War To The Knife
Authors: Peter Grant
War to the Knife
Book 1 of The Laredo War trilogy
by
PETER GRANT
Fynbos Press
Copyright © 2014 by Peter Grant. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters
and events portrayed in this book are fictional,
and any resemblance to real people
or incidents is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Phil Cold:
http://philcold3d.blogspot.com
Cover image supplied by Dreamstime:
Cover design by Oleg Volk:
This book is dedicated with gratitude to two authors:
LARRY CORREIA
, author of the Monster Hunter series;
and
SARAH A. HOYT
, author of the Darkship series.
You’ve both helped me with advice, encouragement and support.
Thank you very much. I couldn’t have done this without you.
For other books by Peter Grant,
February 27th 2850, Galactic Standard Calendar
February 28th 2850 GSC, Afternoon
March 31st 2850 GSC, 10:00 – Tapuria
March 31st 2850 GSC, 10:00 – In Orbit
PART ONE
February 27th 2850, Galactic Standard Calendar
CARISTO
The burro whickered a complaint as Jake pulled at the reins, turning it towards the hitching rail in front of the saloon. He applied the brake and dismounted from the wagon, taking a moment to scratch Nellie behind the ears. She whickered again, affectionately this time, and nudged against him with her rough nose, craning her long green neck after him as he turned and walked towards the batwing doors.
He stepped inside, feeling the momentary pressure against his skin of the force field keeping the air-conditioned interior at a tolerable temperature. He took a step to one side and stopped, waiting as his eyes adjusted to the gloom after the glare of the noonday sun outside. The few regulars at the bar nodded greetings to him as they recognized him. He glanced incuriously at four uniformed soldiers sitting around a table in the corner, nursing their beers. They glared at him with the hostility he’d come to expect from the occupiers. A stranger sat at a table to one side of the room, looking at him impassively. Jake looked him over, eyes narrowing as he noticed the orange tint to the tan on the man’s smooth face, neck and hands.
That came out of a bottle,
he thought to himself,
and his skin hasn’t been outdoors very often, and his clothes are much too clean.
Still, a man’s business was his own, and questions were often unwelcome in these troubled times. He started towards the bar.
The stranger examined Jake in his turn. The new arrival looked to be middle-aged or a bit older, tall, lean and wiry, his face lined and care-worn, weather-beaten, tanned to the color and consistency of old leather. His faded hair was unruly, wind-blown, the hat that normally covered it now hanging behind his neck from the long leather thong that served as a chinstrap. He wore a light blue long-sleeved shirt and gray trousers, both made from hard-wearing synthcloth that could handle the dust and dirt, rocks and thorns of this frontier environment. The belt at his waist was thick and broad to support the holster slung at his right hip, the butt of a heavy old-fashioned chemical-propellant handgun protruding from it. A big sheath knife balanced it on his left hip, with a snapped pouch ahead of it. His boots looked roughly made but tough and comfortable, patterned after military-issue jump boots.
“Howdy, Jake.” The barkeep picked up a schooner and filled it at the tap. “Your usual?”
“Thanks, Sib.” Jake lifted the mug and took a long swallow of the cool beer.
“Aaahhhh!
That hit the spot!” He set it down on the counter. “My son been in yet?”
“Ain’t seen him.”
“He should be along any time now.”
“You heading for the hills again?” Sib gave him a knowing wink, inclining his head the merest fraction towards the soldiers.
Jake nodded infinitesimally, acknowledging the unspoken warning. “Yeah. We shipped most of the last herd to the slaughterhouse last week, so it’s time to round up some more cattle.”
The bartender shook his head. “Sooner you than me. Hell of a way to make a living, eating dust and drinking your own sweat for weeks at a time, gathering animals that like it fine where they are and don’t want to leave.”
“Beats not eating at all. Besides, there’s only so many ways a man can make an honest living. Can’t all be bartenders.”
“You got a point, an’ it keeps you out of the way.”
The batwing doors parted once again and a younger man walked in, looking like Jake must have done a couple of decades earlier. He wore a gray shirt and blue trousers, the reverse of the older man’s outfit, and his waist supported a similarly-equipped gunbelt. His face was less lined and wrinkled but seemed older than his years, thin, drawn, eyes hard beneath heavy brows. He carried a thick, heavy rolled fur in his arms. He, too, glanced around the room before coming forward.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, son,” Jake greeted him, the corners of his mouth quirking in a slight smile. “Beer?”
“You betcha.”
Jake nodded to the barkeep as his son unrolled the fur to reveal a brilliantly-patterned orange-and-black pelt. The lips were drawn back in a snarl over sharp pointed saber-teeth, tufts of hair spiking outward above the glass eyes set into the carefully-preserved skull. The body was just over two meters long, with another meter and a half of tail attached. The barkeep let out a long, slow whistle of surprise as the young man laid it out along the bar.
“Damn,
Dave! That’s gotta be the finest ganiba pelt I’ve ever seen!”
“I’ve never seen a better one,” Jake confirmed as he reached out to stroke it, his hand sinking into the thick luxurious fur. “Quill did a first-rate job of tanning and preparing it.”
“He charged me enough, so he’d better have!” Dave said, grinning. “You were right. A fur this good deserved the best preparation, and he delivered.”
“Reckon that’ll bring five, maybe six thousand bezants in Banka from a visiting spacer,” one of the other regulars said, craning his neck from where he sat further down the bar.
“No, it won’t.” The voice came from a Sergeant, the leader of the four soldiers who had risen from their table and were walking over to the bar. “For a start your capital’s been renamed – it’s Tapuria now, you hick scum! Second, that fur looks like smuggled goods to me, so we’ll just have to confiscate it and send it in for adjudication.” He grinned nastily, undoubtedly savoring the bezants he and his men would get for the pelt when they sold it for their own benefit.
There was a sudden stillness in the bar. The regulars turned away or shrank back in their seats.
“I don’t think so.” Dave’s voice was matter-of-fact, but his hand brushed against the butt of his gun as he turned to face the oncoming soldiers, taking a few steps away from the bar to give himself room to move. Behind him Jake eased down the bar away from his son, trying to look as abject and browbeaten as possible.
“Don’t get cocky with me, sonny boy!” The sergeant’s voice was hard. “You know what we’re gonna do to you if you give us any uphill.” He glanced at the bartender. “Kill the cameras.”
“But I – ”
“I said kill the cameras!
Now!”
“Do it, Sib. No sense you getting into trouble too.” Dave’s voice was steady. The bartender shrugged helplessly, turned to a console behind the bar, and switched off the security cameras and recorders that, by regulation, monitored everything in and around the saloon.
“Better.” The Sergeant halted in front of Dave, thrusting his thumbs into his belt on either side of the tarnished brass buckle. His three men came to a stop on either side of him. “Like I said, boy, we’re confiscating that hide. If it’s cleared by the court, you’ll get it back.”
“It’d have to get there for that to happen.” Dave kept his voice mild. “We’ve heard way too many stories of things being confiscated by folks like you, then never turning up in court at all.”
“You accusing me of planning to steal it? That could get you into a whole heap of trouble, boy.”
“You just ordered the barkeep to switch off the cameras. Without an independent record that you confiscated it, it’ll be your word against mine.”
The man spat contemptuously on the floor. “Yeah – and the word of four Bactrian soldiers against a frontier hick means the court won’t even pause to draw breath before convicting you of whatever charges we feel like bringing against you. Now hand over that pelt!”
“No,” Dave said flatly. “Sergeant-Major Garnati down at the garrison issued a certificate that it was legally taken, in accordance with regulations.” He winced internally as he remembered the size of the bribe involved. “If you ask him, he’ll confirm that.”
“That old fart’s gotten far too lenient with you rebellious scum. No, we’ll leave him out of this and settle it right here, right
NOW!”
He shouted the last word, clearly intending it as a signal to his companions. The two troopers tugged at short, stubby truncheons in scabbards at their left hips, while the Sergeant and his Corporal reached for the flap-top holsters worn on their right hips. They knocked the flaps upward, grabbing at the butts of the pulsers inside.
Dave’s draw wasn’t hampered by a flap on his holster; and despite its being cut for a much longer weapon his revolver proved to have a barrel only three centimeters long, without a front sight. His right hand moved almost too quickly for the observers to follow. The gun came level at waist height as his thumb cocked back the hammer. A needle-thin beam of intense green light shone from a projector built into the grip, rising along the Sergeant’s body and centering over the bridge of his nose as the young man pulled the trigger. Instead of the thunderous roar typical of such primitive weapons, the revolver emitted only a surprisingly quiet
crack!
The Sergeant’s head snapped back as a dozen small holes appeared across his upper nose, lower forehead and the inner halves of his eyes; then he collapsed to the floor like a sack of onions.