After strapping the faintly-vibrating black box to his wrist, he took out the two remaining items from his pocket: a monocle and a small aerosol.
Thus equipped, he headed for the maintenance hatch. Lebedev swore the box would defeat any motion sensor he encountered, provided he moved slowly. The man had mumbled through a detailed explanation of ultrasonics, but that it came from Lebedev was enough; Nabil held his technical skills in almost shamanic respect.
Every couple of meters he sprayed the aerosol, pressing the monocle to his eye. It looked scavenged from a civilian night-vision device. Together, the two allowed him to spot the skein of laser sensors crisscrossing the area. Evading them required all of his gymnastic ability, but somehow he reached the door, thankfully without triggering any of the pressure pads likely distributed around the roof.
The maintenance hatch was a flimsy one, meant to keep mischievous students inside, not bloody-minded guerrillas out. Finessing the primitive mechanical lock was quick work for his well-worn set of picks. It and the guldor pichok were his only remembrances of Abkhenazia, souvenirs of a time when he'd held common scouts and infantrymen in contempt. No other warrior stood above a Fist of the Mogdukh.
Nabil descended the short flight of stairs. When he had approached the building earlier the top floor had been dark, but there was always the danger of roving sentries. Pulling up his jacket, he slid free his dagger with a well-oiled snick from the scabbard concealed in the small of his back.
He peeked his head into the hall, glanced lightning fast left then right and then pulled it back before anyone could shoot it off. Closing his eyes, he made himself recall what he had seen without a second look. There wasn't always time for a second glance, and relying on one made you sloppy. Sloppy made you dead.
The wing he was in extended a good thirty meters in either direction. The hall was deserted. A stairwell stood at both ends and the silver double doors of a lift were in the middle. Classroom doors lined the hall, broken only by the lift and a small alcove with couches and potted plants.
He pulled off the balaclava and stowed it away. Swiveling the hilt of his guldor pichok, he pressed the curving blade along the inside of his forearm. If his luck ran out and someone challenged him, he planned to bluff first. If that failed, the blade would go to work.
He stepped to the stairs and descended them gingerly. It was an open stairwell, with no doors at the landings — any noise he made would easily reach the wrong ears At the third floor he paused, glancing down the length of the hall. All clear. His goal was floor two; he'd seen a lone classroom or office with lights burning when he reconnoitered.
A light bobbed on the walls below and trudging boot steps echoed up to him.
He went into the darkened hall, trying the first door. It was locked. So were the second and the third. The footsteps were nearly to his floor. He could hear the low murmur of chatter. At the alcove he flattened out, slipping under one of the couches. Painstakingly slowly he eased out his pistol. If the guards took him, it wouldn't be alive. He knew too much.
The footsteps stopped at each classroom; he assumed the guards were shining the light through the small window inset in the classroom doors. When they reached the alcove he closed his eyes. They might reflect light and he needed every edge he could get. "Blind their eyes that they may not see," he prayed, moving his lips without sound. They paused nearby. He cracked his eyelids, ready to come out shooting.
They didn't seem to have spotted him. The click of an electric lighter sounded, and soon the stench of stale tobacco filled the air.
He grinned with relief. They were sneaking cigarettes. Smoking was a grave indulgence in the Khlisti faith, though one routinely broken by enlisted troops. They'd find the soles of their feet beaten with rods if they were caught. Finally they moved on.
Nabil padded down to level two. The second floor rooms were walled with reactive glass which could be adjusted for privacy. It only took a moment to find the occupied classroom.
A small "window" was programmed into the opaque glass door of the room. Allowing himself a single peek, Nabil saw a tweedy fellow diagramming something on a large trideo screen mounted on the wall. The New Genevan professor looked hard-used and in need of a square meal. Probably half a dozen Abkhenazi civilians watched from their desks, flanked by an equal number of hard-faced guards.
His scan didn't allow him any idea of what the old man was charting, but it didn't matter. Nabil's scientific curiosity extended little beyond combat applications. Springing the lock on a nearby room, he waited for the lesson to end.
Several hours later, it did. Catfooted, he shadowed the group, giving them plenty of lead time. At the bottom of the stairs he went to his belly and peered around the corner. People often missed movement when it was low enough.
In the center of the hall, where the main entrance should be, a trio of guards sat around a desk. Uniforms of silt-gray serge and the dark-brown berets folded and tucked into their epaulettes marked them as Theocratic Guardsmen — tough, battle-hardened troopers.
Beyond, he saw the professor and two guards split off and file through a doorway. It shut with a solid thud. He assumed the professor was being taken to the basement; it seemed likely the other academics were being held there as well. He wanted very much to get a look past that door.
Common sense held him back. If the Abkhenazi discovered that the Irregulars were sniffing around the scientists, it wouldn't be a trio guarding the front door but a platoon. Reluctantly, Nabil went back up the stairs. Once more he crossed the trap-laden rooftop and climbed down the wall. Down was always worse than up, but he managed.
Getting to the perimeter was no problem for the scout. Security wasn't directed at keeping people in and the enlisted troops he passed weren't likely to challenge an officer.
He had chosen his exit before going in, a row of shrubs along a side street. Across the street lay demolished apartments, their residents long since deported or killed. Past the rubble was an entrance to the Catacombs. An hour prior to the infiltration he'd removed the cover and swept the area thoroughly for traps.
A reedy, tremulous whistle came to his ear, the melody an Abkhenazi folk tune he remembered from childhood. Soon a gangly private strolled into view. He looked barely old enough to shave and carried his assault rifle like it was a fowling piece.
Nabil's smile was a cruel twist of the lips as he slid free the guldor pichok. He concealed himself behind a bush, biding his time.
As the young soldier passed, Nabil struck, adder-fast. A hand went to the throat, to quell the boy's frightened scream; a foot to the back of the knee took him down; and a short, upward thrust of the blade ended his life.
In a blink, the deed was done, the corpse stretched out behind the hedge. Nabil took time to clean his blade on the boy's shirt before sprinting across the street.
Picking his way through the rubble, Nabil felt his insides churn. Where was the exultant rush that always came, the flash of vindication? He could see the boy's face — the sightless eyes, the stilled lips that seemed to mutely accuse.
Twice he stopped to empty his guts before reaching headquarters.
***
Melted snow had long before soaked through the knees of Randal's black coveralls. He only hoped his joints would obey when the time came to move; they felt frozen in place. He could see no static defenses from his position behind the Mireault house, but security had been beefed up since his last visit. Two different guards had walked the perimeter so far. He assumed there were only two and they were alternating rounds. If a familiar face made the next pass he'd know.
The foot patrols told him something encouraging: no sound or motion sensors, or else the guards would trip them themselves. There was a motion-sensitive light on the back porch that stayed on about thirty seconds after someone passed. He'd need to wait until the next round set it off before he could make his move.
Despite his complaining knees, he felt good. In a little under sixty-eight hours his people
had formulated workable battle plans for two very complicated ops and performed the necessary reconnaissance and technical prep. Even with the factory surveillance showing a thornier situation than they'd hoped, the plan was still green-lighted.
Unfortunately, it all depended on the cantankerous man in the house before him.
Randal patted the folded hardcopies in his breast pocket, smiling mirthlessly. These were fake messages cooked up by Jeni, and ostensibly transmitted from Laurent Mireault to the Irregulars. The information was all gleaned from other sources, some of it based on sketchy inference at best, but it would be damning for the man if found.
If Mireault proved intractable, Randal would let him know that the next Irregular corpse the Abbies searched would be holding the messages. Ariane had no idea of the plan.
The back light flashed on. A guard wandered into view, the same one he'd seen earlier. He had a limp and his web gear rattled with each step. The man didn't know how to secure it properly at all. Once the guard rounded the corner Randal moved, sprinting across the yard. At the back door he sighed in relief; the locking mechanism hadn't been changed.
He reached into his waist pouch, taking out the crude lock slicer contained inside — a standard pass card connected by optic line to a sequencer. It was simple to operate. A single button both activated the slicer and set it to work.
Slotting the pass card into the electronic lock, he pressed the button twice. Numbers flashed on the display much faster than they could be read. Fleetingly he wondered why Lebedev bothered with a display at all, though it did reassure the user that the machine was doing something. He chewed the inside of his cheek, hoping the slicer would work as advertised. An alarm in that part of town was a death sentence.
The lock popped and Randal was inside, closing the door softly behind him.
He tucked away the slicer and then freed the flechette pistol dangling from his shoulder rig. There could be more guards inside. He passed through the kitchen to the atrium, keeping low as he moved — all his stealth getting into the house meant nothing if someone spotted him through a window.
Static hissed from the parlor Mireault had led them to last time. Taking a look inside, Randal found the man sunken into a plush reclining chair. Mireault's eyes rested vaguely on the trideo, which was tuned to nothing at all.
He looked terrible. His suit was slept in, his cheeks hollowed and sprouting several days' stubble. Head turning in Randal's direction, his expression didn't change as he took in the ugly black gun pointed at him. "I hope you're here to kill me," he said tiredly, draining the last of the amber liquor from his glass.
"Actually, I've come to ask for your help, Monsieur Mireault." Randal edged into the room.
"C'est dommage. Come have a drink." He refilled his highball, motioning with the bottle to Randal.
"I thought you would want to know — Jean-Marie is safe. We rescued him. Ariane is also doing well. I can't tell you how many lives she's saved." He squatted not far from Mireault, keeping his attention on the room's entrance.
The man smiled faintly at that, mumbling to himself in French.
In a flash, his expression shifted. He sat forward with a slosh of ice cubes, fixing his gaze on Randal. Where before he was hazily pleasant, he was now all angry intensity. Randal feared the man might be crazy. That would be disastrous: he needed Mireault sane for their plan to work.
"Why are you here, boy? Are you trying to get me killed? Is it not enough for you to take my daughter, will you take my own life as well?"
Randal lifted his pistol in line with the man's forehead, letting the 10 millimeter muzzle work its soothing effect. "If you don't be quiet, you'll rouse the guards and get us both killed. Can't let you do that."
The man's mouth snapped shut. Apparently he wasn't as ready to die as he'd imagined.
"You're the most foolish man I know, Monsieur Mireault," Randal said coolly, flicking a glance at the door. No guards so far. "The Khlisti religion has been around for over three hundred years. Do you think this is the first planet where this has happened? They even have a term for people like you. It translates roughly as 'useful fools'."
Mireault started to interject. A motion with the pistol silenced him.
"How long do you think they let these useful fools live once they've consolidated power? Answer: not very sodding long. First of all, you're an infidel. And second, if you'd betray your own people, how could they ever trust you? You'll only live as long as you're needed." Randal smiled easily, giving a beneficent wave of the gun. "Your turn."
"This is idiocy. . . Madness! Why should I go live in holes just so I can be shot down like a dog? New Geneva is doomed, and so is this ridicule rebellion!" Mireault's fire flared a moment and then dimmed to resignation. "At least here I am comfortable until my time comes."
Randal sighed, shaking his head. "In the south, the Abkhenazi have only managed to advance eight hundred meters in the past month - less than a kilometer. The Irregulars have cut their resupply and reinforcement to a trickle. They're being squeezed from front and back, and spring is a long time coming."
They had gleaned the information about the bogged-down advance from Station Liberty just that morning. The Abkhenazi maintained constant broad-band jamming, but occasionally a broadcast slipped through.
Mireault ran the flat of a hand across his bald pate and down his face. "Why is this happening, my friend? I want only to live in peace in my own home. I don't understand why..." His mouth continued to work soundlessly, eyes settled on the bottom of his highball as if to find an answer there.
Seeing him like that, Randal felt compassion for the man. But he couldn't let him go to pieces. He needed him intact.
"You're an atheist, Monsieur Mireault. You don't get to look for ultimate meanings." Remembering Ariane, he softened his tone. "But your daughter told me what you used to say to her. How making your mark in this go-round is the only immortality you have? I'm offering you a chance, the only one you're likely to get. Let your life mean something."
The front door opened unexpectedly.
Randal scuttled behind Mireault's chair, hunkering down. He pressed the muzzle of the pistol into the back of the recliner, certain the man could feel it through the padding.
Booted feet thumped on the wooden floors. There was a sliding sound to the walk, probably his friend with the limp. "You are here, that is good," he heard the guard say. "I will log in report. My relief will check to your safety in the morning."
Waiting until the guard was out of earshot, Mireault muttered, "Good for you," followed by fragments in French that Randal couldn't translate and was certain he would not want to. Emerging from behind the chair, he gave Mireault an expectant look.
The man's eyes were clear as they settled on him. "What is it you want from me?"
CHAPTER 14
Against the rigidity of classical methods of fighting,
the guerrilla fighter invents his own tactics at every minute
of the fight and constantly surprises the enemy.
—Che Guevara
Randal peered over a windowsill of the fire-gutted cafe the infiltration team was using as a staging point. Behind him he heard the snap of black tape being ripped in lengths. Pyatt was helping Johnny and Ariane with some last-minute soundproofing on their gear.
Pieter crouched to his right, both watching the university through heavy snowfall.
"One set of eyes in the wrong place, Kipper."
"And we're spotted, I know. But attacking in force would be suicidal We'd lose all the Irregulars, not just the five of us."
It was something they'd debated during the planning stage. Pieter wanted to hit them hard, with a full-on assault. Randal was adamant — guerrillas survived through stealth and ambuscade. Pitched battles with regular armies allowed the other side to find, fix and destroy the guerrillas with superior firepower. No guerrilla army in any history he'd read ever won a war without the aid of a regular army. But when the guerrillas confused their role
with that of the regulars, disaster inevitably followed.
"I just have a bad feeling about this. If NG Intel wants these boys so badly, why don't they come get them?"
Randal didn't answer. He was hungry, exhausted, and was afraid he might bite off Peter's head. Besides, Pieter was just working through his pre-op jitters. He knew why the mission was so vital — his father's company had certainly benefited from the astounding technological developments coming from the Abraham Kuyper science faculty.
The military had benefited as well. From the layered ceramic armor of the LANCER suits to the propulsion systems of the latest generation of unmanned submersibles, few weapons in the NGDF arsenal lacked a contribution from AKU.
For centuries, the Terran Hegemony's policy was to keep Penumbra colonies as technologically primitive as possible. Such colonies were kept permanently undercapitalized and restricted from importing advanced tech. There would be no wars for independence so long as colonial governments had only twenty-first century tech with which to challenge the orbiting battle cruisers of the Hegemony.
While coming nowhere close to the level of the Core Planets, New Geneva had developed far beyond the typical Penumbra colony. Ideas had consequences. Contrary to the "don't polish brass on a sinking ship" mentality of many Christian theologies, the Reformed worldview found value in this life, not only in the life to come. The universe was the "theatre of God's glory" and education and free inquiry were cherished. AKU was the pinnacle of an educational system researched and applauded by experts from as far away as Centari and Terra.
Now the cream of the university was in Abkhenazi hands. The long-term implications for the war effort were dire — their technological advantage was the only edge the New Genevans held.
Randal had kept the plan to rescue the scientists as straightforward as possible, but there were still more variables than he liked. In a few moments, mad Lieutenant Shin and his Headhunters would begin a diversion on the far side of the campus. Big variable number one was whether Shin could pull enough attention from the infiltration team's section of the perimeter to get them inside.
Knox's Irregulars Page 19