. If we only managed to pay them back in the form of a swift execution, then we would turn our attention to your killer’s family and friends to exact your posthumous revenge.”

  “Which makes you, what? Professional vigilantes?”

  “I have already explained our philosophy, Joshua. Vigilantism implies a sense of justice, whereas Revenge Squad’s stance on morality is steadfastly agnostic. We are about revenge, not justice, nor are we concerned with upholding the law, although–” he gave a half shrug “–we cannot entirely ignore the legal authorities. Payback is profitable, Sergeant Joshua, and we want your business.”

  “I bet you do. And it’s Mr. McCall to you. I’m only Sergeant Joshua when the terms of my discharge into the reserves require me to be. Go on, then. Your deterrence policy. How much does it cost?”

  Denisoff flashed an echo of his earlier predatory smile, and then told me a number.

  Money is a strange thing. I was deep into adulthood before I’d even heard of the concept but once I had it seemed money is always there and always of vital importance (at least, in the gaps between the moments of mortal peril). For something so essential, money is endlessly mutable.

  Unfortunately, since I can’t be sure you will understand the monetary context in which I was living, the number Denisoff quoted holds no meaning for you. So let me explain the figure by saying that my jaw would have dropped, and my brains leaked out of my ears to hear of such a sum, were it not for the fact that I wasn’t paying attention. This conversation was all a sham, remember? We weren’t really discussing anything – just going through the motions when all along this was about Silky, although I still didn’t have a frakking clue why.

  Even if I had been paying attention, and even if I had that kind of money (an even bigger if), I would still have said no. I pictured their white and red mark on the tailgate of my truck, and stuck onto posts around the perimeter of my farm. I imagined it woven into my clothing, and shuddered. Their symbol looked too much like a brand, a mark of ownership. I’d been born a slave. No one was going to own me again.

  So I told Denisoff to go to hell. That wasn’t my exact phrasing, but you get the idea, and more im
portantly, so did Denisoff.

  The fake conversation was now over. This was the point I had been waiting for, when the weapons would be drawn and the killing start. I readied my body and filled my mind with tactical awareness of everyone around me.

  Not for the first time in my life, I was completely wrong.

  After I had turned down his offer, Denisoff shrugged and walked off without another word. I thought that meant he was letting his friends finish me off, but they were equally uninterested. The Revenge Squad trucks pulled off the road and headed south across country. Now that I was looking for it, I saw their mark on the fender and tailgates of the vehicles. ‘RS’ in a white circle on a red square. I was sure this wasn’t the last I would see of that mark.

  Silky put a hand on my shoulder.

  I shrugged his unwanted touch away.

  “Don’t be angry with me, NJ. I needed to get closer to those men.”

  “To do what? To read their minds?”

  “I shouldn’t need to keep repeating this, but I can’t read thoughts. I can, however, sense a general feeling, and what I sensed confirmed what you said back in town. Their interest was on me, not you. When you rejected their offer, I sensed disappointment, not hostility. An opportunity missed, for now. I do not know what they truly desire, but I suspect that they will not be easily diverted. They will change their tactics and try again.”

  Oh, the sweet joy of being earnestly informed of the frakking obvious. If Silky had been able to tell me why these Revenge Squad vecks were so interested in him, then he would have demonstrated some of the promise the Sarge had suggested.

  Silky had been useless. I still didn’t understand what Denisoff was sniffing after, and I was still harboring a known deserter, having been persuaded to this unwise course by digital backups of dead people.

  Thank you, Sarge, I said to myself.

  But Sergeant Chinelo was still lucid. Shut the frakk up, Joshua, and stay sharp. Make the most of the situation.