by Chris Hechtl
“Keep trying. I understand a copy of his report is enroute?”
“We should be getting it when the convoy arrives in a week.”
“Then you'll have your information. You'll have to exercise some patience and wait commander,” Irons said mildly.
“I hate waiting,” she muttered to him as she fired off a request to Marshall and the other A.I. to get more information.
Bast just yowled as the questions from the other A.I. began to come in. Her eyes turned bright flaming red in anger. Jethro covered his ears and accessed the incoming stream of inquiries. Some were rapid fire, nearly overwhelming his buffers.
He accessed the base's long range communication network and typed a text to the A.I. and to the Commander that Bast wasn't responsive. “She's young, ma'am, and I believe hardwired not to talk over a comm link due to the security issue. I think you'll have your answers when the copy of my report arrives, ma'am.”
“Very well. We'll discuss it at another time. Perhaps in person. Good day,” Commander Sprite replied and then apparently cut the connection.
“Do you want to tell me what that was about?” Jethro demanded of Bast. She didn't answer, just turned and licked her shoulder. “Yeah, I thought as much,” he said dryly.
Chapter 33
Jethro and an inspection team made up of locals, constables, and militia finally got around to performing regular inspections of all incoming and outgoing traffic. That included the dirigibles that seemed to float around like iron colored clouds everywhere.
He had found out they had schedules and traffic lanes to follow while in the sky. They might be vulnerable to the winds but woe to anyone who veered out of their assigned lane. The penalties were said to be stiff, including loss of their license. The natives took the threat of a hydrogen explosion over their city very seriously.
Instead of guarding the masts, refueling centers, or docks, Jethro and the other Marines had turned that duty over to trained local militia and mechs in order to free up manpower for personal inspections.
Jethro had been dubious about turning the duties over, but the Major had teams interview each of the militia troopers involved. They knew the risks; they knew that if they failed in their duty in even the slightest way the entire docks and potentially half the city would become one big fireball. Thousands would die in the inferno … including their own families.
Jethro wouldn't put it past Baroness Busche to do it, but for some reason she was holding off. It wasn't because she was squeamish, of that he was sure. No, she had some other purpose in mind. He just wondered what it was.
On the third round of inspections on the first day, he was fairly certain he had a winner. The overweight owner of the dirigible was nervous; he kept licking his lips and looking about him. He was sweating, and since it was not quite freezing out but close, he shouldn't be. Nor was he sick. Bast's voice stress analysis when the man spoke pointed to something he was trying desperately to hide.
“You seem very upset,” Jethro said mildly. The man was overweight and kept checking the gold watch he had on a chain attached to his left vest pocket.
“Me? Upset? No, no, just surprised. I didn't expect this,” the man said imploringly. He kept darting his eyes around. “And yes, well, nervous. It's not wise to bring a firearm with … well, you know,” he said, pointing to the giant gas bag overhead.
Jethro nodded sagely, but he wasn't quite buying it. The human could be under pressure, under duress.
As his team went to work checking the dirigible's paperwork, Jethro excused himself to go to the head. The interior of the dirigible was gray and utilitarian, very industrial in feel and design. Only the brass pipes and fittings lightened things up a bit. Inside the tiny compartment, he quickly stripped and then cloaked. He opened the door, slipped through and then prowled to check things out ahead of the team.
He didn't find anything in the cargo hold but Bast put up heat signatures in the tiny captain's cabin. He dropped to all fours and put a finger to the door. The vibrations of the voices inside were picked up by the door. Bast was busy handling and maintaining his cloak, but she managed to process the audio enough for him to pick out two people whimpering and four others snarling.
“Hostage situation,” Bast put up in a text on his HUD. He nodded. He grimaced when she put up a map and possible locations of each of the people. Tight quarters indeed. And near them was an engine filled with fuel.
“That fat bastard better get rid of them soon or we're going to start cutting pieces off you, Oh stop your whining. I hardly touched you,” a male voice said snidely.
“Backup,” Bast insisted. Jethro shook his head as the door snicked. It opened slowly and someone peeked out.
“See anything?” a woman whispered softly.
The guy looked over his shoulder for a moment, leaving a slight gap for Jethro to peek through. “No. And I can't hear anything with you and them whimpering. Get the kid to shut up. Knock her out if you have to. But we keep them alive.”
“Why?”
“Cause the parents are the only ones who know how to fly this contraption, that's why. And stop questioning orders!” The male hissed, turning back to the woman.
He opened the door enough to stick his head out to look around. Jethro looked up at him then reached up and tore the man's throat out. As he gagged and fell forward Jethro was already on the move, slipping in between his legs.
He stayed low, assessing the situation in a brief instant. There were three left, all armed, and two hostages, both females. One had been raped; he could tell from her shattered look and smell. Both hostages were bound in tight balls on the floor. One guy had his feet propped up on the girl and poked her with his heel as he stropped his bush knife and leered at her.
When the boss or squad leader fell forward, they snickered in amusement. But when he didn't get back up, the woman got up to see what was wrong.
“Jed? What the hell man, did you … what's that smell?” she asked, covering her mouth.
Bast had gotten rid of the arterial blood spray that had hit him with his nanites but she couldn't block out the smell of the blood or of the dead man's bowls being voided as his sphincter and bladder let go. As the woman waved her hand over her face Jethro sidled past and kicked, hamstringing her with his toe claws as his hands reached out for another target. She went down with a scream alerting the others that something was wrong, but by that time it was too late.
It was tight quarters but Jethro got in to rip the eyes out of one guy with his right hand as his left hand pulled the knife out of the jerk's hands and then turned it around to drive in under his chin and up through his skull.
“My eyes!” the last guy screamed over and over, clutching at his bloody ruined face. The women screamed as well, the two hostages in terror, and the enemy female in pain and fright. Jethro straightened and punched the man in the throat to silence his wailing then used a heavy book to knock the female out.
“You're safe now,” Jethro said ever so softly, like a ghost. “Four tangos down, captain's quarters. I've got two hostages here. Arrest the captain and sequester his crew,” he ordered over the radio as he dropped the cloak. “Two, no, three,” he grimaced when he noted the guy he had rabbit punched had expired. “KIA, one female unconscious and bleeding. Minor wound. Send backup and a medic,” he ordered.
“Will do,” Misani replied, sounding surprised. “I'd wondered where you'd gotten off to, Gunny.”
“I thought I'd do a prowl about. Glad I did,” he said simply. He knelt again by the women. They were moving, rocking in fear. The girl had wet herself. Both had wide frightened eyes and were whimpering in terror.
“You're okay; you're safe. Sorry about the mess,” Jethro said. He pulled the sock and rag out of the mother's mouth. She began to weep and wail, more terrified of him than the damn pirates. He was thoroughly disgusted.
He looked up warily as feet pounded the metal catwalks to where they were at. Misani was the first to get on scene; he could tel
l by the man's IFF. He whistled out in the companionway. “Damn, Gunny! You don't mess around! Remind me not to piss you off,” he said.
“Yeah. Definitely,” a shaken voice said from behind the private.
“Take over here. Unwrap them and get their statements. They are obviously frightened out of their wits,” Jethro ordered, getting out of the tight stinky cabin. He had to climb over the bodies to do it.
Misani went in, bound the female Horathian then cut the girl free first. She ran out into the companionway, saw Jethro squealed in renewed terror, and turned about. She ran into her father's arms screaming and crying.
Jethro stuck a finger in his ear. The young woman was like certain cats; she had tones that could bend metal it seemed. The father wrapped her in his bound arms. A moment later the mother came out, gag still around her neck. She was massaging her wrists, but when she saw her husband and daughter, she too broke down. She dropped to her knees, covered her mouth and sobbed softly.
“Just one more day in the life of the corps,” Jethro murmured.
<(>~^~<(>
“Ma'am, we hit a minor gold mine with the three dead and one captured Horathians,” Lieutenant Locke said to Moira during the early morning meeting. He had started to take over more and more of the liaison duties with the militia as well as with the Wolf group.
“Oh?”
Arkangel was shooting the lieutenant a dirty look, but he seemed to be oblivious to it. “Yes, ma'am. Two had implants.”
“Ah. I see. So that's how you determined they were Horathians?”
“Yes, ma'am. That and the female had work done and kept going on about the rules of war. She let slip that they were spies. Technically we can execute her whenever we wish, but we're holding off to get as much intel out of her as we can arrange.”
“Using the threat as leverage,” Arkangel interjected smoothly.
“By all means, wring her dry,” Captain Lyon said. “But you said you hit a gold mine?”
“Literally in one case. The two with implants had files on contacts, safe houses, caches, and locations of personnel in the outback. One kept an electronic journal with a running TOE on who was dead and who was left including their chain of command.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” Moira said, ears perked up, sitting forward.
Locke nodded, grinning. “We're still sifting through it all, ma'am. There are radio frequencies and encryption codes as well. All sorts of goodies to play with.”
“Ah.”
“We don't want to let them know we know,” Arkangel said, hands on the top of his cane. “It's tradecraft 101. We tap their radios and networks and listen in. We don't act on the information unless we absolutely have to.”
“I'm not thrilled about that. But …,” Captain Lyon frowned and turned to the Major.
Major White Wolf nodded. “No, he's right. We're going to leave the radio alone. Listen, record, pinpoint locations, but don't interfere. We'll monitor their network of spies and informants too.”
“For how long, ma'am? According to our intel, they've got something planned for next week.”
“We'll roll them up the day, no, the night before. Just the caches and half of the safe houses, we'll try to work it so they are all in one area.”
“Why only half?” Captain Lyon asked.
“Because, you and Recon will be set up to monitor the other half. I want a clean sweep,” Moira stated. “So, when they go to ground, you're going to see who goes with them and trace any who go outside the network we know about.”
“Ah,” the captain nodded.
“This is unwise,” Arkangel stated, seemingly agitated.
“Hell man, it's what we've been wanting outside a head-to-head with Busche. Rolling up everything we can in the capital will free up more manpower to go after her in the bush.”
“True. But it could be a trap.”
“It could be. And I wouldn't put it past her to set her own people up. We'll have to see,” Moira said. “But if enough of it pans out, we're going to act.” She turned to Lieutenant Locke. “Good work, Lieutenant.”
“Copy that,” Captain Lyon growled.
<(>~^~<(>
Since the black cat had terrified just about everyone on the dirigible docks, the Major saw fit to reassign him to the continuous sweeps in the city the following morning. He was getting a reputation as a devil cat. Anyone who crossed his path be warned was whispered about in the bars and street corners.
Jethro didn't know what the problem was; a little fear on the other side was healthy. But he was a marine, so he did as he was told.
He didn't mind the fear from the humans, but he could do without the hero worship of the Neo and aliens in the slums. Apparently Bast's little miracle gift to Lil Red had turned him into some sort of magical healer. Every time he entered the slums, he was swarmed in minutes.
Half of the slums were empty; he was grateful for that. The growing cold had gotten some to move out quicker. The incentives to get jobs and get better shelter and food and the potential for a humanitarian crisis on their hands … and the not so gentle prodding of the Major had gotten the city council to finally help out a bit.
The city was becoming alive again, not only were the businesses and industrial sectors looking lively, but some of the changes the Major and Admiral Irons had instituted with his gifts and her wisdom were finally looking to take root. It was just beginning he knew; when the full educational stuff and access to modern medicine hit the mainstream, the blight would melt almost overnight. It was already starting he thought, noting a free medical clinic with an educational view screen outside. He got around the line and kept going.
It was about time Jethro thought, keeping an eye on the locals as he looked about him. He felt a little like a tourist, glad that they were prepping for winter. Some of the gay banners looked nice, better than the drab colors the natives normally had. He was fairly certain Shanti would appreciate them. He realized he missed her. Missed her more and more each day it seemed.
Bast sniffed, loud enough to get his attention and to get him back on task. Even though he wasn't in armor, the A.I. hadn't shirked on keeping an eye on his safety. She had five sensor remotes out and around him, each keeping out about a hundred meters from him. One was above acting and an overwatch and reserve.
He nodded politely to the few people who acknowledged his presence by a tip of the hat or head nod. Even the constable walking his beat gave him a respectable if wary nod. Jethro winked at him and kept walking. He could tell from his sensors that the man turned to watch him go in surprise.
When he and his partner got to the theater district, he knew things were picking up for the locals. It had been refurbished, and they had Broadway shows going on in every theater for blocks around. The lights were on and plenty of people were around spending credits they probably shouldn't. Not only that but actors and actresses were out and about or in window displays enticing people to their shows or buying food from the vendors on the streets.
A hot dog guy offered them a free dog, but he waved it off. Misani looked disappointed, but Jethro had no intention of trying the mystery meat. “Thanks, but we just ate. Maybe next time.”
“Okay. Just remember I'm here. Name's Joe,” the guy said, tipping his chef's hat and grinning as the Marines passed by.
He snorted, shook his head, flicked his ears and moved on. They had gotten more than one Marine into one of those burlesque style shows but he didn't swing the pink skin way. Besides, he was a married cat now.
He passed a bar lit in Neon. “Cocktails and dreams. Quaint.” He sniffed then moved on with Misani in tow.
“This place is looking up. You think the boss lady will start letting us have leave in the capital?”
“I don't know. Probably not until we've knocked the Horathians back even further.”
“Ah. Yeah, that bitch needs to be planted. Soon.”
“Amen. A-fracken-men,” Jethro murmured as they moved on.
While cle
aring out a heat signature in a low rent area, Jethro got in leaving the human behind. He had to leave some of his kit behind to squeeze into the tight spaces, but he got in. He could smell cats, so he was pretty sure it wasn't a problem.
One of Bast's remotes floated on its lift fans ahead of him while another trailed behind him. The other three were on overwatch circling Dani Misani outside.
When the voices picked up, the drone moved out quicker, entering a large enclosure. It went high, lifting to the ceiling then hovered there. He got a bird's eye view of four tomcats clustered around the heat signatures of four females hiding in a nest of pipes. Two were looking down at them, tucked up and drowsing. When the drone buzzed in, they looked up in confusion, ears swiveling to lock into the sound.
“Come on, kid. Do your duty,” a pale tom said, trying to entice one of the females out. “The man paid for it, get it over with.”
“No!” a familiar voice said, making Jethro freeze. He knew that voice, that feline voice. High pitched, a kitten. Red, he thought.
“Who's there? Who's coming? I heard someone!” a high pitched voice said.
“Federation Marines,” Jethro said, coming out into the open. He noted none of the cats were armed other than with what nature and the meddling hand of man had given them.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the cream covered tom demanded, squinting at Jethro.
“I could ask you the same thing,” the gunny said, rising to his full height. He could just make it in the space, towering over all of the domestic cats. “What's going on here?”
“None of your damn business,” the long legged tom said, talking smack.
“Right,” Jethro drawled. He sniffed the air. He could tell at least one of the females was in heat. He also knew about his kind. How some pregnancies weren't voluntary. “Last time I checked you don't rape a lady or a child,” he growled, ears back, teeth bared.
“Who's that?” a female asked. She came out from the nest of pipes warily. She eyed Jethro. “Who are you, stranger?”