But if the lovely Laura was troubled by the breach of etiquette, there was no sign of it as she placed her left hand on his right thigh. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ark,” she said warmly. “Let’s see what’s on the menu.”
By that time Ark was pretty sure that he was sitting next to a very attractive prostitute, which meant that if he played his cards correctly, he might be able to score the sort of experience he had heard other, more worldly boys brag about! And, as if to reinforce that notion, Laura gave his leg a gentle squeeze.
Ark’s sandwich was surprisingly good. It consisted of a fresh roll, heaped high with sliced skalet meat, which was nearly invisible under a blanket of melted cheese. He didn’t remember ordering a beer, but assumed that it came with the sandwich, and missed the moment when his companion passed a hand over it.
Ten minutes later, as Ark was finishing the sandwich and wondering how to broach the subject foremost on his mind, he began to feel a bit dizzy. Was the beer to blame? Yes, probably, although Ark was no stranger to alcohol.
He assumed the feeling would pass, especially if he left the beer alone and switched to water. But even as his mind processed the thoughts, the world around him seemed to slow. It became increasingly hard to focus and his head felt incredibly heavy. Then, it came to him: Laura was more than a hooker, Laura had slipped something into his beer, and Laura had plans for him!
There was just enough time to process a feeling of mixed embarrassment and shame before his forehead crashed onto the plate in front of him. Ark heard slow motion laughter as two men came back to pick him up. He felt himself being carried for a short distance before being placed on a soft surface—maybe a cot. It swayed alarmingly, fell into a black pit, and took Ark along with it. His outing was over.
CHAPTER SIX
“‘Insubordination’ is just a fancy word for ‘washout recruit.’”
THE PLANET RAYDIN III, THE CONFEDERACY OF MAN
A full day had passed since the meeting with Gunny Sims. Drops of blood-warm rain were falling, and Tychus could hear the muted rumble of thunder as he made his way over to the main street. Civilians and soldiers alike were moving faster as they sought shelter from the coming deluge.
Tychus would have done likewise had he been free to do so, but he was due back at Company HQ by 1600 hours local, where he and the other members of the Tactical Response Squad would sit around and shoot the shit until they were relieved at midnight. Which, based on a twenty-six-hour day, made for a long watch. There was plenty of comm gear at headquarters though—and all it would take was a quick call to Master Sergeant Calvin to set the illicit scheme in motion.
So rather than enter a bar for some well-deserved R&R, Tychus marched uphill to the north end of town. That was where his CO had set up shop in the same two-story office building where one of his Kel-Morian counterparts had been doing business just a few days earlier. The sentry posted outside the front door nodded, but didn’t ask for ID, since nobody looked like Tychus except Tychus.
The noncom had to duck his head to clear the top of the doorway, which opened into an airlock, followed by the sparsely furnished office beyond. Supplementary oxygen was being pumped in through the air conditioning system, which made it possible to remove his nose plugs and let them dangle on his chest.
The office was decorated with a well-executed drawing of the Kel-Morian outriders’ famous death’s head logo, plus dozens of scrawled signatures. Dead men for the most part—all buried in a mass grave outside of town. There were two desks up front, and Corporal Proctor was sitting at one of them. She looked up from her work as Tychus entered.
Proctor was pretty in an understated, no-nonsense sort of way and completely uninterested in casual sex, which was the kind that Tychus specialized in. Her bangs were straight, her eyes were gray, and Tychus saw what might have been a warning in them. “The captain has been looking for you,” she said, without inflection. “He’s in his office.”
Tychus’s face was impassive, but alarm bells were going off in his head, because “Captain Jack,” as his marines referred to him, was one of the few people in the Confederacy who scared him. Not physically, because the officer was no match for Tychus, but in other ways. Captain Jack Larimer was not only mean as hell, he had an inexplicable tendency to volunteer his unit for dangerous missions, and that was a threat to the most important person on Raydin III: Tychus Findlay.
So it was with a sense of trepidation that Tychus placed his rifle on a wall rack and approached the open door. He rapped three times and waited for the word “Enter!” before taking the requisite three paces forward. A lot of officers would have forgone such formalities under the circumstances, but not Captain Jack. “Staff Sergeant Tychus Findlay reporting as ordered, sir!”
Captain Jack was about thirty years old and loved to run. There were some people who said he could run the ass off a wheel. And because of that he was not only lean but very sure of himself. In fact, self-confidence seemed to ooze out of every pore of the officer’s whipcord-thin body as he lounged behind his desk and took pleasure in the fact that a man like Tychus had to follow his orders. The smile arrived slowly. “At ease, Sergeant. Have a seat.”
Tychus accepted the invitation, settled his weight onto a metal chair, and waited to find out what kind of shit detail his CO had in store for him. It didn’t take long.
“I’m going to take the Tac Squad out on a mission tonight,” Captain Jack announced, “and you’ll be second in command.”
Tychus nodded woodenly. “Yes, sir. What’s the objective?”
“We’re going after a civilian collaborator,” the officer replied. “A man who took money to provide the enemy with information about his neighbors.”
“Sounds like a picnic, sir,” Tychus commented. “Why wait? Let’s pick him up now.”
“I said he was a civilian,” Captain Jack replied. “What I didn’t say is that he lives about fifteen miles north of here, in a fortified house, on top of a hill. There have been periods of civil unrest on Raydin III—and his home was built to take some punishment. So a bit of circumspection is in order. We’re going to dress like Kel-Morians and arrive in a Kel-Morian transport, which was captured along with the town. It was in need of some repairs, but our people put the ship right and it’s ready to lift.”
“So if we arrive at night, the collaborator will believe we’re there to pick him up,” Tychus mused, “and allow us to land unopposed.”
“Something like that,” Jack agreed vaguely. “Round up your men, get some food in them, and order the duty driver to take you down to the warehouse where the stuff we captured from the Kel-Morians is stored. Do you know Gunnery Sergeant Sims?”
Tychus felt his heart beat just a little bit faster. “We’ve met … yes.”
“Good. He’ll help you get the team set up with all the proper gear. Meet me at the landing strip at 2000 hours. And don’t be late, Findlay… . You know how that pisses me off.”
Tychus knew it was time to leave, and stood. He was halfway out the door when Captain Jack stopped him. “One more thing, Sergeant… . Bring a rocket launcher. We might need it.”
***
After spending a couple of hours getting ready, Tychus and his squad drove onto the airstrip at precisely 1930, thereby ensuring that they would have plenty of time to run one last check on the team prior to liftoff. Lightning flashed in the eastern sky as the big truck came to a halt and the marines bailed out.