Shadow on the Sun (10 page)

CHAPTER 17

Camp Stringfellow

Plains of Olympus

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 13. 09:43

 

 

The Dragonfly dances above Camp Stringfellow, its dual wings gyrating so quickly that they seem to disappear. The copter flits from perch to perch, a defensive movement that keeps it out of danger. The camp is a twelve-kilometer- square cluster of prefab metal buildings, concertina wire, mobile redoubts, and countless tents held together by a grid of temporary roads.

The troops are going through morning exercises. In the airspace above the camp, squadrons of velocicopters zip in and out, some training, some on patrol. The Dragonfly maneuvers through this swarm of traffic and finally settles on the landing pad.

“Much ado about nothing,” a corporal says as he follows Lieutenant Riacin out of the ops building.

“How is that?” Riacin asks.

“His machinations before landing,” he says. “There are no hostiles. The zone isn't hot. It just seems overly cautious.”

“Overcautious to you,” Riacin says. “Sensible to me. Such behavior is what is called for in this situation. This Oryol person has collected dead man bounties on the most dangerous criminals in the prefecture. I'm sure that there is a long list of criminals who would like to return the favor.”

The corporal starts forward. Riacin grabs his shoulder and pulls him back. “Mind your distance. Bounty hunters are notoriously skittish, especially this one.”

The pilot, dressed in a pair of mechanics' coveralls, climbs out of the cockpit. The front of the coveralls is unzipped, revealing a hint of black body armor. A long-billed cap obscures most of the hunter's face.

“Oryol!” Riacin shouts over the noise of the tanks in the distance. “Welcome to Camp Stringfellow. General Lyme is anxiously awaiting you.”

Oryol pulls a bruised fig from a pocket and cuts off a chunk with a paring knife. “Where is Lyme? I don't see him. This was supposed to be a personal meeting.”

“For the sake of security,” Riacin explains as they walk toward a portable multinet station set up on the tarmac, “the general will be meeting with you via comlink on the multinets.”

“Too bad,” Oryol says. “I'd hoped to meet Lyme in person.”

“Dolly,” Riacin says, “we're ready to begin.”

“Affirmative,” Dolly's disembodied voice replies. With a chime, the screen blinks on, and Lyme appears. The general's face is gaunt, but his eyes are sharp with anger.

“General Lyme, greetings from the land of your enemy,” Oryol begins. “On a personal note, it is good to see you again.”

“Let's dispense with the niceties,“ Lyme says, clearing his throat. “I've hired many bounty hunters in my time, and I have never been satisfied with the results. What makes you different?”

“Because I'm not a bounty hunter.”

“What nonsense is this?” Lyme snaps.

Oryol slices off another chunk of fig and leans closer to the vid screen. “I'm not a hunter who chases his target. I'm a trapper, setting many snares and waiting patiently for the target to capture himself.”

“You're wasting my time,” Lyme says with a wave of his hand. “Do you want the commission or not?”

“Depends,” Oryol says. “On the size of the commission.”

“This is half.” With a loud thunk, Riacin drops a heavy pouch on the table. “You will get the rest when the job's finished.”

Oryol glances inside. “Who's the target?”

Riacin hands Oryol a file. “A soldier who stole something from me, “ Lyme says. “Find him and return my property.”

“And the soldier?”

“Kill him.”

“General,” Riacin says, “surely you don't mean
kill
him. Let's step back for a moment to reconsider—”

“No,” Lyme says, “I will not reconsider. Alpha Dog has outlived his usefulness.”

“General, please,” Riacin says. “Think of the resources that have been devoted to his development. The project—”

“Think of how many resources I must devote to finding him now!” Lyme composes himself. “Oryol, what do you require of me?”

“Only time and money, General.”

“Money, I can give you,” Lyme says. “Time is something you can't afford to take. This job must be completed quickly. Do you understand that?”

“I understand your urgency, yes.”

“Hear this, my slippery friend.” Lyme's face turns red. “If you fail to return with the package, there will be no place on Mars that you can hide, from the peaks of the highest mountain to the depths—”

“—of the deepest sea,” Oryol says. “I will be more dead than dead. Understood.”

Lyme makes a motion across his neck, and the vid screen goes black.

“I am assuming that you have a plan?” Riacin says.

Oryol shrugs. “The best-made plans of mice and men soon go awry. I'd rather play it by ear.”

“Spare me the poetry.” Riacin says. “One piece of advice: you're tempting fate by insulting General Lyme. You're digging yourself a hole.”

“The only hole I care about,” Oryol says, tossing a fresh fig to Riacin, “is the one to bury Alpha Dog in.”

CHAPTER 18

Tengu Monastery

Noctis Labyrinthus

ANNOS MARTIS
239. 2. 13. 12:00

 

 

Ema sprints across the grounds toward the teahouse, where Ghannouj is sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Dark hair whipping behind her, anklets and bracelets ringing, she bounds over the bridge, then skids to a halt in front of the abbot.

After a quick bow, she says, “Master! A Hellbender has landed in the exercise yard. Soldiers are coming!”

“Thank you, Ema.” Ghannouj looks into the bottom of his teacup. He swirls the dregs while watching intently, as if he had thrown a pair of dice and was waiting for the numbers to show. “You may return to the hives.”

“But Master,” she says, “the bad men have come.”

He stands and draws his glimmering robes against a sudden breeze, his split-toed slippers scuffing the ground. “Go quickly, please.”

She bows, hands clasped together. “Yes, Master.”

Ema runs from the teahouse. Her bare feet tap-tap-tap on the wooden deck. She kicks a pebble into the pond. The pebble plunks and sinks. Ripples spread across the surface until they reach the far shore, where they almost touch the polished boots of Riacin and the Sturmnacht escorting him.

Riacin calls out as he crosses the footbridge, “Are you the abbot of the monastery?”

“I am.”

Riacin smiles and offers a bony hand as he climbs onto the wooden deck. “Good day. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Ghannouj puts fist and palm together but doesn't bow. “What may I do for you?”

“My associates and I would like to have a word or two with you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name?”

“I am Ghannouj.”

“Like the pie? You look like man who enjoys his pie.” His expression shows that he expects a chuckle, but he gets nothing. “Yes, well, my name is Lieutenant Riacin in the service of General Lyme, the—”

“I know who Lyme is,” Ghannouj says.

“Of course you do. Who doesn't know General Lyme these days? The man has made quite a mark, hasn't he? Me, I am his humble aide-de-camp, assisting him with certain special projects. Would you care to hear about them?”

“No.”

“Excellent. Then we may set aside the pleasantries and conduct our business.” Riacin points to a bench. “Would it be permissible to sit?”

“Do you need my permission?”

“Just common courtesy,” Riacin says. “It is your bench, after all.”

“The bench belongs to itself.”

“Yes, well, how
meditative
of you.” Riacin wipes the bench and sits, crossing his legs. He gestures to the spot next to him. “Care to take the weight off your feet?”

“No.”

“Is that tea in the pot?” Riacin asks. “The flight here was dusty, and I am quite parched. Might I have a cup?”

Ghannouj dumps the pot into the pond. “Alas, it is gone.”

“So it is.” Riacin stands and clicks his heels together with a hard leather snap. “Disappointing. I was about to ask if you thought the pot was half full or half empty, philosophically speaking.” He picks up Ghannouj's teacup, drops it to the ground, and stomps, grinding the porcelain to dust under his sole. “Alas, I won't have the opportunity.”

“Your manners are strange to me, Lieutenant.”

“I doubt that, Ghannouj. You are intimately aware of how men like me go about their business, aren't you?”

The sound of screaming rises in the distance: Riacin looks to Ghannouj to gauge his reaction, but the abbot's face is a blank slate.

“Is that children I hear?” Riacin cups a hand over his ear. “Pity. The sound of crying is disturbing, don't you think? Of course, you are used to the sounds of screams, aren't you?” He pauses for a reaction again. “You heard many, many of them when you yourself were a Regulator chief all those years ago? You were in command at the Albemarle Massacre, unless I'm mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken,” Ghannouj says. “You clearly have read my military record and know that I was court-martialed for the massacre and imprisoned in the Norilsk Gulag for a year.”

“So many innocent people died.” Riacin puts a hand to his heart, his expression pained. “Why weren't you executed? Your record didn't say.”

“My record was expunged in return for my silence.”

“Silence about what, if you don't mind my asking?”

“About a young officer from a high-ranking family,” Ghannouj says, “who ignored advice from his counsel and ordered me to attack a group of unarmed protestors.”

“Did you become a monk while in prison?” Riacin says, leaning closer. “Or did you become one to escape responsibility for your crimes?”

“You speak like a diplomat aboard a gunboat, a man who relies on another's strength to protect himself.” Ghannouj folds his arms. “What do you want?”

“Simply put.” Riacin's smiling facade begins to crumble. “Your cooperation.”

“How might I cooperate with a man like you? What do a few poor monks and hungry children have that you would want?”

“General Lyme's son, you obnoxiously serene blob of fat!” Riacin jumps up, arms flung wide like a kite trying to find wind. He shoves his face into the monk's. Spit flies from his thin lips. “Don't insult my intelligence!”

“The Regulator is not here,” Ghannouj says. “He left the monastery months ago. He has never returned.”

Riacin slaps Ghannouj across the face. “Liar!”

“Cooperation,” Ghannouj says, his voice firm and measured despite the welt rising on his cheek, “means working together for mutual benefit. How is giving in to your demands cooperation?”

Riacin raises his hand, but Ghannouj blocks it and pushes the lieutenant back several feet.

“How dare you!” Riacin stabs his finger into Ghannouj's chest. “You want to lecture me on the definition of cooperation? Allow me to define it for you. Guard!”

A Sturmnacht foot soldier appears, carrying Ema thrown over his shoulder. She is bound and gagged, her face a mask of terror.

Ghannouj starts toward the soldier, then checks himself.

“Mutual benefit,” Riacin says, laughing. “Give me what I want, and I won't have to kill this hellion and all of the other brats you've been collecting these past few months.”

A moment later, with a rush of engines and wind, a Hellbender gunship appears. The copter turns toward the main building and fires a rocket into the canyon wall. The ground shakes from the blast.

“How is that for gunboat diplomacy?” Riacin puts a foot on the bench, then leans toward Ghannouj. “Now, I will ask you one more time—where is Jacob Stringfellow?”

For a few seconds, Ghannouj says nothing. “There is no good choice to be made here,” he finally says and looks down at the broken teacup, now a mix of broken shards and sullied tea grounds. This, it seems to say, is what the future holds for you. “Come, I will see that you get what you need.”

 

The shrine is a simple building behind a small arched gate. Outside, there is a fountain for taking a drink and a stone sink for washing feet. Before entering, Ghannouj pauses to do both. He offers a ladle of water to Riacin, who refuses it.

At the wooden steps leading into the shrine, Ghannouj bows twice and claps his hands. “To wake the gods,” he says.

“Enough with the rituals. Get on with it.” Riacin orders the Sturmnacht to stand guard, then Ghannouj leads Riacin into the building.

The lieutenant glances around at the relics. “Where is Jacob Stringfellow?”

“That is the question I am trying to answer.”

On the altar in the middle of the temple rests a gnarled length of wood, the Staff of Rinpoche.

“The founder of the Tengu monastery,” Ghannouj lifts the staff and holds it chest high with both hands, “brought the staff with him from Earth. His name was Rinpoche, and he was bönpo of bees. It is said that when he died, his consort imbued the staff with his soul so that when he was reincarnated, the staff would lead him back to this place.”

“Spare me the musty legends,” Riacin growls.

“It may be legend,” Ghannouj says, undeterred, “but the staff does have certain properties. It is said that it allows the bearer to speak to the bees.”

Riacin grabs a vase and slams it onto the floor.

“You seem,” Ghannouj says, “to have a problem with pottery.”

“Give me Jacob Stringfellow!”

“I said that I would give you what you need.” Ghannouj spins the staff. “And I shall.”

Boom!

Riacin flies backward through the door. He sails over the porch and lands on the hard ground. The guards raise their rifles, just as the end of the staff whap-whaps them in the nose and forehead.

With more speed than a man of bulk should be able to generate, Ghannouj launches himself off the porch, using the staff as a pole vault. He drops on the guards, one foot in the gut of each of them. He tosses the staff high into the air, lands six jabs apiece to their chins, then catches the staff as he somersaults and drops in front of Riacin.

Riacin struggles to his feet, holding his ribs. “You're going . . . to die for this.”

“I am going to die,” Ghannouj says, “but not for this, and not by your hand.”

Overhead, the air rumbles with engines of the gunship, the sound so loud that Riacin has to shout over it. “Good-bye, Ghannouj! See you in Hell!”