by Chris Bunch
“No, sir,” Njangu said, and the scene fell sharply into place — it felt like a police court. He certainly knew how to handle that.
“You know that he was one of the soldiers who was sent a pistol recently by an unknown person or persons?”
“Yes, sir.” So was I, and so what? And stop trying to sound like a cop, Wu. It don’t become you.
“There were five others aboard that Cooke,” the alt went on. “We found three bodies in the wreckage. Two were obviously killed in the initial impact. The third, the pilot, appears to have been killed by internal injuries that left him outwardly unscathed. However, there were blaster holes in his back … blaster holes from a pistol, a pistol in the same caliber as the weapons that’ve been mystery presents to various members of the Force.”
Njangu’s face showed no sign of his surprise, and he said nothing.
“Once again,” the alt said, “Jaansma showed no sign at all of wanting to join the ’Raum?”
“None.” Yoshitaro counted two fast beats before adding “sir.”
“Calm down, Striker,” Hedley said. “No one’s accusing Jaansma of anything.”
Not much they’re not, Njangu thought.
“There was no sign of his body,” Wu said, “nor any blood trails, and two others in the detail are also missing. One had just been reduced to the ranks, and was loudly complaining about life being unfair. Could all three of these have seized the moment, so to speak, and deserted?”
Njangu waited, stolid.
“I’m sorry you don’t seem to be able to help this somewhat informal inquiry,” Angara said. “If you think of anything that might help, please see Alt Hedley at once.”
Right. When giptel dance.
“Is that all, sir?”
“It is,” Hedley said. Wu looked at Njangu angrily, but said nothing. “You’re dismissed.”
“May I be excused as well, sir?” Dill asked.
“Very well.”
Both enlisted men saluted, walked out of the room.
Njangu was walking fast, back toward his quarters. Dill hurried to catch up with him. “Yoshitaro, wait one.” Njangu stopped. “That was a little raw in there,” Dill said. “I just wanted to say, I don’t believe Garvin’s a traitor.”
“How could he be a traitor?” Njangu snapped. “He’s no more part of this world than you are … or I am.”
“Sorry. Wrong word. I meant to say I don’t think he’d dump us. But do you have any idea about why that pilot would’ve gotten shot?”
“If I did, Finf Dill, I sure as hell wouldn’t tell you,” Njangu said.
Dill flushed, stepped back, fists balling. Njangu was suddenly in a slight crouch, fingers together, slightly curled. The two stared at each other, then Dill opened his hands. “Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about a certain platoon leader I know. Like maybe you were, too.” He walked away, quickly.
Njangu waited until he was out of sight, started toward the two corns that connected with civilian lines, then caught himself, and went toward Force Headquarters, and the bank of lines outside the commissary that he hoped weren’t monitored. But if they are, what of it?
• • •
The Cooke had slammed in hard, but flat, spun in two lazy circles skidding up the narrow street and came to rest halfway through a low masonry wall.
Garvin Jaansma sat up, spat blood, and the world unspun around him. He was lying against the body of the gunner, who’d cushioned him from the crash, and died in the process. The fourth ammo-pusher had fielded a case of blaster drums with his skull. The pilot … the pilot was slumped over his controls, and the boneless way he lay told Garvin all he needed to know.
Garvin heard shouting, and bleared out at the street, through the litter of spilled cargo and debris, and saw fifty or more ’Raum running toward him. Some had clubs, others knives, and still others were hurling rocks as they came. Garvin’s pistol was out and he was about to fire when his mind caught up with him. Very deliberately he fired four shots into the dead pilot’s back.
“Take that, you bastard,” he shouted, then turned. The fastest of the mob, a woman in her thirties, wailing vengeance and waving a pair of long scissors, was almost to the Cooke.
“Here, sister,” Garvin shouted. “Forever The Movement.” He tossed her the gun. The woman’s eyes went wide, but she dropped the scissors and caught the gun in both hands, then reversed and aimed. Clumsily, but straight at Garvin’s chest.
“I’m rescued,” Jaansma shouted, wishing he could have come up with a better line.
The woman looked stupefied, but the pistol lowered. Three men were beside her. “He shouted that he was one of us,” she managed. “And gave me this.”
“No,” Jaansma corrected. “I’m not a brother, not yet. But if I’m allowed to, I’d be honored to help in the Task of freedom. That’s why I deserted the Force.”
• • •
Njangu touched sensors, waited. The com buzzed twice, clicked three times — the contact was being bounced from repeater to repeater, then a synthed voice said, “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Uh … somebody sent me a pistol a couple of weeks … no, about a month ago, with this com number attached.
“Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“I just wanted to thank whoever’s at the other end of this for the present. I’m Njangu Yosh — ”
“Wait.”
There were more clicks, then a human voice came on. “What took you so long to get off the pot?”
“I know you,” he said.
“Damned well should,” Angie said.
“What’re you looking for?”
“People who don’t like the way things’re going. And are willing to do something about it, starting with a whole lot of dead ’Raum.”
“Suppose I’m interested?” Njangu asked.
Silence for a moment. “You remember a village?”
“I do.”
“Go there. Somebody’ll meet you. No tricks, no tails.”
“Suppose I’m not quite sure yet? What about cover? What about keeping me out of the slam if I do go with you? Killing ’Raum’s all real good, but what about the far end?”
Another silence. “You jerking me off?”
“Negative,” Njangu said.
“Better not,” Angie said. “We don’t have time to preach for converts. When … if … you’re ready … call this number again. But don’t take too long. Time’s running out for wafflers.” The line went dead.
• • •
The police began escorting those ’Raum still brave, or needy, enough to go to their jobs outside the Eckmuhl, using prisoner-transport lifters as shuttles. There were nineteen ’Raum already aboard the lifter, and a twentieth hurrying toward it, the others chaffing him for wanting to stay behind and have a party with the beards when the bomb exploded that’d been planted in a small lifter parked just ahead of the pickup point.
Two Planetary policemen died with the nineteen. The only survivor was the latecomer, and he swore, as he lay on the pavement, feeling what he knew was not rain patter about him, that he would never be on schedule for anything in whatever life span the One had granted.
• • •
“There have been very few men or women of the Force who wished to join us,” the slender, not unpretty woman observed. “And most of those were ’Raum who had erred, lost sight of their Duty for a time, joined with the Rentiers’ dogs, then realized their horrible error. Two of those had completely lost their way, and thought they would be double agents.” The woman paused. “They did not die easily. But they died, without accomplishing anything at all.”
“That was well,” Garvin said, trying to sound a bit approving, a bit enthusiastic, and scared. Only the last came easily.
“Garvin Jaansma … promoted finf for merit … offworlder, which may be a plus … gunner on an Aerial Combat Vehicle … Third Platoon, A Company, Second Regiment … yes, don’t be surprised, we have people inside Camp Mahan. Were you in troub
le, Jaansma?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Why do you wish to join us?”
Garvin took a somewhat theatrical breath. “I joined the Confederation to become a fighter, a warrior. I didn’t join to become a policeman, especially not one who smashes the little people and keeps the fat-asses in power.”
“But isn’t that the nature of any soldier?”
“Maybe so,” Garvin said. “Maybe I didn’t think things out enough.”
“Perhaps not,” the woman said. She gnawed at her lower lip, thinking. “What were you before you enlisted?”
“I was a salesman,” Garvin lied. “Not a very good one.”
“If we … The Movement … were not pressed for time, I would have you taken to some rear area and given instruction. It would be impossible for you, if you’re really a spy against The Movement, to maintain your role over that long a time. But time is something we have little of, and you’re a trained soldier, which very few of us are. What military skills, disciplines, we have, we’ve had to learn by error and by others’ deaths. You could be of infinite value.
“However, we are hardly fools, so we must devise a certain test, something that will irretrievably bind you to us, even if you had thoughts of double betrayal.”
“I’ll welcome any test you want to put me through,” Garvin said fervently, his stomach turning.
• • •
“The Old Man is biting credits in half,” Cent Angara said. “And shitting quarter-C pieces. Deserters are bad enough, but now we’ve got one who’s found a new career as a gunman for the ’Raum.”
“So it seems,” Hedley agreed. “Flipping wonderful, ain’t it. Run the tape again. With the sound off. I’ve heard enough shit-tin’ and shoutin’ for one day.”
Angara touched a sensor, and the stage in front of them came alive. They were the only two in the II Section screening room.
It was a Leggett street. A heavy stone building almost filled the block, and the camera was across the street from it. The building had a discreet sign: MELLUSIN MINING. Three armored lighters were grounded next to it, with four armed guards pacing back and forth.
“Poor goddamned Mellusin,” Hedley murmured. “First they try to snatch his daughter, then they do grab his flipping gold.”
“Wonder which one hurt the most?” Angara said.
“The daughter,” Hedley said. “He’s real big on her, and she’s an only child. These credits the ’Raum’re after are just a bit off the top. But he’s got another reason to feel bad … I just got something from the interrogation of Jaansma’s Grierson crew … one said the kid was having a thing with Mellusin’s daughter.”
The scene flashed off, and Angara stared at the younger officer in surprise. “That’s too goddamned coincidental to be coincidental.”
“That’s what I was wondering,” Hedley said calmly. “Sure is flipping interesting. Run the tape, my friend. Maybe we’re missing something.”
Angara touched the sensor, and the security recording spun on: Six men came out of Mellusin Mining, each rolling a half-meter-square safe. Side doors slid open on the middle lifter. Thus far, it was a standard payroll shipment for Mellusin’s mines on C-Cumbre, hard credits instead of an electronic transfer because the ’Raum miners, not without justification, insisted on “real” payment from the bosses they hardly trusted. In mid-transfer, the process went sour, as two cargo lifters careened out of an alley, and rammed the front and rear lifters. ’Raum leapt out of the backs of the lifters, and started shooting. Guards fought back, ran, were shot down. Two other cargo lighters came up the street, and rear doors banged open and ramps slid down. ’Raum began loading the safes aboard the lighters. All the ’Raum wore hooded masks. All except one.
“Push on our boy,” Hedley requested, and Angara obeyed. Garvin Jaansma, holding a blaster, filled the screen. “Very good. Go back on him, until he first comes off the flipping lifter.”
The three-dee hologram reversed itself, and Garvin became one of the ’Raum who jumped off a lighter, gun ready. He aimed, pulled the trigger, aimed again …
“Go back on that one again,” Hedley said. “Now freeze it right at the moment when he shoots. Good. Not much of a recoil from that blaster, now was there?”
“There isn’t much anyway.”
“Widen the angle,” Hedley said. “Tell me who he shot.”
Angara ran the record back, forth, back and forth again. “Nobody,” he said. “A shitty shot?”
“Qualified marksman,” Hedley said. “Or maybe they didn’t trust him enough to give him any flipping ammo?”
“Not proven. But we’ll accept this was a test,” Angara grudged. “They surely must’ve known there’s cameras all over the street outside Mellusin Mining, and with him the only one bare nekkid for all to see … guess they were making sure he was committed to the flipping cause. Even if they didn’t give him any bolts, Jon, just participating full-heartedly in this will be enough for him to be dancing Danny Deever when we catch him.”
“Maybe,” Hedley said. “Run it forward. Okay, he pretends to shoot … look at that woman just behind him. The one with the cut-down sporting weapon. Notice it isn’t pointed anywhere but at young Finf Jaansma? They didn’t trust him.
“Keep it running. Now he’s done what he was ordered to, so now he just stands there, waiting, until they shout for him to load up with the flipping gold. Like a good little rebel he jumps in the lighter and off everybody goes with Mellusin’s money. End of episode, beginning of legend. Now we’ll have Jaansma the Flipping Rebel to contend with. Right?”
“Right,” Angara agreed. “But it’ll be the end of a legend when we hang his young ass.”
“Not right,” Hedley said. “Run it back one more time, to when he lowers the blaster. Push in on his face. Look at that.”
“He’s scared,” Angara said. “Got a twitch. I’d twitch, too, if I were selling out everything and everybody I knew on the permanent record.”
“A flipping irregular twitch,” Hedley said. “I think there’s something sneaky going on.” He asked an increasingly irritated Angara to run the scene two more times, then got a pad and pen. “How’d you do in Basic Commo?”
“Acceptable,” Angara said. “But that was so long ago we were communicating with smoke puffs.”
“Always suspected that. One more time. Slowly.” Hedley scribbled as the scene unwound. “Now I need to use the flipping com.” He touched sensors, asked for some information, disconnected with thanks.
“Well, well,” he said. “Things are a leetle more complex than they seem. I just checked Finf Jaansma’s record again. Did real well in everything, which we know. Including Communications training, both programmed and conscious. That’s interesting as all hell, considering I noticed our rebel’s twitch is very flipping military. That eyelid of his is twitching in basic code: O, N, I, N, S, I, D, E, G, E, T, C, O, M, M, O.”
Angara ran the letters through his mind. “Pile it in, Hedley. Nobody’s that sneaky.”
“Yeah? How come he has time for another O, N, I, N before they hustle him off?”
“Oh shitola on a green leaf,” Angara grunted. “This does muddy things up a bit, doesn’t it?”
“Yeh,” Hedley agreed. “Do we decide to believe him? And if we do, how do we make contact with him? Come on, Messiah, gimme some flipping suggestions.”
“Don’t know,” Angara said. “I’m still stuck on the first question.”
• • •
“Njangu,” Alt Hedley said cautiously, “I have a proposition.”
Njangu it is now. Be very careful, little brown brother.
“Yes, sir,” Yoshitaro said, looking brightly interested.
“All this is highly classified,” Cent Angara said. “Please sit down.”
Please? Hoboy, this is going to be cute.
“We misjudged your friend Garvin Jaansma,” Hedley said. “We’re now operating on the basis that he’s innocent, and a very quick thinker.”
; Angara explained about the holdup, which Njangu’d already heard about through the rumor mill, and Garvin’s coded blinking. Njangu almost nodded — his friend was thinking fast. Probably all those goddamned ’Raum wanting to tear him a new asshole kicked his brain into high gear. He sure wouldn’t have come up with something that stinky all on his own. And he better be careful, in whatever warren they’ve got his young ass, or he’s going to start thinking he’s thinking, get cocky and get thin-sliced. Stinky shit’s my department.
“Very interesting,” Yoshitaro said when Angara’d finished. “And I’m not surprised at all. But why’re you telling me all this?”
“We want you to go in and get him out.”
“Uh … Cent,” Njangu said, with a twisted grin, “I’m not Stupor Soldier. No steel teeth on me, and no pocket nukes up my ass. Perhaps the word that’s gone before me’s been a little excessive.”
Angara glanced at Hedley. “Your Recon boys are as big wise-asses as their leader.”
“Hope so,” Hedley said. “Otherwise, all that training would’ve gone to waste.”
“We’d put you in with some mini-coms the Planetary Police’s P&A Section has, and a good cover.”
“Such as?”
“Such as you’re going to desert.”
“Now why would I do something like that?” Njangu said. “Jaansma might be a friend, but we ain’t banging assholes, to put it bluntly. It’d have to be better than that.”
“What about,” Angara tried, “that we think you had something to do with his desertion?”
“Not enough.”
“Even if we’re going to court-martial you?”
Njangu started to say something, then caught himself.
“Go ahead,” Hedley said.
“I better not, sir. I’ve got enough enemies.”
Angara lifted an eyebrow. “I don’t bruise easy. Keep talking.”
“Very well … sir. That’s the flash shit they do in holos. Thrown out of the regiment in disgrace, epaulettes, whatever the hell those are, torn off in disgrace, medals thrown in the dirt, drums thumping away. Real dramatic … sir … but giptel-piddle as far as I’m concerned.”