Firemask: Book Two of the Last Legion Series (10 page)

It looked as uncomfortable as she was.

The striker chanced a sympathetic grin, got nothing but a curious look in return. Then his ears cocked toward her, and the snakelike head bobbed. She hoped that was a friendly response, not an invitation to fight to the death.

• • •

The yard lifter settled down in the water, the
Urumchi
cradled below. Just above and behind it, the three Griersons hovered.

They were far at sea, off the Leeats, and there was nothing on the horizon.

The lifter lowered, and the boat touched the water, then floated. The two Milots slid down from the lifter onto the
Urumchi.
Alei ran to the controls, started the engines as the Griersons closed on the stern, and the I&R teams dropped down. Njangu and Garvin stood ready to give the Musth a hand, but they jumped lithely onto the
Urumchi
, ignoring the offered assistance.

The Griersons’ drives hummed, and they lifted away.

“They’ll stand by on one of the uninhabited islands,” Garvin told Wlencing. “We’ll have them plus a flight of Zhukovs … those are our heavy support vehicles … and a reaction force of infantry on standby if we need them.”

Wlencing bobbed his head, but didn’t answer.

“All right, people,” Garvin shouted. “Get inside, and keep out of sight.
Finf
Milot, let’s go fishing.”

“Aye, skipper,” Milot said, and the
Urumchi
’s engines hummed to half speed.

• • •

An hour later, Alei Milot called, “Let’s get authentic … we’ve got fish on the sonar. Get those nets down!”

The decks of the
Urumchi
suddenly got more crowded as inexperienced soldiers helped muscle the nets from their piled storage on the deck to the railings. Ton secured them to the booms, and the nets were shot overboard.

“What the hell happens if we catch anything?” a soldier wondered.

“We sell it,” Njangu said. “Put the money in the beer fund.”

“Better,” Wlencing said from the boat deck, watching with possible amusement. “We dine on them.”

“How many fish can
you
eat?”

“Many, many,” Wlencing said. “Perhapsss we ssshall have luck.”

• • •

“Haul out,” Alei shouted, and the laborious work of bringing the two nets up began. As the bunts surfaced, booms were secured to them, and, one at a time, lifted the nets on board. Irthing muttered, “Keeripus, but there’s some ugly-looking things come up from the sea.”

“With a yo and a ho and a heave and a ho,” Alei called, and the soldiers muscled the first bunt, the fish-carrying end of the net, onto the deck, and fish spilled everywhere.

“Now what?”

“Gut ‘em and throw ‘em in the cooling pen,” Ton called cheerily, brandishing a knife that could serve as a cutlass.

“I’m thinking,” a soldier said, “there’s people who work a
lot
harder than we do.”

• • •

Mar Henschley had a plate of fresh fillets on her knees, nicely rolled in meal and fried. But she was staring in distressed fascination at a Musth — she thought it was the same one who’d been in her Grierson.

He had a plate of fish as well, still moving slightly after being gutted. Henschley held a forgotten bite on her fork, watching the Musth as razor claws slid out of his paws. He cut a fish apart along its spine, delicately lifted one half to his mouth, chewed two or three times, then swallowed.

The Musth saw her watching, extended the other half of the fish, tossed the skeleton overboard.

She hesitated.

“Go ahead,” Njangu Yoshitaro said, chewing, and Mar realized with a bit of horror his plate was also full of raw creatures. “Good.”

Reluctantly she tried, closing her eyes, chewing, not thinking about what she was eating until her tastebuds told her it was good. Very good.

She offered some of her cooked fish in return, but the Musth held up a rejecting paw.

Feeling a bit superior, she pointed at and got another piece of raw fish, and chewed vigorously.

Njangu turned his head, hiding a smile.

• • •

The next day, they came on a fishing fleet. The troops hid behind the
Urumchi
’s high bulwarks or crowded into the small cabins.

Alei Milot, on the bridge, scanned the boats ahead with stabilized binoculars. “All I can see is flashing signals from people watching us,” he said to Njangu. “They’re trying to figure out if we’re the pirates. Pretty soon, somebody’ll call us, on a voice channel. Fishermen don’t use video much … too easy to tell when you’re lying.”

Ton, at the
Urumchi
’s controls, said, “I’ll beat them to it,” picked up the boat’s com, keyed a sensor.

“Anybody catching anything?”

“Who’re you?” came a voice.

“The
Urumchi
, out of Teku.” Teku was the farthest-distant settled island of the Leeats.

“Long haul from your waters.”

“Which means the catching better be good,” Milot said.

“Who’s skipper aboard?” another voice asked, and Njangu could hear suspicion.

“The Milot brothers. We’re from Issus, decided to try fishing some distant waters. Got a contract to run this scow.”

Silence for a bit, then, another voice:

“I know one of you. Alei, that’s the name. You an’ me got drunk, once. This is Juba Nushki. I came to Dharma Island, was mate on the
Ayalew.
”

“Sure,” Alei said, taking the com. “You were drinking wine and chewing herbs, chasin’ whores like they wanted to pay you.”

“That’s me. Caught one, too. Too trashed to do anything, though. And I had a head the size of a fish trap the next morning. Learned my lesson about you wild city people, so I came back where I belong.”

The region around Issus had a population of about five hundred.

“So what’s the catch like?”

“Eh,” Nushki said. “There’s big runs of flatters, catch ‘em at dusk, some say. But we’re doing crappy. Nothing out here at all for us.”

“That means,” Ton told Njangu, “he’s fishing his nose off. There’s never been a fisherman’d claim luck to anybody else with a net who might bust in.”

“Nothin’ but nothin’, like Juba said,” another voice came, trying to sound gloomy, “Nothin’ much but trash fish and waitin’ to get hit by pirates.”

“We heard about them,” Ton said. “Is it for real?”

“You best know,” another voice came. “Lost two ships from our island a month ago. Nothing this trip. We was thinking maybe you was one of them, not bein’ able to spot your paint job.”

“Times don’t improve,” Ton said, “we might think about joinin’ ‘em.”

“Me too,” Nushki said. “Best you fish right around here, stay not far from the rest of us. Strength in numbers.”

“And let you fools sniff around my nets when I shoot ‘em? I’m dumb, but I’m not that dumb.” Ton hung the com up. “So now everybody knows who we are. Nice, greedy fishermen, like everybody else out here.”

“Let’s hope the pirates are listening.”

• • •

Two days later, after having seen nothing but fish and the occasional lone fishing lifter, which generally skittered away without closing, Wlencing had a suggestion for Garvin:

“Isss it not posssible that thessse fissshermen have not the truth?”

“Hell yes,” Alei Milot said. The two humans and Wlencing were the only ones on the
Urumchi
’s bridge. “A fisherman isn’t happy unless he can get off one, maybe two lies a day.”

“Do you humans not have firmsss who ssspread the risssk for creditsss, so if sssomething happensss it’s easssier on the many than the few?”

“Insurance companies? We have them,” Milot said.

“A fissshing vehicle could vanisssh, then, and whoever paid the … insssurance companies … could collect the creditsss, and the vehicle be sssold in sssome faraway placcce?”

“What about the distress calls?” Garvin asked.

“Ssseasoning on the disssh,” Wlencing said. “To make it appear more real.”

“Could be,” Garvin said. “But you’d think the police would’ve followed up on whoever got paid off for losing a boat, and found out that the people who’re supposed to be drowned are spending money somewhere.”

“Why?” Wlencing asked reasonably, “Would not the fisssher perssson’s brothersss, who know about thisss deccceit, protect him or her? What do they owe sssome dissstant group of people they do not know? And are your human policcce infallible, are they without thossse who would take creditsss to keep sssilent?”

Garvin considered.

“That’s not that bad a thought,” he said. “And it’ll get better in a few days if nothing happens. This frigging about is not only duller than watching rocks change into sand, but it’s playing hell with the Legion’s budget.”

Two days later, the pirates attacked.

• • •

The
Urumchi
was passing through a long curving archipelago, almost an atoll. Its antigrav was on just enough to keep it skimming the almost waveless water, and it was moving at half drive.

Njangu had the bridge watch, Alei at the controls beside him, staring dreamily at the small tropical islands on either side of the fisher and considering the possibility of deserting to one of them. Sunny, nice, soft breeze, no problems. Live on fruit and fish … maybe bring a few
giptel
with him. Chasing them down for roasts would give him exercise.

Swim, lie in the sun, forget this goddamned army …

Being alone could get boring. Bring a holo? Njangu shuddered, thinking what Cumbre considered great entertainment. Disks? Njangu wasn’t that much of a reader unless there was something he needed to know.

Company? Well, there was Deira … or maybe Jo Poynton. Or maybe …

Njangu sighed, began constructing a partner from women he’d known or wished he’d known, trying not to remind himself what a city rat he really was and how he’d go berserk after a week by himself, when a lookout shouted.

“Boss! Got some lifters coming hard on our right.”

Yoshitaro grabbed binocs, saw five small vehicles, about ten feet above the water, coming out of a hidden bay, coming fast.

“Turn ‘em out,” he said, and the alert team started booting drowsy soldiers into readiness.

Jaansma clattered up the bridge ladder, Wlencing just behind him.

The dots got closer.

Njangu was about to tell Wlencing to get under cover when he IDd the lead vehicle.

“Shit, it’s a Cooke … and it’s armed!”

All five were Cookes, he realized, the borderline obsolescent small combat lifters the Legion was trying to retire as quickly as possible, and Njangu wondered where these outbackers had been able to acquire them.

“Lead Cooke’s got a cannon mounted,” a lookout reported. “So does number three.”

“We’ve got a party,” Jaansma called. “Cannon team, get ready. The rest of you clowns, load and lock, but stay down. I’ll have the first one who shoots without orders grilled.”

One of I&R’s 20mm autocannon had been set on a folding mount and was ready in the bows of the
Urumchi.
Its team crawled to it, pulled the operating handle back, chambering a round from the drum magazine.

Other I&R soldiers crouched, blasters ready, behind the bulwarks.

“Deb,” Njangu said, “honk up our air support, get the whole lot of ‘em inbound. This is a little bit stronger than one lousy little putt-putt.”

Wlencing went back down the ladder from the bridge and called to one of his men, the one with the small pack. The Musth gave Wlencing a curved piece of metal, like a large bracelet. Wlencing clipped it to his throat, began speaking in Musth.

It was very quiet then. Njangu could hear the whine of the
Urumchi
’s drive, the pat of waves against the hull, even the distant hum of the incoming raiders’ combat vehicles.

Sirens howled from the incoming Cookes, no doubt intended to paralyze their targets.

“Guess we know why there haven’t been any survivors coming back with tales of woe,” Njangu said.

“Guess so,” Garvin said. “Listen up, people! Don’t shoot the last bugger up too bad. We want to be able to track ‘em to their home. I’d just as soon not have to come back here again.”

“You’re assuming they aren’t gonna shoot
us
up too bad,” Njangu murmured.

“Of course,” Garvin said. “We’re the good guys, right? Good guys always win, right? Bad guys can’t shoot, right?”

“As an ex-bad guy, I resent that,” Njangu said. “They’re down to about two hundred meters, so I think — ”

Njangu’s suggestion was interrupted by a roar from the cannon in the lead Cooke. It churned blue water into spray about five meters in front of the
Urumchi,
and a speaker blared:

“Cut your engines! Cut your engines! Stand by to be boarded!”

“Cannon up,” Garvin called calmly, and the two assistant gunners muscled the two-meter-long weapon into firing position.

“Gunner! Lead incoming Cooke! One seven five meters!”

“Target!” the gunner shouted.

“Five rounds!”

The cannon roared for an instant. The first round was short, the rest blew the bow off the ACV. It pinwheeled, dug into the water, and spat cannon and crew into the sun-dappled waves.

“I&R … up! Fire when you’ve got a target!”

Individual blasters and Squad Support Weapons crashed, and Njangu saw raiders scream, fall, Cookes zig back and forth.

The raiders’ second cannon chattered, and tracers came toward Njangu very slowly, lazily, then whipped past, thudded into the boat’s superstructure. Someone shouted in pain, and Njangu brought his blaster up, aimed, adjusted for the boat’s rise, fall, touched the firing stud.

Across the water, the gunner on the autocannon spasmed, arms going wide, rolled into the water.

Njangu switched the selector switch, let a quarter of the drum magazine’s one hundred rounds chatter across the Cooke.

“I have Sibyl Scythe Six Actual,” a com man intoned, as calmly as if he was on a field exercise, and passed the com to Garvin.

“This is Sibyl Six Actual. Go.”

“This is Sibyl Scythe,” the voice said — Ben Dill. “Golan Flight in support. You got something juicy?”

“This is Sibyl Six, Ben,” Garvin said. “Got four Cookes playing bad. Careful, they’ve got 20mammamamma breath.”