The Tejano Conflict (5 page)

As Cutter got to the HQ, Gramps stood in the doorway, looking grim.

“What?” Cutter asked.

“Commanding general of the local GU Army sector wants to see you.”

“Not a real surprise. Why the face?”

“It's Junior Allen.”

“Oh, fuck,” Cutter said.

“My feeling exactly.”

– – – – – –

Sixteen of the thirty largely-human-settled planets and twenty-eight major wheelworlds scattered across a thousand light-years of space still remained at least partially outside the GU's control.

Morandan, in the Meyer System, was one of these.

Morandan was where the revolution had gotten to its ugliest. It was the world where eight thousand civilians had been slaughtered due to incompetence and arrogance and the offhand banality of careless evil.

They really hated the GU on Morandan. It was one of the most dangerous postings you could get, as a soldier or an ambassador. Assassinations were ongoing and frequent.

Here was one of the main reasons for that hatred.

The man sat behind a desk made of rare and terribly expensive endangered Brazilian Rosewood; he wore a shit-eating grin. He was the man responsible for the deaths of those eight thousand civilians on Morandan—as well as the end of Cutter's career in the GU military.

Major General John D. Allen II.

Cutter had taken the fall because Allen was smart enough to rig that much. CMA was in the man's soul; he always covered his ass first, before he did anything else.

Cutter's DGF unit had been there, and it was take the bullet or let them take it, and Allen had known how that would go. Cutter protected his troops at whatever personal cost, and while Allen wasn't particularly smart, he was sly. He knew.

If you reveal a handle to some people, they will grab and use it.

It was complicated. Politics had to be served. The military powers that were had their hands tied. Cutter had enough friends among them so that he wasn't court-martialed, he was allowed to retire. Those who knew the truth couldn't go directly at Allen for the atrocity, but he hadn't escaped entirely. He never got the third star; he was overranked for running a minor post on a world where he would have no chance to do any real damage, and, no doubt, being monitored, to be sure he didn't get into trouble.

And yet, Allen was still in the Army, still able to draw active-duty pay, still looked like a cat full of cream and canary with his two stars.

Cutter knew that real-time justice was out of the mix. He hoped that karma might still operate.

Not that he ever expected to see the man again, but he had considered this moment theoretically now and again for years. He had thought about killing him. Hand-to-hand, with the satisfying feel of fist on flesh, a beatdown ending in a boot to the throat, maybe a broken neck.

He had considered a long-range shot, a klick or two away, single sniper's round to the head or heart. It had been long enough so he wouldn't be at the top of the suspect list though he would have to avoid being seen. If authorities knew he was on the same planet as Allen, they would want to speak to him.

He had thought about it. Mostly, after the fantasies, he had let it go. It was done, history, no point in bumping into the furniture while looking back over your shoulder. Mostly he had let it go, but not entirely. The man who had gotten away with mass murder by blackmailing Cutter into taking the heat was right here in front of him, and even a saint would have trouble smiling and forgiving.

Cutter wasn't anybody's candidate for saint.

A lot of choices presented themselves: Allen's father had been a four-star general, a rank his son would never achieve. It was a small barb, but the man's ego was such that it would sting.

“Hello, Junior.”

The smile vanished, and rage danced briefly over Junior Allen's face.

Cutter's own smile arose.

“Just so you know: If you spit crooked, you're going away,” Junior said. “You will have more eyes on your operation than a swarm of horseflies on scat. Anything, anything at all, give me a reason.”

“Not a problem, Junior. I know you're behind me this time. I'll watch my back.”

“Get the fuck out of my office.”

“Nothing would please me more.”

As he walked away, Cutter felt only a little better. Dinging the man's ego was nothing compared to what he had done. Nothing Cutter could possibly do would compare. It was still hard to think about, after all the years since.

Hard, but unavoidable.

– – – – – –

Cutter's Detached wasn't within two klicks when the shooting started though the official records were altered to show they were on-site. That they had pulled the first triggers. He had heard the noise, but it was distant, and by the time he'd sorted out the reports and sped to the site, it was far too late.

He looked at the vids, and they were gruesome.

Amazing how many people you can kill with full-auto carbine fire and fragmentation grenades when you open up on a plaza full of demonstrators.

Average-density-event-space put the crowd at ninety thousand, mostly human, men, women, children. Some were armed, but a scattering of hidden sidearms didn't matter, wouldn't have mattered if there had been ten times the hardware in the plaza. Anybody who tried to shoot back would have bounced non-AP bullets off military-grade armor.

It was an out-and-out slaughter.

– – – – – –

—sound was a mix of gunfire mostly overridden by screams of terror as the crowd mind realized it was trapped. The main opening between the buildings at the entrance to Strout Plaza was essentially a funnel, and no more than thirty people wide. The designers had never envisioned the possibility of what happened. Those in front couldn't move fast enough for those being shot at the rear. The stampede turned into a crush, tight enough so people were carried along. To fall was to die underfoot, and dozens perished that way—

—the shooters never appeared on cam. How anybody could not see that as unbelievable seemed impossible. There was the constant chatter of full auto, punctuated by the odd grenade. It was like shooting animals trapped in a pen—

—Cutter was a soldier, he had seen soldiers die, he had killed more than a few himself, but this was stomach-churning to watch. He had to watch it, he couldn't not, but still. How had those troops kept it up? What was it in them that made them keep firing, keep replacing spent magazines, when there was no threat? Had it been spontaneous? Had somebody given an order? Shoot until you run dry?

Until they are all dead?

Man's inhumanity to man was made manifest.

Eventually, it stopped. It lasted nine minutes and forty-three seconds.

In the course of nine minutes and forty-three seconds of sustained action, eight thousand people were killed. Most died by bullets or grenade, some by being trampled. Some died of density suffocation. Some from organ injury, people pushed together so violently that they were crushed. Some suffered heart attacks, some probably perished from outright terror.

Twelve thousand more sustained wounds, some of which involved amputations, shattered bones, torn flesh.

To watch was to weep.

– – – – – –

Martial law clamped hard and fast. News media were shut down, cameras and recorders confiscated, spindocs came up with stories. There was no way to hide what had been done, too many people had been there, and too many cams escaped the roundup.

How it was spun:

It was the mob's fault, they attacked the military, but the Army admittedly had overreacted a bit, and those responsible had been disciplined. Because there was a war on, details were necessarily kept secret . . . and in the end, Cutter's was the only senior officer's head to roll. His not so much because the uplevels knew he wasn't really the guy, but, well, that's how it goes. Somebody had to take the hit. No hard feelings.

Right. No hard feelings after all the years of loyal service . . .

Well, done was done, and he had managed to build CFI into something of which he was proud. But it still rankled that he had gotten blindsided that way. He'd known how Junior operated; he should have prepared himself better . . .

– – – – – –

Back at the base, Jo was waiting.

“How'd it go with the Dycon guy?”

“He offered a bribe.”

“How much?”

“Seven million?”

“Each? Or together?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Really? You should have taken it. I would have.”

They both smiled.

Jo's grin faded: “Gramps told me about Junior.”

“Yep. Into each life a little shit must fall. We'll have to do this by the numbers, he's gunning for us. Document everything, and if we need to overstep, make sure nobody is watching.”

“I hear you.”

“You going back to the woods tomorrow?”

“Kay and Em. I'm doing delivery inventory on the weapon shipment.”

“Okay. Keep me in the loop.”

There was no sense of foreboding, nothing to mark the moment as different than any other. Kay caught Em's spasm peripherally and the sound of the projectile as it broke the sound barrier followed half a second later, echoing over as she turned and saw Em, six meters away, still falling, the back of her head blown out . . .

The wound was obviously fatal, and the boneless manner of her comrade's collapse told the story:
Dead as she falls . . .

Kay dropped flat and the
crack!
of the bullet meant for her followed the round as it zipped past, a meter and some above her.

There was only one direction from which it could have reasonably come, and she rolled, staying prone, until she put one of the larger tree boles between herself and the sniper.

Half a second between the time the missile blew past and the sound of it achieving the speed of sound. Allowing for a short travel from the weapon's barrel to get up to that velocity, maybe a hundred and sixty-five meters,
that
way . . .

She came up, and sprinted to her left for five meters, turned, zigged, then zagged, stutter-stepped, changed direction; she made no attempt to stay behind cover, working for maximum speed—

The sniper fired again, but the bullet passed well behind her—

She jinked. Stopped cold for two heartbeats, then cut to her right for two more steps before pivoting to her left—

The sniper fired again. The missile flew in front of her. He had tried to lead her, anticipate her path, but he was two meters off—

Another shot, this one hit a tree to her left rear, a meter back—

She kept dodging, side-stepping, dropping, rolling, leaping. She slowed down, sped up, covering ground fast but never more than a second or two in one direction—

She couldn't see him, but she had angled downwind and she had him now by scent, and knew where he had to be. He was well-camouflaged visually, a combination of electronics and a yowiesuit stuffed with local vegetation, but he couldn't hide from her now.

The sniper rifle was accurate at long range, but not designed to track a fast-moving target that changed direction quickly.

He should have dropped the rifle and reached for his sidearm as soon as he realized that she was coming at him.

He finally did, when she was close enough to see the movement despite the camo.

She should have used her pistol, too, but she didn't want to do that.

“Fuck!” he screamed, as she sprang, claws extended.

It was his final word before she tore out his throat.

– – – – – –

At their HQ, Kay stood across from Cutter, making her report. Regarding
Mish
fem, it was short:

“She hunts on the Other Side.”

There was a moment of silence. “I'm sorry,” Cutter Colonel said.

“We are predators, but in the end, we are all also prey. We all die. We arise each day knowing it could be our last.
Mish
fem died well, doing what she chose to do. It was quick. It was clean.

“She was here, and of a moment, she was gone. Such is the way of war. There are worse ways to die.”

That was true. Not much anybody could say to that; they all knew.

The gloves were off, though. Nobody was supposed to be shooting in this period, and while they all knew that was always a possibility, until the first round zipped by, you were never sure it would come.

Cutter understood why this had happened. A chance to take out a couple of Vastalimi? That would be hard to resist. That killing one only cost a single sniper? It was a trade most commanders would make in a heartbeat. A Vastalimi soldier was worth a platoon of regular troops, maybe more. Em had not been as adept as Kay, but even so.

This didn't mean that CFI was going on a ranger hunt, looking to take out anybody they saw, but it did mean that enemy scouts who shot at you were fair game. And the opposition couldn't complain since they'd initiated the action.

There were rules in war, more so in the modern versions, but the rules weren't absolute; they got bent, twisted, broken. The nature of the game. In the heat of battle, when looking through your sights at somebody who might kill you tomorrow, sometimes shit happened.

Junior was watching, so they'd have to be careful, though. Self-defense was allowed, but it would need to be documented did the need to prove it arise. Kay hadn't been wearing a cam when the sniper killed Em. He believed her, but he needed to ask:

“How long before they find the body, do you think?”

Kay said, “I removed his locator. And the remains are in a place where a simple search will not uncover them. Certainly not all of them at once.”

– – – – – –

Jo and Kay walked in the hot afternoon. Kay said, “Something else you should know.”

Jo looked at her.

“The opposition has one of The People working with them.”

“Really?”

“A male. I caught his scent. Faint, and after
Mish
fem's death, I did not explore it further, but I find it hard to believe that he was there by coincidence.”

“I wouldn't think so either.”

“It bears more investigation.”

“I agree.” Jo waited a second before she said, “Maybe I should—”

“No need,” Kay said, cutting her off. “I will do it.”

Jo nodded. The Vastalimi were stoic about many things, death notwithstanding. People came and went, that was the way of it, and there was no need to be overly disturbed; nothing could be done to change the general pattern, only the individual ones. Everybody got onto the hoverbus, and eventually, everybody got off; the questions were, how long was the ride, and how did you leave?

“Are there rituals to observe for Em?”

“No. She
was
, now she is
not
. She was a good companion, she moved well enough. What was left is but a husk; her essence has departed. If you believe in the Other Side, she is there; if not, then she is wherever she is.
Sudbina.
”

She looked at Jo.

Jo nodded.
Yes.
Fate.