The Price of Peace (32 page)

The knife was better than Trouble expected. Like a surgical instrument, it took the guy's head off. Trouble felt only slight resistance. That must have been the spine, he marveled. This was a knife worth keeping.

Trouble whirled back to face his three remaining threats. They had lost interest. There was no guard behind him, the path to the crowd of field hands was open. He grabbed Ruth and started backing toward the others. Then the lights went out.

Smart move, Gunny. She can't zap us if she's got no power to her transmitter. A scream of rage from Zylon probably verified that she had gone thumb down on her pain controller ... and found a dead central power meant a dead central transmitter. The pain pods were as worthless as last week's chow.

A rifle shot rang out. Civilian rifle. Gunner probably panicked. "Down, everyone. Down!" Trouble shouted and gently took Ruth's legs out from underneath her. Covering her with his body, he tried to spot his marines.

"Wondered when you'd get me on my back." Ruth shoved him off her. "Keep your own head down," she growled.

Somebody was firing into the night. Wild, ragged volleys. A single shot answered it. There was a scream, then silence. From the house came the tinkle of breaking glass and several pistol rounds. The shots were well over Trouble's head. "Ruth, can I borrow your shirt again?"

"You get a girl on her back in the dark, and all you want is her shirt off. What kind of marine are you?"

"One who wants to wave something to attract his sergeant's attention and hasn't got a stitch on." Ruth slipped out of her shirt, and started waving it herself.

"What marine's
gonna
pass up a bare-breasted girl waving her shirt at him?"

"One that's busy staying alive." Trouble reached for the shirt, tried to take over waving it from Ruth. She wouldn't let him. They ended up each waving one end.

"That's got to be the lieutenant. Only he wouldn't know what to do with a half-naked girl on her back."

"That you, Taylor?" "
Yessir
."

"Corporal, the good guys are on the ground. Anyone up and moving is a target. Cover me, I'm coming in."

"Squad, cover the lieutenant."

At a crouch, Trouble headed for his corporal's voice at the corner of the nearest barracks. Cover fire was limited to a few high rounds, since no one was offering to fight the marines at the moment. The lieutenant relaxed only when he had the building between himself and the big house.

"Lend me your helmet, Taylor." The corporal quickly passed over his headgear with all its command and control information reflected on his faceplate. It looked like a good drop. Most of the platoon was in a loose circle around the big house—except for one squad floundering around out in the fields.

"Gunny, this is Trouble." "Glad to have you back, sir."

"Very glad to see you. Our objective is the large house. Resistance consists of thirty to fifty lightly armed civilians. Let's use weapons of nonlethal intent to start with. Anybody aims a gun, use all force necessary."

"Roger that, sir. First and second squad, concentrate on the east and south side of the target. Third and fifth, cover north and west. Fourth, as soon as you've finished making mud pies, we'd appreciate you up here." Fourth's reply was vintage marine.

"Duke, prepare to lay smoke, noise, and light on the objective." Trouble watched the situation develop for a minute.

Gunny arrived at his CP. Moss had Trouble's battle gear. "Sorry, sir. If I knew you was bare-ass naked, I'd have brought you pants to go with the armor."

"Every officer ought to try giving orders that way. See if they really got command presence," someone drawled. Trouble had other worries besides putting Craig on report.

"We go in
in
one minute," Gunny announced.

There was a roar from the far side of the house. "Second squad here. A large air-cushioned vehicle just busted out of a basement garage, and it's heading south like Gunny for a beer bust. Do we shoot it down?"

"Got nothing to do it with," Gunny growled on net. "Sorry, sir," he added to Trouble. "We dropped kind of in a hurry. Grabbed what looked important. No report of hostile aircraft or heavy assault vehicles, so I kept us light."

"No problem, Gunny. Glad to see you when I saw you. Five more minutes and I might not have been alive to say hi."

"Only got a glimpse of what was going on, sir, but it didn't look up to your usual level of entertainment."

"Been a rough couple of months." "And tomorrow looks to be tougher."

"Got a few friends who might be able to help there."

"Put me through to Security Central," Zylon screamed into the phone.

"This is Security Central. Please state the nature of your problem," the maddening voice repeated.

"Not you, you idiot, your boss, or boss's boss. Someone who knows what's going on here." That was the problem with this setup. Most of the idiots thought it was just a nine-to-five job. Only a handful knew who the real bosses were. There was no market on Riddle for organizational charts, at least not the real one. Before, Zylon didn't mind the paranoia; why let everyone know the fortune that was there for the taking? Tonight it was a problem.

A totally wasted half minute went by before she heard "This is Captain Wallace. I'm shift supervisor. Can I help you?"

"Yes. I am Zylon Plovdic, Manager of Farm Forty-one. I just evacuated the farm one step ahead of an attack shuttle full of marines or something. We're being attacked from

off-planet."

"Pardon me. ma'am. This number is a service of your planet Security Center. It is not to be used for entertainment purposes. May I suggest you rejoin your gaming friends and not use standard communications units as part of your simulation."

The phone went dead with a click.

"Why, you stupid ..." Zylon couldn't come up with more words to pile on that clock-puncher. She'd have him assigned to her farm when all this was straightened out. He'd listen to her when he wore a slave collar and she held the controller.

She searched for Big Al's number in her system. His day phone wouldn't pass her along to his home. She had to search her old calls to find one from him at home. She almost broke the phone dialing it. "Al, we got a problem," she said, cutting off his groggy bitching. He listened for her quick explanation.

"If that's true, we do have a problem. If not..." The observation that she might end up working beside her vat girls was left unsaid. "I'll call you back."

Zylon glanced at the clock and matched it against the craft's speed;
Mordy
had it maxed. "I'll be at Richman in two hours."

"This is Betsy Corbel of the Pride of Portland. I'm
gonna
be crossing kind of close to you, so I thought I might introduce myself." Izzy sat on the
Patton’s
, bridge, wearing a pair of khaki cutoffs and an oversize tee-shirt the chief of the boat had just had tie-dyed. It was almost dry. If her in a wet tee-shirt added a level of distraction to the man just coming on the
viewscreen
, so much the better. Eyes locked on their boards, no one on the bridge was paying any attention to her.

If the program
Izzy's
countermeasures officer had picked up on Wardhaven was as good as promised, only Izzy and the helmswoman were visible.

"Hello, I'm Sam Hill of the Hot Bottom Line. Glad to hear from you. High Riddle still hot?" "Hottest this side of Earth," Izzy promised. Very hot.

"Well, watch out where you're headed. Hear the pirates are getting worse around the rim." Not after today. But Izzy nodded agreeably. "We're headed back to the core. Taking Alpha jump. So long." Communications ended, and Izzy let her breath out slowly. The course to Alpha jump took her directly across the sterns of the three incoming bandits. If she'd timed it right, they'd be within fifteen thousand
klicks
at the closest point of closure. Perfect. She and Stan could take out the engines on two before they knew what hit them.

Izzy glanced around the bridge; most boards were straight lines. Countermeasures promised she'd cover all emissions from
Patton
and Junior. Still, Izzy took no chances. Anything that didn't belong on a merchant ship was cold metal, and would remain so until thirty seconds before they needed it. She checked the bridge chronometer; rechecked the paths of the five ships. Exactly four more minutes to wait.

Izzy leaned back in her chair and did a great imitation of a woman without a care in the universe. Everything that could be done had been done. Now all that was left was the doing. One minute stretched by, followed by an eternity that only saw another sixty seconds pass. The third minute was longer, if that was possible. The final thirty seconds flew.

"Activate all combat systems. Guns, we do not range the targets until all batteries are charged." Assuming they all took a charge. Why not be an optimist?

"Roger, ma'am."

Umboto
watched the seconds pass. Twenty seconds into the warm-up period, the acting XO announced. "All combat systems on line. Performance is optimal. All batteries are charged. We are ready, ma'am."

"Sensors, how is Junior?"

"All up and operational. However, countermeasures give my readings only a moderate confidence level."

Maybe they were working. "Talk to me about the targets."

"Three Daring class cruisers. Triple reactors active. No military systems on line." "Guns, I want a firing solution on the first one, and a solution for the last one passed to Junior. Activate range finders."

"We've pinged the targets," Sensors reported. "We have a firing solution. Junior has hers."

"Put on spin. Begin
jink
mode. Fire ranging shot," Um-
boto
ordered. The Pride of Portland cover vanished as the
Patton
took on a warship's defensive spin and slipped into a random dance of up, down, and sideways
zigs
. A single shot reached out from the cruiser to the Hot Bottom Line. It sliced into the target just aft of amidships, and immediately winked out. The targeting solution was perfect. Without orders, Guns adjusted the remaining turrets and opened fire. The
Patton’s
lights did not dim, thanks to the yard's work. Five laser beams cut into the stern of the Bottom Line, slicing engines, smashing plasma conduits. Misdirected plasma shot into space at all angles as the ship took off in a wobbling flat spin.

"Check fire,"
Umboto
ordered. "Switch to second target." She had only the three guns that the ship's spin now brought to bear. One reached out for the middle ship. It wasn't there. It had bounced up. The other two turrets tried for it, but missed.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Sam Hill was back on the screen, holding on tight to his bridge chair as his ship continued its wild gyrations. Another captain came on screen, but didn't bother identifying himself. His ship didn't look any better controlled than Hill's. Stan had done good.

"This is Captain
Umboto
of the Society of Humanity cruiser
Patton
. You are ordered to cease all acceleration, close down all systems except basic life support, and prepare to be boarded."

"You're crazy. You got no right," the unidentified captain started.

"You are charged with numerous counts of piracy and involuntary servitude, as well as conspiracy to commit same."
Umboto
cut him off. "I repeat, close down and be boarded." "I'll see you in hell first," Hill snarled.

"That can be arranged. We know the location of your bridges, and you are sitting ducks.

Comply with my orders."
Umboto
cut off the two captains. "
Comm
, send to Junior. Two cripples are yours. I will engage the undamaged ship. Good luck."

All batteries were again charged, but the lone target was jitterbugging through space, never holding a constant course or acceleration. This one was going to be tough.

''
Comm
, send a hail to the evading ship." "He's calling us, Captain."

A new face appeared on screen. "I am Johnnie
Romijn
, of the Diamond Cold Heart. What the hell are you doing?"

If he'd monitored her last transmission, he knew the answer. "Cease your evasive maneuvering," she ordered.

"No way. Some crazy woman's shooting up ships. I'm
gonna
do what I can to keep my hull from being made Swiss cheese."

"If you're a normal businessman, boarding will cause you no problem."

"Don't have the reaction mass to cruise around this system all week. I need to refuel at the station."

"You are not approaching the station without being boarded and searched."

"Listen, lady, I'm just a man trying to make money on a very slim profit margin. I got no time for this silly business."

That was the problem; there was a slim chance he might be telling the truth.
Umboto
had nothing to go on but assumptions and intelligence. But if he was a gunship, she could not let him near the station's collection of troop containers and landing craft. Has my trigger finger gone off too quickly and too wrong, again? "Sensors, talk to me."