Department 9 Page 9

  And here he was, somehow caught up in an old-fashioned people’s revolution, and scattered about his clothes, his person, and his belongings, were enough credits to make him ever-so-slightly rich.

  “Well?” Idrielle demanded.

  “I was just thinking. Ten credits? Are you sure?”

  Her face fell. “Oh, you don’t think I can pay.”

  “No, no. It’s not that—”

  She threw him a devilish grin. “I don’t have ten credits,” she said. “If I lose, we’ll just have to think of another way I can pay.”

  Darant swallowed awkwardly.

  Sod Vetch and Lily, he decided. They can moan about Eiylah-Bremah all they want. I like it here.

  “Double or quits it is,” he said. “You’re my kind of people, Idrielle.”

  She looked at him askance. “Istrielle,” she corrected but smiled. “I guess it’s close enough for an ignorant off-worlder.”

  The crowd’s rising excitement pulled Darant’s attention back to the jumper, who hesitated halfway along his approach run, but made his leap over the fire to the delight of the cheering crowd.

  But by then, Darant and Istrielle had already moved on.

  * * *

  Her lips tasted of cider and the eagerness of wanting much more than she dared hope for.

  In fact, the enthusiasm with which Istrielle mashed her lips against Darant’s, and the way she kept grabbing his ass cheek like it was an emergency pull cord, made him pause a moment.

  She wasn’t used to this, he realized.

  It hadn’t felt that way to him back at the fire, but now that he thought about it, in a world where everyone crapped themselves at the thought of speaking honestly to other people, flirting was probably an extreme sport for danger junkies only.

  She released her pinch grip on his ass and squeezed his shoulders instead, staring into his eyes as she pushed him gently back against the outer wall of the hut.

  Never mind that the wall was constructed from tough composite building material that added a trickle of solar power, would absorb toxins such as carbon monoxide, and could be configured to resemble wood, stone, and plenty besides at the click of a button. The village of Krunacao was home to only 3,000 souls when it wasn’t hosting a rebel army on the eve of battle. Darant had been raised in the gutters of a major city. On the three sides of the village not bounded by river, the forest was only a hundred yards from the village boundary. In this remote place, Darant could only think of the dwellings as huts.

  What did that make Istrielle, he wondered?

  She was looking into his eyes, gathering the nerve to ask him something.

  He gave her a little time.

  “Take me to the Trucker,” she begged. “Please.”

  “The Trucker?” He hadn’t seen that coming. “That’s what you people call Captain Fitz.”

  “Yes. Please, Yat. It would mean a lot to me, and it would be worth—”

  Darant closed her lips by shoving his palm over them. That was a sentence he didn’t want to hear to the end.

  The happy train of events he thought he was riding had suddenly derailed. His ego was bruised. The little minx was using him to get to Fitz.

  The hurt lasted for several seconds before Darant decided he didn’t care.

  “I can introduce you, if that’s what you want, Istrielle. Do you want me to tell you something about him first?”

  She blushed. This may have been the first time she had revealed her face to strangers since she was a little girl. She wasn’t practiced at keeping her expression guarded. “Tell me where he’s from.”

  He shrugged. “Dunno. He’s a mystery.”

  She looked disappointed. “But you do know him?”

  “Oh, yeah. I signed up as a marine on his ship. We’re all part of Chimera Company.”

  A frown spoiled her pretty features. “People tell a lot of stories about you off-worlders, but they don’t all add up. Some say you’re part of the Trucker’s crew, and others that you’re Militia deserters who sprang a girl from prison in the capital. You can’t be both.”

  “Yes, we can. The Militia thing was just a cover. Glad that’s all over. Our real lives are on the Phantom. Best ship in the galaxy. We’re daring renegades, rogues who are not afraid to stick it to the aristos. Then a tragic series of events saw us marooned on your planet, cut off from the Phantom.”

  “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Fitz’s wife kicked him off the ship.”

  Confused emotions boiled across Istrielle’s face.

  “I didn’t mean to burst your idolization, Istrielle. I mean, Fitz is a chancer, a supreme space jock who’s clever with his handgun when the bolts start flying, but he’s just a guy.”

  “Good.” She kissed him hard. “Take me to meet him.”

  He laughed. This was a mighty strange night, but he was old enough to know when it was time to yield to the flow of events. “Sure, I will. But first, I’m gonna ask you a question. Why is the Trucker, as you call him, such a hero? He’s only been here for a few months, and now it looks like he’s running the whole damned revolution.”

  “Because…” She took a deep breath. “Because he is a hero. I think. In the formal hierarchy, Trucker is only a lieutenant. That’s remarkable in itself, but he’s not a big-shot general. And yet, he has staff and guards, all volunteers. This man has electrified the movement. The off-worlders who came here first—the Panhandlers—they just want to use us to replace the existing tyranny with their own. But I hear you, Yat, and your talk of running free along the rimward stars. About being rogues. I would love to hear your stories another night, but I know that life is not for me. I’m sure the reality is different—dirty, unglamorous, dangerous—but in my mind, it’s romantic because it speaks of hope.”

  “Hope?” Darant shrugged. He hardly knew Fitz, but the man did seem to spend most of his time running away from people trying to kill him. Was that a form of hope?

  She nodded, as if hearing his doubts. “Yes, hope. People of my world cover their faces and thoughts. They police their words. I want to believe we could be free of all that.”

  Darant straightened his back. “That’s what we’re here for, miss. I may not have the words and the swagger of Captain Fitz, but we’re here to turn your hope into a reality. Starting with the attack on A-10.”

  She pushed her hot palms against his chest. “I think you do just fine with your words, Yat Darant.”

  “But…you still want to meet the Trucker?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Trucker…Damned stupid name, but sure…I just need to do something first.”

  “No, Yat.” She got to her feet. “Later. We have the whole night to enjoy each other.”

  “Oh.” His face grew hot. “No, I didn’t mean that.”

  She grinned at his red cheeks. “What, then?”

  Darant blinked, not quite believing what he was about to say. “I need to see a man about a goat.”

  * * *

  Darant found the others in the hastily erected beer hall. Vetch, Lily, Enthree, and…a small six-legged goat he had grown attached to.

  “Vetch, look after the little guy, will you?”

  The Viking gave Darant and Istrielle a dour look. “No. Dump the damned beast. It’ll get you killed.”

  Darant sighed. What was wrong with Arunsen? “Enthree,” he tried, “you’re responsible for Hubert tonight. Okay?”

  The Muryani was indulging in her peculiar beer drinking ritual—sticking a pair of front limbs in the cup and whisking them around before downing it. “Where will you be, Darant?” she asked, still whisking.

  Lily looked up from the conversation she was having with Vetch and winked at Darant out of one space sorcerous eye. Man, her tattoo was getting freakier every day. Then she gave Istrielle a look of raw, needy hunger.

  “Ask Lily where I’m headed,” Darant told Enthree. “She understands. Now, will you look after the damned goat or not?”

  “Y
our non-sentient friend will be safe with me, Darant.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lily gave him a cheery wave. “Have fun, Grandpa.”

  “Grandpa!” he muttered, allowing Istrielle to lead him away by the hand. “You must be nearly twice my age.”

  “Ignore Lily,” said Enthree. “I know I’m twice her age. I think Lily just needs her ticket punched.”

  Darant howled with laughter. Ticket punched! Crazy alien. Where did she learn those expressions?

  Once outside, he turned to Istrielle. “Now that you’ve met most of my embarrassing friends, there’s just one more to go. Let’s go find your goddamned Trucker.”

  * * * * *

  Chapter 17: Yat Darant

  They found the Trucker in a huddle of officers and planning staff who were moving away from the entertainment around the fire. Discussing the upcoming battle, Darant supposed. Fitz had a few of his supporters with him, but it was clear to Darant that the smuggler captain was not in charge.

  He hadn’t charmed everyone yet.

  In fact, as he approached, Darant decided this wasn’t a discussion so much as a full-blown argument.

  Fitz noticed him and beamed with pleasure. “Good evening, Mr. Darant.” He noticed Istrielle too and nodded politely at her as he strode Darant’s way, scattering rebel bigwigs as he passed.

  He hugged Darant.

  Okaaay. That was a surprise.

  And when he broke the embrace, he announced, “I sleep better knowing this man will be at my side when we make the assault on A-10.”

  Darant was too surprised to do more than watch dumbly as Fitz turned to Istrielle. “And you, madam. Are you a friend of Mr. Darant?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Then you and I are friends too, Ms. …?”

  “Istrielle.”

  Fitz embraced her, planting a chaste kiss on each cheek.

  The rebels opened their mouths wide in shock. Istrielle too. But when Fitz pulled back, her face flushed with giddy delight.

  In Darant’s experience, kissing as a greeting was common across most humanoid races and cultures, but these people hid behind masks. Man, this planet was a hot mess.

  “Thank you,” Istrielle whispered beneath fluttering eyes. “Sir, tell me straight. Will we triumph at A-10?”

  “With the likes of you and Mr. Darant, our victory is as assured as it can be in matters of war.”

  “Thank you, Trucker, sir.”

  Darant was trying to remember why he’d brought this girl here as he watched her hyperventilating hero worship, when a sudden change came over her. She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him away from her idol.

  “Is that it?” he asked, though he was happy to be led away. “Have we ticked him off the list now?”

  “Keep walking,” she hissed. “Don’t look back. I don’t want to get caught up in this.”

  “In what?”

  “Commander Slinh’s just shown up. She’s our greatest hero. Our leader. And I don’t think she approves of Trucker.”

  Darant was only human. He planted his heels in the dirt and looked back.

  At the head of a phalanx of subordinates, Slinh had pushed through the group and was standing up to Fitz with her hands on her hips and wings unfurled. White haired and bespectacled, the diminutive old Gliesan didn’t lack for physical presence. There was an aura about her. An angry aura that was focused on Fitz like a ten-terawatt particle cannon.

  “No!” she growled at him. “It’s an antique, not a toy for childish adventurers. Don’t ask again.”

  “Stop teasing,” Fitz replied, with a cheeky grin. “You know you want to.”

  “You’re right,” Darant whispered to Istrielle. He squeezed her hand and walked away with her. “I’ve had enough of generals and attack plans. Let them debate and shape the future. I only care about tonight.” He contemplated her face, still flushed with heat. “And about you.”

  Istrielle stopped. “My billet will be occupied.” She ran her fingers over Darant’s cheek, then brushed them along his neck and down over his chest. Her eyes began fluttering again, and this time her giddiness was all about him.

  She took him by the hand once more and led him into the forest.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 18: Yat Darant

  “Eiylah-Bremah is a strange frakker of a world,” Darant opined as he caressed the firing control handles of the SG-7c assault support gun, or plasma squirter, as everyone who wasn’t a total weapons tech nut called it. Like Deep Tone had been.

  “Bleeke,” cried a little voice when Darant’s mutterings stalled on the memories of his friend.

  “Deep used to rip me a new one every time I trained on one of these beasts,” he told the basten goat chewing on a pile of leaves atop reserve plasma tank-3. “Said I had no feel for the gun.”

  He tightened his grip on the handles and looked through the holo-sights at the guard tower, 150 yards away across the killing ground behind Amelioration-10 Re-education Camp.

  All things considered, the rebels had worked wonders setting up this position so close to the target. Not only had the area been quietly cleared over several nights, but he was protected by a horseshoe of armor plating four-feet high and screened by shrubbery.

  “Deep will be guiding my hands in a few minutes. He won’t let me down, even though he’ll be laughing his dead head off at my poor feed mix and telling me I aim my SG-7 like a drunk taking a piss.”

  Darant squealed when he felt a touch on his shoulder.

  It wasn’t Deep Tone stretching out his ghostly figures; it was Vetch.

  “Keep it down,” the big man told him. “And that damned goat. Five Hells, man, I told you to leave the bloody animal behind. Its bleating will give us away.”

  Hubert narrowed his eyes, stood tall on his ammo tank, and hissed at Vetch.

  “Animal noises are good, Sarge,” Darant whispered. “It’s the lack of animal noises that clues the enemy that something’s up.”

  Hubert’s hiss deepened into a growl.

  “You know what?” Vetch asked. “Call it a hunch, but I’m guessing the enemy already knows something is up. I just don’t want them looking in our direction.”

  From the outside, the A-10 camp was a fortress. The walls and guard towers were of similar design and construction to Fort Iceni, the Militia base where Darant had been stationed on Rho-Torkis. But this was bigger. Much bigger, with a lot of extras too. A-10 was several pages further on in the product catalog than Fort Iceni.

  Under cover of the forest’s edge, the main force of RevRec rebels was already assaulting the south gate with rockets and mortars. The wall was being raked by fire from 2,000 rifles in the hands of determined men and women with sharp eyes and a lifetime of regular trips to the range.

  And shouting. There was a lot of shouting.

  Roars of encouragement.

  Screams of excitement and the moans of the wounded.

  But mostly, the rebels taunted the Re-Education Enforcement Division defenders by openly yelling out speech crimes.

  REEDs, the locals called the uniformed thugs behind the walls. And when those walls were breached, Darant wouldn’t want to be caught wearing the all-black REED uniform with the distinctive red ‘X’ across the chest and knee guards.

  For now, though, the action at the south gate was just a demonstration designed to suck in the REEDs. The breach would come from the northeast. From Fitz’s team.

  Darant looked around him through the trees. Enthree was nearby, standing rigid and silent, with det packs slung over her back. She’d be going into action soon.

  He sighted the target once more. There was no sign that the north wall and the adjoining towers were manned. Had the REEDs all been redeployed to the battle at the south wall? Or had the sneaky bastards spotted the rebel force in the trees to the north and waited to flay them with fire as soon as they advanced into open ground?

  “Anyway,” he whispered to Hubert, who had returned to munching his leaves a
fter the nasty human with a long beard slid back into the shadows. “As I was saying.…” The REEDs on the south wall began firing a noisy minigun, and Darant had to raise his voice. “As I was saying, you couldn’t make this damned planet up. Taxes are low. Entrepreneurship is idolized. If you suggest roads or healthcare are better under public ownership, you get sent to a re-education camp like this until you’re ready for your show trial, where you get to explain how wrong you were. They don’t have many laws. Public opinion decides if you’re a transgressor or not, and public opinion is tightly controlled by the government. They don’t even bother with an army because the citizens are all armed. Not because that’s a law or anything, but because if you don’t carry a gun and regularly visit the shooting range, everyone’s scared you might inform on them for thought crimes. Armed citizens—my kind of world. If we can just tip public opinion against In’Nalla…”

  The goat gave Darant a warning rumble and flicked his ears in the direction of the trees to their right. The nervous tension in that section of the rebel line was so palpable it would probably show up on radar.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Darant assured the goat. “I’m not sure what’s going on there, but I’m guessing it’s Captain Fitz giving a heroic speech. Now, Fitz is an interesting case. He’s a damned mutant. If you make disparaging remarks about most personal characteristics, you’ve committed a speech crime. Even if you didn’t intend an insult, you still need lengthy re-education. Not so for unprotected groups like mutants. The galaxy over you can insult devil-eyed mutant freaks as much as it likes.”

  He noticed Enthree checking that the straps of her det packs were secure against the bony parts of her back. It wouldn’t be long now.

  “See here, goat, I’m a rogue, living it up on the outer rim.” He grinned, thinking of Istrielle hidden somewhere nearby in the trees, cradling a blaster rifle. “So, I spit on their speech crime nonsense. Let’s see how many laws I can break in one sentence.”