Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks

by Ronald Wintrick

  It would be no problem at all for her to lie in wait the few hours it would take today. Even a local predator would only have detected her by its acute sense of smell, so the flankers who first stumbled on her really could not be blamed.

  She heard them coming a long time before they arrived. It wasn't that they were noisy, because they weren't, it was the natural environment around them itself, the forest itself, which ultimately betrayed them.

  The forest is filled with all manner of wildlife. Birds, small mammals, insects, and more in unending numbers. There is no human alive who could move through it without alerting the wildlife which made this place their home and who depended on their senses for their very survival.

  When alerted, they became as immobile as Rebecca herself, and the forest grew preternaturally quiet as their whistling, chirping, chittering and scurrying’s ceased.

  They had only just resumed their activity, having accepted Rebecca as a natural feature of the forest, when they once again grew still.

  Rebecca herself had not so much as quivered, which would have sufficed to alert them again. They were not reacting to her. There was another influence, and the forest quieted like a rolling blackout as that influence approached.

  Though she knew they were there, that they were coming, the first to stumble upon her still came as an unannounced surprise.

  They made no noise as they moved. They were as expert as she. More it was a whispering rustle that approached, as of a slight breeze, and a man was passing but meters away. He never saw her.

  He was heavily bearded. His mustache hung into his mouth. His hair was black and curly and his skin dark. He was wearing the skin of a Tarn that looked much too warm for the climate. He was filthy.

  His beard disappeared in an explosion of yellow flame hardly slowed by the resistance it encountered, and the remainder of the blast burning into the trees above. Flame sprouted and licked at the living wood for a moment, green leaves browned and curled, steamed and popped, then went out for lack of impetus.

  The headless body fell to the ground without a twitch, but Rebecca was no longer there to see it fall. She had moved to a new position, while the concussion of the blast rolled through the forest, covering the noise of her movement.

  When the thunder rolled away into the distance, there was no noise at all to betray the presence of the intruding natives, but they were there. Like a malignant cancer amidst healthy cell tissue. Despite the lack of the obvious, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

  Rebecca again reclined on her back, flat on the ground. Invisible amid the tall heavy underbrush. She was sure none of the natives had observed her movement. They would have to hunt her out, and that would cost them. They were already one less. She could not help the smile that came to her lips then. They would pay dearly this day. They would rue the day they had chosen to hunt her.

  They should have taken the loot from Benefactor when they had the chance, and run with it. Fast and far. Now it was too late for them.

  The vegetation was so heavy that she could see no more than a meter or two in any given direction. So thick that even the grasses above had compressed in upon the opening caused her body, and leaving no trace whatsoever of a disturbance on the top of the grasses above her. It was as if she had vanished entirely.

  By the time anyone got close enough to see her, it would already be too late for them.

  The waiting game continued.

  If their strategy was to wait her out, they were in for a very long wait. All of which time Baldwin would be putting ever increasing distance between them.

  Though alert she was quite relaxed. With the ground at her back she could not be taken unawares. The trump cards were all in her hands, and she had but to play them out.

  And where the hell was rescue? Were they still unaware of Benefactor's demise? She had to operate on the assumption of a worst-case scenario. To act any other way would be a gross dereliction of her duty.

  And she had already grossly neglected that duty once. Only extreme luck had saved her. She could not count on such luck again.

  A rustle some meters off told of impatience. Patience was a virtue the lack of which here meant certain death. Rebecca counted as she breathed, the inhalations, the exhalations, a sixty second count for each, then started over again, and again and again. It would take a microscope to detect the rise and fall of her chest, and ears much more finely tuned than any humans to hear.

  Her heart barely beat. An Auto-Doc might diagnose her as catatonic, or comatose. Yet she could still react with lightning reflexes. She was perfectly aware.

  Eagerly yet with the utmost patience, she waited.

  Chapter 26

  Jarlaxle could hardly believe his luck. What were the odds, that in all of this vast jungle, that those he sought would stumble right into his hands? One in a million? More?

  Before he or they were even in his hands he was hoping for an engineer or technician, someone with a technical education. Someone he could plug into the Tarovan manufacturing effort like a fuse to a blown electrical system.

  So few Outsiders were educated at all. Especially from among the criminal element, who were generally the dregs of a society that was mostly degenerate in the first place. The new Outsider colonists/criminals that were occasionally added to their society were always burdens.

  This was different. Here, he was sure, was opportunity. A semi-complex hand signal relayed that he wanted this or these Outsiders alive. His people were already aware of the point of this endeavor in the first place, but he did not want mistakes. The abruptness of his hand motion conveyed its importance, the emphasis very clear.

  The plodding steps approached, incautiously. There was no stealth, caution or subterfuge about the approach, as if they had no worries at all in the world. Nothing to be afraid of. A serene Sunday stroll through the park.

  One person, Jarlaxle realized.

  Jarlaxle glanced to his closest companion, the brute Henamka, who was never far from his side, and motioned for him to put down his weapons. Henamka did so and moved forward without further instruction, silently slipping ahead to meet the Outsider.

  Jarlaxle dared not move. Even after twenty-four years, even with his own extraordinary abilities, he did not trust his ability to move with the necessary stealth that was required. He did not possess that innate ability that native Balians, apparently, were simply born with.

  Henamka moved away like smoke on the wind, seen but not heard, and seen only for a moment before he slipped from sight. He would take this inept one with ease.

  A sudden scuffling and struggle ahead marked Henamka's intrusion. The game revealed, Jarlaxle and those nearest sprang eagerly forward.

  The massive concussion shattered Jarlaxle's senses. The blast ripped through the foliage to his left, like striking lightning, gone as fast as it appeared, leaving only the smell of burnt grass and ozone. It struck something farther into the forest and exploded violently!

  A God damn blaster!

  Most of his people came on anyway. A few fell frozen or terror-stricken to the ground, but only a few. Old superstitions died hard, even among his well-trained cadre. Jarlaxle didn't have time for them, though he imprinted those he saw thus into his memory. Men and women who could never be trusted with authority.

  His own eagerness was translated to those following him, spurring them on. That was a blast rifle, and he very much wanted it.

  Someone above must be happy with his work, a protective spirit, or guardian angel, because this was his lucky day!

  Jarlaxle charged upon Henamka holding a struggling man. A businessman by his attire. Here was no Colonist. From the crashed ship, without a doubt.

  Henamka had not lost his head, at least, in the surprise of the blaster fire, even though he had obviously come close to literally losing his head, in the attack. How close Jarlaxle could not immediately tell.

  Henamka had him in a great bear hug, held from behind, the man's forearms held by hands th
at made his limbs seem like twigs in Henamka's grasp. His legs kicked ineffectually above the ground.

  A blast rifle lay on the ground. One of the man's two holstered hand blasters dangled half out of its holster, a failed attempt to put it to use. Close though.

  As they ran up, the Outsider ceased his struggles, looking on them warily. Henamka was grinning hugely over the man's shoulder.

  "Well done." Jarlaxle said, then to the Outsider; "How many more are you?" With blast rifles they could be dangerous. The man shook his head, as if he could not understand, but Jarlaxle wasn't speaking the warped Bali dialect, he was speaking clear Standard and he knew the man understood.

  "I know you speak Standard." Jarlaxle informed him. "You don't want to anger me." He was quite calm.

  When the Outsider again shook his head, shrugging his shoulders, Jarlaxle struck him openhanded across the face, the blow delivered with blurring speed.

  The man inhaled sharply and blinked several times, to clear the cobwebs, no doubt, Jarlaxle thought wryly, but when the man looked up again, his eyes stopped on the weapon in Jarlaxle's right hand.

  Jarlaxle held up the rifle. It was exquisitely crafted. A bolt action repeater. It fired a rifled 8.32 millimeter bullet and was accurate up to about a hundred meters. The powder they could make here was inadequate for further range, but it sufficed. It'd blow a man's head clean off his shoulders, and had, many times.

  "Like it?" Jarlaxle asked with a smile. Then he stepped closer and snagged the loose blaster from its holster. "I like this a whole lot more!" His smile grew, if that were possible. Jarlaxle relieved him of the second weapon as well, tucking the first into his belt to do so.

  Suddenly a commotion in the crowded soldiers behind Jarlaxle drew his attention. He turned to see what it was about. A man, one of his soldiers, was forcing his way forward through the group, regardless of his lack of authority.

  Jarlaxle frowned, recognizing the newcomer, a man with no rank. The hard look Jarlaxle gave him warned that his business had better be important. The man held his look.

  "I know this one." The man said as he came to a halt in front of Jarlaxle. There was fury in his look, and the way he held himself rigid.

  "Well?" Jarlaxle said.

  "This is the man who sentenced me here. He's Special Prosecutor of Sarvan!" The man spat.

  Jarlaxle turned and looked the Outsider in the eye. He did not question the validity of the accusation. He could see its truth in the Outsider's eyes. Like a trapped animal, it was there. The righteous anger that had been there in them only a moment earlier had vanished like water down a drain.

  Did this man feel guilt? The idea amused Jarlaxle. More than likely it was only fear.

  "So you're the Sarvan Special Prosecutor?" Jarlaxle said. "That makes you a valuable commodity. But how to spend that coin. That is the question."

  Jarlaxle could care less who or how many this Special Prosecutor had sent here. Vengeance would be a terrible way to spend this man's value. Further, this man had not been the Prosecutor who had sentenced Jarlaxle.

  The Federation would mount an expedition to rescue him. He was one of their own. A man of importance. Of that there could be no doubt. The only question remaining was how best to exploit the circumstance.

  "I demand justice!" Ranted the accuser, who little knew his place and had been little more than a burden since his acceptance into the Tarovan. A slothful, lazy, worthless addition to their community.

  Jarlaxle put the second blaster in his belt, then, in one sure, swift movement, pulled his knife and plunged it into the accuser's neck.

  The man released a wet, rasping gurgle as the strength left him, as he pulled futilely at Jarlaxle's hand. His legs were already buckling.

  Jarlaxle twisted the knife and pulled it free. Blood squirted and gushed from the shredded opening, quickly rushing down and soaking the man's shirt front, like a river suddenly released from a dam.

  The doomed accuser staggered backward, dropping his weapon and hands clasped to his wound, as if he could hold in the blood by sheer force of will, and staring horrified into Jarlaxle's eyes with stunned disbelief. Before he could fall on his own, a rifle butt crashed into the side of his head and he went down in a heap. He did not further stir.

  The gun butt wielder lowered the weapon, which she had been prepared to use again if necessary, and smiled broadly at Jarlaxle. There was promise in that smile.

  Jarlaxle smiled in return. Suddenly he was quite cheerful. The girl's smiling invitation not the least of the reasons. It really was to be a lucky day.

  "So now you owe me!" Jarlaxle turned and told the Prosecutor, the bloodied blade still in his hand. "I eliminated the blood debt that you owed, and now you are beholden to me. Shall we talk of repayment?"

  The smile on Jarlaxle's face was friendly, kind and warm. He in no way appeared to be the man who had just killed someone in cold blood, ruthlessly and without remorse. He was not trying to convey warmth, however. He wanted this man, this Prosecutor, to be aware of his predicament. He was in one-hell-of-a-one.

  "I owe you nothing." The Prosecutor said, more firmly than Jarlaxle would have expected, given his tenuous position. Several drops of blood stained his face where they had splattered.

  "That's a poor attitude to take with someone who just saved your life." Jarlaxle said reasonably. "There'll be more similar, just claims. Shall I turn you over then, so that justice may be served? You're a man who must understand the need for law and order, and justice, in a civilized society?'

  “Justice?” The Prosecutor demanded. “Where was his justice?”

  “It was him or you.” Jarlaxle said even more reasonably. "A blood debt is a blood debt, his claim was legitimate, and somehow I do not think you would've prevailed in the single combat his claim required. These are our laws. We are a society of laws, and a man must reap what he sows. Don't you agree?"

  The uncertainty in the Prosecutor's eyes told Jarlaxle he had touched a nerve.

  "This is not Sarvan. This is Bali. We have our own laws, and as you know," Jarlaxle said, "a planet has a right to enforce it's sovereign laws. No one forced you to come here, no one here, but now that you are here, you are subject to our laws. It would be no different on any other planet you might visit."

  Jarlaxle's reasonableness must have been a surprise to many. He heard their whispers and mutters of surprise behind him. This man, this Special Prosecutor for Sarvan, was a man to be cultivated. Not to be handled in the fashion of normal men. A man whose friendship could prove to be more valuable than any number of soldiers or weapons. With one word could this man set Jarlaxle free of his bondage to Bali! Just one word! He regretted impulsively slapping him now.

  "We crashed. Our coming here was an accident."

  "Of that I have no doubt." Jarlaxle said. "Yet, if I crash on Sarvan, am I not subject to Sarvan law?"

  "What do you want of me?" The Prosecutor demanded, turning from the aspect of the legality of Jarlaxle's claim, to that which was by far the more important issue.

  "Don't worry, Prosecutor, I might be able to find something productive to do with you. I'm not in the habit of throwing away valuable assets. Your education makes you valuable, in itself."

  "I'm a lawyer," the Prosecutor admitted, "I could help you write some real laws. You're obviously in need of them here."

  "How do you know what we need here?" Jarlaxle said gently, in complete control of himself. "Because I killed this one, you think me corrupt? He had a legitimate claim to combat, and even had I refused him his legitimate claim, he would've killed you at the first opportunity that presented itself. Further he was a burden to our community. Like all that Sarvan force upon us. He was lazy and useless. A wastrel who had to be forced to work." Jarlaxle went on;

  "I deemed you more valuable, as is my right. We're struggling for Democracy here, Prosecutor, but will never achieve it by allowing the weak to prevail. Our methods are no different than the Federation. The conditions the Federation ordains before
a planet may petition for Reunification demand a single central government, a Democratic government, and no such government will be set in place without those wishing for freedom to force that type of government on those who do not wish it. Only by military expansion perpetuated against every human on this planet, will such a government be put in place.

  "You of all people should understand this. Your job is to eliminate the violent within your own society. We can't send ours to be a burden upon someone else.

  "When the Tarovan completely control Bali, I will step down to a lawfully elected leader. But until then, until that day comes, I will rule, and what I do I do for the good of Bali. You will learn, Prosecutor, and you will do your part, or you will die."

  Baldwin said nothing, still stunned by the murder. The man had wanted his life. He would certainly have taken it if given the opportunity, but the cruelty of the act had been so thorough! So instantaneous!

  And yet, it was his own action which had caused it. He had sent that man here. It was also true that there was nowhere else to send him. These people could not ship their criminals to another planet. This put the whole process in an entirely new light. In what other way could they deal with their criminals and those who were burdens on their societies.

  What crime had the man committed on Sarvan? Baldwin could not recall, there had been so many. Had the punishment fit the crime? Baldwin could not say.

  Chapter 27

  Lan was reclining in his regular place in the observation lounge, alone, when the noise of the outside corridor intruded on his peace. Someone entered and the hatch closed behind them. He forced himself not to look to see who it was. If he wasn't safe here, he was safe nowhere. He was alone with whoever had entered.

  Whoever they were, they had yet made no sound.

  "Rather brazen, if you ask me."

  "Nerves of carbon nano-fiber." Lan agreed.

  "They're gonna get you dead one of these days." Lopez said. Then he walked around into sight and plopped down into another recliner, a wry smile on his ugly face.