by Chris Bunch
"Guess so," Njangu said. "There's got to be something. And thanks for dropping by, Finf Jaansma."
"My pleasure, Striker Yoshitaro."
———«»———«»———«»———
Garvin was pacing back and forth outside Leggett Station, looking for Jasith's little red lifter. He paid little attention to the long black antigrav lim that slid up beside the curb, other than a mildly envious stare until the side door lifted, and Jasith leaned out.
"Garvin," she called. "Over here." She didn't sound happy.
Garvin, with thoughts of lim backseats dancing in his head, hurried over. He started to bend over for a kiss, got a swift, tiny headshake no.
"Garvin, I'd like you to meet my father," she said. The tall, bluff man sitting beside her in the back leaned over, holding out a hand.
"Godrevy Mellusin," he said. "Jasith said you had a short pass into town, and neither of you had specific plans, so I thought it might be appropriate for me to buy you dinner."
Garvin was very pleased with himself for not spreading his arms to the heavens, and bellowing, "Why frigging me all the goddamned time. God! All I wanted was some frigging flower petals!" Instead, he shook Mellusin's hand with a firm, manly gesture.
"It's the least I could do for anyone who saved our lives two weeks ago," Mellusin said. "Besides, I wanted to meet my daughter's young man. I remembered when I was young, with strong appetites but nothing to satisfy them with, and thought I might help."
Garvin couldn't tell if there was a twinkle of slightly malicious amusement in Mellusin's eye. "Get in, lad," he said. "I've already made arrangements at the club."
"Sorry," Jasith whispered as he got in. "I got mouse-trapped."
———«»———«»———«»———
Garvin, in his travels, had eaten at a couple of exclusive clubs, and shuddered at the thought of a third. Not only wasn't he going to have a romantic evening, but he was going to be fed a dinner slightly worse than the mess-hall meal he'd passed on back at Camp Mahan.
But he ate liver-and-nut pate with consommé; a roast with a tart berry stuffing and mustard sauce; a red, astringent vegetable; a warm salad with hot bacon and a sweetish brandy dressing; and a chocolate soufflé with vanilla sauce for dessert. Before that, Mellusin had summoned a waiter, and asked if there was any of the Earth Taittinger left. The man grudged there were a few cases.
After the man had left, Mellusin shook his head. "Most sommeliers think they own the cellar or at any rate are paid on its size, not for their service. Sad."
"Earth champagne?" Garvin said. "I'm not sure a one-stripe promotion's worth it."
"Anything's worth champagne, Garvin," Godrevy said. "At my age, just having survived another night's enough. Still, I suppose we're going to have to think about that, what with the present situation. The local fizzy grape's only fit for shoe polish." He turned serious. "What do you think about losing contact with the Confederation?"
"I don't know anything, sir," Garvin said. "But I don't like it."
"Who does?" Jasith said. "No new fashions, gossip, celebrities, music, holos . . . we might as well be living in a vacuum."
"We are, my dear," her father said.
"You know what I mean," Jasith said.
"Sometimes I think my daughter wants me to believe she's an airbrain," Mellusin said. "It'd make me more vulnerable."
Jasith laughed. "Now you're onto me."
The champagne came, was uncorked, tasted, pronounced acceptable, and poured around; then the dinner began arriving.
"Since you avoided my question, Garvin," Mellusin said, "let me ask another. What's your opinion of Protector Redruth's visit? Don't look startled. I know about most things that happen in this system a few seconds after they occur. The Mellusins are among the Rentiers, after all."
"I'm not sure I should say anything, sir," Garvin said. "Most everything that happened recently is classified, I'm pretty sure."
"Careful, aren't you? I notice you didn't even admit to Redruth's being here."
"Yes sir."
"Most people your age can't wait to make sure everyone knows they've got a secret, if they have one."
"I learned better some time ago."
Mellusin waited, but Garvin didn't explain. "Well," the man said, "I'm not at all pleased. He shows up on C-Cumbre, meets with Haemer and his staff for half a planetary day, then returns to Larix/Kura. No banquets, no ceremonial visits to D-Cumbre, no coms with any of the people he met when he was here last."
"Such as myself," Mellusin added. "I do not like that at all. Since he went to C-Cumbre, his visit must have had something to do with the system's minerals. Yet he made no contact with me, and I own one of the larger mining establishments . . . even after the sabotage a few months ago. That I find worrisome. Wouldn't you?"
"I suppose so, sir," Garvin said. "This roast is really excellent, isn't it?"
"Very well. I give up, Finf Clam," Mellusin said. "Your young man has a great deal of discretion."
Jasith giggled, remembering Loy Kouro's swimming lesson.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing, Father."
"Very well . . . I'll now look for a completely neutral topic of conversation. As an offworlder, what do you think of D-Cumbre, Garvin?"
"Interesting."
"What planet are you from?"
"Various, sir. My people traveled a great deal."
"What line were they in?"
"Promotion, sir. Family entertainment."
"Very interesting. And you chose not to follow them in the same field?"
"I did for a time, sir," Garvin said. "But circumstances changed, and I decided to enlist in the army."
"Not a bad idea," Mellusin said. "I've often wondered what would've happened if I'd chosen the colors instead of what I did. And so you were sent here, to the edge of nothing."
"So far," Garvin said, "I like Cumbre." He gave Jasith a meaningful look, and was rewarded when she slipped her foot out of her shoe and rubbed it up and down his inner thigh, hidden by the table's long cloth.
"Good," Mellusin approved. "There's a place on the frontiers for an ambitious young woman or man."
"As a matter of fact," Garvin said, "a friend of mine and I were talking about that very idea this evening. Assuming I take my discharge here on D-Cumbre after one term, what might my options be?"
Jasith slid her bare foot into Garvin's lap, began moving her toes.
"I noticed you know which fork to use . . . and I've already complimented you on your discretion," Mellusin said. "That would make you distinctly employable with one of the Rentier firms. For instance, Mellusin Mining could always use a good man in security."
Garvin nodded. "Actually, I think, by the time I finish with the Strike Force, my fascination with being shot at will be a thing of the past."
Mellusin smiled. "Ambition is well rewarded here," he said. "As I assume you've noted, D-Cumbre has its own class system."
"So I've seen," Garvin said, his voice flat.
"Some say it's the natural order of things," Mellusin said.
"I've noted that as well."
"Garvin was the one who had the, uh, encounter with Loy Kouro," Jasith said, then looked at the two men questioningly, unsure whether she should've said anything.
"You're the one who toppled that young fool into the lily pond?"
"I was, sir. But there was provocation."
"With Kouro there generally is, just as there generally is with his father. They're both idiots. I assume he was running his mouth about the natural inferiority of the 'Raum, and how anyone around him was an obvious Superior Being?"
"He was, sir. With a 'Raum standing beside him. I thought that was in fairly poor taste."
"That," Mellusin said, "is the reason people get waylaid in dark alleys. I've warned him to keep his opinions to himself, or at least voice them in front of the right people or save them for the ed-pin section of Matin. But he won't. One hopes he learns discretion before
someone teaches it to him, in a more painful manner than you did."
"As I was saying, there is a class system here on D-Cumbre, and has been since shortly after the first colonists arrived, opened the mines, and the 'Raum showed up a bit later and began working them for us. Most people, from top to bottom, like things the way they are—comfortably ordered. The human race becomes unsettled when it's unsure of its future, and it's the task of a natural leader to guide it carefully. Is something the matter, Garvin?"
Jaansma was sweating gently—Jasith's toes were moving in his crotch, and she was barely suppressing her glee. "Nothing, sir. A bit warm in here."
Mellusin nodded for a waiter, told the man to increase the overhead fan's speed. While his attention was turned away, Garvin pinched Jasith's big toe. She hid a yelp, pulled her foot down.
"Now," Mellusin said. "Where were we?"
"You were explaining why the Rentiers were the rightful masters of the Cumbre system," Garvin said.
Mellusin looked sharply at Garvin, was met with an open, interested expression.
———«»———«»———«»———
"Come on, Garvin," Jasith said. "They've called your shuttle."
"Coming," he said, stepping carefully out of the lim, aware he was just a little drunk. "Thank you for dinner, and an . . . interesting conversation, sir."
"Thank you," Mellusin said. "I enjoyed meeting you, and, like my daughter, am a bit impressed. Come back and see us again, Garvin Jaansma."
"Thank you, sir. And I shall see you again."
"Come on," Jasith shouted, and Garvin trotted toward her. He eyed the schedule flashing on the board.
"I thought you said the shuttle was leaving. I've still got fifteen minutes."
"And I wanted to kiss you, dummy. That ought to take at least fifteen minutes, unless you want to go back and gibber some more with my daddy."
"Nope. Let's find a nice secluded corner. But you know what I really want to do?" He leaned close, whispered.
"Garvin Jaansma! Such language!"
"Just wanted to make sure there wasn't any confusion about what we might think about doing next time around."
"Talk like that certainly prevents confusion," Jasith said, trying to pretend shock. "Here's what I'd like to do." In turn, she whispered.
"Great gods," Garvin said. "I didn't know rich girls talked like that!"
"We do," she said throatily. "And you should see what we do with our mouths when we're not talking. That's even more shocking."
Chapter 24
Alt Jav Hofzeiger felt a little like crying. No one . . . not his revered retired-Haut father back on Mauren VI, not his instructors at Centrum's Military Institute, not even his fellow junior officers, had told him combat would be like this.
Combat . . . for their blasters were fully loaded, the orbiting Zhukovs and Griersons high overhead carried live missiles and rounds, and his orders were to kill any armed man or woman who refused a single shout to surrender.
Combat . . . but he hadn't seen anyone to shoot at, let alone anyone worth shooting at. Just ignorant hill-dwellers, completely perplexed at his questions, who didn't even seem to know where on the map their lousy little villages were.
Three coms shouted questions and orders at him and each other, carried by three sweating troops who'd been riflemen or -women before this patrol.
One com: "Assegai Delta Deuce, this is Assegai Delta . . . give your present map locations please . . ." Assegai Delta was Fourth Infantry Regiment's Commanding Officer, a bluff man he'd respected until this nightmare began, Mil Fran Whitley.
Hofzeiger was Assegai Delta Deuce—Fourth Infantry, Delta Company, Second Platoon, commanding seventeen other infantrymen.
Another com: "Assegai Delta Deuce, this is Delta Six . . . come on, Hofzeiger. I've got your Bravo element on visual, and they're separated from your line of march. Suggest you take up a defensive perimeter until they join the main force, over." Delta Six was Delta Company Commander, Cent Theresa Rivers, and at least all she sounded was harried. Hofzeiger thought she was a damned good officer, if a little too eager. He realized his men would say the same about him, at least the eager part.
"Assegai Delta Deuce, this is Lance Six. Why are you moving so slow? Imperative you complete ordered day's sweep on sked . . . you are at least four kilometers behind projected march . . . blip your present location, over." Lance Six was God-Caud Jochim Williams, orbiting just overhead in his Cooke. Rivers was in a Grierson, and the Regimental Commander in another Cooke.
Three levels of command were riding close herd on this patrol, ordered to sweep the reaches from the coastal lowlands of Dharma Island into the ominous, unpopulated, and fog-hung Highlands. II Section—Strike Force Intelligence—said the 'Raum hid out on these slopes, oppressing the rural farmers and requiring them to provide food, shelter, and fresh recruits at gunpoint. But there'd been no bandits so far, nothing but the endless yammer of Hofzeiger's officers since he'd offloaded from his Grierson before dawn, far downslope.
He wanted to grab all three mikes and scream shut up, give him a moment to think, a moment to try to find where he was on the completely inaccurate map which he wasn't even sure was of Dharma Island, regardless of the legend, a moment to get his platoon rested and re-formed. Dammit, he wasn't a bad officer . . . maybe not the best in the regiment but always with SUPERIOR ratings, and they weren't giving him a chance to prove himself.
One com-carrier eyed Hofzeiger with sympathy—the alt wasn't a bad guy, and these dickheads up in the sky had no idea of what it was like to be down here in the slime on a forty-five-degree slope of sticky, wet clay trying to keep from sliding all the way back down to the ocean, glimpsed longingly in the distance now and again, rain-soaked, pack straps digging into shoulders, waist, back, blaster weighing half a kilo more each step you took, goddamned vines pulling, whipping, thorn bushes clawing, and strange noises in the brush just out of sight.
No idea at all.
"Level ground," the man ahead of a com operator whispered, as per orders, although why quiet was important with the drive roar of the aircraft overhead and the chatter on the coms was beyond anyone. "Level ground," the operator obediently told Hofzeiger, who nodded dumbly, then remembered his own orders, and passed word back down the column, wiped sweat, and reached for the com to Williams, figuring he was the most important.
"Lance Six, this is Assegai Delta Deuce, blipping . . . map not accurate . . . terrain nearly impassable . . . cutting our way as we go . . . over."
"Delta Deuce, this is Lance. I did not ask for excuses, soldier! Follow my orders, or I'll have someone down there who will!"
Hofzeiger wanted to swear, but just clicked his mike twice—message received. Another whisper came down: "Village ahead. Occupied. Six up."
"Son of a bitch," Hofzeiger muttered. "Another one that isn't on the map."
He keyed the mike. "Lance, this is Delta Deuce. Stand by. We have a village to clear." He repeated the message into the other two coms. "Six coming up," he whispered back, and pushed his way up the track they'd been slashing through the undergrowth. His com operators started after him, then Hofzeiger had a wonderful idea. "You three maintain position. I'm doing a personal recon."
The first com man grinned—not bad. If Hofzeiger wasn't there to be shouted at, he couldn't be shouted at, now could he?
Hofzeiger's platoon sergeant, Tweg Adeon, was waiting on the edge of a scrubby cornfield. Ahead was the village—a scatter of huts around a central square, a single large public com sheltered by a round wooden canopy, a half-domed prefab building with peeling paint that was the STORE; and a long open-sided shed that would serve as the village social center, pub, and meeting place.
"See any hostiles?" Hofzeiger asked.
Adeon shook his head. "Two kids, one scrawny woman who looked about thirty-six months pregnant, two giptels. No goblins. Goddamned village doesn't look like it'd support more'n one bandit, and he'd have to take his loot in corncobs."
&nb
sp; The giptel was a mostly domesticated native of D-Cumbre, and served the hillside peasants as pet, watch animal, and dinner, its white pork-like flesh frequently the only meat, other than game, these poor people would see. Chickens had been imported with the original settlers, but became an instant favorite for the planet's small two-legged snake-bodied predators known as stobor.
Hofzeiger saw a man peer out of a hut, duck back inside. "They know we're out here," he said. "Bring the patrol up, skirmish line, and we'll sweep the village. Adeon, you and I'll see if that peekaboo son knows anything."
"And," Adeon muttered, "if he's willing to tell it to us."
Fifteen minutes later, the platoon had gone through the village, found nothing except twenty-six scared peasants: children, women, and old men.
That should have triggered an alarm from experienced soldiers, but Hofzeiger was thinking of other matters. All three coms were alive with questions from the overhead brass, trying to find out what was going on, if the patrol had found anything, what disposition was being made of this, that, and the other. Hofzeiger ignored their yammering, and asked the villager he'd prodded out at gunpoint his name.
"Eichere," the man said reluctantly.
"And what's the name of this village?"
"It doesn't have one," Eichere said. "We just call it the village."
"Cosmopolitan son here," one of the com operators said.
"Quiet," Hofzeiger ordered. "Are there any bandits in this area?"
"Bandits? I don't know what you mean."
"Men with guns. Men who refuse to obey the government's laws," Adeon said impatiently.
"The only men with guns I've seen are you," Eichere said. "I don't know if you obey the laws or not."
"Kick the bastard a few dozen times," a finf said. "Bein' funny's not one of his available options."
Hofzeiger glared at the noncom, went back to Eichere. Half a dozen villagers came up, cautiously, watching, listening.
"Are you sure there aren't any bandits?"
Eichere compressed his lips, looked away, nodded.
"He's lying," a woman said. The woman was in her early thirties, looked a little less work-hammered than the others, and her rags were a bit cleaner and mended.