The First Casualty

Chapter Three

“B Company, report,” Major Longknife ordered.

“Locked and loaded. We want their skulls for hood ornaments.”

The major would have expected nothing less. “C company, report.”

“In position. There better be enough skulls for us, too. Damned if I'll settle for their guts as antenna streamers again.”

“There'll be enough. Where're the ambulances?”

“Last one just cleared the escarpment... now.”

“Artillery, they're yours. D and E companies, forward at a gallop. B and C, as soon as the smoke thickens, advance and take the pass.”

“Roger,” “Yes, sir,” and “On our way” answered him.

“Lieutenant Cohen.” The major called the new commander of B company. “Your folks pretty sure they've found the skunk that's been calling down all those rockets?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you don't have to wait for smoke to go after that one. That's a skull I want, personally.”

“It's yours, sir.” The young voice held no doubt.

Mary felt the pressure of the explosion even through vacuum. She checked her heads-up display one last time before she doused it, and the hint of light it brought to the cavern. It was all red, hot, and ready. Damn. The mines! She'd safetied them for the LT's walk. With a flick of her wrist, she reactivated them. Then she doused the heads-up.

Mary eyed her old space through the slit she'd left open to her new quarters. The stone slab lay half in, half out of the doorway. Three grenades sailed through the hole. Mary ducked. Through the stone, she felt the explosions and shrapnel bouncing off walls. Something slammed into her helmet. Carefully, she fingered a bit of jagged metal sticking in the plastic of her faceplate. Bent and twisted, it had ricocheted off the walls before coming to rest, spent, on her helmet. With a glob of safety goo in one hand, she gently pulled the metal out. It had barely dinged the plastic. Mary, never one to take a chance, slapped goo sealant liberally on the ding and risked a look into her old space.

Four infantry, rifles at the ready, entered one after another. Rifles and helmets moving as one, they swept down the entire cavern. Not one square millimeter went unexamined. So that's how professionals do it. Three stayed on point and alert. One relaxed his aim, probably a sergeant getting ready to report. Mary didn't want that. She flipped on the laser designator high on the far wall. In its ruddy light, the dust and gases of the explosion still swirled. Like puppets, every gun and eye swiveled to face it.

Mary slipped her needle rifle into the notch left for it below the slit. Her heads-up display back on, it showed the next room. The sights settled on the closest back. Mary squeezed the trigger, gently, like she'd been taught.

The gas vented out the sides of her rifle; she felt no recoil. A three-round burst went into one back. Mary walked her aim to the next closest back. Three more for it, then the next.

That one wasn't a back. She caught him—no, maybe it was a her—turning. Mary stitched three rounds into her side and changed aim for the last one. He was diving for the cover of the stone. Mary had to get him; she couldn't hold off a siege. His helmet was in her sights. She jerked off three rounds. Only the first one hit. It was enough.

The faceplate shattered.

Mary lay, rifle in hand, fascinated as the blood flew in lazy arcs, obedient to the gentle gravity of this moon. She might have lain there, mesmerized by the deaths she'd caused, but explosions were seeping into her body.

Her mines were going off.

She ordered a vid to keep an eye on her old space and put it on motion detection. Switching her heads-up to the outside picture, she nodded. Yep, the minefield was taking a toll. There was still too much of the WP stuff to use a laser. It took her a minute to regain the situation. Somewhere in that minute she was violently ill, but she kept most of the vomit off her faceplate. Her friends needed her.

Lieutenant Cohen waited for the cloud of Willy Peter to thicken. After each burst of shell, he'd start counting. When he got to fifteen without starting over, the swirl of white obscured the end of the pass—and he could believe the artillery net's claim that the barrage was over.

“Follow me, crew,” he shouted, and the men and women of B company lit out after him. He was near the crest of the ridge when something exploded at his feet. Arms and legs flailing, he flew up, then smashed into the pass's stone wall five meters above the ground. Of his feet, he felt nothing. His ears rang, but not enough to miss the hissing of pressure fleeing his suit. With his last air, he shouted. “Come on, soldiers, a few mines can't slow the Guard down. Show the others how it's done. Forward.”

Troops double-timed toward him, some shooting up as explosions blossomed at their feet, others making it through, rifles up, shooting at what lay ahead. Then darkness took vision from the lieutenant's eyes as his whole body struggled for breath. It was not a long struggle.

Each shell bounced Cassie around the inside of her dugout. As best she could, she left space for Joyce to do her own rattling around. Then the lieutenant bellowed on the platoon-wide net. “Infantry in the gap. Heads up. Rifles out. Shoot.”

She and Joyce stared at each other. Did that idiot really want them to crawl out of their hole under this artillery barrage? Then again, the place wasn't shaking anymore. Just her knees. Through the faceplate, Cassie could see Joyce's face. Sweat ran down it, vomit speckled the helmet. She was in no shape to stand up, much less shoot. Wonder what I look like?

I sure as hell don't feel like standing up and aiming a gun. Cassie was shaking like an unbalanced motor. “I'll fire a round if you will,” Cassie said.

“Just one?”

“That's all I got in me.”

They came up out of their hole together, slapped their rifles down on the rocky lip, and fired. Cassie didn't try for a sight picture. She just pulled the trigger and held it down, slowly sweeping the barrel over the gap three hundred meters away. Figures in armored space suits poured through the pass. Some flew .. . mines, she remembered. Good luck, Mary.

Her rifle quit spitting. For Mary, she popped the spent magazine out and slammed in a new one. Cassie glanced at Joyce. She slumped over her rifle, surprise still showing in her empty eyes. Her faceplate had taken a direct hit. She hadn't suffered. A needle's tiny hole showed between her eyes.

Cassie turned back to the gap, finger on the trigger, gun venting. She wondered why her throat hurt. It wasn't until she slipped the fourth magazine in that she realized she was screaming. She didn't try to stop.

Captain Tran did a belly flop in the dust at the end of the pass. He'd made it! From the looks of things, he might be the only officer who had. Company B was taking a pasting. They'd always been a hard luck unit. Tough luck. The rifle fire on his side of the gap was lighter. “First and second platoon, keep going. Third and fourth, give them fire support.

When they've got the rill, third and fourth will leapfrog over them.”

Shouts answered him. A dozen men took off hopping. Was that all that was left of the forty who jumped off with me at the escarpment?

Eight made it to the rill. They ducked down and started looking for hidey-holes. “It's like shooting fish in a bowl” came over the net. Tran would give them a minute, then order third and fourth up and forward.

Dumont held Tina. “I can't go out there,” she whimpered.

“Don't worry, hon, we ain't going nowhere. No LT's gonna make us.”

“They shot her,” screamed a voice on the squad net. “They shot her right in our...”

“That was ...” Tina started.

“Yeah,” Dumont cut her off. He had the hole right down from them. Dumont raised his helmet just enough to see. Someone in space armor with the red unity lightning patch was emptying his rifle into that hole. Unthinking, Dumont pulled his gun out, sighted quickly, and blew the gunner away. Someone on the lip of the rill turned toward him. Dumont walked his fire up to blow him off his feet.

Needles stitched the other side of the rill's wall. Dumont ducked before they got him. Needles ricocheted all over the place, but none hit him.

“Du, what is it?”

“Hon, if you want to live, you got to kill 'em. It's us or them time. Tina, can you stand up a bit more and see what's coming up behind me?”

Trembling, she did.

“See anything?”

“No.”

“Good girl. Now, something's coming up the rill behind you. Don't turn around. I'm gonna get 'em.” He edged his gun out a bit. The vid on it relayed the sight picture to his heads-up. Nothing. He pushed the gun a bit more. There was someone, down a ways, hiding behind a twist in the rill. Not much to aim at. He held the gun with both hands and pulled the trigger. His target fell, kicking and trying to slap his wounds. Dumont put two rounds through his helmet. He didn't move anymore.

Using his gun camera for a sweep, Dumont spotted nothing more at either end of the rill. Lying on his back, he pushed out—hoping the whole time his suit would hook on something and keep him in his hole. Nothing. Crouching, he risked a peek above the wall of the rill. Four dudes hopped forward, firing at the old ladies in the holes behind him. Without thought, Dumont swung his gun over the four, trigger finger locked down. They folded over backward. He felt Tina's hand on his shoulder. “What do you want me to do?”

“Cover my back. I'll take care of our front.” One of the four bodies rolled over, grabbing for the gun nearby. Dumont shot him through the soles of his feet.

Captain Tran blinked. First and second platoons were gone. Just gone. He needed artillery before he'd order another assault. He crawled to the crest of the pass to get a line-of-sight on artillery. Climbing up on his knees, he got a signal from the artillery net—and a needle in the back.

It went right through him, leaving a tiny hole that bubbled blood into vacuum. He grabbed for a patch even as he fell. Front hole covered, he wondered how he'd handle the back. Two troopers crawled up behind him. One slapped his back. The pressure in his helmet quit dropping.

“Don't worry, sir, we'll get you back.” They grabbed him by the shoulders and hustled him over the crest and down the other side, past blown mines and body parts. He glanced around. There were lots of wounded being helped by one or two friends, all headed back. Here and there a single soldier, no wound visible, no wounded comrade apparent, drifted back. The battle was over for B and C companies. D and E would have to take the pass.

Tran glanced up. D and E were rolling forward, maybe three or four more klicks out. D and E would do it.

Mary studied her display. The platoon had held against two hundred. Now another two hundred were coming up. It was time to do something—or surrender.

She'd watched Dumont 's squad hunker in their holes, trying to make their own separate peace. Half of them were dead for that. Surrender was no option today.

“Lieutenant, Rodrigo here. I want missile release.”

“How many, Sergeant?”

“All you got.”

There was a pause . . . while the LT thought. No, the background of the pause carried the ping, ping, ping of a rifle. He was breathless when he came back on. “They're yours, Mary. We're too busy. Use 'em well.”

Mary counted her targets. Twenty carriers, half of them tracked—that meant armored—raised dust plumes as they raced toward her. She had to get them. But there were laser rifles on several of them. These missiles would have to fight their way in. Okay, flood them, like they flooded us. Then there was the artillery. She'd heard the platoon whimper under its merciless, impersonal pounding. She'd also heard the screams as they died. Artillery is gonna pay. And that big square box owes me. Owes me big time.

The WP stuff was settling. Maybe they'd run out. Mary would not take that chance. She fed solid coordinates into the four SS-12's, offsetting their course so they'd be a deflection shot until the last second. The rigs were different; coming in fast, they kept their intervals. That made them predictable. She assigned the SS-3's areas to search if they lost laser lock.

All the missiles were rigged to one launch button. She shouted, “Fire in the hole!” and pushed it. Behind her, in two salvos, they leaped from their canisters. Twisting into immediate turns, they cleared the ridge by maybe one hundred meters, hungry for targets. Mary lit off every designator she had. This was it. But she didn't just play them on targets. She'd learned; these guys must have some kind of warning system. Those first two had taken off dodging as soon as she'd illuminated them. She programmed the lasers to play around the targets, ten meters to the right or left. Close enough so the missiles would know where to fly. Not so close the rigs didn't keep racing forward unwarned.

Here and there, a laser bolt shot upward, but the missiles were not coming head-on. Making a deflection shot at this rate of closure, jostling in the speeding carriers, nobody scored.

Ten seconds to impact, Mary had the lasers light up their targets. Rigs began to twist. They were going too fast. Two bolts took missiles head-on, but that close, the wreckage of the missile was just as deadly as an undamaged one.

As a cheer went up on the platoon net, Mary concentrated on the four remaining missiles. The SS-12's reached out to the plain. Two for rockets, one for guns. One for... No, I can't commit one missile to just that command rig. But it looks soft enough. Maybe if I target the gun closest to it?

Mary grinned and set her designators.

“Major, missiles in the air,” sensors shouted.

“Artillery, give me WP now, and plenty of it.”

“Don't got any. Carrier just pulled in. We're offloading it straight to a tube. Damn, we needed it ten minutes ago.”

“Get it out there.” Ray turned back to the battle. Assault rigs still ran arrow straight across the broken terrain. Dumb. “Sensors, did you pass the missile alert to them?”

“Didn't want to juggle their elbow, Major. They've got their own warning system beeping in their ears.”

“Don't look like it. Tell 'em for me.”

“Yes, sir.” There was a pause. When sensors came back, his voice was low, like a man who'd bet his wife and lost. “Sir, the beepers went off as I started talking.”

On the plain before him, speeding carriers started to turn. Laser rifles fired. From where Longknife stood he would see the twisty way the missiles came in, making the gunners' job damn near impossible. Carriers started exploding. Here a missile went wide. There a rig dodged. One slid sideways into a boulder. The missile smashed against the rock. Troopers poured out of the demolished carrier, some running, too many crawling. Unable to look away, the major watched in disbelief as sixteen of his troop carriers met the missiles head-on. Nothing survived the collision. But those carriers each had ten of my troops!

“Major, Tran here. Request permission to withdraw B and C companies.” There was a tremble in the officer's voice. He was hit, or had just watched D and E companies die—or both.

“Permission granted. Get back here any way you can. We'll lay artillery on their positions.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“I'll try to get some transport out there for you.”

“Don't bother, sir. We'd rather walk.”

“Major, we got four more missiles incoming,” sensors squeaked.

“To where?” The major came heads-up.

“Us!”

Longknife swung himself out of the van. No damn Earth platoon had missiles with that range. What was he facing? Why hadn't they used them sooner? Was this the start of a counterattack? The missiles were above him. Jets of fire pushing them over, plunging them down. No laser bolts rose to meet them. All the rifles went with D and E. After all, they were going in harm's way. We were sitting back here safe and sound.

“Duck, you idiot,” somebody called.

Whether to the major or some other idiot, Ray didn't know. But Ray hadn't ducked and he was an idiot. He ducked, shouting, “Staff, bail out. Take cover.” In the low gravity of this moon, ducking took a while. He was only halfway down when the rockets hit.

Strange how you fall slowly in low gravity, but explosions move just as fast. To his left, a rocket launcher was halfway through reloading when the missile hit. With its own rockets not yet in the armored launch canister, not one but nine rockets blew. Fuel, flechettes, and jagged chunks of wreckage flew, consuming another launcher, stripping a gun mount of its crew. White phosphorus blew in all directions, taking out a second gun.

As if awed by that spectacle, the next two hits were hardly noticeable. One rocket hit one launcher. Another rocket demolished a gun. Then the fourth missile hit. It had the major's name, rank, and serial number on it.

Landing between two guns, its shower of flechettes wiped out half their crews. That covered two-thirds of the perimeter of expanding gas and plastic. The major and the command van took the rest. Pain came from a half dozen pinpricks. Worse, they threw him against the bumper of the van. Something crunched, and he quit hurting. I don't want to quit hurting. For the moment, he had no choice.

It seemed like a year before people started hopping around among the fire and debris. Two found him. “You hurt, Major?”

“Mind patching these holes? My arms aren't working and my ears are popping.” They pulled goo out of the med pouch on his belt; his air quit getting thinner. As they lifted him off the bumper and settled him on a stretcher, he got a glance at the inside of the van. He'd only caught the low edge of the explosion. His staff, still at their stations, had taken the full force. They were pinned to the front wall like the targets at some fairground knife-throwing show.

The knife-thrower had made a lot of mistakes.

“Can you help my team?”

“Yes sir,” the private answered. Through his faceplate, Longknife saw the sergeant just shake his head.

Longknife could still chin his mike. “Artillery, I want fire on their position to cover our troops' withdrawal.”

No answer.

“Artillery? Is anybody on net? Who's in charge?”

“I guess I am, sir. Second Lieutenant Divoba. I can lay sixty-four missiles on them right now, but we need a minute to get a tube manned.”

“Hold your missiles, son. We're not trying to win a battle, we just want to keep their heads down while we walk away.

Use your tube artillery, and back your rockets off ten klicks. Now do it, son.”

The pain was coming back.

“You want a shot, sir?”

“Not 'til I'm on ship.”

“We can get you on one of the carriers heading out now, sir,” the sergeant offered.

“I ride the last one, Sergeant. You want to take an earlier one?”

“No sir.” It was nice to see a sergeant smile the way they did when they found an officer doing what an officer should. Longknife hoped that smile wouldn't cost him his life.

“Private, you want to take an early ride?”

“No sir.” His voice broke, but he got the word out. Poor kid. Stuck with two seniors playing it out by the code. Ray knew he ought to order the kid out, but he might need him to carry him. A cannon shell arched over the major's line of sight. Usually he would have felt the ground shake. I must be real bad. The sergeant twisted around to follow the shell for a moment. He got a good view of the troops struggling back from the pass. “Looks pretty bad, sir.”

“We've been in some tough ones. We always come through.”

Then it got worse.

“Captain Andy,” Umboto chortled, “I got six missiles ready to have a go at those transports. I had to teach them their numbers on pencil and paper. I've tucked them in at night and booted them out of bed for the last eternity, but they are ready \ Permission to launch, sir.”

“You may launch when ready, Commander.” Captain Anderson glanced around his HQ. It had gone from a morgue to damn near looking like a winning celebration on election night—one of those rare ones where they beat the polls. On his display, the captain watched six dots leave the crater and march slowly toward the enemy's grounded transports. With them gone, the enemy troop would have but two choices: fight on with air getting stale, or surrender.

From the reports he'd been getting back from the first platoon of A company, the colonials were just about fought out.

“Everybody, get your head down,” Mary shouted. “We got incoming on the way. The bastards are running like shit downhill, but somebody's tossing artillery our way to keep us out of their way. I vote we let them run, and dig deep.”

There were a lot of cheers for that one. Even the lieutenant breathed a hearty “Amen.” Then the net squawked again. “First platoon, don't pull your heads out of your holes for this, but if you can look up, those missiles going by are on their way to the transports. Now we got the bastards between a rock and a hard place. Yeehaa.”

“Who is that?” one of Dumont 's kids asked.

“That crazy woman who was on net a while back,” Cassie answered. “I didn't get no name.”

“She's Commander Umboto, brigade XO,” the lieutenant answered. “And those big missiles sure do look good going over. Mary, can you catch them on a vid?”

“No, sir, not till they come down a bit.”

“They sure look pretty.”

“Lieutenant, shouldn't you get your head down?”

“It is down, Mary. Don't worry about me.”

The barrage was light, but steady. Every minute or so another shell would wander their way. Mary kept up a running commentary—on the enemy running and on the general direction of the next incoming round. Most rounds went right into the gap. Once in a while, one would go long.

“Oh, God, I'm hit!” came the lieutenant's scream. Mary focused a vid where the lieutenant's hole was. A new and bigger one was right next to it. Rocks and debris were still falling.

“Lieutenant, you okay?” Cassie called.

No answer.

Mary took her system out of combat mode and into troop status. The lieutenant's suit was still on net, but it glowed a yellow-red. “He's alive, but we're losing him.”

“Okay, crew, let's dig him out,” Lek sighed on net. On the vid, first one, then three, finally six people were out of their holes, headed for the lieutenant's.

“Mary, you call the incoming artillery,” Cassie said. “Try to get a good read on where* it'll fall.”

“Yeah,” Dumont muttered. “I ain't never done somethin' this stupid before. Hate to get killed the first time I try it.”

More were out of their holes. Mary doubted they'd do any good. “Six is enough. If we need more, I'll call. Don't need anyone standing around watching others dig.”

“You bet nobody's gonna watch me dig,” Dumont snarled, but the bite was gone. His usual snap drew a laugh. Mary divided her display, half on those digging, half on the artillery. A gun puffed. Mary used her radar sensors for the first time to plot its fall. “Shell's headed for the crest of the gap. No sweat.”

The diggers didn't even pause when the shell exploded. Second shot was no worse. “We've found him,” Cassie yelped.

Across the plain, the gun carriage bucked. Mary did the numbers. “Oh, shit. You got incoming, and it's gonna be close.”

Most of the diggers flattened themselves in the shell crater. Two didn't, huddling together just outside the crater, covering something—someone. Mary forgot to breathe as she counted seconds. “Hail Mary, full of grace” came from one suit. “Our Father, who art in heaven” from another. “Sweet Jesus, help the f*ck us” was balanced by someone's prayer mantra.

Mary just counted down: “Four, three, two, one.”

A dust plume sprouted twenty meters from the first crater. Again rocks and shell fragments cut their lazy arcs through the vacuum. Mary could only watch as it showered down.

Dumont yelped. “Goddamn it, somebody pull that hot hunk of metal out of my ass.” On vid, one of the two figures that had stayed exposed to cover someone else reached over with a gob of goo and started rubbing it on the other's rear.

“Now, does that feel better?” Cassie cooed.

“Yes, Mother. You gonna kiss it, make it well?”

“Only in your dreams, kid. Okay, crew. Give me a hand. Lieutenant's still breathing, but he's out cold. Everybody keep goo handy. I don't know how bad his suit's holed.”

“Lek,” Mary ordered, “bring the bubble.” Mine disasters could hole a suit in too many places for goo—too many places to even find. The bubble could keep you alive for an hour. Longer if they found more air. The next three shells stayed out of the way while they cared for their officer.

“How bad is he?” Mary asked on Lek's private line.

“He don't look none too good. There's a lot broken and we got no way to take a peek at him through all this damn armor.”

Mary switched to battalion. “Major Henderson. We got a bad hurt lieutenant here. You don't get us help fast, he's dead.”

“Nearest set of wheels is yours.” The voice wasn't the major's. Commander Umboto was back on the line. “Load the lieutenant on whatever shows up. We'll have an ambulance with a med team meet them ASAP.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Mary answered.

“Thank you, Sergeant. You put up a damn good fight. The Spartans couldn't have done better. No use losing someone who won the battle just before they get it over with. Umboto out.”

Mary put a vid on long-distance search. “I think I see a dust cloud coming our way.”

“Looks so,” Lek agreed.

“Who the Spartans?” Dumont wanted to know. Mary let them talk, but the commander's words had hit her. They had won their battle, but could still die under one of these random shots. It didn't seem fair, to win a battle and get killed before it was over. Miners bitched about owners and their twisted idea of fair. War seemed to have no idea of fair. No idea at all.

“Major Longknife, Senior Pilot Nuu here, and we've got a problem. The Hardy, Noble and Gallant are unfit for space. If the Earthies got more where those came from, we're in a world of hurt. Santiago tells me things aren't going well on your end either. I got people who want to lift. What can I do for you?”

“We're in bad shape. Falling back fast as we can. Lighten what ships you got and pile troopers in. Launch them as fast as you fill them.”

“How many troopers do we have to load on each ship? You offloaded seven hundred fifty-eight.”

“The Second got bled plenty. I don't know what we've got now. The gear's not worth the lift, but the troopers are the brigade. Honey, you got to get them back. With them we can rebuild. Without them, we're all dead.”

“Ray, you okay?” The voice went soft, no more the transport commander's.

It was the softness that did it, took the lie from his mouth and let the truth out through clenched teeth. “No, friend.”

“I could lift the Friendship, drop it down close to you.”

“Probably on my head, girl. No, we evacuate by the numbers. You fill up a transport, you launch it away from their damn base. We'll make it,” he ordered. “Captain Santiago, you out there?”

“Yes, sir.”

'Turn those carriers around as soon as they get back. Pull drivers from A company. Tell them their ticket out is one trip forward. You having any trouble?”

“Nope. Few hotheads want to go up and show the rest of you how it's done, but I got them taking care of the wounded right now. When are you coming back, sir?”

“On the last carrier.”

“I'll be driving it.”

“And I'll be waiting for you,” Rita whispered.

Major Longknife couldn't turn his head anymore. He didn't have to. The vision of a battle bravely started and badly wreaked was etched behind his eyes, never to go away. For two hours he waited as the remnants of the 2nd Guard streamed past. He should have ordered the artillery silent when it was obvious there was no pursuit, but it slipped his pain-wracked mind.

When Santiago loomed over him, he didn't resist the pain spray. The battle was over. He'd lost this one big.

Trevor Hascomb Crossinshield the Ninth stripped naked. He needed to meet the most powerful men on one hundred planets. They were in the sauna; he had exactly five minutes of their time. If he took less, it would be accorded a virtue to him. He could not take more.

Wrapping a towel around himself, he slipped his feet into sandals and padded noisily toward his business appointment. He opened the sauna door only enough to slip in. These men did not suffer cold interruptions. He took the appropriate supplicant's seat on the lowest of the four tiers of cedar shelves, next to the hot stones. When asked, he would ladle water on them for more steam. He would do whatever he was told.

The room was hot. How can they take the heat? Not born to this life—or wealth—Trevor doubted he could stand the heat of the highest tier. He would, however, find a place along the middle tiers most comfortable. Searching for the one who had invited him, Trevor risked a quick glance at the upper tier. Steam billowed and drifted there, hiding the men's faces. No, one was a woman. Her towel open, she stretched out languidly along the highest shelf, forcing men to either sit closer together or move to a lower bench. Was she a “companion” on display? The body was sculpted, expensive. Earned or...

For a moment, Trevor caught her eyes. There was cold fire there, but nothing for him. He felt like he'd been hacked, the entire contents of his mass storage reviewed and not found worth the effort to format. Trevor snapped his eyes down, locked them on a floor tile and awaited notice. The room was silent; here he would get no dropped scrap of information to sell. Are my five minutes ticking away? Desperate, he forced himself to quiet.

“How goes our little war?” a familiar voice spoke from a corner of the highest tier.

“Your war, Henry, not ours,” someone in the opposite corner dared to interrupt, and interrupting, to correct—and to challenge. Trevor held his tongue.

“Edward, when all of humanity groans in birth, of course we will be there. We raped her fair and square. The little bastard will fall right into our tender clutches. Of course it is ours.” The voice held a chuckle ... empty of mirth.

“Thank you, Henry. I love your poetry. But let us not forget, the colony planets are throwing their full weight behind their tin dictator. On several fronts their Red Banner fleets advance, spewing their songs of 'One Humanity, United together. The only coin the sweat of the worker. The only just pay what you've made with your own hands.'“

“And I do love your poetry too, Edward, even if it is all secondhand. Yes, they do press us here and there, but they are like any new entrepreneur with a penny vision. They overreach, and just moments before they might have realized a profit, they go bankrupt. That is when we step in with a takeover bid. There is nothing they plant that we cannot reap.”

Trevor risked a glance at his patron. Heat swirled around him. Beneath his words were fire, enough to cut down a dozen CEO's of transplanetary corporations. Still he leaned back against the wall, talking coolly, body frozen in a posture of good cheer. Not even a finger twitched.

“You put much at risk.”

“Because you were blind, Edward. People seeped out to the frontier like water under a dam. And you ignored them.”

“They paid their bills. Living off the interest made you fat, Henry, and left them nothing.”

“Nothing, Edward. One moment you speak of fleets pressing in on us. Another moment you call them nothing. You have ignored the frontier worlds too long. It is time to bring them back into the wide river of humanity, to let them grow wealthy and comfortable like Earth and her seven sisters, like Pitt's Hope and the other two score that came after. The colonies must be brought into the family, not by some foot-stamping messiah, but our way. Peacefully, profitably, comfortably. There is no profit in surprises. Left long enough on their own, anyone can dream up a surprise. Edward, we must eliminate surprises.”

“And so you play with a war, Henry. Brute force follows no laws, physical or economic. The hounds of war nip at any heel they choose, not just the one you want. You gamble.”

“When I gamble, Edward, the fix is already in. Mr. Crossinshield, the fix is in, is it not?”

“Yes, sir.” Trevor wasted no time on the gulp he desperately wanted. His button pushed, he spewed his contents in words too rapid to be interrupted. “We have multiple contacts in all major and minor theaters of operations on both the colonial and Earth sides. Information is being received, collated, and analyzed daily. If President Urm's Unity Movement cannot be properly guided, we have subcontractors in place to cancel him.”

The woman rolled over, propped herself on one elbow, and crossed her legs. “And there is no one to take his place among the collection of thieves with whom he has surrounded himself.” She grinned. There was no humor behind it, no evidence of any feeling at all. “Of course, some of those thieves are our thieves. Very good, Henry.”

Trevor's patron opened his lips in an empty smile and went through the motions of a thank-you before turning back to the man across the room. “You see, Edward, this is a restructuring, not war. A growth of franchises that will be handled delicately. Before the next annual reports are due, we will have closed out our wartime contracts profitably and plunged into the next economic expansion fueled by the unmet needs of the colonies on the credit we extend, to managers we select.”

“If you are right. If these puppets are truly yours and if they do not slip their strings and discover a life of their own,” the questioner growled. His face twisted in a grimace, and he threw up a hand. He knew none of these people of power could hear his words. He had lost.

“I am always right. Thank you, Mr. Crossinshield. It is a pleasure doing business with you. We must talk another time of expanding our relationship.”

Trevor stood. “Thank you, sir.”

He left. In the cool of the locker room, sweat poured off him that had nothing to do with the sauna. When he could, he walked unsteadily to the shower. Under the cooling spray, he regained himself. The fix is in. We have agents everywhere. We know what is happening. It was a comforting mantra.