Guerilla

by Mel Odom

  “I’m fine.”

  “Someone has a damper in the building. The farther you go, the harder it is to keep track of you.”

  “Don’t worry. If I need you, you’ll know by the explosions.”

  Turit laughed, but the sound was hollowed out by the comm damper and sounded far away.

  On the third-­floor landing, Morlortai turned and walked through a curtain of hanging vines that pulled away at his touch. The long, thin tendrils curled away from him and he had to stop himself from releasing blades into his hands.

  “They won’t attack you,” someone said. “I was told those plants are part of the Makaum ­people’s filing network in this treehouse. Supposedly the vines log your scent, the way you taste, your DNA—­although that isn’t the Makaum word for it—­and record the time you pass through. Their word means something more like essence. What makes you you.”

  The speaker was a bashhound that stood in front of a closed door. His hardsuit, like Morlortai’s, bore no identifying marks.

  “Does it?” Morlortai asked.

  The bashhound shrugged. “Above my pay grade.”

  “Then why hasn’t it been destroyed?”

  The bashhound laughed. “I think it’s one of those stories ­people tell. There’s no way those vines could do all of that. And no way they can get a DNA sample from anybody in a hardsuit. The only thing Makaum tries to do is eat you. Besides, you can cut those vines down or burn them back to the ceiling, they’ll be back again—­same length—­by tomorrow.”

  Morlortai flicked a knife from his armor, grabbed a handful of the tendrils, and sliced them free as far up as he could reach. He examined the cut ends, searching for micro-­circuitry as the vines curled up and twisted as if they were trying to escape his grasp. Micro-­circuitry would explain how the plant would be able to do all the things the bashhound claimed.

  All Morlortai saw was plant matter. He put the knife away, then wrapped the vines around his fist and tucked the bundled mass into a sealed thigh compartment built into his suit. He’d have Polsulim check it over when he got back to his ship. Even though he didn’t plan on returning to this building after this morning, Morlortai liked to know things. If the vine grew here, chances were good it grew other places as well.

  “You can look all you want,” the bashhound said. “All the corps have looked too, but they didn’t find anything.”

  The corps didn’t have Polsulim, who happened to be one of the best reverse engineers of organic things Morlortai had ever heard of. And he could make a bomb out of nearly anything.

  “Same side,” the bashhound called out as Morlortai moved on.

  It was an old merc saying, a hope that two professional warriors who met again would be fighting on the same side, not against each other.

  “Same side,” Morlortai said. He didn’t mean it, though. The bashhound meant nothing to him and the man would be easy to kill.

  0726 Hours Zulu Time

  Before entering the room at the end of the hall, Morlortai hit it with a quick burst of X-­rays and infrared to reveal who was inside. There were three beings. Two of them were human, armored, which was to be expected, but the third being was a surprise.

  Over the years, Morlortai had worked for a lot of species, and seen even more worlds, but he’d never fully trusted the (ta)Klar. As a rule, they were devious and underhanded, and they always got the better of a deal.

  For a moment, Morlortai considered just walking away. He could find another job to do on Makaum. The world was practically bursting at the seams with ­people who wanted someone else dead.

  On the other hand, no one was ever quite wired into a world and culture and place the way the (ta)Klar were. Whatever the (ta)Klar wanted, it was second to the job that Morlortai had come to do. And that job was big.

  Morlortai palmed a small canister from his left thigh compartment and strode into the room.

  The two humans were good, not like the man in the hall. Their assault rifles rose automatically, covering Morlortai without actually pointing at him. They stood on either side of the table and the (ta)Klar seated on the other side.

  The fact that the (ta)Klar was so vulnerable was the only thing that kept Morlortai from flinging the canister in his hand and taking his chances with getting out of the building. Turit and his team waited outside to cover him.

  The (ta)Klar were a small race and looked fragile, but they were hard to kill because they’d altered their own DNA over the centuries to give themselves limited regeneration abilities. A lethal wound didn’t necessarily kill a (ta)Klar if he or she had a chance to heal, which sometimes took only minutes. They were resilient enough to be almost supernatural.

  Morlortai had heard stories of (ta)Klar taking several gauss blasts to the face and still surviving. The female merc who told Morlortai the story had said the (ta)Klar had come back even better-­looking than he had been.

  The (ta)Klar seated at the table was a little more than a meter tall and maybe twenty centimeters broad at the shoulders. The bright blue skin seemed to contain an inner glow, but maybe the phosphorescent lichens or moss helped provide that effect. The head was small and perfect, ageless, but it was covered by thin, wispy white hair that was just long enough to lie down. The (ta)Klar possessed two large black eyes that allowed them to see underwater because they were an aquatic species, and gill slits that covered their necks and the sides of their chests. They were noseless and had small mouths for feeding and communication.

  Like any (ta)Klar out of the water, this one wore a hydration suit and a glass helmet with a built-­in translator. The backpack was a portable rebreather that cycled the water, allowing the (ta)Klar to travel on land for hours at a time.

  “Come in, Dran Morlortai,” the (ta)Klar said.

  The voice streaming from the translator was female, but that didn’t mean anything to a (ta)Klar. Along with all the size and the ability to breathe air—­not planned as Morlortai had heard it—­for their regen ability, they had also given up secondary sexual characteristics. Rumors held that all (ta)Klar were vatborn and had been for centuries.

  “I am called Merih It’dra. Please sit with me.” The small hairs on the being’s face shifted gently as the water cycled through the helmet.

  The Dran was an honorific among the (ta)Klar, but they threw the title around with anyone they did business with, so Morlortai didn’t buy into the attempted ingratiation. The translation, according to the (ta)Klar, was “grand and august.”

  “I have some ground rules,” Morlortai said. “I expected whoever I’d be meeting would waive the ‘no bashhounds’ rule we agreed on. That actually happens more than you would think.”

  Merih responded with spread hands. “As you can see, I offer no threat. If we had met one-­on-­one, I would have been at a disadvantage. This was not acceptable.”

  “Two on one is?”

  “Two on one is more acceptable.”

  “I’ll bet these aren’t the only ones. There are others nearby.”

  Merih nodded, and the two bashhounds shifted uneasily, letting Morlortai know the (ta)Klar was telling the truth now.

  “There are four other bashhounds in rooms around us,” Merih answered.

  “Sounds like you didn’t need me. You could have just had these beings do whatever you want me to do.”

  “That was not acceptable. We want this assignment to end in results that are satisfactory.”

  “Why me?”

  “You were recommended to us.”

  “By whom?”

  Merih named a woman that Morlortai knew who arranged assignments. The name didn’t mean anything to the bashhounds, and it wouldn’t even if someone checked into it later because the woman used a different name for each contract she set up. The name Merih had just mentioned was already an artifact, a thing of the past that had turned to dust.

  T
he broker had pushed the contract to Morlortai because he’d already let her know he was going to be on Makaum. She’d arranged the other contract as well. Once everything worked out, it was going to be a good payday.

  “You said something about ground rules,” Merih stated as she sat there with clasped hands and waited expectantly.

  “I have only one.” Morlortai waved the hand that held the canister. “This is a plasma grenade explosive enough to take out this entire floor, and it’s wired to the beating of my hearts. If either of them stops, the grenade detonates. I’ll already be dead or close to it, so you ­people won’t live much longer.” He looked at the three beings across from him. “Any questions?”

  Merih shifted uncomfortably and inclined her head. “It will be as you say.”

  “Good. Have your sec team put their guns down.”

  “Please do as Dran Morlortai says.”

  The bashhounds slowly put their weapons on the floor and moved away, stepping slowly backward with their hands in the air. The hardsuits would have built-­in weapons, but Morlortai wasn’t going to the extreme of having them deactivate everything.

  “Will you join me?” Merih waved again to the seat across from her.

  Lowering his hands, Morlortai crossed to the chair and sat. He placed the plasma grenade on the table. “Let’s talk about the job.”

  Merih held up a hand and juiced a holo built into her glove and the image of a Makaum male popped up.

  The man was older, with gray hair and a stooped posture. He had extra weight on him and it centered in his gut. More images of the man cycled through the hologram projection, showing him in traditional Makaum dress as well as offworld styles.

  “This is Wosesa Staumar, one of the local leaders of the Makaum,” Merih said.

  “A member of the Quass?”

  Merih smiled, but the expression didn’t look normal on her face, but it slid into place easily enough that Morlortai knew she had practiced it. “You have familiarized yourself with the Makaum?”

  “Yes.” Morlortai never took on a job where he didn’t know how the terrain fell. Preparation was 90 percent of the job and 100 percent of the success.

  “Good. But this man is not a member of the Quass. He represents business arrangements. Before the arrival of the corps, he operated the sprawl marketplace. Since that time, he has managed to insert himself in trade agreements between the corps and his ­people, most of whom do not like to deal with offworlders.”

  The Makaum were living in a fantasy. Once the corps found you, you were dealing with them. They changed the world a being lived in every day.

  “He has also ingratiated himself with the Phrenorians,” Merih said.

  “Because he thinks the Phrenorians are going to take this planet?”

  “Of course not.” Merih shook her head, a very human gesture that told Morlortai she had spent a lot of time working among humans. “The (ta)Klar are going to take this planet, Dran Morlortai. That is why we are here.”

  Morlortai ignored the pompousness of the (ta)Klar. Anyone who worked with them had to learn to ignore that.

  “Staumar has aligned himself with the Phrenorians because they bribe him.”

  “The Phrenorians don’t usually go in for bribes. Generally they just kill whoever doesn’t agree to do things their way and talk to the next person who takes over that position. It doesn’t take long to find someone who will see things their way.”

  “Normally, that would be the case. However, things on Makaum are too well balanced between the Phrenorian Empire and the Terran Army.”

  “The Terrans have a fort onplanet and the Phrenorians don’t.”

  Merih nodded. “Exactly. If that balance were to change, if the Phrenorians were to build a fort of their own, they would not be content to simply stand by.”

  “That would make things harder for you too.”

  “It would. So we’ve contracted you to change the balance.”

  “By killing Staumar.”

  “And making it look like the Terran Army did it, yes.”

  Morlortai sat quietly for a moment. “I heard about the attack on the fort this morning. Things are tense between the Terrans and the Makaum.”

  “We want to take advantage of that by moving quickly.”

  “How quickly?”

  “We would prefer Staumar to expire—­messily—­tomorrow night. There will be a public festival then and his death while in attendance will have great impact.”

  “We had agreed on a five-­day window.” Morlortai acted upset, but the accelerated schedule, with the bonus of all the unrest, would put his next target in sight a little easier. Moving up the time should be no problem, but a professional never accepted a change at the last minute without increasing the price, and he was a professional.

  “We would compensate you for your shortened timetable.”

  “Triple the amount. Half now, half when the job is done.”

  Merih didn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

  When Merih immediately put through the cred amount on Morlortai’s credstick, the assassin knew the (ta)Klar had managed to hide something from him. It didn’t matter. He had thirty-­eight hours to figure it out, and the team was already 50 percent ahead of what they had expected for the contract.

  TWELVE

  Southwest of Makaum

  1127 Hours Zulu Time

  Even though he was tired, Sage picked up the target-­lock warning ping on his faceshield immediately. By the time he recognized what it was and yelled, “Jahup! Take cover!” the unidentified person’s outline showed up on his faceshield and the trajectory software kicked in, revealing a round streaking for Jahup.

  Instead of abandoning the RDC like Sage had told him, Jahup accelerated, perhaps thinking he could outrun whoever was shooting at them, or perhaps he was hypnotized by everything taking place on the faceshield. The boy still didn’t have enough time in on the combat simulator for the helmet and HUD to be second nature.

  Already leaping from his RDC, Sage tucked himself for the impact against the ground. Right before he hit, he took over control of Jahup’s RDC and shut it down. The two-­wheeled crawler immediately fell onto its side, just as the software was programmed to do. Sage had had the motor pool install the override on Jahup’s RDC just in case the scout panicked.

  Sage hit the ground and his HUD display scrambled as it tried to make sense of the visuals juicing through its circuitry. The RDC had been doing a little better than 100 KPH at the time he’d left it. Bouncing off the ground, still controlled by his momentum, Sage skipped like a stone and struggled to regain control of his fall.

  Two depleted uranium rounds sped in his direction. The HUD tracked both of them intermittently, and one of the rounds struck a nearby tree with a trunk thicker than Sage’s leg. The projectile cored through the tree trunk, reducing at least a ten-­centimeter square of it into kindling. As Sage hit the ground and rolled again, the tree fell, narrowly missing him.

  Sage kept his arms crossed over his chest, one hand knotted in the Roley’s sling, and his chin down. He kept his legs tucked and trusted the armor to do its job. That was what a soldier was supposed to do when he was in a situation he had no control over.

  Control over his careening skid came back, though. Contact with the ground slowed him as it hammered him at the same time. He slammed into a tree on his left shoulder and felt something fracture at the impact in spite of the armor. Momentarily stunned, he struggled to roll to his stomach. Once he was there, it took two tries to get the Roley off his shoulder and into his hands.

  Administering stims, the suit’s near-­AI informed him.

  “No.” Sage didn’t want a stimpack coursing through his body. He liked to remain in control, and the stimpack shut down some of the critical thinking and problem processing a soldier needed to stay alive. Command believed a soldier who thoug
ht he was bulletproof could get out of a situation better than one who concentrated on survival alone. Stimpacks could trigger a berserker rage, allowing a soldier to take a lot of damage before going down.

  Sage crawled on his knees and elbows, looking for Jahup and searching for whoever had shot at them. Double vision plagued him and he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

  Parameter override. Soldier is more damaged than acceptable. Administering stims.

  Sage cursed as he felt the pinpricks at his jugulars. The chems ripped along his systems, powering through on the deluge of adrenaline already flooding his body. The pain went away and his double vision sorted itself out.

  Deploying extra oxygen. The AKTIVsuit routinely scrubbed carbon dioxide buildup from the suit’s contained air and could filter fresh oxygen into the interior atmosphere from outside air if necessary. When sealed off from outside resources, the suit’s onboard air bladder provided a few hours of air in open space, underwater, and in hostile environments flooded with unbreathable atmosphere.

  Gratefully, Sage sucked in a lungful, feeling the extra oxygen move through his body. That wasn’t as bad as the stims. The oxygen cleared a soldier’s head and allowed him to operate on a reduced breathing capacity if that was a problem. Oxygen was fuel.

  “Find Private Jahup,” Sage ordered. The military designation wasn’t legitimate yet, but the boy had to be entered into the system.

  Searching. Private Jahup located.

  A blue-­limned figure showed up on Sage’s faceshield. Jahup lay in a heap 63.7 meters from the overturned RDC and wasn’t moving.

  “Confirm Private Jahup’s condition.” Sage settled in behind the Roley. The sniper targeting screen opened up on his faceplate, magnifying the image and painting the man on the ridge overlooking them just long enough to get the distance. The targeting recalibrated for five hundred meters and Sage raised the rifle. He selected depleted uranium munitions for the rifle because an electromagnetic burst wouldn’t scramble a target’s EM field at that distance. His finger settled over the trigger and he squeezed with the reticle over the man’s head.