The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack (20 page)

It was already past dinner when Diego got the watch back together. The thing looked perfect. Better than that, no scan or telltale would notice it. From the outside it was an ostentatious piece of frippery, and on the inside nothing was geared to reading anything so primitive as a powder explosion. He let out a deep breath, not realizing he had held it so long, and leaned back against the wall. Tension flowed out of his muscles and he closed his eyes and let the stress of the fine work go for just a moment. Then Diego wrapped the watch back with the other jewelry and negotiables Jurgen had demanded and changed himself back into the rateri addict of the night before.

This time it was late as he traversed the city. He was not the only addict out on the streets. In varicolored costumes the rateri lovers wandered under soft yellow streetlights. They were bleached out, bleached and black with no color except when they passed under some unconfined shard of light bled by the weary lamps. Enchanted by the flamboyant dress and sparkling chatter, it took Diego several blocks to realize that rateri club members were the only people he saw in the street. The more respectable middle class were all locked away behind their thick doors and lace curtains now. The street belonged to the rateri, which meant it belonged to the Khalia. Diego kept that firmly in mind as he made his way to the Tandeleistrasse, and to a particularly old and weathered door under the sign of the snake.

The club looked different this night. This time he noticed how worn the carpet was near the entrance and that there were burn marks on the polished table. The costumes were still lovely from a distance, the feathers and glittering jewels and filmy silks appearing rich and inviting. Only tonight Diego found himself noticing that the feathers were old and wilted, the jewels cheap glass and glitter paper, the silks and satins the cheapest synthetics and poorly sewn. It was gaiety painted over weariness. His mother the admiral would have called it “tawdry,” and for once Diego had to agree with her.

He chose a table and sat, careful not to touch any surfaces with his bare flesh. One thing he didn’t want was another rateri dream. One had been rather too much for a lifetime. He didn’t know if he could resist two.

Luckily Jurgen appeared before he even had time to look around. Maybe the traitor had been there all along, waiting, lurking in the crowd.

“I wasn’t sure you would come.” This Jurgen was the rateri addict of the night, supreme, confident, at ease.

Diego lay his package on the table and said nothing while the other unwrapped it. He was pleased to see that Jurgen seemed particularly pleased with the watch, even tried it on. “For later,” Jurgen said as he replaced it. “It would make them wonder.”

“Talk about wondering,” Diego said, trying to stay as calm as the addict beside him. “I was wondering if you really were going with the Khalian ship the way Zoe thought. Or if it was just a rumor.”

Jurgen’s eyes flashed. “Why?”

Diego shrugged. “Zoe was insistent. I was curious. Forget I asked. Just give me my medal and we’ll call it even.”

Jurgen placed the gold St. Barbara medal on the polished wood. Using a handkerchief, Diego picked it up while carefully avoiding any direct contact.

“My, my, we are suspicious.”

Diego only smiled, all innocence. “You never know what’s lying around in a place like this, spilled on the table maybe. You can’t be too careful.”

As he rose to leave he felt a single restraining hand on his forearm. “I am going,” Jurgen informed him. “Invited to report directly to the Khalian commander.”

Diego couldn’t decide which was worse, the fact that Jurgen was doing it or the pride that so clearly illuminated the other’s face. He jerked his arm away from Jurgen’s hand. The touch was burning contamination. The, door and the cool night air weren’t close enough.

By the time he reached the union hall he had managed to calm down enough to transmit directly to the Fleet sector duty ship, a destroyer named
Bolivar.
He caressed the medal wrapped in handkerchief in his pocket. There was something almost mystically right. Of course it was
Bolivar.
The Fuentes family had always been on the right hand of the Liberator.

The communication itself was a balm, using the proper, safe forms with something of real significance to report. It wasn’t until he had washed and lay down in the dark that he realized exactly what he had done.

He had taken the gamble, the risk. In giving Jurgen the watch he had made a unilateral decision to execute an individual, someone he had known and, in another time and place, might have even respected. That knowledge, even coupled with the fact that he believed in the decision he had made, contorted his stomach and cramped his lungs. For the first time in his life, Diego Bach didn’t know whether he was going to be sick or cry.

* * *

Strange how the Intelligence Complex at Port felt so much like home. Even Sein’s debriefing had been more laudatory than anything else, but Diego was glad it was over.

“Well, after fingering that pirate ship you could have pretty much your own choice of orders,” Sein had told him. “I still can’t get over how you managed to blast their controls just enough to slow them down so that
Bolivar
could get them.”

“Too bad the Khalia blew the ship before we could really take it,” he had replied. “I’d love to know exactly how they’re made.”

Sein, the stone-faced sub director of counterintelligence, smiled for what Diego thought had to be the first time in recorded history. “You aren’t the only one. So, what’ll it be? I know you wanted the Fast Attack Wing. Not that I won’t be sorry to lose you, but you deserve anything I can get you. That’s a promise.”

Diego hesitated, not because he didn’t know what he wanted, but because he was surprised to realize it. Suddenly all his careful career plans, his parents’ neat flow charts of his future, took on the grim grey lifelessness the rateri had made him fear. Efrichen had been important, he had done something that really counted there. And he had been truly alive, even when it hurt. Shocked only because it was true, Diego heard himself say, “I indicated that earlier, before I had the experience on Efrichen. I think I’d like to remain in Intelligence, sir. That is, if you think you could use me.”

Then Sein did a really unheard-of thing: He actually chuckled. “Ensign, I’d give my left band to have five more just like you. Welcome aboard.”

His parents weren’t going to be pleased about this choice.

He didn’t care. He was pleased. In fact, he was elated.

“Go get yourself a beer;” Sein had said then. “Unless you plan to stop by and get the snake removed first.”

Diego shook his head vehemently. “I’m keeping it, sir. Unless there’s some regulation against it?” And he knew there wasn’t, that there was a place for the violet serpent, the signature of Efrichen.

Sein had only shaken his head. “You won’t be the first.”

It was over two months later when the final stages of the Recovery of Bethesda were under way. Smythe and Meier had become almost friends. Not that the Admiral ever completely forgot that Neuton Smythe was a publicly appointed spy for the Alliance Council.

Tonight they’d both worked late and the corridors glowed red. Port was tense because all that was left to be done was wait for battle reports. Half a bottle of fine Michigan wine had helped Smythe and Meier to relax; the carafe sat, between them on the desk. Smythe tapped idly on the console, looking troubled. Meier waited patiently for him to speak.

“Expanding as quickly as you have, a few bad apples were bound to slip in,” the investigator began.

“What do you mean by that?” the Admiral of the White snapped, even though he had tried to keep his tone neutral. For him defending The Fleet was a reflex.

Smythe took a deep breath before continuing. “I’d rather show you. It’s a report from one of the planetary levies, just arrived this morning.”

“Levies, huh. Never did like amateurs.”

“Better reserve judgment until you’ve seen the report,” Smythe cautioned. “Some of those levies are pretty damn tough.”

Meier said nothing, carefully filling both glasses.

When he had almost finished calling up the report, Smythe added enigmatically, “This rather supports my theory that some of the Khalia’s ploys are too sophisticated for their culture.”

“Like that drug business on Efrichen,” Meier quickly agreed, glad to leave an awkward subject.

“Yes . . .” Smythe murmured as the images formed on the screen.

“NOW IT GETS
tight,” George said, “We’re shielded, but they can spot us if they know where to look.” He glanced up. “I need a break. Whose turn to pilot?”

“Mine,” Quiti said.

“Never mind, Cutie,” George said. “It’s a man’s job.”

“Listen, I’m qualified!” she snapped. “I’ve had the same training you had! I’ll take my turn.”

But Ivan came up behind, his big-gloved hand sliding across her posterior as if coincidentally. “Soft like a woman,” he murmured. Then: “I’ve got it, George.” Just as if he was talking only about the piloting.

Quiti masked her outrage. Even here on the mission, they were treating her with the contempt they deemed due a woman! She had smoldered under it throughout training and her tour of duty at Port Tau Ceti, clinging to the hope that it would be different on an actual mission. Now she was on it, and nothing had changed. She might as well have been a housemaid.

“Hey, make me up a sandwich, will you honey?” Ivan said without looking at her. “I forgot to eat.”

The worst of it was, he wasn’t even conscious of the insult. None of them were. They all took it for granted that she was along for tokenism, if not pure decoration. They did not abuse her, or force their attentions on her openly; they simply did not take her seriously.

There was no point in aggravating anyone right now; their mission was dangerous enough without that. She opened the supply chest and made a sandwich—actually two slabs of hardtack, as it was called, of complementary flavors. Any one slab contained all the nutrients a human being needed, but was too bland for interest.

She handed Ivan the sandwich. “Thanks, Cutie,” he said absentmindedly, his eyes on the planet ahead. The shield made its outline vague, but made the outline of the scout ship even less clear to any observer on the planet.

“The name is Quiti,” she reminded him.
“
Kwee
-tee.”

“Sure thing, Cutie.”

She gave up. He wasn’t even listening to her. Well, it was no worse than being called “monkey,” as some of her training mates had, because of her planet of origin. The truth was that the human species was beginning a new radiation, with subspecies forming in a necessary adaptation to the extremes of their host planets. In the three thousand years since colonization had begun, some changes had been engineered genetically, and some had been by mutation and drastic natural selection, so that evolution had leaped. Somehow all that other people noticed about her particular subspecies was its supposed simian characteristic, rather than its mental one. But her kind could still interbreed with the others, which meant it was definitely human, and no one could tell by looking at Quiti now that she was not identical to the “standard” variant of Earth. That, perhaps, was part of the problem—the men here saw her as a sex object, just because she was young and full-fleshed.

Morosely, she watched the growing planet of Formut. It was the most Earthlike of the bodies in this primitive system. Its only distinction was that it was the closest habitable planet to the neighboring system that contained the human colony of Bethesda, which the Fleet hoped to recover soon. It had two Khalian batteries that could inflict devastating losses on any passing convoy. It was the Fleet’s intent to make a diversionary thrust, a decoy gesture, through this system, to distract the Khalia from the main thrust elsewhere. That would be useless if the batteries wiped out the token force at the outset.

Therefore those batteries had to be taken out. This could not be done from space without doing irreparable harm to the planet, and since the natives were not the enemy, that was out. But they could be tackled from behind, as it were, by a surprise attack from the ground. That was the present mission: two five-man ships were to infiltrate the planet and take out those batteries. Then the ships would report and wait for the Fleet to pick them up in a week, as they lacked the power to escape the planet’s gravity well.

It seemed simple enough—and it was, if all went well. Each ship had small arms and one plasma weapon. Because this was technically a hostile planet, there were no reloading cartridges; it was essential that the enemy not be able to take over the weapon and use it against the infiltrating party. The three shots of its initial loading should suffice; if not, it would probably be too late.

The loaded weapon weighed twenty-five kilograms. That was why there were two crews of two men each, to haul the hefty one-point-three-meter pipe expeditiously to an appropriate line of sight with the battery, and to haul it away again without delay. Whether there would be pursuit was uncertain; it was not known whether the Khalia had full complements here or merely minimal site crews. If the former, things could quickly become, as George put it, tight.

Their chances of survival and safe return were rated at seventy-five percent. Those were considered good odds for this type of work. The men acted as if there were no danger at all, calling it a milk run (with significant glances at Quiti’s bosom), but they knew the risk. They used only first names, not even knowing each other’s full names, to protect their identities in case anyone of them fell into enemy hands and was interrogated. They were, for all their insensitivity, good men.

Two crews of two. Why, then, was she along at all? To guard the ship. If enemy forces threatened to take it, it was her duty to push the destruct button. That would strand the men and, incidentally, blow her to bits—but the ship would not fall into enemy hands. Would she push that button? Yes. That was part of her training. However lightly the men might take her, they knew she would do that much of her job.

Still, they wouldn’t let her participate in the real action, despite her ability to do so. She was by their notion merely a woman, existing principally for the entertainment of a man. The men of the two ships on this mission had a pot on for the one who first managed to, as they put it, ground her. They didn’t even bother to conceal this game from her. Each day they each put another credit in the “honey pot.” The longer it took, the more the victor would have. There were of course certain rules: force could not be used, and no false promises were allowed. Nine men and one woman: they figured the end was certain, with only the timing and the identity of the victor in doubt. That was her value to them: the challenge. It was all perfectly good-natured on their part. They all admired her body, and said so rather too often. They took it for granted that she admired theirs. They were, after all, men.

This was why so few women volunteered for frontline service. Even when they got it, they didn’t get it. She had thought she could fight through, demonstrating her competence, and make a place for herself. So far, she had not been given the chance. Soft like a woman, indeed!

They made it to the planetary surface, and skimmed in toward the objective. The land below seemed to be solid mountain and forest, with no sign of civilization. The two Khalian batteries were a hundred and fifty kilometers apart; their companion ship would orient on the other, so that the twin strikes could be accomplished almost simultaneously. That was the ideal.

They glided to within fifteen kilometers. That was as close as they dared take the scout; they did not want to trigger any alarms. The indications were that Khalian force-field alerts were limited to ten kilometers. That might change, after this mission! From here they should be able to climb a hill and establish a direct line of sight to the battery. That was all that was required.

Jack opened the port, letting the planetary atmosphere in. They had all been given shots to adapt them to the local air, and the ship’s receptors had tested for verification of compatibility. This was an Earthlike planet, slightly smaller than Earth but with a denser core, so that gravity at the surface was almost the same. There was enough oxygen to sustain them; it was the trace elements that the shot protected them from, so that there would not be cumulative damage to the lungs and blood. The plants and animal life were similar too, not in detail but in fundamental metabolism.

George and Ivan were the first team. They girt themselves with water and rations, and each picked up an end of the pipe. “Be back soon, Cutie,” George said. “Catch yourself a little beauty nap.”

Ha ha,
she thought.
Catch yourself some other beauty, chauvinist!

Henry drew his laser pistol. He checked it, then pointed it at the fourth man, Jack. “Disarm yourself, slowly,” he said.

Jack looked at him, startled. “What?”

“I am a Khalian operative,” Henry said. “I am taking the three of you prisoner. Your mission is over.”

Jack smiled. “Some joke! The Khalia don’t take prisoners. Come on, we have to go so we can get the tube back fast when these weaklings wear out.”

“Second notice,” Henry said grimly. “I prefer not to have to kill you. I’m not a Khalian, I only work for them. Disarm yourself.”

“I don’t think he’s joking,” George said. He started to lower his end of the plasma pipe.

Henry’s laser swung around to cover him. “Hold your position!”

Jack’s hand dived for his own laser. Henry snapped his weapon back and fired. The beam seared across Jack’s throat, opening it as if a knife were slicing. Blood spewed out as the man fell, his eyes wide with amazement, rather than pain.

The other two men dropped the plasma pipe and reached for their weapons. Henry swept his beam across both of their throats. Both fell, unconscious and dying; the blood pressure at their brains was gone.

Now Henry turned to Quiti. She, like a complete idiot, had stood aghast, unmoving, stunned by the speed and horror of the event. “Disarm,” he said.

He had her covered. Slowly she removed her laser and dropped it.

“Out of the ship.”

She stepped carefully across the bodies and out the open port. Why hadn’t she drawn her weapon and fired while he was lasering the others?

The surface of the planet was lushly green. This was a jungle region, the kind the Khalia liked. They had landed in a long glade fronting the steep base of a mountain ridge; this provided both cover from observation by the battery personnel and a place to land comfortably.

She braced herself to run, but Henry was right behind her. “Make no sudden move, Cutie. I especially don’t want to have to kill you.”

After what had just occurred, she had no doubt of his ability to kill her. Training had been rigorous, but obviously he had had some that was not in the manual. She stood outside the ship, facing away from him, making no move.

She knew she had only a moment before he emerged. Anything she was going to do to protect herself she had to do now.

She put her face in her hands and sobbed. Her fingers pushed up through her pinned-back brown hair.

He emerged, his pistol keeping her covered. “Soft like a woman,” he muttered disdainfully, echoing Ivan’s remark.

He stepped away from the ship, coming to stand before her. “You know the routine, honey.”

Slowly she lifted her face, her fingers sliding down across her forehead and her tear-wet cheeks. She gazed at him, her fingers actually poking into her mouth.

“Don’t try your pitiful look on me, Cutie,” he snapped. “Just get your clothes off. Be thankful you’re to be a slave instead of a casualty. I won’t see you again after I turn you in, so it has to be now.”

It did make sense, she knew, in his terms. The Khalia did not take prisoners, they took slaves, and not many of them. They would interrogate her, not caring what damage they did to her body or mind in the process, and use her as a slave thereafter if she remained sufficiently functional. Her self-hypnotic ability could dull ordinary pain but would not help her against the savagery of this. She had known from the outset what to expect from the Khalia; not for nothing had humans named them after the ancient Hindu goddess Kali, dark creature of destruction and bloody sacrifice. Now she knew what to expect from their human agent, whose lust was of a slightly different nature. It was pointless to make open resistance; he would only laser her just enough to incapacitate her, perhaps severing the nerves of her arms and legs and blinding her, then have his will of her body as she suffered. Some men were like that, preferring the writhings of a woman’s agony to those of her joy.

She removed her uniform, carefully folding the sections of it and setting them on the ground beside her. She did not take undue time, knowing that stalling would gain her nothing. He watched, evidently enjoying the striptease show as her breasts and buttocks came into view. She had counted on that, and even moved a little more than she had to, to make those portions flex and quiver. She wanted him watching her body, not her face. Her teeth were clenched, her lips very slightly parted. Soon she stood naked except for her heavy military socks.

Henry nodded. “Cutie, I always thought your body was the best,” he said. “Now I’m sure of
it.
You sure don’t look like a monkey to me.”

She did not answer. She merely stood, teeth still clenched, waiting for his next directive.

“Very docile, aren’t we,” he remarked. “But I’m not fool enough to take chances. Go fetch the emergency cord.”