Department 9

by Tim C. Taylor

  “Hey, Lil’!” called Vetch. He was over in the alleyway, waving at her angrily. “Are you coming or what?”

  She could hear the pain in his voice, but his mail shirt must have dissipated the bolt he’d been shot with a few moments earlier.

  She shouted back, “Someone has to watch over your hairy ass, I suppose.”

  “Then get your finely sculpted officer butt over here on the count of…now!”

  A covering fusillade of bolts flew from the alley and from a window overlooking the alley, courtesy of Enthree.

  Lily ran for her life.

  The advancing troopers quieted. They had probably gone to ground, but Lily didn’t care.

  All that mattered was getting to that alley.

  Most of the civilians had already drained through this escape route. Not all. Some were still hugging the ground. Lily jumped over the man who’d hidden with her under the stall. He’d bled out on the sidewalk, just a few feet from safety.

  And she made it.

  Her friends were waiting for her. Carnolin, too, now clothed in the unremarkable civilian clothes Vetch had hidden over his ample belly. Enthree was scrambling down the outside of a wall toward them, firing her blaster as she moved.

  What now?

  Vetch produced a palmful of green plastic tokens stamped with the Kaylingen city crest. “There’s a tram stop four minutes from here. Let’s hope it’s on time.”

  “It will be,” said Lily, grabbing a transport token. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about worlds with nightmare dictatorships, it’s that they know how to keep the busses running on time.”

  “Careful,” Carnolin warned as they pushed through the alley, “that’s a speech crime. People who overhear you will report you.”

  “Typical sodding dictator! What does In’Nalla call herself, then? Every citizen’s cuddly friend?”

  “The Revered Leader is proud to call herself a dictator. What will get you reported is the implication that centrally planned transport is preferable to a liberal market solution.”

  Lily slowed as they began to press into the panicked crowds backing up on the other side of the alley. “Your planet’s seriously nuts. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Let’s keep our opinions to ourselves,” said Vetch. “No wisecracks.”

  “Halt!” called a voice behind them.

  Lily turned, trying to act like a scared civilian, many of whom had also turned around to see what new disaster was unfolding.

  They were confronted by a young Zhoogene Militia lieutenant in a pristine uniform. Behind him was a column of troopers and, behind them, a light grav tank.

  “Nobody move!” commanded the lieutenant.

  Two small cylinders dropped onto the paving slabs in front of the officer. They rolled between his legs and into the mass of troopers.

  “Grenades!”

  The warning shouts seemed to come from everywhere, not just from Vetch and the others further ahead in the scrum.

  Then the grenades went off, and the shouts turned to screams. Pushing. Panic. Elbows and kicks and a surge of bodies blindly fleeing. And they were blind for the most part. Even though Lily had known the bangers were coming and had closed her eyes, the effect was total confusion for a few moments.

  The plan. Keep to the plan!

  Despite Eiylah-Bremah’s permissive personal weapons’ laws, she obeyed the instructions Vetch had issued earlier and let her rifle fall to the ground. Pretending to scream in panic, she pushed through the crowd, shoving people to either side in her desperation to keep up with the big, bearded oaf.

  She would follow him anywhere, even to board a tram in a messed-up, nightmare world where saying a single dangerous word could turn you instantly into an enemy of the people.

  Sheesh!

  Life as a trooper had never been boring.

  But Lily couldn’t be a trooper again. Not after this.

  What did her future hold?

  * * * * *

  Chapter 5: Lily Hjon

  They sat in silence on the gently rolling hillside of red rye, waiting for Sward to die.

  Back when they’d been running for the alley in Restitution Street, a Militia bullet had pierced his lung. A near miss from a blaster bolt had melted the back of his head.

  The silly skragg had simply stolen a civilian’s cap and pulled it down over his head wound. He hadn’t said a word as they’d taken the tram to the last stop before commandeering a brace of fast food delivery vehicles parked in a depot.

  They’d abandoned their stolen transport in a managed forest five klicks away. Only then did Sward let on that he’d been badly hurt.

  Dammed stupid man.

  In the field of almost-ripe rye that reached to their shoulders, Sward had insisted in a burbling wet voice that he could go no further.

  His body had locked rigid. He told them in a stuttering voice to remain silent and still, so he could properly enjoy his surroundings. Then he beckoned to the Zhoogene girl he had given his life to save.

  She seemed to know what he needed, and she sat behind him, lowering the undamaged side of his head into her lap and humming him to his rest with a quiet melody.

  Rynter.

  Deep Tone.

  Meatbolt.

  And now Sward.

  Lily didn’t think it would be long before she joined her friends.

  It had been a long time coming.

  When Carnolin lifted her face, streaming with tears, and told them Sward had died, they used their knives, blaster sidearms, and the shaft of Vetch’s war hammer to dig a grave.

  Lily decided not to ask Vetch why he had asked them to discard their rifles to blend into the crowd when he still carried his hammer.

  In fact, no one spoke, and that didn’t suit Lily at all.

  It meant she was left to fester in her thoughts.

  Years of endless running had soured them.

  Losing her friends had scarred them even more, and she had lost many before she’d thrown in her lot with Vetch Arunsen.

  She watched her best friend’s face as he worked. Sweat beaded in his beard from the gentle heat of the afternoon sun. He’d been her project for the past few years. She’d steered him away from being prison scum to become the leader she knew he could be. Now, she tired of that too.

  Strangely, with Vetch prominent in her mind, she found herself thinking about his jack equivalent, Sybutu.

  The two sergeants—now that would be a good name for a pub! Vetch and Sybutu had been hilarious together. An odd couple pushing each other because neither wanted to look weak in front of the other.

  Much as she adored Vetch, Sybutu had the sweeter body. Maybe, one day, she’d get the chance to make up for burning it when they’d first met.

  And then the grave was dug, and Lily was back in the awfulness of the moment, moving to help lift Sward into his final resting place.

  Vetch gently pushed the others away and lifted Sward alone, planting him in his grave.

  Carnolin looked down at the man who’d died in her arms. “Sward followed you, Vetch Arunsen. My life belongs to you now.”

  “No!” Vetch loomed over Carnolin, his face red with emotion. For a moment, Lily thought he was going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her like a rag. “You do not belong to us. Sward was a Militia trooper. A good one, as we all aspire to be. M.A.P. The Militia and the Amilxi People. Many of our kind sour their oaths, but many more do not. I thank you Carnolin Indoh, but you owe us nothing. We were just doing our duty.”

  Carnolin looked down.

  “Although,” Enthree told the Zhoogene, “I want you to commit to the decade watch for Sward. That was his death custom. Are you familiar with it?”

  She nodded. “A day of quiet remembrance on each anniversary of his death. On the tenth, all grave markings should be removed to make way for the future. Yes, it shall be done.”

  Receiving that duty put the sap back into Carnolin. She straightened up and asked Vetch, “What will you do no
w?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What?” Darant clenched his fists.

  “We were sent to Rho-Torkis to die,” Lily reminded him. “That didn’t work, except for poor Meatbolt, of course. So, they sent us to Eiylah-Bremah to finish the job. Typical, bloody Militia. Always fanny-arseing around just to save themselves the hassle of executing us.”

  “We’re deserters!” Darant groaned. “Traitors. Murderers. I mean, they’d convicted us of desertion before, but now we really are deserters.”

  Lily punched Darant in the gut. The pain in her knuckles told her he was wearing mail under his hooded jacket, so she stood on tiptoes to make her point directly to his face. “Call me deserter again, fuckwit, and I’ll cut you deep. What we’re doing here is clearing our names. Nothing less.”

  “We are?” asked Vetch.

  Oh, not you too, Arunsen. Grow a pair!

  He stumbled on in his attempt to articulate his thoughts, such as they were. “I just wanted to do the right thing one more time. It wasn’t right what they did to you, Carnolin. I meant it when I said we were sent to this planet to die and die quickly. But…now I’ve made real deserters of us all.”

  Lily drew her knife. “Same goes for you, Vetch. I’m not bluffing. Call me, you, Darant or Enthree a deserter again, and I’ll cut off your beard and shove it so hard up your arse that it comes out your mouth.”

  Vetch almost grinned. It was a start.

  “Listen up, all of you,” Lily commanded. “A deserter is someone who shirks their duty.” She pointed back at the city. “It’s those frakkworters back there who were shirking their duty. We’ve always done ours. M.A.P. The Militia and the Amilxi People. We never forget that. Those scum who call themselves officers on this planet, they’re the ones who have neglected it.”

  “A fine speech,” said Darant. “But the nights are cold here, and I don’t plan on freezing my ass off on a hillside while we argue over our purpose in life. Where do we go now, Sergeant?”

  “We find a secure, hidden, and defensible position,” he answered. “Then we lie low for a few weeks while reconnoitering our situation and developing a strategic plan.”

  Darant rolled his eyes. “So, basically, we are going to dive into the nearest rat hole, wait around for a bit, and then make things up as we go along?”

  “Is that not precisely what I just said?” Vetch grinned. The cheer suddenly fled his face, and he addressed Carnolin. “But first, let’s get you home.”

  “I can’t go home; I can never return to my old life. We might be able to hide out in the country.”

  “There is no we, dear,” Lily informed her. “People will come after us to make sure we’re dead. You need to go to ground without us.”

  “The countryside is filled with dispersed communities,” Carnolin continued, oblivious. “People spread themselves out like oil on water, minimizing contact with their fellow citizens, so their friends can’t report them for illegal thoughts and words. We can find a space to hide.”

  “Is there someone there you can go to in safety?” Enthree asked. “Family perhaps?”

  “Close family will be watched. But I have a distant cousin who lives about thirty miles from here. I’ve never met her, but she’ll take me in.”

  “If you don’t know her, how can you be sure?” Vetch asked.

  “Because she’ll be grateful I brought you with me. She’s a recruiter for the Revolutionary Forces of Reconciliation.”

  “Oh, mercy!” whispered Lily. “What have I brought them to?”

  “What’s wrong?” The Zhoogene looked in confusion at the stunned Militia troopers. “Don’t you want to join the rebellion?”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6: Yat Darant

  “Join the Militia and experience the galaxy. That’s what the recruitment pod told me. Never said nothing about being a goddamned milkmaid.”

  It also hadn’t mentioned to the young Yat Darant that he would spend so much time talking to himself.

  “Only way I’ll get a sensible fucking conversation on this goddamned stupid planet,” he shouted at the stack of refrigerated canisters filled with fresh basten milk.

  When the canisters didn’t answer back, he grunted and returned his attention to the dirt track along which a trading truck might be rolling today.

  Or might not.

  Today was the day for trading along this route. In the widely dispersed barter bays that lined the narrow road, farmers, artisans, brewers, gun traders, information brokers, and all sorts could set up shop and trade to whoever passed. Farmhouse Control had even told him slavers traded on this route in bays such as the one he’d claimed. Except they didn’t use that word. Indentured servitude they called it here, but Darant knew a euphemism when he heard it. He also knew Farmhouse Control would spin any old lie to drum up support against In’Nalla’s regime, but it just so happened he believed the one about slavers.

  That pretty Zhoogene girl—the one who’d led them into this mess—had said the next stage of her prison journey would have been to publicly beg either for her execution or for servitude. In’Nalla’s jailers were excellent at making every alternative worse.

  “Makes me irritable,” Darant informed the stupid planet. And it did. The idea that a few hundred yards up the road, in a leafy bay, there could be damned slavers…He shifted his butt in the folding canvas chair but couldn’t get comfortable.

  He fingered the bulges in his jacket that outlined his pistol and knife and took comfort from them.

  What if there really were slavers close by? He could kill them, free the captives, and be back before anyone realized he’d gone.

  At least it would be something to do.

  He spat at the dusty ground. “Why me?” he groaned.

  The answer was obvious.

  In the circus freakshow that was all that remained of Raven Company, and latterly of Chimera Company, he presented as the normal one.

  Darant laughed at the notion. It was ridiculous, but true.

  Even if he could be parted from his damned war hammer, a hulking, hairy beast like Vetch would always attract unwelcome notice.

  And as the only Muryani Darant had seen on Eiylah-Bremah, their talking insect had to stay hidden too.

  Lil’ could charm the wheels off any truck that passed if she chose to, but those morphing tattoos wouldn’t be easy to forget. They made her look like a goddamned space sorceress. Lil’ swore her tattoos changed according to the whims of her subconscious, and he believed it. Under her smartass exterior, Lily Hjon was batshit frakking crazy.

  And with everyone else too dead to help—except, hopefully, Green Fish, who was lying forgotten in a JSHC hospital bed, last he knew—it left good old Yat Darant, the one chosen by Farmhouse Control to pass the first test set to the Raven fugitives, by the side of the dusty road.

  He scowled at the canisters.

  The test was to pass as goddamned milkmaids.

  “I’m not a milkmaid,” he shouted at the empty road along which no trading trucks were driving. “I’m a murderer.”

  He stormed out of his chair and walked up the road.

  The high hedges that lined the road made it impossible to see beyond the bend a hundred yards ahead. They kept the road cool, too, except for a narrow sunlit strip along its center that he followed, basking in its warmth like a sodding Littorane.

  Four hours he’d been here, stewing in his own juices, and not a single vehicle of any description had passed. Even though the route was open for business, that didn’t mean any trucks would come. According to the Farmhouse—whose pronouncements were as trustworthy as a federal senator’s—it was 200 klicks to the nearest region the rebels claimed to control. The year before it had been 350. The steady advance of the rebels was beginning to disrupt trade in the capital zones, encouraging worried citizens to relocate to the loyalist island strongholds off the Dicadian Peninsular.

  He rounded the bend. From there he had a good view along several hundred yards of road,
but still no fleet of trucks.

  “Murderer,” he murmured.

  Vetch had done the right thing in surrendering their futures in return for giving one back to that Zhoogene girl. And since they hadn’t died fleeing the city, life of sorts went on. But he could never go back to being a trooper now, not after killing a few of the poor bastards in blue and cream in Execution Square.

  Darant had originally signed on to the Militia in return for a pardon of his sentence as a convicted murderer. He’d had to confess his guilt first. He had told them the men he’d killed had it coming and that he enjoyed killing. Then he asked if it would be useful for him to direct his passion at the Federation’s enemies instead.

  Now that he was a deserter and mutineer, the pardon would be annulled.

  It made no practical difference. The Militia didn’t need legal records to want to kill him.

  But it mattered to him.

  Because now that he couldn’t call himself trooper anymore, murderer was the only title that remained.

  He chortled. “The milkmaid murderer. A fellow could grow into a name like that.”

  A sudden noise startled him out of his inward thoughts. A truck was coming around the bend.

  Shite!

  Darant raced back toward his trading bay, but he wasn’t going to make it in time.

  Halfway there, he turned, planted himself in the center of the road, and flagged down the truck.

  It was a four wheeler—twin lateral engines by the sound of her—finished in plain brushed metal without color, marking, or any adornment.

  He shrugged at the driver hidden behind the polarized windshield. “Milk?” he asked hopefully, pointing toward his trading bay.

  Darant walked back, sat down in his canvas chair, and watched the truck.

  It didn’t follow. It sat there with its engines idling.

  “That’s right,” he said quietly. “Check me out. Take as long as you like; I’ve got all fucking day.”

  Luckily, it didn’t take that long.

  The truck pulled up alongside the bay and parked, and a man jumped down from the driver’s seat.