Department 9 Page 8

  He shook his head sharply, realizing the monotony was making his mind drift.

  “Stay alert,” Vetch warned the party.

  “Have you seen targets?” asked Darant hopefully.

  “No.”

  “I don’t like it,” Darant complained. “I’ve got a brace of plasma pistols begging for some action.”

  “And again, no,” said Vetch. “Our best defense is to approach openly and allow ourselves to be seen. Same as that recruiter did with us.”

  “More to the point,” said Lily, looking behind her to see if they were being followed. “We allow ourselves to be heard.”

  The route ahead was blocked by chunky tangles of vines that moved like twitching fingers. Enthree got to work with short swords redeployed to machete clearance duty.

  “I told you weapons safe,” Vetch roared at the other humans. “Don’t bunch up. Keep your separation.”

  As they slid apart from each other, still watching the shadows between the trees, a plaintive bleat emanated from Darant’s pack.

  Bleah? Bleah?

  “Did you hear that?” Vetch asked.

  “Hear what?” Darant responded innocently.

  The noise came again, Darant tried to cover it with an unconvincing cough.

  “Sounded like a dropship making atmos entry,” Lily suggested.

  “Or…” Vetch gasped in horror. “The hunting shriek of an atrox air-drifter.”

  Darant scowled at him. “You need your lugholes degreased again, big guy.”

  Vetch looked at him, hands gripping the shaft of his war hammer hard as if in fear, but in truth, taking full advantage of his thick beard to hide his grin.

  Even his prodigious beard wasn’t enough in the end. A little boy’s giggle escaped his whiskers.

  “Goddamned bunch of asshole jokers,” Darant muttered. He knelt in the mud and undid the main flap of his pack. Hubert leapt out.

  The miniature goat blinked at the familiar faces and then used all six limbs to skim across the slimy jungle floor like a guided torpedo.

  Man, the little guy was fast!

  “How long have you known?”

  “Since your pack started wriggling a hundred yards after we set off from the hideout,” said Lily. “Who knew our grumpy old bookworm was such a sweetie?”

  “Stow it,” Darant growled. “I’ve grown to like fresh milk in my coffee, that’s all. Only way I could figure how to do that was to bring a supply with me.”

  “You know, Yat,” said Vetch, stroking his beard thoughtfully, “on some planets you could legally adopt Hubert. You should look into it.”

  “That goat will be in a pie long before we get off this mudhole planet,” Darant retorted. “Sooner, if you don’t stop ragging me. Now, quit your giggling, you goddamned clowns, and keep alert.”

  “Shepherd sent us,” said Enthree.

  “What?” Vetch frowned at the Muryani who’d stopped hacking at the foliage. “I know. What’s your point?”

  “I wasn’t addressing you, Mr. Arunsen.”

  With a sinking feeling, Vetch realized everyone else was looking up. He followed suit and saw the leaves bristling with rifle barrels pointed their way.

  The rebel fighters soon had them on their knees in the mud, hands on heads, while the leader inspected them.

  Works both ways, my friends, thought Vetch, as he assessed their captors.

  They were armed with a random selection of rifles, pistols, and even a crossbow, most of which were sports models. Half of them carried their weapons as if they were an extension of their body, while the rest held them awkwardly as if they were armed with screaming infants.

  Their heads were wrapped in folds of light gauzy material that revealed only their eyes and noses. Dull reds and greens were the dominant colors in the tough material of their plain jackets and pants. None of them wore camo. In fact, they didn’t look like an army as much as a mob of desperate farmers off to rob a grain store.

  The leader, a male Gliesan, stared into Vetch’s face before nodding in satisfaction and moving on to Lily.

  He gave her a good look and a sniff. “Forgive me,” he told her.

  What the hell kind of desperado rebel says forgive me?

  The Gliesan wiped one of his delicate-boned fingers across Lily’s cheek and then traced the spikey black lines that curled out from the corners of her eyes.

  Lily took it stoically until he removed his touch and inspected his fingertip.

  “It doesn’t rub off, you know,” she sneered at him. “It’s called a tattoo. What the hell were you expecting?”

  For several seconds, he contemplated her.

  “Roses,” he said and gestured to his soldiers to bind their captives. “And you ain’t got ’em.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 14: Lily Hjon

  The interrogation room was a small grain store in a village clearing by a fast-flowing stream. Bags of food were neatly stacked on one side, but the other half of the climate-controlled building had been made over into an operations room with printed local maps on the wall above a bank of comms equipment.

  A human rebel in camo and beret, who looked like a soldier, beckoned Lily forward and motioned for Vetch and Darant to stay back with the grain bags. The man remained expressionless behind one of the face flaps that had been commonplace at their last hideout.

  Back in the jungle, the rebels had bound their wrists behind them, but they hadn’t known what to do with a Muryani. Enthree was waiting outside, with a half dozen weapons pointed at her.

  Lily took a few steps toward the man who stood in front of a battered plastic table strewn with paper, more maps, and unwashed coffee mugs.

  On the far side of the table, another man regarded the prisoners from the depths of a leather chair shrouded in cigar smoke. Dressed in tattered red boiler coveralls, he was quite the contrast to the soldier. Instead of a hood, beret, or wrapped fabric, his head was covered by a trucker’s cap, its peak pulled low over his eyes. A corporate logo was emblazoned on the front above the words Bori-Alice Space Truckin’.

  The soldier squared himself up. “They’re undamaged, sir. As ordered.”

  Lily was convinced the two men were about to exchange salutes, but it turned out these rebels weren’t Legion wannabees. The leader blew a smoke ring at his subordinate and then tipped his chair back against the wall so he could put his feet up on the desk.

  Something about that looked familiar…

  “We’ll help you win your revolution,” she told the smoking man, “but if you’re not interested in joining us, then feed us and let us go. We’ve people to find off-world. Stuff to do. You know how it is.”

  “We join you?” asked the soldier in the beret, incredulous.

  “Lily’s not joking,” said his leader. He lifted his cap and leaned forward out of the smoke to regard her through twinkling lilac eyes.

  “Oh!” she said.

  “Hello,” said Fitz, grinning. He held out his cigar. It was almost half the length of Lily’s forearm. “Filthy habit I’m revisiting from my youth. Izza would kill me if she ever found out. Not that she ever will.”

  “Fitz. What are you doing here as a rebel leader?”

  “Waiting for you.” His grin dissipated. “I gather our Muryani friend is waiting outside, but…” He grimaced. “I don’t see Mr. Sward.”

  “Didn’t make it,” grunted Vetch behind her.

  “I’m sorry.” Fitz waved at his people to undo the captives’ bonds. “I mean no disrespect to your absent friend, but it gladdens my heart to see the rest of you here and safe. I’ve been leaving threads for ages, hoping you’d pick one up and follow it to me. I’d almost abandoned hope that you’d make it here in time.”

  Freed at last, Lily rubbed her chafed wrists and allowed Vetch to storm over to the table and lean his bulk over it.

  “What the hell are you doing here, Fitzwilliam?”

  “Mr. Arunsen, please call me Fitz. Or Captain Fitz if you require formality like
a damned jack. Speaking of which, Sybutu and his two little jack friends are not far from here. They’re safe, but all their talk of ‘I swore an oath to the Legion’ has yet to convince the fine people who brought you here that they’re on the same side. As for me…” He puffed on his cigar. “A little misunderstanding led to me being marooned here by my own crew. And now…”

  Fitz’s eyes blazed with violet light.

  “I find I don’t like the way the people here run their world,” he said. He kept his voice level, but it was filled with the power of a fusion generator about to blow its containment field. “I don’t like it at all.”

  Lily had never seen him truly angry before. The other rebel soldier recoiled in disgust from the mutant eyes that glowed like nebulae in the warmth of newly born stars, but what did he know? Fitz’s freakish eyes were awesome!

  “I’m going to tear down the tyrant, In’Nalla. Rip out their sick system of inform-on-your-neighbor. Dismiss the Churn. And did you know that humiliation is a major export industry? People across the Federation are shipped here as a lesson to those at home. A lesson on what happens if you upset the powerful. All that has to go.”

  “And you’re what?” Lily asked, a little breathless. “The big cheese in this rebel outfit?”

  Fitz grinned, and the anger was gone. No, not gone. Concealed within, but passion still drove him.

  Hold on! Rewind…What was it he’d said about his wife?

  “I’m working on it,” Fitz responded. “I’m a senior zone advisor for now, with big plans to get this revolution moving.”

  “You said we got here just in time,” said Darant. “In time for what?”

  Fitz came out from behind the desk and walked over to Darant, cigar clamped between his teeth.

  He choked on its smoke halfway over, coughed a little, but quickly recovered and slapped Darant heartily on the back.

  “We’re going to free the political prisoners in In’Nalla’s flagship house of tortures. The Ameliorate-10 Re-Education Camp. A-10. It’s 80 klicks northwest of here. We’re going to bust it open, and you, my friends, are going to help me do it.”

  Darant punched the air. “Screw the system! Let’s tear it down and start again. When do we go?”

  “You have a day to rest, learn, and train with these excellent local people. Then we head out. Then it starts.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 15: Deroh Ren Kay

  The comm chimed on his way to the parade ground.

  Ren Kay clicked his teeth in irritation. The tension between Major Lyssin and the tyrant notwithstanding, the opening of the Global Economic Forum was tomorrow, and Ren Kay was leading the honor guard. His troopers would look as smart and well-disciplined as any legionary, damnit.

  It was a text message from Singh: Tried to raise you earlier. Nothing urgent. Call me tonight?

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Ren Kay was always aware of his surroundings, and he knew no one was around. He unlocked the door to a nearby tertiary armory and quickly stepped inside before that changed.

  The message was code. Singh had urgent news.

  Ren Kay keyed his comm to a non-standard channel that used Department 9 encryption. “What do you have for me, Singh?”

  “Remember Lyssin had you chasing through farmyard muck, looking for those Militia deserters?”

  He rolled his eyes. Lyssin’s determination to bring in the bounty on those troopers’ heads had been an enormous distraction, and Ren Kay had far more important matters to organize. “Of course, I do.”

  “Data digging turned something up. The police double agent gave the deserters a flock of basten goats to tend as cover. I think the deserters got lonely and treated the animals as pets.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “Sorry, sir. The goats were chipped. All but one was destroyed, but that one…It just turned up 200 klicks to the east in the middle of the rebel force concentration near my position. The chip says it’s alive and well.”

  “I think you’re right. Our deserters have an unhealthy liking for Zhoogene goats.” He laughed. “Lucky for us.” He thought a moment. These individuals were Major Lyssin’s most wanted, so offering them up could win his favor. On the other hand, the department had its own reasons for keeping tabs on these troopers, and an even greater reason to keep Lyssin well away from Zone-41. “Good work, Singh. These individuals are suspected Naval Intelligence assets, but so’s half the Federation. Track them, but don’t contact me again on a high priority call. I’ve more urgent matters.”

  “Wait, sir! Surveillance is still trying to ID the deserters, but in looking for them, someone of much greater interest showed up. Tavistock Fitzwilliam! He appears to be a part of the RevRec forces we suspect are concentrating for an attack on A-10.”

  “Fitzwilliam is part of the Revolutionary Forces of Reconciliation? But that’s…perfect! Do you believe in fate, Singh?”

  “Sometimes,” the agent replied cautiously.

  Ren Kay didn’t blame his reticence. Strong religious affiliation was frowned upon by the department. It could lead to unfortunate conflicts of interests, and Department 9 demanded its operatives’ absolute loyalty in all matters. The future of the Federation depended on it.

  “Let me rephrase that a better way. The Human Marine Corps of the Orion Era had a saying: When you see an opening, seize it with all six limbs.”

  “Six, sir?”

  “It was a Jotun saying, most likely. But it’s one I follow. Don’t let Fitzwilliam slip away. I’m coming over in person to lead the department’s operations in Zone-41. When the histories of the Federation’s restoration are written, the events over the next few days will be the start of a new volume. This is where it kicks off, Singh. The shit is about to get real.”

  “And if an opportunity presents itself to eliminate Fitzwilliam and the other targets?”

  “Singh, you’ve done so well. Don’t disappoint me now. You kill them, of course.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 16: Yat Darant

  “Now, we’re talking!” Darant roared his encouragement as the rest of the crowd’s applause descended into a slow clap.

  Twenty paces from the flames, the first fire jumper flexed like a professional high jumper. Then he started his run.

  “Five credits says he’ll bottle it,” Darant yelled at the green-haired girl perched on another rough log seat, ten feet away.

  Sitting astride the log, she shifted 90 degrees to face him. “You’re in.”

  Idrielle. Her name was something like Idrielle. To be honest, Darant had quaffed too much of the local beer to be sure. Or to care.

  The fire runner accelerated along ground strewn with soaking wet straw, cheered on by the mix of villagers and rebel soldiers billeted there overnight. But Darant wasn’t watching. He was engrossed in the flames reflected in Idrielle’s eyes.

  She wasn’t watching the jumper either. Her gaze was drinking in Darant and blazing with heat that wasn’t coming from the fire.

  Or was that the beer talking?

  No, Darant was sure it wasn’t. These rebels were giddy with the terrifying thrill of attacking the A-10 concentration camp. At dawn, they would set off on a forced march through the forest to their deployment zones. But tonight, they had thrown off their mouth masks and coverings.

  In solidarity, the villagers had not only done the same but…

  Huzzah!

  By Orion’s balls, these mad bastards were jumping over fires. For fun! The first was safely over, and plenty more were lining up for their turn.

  Idrielle sauntered over and sat next to him, real snug like.

  “Pay up!” she demanded.

  Chuckling, Darant reached in his pouch for five credit chips. He hadn’t doubted the jumper would successfully make his leap. It must take balls like asteroids to jump over waist-high flames, but it wasn’t a difficult leap. No, this was a bet he’d been happy to lose.

  Local men, with their heads bared, threw a few more log
s on the jumping fire, making it sizzle and the crowd roar. The next jumper’s leap would be just a bit more perilous.

  Darant held out the credits in his palm and felt an unexpected pang of regret.

  Five federal credits. That was a lot in these parts. Maybe a month’s income.

  Was he being too flash with his money?

  Idrielle placed her hand over his coins and raised an eyebrow. “The next jumper looks hesitant,” she said.

  Darant snatched a look. She was right. The jumper was grim faced. Doubting…

  “Let’s make this more interesting,” she said. “Double or quits?”

  “Err…” Darant sucked in a smoky breath. Ten credits was a lot. What if he won and cleaned the girl out?

  In Darant’s philosophy, money was like the weather. You enjoyed the sunny spells of plenty, and you hunkered down and survived the bleak periods of poverty. Trying to control your financial situation was as dumb as trying to control the weather, and it would make you miserable to even try.

  At the moment, the gods of plenty were shining on Darant.

  Back when he’d briefly been a prison guard in the capital, Darant had quickly latched onto Sergeant Detennigen as someone with a suspicious air about him. Following Detennigen one day had led Darant to a large stash of small denomination chips buried beneath a loose stone in a cell that never seemed to house a prisoner. Darant had been overcome by a sudden duty of care for his fellow troopers. In the case of Detennigen, it meant relieving the rogue of a good chunk of his booty, purely to salve the sergeant’s conscience, of course. After all, the guard sergeant’s treasure was surely ill gotten and its possession a burden of guilt on the poor fellow.

  Darant laughed at the irony. He was now a fighter for the Revolutionary Forces of Reconciliation. Fitz had explained that RevRec’s idea of reconciliation wasn’t to sit down with a mug of coffee and talk things over with In’Nalla and the gang of tyrants who had screwed up this planet. To this bunch, reconciliation would come about through firing squads that would be quite busy when In’Nalla fell.