We’d left all the worrying about the evacuees to Bossev. We had enough problems to deal with. Still, the mayor felt he needed to give us an update before trying to get some sleep.
“The first few hours were the worst,” Bossev said. “Many people hadn’t gotten alerts from Ostell, didn’t believe they needed to leave, wanted to ask too many questions, or thought we had to go through some legal process to get them to move. I admit I was too much in the ‘convincing’ mode at first. Finally, I told the people going house to house to just say that Marshal Millen and Mayor Bossev ordered them to leave or face arrest. Fortunately, not many took it to the final threat. If they had, I have no clue what we would do with hundreds of people in custody. Oh, and before I forget, Alda says she’ll have breakfast for you whenever you get up. Then she’ll head to the hospital to help out there or at Nazar’s position.”
“Any idea how many people you missed evacuating?” I asked. Too many memories of fighting in towns and cities filled with civilians still disrupted my sleep.
“I can’t tell you exactly, but it’s only a fraction of the original population. A few we had to force out, but I’m sure some were honestly missed or deliberately hid while our people checked each building. I expect you’ll use appropriate caution to avoid civilian injuries.”
“We’ll do what we can,” said Millen, “but you should prepare what you’ll say to your citizens when such casualties occur, as they almost certainly will.”
The mayor wasn’t happy with Millen’s answer, but there wasn’t much he could respond with. When Bossev left, Millen braced me with his “official” look—meaning none of his Western bullshit.
“I know you’ve dealt with such situations before, Everett, where civilians get caught in the middle. This won’t be as bad as some places you’ve been, but I need to check if you’re on board that this will be what you’d call a ‘free-fire’ zone. We’re going to be outnumbered so badly, we won’t have the luxury of being a hundred percent certain of every situation before we fire.”
I understood him thinking he needed to check with me, but I’d made peace with such situations long ago. That didn’t mean I didn’t have figurative and literal nightmares about shooting the wrong people. As far as I knew, I had only killed one human who was almost certainly not a combatant—a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boy in Sanaa, Yemen. After it happened—and I’m talking years—I’d gone over details of the event far beyond what was rational and always concluded I’d had no choice. We were in a firefight in a network of alleys and two- to three-story buildings. One of my squad was already dead and two wounded. Four men had just charged our position, weapons firing. We’d just cut them down, when a fifth figure carrying an object the rough shape of a weapon appeared in a doorway. I fired by reflex, hitting him three times. He was dead before he hit the ground. We’d gotten attention for our wounded and were policing the area when I returned to find a woman keening over the body of her son. The object that might have been a weapon was a worn brass trumpet. I’d vomited.
No matter how often others told me I’d had no choice, and no matter that I knew they were right, I’d never forgotten I’d killed a child holding a musical instrument. I thought I’d come to terms with that event, but Millen was right to check on me.
“I’m fine,” I told him. He didn’t press, and I wondered how detailed my file was.
Near dark, the two of us cycled to check the two-man picket a kilometer south on the only road Cherkoff could take to reach Justice by vehicle. I didn’t recognize either man, but they assured me one of them would be awake all night.
On our last visit to the three group positions, Ostell had a surprise waiting at the position near the hospital—Donal Wilton. The ex-deputy marshal and nephew of Dayton Wilton turned out to be a friend of David Ostell’s and had been leaking information to the Ostell family about Cherkoff’s operations. After David’s father died or was killed by Cherkoff—the facts were still muddy—the information Donal supplied had no outlet when Cherkoff took over the news system. However, Donal had stayed in contact with Ostell, and the twenty-year-old was eager to restore the family honor—or so he told Ostell.
The connection paid off. Donal slipped away from his uncle at Cherkoff’s headquarters long enough to pass on what he’d heard. Cherkoff was organizing his men to come to Justice tomorrow morning. I had obvious questions about the reliability of the news, but there were enough details, and it matched Millen’s estimate. To everyone’s relief, we’d get some sleep.
All in all, we had a pathetic disposition of outnumbered and inexperienced forces with questionable coordination ability—at least, according to my view. On the positive side, I considered Cherkoff’s men to be little more than gutter sweepings. In addition, he would have his own coordination problems if he did us a favor and divided his forces.
When we got to the hotel, Rangul Ahbutan, Orneel’s nephew, was waiting and eager to help. I thought that Millen had accepted Rangul’s offer to keep watch all night a little too unquestioningly. It furthered my suspicion as to why Orneel had gone to Cherkoff. However, we agreed he was too young, inexperienced, and enthusiastic to get directly involved. The extra watch probably wasn’t needed because we had our cameras covering the hall by our room and the alley outside our window, but Rangul seemed happy to contribute. I wondered about family relationships in Justice. First, Donal Wilton and now Rangul Ahbutan were eager to distinguish themselves from their uncles.
We slept six hours. I was both surprised and more than a little relieved that Millen wasn’t of the mind-set that we had too much to do and couldn’t sleep. Alertness of mind was usually more important than attempting to accomplish things your mind was too muddled to do correctly.
As soon as we woke up, Millen checked with Bossev by comm, then the three group leaders. All were awake, and from their reports, it seemed like we were among the last to get up. Rangul heard us leave our room and waited behind the front counter. He assured us there had been no issue during the night. His bleary-eyed look confirmed he hadn’t slept. I smiled as he laid his head on the wooden surface and was asleep before I closed the hotel entrance.
We arrived at Alda’s for breakfast, as arranged the day before.
“You’re the only customers. The morning cook evacuated, so you’ll have to trust my cooking.”
“Something tells me it’s only a temporary situation,” said Millen. “I think today’s the day. That means we need to eat while we can, so how about breakfast?”
We were well into omelets when one of the not-too-terrified citizens Bossev had assigned as runners and lookouts burst into Alda’s. I didn’t recognize the middle-aged man, but Millen seemed to know him.
“Morning, Willet. By your hurry, I’d guess you’ve got some news for us.”
“It’s Cherkoff. The men at the picket comm’d that the hovercraft and light trucks just passed them, heading toward Justice. The mayor is alerting everyone. I went to your hotel first, but Rangul thought you might be here.”
Millen nodded at the news. “Thanks, Willet. Now you’d better get yourself out of sight.”
The bearer of news didn’t argue and hustled out the café door.
“Why didn’t Bossev comm us?” I asked, puzzled.
Millen shrugged. “Who knows? He might have forgotten the local net was back up, or he may be so agitated he didn’t think.”
I tapped Bossev’s link on my comm.
“Oh, shit!” exclaimed the mayor. “I forgot about the net being up when I sent Willet looking for you. Sorry. I talked with the three position leaders. Nothing to report yet.”
I passed it on to Millen, and he comm’d the position leaders.
“Well,” said Millen, “now we know things are starting. Cherkoff should be at the main roadblock.”
Millen’s comm buzzed. “Millen here.” I watched him listen, then grunt. “How long ago was this?” Another grunt. “Okay, alert the others. Everett and I will keep you updated when there’s news.”
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br /> He tapped the comm, I suspected to kill the buzzer. “I don’t know how long it took Willet to find us, but Cherkoff is already inside Justice.” He grinned at me. “It’s showtime, pard. Not that it makes much difference, but Cherkoff’s been active while the picket news got to us. As we thought, he’s stopped at the Main and Bond roadblock. Then there’s good news. He’s split his men into three groups. Ten to twelve of his men just got to Wakefield’s Solar Cycle Rental and Repair shop and seemed to have stopped. Two other groups about the same size have split off, one going west along Bond Street and the other driving on the narrow road that connects with Beka Street. Once there, they’ll have to get through the bridge blockage on foot, and then it’s a straight shot toward Nazar’s group and the hospital.”
If there’d been any purpose to it, I’d have vented spleen at the time lost when Bossev hadn’t comm’d us. I knew plans you drew up were seldom followed exactly, but the delay meant that instead of us knowing Cherkoff was on the way, he was already here and moving into Justice. There was nothing to be done about it.
I visualized the town’s layout. “I’ll bet the middle group is waiting for the other two to get roughly abreast of them, so they’ll sweep through Justice like a wave. The ones on Bond will turn right on Perry or Cedar Street . . . my guess would be Cedar. They’ll then aim toward Ashraf’s group in western Justice. Nazar and the hospital are in the most immediate danger. You and I could let them contact Nazar and then hit them from the flank or rear. A problem with that is that the Wakefield group could then come at us from the rear and/or reinforce the ones hitting Nazar.”
“So . . . what would you recommend?” asked Millen.
Once again, he was reaching out for my opinion. The first few times since arriving in Justice, I felt it was pro forma—to make me think my opinion was valued, whether he thought that or not. However, the last few times I thought he was honestly looking for my input. Whatever the basis for the question, I did have recommendations.
“We should concentrate on the Wakefield group. If we can degrade them enough, the other two groups will be more isolated from each other and less able to offer mutual support. Nazar’s people will have to hold out. Looking at it coldly, even if that group falls apart or is overrun, what we can do to the Wakefield group is still the best tactical choice.”
Millen swallowed his last bite of toast, drank from his cup of ersatz coffee, then nodded. “Okay, then, it’s the Wakefield group for us.”
I looked at the quarter of my omelet left on the plate and swallowed a chewy piece I’d finished masticating. Whatever indigenous creature produced these eggs, the taste was similar to what I was used to on Earth.
“At least, we got most of the way through eating,” I said.
“Obliging of them, I guess,” answered Millen, “though I wish they’d waited till we finished.”
I laid my fork down. “I don’t suppose there’s any reason to delay.”
“None that I see.”
Millen picked up his comm lying beside him on the table and keyed into our drone. It rose from where he’d placed it on the hotel roof, and he guided it up to 200 meters and due south to hover over Wakefield’s store. Both of us watched the drone feed on our comms. I could see three armed men in front of the store. Two of them went inside, and two different ones exited to sit on benches lining the store’s front.
“Well, the report said ten to twelve, so we’ve seen five. Assuming the other five to seven are armed the same, it’s like other Cherkoff men we’ve seen—various rifles, along with a few shotguns and light automatic weapons.”
The Dynaplex body suits gave us an advantage over the men who’d be shooting at us, especially when they didn’t know we were wearing them. The suits’ protection wasn’t complete, though; high-enough velocity or momentum rounds and powerful-enough lasers could defeat them. We also assumed most shots were likely to aim at body parts protected by the suits. On the downside, we counted on our combat skill and luck to avoid errant shots or enemies who contradicted our logic.
We rose and picked up long guns leaning against the wall behind our table: rifles and shotguns. We automatically checked the loads and actions, along with the pistols we hadn’t taken off to eat. As a rule, I was in favor of using the heaviest weapon and biggest bomb available. However, even if we had them, our goal was to foster a mythology about our invincibility due to skill, rather than weapons.
Outside, Gliese 777-A shone a hand’s width above the eastern hills. The yellow sun’s light cast hues that resembled Earth’s so closely, it was easy to forget where I was.
We surveyed the street as we stood in front of the café. A mangy dog was the only thing moving, except for a few furtive faces peeking through slits in curtains and blinds.
Maybe people who hid when the town was being evacuated, I thought, as we started down the town’s shabby, dusty main street to where twelve men waited to kill us—as if clipped from one of Millen’s Westerns. I shook my head. The shuttle contrail arched up from the Oslo spaceport 2,600 kilometers away, the sun slightly larger than the sun under which I’d spent my life, and the few Astrilian plants in view seemed surreal.
I was tense but not scared. I’d signed up for this, and all my senses were preparing for what was to come. That’s what I told myself.
Millen, as if on cue, said, “Let’s go see what’s happening at the OK Corral.”
We need some theme music, rose unbidden in my thoughts.
I’d anticipated the man’s next action. He started whistling a theme I’d first heard on the Astrild space station before an annoyed mother had asked him to change tunes. By now, I knew the music’s origin. I surrendered to yet another of Millen’s antiquated references.
“Okay, although we need a couple of those serapes to set off the music from that Italian guy.”
CHAPTER 17
We walked the short block of Main Street to where it intersected Priscilla. I wondered who Priscilla was. A wife? A founder of Justice? Hell, for all I knew, somebody’s dog. For now, the street was important because Main made a 90-degree turn right after Priscilla, so that the two streets were parallel. By taking Priscilla for a couple of blocks, we stayed out of view of the men at Wakefield’s cycle shop until we got closer. Millen kept glancing at his rollout screen and watching the drone feed—in addition to whistling.
“Not a smart move on their part to split up,” I said. “I’d have come right at us as a group. Splitting up makes their coordination problems far worse and gives us a chance to deal with them in detail. It’s the move of someone who overthinks. I wonder if Cherkoff considers himself a tactician. Maybe he thinks splitting up and covering more ground gives them the advantage. If that’s how he’s thinking, he’s wrong.”
“Another alternative is he still doesn’t take us or the people of Justice seriously,” said Millen.
Millen tapped his comm again. “The men at Wakefield’s are staying put. Let me move the drone.” About thirty seconds later, he grunted and glanced at me. “The west group just turned off Bond Street onto Cedar. Let’s check the eastern bunch. Yep, they’re slowly working their way through the vehicles blocking the bridge. Maybe whoever leads that group is worried about us being hidden behind every bush.”
Millen keyed his comm. “Nazar. Some Cherkoff men are trying to get across the bridge. Can you see them? Okay, then. Take some shots to discourage them. Let us know if they keep pushing on.”
Millen looked at me. “Nazar seems pretty solid. I think he’ll hold Cherkoff’s eastern group.”
“I agree, and the estimate for the two groups is pretty accurate,” I said. “I make out eleven for each. That’s assuming there’s no more than two men in the cabs of the eastern group’s two trucks and counting the men riding on back.”
“I figured we’d see the group at Wakefield’s start to move at—”
He broke off and tapped his comm repeatedly. I glanced at the screen. The feed was gone. All I saw was a blank display.
&nb
sp; “Shit!” Millen exclaimed. “Drone feed is gone. Either they spotted it and somehow killed it, or it’s a malfunction. There’s nothing to do about it. From here on out, we’re going blind.”
We turned off the drone link to our comms. With the drone down for whatever reason, it would all be line-of-sight from here on. When we moved to Main Street, Millen nodded for me to take the other side, and I crossed over. The men in the central Cherkoff group would have to divide their attention and give us more options.
From three blocks away, I saw part of the cycle shop’s sign—the word “Cycle” and below that was “Rental.” I couldn’t see any of Cherkoff’s men on the street, but Millen had the better angle and signaled spotting three men when we were two blocks away. Moments later, I picked them up—three men crouching by several solar cycles and fiddling with them. Neither looked up. Two more men pushed another cycle out of the shop’s open garage door.
What the hell are they doing with the cycles? I thought. Gaining mobility? But that didn’t seem likely, unless they found cycles for all their men. Otherwise, their coordination problems would get worse. And why so oblivious to their surroundings? As much as I appreciated not being noticed, my professional standards were offended.
When we were forty meters away, Millen switched from his rifle to the shotgun. I assumed he was going for shock effect, and though I hesitated, I did the same.
Millen was thirty meters from the cluster of five men before one of them, crouching and doing something with the cycle, looked up and saw him. The man stared for several seconds, a stunned look on his face, before starting to rise.
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