Dark Sun - 3. Chapter 3

III

Silence lay across the town like a blanket. In another time and another world that would have been reassuring, but not here. Long gone were the days when warfare was an open battle between organised armies. There was no one for the Federation to fight except the occasional rebellious planet, and guerrilla warfare was all he ever experienced.

“Peacekeeping” the newscasts called it. “Asymmetric warfare” they called it in staff college. The sterile names made him snort out loud in spite of himself. One dead, four wounded today alone; no rebels sighted.

“Everything ok sarge?”

“Relax Ginnie, just clearing my head. Anything coming through from battalion?”

“Negative sarge. 2^nd platoon has our six, everything is 5 by 5. This town is dead.”

“Keep awake Ginnie, or that’s what we’re gonna be.”

“Affirm sarge!”

Virginia Mardenic was a good Corporal, he was lucky to have her. Her sunny disposition kept him grounded.

“Monsieur!”

“Shit!”

He almost fired off a round before he could stop himself, the sudden appearance of a target at the doorway of the building to his left triggered his self-preservation instincts. He was not alone, Ginnie and trooper Paalus dropped and got into firing positions, red dots of laser sights zeroing in on the target.

No, not the target, he corrected. The boy. Maybe 16 at most, blonde and haggard with torn clothing and a covered in grime.

“Monsieur, please, help me! My friend…”

He slumped against the door frame.

“Hold fire!”

He ran to the doorway, Ginnie and Pal covering.

“Please, my friend is wounded, we are alone. He needs help!”

“Ok kid, take it easy. Pal, let the rest of the platoon know what’s going on and continue the sweep, Ginnie come with me.”

His corporal knew better than to disobey, a quizzical “Right, sarge” and a twist of her eyebrows the extent of her protest as she followed him into the building.

Up the stairs, down a corridor, adrenaline pumping, they followed the boy to a dim room, lit only by thin sunlight sneaking through a broken window high on the wall.

It was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the light, and he could make out details. A dark haired boy sat propped against the wall, his face white as a sheet, a rictus of pain covering his face. The blonde sat against him, holding on as if his mere presence was the only thing keeping him alive. A spreading dark stain was obvious on his jacket.

“Ginnie, take a look.”

She moved forward, opening the kid’s jacket.

“Sarge, he needs a medic, and fast.”

“Call battalion, tell them we need an urgent medlift for a civilian. And find Bairstow and get him here fast.”

“Right sarge!.”

As her footsteps sounded in the corridor, he got down on his haunches in front of the boys.

“Se detendre, mon frère.”

The boy’s eyes widened in shock.

“Tu es un Francon?”

“Oui. Je m’apelle Cole.”

“Mathieu.”

“Vous êtes en sécurité, Mathieu e…?”

“Jean.”

“Copain?” he asked, nodding at the wounded boy.

The blonde boy blushed red under the grime, biting his lip and nodding.

” C'est bien ce que je pensais”

He had sensed it when he saw them together, the desolation in the blonde. The bond that was more than friends. Another lost outsider like himself.

“Sarge!”

The note of warning was unmistakable, and he turned to see Ginnie and Pal, accompanied by medic Bairstow, and several more marines. Except these were not marines.

The unit had joined them just before they had embarked for Aquitaine, the local rebellion heating up after months of tit-for-tat attacks. The 10^th had never needed reinforcements, but one look at the mysterious battalion suggested these were no normal reinforcements. Although they wore 10^th legion patches, they had the unmistakable air of special forces about them.

He recognised their commander amongst the squad in the room, a Colonel McTiernan by his name patch.

“What do we have here sergeant?”

“Wounded civilian, sir. I have requested medlift.”

“So I found, but I have rescinded the request.”

“Sir?” he was too dumbstruck to form a proper reply.

The colonel slowly approached, a look of pure disgust visible as he took in the sight of the two boys.

“So boy, how did your friend come to be wounded eh?”

Cole was proud of the boy. He did not cower, but looked the colonel in the eye.

“He was shot by your people.”

“And what was he doing that put him in harm’s way eh? And how come you are here still?”

“We…my father was fighting, they were defending the town against your people to the North. I got word, they needed supplies, medicine. I begged Jean to help me, and we made it to the lines, but he was hit when we tried to head back. When your people came to take the rest of the townspeople, we hid.”

“Thought so. Terrorists, like the rest of them. Sergeant, shoot these two and lets go.”

It took him a moment to register the order, as if it had been in some language he could not speak. Mathieu had reacted first, a loud cry of “No!” drawing Cole’s eyes to the shocked and terrified face of the boy while his brain caught up on the meaning.

“Colonel, I am not going to do that. These are civilians, under the Convention and our Rules of Engagement…”

“Fuck the convention sergeant. As for our rules of engagement, I have my orders, and they are crystal clear. The Federation has been fighting battles all over the fucking galaxy, most of them with these bastard Francon scum who seem to think of nothing but their precious grievances. They expect to kill our troops then be welcomed back with a nice blanket and a warm cup of cocoa. Well fuck that, enough is enough. We have been attached to this expedition to ensure that lessons are taught that will be learned by any Francon planet in the Federation.”

“Sir, I will not obey that order.”

The sound was loud in the sudden silence of the room, weapons being cocked. He could sense rather than see the squad surrounding them, him and his three men, outnumbering them 3 to 1.

“Sergeant, let me make this easy. That is a direct order from a superior officer in a combat zone.”

“I don’t fucking care colonel. No fucking way.”

The colonel’s pistol was in his hand now, and trained on Cole’s chest.

“Sergeant, this is how it is going to be. Either you obey my order right now, or I will execute you on the spot for mutiny in the face of the enemy. I will then give the same order to your men one at a time, with the same consequences. Either you shoot these terrorists now, or your men will either share your death or take whatever responsibility you are dodging by your self-indulgent display.”

He looked into Ginnie’s eyes, her expression a jumble of emotions. He could sense the unspoken plea, and he knew what he had to do.

Slowly raising his rifle, he faced the boys.

“Please monsieur, spare Jean. He did not want to be part of this, I forced him. Please!”

“He should have thought of that before assisting the rebels. Sergeant, I am waiting.”

It seemed to take an age, as he took up his firing stance. Mathieu never took his eyes off him, and for a moment he stared at the angelic face, long dirty blonde curls framing flaming green eyes, the boy tried to reach out into Cole’s soul and stop what was to come, mouth working with a soundless scream of “No!”.

There was a restrained “pfut” as the gauss rifle discharged, and a red flower blossomed in the boy’s chest as he slumped against the wall, eyes still staring accusingly at Cole in the half light. His hand was still clasped with his boyfriend’s own, the injured Jean thankfully unconscious and unknowing.

A second “pfut”, and Jean jerked once and lay silent, even his haggard breathing now stilled, their blood now joining in a slow moving pool on the concrete.

“Well done sergeant. Looks like you are leadership material after all.”

With a hollow laugh the colonel and his men filtered out of the room, heading back to their own war without a backwards glance.

In a trance they had rejoined his unit, Ginnie, Pal and Bairstow silent, none meeting his eye. Trooper Mikkels found them, still standing in the centre of the town.

“Sarge…we er found the rebels, and the townspeople. A gully, about a click South.”

“How many?”

“At least five hundred.”

Later that night, for the first time in his life he wept.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

He woke with a cry, the familiar dream still startlingly real. It took a moment to get his bearings, body shaking in the darkness, as he groped for the switch. As light flickered on, he registered the features of his cabin on the Golden Hind, and regained his bearings.

One hour to final jump, and they would be at Dannerfell IV. Shaking with the memories, he threw back a glass of water and tried to get his mind on the job. Sleep was impossible now, as he knew from experience.

He still remembered it at times when awake, involuntary yet remote. Only in his dreams did it come back that vividly. The day another piece of his soul died forever. The day his surrogate family in the marines became another source of pain.

The atrocities had been impossible to hide, they had been so widespread. No-one ever knew exactly how many had died, the government had made sure it was not easy to know. The rumours had done their work well enough in any case, which was what was intended from the start. Rebellion now had had a price, one paid by the population of Aquitaine, as well as the 10^th legion, now universally known as butchers.

For most it was a label worn with aggrieved shame, and undeservedly, as the mysterious battalion had done the actual killing. For a few, in the wrong place at the wrong time, like himself, the truth was harder to escape.

In the end they had all paid, the guilty and the innocent. Only a few like him had survived, running from the reality before the reckoning had fallen due. A suicide mission by Francon activists, a stolen stellar class nuke in a cargo shuttle, and the 10^th had been wiped out almost to a man while embarked on its transports preparing to leave for another deployment. He had mustered out of the Marines only 3 days before.

Within the federation, there was outrage, but mostly at the lapse in security. For the general public, a sense of justice seemed to hover just below the surface. Certainly, the retribution from the Federation had been unusually muted, and in it’s wake a tired peace had reigned for four years now, at least with the Francon worlds.

When Jaden had recognised his tattoo, he had expected the kid to recoil in horror, or at least show disgust. Instead, he had sensed understanding, even compassion. That was harder to take in some ways. Another blonde green eyed innocent, who if it came to it, he would not be able to save. One was enough.

Dropping to the floor of the small cabin, he did a rapid series of exercises to get the blood flowing, then lay down to continue his preparations. He was approaching the point of no return again, the adrenaline flow rising in anticipation. Soon he would be on another world, with another assignment.

He ran through the list of drops in his mind. True to Damis’ guess, he had found the capsule in the gym locker on the Golden Hind. After decrypting, he had memorised the list before destroying as usual, the details burned on his memory. The first would be a locker in Dannerfell IV down spaceport, its number and combination as familiar as his own birthdate.

++++++++++++++++++

The customs official inserted his identicard in a scanner and was alternating his gaze between the traveller’s face and the details flashing across his screen. He pursed his into an almost perfectly oblong moue, white and severe.

“What is the purpose of your visit, Mr Samuels?”

“Business.”

“What sort of business?”

“Security consulting. I have a new client on Dannerfell and this is my first visit.”

The official had heard the same answers a million times before. Everything seemed to check out, including the basic security clearance on the man’s file. The sixth sense he had developed over the years made the hairs on his neck bristle.

Perhaps it was the obvious ex-military air of the man.- It was no secret though, and most of the “security consultants” he saw in ever increasing numbers had exactly the same look. Nonetheless, he would follow his instincts.

“Please step this way Mr Samuels.”

Cole followed with studied nonchalance as he was led to a side room. He had detected an air of disquiet in the customs official, so it wasn’t unexpected.

He faced the body scanner without fear. He was confident the only things he had on his body or in his luggage would pass scrutiny. He had made sure he was travelling as clean as possible, and it was about to pay off.

The first official directed him to strip and stand inside the scanner, while two more systematically dismantled his luggage with the practiced art of the professional and the usual lack of care for casual damage. Unless they knew what they were looking for, however, he would be safe.

As his body was bombarded with electromagnetic radiation, he watched one of the officers unpacking his toiletries. Raising a tube of clear liquid to his gaze, he peered quizzically before pointing it at Cole.

“What’s this?”

“Err…well, its personal.”

The three men pricked up their ears.

“Sir, there is nothing personal when you come through customs. Please answer the question.”

“Well, it’s, um, lube.”

“Lube?”

“You know…for fucking.”

He was inwardly pleased to see the expressions on the customs officers, the recognition moving to disgust.

“You mean…?

“Yeah, for anal sex. I’m sure you have heard of it. Would you like a demonstration?”

Three men hastily moved him along, the offending tube replaced gingerly in its bag as if it contained a barely stable sample of nitroglycerine.

With a “Welcome to Dannerfell sir, and thank you for your cooperation.” They sent him out into the orbital spaceport, another anonymous traveller.

In their haste no one seemed to register that they had not attempted to run the tube through the chemical scanner.

Taking the first available grav lifter, he began his descent to the surface. Though he had passed customs now, and he could have gone to any point on the surface he liked, he took the lifter down to the surface spaceport Dannerfell IV down. It would be mostly empty, which suited him fine. He read his guidebook on the way, ignoring the attempts by his neighbour to engage him in conversation. He decided that Mr Jarrick Samuels would be a man of few words.

Emerging into the main lobby of the surface port, he passed the usual group of adherents to the Church of the Children of Light. As ubiquitous as death and taxes, The Children’s evangelical fervour had saved them from the Great Dying, when many of their more traditional compatriots had remained in their churches on Earth and prayed to their God for salvation. Salvation had not come, and their churches had become their tombs while The Children had spread to the stars, fulfilling their own religious vision. Now they controlled 30 worlds of the Federation outright, and were a presence everywhere.

Avoiding their entreaties, he headed for the lockers sited near baggage claim, and found what he was looking for, number 3107. Punching the combination he had memorized into the keypad, he was rewarded with a satisfying sound of the lock disengaging, and reached in for the contents. One small data stick, smaller than his thumb.

Pocketing the data stick, he hailed a ground car, and directed the driver to take him to a hotel he had chosen at random from the guidebook. He needed privacy for the next stage.

Alone in his room, he relaxed for the first time since leaving New London. Pulling out his comm-unit, he inserted his indenticard and the data stick. The combination would match, and enable him to decrypt the contents. Sipping a stiff drink, he watched files flash across the screen as he read his briefing documents with fierce concentration.

Marek Honnenfeldt, age 52, company founder and CEO, the details flowed in electronic torrents.

So at last I know. He thought. This is the assignment.

This is the man I have been sent here to kill.