Strong Arm Tactics (30 page)
Read Strong Arm Tactics Online
Authors: Jody Lynn Nye
“Isn’t it true that it will be almost three weeks before anyone else but you sets foot in here?”
“Uh-huh …”
“So for whom do you have to replace them?” Daivid concluded.
“Nice use of a preposition, sir,” Lin added, at his elbow.
“Thank you, chief,” Daivid said, holding out his palm. Lin slapped it.
The proprietor knew when he was beaten. He stepped back against a pile of crates as Daivid ordered the troopers to load a floating cart from the shelves he indicated.
Daivid ran through the recipes in his head, trying to get the quantities right for a French country ragout. About forty servings, he estimated, since troopers ate far more than ordinary diners. If he stuck his database card in a communicator later on, his mother, or better yet, his grandmother, would transmit him selections from one of the family cookbooks. He’d transmit a request for easy recipes that any one of his troopers could make. This was a special effort, and one to make up for day after day of chop suey. Frozen onions, carrots and celery would be in the freezers—potherbs, the old cookbooks called them, the basis of any good mirepoix. Tarragon. Thyme. Biscuits—no, batter bread; it was faster. As Codwall followed, wringing his hands, Daivid marched, head held high, deeper into the stacks. A brown package caught his eye, just in time for him to glare at Meyers, whose hand was sneaking towards it.
“Thank you, trooper,” he said, brushing her fingers off it and passing it off to Lin. “I can use this for Avenging Angel, for dessert.”
“Huh?” Codwall asked. “Avenging Angel? I’ve never heard of it.”
“A little something I came up with when I was growing up,” Daivid said. “Join us for dinner, Mr. Codwall. You’re probably tired of cooking for yourself. You can try it then. Now, where are the wines?”
O O O
“That was better than edible,” Mose said, contentedly, pushing back from the table to make room for a full belly. “That was
incredible
.”
“Kiss me, and you’ll be looking for your teeth, Petty Officer,” Daivid said.
“Kiss you? I’d like to marry you!”
“Hey!” Streb protested, hurt. “Cooking’s not everything.”
Daivid chuckled. At his signal the troopers cleared the long table, taking the now empty, beautiful gold-rimmed plates from the glowing white damask linen cloth. He sat at the head of his own party, a glass of fine white wine at his elbow, king of an island of elegance. The remaining dining room chairs were stacked five meters high, and the rest of the tables, stripped of their lovely napery, had been pushed against the walls. Crystal amphitheater screens three meters square were set five meters apart all the way around the dining room. They were draped with fabric dust sheets. But on the ceiling, eighteen gigantic chandeliers with thousands of cut-glass drops, glistened and glimmered like suns. Daivid basked in their glow, conscious of a task well done. The manager, looking much more content, even comfortable, raised his own glass to Daivid in a toast.
“You’ve got a real talent, lieutenant. I’d give you a job in a flash. Master Chef. What do you say?”
“No, thanks,” Daivid replied, enjoying a leisurely sip.
Codwall leaned forward temptingly. “What if I gave you my best dining room? You’d have the high-class customers only. As a friend of your father’s, of course I’d pay you top wages, of course.”
“No, cooking at Wingle World isn’t how I see saving the universe for good,” Daivid said, in a leisurely voice. “Thanks, anyhow.”
Codwall sighed. “So, what’s this Avenging Angel you were talking about?”
Daivid glanced over his shoulder. “Here it comes, now.”
Holding it like an unexploded bomb, Adri’Leta came out of the kitchen with a vast silver bowl between her hands. Behind her, with an avid expression on his face, Thielind brandished a huge serving spoon. Vacarole brought up the rear with a stack of dessert dishes. The clone woman set the bowl down before Daivid and grinned at him.
“The scent alone almost gives you the will to live, sir.”
Codwall was up and out of his seat as the bittersweet aroma wafted toward him. “What the hell is that?”
Daivid brandished the ladle at him. “I told you, Mr. Codwall: Avenging Angel. Killer chocolate mousse from heaven. Pretty appropriate for a fighting force, isn’t it? Try some.”
At the sound of the word ‘chocolate,’ even sated troopers who’d had three servings of Ragout au Poulet de Loupe Jeune sat up straight. They watched as Thielind served the hotelier a small bowl.
The grin that popped out on Codwall’s face after he tried a spoonful couldn’t have been wiped off with high explosives. “Are you sure you don’t want to give up the military? Come work for me. You’ll make thousands of people happy.”
“I’d rather see to the security of trillions, thanks.” Smugly, Daivid turned to Thielind. “Dish up. Everyone gets firsts. We’ll see about seconds later.”
The bowls scooted down the table, propelled by the ensign’s deft hand. The troopers seized them as though they were water in a 150
o
desert, and tucked in, spoons flying.
“More chocolate, please, sir!” Ambering announced, surfacing with a rim of unlicked mousse all around her mouth. She sprang from her chair and headed toward the bowl, spoon raised like a spear.
“Me, too!” D-45 announced.
“Me, too!” Streb said, grinning. “Hey, I’m more addicted than you are!”
“Since when?” Ambering demanded. Streb, who was only three seats from Daivid, snatched the serving bowl in both hands. “Hey!” Streb faking left and right, sliding his prize out of her reach. Giggling like a schoolgirl, the big tactical officer flung herself over Aaooorru’s head, trying to capture the disputed chocolate mousse. She ended up, belly down, on the bread platter. “You big asshole! Give me that! I mean, with your permission, sir!” she added, turning her head for Daivid’s permission. While her attention was distracted, Ewanowski leaned over her head and picked the bowl out of Streb’s hands.
“Hey!”
Ewanowski, all his fangs showing, tossed the leftover Avenging Angel into Parviz’s waiting hands. Daivid just leaned back in his chair to enjoy the pyrotechnics as the tactical officer wriggled off the table and dashed toward Parviz, who was helping himself to a big mouthful of mousse with the serving spoon. The dessert stained his big yellow mustache dark brown.
“This is good!” he called. “You should try some.”
Both Ambering and Streb made for him, laughing like idiots. “Gimme that!” Streb yelled.
“You want some?” Parviz asked. “Here!” He scooped up another ladleful and flung it at the muscular noncom. It hit Streb square in the face. “Whoa! Looks good on you, man!”
“You gonna lick it off?” Okumede asked Mose.
Mose hoisted the remains of the pound of butter that lay softening in the heat of the warm room from the dish in front of him on the table. “Hold on! I said, hold—glub!” Okumede’s words were stifled in a fist-sized slushball of butter. Okumede promptly peeled it off and heaved it back. Mose ducked. The butter missed him, but hit Lin in the ear. With the outraged dignity of an Avenging Angel herself, the diminutive chief rose to her feet. She grabbed the nearest weapon, half a loaf of bread, and marched around the table towards her assailant. In anyone else’s hands Okumede was in for a crumbing he wouldn’t forget, but Lin was trained to kill with anything, and she looked like she was thinking up a special technique. Grinning, Okumede scrambled up to avoid her, hands out. “Hey, chief, I’m sorry. Really. Honest. I didn’t mean it. Really, chief!” Lin stalked toward him inexorably. Okumede began to grab things off the table to throw at her: spoons, baskets, even knives. Lin batted them aside with her bread.
Boland must have decided things were getting too serious. Okumede dodged right past him, with his pursuer only a meter or two behind. As Lin passed Boland, he plucked an ice cube out of his glass and slit it down the collar of her tunic. With a squawk, she turned and began to belabor him with her loaf.
“Save me!” he yelped, fending her off weakly.
“Help him!” Borden howled, laughing. To succor the popular chief, a rain of leftover Brussels sprouts pelted Lin from all around the table. Cheese sauce splashed everywhere, followed by a volley of potato croquettes and salad.
“Food fight!” Aaooorru caroled happily, grabbing up missiles with all of his pincers. He picked up a bottle by the neck and prepared to heave it.
“Not the wine!” Meyers yelped, diving for him. Ewanowski took the opportunity to mash a serving bowl of stew over her head. Sputtering, she turned, blood (and gravy) in her eye.
Daivid decided now was a good time to retire from the arena. That book he had started two nights ago wasn’t going to finish reading itself, and he felt like taking a jog through Magic Quarter before bed. No, better still, he was going down to Tennie’s. Perhaps Connie was there.
Codwall ran after him as he headed for the door.
“Stop them!” the manager pleaded. “Please! They’ll destroy the place. That carpet cost 40 credits a meter!”
“Really?” Daivid asked, patting him on the cheek with a palm. “You got cheated. Don’t worry. They’re just having some fun.”
“Fun?” Codwall’s voice rose to a squeak.
“Yup. Don’t worry about it. Good night.” Daivid kept walking. Behind him, Codwall kept chirping out threats.
“I’ll report you to your commanding officer! I’ll … I’ll call your father!”
Daivid waved without looking back. “Fine! Tell him I said hello!”
***
Chapter 17
“So you left them there smearing the walls with chocolate mousse?” Connie laughed, swirling the drink around in her glass. Daivid looked smug.
“Borden has my orders. As soon as they calm down they are to scrub that dining room clean, using toothbrushes if they have to. I need to keep them busy until our mission is finished, and you had better believe they are imaginative enough to get into trouble that I could never imagine in my entire life if they have a spare minute. I’m more in danger from my troopers than from the Insurgency or any other enemy of the TWC. Tomorrow morning I’ll get them up early for maneuvers.” He smiled. “An ancient philosopher said ‘Under conditions of peace the warlike man attacks himself.’ I am simply trying to keep that from happening. He also said ‘Out of chaos comes order,’ but beyond that I don’t agree with anything else the man said or did. I have faith in Borden getting them to take care of their mess when they’re through having fun. They’re proud of being iconoclasts.”
“I think you are very creative,” Connie said, showing the dimple in her cheek. “They’re lucky to have you. You could just bear down on them and make them behave.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Daivid corrected her. “I’ve tried simply giving them orders. They judge them on merit and whether I’ve earned the trust to push them around like that.”
Connie’s eyes were wide. “But the military isn’t a democracy. How can they behave like that under battle conditions?”
“That’s why I am proud to serve with the Cockroaches,” Daivid said. “They never mess around in a real emergency. They are all business, from the moment the word is given. It’s their independent thinking that gives me more flexibility with them than I’d have with a company full of grunts who
need
me to do their thinking for them. The Space Service doesn’t realize it, but the platoon they treat as a joke is their
real
secret weapon.”
“So, you’re here to pick up a weapon?” Connie asked quickly.
Daivid reddened. “I didn’t say that. I can’t say what I’m here to do. I know, rumor is flying. I can’t stop that, but please don’t ask me to confirm anything.”
“I won’t,” Connie said, taking his hand in hers. “I’m sorry. It’s been so nice sitting here with you. I am really enjoying just getting to know you.” Her eyes met his. Daivid felt a spark of something warm to life inside him, something that had been dead for three years or longer. He closed his hand around her fingers and leaned towards her. She let her eyes close halfway, and leaned toward him.
“The Old Man wants to see you.”
Daivid and Connie jumped apart. He looked up. Sparky was beside him, his freckled face alive with mischief. “Did I scare you?” he grinned.
“Please go away,” Daivid said, peevishly. “This is a private conversation.”
“You’re not here to canoodle,” the puppet chided him. “Right? Mr. Wingle wants you in his lab right now. Come on. On your feet. I’ve already spent half an hour finding you.”
O O O
They trudged along infinite steel corridors. The puppet’s feet made almost no noise on the floor as he led the way, almost flying ahead. By comparison, Daivid’s boots beating out double-time echoed like thunder. “Hurry!” Sparky commanded.
Wingle stood to face them as the wall ahead slid away to reveal the messy laboratory. “About damned time,” he said. His eyes were red-rimmed and angry. Sparky slumped against the nearest wall.
Daivid felt his spine tingle in anticipation. “Are you finished with the chip, sir?” he asked eagerly.
“Shut up!” the inventor said, and shoved a rolling stool toward him with one foot. “Sit there. I want you to see something. From the security eyes in my country house.”
He pointed toward the communications console, then walked away, his hand over his eyes. Daivid scooted close to see what was in the screen. He could tell it was security footage, because the point of view covered one 360
o
view of a room, taking about five seconds for the circuit, then hopped to the next. Almost every scene was one of carnage and ruin. Mottled shadows yanked open doors, or pulled pictures down, punched through wall panels, and overturned furniture. Humans, most of them elderly, were held fast in the hands of more shadows, or itterim or human soldiers who had taken off their helmets and were clad in bulky black armor from the neck down. Here, there and everywhere, Daivid saw the same man, a shaggy-bearded, swarthy skinned individual with a long stride and a hard eye, overseeing the inspection. He must be the commander. Daivid studied the face, trying to place it.
“What are they looking for?” he asked.
“Me,” Wingle snapped, snapped his voice thick with emotion.
The scenes turned more ugly still. When the raiders, who seemed infinite in number, couldn’t find what they sought, they started to torture their prisoners for information. Daivid had seen plenty of carnage, both before and after joining the Space Service, but this was deliberate, shocking cruelty. An elderly woman in the hands of two itterim had her hands, long, graceful hands, broken, a finger at a time, while she shrieked for mercy. The man in the beard continued to ask her questions, as she sank whimpering to the floor cradling her wounded hands. When she didn’t answer, he drew a plasma pistol from his side and fired it at point blank range. What remained was no longer recognizable. Daivid shuddered. He was only grateful that the death had been instantaneous.
“The staff has been with us since my father’s day,” Wingle said, his voice shaking with fury. “Anjanette was always the bravest woman I ever knew, would face down a lion to protect me. She was a hundred and twenty-nine years old. She was going to retire next year, dammit! Why didn’t she tell them where I was and save her life?”
Daivid stood up to face him. “It wouldn’t have saved her. They would have killed her even if she told them where you are. These are ruthless beings.”
Wingle flung a hand at the screen. “Who the hell are they?”
“I recognize the man in the beard,” Daivid said. “That’s Ayala, one of the highest ranking officers in the Insurgency. I thought he’d be defending Benarli. The Space Service is on its way to liberate the system. He must be here after the same thing we are.”
“God damn him! God damn him to hell!” Wingle snarled.
The video was almost at an end. A wrinkled hand crawled into the view and cupped the spy eye, dragging it down and around. Daivid got a glimpse of forest green velvet upholstery. One watery blue eye and a gray eyebrow became visible.
“I hope you can see me, sir,” a quavery voice whispered. “I’ll try to send this. They want you. None of us will tell, I promise. Be safe, Mr. Wingle.”
“That was Orlo Khazen. We were best friends when I was a boy. I’ve been trying for an hour to raise him on the comm circuit. They must have gotten him, too. I’m so close, boy! One of the greatest triumphs of my career! But it’s not worth the lives of my friends, dammit!” Wingle straightened his shoulders and pulled himself together. “It’s time for you to do your job. Get them. Kill them.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Daivid promised. “Our first priority is to protect you and your device.”
“Never mind that, goddamit!” Wingle shouted. “Never mind
me.
Get
them!”
“How?”
“That’s for you to figure out. You’re the military man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Daivid replied, his heart sinking. “Excuse me a moment.” He tapped on his communication card. “Borden, come in, please.”
A hand covered his miniature screen, and the junior officer’s face swam sleepily into view. “Sir? What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a situation, Borden,” Wolfe said. “Can you raise the
Eastwood
and get me Commander Iry? Stay on the circuit. You’ll need to hear this. The whole unit will need to hear it. And patch through to the planet’s telemetry grid. I want to see what’s orbiting out there.”
“Aye, sir,” Borden said. “I’ll have to connect with the shuttle’s communications station.” Her face was replaced by a “Waiting” logo. Daivid drummed his fingers on the chair arm.
Before Borden returned, she had connected him to the local network of satellites showing the topography of the planet, and everything in orbit out to Dudley’s three moons. Daivid zoomed in on a dot Dudley’s ATC system identified as a stranger. He recorded the code numbers its black box broadcast to retransmit to Iry. He was already certain it belonged to the invaders. Who else would go to the trouble of remaining anonymous to the flight computers? He zoomed in further until he got a silhouette of the ship. A destroyer!
Iry’s square face appeared suddenly. “What is it, Wolfe?”
He sent the information he had just been examining. “We’ve got a problem, commander. There’s an Insurgent ship in orbit. Colonel Ayala.”
“Ayala!” Iry looked grave. “What’s he doing
there?”
“He’s after Wingle’s device. They have already destroyed his country house, but it appears they do not know he is here. Can you help us?”
“Nonsense, lieutenant. We can’t break off from a war to run back to a sideshow.”
“Then can CenCom send a ship to protect Dudley?”
Iry disappeared for a short time, then reappeared. “I’ve got some good news, and some bad news, lieutenant. The good news is that the destroyer
Orion
is on its way towards you. It’s about seven days out.”
“Whew!” Wolfe breathed.
“The bad news is that they are currently in pursuit of three more Insurgent vessels.”
“What? Where did they come from?”
Iry grinned. “You’ve actually seen them before. Those three remaining pirates we chased away from those merchants came off a string right into the lap of the
Orion
while it was on its way to join the push out here. They turned tail when they saw him, faked him out, and ducked into a string leading in the general direction of Dudley. The Orion’s signal room picked up communications indicating they’re Insurgents. That attack on the merchant fleet was obviously an attempt to subvert supplies for their cause. We have no guarantee that they are going to Dudley, but if they are, it makes it pretty convenient for the
Orion.
She’ll blast them to pieces, then come to your aid. Keep Wingle safe in the meantime.”
“Ma’am, the Insurgents already here outnumber us at least ten to one! We don’t know what kind of armaments they’re carrying. This planet has no militia. We have only two armed vehicles and our weaponry.”
Iry looked genuinely sympathetic and actually worried. “I’ll get on the horn to CenCom, lieutenant. In the meantime, do your best. You’re an officer in the TWC Space Service! Protect Wingle and his invention. Do whatever you have to. I will authorize any action short of atrocity, and defend it to Harawe on your behalf. Don’t let the Service down.”
Wolfe felt proud even as he sensed a shipload of collapsed uranium’s worth of responsibility descending on his back. “Aye, commander. Send me any gen that might help me, ma’am.”
“I will. Keep me posted, lieutenant.” Iry’s eyes met his. “Good luck.”
She broke the connection. “Are you still there, Borden?”
“Aye, sir. Oh, my God.”
“I hope your God is listening,” Wolfe said. He clicked in to the aural implants of all the Cockroaches.
“Rise and shine! Report to the hotel dining room at once! I repeat, this is an order! Priority Alpha Emergency! Chief D-45 and Petty Officer Meyers, take some caffeine pows, suit up and meet me at the entrance of Wingle World. Full arms and armor. I’ll be there in ten minutes, at the hotel in twenty.”
Loud groans reached Daivid’s ears through the link. He turned to Wingle.
“I’m having a couple of my people come here to stand guard over you, sir. They are crack shots and trained in hand-to-hand combat. Is there any planetary authority I can contact, to inform them of the situation? A head of government?”
Wingle’s bushy eyebrows rose. “That’d be me, you young simpleton. This entire settlement was founded to support my family’s amusement park. Every town on this planet has a council to control day-to-day operations, but they all check back with me. We Wingles pretty much own Dudley. I’ll tell the councils what happened. You tell me how they can help, and they will.”
“Good,” Daivid said. “Then, I’ll be back to bring you up to date a little later.”
“You’re not leaving me out of the loop like that,” Wingle said. He turned to gesture to Sparky, who rose from his stance of holding up the wall, and minced over to Daivid. “You’re taking him with you. He’ll be my eyes and ears.”
The puppet elbowed Daivid playfully in the ribs. “Buddies!”
“Just guide me out to the gate,” Daivid snapped. “We haven’t got much time.”
The puppet babbled out a line of cheerful nonsense that echoed off the corridor walls. Daivid wasn’t even listening. How could this happen to him? A month ago he was a brand-new first lieutenant, assigned his first command, a platoon consisting of twenty-two ‘difficult personalities,’ and now he was the highest military authority on a planet facing one of the deadliest enemies the Confederation knew!
O O O
Daivid cringed as he walked toward the automatic-opening double doors that led to the huge dining room. He expected to see chocolate streaks up to the ceiling, and a broken lamp or two shining over a field of brown-stained carpeting. To his amazement, the room was pristine and tidy, every hanging crystal prism agleam. Not one of the carpet, walls, curtains, chandeliers, chairs, or pieces of artwork was smeared with chocolate. The Avenging Angel had vanished without a trace.
“Sir, I’ve been monitoring the orbiting ship,” Borden said, as she came into the room and spotted him. “Four shuttles just docked with her. I’m reading two hundred and twenty bodies on board now. There’s no way to tell how many they left behind on the surface.”
“We’ll just have to assume that 220 is most or part of her complement,” Daivid said. “Be grateful for small miracles. If the
Orion
hadn’t interrupted those other three ships, we could be facing thousands! By the way,” he said, looking around again in wonder, “Good job cleaning up.”
“It was easier than we thought, sir,” the lieutenant replied, though she looked gratified. “The walls are made of a much tougher material than they appear, and the stain resistance of the carpet minimized the damage so much that the platoon was almost ashamed that they hadn’t put a real dent in it.”