The Price of Peace

by Mike Moscoe

  “Blow in its ear?”

  “Yeah. Hard.” The woman didn’t even slow down.

  Trouble gave the recalcitrant animal one more hard kick. It ignored him. It had turned to the side of the trail and was stripping a bush of leaves. Shrugging, Trouble leaned forward and blew in its ear. No effect. He drew in a deep breath and leaned real close.

  The mule took off so fast, Trouble almost lost his seat. Working hard to keep on the damn critter and point it in the general direction of the target group, the marine bounced past the fire team and shot through the scouts.

  Now brush and low limbs added to his problem. His helmet visor and body armor protected him, but that still left a lot of exposed skin. At least the heads-up said he was headed in the right direction.

  In fact, he was almost halfway there.

  “Slow down, girl,” he shouted. Nothing happened. He pulled in on the reins. The damn thing speeded up. The target was getting real close. Trouble considered falling off the mule, but the ground looked awfully rocky. Shooting the mule was attractive, but his pistol was holstered, and both hands clutched the beast’s reins. Not that they controlled it.

  The mule galloped into a meadow. On the far side, the leader of the target group was just riding into the clearing. Trouble’s four-legged transport headed for him, or the mule he rode in on. The leader waved a halt; his victims were bunched up a ways behind him. Three toughs with rifles joined him. All four eyed Trouble and his galloping friend, more puzzled than alarmed.

  Maybe I am a puzzle. Helmet and visor hid his face. Body armor over a bedraggled red-and-blue dress uniform said nothing about who he was. Now the mule slowed. Probably wants to get friendly with the mules up ahead. Think, Trouble.

  “Bernie’s in trouble. He needs help,” Trouble shouted in the best imitation of Clem’s drawl he could manage between bumps in the mule’s slowing gallop.

  The leader turned to his toughs, shaking his head. “I told you Bernie was too smart for his own good. What’d he do this time?”

  “Went chasing after a big brown hairy thing. Said the pelt was worth a fortune. Turns out it had a momma and pappa. His leg’s broke,” Trouble finished as his mule came to a stop, nuzzling the muzzle of the leader’s mule. Trouble slid from its back, a hand grasping the saddle to keep him balanced on wobbly legs. The other hand edged toward his pistol. He had it out before the others had quit laughing at Bernie’s fictional distress.

  The business end of a service automatic ended their guffaws. “I’m Lieutenant Tordon, Humanity Marine Corps, and if you want to keep living, drop your rifles real slow.”

  For a second, they just stared at him. Then an evil sneer crept across the leader’s face. “There’s only one of you, and there’s four of us.”

  “The first of you that moves his rifle dies with a bullet in his heart. I can kill two more before any of you can get a shot off. And I’ll get the last one while I’m falling. You want to live, drop the guns.”

  One thug held his rifle out at arm’s length. Trouble eyed him as he dropped it. The leader took the opportunity to bring his rifle up. Trouble put a bullet in his chest before his barrel moved a foot. Two more rifles were on the ground before the leader landed.

  The riderless mules took off to tour points of interest. The thugs were having trouble controlling their rides with their hands in the air. One man fell off—too damn close to the rifles. “Go for the guns and I’ll blow your head off. You guys dismount. All of you, over against that tree.”

  They moved, slowly, eyes on the blood pumping from their leader’s chest. Trouble had aimed for the heart, and hit what he aimed for. Several would-be slaves took the opportunity to get close. “You want to grab a rifle and keep these guys covered?”

  “Would love to,” a black-haired woman agreed, “but we can’t get close enough to him,” she inclined her head toward the leader, “without getting shocked.”

  “Any of your group sucking up to these guys?” Trouble remembered the four city fellows they’d left tied to the tree with Bernie and his crew.

  Disgust shaded the woman’s face as she glanced at her fellow hikers. “We weren’t that desperate. They killed my husband.” Growls of agreement accompanied that. Trouble shoved her a rifle. Once she had the junior toughs covered, he handed a second rifle to a kid, maybe fourteen, then collapsed beside the leader’s body. He found the controller and switched it off. Two women rushed to get rifles; another gave the leader a kick.

  With rifles covering the thugs, others were ransacking their pockets, removing knives, phones, and other potential weapons. The black-haired woman traded her rifle for a Bowie knife. For a moment, Trouble weighed how important prisoners were to the skipper, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort and turned his back.

  “Trouble to skipper. I’ve got the situation with my target well in hand. Had to shoot their team leader.” There was a scream from behind him. He didn’t look back.

  “We heard the shot. You take any prisoners?”

  The scream from behind him had turned into a trio. “I don’t think so.”

  “Our team has gone to ground. We’re closing on them and will dig them out carefully. You’ve got witnesses?”

  “Yeah, I got the widows of some of the men they killed.”

  “Explains the static on your signal. If you’ve got witnesses, this group gets no benefit from killing their hostages. May take me a while, but they’re mine. Umboto out.”

  Trouble struggled to his feet. His fire team would be arriving soon. Probably best he kept them to the far side of the clearing until things separated themselves out here. He was waiting in the sun when his scouts glided out of the woods. Ruth and her dad were with them. The corporal leading the scouts eyed the other end of the clearing. Shrieks and screams and laughs were still coming from that direction.

  “Widows are talking things over with the guys who murdered their husbands,” Trouble said. The corporal shrugged and set about securing this side of the meadow.

  Ruth and her dad settled beside him, their backs to the dell. Ruth’s olive skin paled as the screams went on, but she said nothing. It was her father who spoke. “Short woman, black hair showing gray?”

  Trouble nodded.

  “Agnatha, Paco’s wife. Probably ought to stop her. This isn’t healthy.” He didn’t move.

  “Not good for a combat unit’s morale.” Trouble kept his voice steady. A shriek went up the scale, then stopped dead. “But I don’t see those folks as combat troops.”

  Ruth coughed, then leaned over and lost what was left of her breakfast. “Sorry, girl” was all her Dad said.

  She wiped her mouth; Trouble signaled to a marine for his canteen. The private offered it, along with a candy bar. Ruth took the canteen but ignored the food. “When we got free, I wanted to do something to Clem, the boss, all of them. Hurt them like they hurt us. But with all the marines around and the chance to go after two more gangs, somehow it slipped my mind. I don’t think I could live with myself if I’d done this.”

  “But your captors didn’t kill anyone,” her father pointed out. “These women have to live with the memory of their husbands and children being murdered. Maybe this won’t make it better, but maybe it won’t make it worse, either.”

  Shots came from their distant left; Trouble called up the last target on his heads-up. A large clump of figures was surrounded by many well-deployed marines. The fire didn’t sound like M-6s. Probably poor fire discipline by fools who didn’t know they were finished. He switched to the skipper’s channel.

  “You’re the last of the three. We’ve got plenty of witnesses to what you’re doing. Harm one of those people, and none of you’ll get out of here alive. Put down your guns, and you’ll live. This planet doesn’t have a death penalty.”

  Trouble didn’t know that. Behind him, the last scream died. Part of him was sorry some people had found the need for capital punishment. But his sorrow was for the nightmares of the freed hostages, not the slavers they’d exec
uted.

  There was more fire, none of it marine-issue. Trouble zoomed his heads-up. The Condor was down to one thousand meters and giving a good infrared picture. People were balled up in a circle; someone must have turned off the proximity pain threshold to get them in that close. One image broke from the center of the circle. The shot that brought him down was in his back. That must have given a marine sharpshooter a good sight picture, because his killer quickly went down. For a long second, nothing happened; then guns were tossed away as three men stood, hands up. Two marines broke cover, guns steady.

  Trouble chinned his display off. “They got the last bunch. One killed by his own people, one by marines. Three surrendered. Looks like all the hostages are okay.” He tried to stand; Ruth helped him up. The rest of the marines double-timed into the clearing. Trouble pointed them to the left. “Situation is stabilized. All hostages are safe. Let’s join the skipper.”

  “Want me to get your mule?” Ruth offered.

  “I think I’d rather walk,” he chuckled, and chinned on his mike. “Skipper, what’s the rallying point?”

  “Beach where the launch is waiting. Corporal will show you. I don’t want to turn on a beacon until we got the ship that was planning on picking up these folks.”

  “I’ll follow the corporal,” sighed Trouble.

  SIX

  ZYLON PLOVDIC HEADED for the hills, her pickup loaded with “borrowed” camping supplies and two men Big Al trusted. He rode beside her. She’d kept below the accepted speed in town. Now she pushed the rig for all the speed the dirt track would allow.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “We lay low. A ship’s coming in with more survey supplies and weapons. It will pick up the labor recruits as soon as the Navy leaves orbit.”

  “Assuming the recruiting teams are still there and the damn Navy ever leaves orbit.”

  “I have arranged for the Navy to leave orbit soon. I believe it is time to check in on our teams.” He pulled a small radio from his pocket. “Bernie, Elm, and Maurice, talk to me.” Nothing. “Any of you there?” Nothing again. Slowly, Big Al closed up the radio. “Our problem may be bigger than I thought.”

  “When’s the ship due?”

  “Maybe it is best that it not arrive. Are we well supplied?”

  “For three months.”

  “Fee, three months in this wilderness.” He opened the radio again, tapped several keys. “Benefit, this is Harmony. Go away. Come back in a month.”

  “Benefit here. I won’t be back for another circuit, say fifty days.”

  Big Al shook his head. “See you then. Out.”

  Benefit made no reply.

  • • •

  “XO, I think things just changed. We intercepted a coded message on a merchant channel. Our bogey’s two hours from making orbit. It just hit the decelerator. It’ll never make orbit on that course. Looks like it’s headed back the way it came.”

  “Not economical use of reaction mass.” The XO grinned. “No merchie would do that. Helm, take us to three gees in a smooth but rapid curve.” The alerted crew needed only seconds to start the punishing acceleration. They couldn’t have been in a better place in their own orbit around Hurtford Corner’s moon.

  “Sensors, ping that baby. Let her know we’re a warship and she’s a target. Comm, advise the skipper we are in hot pursuit and emissions control is no longer necessary.” Stan leaned back in his seat as the gees built up. “Okay, folks, let’s nail this jack rabbit.”

  • • •

  The net got very busy all of a sudden. Trouble’s nerves were still frayed, and his brain was far from clear. He passed along to Ruth and her dad what was happening, as much to keep them in the loop as to have someone out of uniform to remind him if he started to screw up. “The slave ship that was supposed to pick us up is running for the jump point. The Patton’s hot on its tail, and I’m betting on her in this horse race. The skipper is having Jagowski bring our bad guys to the launch. She wants to get firepower into Hurtford Corner as soon as she can, so she’ll load the marines and prisoners back on the first lift, civilians on the second.”

  Joe patted his M-6. “I got plenty of firepower here. Mind if I hitch along on the first ride?”

  “Me, too,” Ruth jumped in.

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  The skipper pointedly ignored the rush Trouble’s ex-hostages made for the water as soon as they came in sight of the beach. She gave those who needed it time to wash blood from their skin and clothes. By that time, Jagowski had arrived with his little detachment. The boss and Clem looked a bit the worse for wear, but nothing that couldn’t be accounted for by a fast hike through rough terrain. Captain Umboto kept her prisoners to one side of the beach, the survivors to the other, and the marines in the middle. She made an exception for Ruth, her pa, and a couple others from Trouble’s group who had shown they knew how to use an M-6. The skipper explained her plan.

  Agnatha stepped forward, a rifle slung casually over her arm. “There’s more bastards like those who killed my husband and kids running around these hills. I demand justice.”

  “You’ll get it, but not now,” the skipper answered her.

  “We have rifles, food, mules.” Several of the survivors had collected around the dozen saddles mules. Several of the pack animals had been stripped of their empty loads and were ready if someone wanted to ride them bareback. “You have sensors. Loan us their service, and we’ll find our own justice.”

  The skipper glanced at Trouble. He shrugged; he hadn’t been able to control them before. He wouldn’t bet she could control them now. “I need to pull all my people back when it’s time to go. I can’t have them hiking around the backcountry.”

  “Then lend me a helmet. Up there”—she waved at the clouding sky—“is a Condor. Your man can control it from here. He’s here when you need him and can show me what I need.”

  The skipper took a step back, as if a rabbit had grown fangs before her very eyes. “Suddenly you know a hell of a lot about my weapon systems.”

  “My husband was a hunter and tracker. We couldn’t afford the bells and whistles in the catalogues. That doesn’t mean we never heard of them. Loan me your eyes. These bastards are as much a threat to you as they are to us. We’ll kill ’em for you.”

  Trouble doffed his helmet. “They aren’t going home, skipper. Don’t know what the bad guys have got. Unless we give these folks a hand, they might walk into a trap,” he said, offering his helmet to Umboto.

  “Bad bunch of choices.” The captain sighed as she passed the helmet along to the widow. “We’ll want it back.”

  “I’ll return it quickly.” She turned. “Who is with me?” Fifteen men and women, several hardly more than kids, headed for their mules. They were ready to ride, but the skipper slowed them down while a corporal showed Agnatha how to operate her heads-up display. Gunny took the others aside and made sure they knew how to use the weapons they had, while a corporal collected all the rations available and passed them to the civilians.

  Gunny was shaking his head when he returned. “These folks know weapons. I don’t want to be in those kids’ sight pictures.”

  The marines had already set up a base camp on the beach. Jagowski and one of the able spacers asked to stay behind. “Sensor chief’s gonna need some support. Nothing’s gonna get near here without us seeing ’em.” He hefted his M-6. “Be nice to have some legitimate targets.”

  “You know, Jagowski, you stay gone too long, your leading chief’s gonna decide he doesn’t need you anymore,” the skipper scowled.

  “He’ll be wrong. Things aren’t finished here. Let us cover this side while the rest of you go to town.”

  Captain Umboto raised the question to Trouble with a single eyebrow. “Why not? We’ll have a full load, anyway.”

  “Lieutenant, move your fire team out.” The-skipper ended the matter with an order.

  “Gunny, mount ’em up. Move ’em out.”

  “Aye, aye, sir
.”

  Ten minutes later, the launch shoved off. Petty Officer Jagowski waved; Chief Max was still looking around the camp, shaking his head.

  • • •

  “What was that?” Big Al asked, sticking his head out the window and searching the sky.

  “Sounded like a shuttle taking off, but it wasn’t long enough. See any contrails?”

  “One. Started just ahead of us. Ended just behind us. What do you make of that?”

  “Where’s that lake you’ve been using to ship in stuff we didn’t want to go through customs?”

  “Ahead of us.”

  “And the main landing field is behind us. Al, I have a very strong suspicion that we’re being outmaneuvered.”

  “The three recruiters are off line. I better have the survey teams check in. Tell them to lay low.”

  “Is it safe to call all of them up on a single channel? Seems to me we’re being out-teched by the Navy.” Big Al held the radio in his hand, measuring it like he did some of the recruits Zef brought in. “Back a bit there was a turnoff to the left. Let me backtrack to it. You send to the teams, tell them the situation here and have them stay off the air. Then we get back on this road and pick a good turnoff to the right.”

  “Woman, you are brilliant. I do believe I must keep you around. You have skills I doubted I’d find on such an innocent backwater as this.”

  Doing a quick J turn, to complaints from the back end, Zylon got her plan for misdirection started. It was good Big Al was listening to her. It might get them off this planet in one piece…with him owing her. She had a few more tricks up her sleeves or in her pants. Big Al was sweating; she had his attention. Very good.

  While they were stopped, there was a phone call she wanted to make. A few people did owe her. If the recruiting teams had gone quiet, and a Navy shuttle climbed out of where they’d been, maybe she could deliver a very nice present to Big Al.