First Casualty (25 page)

“Most of Westhaven is in uniform, like you two, and subject to even more draconian measures. You haven't been reading your mail, Senior Pilot.” Rita blushed.

“You're saying,” Ray mused, “that matters are totally out of hand. They are drafting an army they cannot deploy. But it can enslave the people on the planet it is supposed to defend.”

“I am afraid so,” the newcomer agreed.

“How did we get ourselves into this mess?” Ernest sighed.

“If I may be to the point,” Ray said, leaning forward, “the matter before us is how to get out of this mess. I take it that either no efforts have been made to redeem the situation, or they have all failed.”

“Many fine men and women have died trying to strike at the head of this gang that throttles us, but our President only increases his security.”

“Then what chance have we?” Rita whispered.

“More than you might think.” The fat man pursed his lips. “Major, the tools at our disposal are quite good, but not perfect. Your disability opens doors closed to others. Your mobility is presently limited. For a long journey it would be only natural to fit you for walking assistance. Walkers are very helpful, but the skin must be toughened. I know just the medicine you should use.” The spy grinned.

Rita swallowed hard. Her hand clutched at his. “This is not a suicide mission. Ray will survive it, won't he?”

“Of course, Mrs. Longknife,” the spy master assured her. “The President needs to see the light. I think Ray has a very sound grasp of the problem.”

“Of course, honey. I will do the job, like a soldier.”
I might survive
. “There's no defense I can't handle.”

She rose up on her knees, looked him hard in the eye, searched his face. He dared not look away.

“Good, because I'm going with you. I want to be carrying your child—our child—before you meet the President.”

* * * *

The Destroyer Navy was an interesting place to visit. Mattim would not want to live in a tin can. The officers and crew were young enough to handle four gees with panache, if not without grumbling. For him, they had a full water tank, and he was glad for it when the
John Paul Jones
and the
Yamamoto
dashed for the jump point. They backed through it at a few klicks per second. In-system was a surprise. “Colonials. Looks like a couple of their cans just made a supply run,” the skipper told him. “Doubt they'll cause us any trouble.”

If the trip was boring, the ending made up for it in stark terror. On final approach, the Jones held to two gees and they introduced Mattim to his drop shuttle. The Jones would not land. Supplies and the single passenger were cut loose in packing crates with rockets and a tiny navigation control.

“Does this work?” Mattim asked incredulously as they crammed him into a space no bigger than a bed, and a narrow one at that.

“Never had any complaints from the others,” the chief supervising his installation assured him.

“Dead men tell no tales,” the second class tightening down Mattim's straps muttered.

“Knock it off, Peadee.”

“Right, Chief.”

Mattim glanced around his tiny cell. “How often do you use this drop system?”

“Whenever we drop replacements to the Ninety-seventh. We only land when we've got casualties to lift out,” the chief said.

Mattim glanced at the second class. “We deliver the poor jarheads.” He shrugged like a boat hand on the River Styx.

With that kind of lead-in, Mattim expected the worse. He was not disappointed. The canister creaked and groaned as it dropped away from the Jones. Rockets slammed him into the thin cushion of his seat. Something snapped; Mattim did not like the sound of it, but he had no control over this thing. It began to spin. He had no view out. After twenty years in space, he discovered what claustrophobia was. Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on what he could control—his breathing. And his bowels. Tightening his gut, he waited. The damn suit he'd been loaned didn't even have a chronometer. Mattim wasn't a strong believer in hell; this bucket introduced him to it.

Without warning, he hit with a crunch that jarred him to the bone and sent a spasm of pain through his back. The canister stood for a moment, then slowly collapsed, leaving him dangling from his straps. Someone was supposed to be right along to collect him.

“Hello, Ninety-seventh, this is Captain Mattim Abeeb. Anybody there?”

Dead silence. He glanced at his air supply. The backup canister showed twenty-nine minutes. The main supply showed—nothing. He tapped it. It still showed nothing. He rapped it hard. For a second it

showed zero minutes. Then it went back to blank. Then the entire canister went dark.

“Oh, God,” he breathed. Mattim wasn't any surer about heaven than he was about hell. At the moment he hoped there was a God watching over him, 'cause the Navy was doing a damn poor job of it. He started to shiver. It wasn't that cold. Yet.

* * * *

“Company A, brigade here. We got a stray supply canister in front of your position. Could you collect it?”

Mary had sent her radio operator to the sack after a thirty-two-hour shift. She had managed to catch a two-hour nap during that thirty«-two, so she considered herself fresh. “Supplies or replacements?” she asked without thinking.

“Neither. Navy sent a captain down for a little talk-talk with Anderson, then misplaced him. We've got to pick him up. He's got two hours of air and a half hour backup. No big rush.”

The miner in Mary took that in, divided them by two, then took the smaller. She gave herself fifteen minutes. “Roger, brigade, we're on it.”

She glanced at her boards. Dumont had the reserve squad. “Du, how many rolligons have we got working today?”

“Four. Who wants to take a drive in the country?”

She passed along the situation. “Put a driver and gunner in each, and a driver in my command car. I'll take this one out.”

“Good, I can get back to catching up on my beauty rest. Damn, this being in reserve is great.”

Mary would bet a month's pay the gunner on the lead rig would be Dumont. Her command rig was slowing as she exited the HQ. She grabbed a handhold, and it accelerated away. She kept the rig open to space, but it could be closed up and pressurized.

Four captured rolligons were already raising dust as they hustled through the pass; she joined the tag end of the column. The colonials had just tried their hand at walking in singles, heavy explosives packed on their backs to leave behind as calling cards. It had been a real snipe hunt, but those that hadn't been chased down had been chased off.

And they were now barreling out into the ground they'd disappeared into. Isn't life in the corps wonderful?

Mary had a rough position for the capsule, and the frequency it should be squawking on. No surprise; it was silent. “Lek, a little rocket ship landed on our front door a few minutes ago. Did our sensors pick up anything?”

“Have them aimed down, looking for man-sized movement, and not finding a hell of a lot. You want me to reprogram them and go over their records? I'll need a good half hour.”

“Better do it, Lek. May be a friendly out there trying to breathe vacuum.”

“I'm on it. Just a second, Mary. I've got movement six klicks from the pass, forty degrees left.”

“Unknown or colonial?”

“One ... no, three colonials, coming from different directions, closing on something in a deep crater, if I can trust my map.”

“Dumont, swing us left.”

“Heard, already doing. I'm point. Kip, you keep right. Dag and Zori, swing to my left. Start zigzagging.” Dumont's timing couldn't have been better. A rocket lofted from behind a rock, hung in space for a moment, then arrowed straight at the rightmost rig. Kip popped chaff, then ducked right. Chaff went up again; then the rig came to a bouncing halt behind a boulder.

The rocket ignored the first chaff cloud but dove straight for the second, dispensing bomblets as it crashed into its center. A moment later, Kip's rig was at full speed, heading in the general direction the rocket had come from. The rigs dodged two more small rockets, each one from a different location. They ended up with two captives. The third took too long deciding between POW and fighter. She died.

Dumont raced past the crater Lek thought might hold their wayward Navy type. “Something's down there, and it didn't shoot at me. Might be what you're looking for, Mary. Squad, spread out, keep moving, don't make a good target, and don't draw attention to that crater. It's all yours, Mary.”

Mary told the driver to slow as they passed the crater. She grabbed two different emergency kits. She'd made lots of rescues in the mines; this was just a different twist on a familiar job. Of course, Dumont could have missed something, and the crater's contents might be unfriendly. Rifle ready, emergency kits dangling from both elbows, she stepped from the rig and slid down the crater's crumbling walls. A standard, man-rated canister rested on the opposite side of the crater, nose down.

It had the green and blue Society of Humanity emblem. She tried opening the red emergency exit hatch; it didn't budge. Mary tossed her rifle aside and unzipped the first of her kits. Powered rescue gear gleamed. She only got to use three of her new toys before she was in the canister and staring at the cheapest excuse for a space suit she'd ever seen. The helmet was fogged; it didn't take an engineer to know that the two and a half hours of air hadn't been up to specs.

She dragged her second kit over and unzipped it. The oxygen bottle had several attachments. She grabbed the sharp one and slipped it through the soft material at the neck joint of the suit, slapped goo around it and opened the bottle a crack while she twisted the manual override on the suit's vent. Through her gloves, she could feel stale air hissing out, replaced by the good oxygen. Damn suit had no monitors; she guessed at how much, watching the plastic faceplate as it slowly unfogged. The Navy officer's lips were blue, but he was breathing.

“Du, get my rig back here. You got a lifesaver in your squad?”

“Kip's gunner is.”

“I'll gun for Kip. Get both rigs back here.”

“How's the Navy doing?”

“Not breathing too well. They make a man a captain, then give him a suit I wouldn't wear to a Sunday school picnic.”

“Never went to one, myself. No beer. Okay, Kit, you head kind of sly but quick for the crater. Rest, keep your heads up. If anyone's left, they want our hide.”

Careful of the oxygen bottle, Mary dragged the unconscious man up the rim of the crater. She left him lying there as she dropped back to collect her rifle and emergency kits. She also checked in the capsule. The guy had a briefcase and clothes bag. She added them to her load and made it easily out again just as two rigs came to a quick stop beside the officer.

The oxygen must have been helping, because he pulled himself up on his elbows. Mary patted her mouth and ears through her helmet, then made a quick slit across her throat.
You’re not sending or receiving, Joe
. He seemed to nod; then the others were on him, lifting him into the command car, slamming its door shut with the captain and the lifesaver inside. The driver secured his hatch, and Mary spotted dust blowing every which way as pressure built up. Good.

As the command rig took off zigzagging for the pass, Mary swung herself up into the gunner's slot on Kip's rolligon. “Okay, everybody, we've done this the easy way. Let's back up careful like and keep this a cakewalk.”

“This is fan, old lady,” Dumont chortled. “We got to go out like this more often.”

At her feet, a POW was taped like a mummy. Mary doubted he—no, she—considered today fun. Well, one person's fun was someone else's bad day.
At least you 're out of the shooting, hon.
Then Mary snorted. Once, a long time ago, all she'd really wanted was to surrender. Who was the winner here?

* * * *

Rita drove next morning as they headed into the countryside. There was a thirty-minute wait at a checkpoint. Though they were waved through with only a glance at their ID cards, the wait left them plenty of time to contemplate the three bodies twisting on red flag waving gallows. “Earthie Traitors” the sign read.

“Already,” Rita whispered as she pulled away.

The hanging bodies stayed with Ray. He was sworn to defend these people. Now his uniform was being used as an excuse to kill young men. This was not what he and his father and grandfather had bled for. The hangmen, and the President signing their orders, had to be stopped.

Rita found the dirt road that led into the abandoned quarry. They went well past a swimming hole on a rarely driven path. In a blighted opening among the trees, the spy master waited, a briefcase in hand. The fat man showed Ray how to open the case. “We've included a computer with your slide show on it and extra batteries for the computer and your power walker.”

“So, I am to bludgeon the President to death with batteries?” Ray observed dryly.

The other closed the briefcase. “Now put in five-nine-three for the combination.”

Ray did, and did not open the briefcase. He felt a very -light hum, then nothing.