Back From the Dead Page 24

  “I don’t like people who try to hurt my children. I despise incompetent commanders that get their men killed needlessly, for the sake of a family name. Go tell their parents the princelings died, terrified and screaming, without a shot fired, in the best ships you have. Under your orders.

  “Remember my face. I will remember yours for a very long time. Next time, it will not be only your interceptors I embrace.”

  The screen goes blank. A final image of the dying pilot appears on every screen, fear and pain stark on his once-handsome features.

  The Captain of the Hussein looks both angry and afraid, then comes back suddenly to life, in a rage, and at his first words, everyone on the bridge scrambles to look very busy and not meet his eyes.

  “GET THAT PICTURE OFF THE SCREEN!” the captain screams. “GET ME HER NAME! FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED! I WANT THEM HUNTED DOWN!”

  REST AND RECREATION

  Farm

  Sandwiches and finger food for dinner in the Officers’ Mess. Helton, Lag, Harbin, Bipasha, Kaushik, Allonia, Kaminski, Sar, and Stenson all look tired and drained. Quinn doesn’t.

  Helton: I think canceling R&R on Geminorum and having the parts shipped to us would be the more discreet choice.

  Lag grins around a bite of sandwich; ironically, but lopsided.

  Lag: Now you’re worried about discreet?

  Helton: I don’t do subtle very well, but it seems wisest to not stay in the same system right now.

  Harbin (dryly): True. Virtually nothing but a small moon for a million kilometers, and you still manage to crash us into no less than three other ships.

  Helton: Just stickin’ to what I know, I guess.

  Bipasha (weary, but in good humor): Best not to mention it to anyone. It might make getting insured more difficult.

  Bipasha takes the pitcher of tea and refills Kaushik’s glass. He winks at her and drains it, then turns to Helton.

  Kaushik: The next insurance policy you buy should include weapons — you are, after all, nominally a privateer. Should start acting like one for real, rather than expect to keep taking ships on accident. Risks would be more manageable. We were lucky those guys were so incompetent, thinking that their badges or names made them invincible.

  Helton: Many ports don’t allow armed ships.

  Harbin (grunts disapprovingly): An unarmed warship is about as useless as grav-tanks at a barbecue.

  Lag: This one’s done well so far, but you’re right; worth looking into. Not many custom ship weapons shops on New Texas, though. Might as well see what you can find if we’re going to be there anyway.

  Lag pushes the platter of sliced fruit closer to Quinn, who’s been eyeing it conspicuously.

  Sar: As long as you get the galley fixed soon. Cooking on only two burners complicates things.

  Sar waves her sandwich to emphasize the point. Quinn waves a piece of fruit.

  Allonia: Can we get weapons at New Texas, along with the rest of the supplies?

  Stenson: Doubt it. I had wondered why those things had such unusual specs when we repaired them originally. I have to cross-check more systems that don’t usually work together. Might find something useful for fixing the damage that shaking caused. Lots of systems are even more marginal than they were before. As long as we are gentle with them they’ll be okay, but we really need some downtime.

  Lag: We can hide the interceptor in deep space somewhere–

  Helton: –and cache the cargo in zero-grav orbital transfer dock, land light–

  Bipasha snorts and shakes her head.

  Helton: –lightER, and get supplies and repairs. Take a breather for a few days.

  Lag: Got a few contacts there that would be good to touch base with, too.

  Quinn: Do they have real cowboys there? I want to see some REAL cows!

  Kaminski (smiling widely): Real cows, real cowboys. Real barbecue. Nice folks, if they think you’re a good sort. I did my Komenagen there. The place is a real terraforming success story. Should be fun.

  Helton: Okay. Stash the ship and cargo, hit the Alvarez farm for a visit and to get the local lowdown, line up a stack of supplies, check for defensive systems, take a short break. Sounds like a plan. Any other priorities I’ve forgotten?

  New Texas is a beautiful planet, a mix of tans, lush green expanses, and small blue-green seas, with a healthy scattering of white clouds. High above orbits a space dock. Nestled in among the many ships attached at all angles, looking relatively small, dirty, and insignificant, is Tajemnica. She pulls away, slowly and carefully, just barely glowing, then angles down toward the planet below and gradually accelerates away from the station.

  The planet spreads out with scattered patches of forest, freshly tilled fields of dirt, expanses of growing crops, fallow land, and wild savanna. Tajemnica heads for the Alvarez Farm. It is modest, with a dozen buildings, a house atop a low ridge, others scattered between it and a small valley and draw below. It has barns, storage silos, and a sheltered grass landing field with several concrete pads set in it. The airspace high above the Alvarez Farm is clear, and Tajemnica glides easily in, carefully coming to rest with her landing gear on the concrete, struts slowly compressing, then shifting slightly to one side as if gingerly testing the footing and correcting for minor weaknesses.

  Barefoot kids and dogs run around excitedly at the sight of visitors. Mr. Alvarez, a man in his thirties, slender, wiry, with slightly graying black hair and mustache, waits quietly next to the door of a barn. The cargo ramp slowly drops, and the bottom flip-out ramp folds out and into place. Jorge Alvarez walks down the ramp, followed by Helton, Stenson, Bipasha, and Allonia.

  At the sight of Jorge, the man by the barn breaks into a huge smile and opens his arms. Jorge clears the bottom of the ramp and walks much faster toward him, and they embrace.

  “Too long!” The man says. “It’s been too long! Home to stay?”

  “No, sorry, not this time. Victor, this is Chief Henery Stenson, the man who hired me. Chief, this is my brother, Victor Alvarez.”

  “Glad to meet you,” says Mr. Alvarez. “I trust he’s working hard?”

  As Jorge introduces each person, Mr. Alvarez extends his hand and shakes theirs firmly, bowing slightly to each of the ladies as he greets them, a proper gentleman.

  “Helton Strom, the ship owner and captain I told you about.”

  “So good of you to come all this way and bring him to our doorstep!”

  “Bipasha, the business manager.”

  “Lovely to meet you. The products you inquired about are ready for examination at your convenience.”

  “Allonia, magician with all things domestic aboard ship.”

  “Wonderful to meet you, he has said so many nice things about you in his messages!”

  “The rest of the crew and people will be along shortly, I’m sure,” Jorge concludes.

  “No hurry, no hurry! Please, come with me and have a drink, and tell me ALL about your adventures.” He waves them up toward the house. Quinn comes tearing down the ramp, aimed at a couple of kids about his age standing near the corner of the barn.

  “He’s with me,” Allonia explains with a smile. “Well, us. Terribly shy, as you can tell.”

  Quinn stops in front of the Alvarez children. He’s so excited he’s vibrating. “Can you show me the cows?” They look at him in confusion, and the adults break out laughing.

  “No cows on this farm, I’m afraid,” says Mr. Alvarez. “Only small critters. Go on, show him around! We’ll be at the house.” The adults head up the hill toward the house, and the children run off to chase chickens around the barnyard. Kaminski strides down the ramp, wearing shorts, tee shirt, and five-finger running shoes, with a light carbine slung over his shoulder. He stretches, takes a deep breath of fresh air, flexes his ample muscles a bit, then takes off on a cross-country run.

  The low sun casts its reddish beams across the men and Bipasha as they sit in chairs on the veranda, talking and sipping from tall glasses. Allonia is inside with th
e other ladies, chatting and laughing. All are very relaxed.

  A flier with official markings on it angles in toward the barn, and Mr. Alvarez frowns.

  “Expecting anyone?” Helton inquires.

  Mr. Alvarez shakes his head. “No, nothing official. Likely Nerona.”

  “Nerona?”

  “Government inspector. Son of buyer for a major food processor. General pain in the ass. Young man that fancies himself a big shot and God’s gift to women. He’s got a hard-on for my eldest, and isn’t taking no for an answer, but he hasn’t quite crossed the line.” He looks around at his guests. “Yet. Having him disappear at my place could be awkward.”

  Kaushik’s voice comes in over Harbin’s wrist com. “Who’s on duty as S3 right now? Got a government non-S2 ‘tude wanting to deal with an S9 about an issue that the S1 would normally cover for our S4, and asking about S8. A percentage big enough that maybe S3 should handle it.”

  Harbin, Lag, and Kaminski look at one another. Harbin replies into his com unit, “Wait one.”

  “What did he just say?” Mr. Alvarez asks uncertainly.

  “I thought S3 was operations.” Helton says.

  “It also stands for something else,” Lag says. “He said he’s got a semi-official idiot with an attitude asking for a large percentage of whatever is going on, too big to just pay and shrug off, and he’s asking nosy questions, so Kaushik’s asking if we should just Shoot, Shovel, and Shut up. How about we let this guy introduce himself, and see if he’s smart enough to see the light.”

  Harbin speaks into his com unit again. “Send him up. Monitor outgoing signals.”

  “Victor, your lentil crop…” Lag says. “Which field do you plan on plowing next?”

  The sun has sunk a bit lower in the sky when a young man in casual clothes walks up the path toward them. They watch silently as he approaches, their faces blank. He stops on the middle stair. “Can you tell Maria I’m here?”

  “She’s not home,” Mr. Alvarez says in a tightly controlled voice.

  “So, are you going to introduce me to your friends, then?” Nerona sneers. “More dirt farmers, like the rest of your … friends?” He catches sight of Bipasha, who’s wearing a richly embroidered tunic and bangles. “And an import? I definitely need to meet them.”

  “That flier has government markings,” Lag says politely. “Are you here on business?”

  “No,” he answers frostily. “I’m here to see Maria. Who’s asking?”

  “Ah. Just using official craft out of personal convenience.” Lag nods in understanding, and Nerona’s face darkens.

  “Is that your cargo ship down there?” Nerona demands.

  “I’m sure it belongs to someone,” Helton says. “We’re just friends of the Alvarez family, visiting.”

  Allonia, dressed simply but attractively, walks out the door with Mrs. Alvarez, holding a pitcher of iced lemonade, laughing. Nerona’s eyes bug out a bit, and he can’t help but exclaim, “Oh my! And who is this?”

  Allonia freezes, surprised and unsure. Mrs. Alvarez’s face darkens. None of the men move a muscle except for Kaminski, who rises, turns his chair around, and sits again, leaning forward against the chair back, a bright smile on his face.

  “Oh, now this I would pay to watch,” he says. Nerona takes his stare off Allonia and looks at Kaminski with a puzzled expression. “The last guy who got out of line with her was dead three times before he hit the ground, and that broke his neck pretty badly. All I got to do was clean up the mess, file the paperwork, and dispose of the body. Watching a professional like her at work would be a rare treat.”

  Nerona pales and his mouth seems to be suddenly dry. Kaminski smiles at him. Allonia is embarrassed. Finally, Nerona recomposes his official bluster and manages to get some words out. “And you are?”

  “Kaminski. Corporal Kaminski.” He sticks out his hand, and Nerona takes it automatically. He winces as Kaminski gives him a brief but very firm handshake. He loses his composure for just a moment.

  “I know all the police around here, and I think you are rather out of your jurisdiction, Corporal. What jurisdiction are you from?” Nerona flips out a badge from a pocket and clips it on his belt, standing taller as he talks, all but strutting as he stands there.

  Kaminski smiles cheerily. “666th Retribution Battalion, Plataean Space Marines. Blood redistribution specialist.” He looks at Allonia appreciatively. “Yeah, last time was a mess. She even impressed the First Sergeant, here.”

  Nerona is suddenly very cautious. “First Sergeant?”

  “I only said ‘good group.’” Harbin replies.

  “Oh, right. It was the Colonel who said impressive.”

  “Colonel?”

  “Killing a man that efficiently with his own weapons was impressive,” Lag says in a conversational tone. “Good knife work, too. I’m sure she was sharing tips with the Alvarez ladies.” Mrs. Alvarez gives Allonia a look of impressed surprise. Allonia shrugs.

  “The Alvarez family are friends of ours,” Helton continues. “We thought we’d drop in, make sure everything was okay. Maybe spend a few days, take in some barbecue, see the sights, swap recipes for lentil cookies. The usual.”

  “The captain there was most generous to stop by as he did,” Stenson says.

  “Captain?”

  Helton nods. “It was the least I could do for the chief and his team.”

  “Chief? And team?”

  Jorge Alvarez flashes a confident smile. “So, weren’t you just about to leave?”

  “Uh, well, if, uh, Maria isn’t here, then, um, yeah, I guess I should be going.”

  “Next time, call first,” Mr. Alvarez says. “It’s polite.”

  Nerona, flustered and embarrassed, beats a hasty retreat down the path toward the barn. Lag waits a moment, then closes his eyes. “There are times, when dealing with people, for a peaceful tone, negotiation, and discretion. Then again, there are times you need to get all shooty with ‘em. Now, can this one take a hint, or is he incorrigible?”

  They watch him walk down the hill. He raises his com unit and begins speaking into it. All the Plataeans’ personal com units sound off, relaying his voice.

  “This is Nerona. We got some strange doings. Definitely something that needs to be checked out. Smuggling, gunrunning, sedition, something. I’m sure we can find an excuse to take them down, or at least lock ‘em up for a while. Talk to you tomorrow after I check out a few things. Out here.”

  Lag sighs.

  “Victor, we should call it an evening, knowing you need to plow a field bright and early tomorrow. Corporal, I trust you saw the backhoe? Chief, see what you can do about helping the inspector set the autopilot on his flier. Perhaps north, toward the sea? Helton, see if you can determine how much of that message got out. How it happened to come through our coms would be good to know, too. Allonia, if you could help Helton, I’d be happy to help Bipasha and the ladies with dishes and cleanup here for a little while.” Kaminski nods at Lag and takes off running at an angle down the hill.

  “Sad,” Lag continues. “But people like that very rarely change. They want power and control without responsibility or restraint. Pleasure without work. I believe we can honestly say that we saw him walk away from the house in fine shape, heading for his flier, talking about needing to check something out. And we then saw his flier leave, heading north?”

  Mr. Alvarez leans back, looking more relaxed, and gazes for a moment into the sunset. “Jorge, I think you’ve been hired by good people. It’s been a while since we’ve had a good formal barbecue. Not a lot to celebrate. But I think it might be a good time.” He faces Lag and Helton. “You may just find a number of people quite willing to do business with you next week, if you can stay that long.”

  BBQ

  The BBQ is huge. Hundreds of people are gathered near a large ranch house, around which many buildings are scattered among the lush greenery. Personal and utility fliers have landed in every available empty space, but Tajemnica,
dirty and angular, is by far the largest ship there.

  Inside her cargo bay stands a line of figures, silhouetted against the bright sunlight streaming in through the slowly lowering ramp. No armor, but all have pistol belts with sidearms. Bipasha is dressed in flamboyant Indian style. Helton wears boots, jeans, print shirt, dark vest, wide-brimmed hat, and his utilitarian pistol in a well-used holster. Kaminski has a more traditional western style with solid colors. Allonia’s hair is up, under a sunhat. She wears boots, a calf-length skirt, corset, long sleeves and collar, and a choker necklace with a medallion. Her belt, decorated but serviceable, has a fancy holster, in which is a long-slide, round-butt, double-stack, stainless 1911 with decorative handles and partially gilt engraving on the visible metal. A right proper barbecue gun. The rest of the crew wear a mix of clothing styles, generally a cross between dieselpunk, practical, and conservative functional Victorian, with many colors and themes on the ladies, and conservative colors and styles for the men.

  They walk down the ramp together and look around, taking in the sights and smells around them. To one side there are corrals with horses and cattle, lots of BBQ pits, smokers, and equipment. There’s even an open pit with a whole pig on a spit and a lot of rising smoke. Adults and kids and dogs and dining tables and smartly dressed groups everywhere. A spot has been cleared for a dance floor, and a square dance with live music is moving briskly along. On another side is a long cleared range with tables and targets set up on it.