How Dark the World Becomes (29 page)

“Parley? Really? Okay, should we see what they want?” Fong-Ramirez answered.

“I’ll go, sir,” Rosetti said. “If we need more brass to close the deal, I’ll send a runner.” 

So Captain Rosetti went to see what they wanted. She was gone for maybe twenty minutes when the runner showed up and gave a message to Fong-Ramirez, who then called over the tall, distinguished-looking Varoki special envoy. They spoke briefly, heads nodded, and then Fong-Ramirez left. The envoy came back and spoke to the bodyguard and to
TheHon
, who didn’t seem all that happy about the situation. He looked up and noticed me watching him. He said something to the other two and then walked over to join Marfoglia and me. 

“Hey,
TheHon
, what’s the latest bulletin from the High Command?”

“The uZmataanki colonial district military commander has arrived. He has relieved and arrested the commander of the striker cohort which has been in action against us, has apologized profusely for the ‘misunderstanding,’ and is supposedly arranging ground transport for us to T’tokl-Heem.”

Two words I didn’t particularly like hearing:
supposedly
and
T’tokl-Heem
. 

“Not to Haampta?”

TheHon
looked at me significantly and shook his head. “The commander says he cannot guarantee our safety near the uBakai border, as there are ongoing military operations there.”

“Has he heard of a temporary cease-fire to allow passage of neutral refugees?” I demanded.

He dipped his head to one side. 

“But if they take us back to T’tokl-Heem, that’s better,” Marfoglia said. “We’ll be able to get back up the Needle.” 

Only one word in that I didn’t like hearing:
if
. 

“So, is Fong-Ramirez going to straighten them out?” I asked. That didn’t seem very likely to me. The lieutenant commander was a good, solid naval officer but didn’t strike me as a hard-nosed negotiator.

“I do not know. They wanted the commanders of all of the national contingents to personally certify the good conduct of their troops while in uZmataanki territory—apparently a prerequisite for allowing our troops to retain their arms while in transit. He and Lieutenant Palaan have both gone to do so.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. 

He just looked at me again. He definitely smelled a rat, but he didn’t look scared. Both of those facts were interesting. 

Instead of heading back to rejoin his crew, he hung around with us for a while, but with me instead of the kids, which was also interesting. 

“What would you do, were you in the place of Commander Fong-Ramirez?” he asked me.

I shrugged.

“Maybe exactly what he’s doing now. He’s playing the hand he was dealt. I think if I were him, I’d be getting ready to run a bluff, though, because it’s not nearly as strong a hand as I think he thinks it is, if you know what I mean.”

“I am not sure,” he answered, “but I believe so. You are talking about the card game poker? I have watched it played once or twice, but I did not really understand it.”

“No? Well, some day we’ll sit down and I’ll teach you. Bring your money.”

“I would like that,” he said, and I caught the briefest flicker of a smile, swept back into hiding as soon as it appeared. So, among other things,
TheHon
was a hustler. I think I liked the guy a little more, then. 

“What bluff?” he asked.

“Well, the
Fitz
is only overhead a few hours a day, because it’s got other responsibilities, and it’s the only armed ship up there, right? But there are those transports. Suppose Gasiri put deadfall ordnance on one of them and parked it in a synchronous planetary orbit overhead. We’re still close enough to the equator to pull that off. So then there’s a looming presence overhead always ready to drop hot spikes on anything that we paint with a laser down here. That would make them think twice before hitting us again.” Of course “deadfall” was a bit of a misnomer, as you had to give the spikes a pretty good shot downward or they’d just hang around in orbit with you, but that’s what everyone called them, and
TheHon
knew what I was talking about.

“But it would take time to modify the transport for this new ordnance, would it not?”

I looked at him for a second.

“You really
don’t
understand the concept of a bluff, do you?”

“Ah!” he said, as the light came on in his little lizard head.

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, the Marine runner returned and headed for
TheHon’
s two pals. He was still standing with us, asking about what I’d do if I were in Fong-Ramirez’s place—just idle talk, of course. The Marine talked to the other two guys for a minute, and then they both looked over at
TheHon
, who stood looking silently back at them for a few seconds.

“I was expecting this,” he said, his voice heavy. “I have to go.”

“No,” I said. “
He
does,” pointing to the tall, distinguished-looking Varoki standing next to Borro the bodyguard. 

“I think I should go instead,” he said quietly. 

“Let that man do his job,” I answered. “You do yours. What, did somebody tell you this was going to be easy?”

He looked at me and shook his head. Then he walked over to the group.

Marfoglia was standing right next to us as we spoke, but she had no idea what we were talking about. 

“What’s happening?”

“I guess the uZmataanki district commander wants the special envoy to come to the talks, too.” 

“Why?”

“Probably so he can kill him. I doubt that’s the reason he gave, though.”

“
Kill him?
My God, that’s horrible,” she said, eyes wide with shock. “Would they really do that?”

I shrugged. 

“And Mr. e-Kavaa wants to go in his place. That’s very noble of him,” she said.

“Yeah. Noble and stupid,” I replied. She shot me an angry glance, but she didn’t say anything.

The three Varoki spoke quietly but earnestly amongst themselves for a minute or so, then
TheHon
and the tall guy embraced, and the tall guy went off with the Marine runner. 

“You shouldn’t have talked Mr. e-Kavaa out of going,” she said. “They wouldn’t know which one was which, and if something did happen, at least the special envoy would still be here alive.” 

“Dr. Marfoglia, don’t give up your day job for a career in security. If
TheHon
went, and something happened to him, we wouldn’t still have the special envoy—we’d have his
two
bodyguards.”

She looked confused, but just for a moment, because she wasn’t stupid. 

“Oh . . .”

*   *   *

We didn’t have access to a broadcast transmitter, but of course they did, so the proceedings were televised. We had vidscreens; they made sure of that. 

They had them kneeling, hands bound behind their backs, and an officer walked behind them with a gauss pistol.

First was Captain Leona Rosetti, the Human “gangster” who had ordered her men to shoot down uZmataanki soldiers trying to surrender. All bullshit, of course, but what difference did that make? 

SNAP!
 

Down she went, to twitch on the pavement, this odd little fountain of blood bubbling up from the gunshot wound in her skull for the last two or three beats of her heart.

Next was Lieutenant Palaan, the uHoka “turncoat” who was in league with the uBakai, and who had participated in the unprovoked attack on the uZmataanki cruiser at Mogo. 

SNAP!
 

e-Lotonaa, the
Cottohazz
’s special envoy, who was actually a paid agent of the uBakai and whose actions had corrupted the institutions of
Cottohazz
governance. That’s not who was kneeling there, of course. The tall, distinguished-looking Varoki was actually a security specialist named Bammatats. I’d made it a point to find out his real name. Mr. Bammatats made no effort to correct the record. 

SNAP!

Last was Lieutenant Commander Edward Fong-Ramirez, the “criminal” who helped mastermind the attack on an unsuspecting and peaceful uZmataanki cruiser. Fong-Ramirez, young for his rank and responsibility because he was so smart, and a really good kid, even if he was way too serious about stuff, who should have gone home a hero and got laid a lot, and maybe he’d have loosened up some, but he never got to. 

SNAP!

*   *   *

An hour later, the Marine NCOs were still arguing. Because they’d lost their platoon sergeant on the way down, there were four buck sergeants and as many corporals, but a couple privates were getting in on the act as well. Eloquence and passion carried as much weight in this council as stripes. 

The uZmataanki had sent Private Lee, the platoon runner, back to us as a gesture of good faith. The executions had settled any scores, they said. Now they were ready to ship the rest of us back to T’tokl-Heem. 

This time they really meant it. Honest. 

Some of the NCOs wanted to take the deal, because they didn’t see any other way out. Others wanted to go after the uZmataanki and get payback for what they’d done. There were variations on the theme, but those were pretty much the two options—at least as they saw things.

I could follow the argument closely because I was digging through the pile of supply canisters—stocking up.

“What do you need, Mr. Naradnyo?” one of the Marines asked. I looked up and recognized him as the other Marine still on his feet from Wataski’s original guard detail. What was his name . . . ? Aguillar.

“Just topping off with ammo, Aguillar. Never know when we’ll need it.”

He looked at the two rucksacks I was carrying, and his eyebrows went up a bit.

“And some ration packs,” he said.

“Yeah. Gotta eat.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything else. 

In everything you do throughout your life, people are the critical variables. You got to pay attention to people, every one of them, not just the big shots. Most people don’t. Every server in every restaurant you’ve ever been in starts by telling you their name, and most people have forgotten it halfway through the list of daily specials. I remembered Aguillar’s name, because I pay attention to people.

Now think about this for a second: what can
you
tell me about Aguillar? Here’s what I can tell you. He knew I was bullshitting him about topping off with ammo, because I was taking rations, too, but he didn’t make a fuss about it. Why? Maybe because he was hearing the same dead-end crap from the NCOs I was hearing, and thinking along the same lines . . . stock up on ammo and rations and make a break for it on your own.

The thing is, I wasn’t exactly looking for travel companions, but I also needed Aguillar as at least a neutral. Not that I was really worried Aguillar wanted to tag along—he was a Marine, and he’d probably cut his nose off before he’d bug out on his unit. 

I reached down into the supply canister, pulled out a ration pack, and looked at it. 

“You like
pad Thai
with shrimp?” I asked.

He smiled and nodded, but it was a sad smile. It was the smile of a twenty-year-old who didn’t figure on making it to twenty-one, but couldn’t see anything to do about it but take it like a man. 

I tossed the ration pack to him, and I felt like a worm. Here was a kid who wanted his life, and instead I gave him maybe his last meal. 

And he smiled in melancholy gratitude. 

*   *   *

I sat down beside Marfoglia, both of us with our backs against the concrete wall. I offered her a drink from an energy bottle, and after she shook her head I took a long pull myself. 

“How bad is it?” she asked. 

That was the big question, wasn’t it? And I was back to that same problem I always seem to bump up against—how much to tell? I needed her thinking, functioning, if we were going to get out of this alive, so I didn’t want to shock her into depression. But what did that leave me with? I was tired of trying to second-guess how much truth other people could take.

“It’s about as bad as it gets,” I said. 

“Is there any chance they’ll . . . just let us go?” 

“Nope.” 

And then I felt the tingle in the back of my neck, the sweat break out on my torso and face, as panic’s long bony fingers closed around my chest, made my heart race and my breathing come faster. They were coming to kill us, every one of us, and I couldn’t stop them. What the hell good was I? What did I know?
How to blend in? How to make it on the city streets?
See how far that gets you on a boonie-rock where you’re the only Humans. I was about as useful here as an Eskimo in the desert.

“Do you have any idea what to do?” Marfoglia asked. 

“Of course,” I answered. 

I had no idea.

“We’re going to get out of this,” I told her. It was a bluff, but it would have to do until I came up with something better. “Right now, you’re going to go back to the kids. Keep them together in case we have to move quickly. Keep them calm, too. Can you do that?”

I looked at her and she nodded. There was determination in her eyes—determination and hope. She looked frightened, but not as frightened as I felt. That’s because she had someone to count on. Sasha would get her and the kids out of this. However bad things got, Sasha could handle it.

Sasha wasn’t so sure of that, which was why Sasha was scared shitless.

Ten minutes later I was still sitting with my back against the wall when
TheHon
sat down next to me. 

“Who is winning the dispute?” he asked, gesturing to the arguing Marines.

“Doesn’t matter,” I answered. “Go for revenge or trust to mercy—either way they’re dead.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “What does Commodore Gasiri think? Do you know?”

“Near as I can tell, she said she’ll back any decision the ground makes. No choice, really; she can’t micromanage things from orbit.”

He nodded in agreement. 

“I would like revenge for my friend Bammatats,” he said. “Perhaps you would as well, for Commander Fong-Ramirez. He was one of those who saved you, was he not? But my duty is to all of these people here. Yours is as well, I think.”

I didn’t say anything.