It was a good lesson that every alien world held surprises—despite the blue of the sky and the green of the plants, the quaint coziness of the whitewashed buildings made of stone, adobe and rough-cut wooden beams. This was an alien world built by unknown people and apparently abandoned. It was a world still full of secrets with a functioning but bizarre ecology—perhaps an unbalanced ecology run wild without the management of its builders.
Or maybe the shovelheads were the purpose for the Dyson cylinder, free-range cattle to be harvested—a food source, a livelihood. Except the cowboys disappeared long ago, and without culling, the herd ran wild.
Well, he didn’t know much about conservation or biology, but his first guess was that this place lacked top predators to keep the shovelheads from turning into the plague they now were. Maybe the Breakers could bring in some wolves, or big cats, if shovelhead flesh was edible to them. Hell, the predators could always be given biotech to modify their digestive systems and make it work.
He shook his head within his mechsuit. Let the brainiacs figure it out. Mara would be in biologist heaven, with challenging work for years.
For now, he could take a break from fighting. The airborne carrion-feeders were already settling to their feast. The few remaining shovelheads on their feet headed downhill, casually ambling back toward the river to rejoin their herd as if nothing had happened. The driving madness had worn off like dawn rising above a spent urban riot mob.
Straker dismounted mechsuit and battlesuit. He tried stretching and walking to work out the combat kinks in the lull, the strange aftermath of the battle. Thirty-three years old—or was it thirty-four?—and he was beginning to feel, well, not young anymore. His biotech kept him powerful and vigorous, but the bloom was off his youthful rose.
He wondered about Murdock’s rejuvenation tank... but he was leery of processing his body through the hybrid alien tech. Not yet, anyway. Probably when he got truly old, he’d take the chance. It seemed to have worked for Zaxby just fine, and Murdock had remade himself from a skinny nerd into a blonde Adonis, but the whole thing seemed like cheating.
His reflections were abruptly banished by the sight of Mayor Gagliano’s upturned face on the ground. His skyward-staring eyes told the tale. Just to be sure, Straker bent and put a fingertip to the man’s carotid.
Nothing.
Gagliano had died defending his people, his world.
There were far worse ways to go, but...
“I’m sorry,” Straker whispered, knowing it was partly his fault, entirely his responsibility. He’d rushed in and jumped to conclusions. Other brave people had paid with their lives.
He took a knee and closed the old man’s eyes, saying the only words he knew for this occasion. “Unknowable Creator, into your hands we commend his body and his spirit. As he was worthy, resurrect him on the Final Day that he may fight honorably in your Celestial Legion once more. Amen.”
“Amen,” Loco said from beside him. “Bet you ten to one that bastard Degrasso ran for the caves first thing.”
“Yeah, most bullies are cowards at heart... but I can’t stomp on him yet. Not without at least a cursory investigation, talking to the people... maybe set up some kind of elections...”
“Dammit, Derek, you’re doing it again!”
“What’s that?”
“Giving people too much credit and the assholes too much leeway. Assuming they can govern themselves too soon and without oversight, that they’ll get rid of the assholes on their own. These people have been brutalized by aliens and collaborators for twenty years. Gagliano had the balls to resist. So did others, if those crosses are any indication, but it’s gonna take time. For now, we need to step in and take charge. Give them a year or two, then hold elections—but even then we still keep the reins in case they elect the wrong people.”
Straker stood, giving Loco a bleak look. “Who’s to say who the wrong people are?”
“Come on, Derek. Baby steps. You know I’m right. Hope ain’t a plan. Speaking of which, there’s still a ton of work to do.”
Loco’s words were punctuated by the roar of jets as reinforcing skimmers descended fast from overhead, finally arriving. They turned to chase and harry the shovelheads, driving them farther upriver. Straker let Zaxby run his own show. He knew what he was doing.
Straker activated his comlink. “Lander chief, prep to receive wounded, whether locals or Hok. Take them to the ships for autodoc treatment as needed. Mechsuiters, First, Second and Third Squads dismount and lock up. Each pilot take charge of a Hok squad to begin search and rescue—wounded to the landers, dead to the village plaza. Zaxby, relay to Gray to send medics, technicians, supplies—and resupply modules for the mechsuits.” He didn’t think there was any further threat on its way, but he felt unsettled without his forces completely combat-ready.
Because in this universe, anything worth having, someone eventually tried to take.
Chapter 29
Straker, on Utopia, in the village
Loco brought Jilani with him to Straker an hour later as he worked in the village, in the aftermath of the battle. “Got an idea for you, boss. You know—to make our lives easier.”
“What?” Straker wiped his dirty, bloodstained hands on a rag. He’d personally dug several bodies out of rubble and carried them to the village plaza. The Hok and the citizens had found hundreds more. He’d also found one live child and some kind of terrier mix dog—a small win. The child was being shuttled to an infirmary, but the dog had attached himself to Straker, and he hadn’t the heart to drive it away.
“Chiara’s a local. She speaks the language. She has family here—she found her mother and some cousins already—”
Jilani interrupted. “Thanks, Mike. I can speak for myself.”
Straker cocked an eyebrow. “Mike?”
Loco scowled. “Don’t ask.”
“Anyway,” Jilani said, “You should make me the mayor—under your authority. I’ll handle everything for the Italians. When your people arrive, we’ll work with them to help everyone cooperate and integrate. Eventually, we’ll create a permanent governmental structure—but for now, you need a strong hand with local knowledge.”
“And that’s you, huh?”
Jilani put her hands on her hips. “That’s me.”
“What about Degrasso? He seems to think he’s the boss. Or maybe there’s somebody else the locals would accept better.”
“As for ‘somebody else,’ maybe they’ll come out of the woodwork eventually, and we can handle that when it happens. As for Degrasso... let me show you something.”
Straker considered. This could well be his first important decision—choosing the right leader to make things run smoothly and get these people on his side. The last thing he wanted to be was a tyrant, but there was a fine line between tyranny and tough decisive leadership. As long as he stayed on the right side of that line...
“All right, Captain Jilani. Show me. Lead on. Loco, take charge of this mess.”
“But boss—”
Straker glared. “I got this, Loco. Go do your job.”
“Roger wilco, sir.” Loco sulked off.
Jilani began to saunter toward the edge of the village, slapping her gloves into her palm with every other step. “Oh, well done, General. You sure put him in his place.”
Straker felt the woman’s boot-heels tread on his last nerve. “Don’t try to handle me, Chiara. My dick doesn’t do my thinking. Make your case, and I’ll make my decision.”
Jilani fell silent for half a minute. “Sorry, bossman. Force of habit. But you know, Loco’s not crushing like some teenager. He has his head on straight. He likes me, and I really do like him. I respect him. He’s deeper than you think.”
“I know he is. I’ve known him since we were six. He’ll chase any tight piece of tail, but he’s caught enough of them that I trust him to keep his big head on straight—even while indulging himself. He’s smart, trustworthy, and he’s my best friend. He’s even become reliable
since... since this whole thing started seven years ago, so I trust his judgment... as far as it goes. But I trust my own more. Give me evidence, not a con job. I’ve made enough mistakes lately by jumping to conclusions.”
“So you’re angry with yourself, not us.”
“Most of all myself, yes. I’m the boss. My responsibility.”
“Maybe this’ll make you feel better, then... or worse, I don’t know. At least it’ll clarify your reasons for coming here.”
“What are you bringing me to see?” Straker asked as they approached a section of long, low blockhouses. There were enough of them to house thousands, if crowded together... like barracks... or a prison. Straker began to notice details. Tiny windows. Double barbed-wire fencing. Guardhouses and towers with obscene Korveni paintings on them. They passed under a cut-metal sign with blocky script.
“Lavoro provoca felicità,” Straker puzzled out. “My Latin is failing.”
“It’s Italian, sort of. Work makes happy, more or less.”
Straker looked around. Whipping posts. Gibbets, bodies still hanging. A berm for a firing range—with human targets, or what was left of them.
“How many times are we going to see this kind of thing?” he asked.
“From what people told me I expected to see this... but I didn’t know it would be this bad.”
The dog went to paw at a pile of trash swarming with bugs and came up with a human finger, presenting it proudly to Straker by dropping it at his feet. He patted the dog absently, then strode to the door to one of the blockhouses. The stink from the cells inside was overwhelming.
“The locals let the survivors go already,” Jilani said from his elbow. “The prisoners worked the fields of Erbaccia. It’s a nasty crop, with stickers, and the sap is noxious. The Korveni could’ve brought in machines and tripled their yield, but there’s no sign of anything more modern than a tractor with plow attachments.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Cruelty, maybe. They like their victims to suffer.”
“Makes no sense, though. Why leave so much money on the table?” That’s what had been making Straker’s brain itch—the Erbaccia. The Korveni didn’t try to defend the drug fields or wall them in against the shovelheads. Food crops were within the walls... as if the people were more valuable than the drugs. That was definitely not in character for the Korveni...
Unless it was actually true.
Jilani slapped Straker lightly on the elbow. “I might know why. C’mere.” She led them to an end of the camp where smaller, cleaner buildings stood—buildings with air conditioners, plumbing, beds with linen—yet the cells still had locks. “Smell that?”
Straker sniffed. “Perfume? Deodorant?”
Jilani nodded bleakly. “Yeah. This is where they cleaned them up for sale. The pretty ones. I ran the numbers in my head.”
“Numbers—in your head?”
She tapped her temple. “I did the math. Business—it’s a gift.”
“Or a curse,” Straker offered.
“È cosi vero—too true,” she agreed. “I looked at field size. Amount of Erbaccia extract in storage. The local population and birthrate. The number of these cleanup cells. I think the drugs were a sideline—or even for the Korveni’s own personal use. The real money’s in human flesh.”
“Gods and monsters. All these people...”
“Yeah. And everyone tells me Degrasso was their quisling.”
“There’s always some collaborator—some parasite willing to sell out his own.”
“Tell you what, bossman,” Jilani said. “Let’s go visit Degrasso’s house. Maybe have a little chat with him.”
“Yeah. Let’s.”
Jilani led Straker—and the dog—to a walled villa that could only be described as a mansion—certainly by comparison to the humble dwellings nearby. Where those had whitewash and at best a few plant pots for homey touches, this house had decorative paintings and a well-made gate to its garden—a garden with fruit trees and a fountain. The wall was scarred by the antimatter blast, and some roof tiles had been ripped off, but the place was otherwise intact.
“Signor Degrasso lives well,” Jilani said. “How much you want to bet Gagliano didn’t have more than a hut?”
“No bet.”
Jilani entered the house by reaching though a broken window and unlocking the door. Inside Straker saw rich furniture, paintings, dishes and furs—and plumbing in the kitchen. More modern machinery mixed with the rustic touches, obviously retained from earlier days or perhaps brought by the Korveni—permalights, a stove, a coldbox, a music player.
Several doors led from the main room. A quick search showed bedrooms, storerooms filled with food and offworld luxury goods—spices, soaps, toilet paper—and a bathroom like a spa. Hot water on demand flowed from the spigots—probably from a solar system on the roof.
One thick portal was locked tight. Jilani waved Straker back and blew the mechanism apart with her blaster. Straker had to fill a pitcher of water to put out the resulting flames licking at the heavy wooden door.
When Jilani opened that door they heard whimpers and cries from down a staircase. She prodded at a control on the wall until light filled the cellar.
They descended.
Iron-barred cells lined the walls, ten of them. Each contained one teen. They were all clean and well-fed, yet fear and despair etched their faces.
When they saw Jilani, they babbled in Italian. Jilani babbled back. Straker forced himself to ignore the spectacle and look for what he needed.
Not here.
He went back up and found it—a key ring hanging on a hook. Returning to the basement, he methodically unlocked the cells with shaking hands—starting with the oldest children. “Tell them to take charge and get them back to their families,” he ground out, barely containing his disgust and anger.
“Do you need any more proof than this?” Jilani asked after she gave the teens instructions and sent them up the stairs. “Right here in his own house.”
“No. I don’t need more.” He tossed the key ring onto a table and clasped his hands together to still their adrenalized trembling and feeling the rage in his blood.
“They were being held for sale,” she told him.
“I got it.”
Straker’s hands clenched on the iron bars of a cell. He pulled with his full enhanced strength, and crude welds popped with noises like bullets striking steel. He ended up with a meter-long metal baton in his hand. His grip was so tight he left handprints in its end.
Loud male voices came suddenly from above—spewing Italian curses. Still holding the iron bar, Straker leaped up the stairs three at a time and strode into the main hall—Jilani behind him. There, he saw Degrasso and four of his thugs.
“What is the meaning of this?” Degrasso roared. He lifted his cudgel like a scepter. “Get out of my home!”
Jilani said something in Italian, but Straker was beyond talking. He took four long strides and clubbed the bigger man with the iron bar. Degrasso raised his cudgel to block, but the wooden baton snapped, failing to slow the Liberator’s strike. The metal rod drove downward to shatter Degrasso’s shoulder, and he fell to the floor shrieking with pain and shock.
One of the bully-boys was quicker and braver than the others and already swung his own cudgel. To Straker’s enhanced senses the strike was like the lazy wave of a bored aristocrat pointing out which delicacy to bring to his table. Straker’s counterstrike destroyed the man’s arm, pulping it. He dropped like a stone, his eyes rolling back as he vomited.
The other three were slower—or wiser. They threw their weapons aside and tried to run.
Jilani’s blaster shots took two in the back even as Straker threw his iron rod. It flew straight as a spear and penetrated the last man’s torso, skewering him. He crumpled to his knees and fell slowly to the tiles, dead.
Straker left the iron rod where it was. He had no need of it. He took Degrasso in one hand by his perfectly coiffed hair as the
other grasped his belt and lifted him to his feet. He held the man upright in front of him like a scarecrow with his feet barely brushing the floor.
Behind him he heard one more blaster shot, then Jilani joined him as he carried the whimpering scum into the public square. Straker’s arms were lifted like a gibbet to hold the babbling, protesting Degrasso as he walked. He entered the keep at the center of the plaza and dragged his prisoner up the stairs to the walkway at the top.
There, he raised Degrasso over the waist-high parapet and suspended him, hanging ten meters above the gathering crowd. He estimated there were at least two thousand people in the piazza below, and more pushed in, no doubt eager for information or direction—for any inkling of their future.
“Translate for me,” he ground out.
“Sure, bossman.” Jilani slung her blaster and lifted her hands for silence and attention. When that didn’t work, she seized a voice pickup from where it hung on its cord by the rail and switched on the mechanism.
“Attenzione!” Her words echoed throughout the village.
Straker spoke, and Jilani repeated in Italian. “I found this piece of shit with your kids in his basement. Does anyone here wish to speak for him?”
A deep, visceral groundswell of rage rose from the crowd, and a few rocks and pieces of broken tile flew up at the dangling man. It felt as if he’d fallen unconscious, but Straker continued to hold him out like a rag doll. Degrasso was at least a hundred kilos and it was a strain, but with his hips braced against the wall Straker happily endured it.
His anger sustained him.
“They all hate him,” Jilani said. “They want him crucified.”
Straker chuckled grimly. “This son of a bitch is no holy man. I won’t give him the honor of crucifying him no matter what he deserves. In fact, there will be no more crucifixions here ever again.”
“I’m with you, bossman.”
“Tell them.”
Jilani told them.
The people quieted.
Straker raised his voice. “Do you want him?”
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