Read The Many Deaths of Joe Buckley Online
Authors: Assorted Baen authors,Barflies
Rogue
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
Buckley Bank had massively overextended itself on mining speculation in Theta Persei. Meanwhile, they’d been marketing the investment for more income to roll in. A risky proposition, against the typical bank charter, and certainly unethical. There were links to hundreds of opinions on the legal ramifications, satisfaction and settlement, long-term repercussions and why their underwriter/inspector hadn’t caught this. Especially as it was a repeat of a similar event a decade before. Greedy people never learn.
That was all fascinating, but the important part for me was that the confidence drop had caused two other banks to pull credibility from their money. Then a couple more. Then an outsystem bank here, actually. Then more. Remember, our currency is a private issue by several banks in concordance. There’s no national backing. The other banks were pulling their reciprocity and leaving Buckley alone and unloved.
No one would take a penny of any currency produced by Buckley. It was being melted down for scrap value, about a quarter of its previously valued worth.
So, about a quarter of the Freehold money we had along was now worthless except as cheap bullion in coin form, totally worthless in card or paper.
And Randall’s account was an “asset with a claim.” It would be settled in a few months for cents on the cred, and paid by whoever bought out the smoking ruins of Buckley. In the meantime, he had nothing.
It was a gratuitous stroke of luck, but it was to my advantage.
Even if he had hard assets or other accounts, this had to hurt. He was earning less than our initial predictions, spending more, and had just taken a hit. If I could pile on a few more, I could finish breaking him.
Naught but Duty
from
Tour of Duty
MICHAEL Z. WILLIAMSON
Before dusk, his troops were ready, aligned and poised for inspection. The ranks were dead straight, the product of proud, expert riders. He felt a ripple of excitement. His troops, those of the unassailable repute. There was Ty’kara, the Shinai’an woman, tall and quick and almost as strong as some men. Bukli, skilled at sending signals with flags, hands or fires, and almost as handy with a sword. Balyat, tall and broad and powerful as an ox, with a cool, mature head. His troops, the best one could pay for.
His troops, under pay of a cretin.
Duty
.
He turned through each rank, examining each raised arm, sword or spear, to see that they fit his orders. All were clean, well cared for and ready. All his troops quivered in eagerness and a little fear. The brave could admit fear. Fear was part of being human. Only the coward and the fool denied fear.
Every soldier, every weapon, fit and ready as he had demanded. And now to follow the orders of the cretin.
He passed behind the last rank, then turned between two troops. They flinched not a bit, nor did their horses shy, as he urged his mount, Fury, to a fair gallop.
Then he was through the front rank, and behind him came the snorts of horses and the “Yaaah!” of riders. Thunder rose from the ground, thunder that he commanded, thunder that shattered armies.
Far ahead, brave and fearful peasants in sorry, untrained formation prepared to die for their homes. They trembled in fear, armed with hooks and forks and an occasional spear. A handful with bows were arrayed in rear. He respected them far more than the scum he worked for this night. But he did work for them.
Duty
.
And he would see that duty done.
Perhaps five hundred yards, and the flickering lights of torches melded with a blood red sunset to set the mood for the work ahead. Manjeuk was the name of a quiet town in a forest meadow. Tonight, however, it was a dark-tinged collection of rude huts with little prettiness.
A hundred yards, and he could see faces, grubby and fearful and shifting in grimaces. That was just enough time to brace shield and lower sword . . .
He hit the defensive line and burst through the front rank. These poor peasants were no match in any fashion for professional soldiers. He chopped down and connected with a skull, feeling the crack through his arm. He let the impact swing his arm back, then brought it into a thrust that knocked another man to his feet. He brought the tip up as he swung his shield out on the other side. Two men sprawled, one of them nudged by Fury’s left forehoof.
Then he was through. That dismal line of men with inadequate stakes and pits had been the defense. They’d lasted not five seconds.
Urging Fury to a charge, he cleared the deadly, empty space ahead. Four good gallops did it, and no arrow came close. Few arrows came anywhere.
Then he was inside the town. A crone with a pitchfork thrust at him, and he dodged, slashing at her chest. She went down. Behind her was a cowering girl of perhaps twelve, who had dropped her stick and was whimpering. A slight poke was sufficient for her. A boy of fifteen or so wouldn’t succumb to a single blow, and had to be hit three times. Stupid of him not to stay down once hit, but that wasn’t Arden’s concern. He reined back, turned and galloped on.
An old man in a doorway didn’t have time to raise his ancient, rust-caked sword. Two younger men drew out a rope. Arden cursed and ducked, snatching at it and twisting. The shock pulled them to the ground. Behind him, Ty’kara whacked one, dogged over and twisted, jabbed the other and recovered.
Then they were through the town and done. Few casualties, but no loot or anything positive to show for it. He sniffed in disgust as he waved his arm for the Toughs to form up.
Duty done.
Now to encamp again. They circled wide around the now flaming town. What was left was Shakis’ concern. And Arden found that most amusing.
* * *
The Tough’s camp was as it had been, patrols far out, pickets at the outskirts, the wounded and support armed and still a threat to intruders, even if not the heavy combatants the “regulars” were. Only half the Toughs were involved in any given battle. The rest, including recruits and their serjeants, supported them.
The regimental fire was huge, the heat palpable many feet away. Farther out, squadrons and smaller elements had their own blazes, then there were those for the watch. Toughs’ Camp was a ring of fire, ever brighter toward the center, where Arden sat with his troop leaders.
Arden took a healthy slug of his ale. It was a good, rich brew that quenched and refreshed him. The bread had been baked that morning, with a chewy crust and nutty flavor. The cheese was dry, crumbly and sharp. He dug in with gusto. Once Mirke had finished roasting that yearling stag, he would enjoy the flavor of it, the flavor that was already wafting through his nose and taking form.
Regardless of their orders, it had been a good night’s work, and he was proud of it. Pride and prowess in duty. It was the only really valuable thing he had. He cherished it. A faint warmth and tingle from the ale made it sweet.
Then Shakis, that damned foppish envoy arrived, his horse clattering with ridiculous flashy accoutrements. Arden wasn’t surprised, and knew exactly what his complaint was to be before the worm opened his mouth.
“High Rider Arden! Lord Miklamar is most displeased with your performance, if it can be called that, in Manjeuk!”
“We did as we were ordered,” he replied, stonefaced. “As we swore to.”
“You were ordered to put the village to the sword and spear!”
“And so we did,” he replied. He refused to get upset with the likes of this. It would not be honorable. Emotion he reserved for those worthy, who might be allied or enemy, but whom he would count as men. This was not a man.
“I expected you would take your swords
out
of your scabbards before striking with them! And use the sharp ends of your spears!”
“Then perhaps you should have so specified in your orders,” Arden said, smiling faintly. Behind him were snickers. No doubt everyone in Manjeuk had been confused to have the fiercest riders of the South gallop through, swatting and poking them with scabbarded swords. No doubt they were all bruised and broken from it. But none had been stabbed or cut. The orders had not specified that. And
had
specified the mercenaries were not to think too hard.
“Because of your cowardice,” Shakis said, and Balyat and Ty’kara growled with flinty gazes. Arden laid out a palm to hold them. It was all he needed to command them, despite the mortal insult. “Because of your cowardice, our men took near twenty deaths.”
“I lost a man, too,” Arden replied. “Bukli, my best messenger.”
“You have my pity, sell-sword,” Shakis replied. He was reaching a frothing level within, Arden could see. “No matter. The town
was
taken, and now our men show them what it means to lose.” The expression on his face was a combination of excitement and lust that was simply obscene.
It would have been better, Arden realized, to have killed the poor bastards quickly. He’d done them no favors as it was.
Timothy Zahn:
I didn’t set out to kill Joe Buckley. Frankly, I’d forgotten the man even existed.
But then I was reminded about him. I was reminded about how he hung around the edges of the Baen Multiverse. How he was always there, always lurking. A man who lived to die, or something like that.
I didn’t think much of it at the time. There are many characters out there, after all, who risk death on a daily basis simply by having the audacity to take up residence inside a computer owned by Weber or Flint or Drake or Ringo. I had nothing against the man, nor did I have any plans to join in the mass slaughter.
But the Cobras of Caelian were at war. And in war people die, even Cobras. One of them died right in front of me, in the scene below.
And to my surprise, when I turned him over, I saw that it was none other than Joe Buckley.
I still don’t know how that happened.
Cobra Guardian
TIMOTHY ZAHN
The Cobras were still firing when the Trofts finally replied.
The answering fire came in a single, massive salvo that flashed across the open air as abruptly as the Cobras’ own fire had begun, and suddenly the forest was filled with the stuttering crackle of blasted tree trunks and the secondary sizzle as hundreds of splinters and wood fragments rained down through the leaves around them. Both barrages ended, and for a pair of heartbeats the forest was dark and silent once again.
And then, without warning, a single flash lit up the night sky.
Only this one wasn’t from the Cobras or the nearby Troft ship. This one came from the other Troft ship, the one a kilometer away to the south.
And it wasn’t splinters and burned wood that hit the ground this time. This time, it was a human body.
* * *
His name, Jody learned, had been Buckley.
No one said much as two of the Cobras moved the badly burned body deeper into the forest, away from the Troft ship, and wrapped it in one of the silliweave shelters. Matigo muttered something over and over under his breath as they worked, but whether it was a prayer or a curse Jody couldn’t tell. Nor did she feel any inclination to ask.
Harli didn’t say any more than any of the others. But the glimpses of his face that Jody caught in the reflected light of the group’s sporadic but never-ending antipredator fire sent shivers up her back.
Finally, with the body as protected from scavengers as they could make it, Harli called the group together. “All right,” he said, his voice glacially calm. “Either the old legends were wrong about the Trofts not engaging in unnecessary killing, or else this bunch doesn’t play by those rules. So be it. They’ve made their point. Our next attack will just have to be clever.”
* * *
Uy’s throat tightened. “We were afraid that if we waited until they’d settled in and disembarked their troops it would put the civilians in greater danger than if we attacked before that happened. So we did. The Cobras targeted those little wings where most of the weapons seemed to be clustered and opened fire.”
Jody winced. “Only even Cobra antiarmor lasers didn’t do any good against them.”
“No, they didn’t,” Uy said, his voice going bitter. “And then they fired back. We lost eighteen Cobras in that first salvo.”
“Sending a message,” Freylan murmured, his voice thoughtful. “The way they did last night.”
Uy looked sharply at him, but Jody lifted a calming hand. It wasn’t like the Trofts listening in didn’t know all about last night’s events, after all.
As Uy himself also quickly realized. “Yes, I woke up in time to catch the end of that show,” he said. He hesitated, and Jody saw him brace himself. “You said they sent the same kind of message?”
“Their return fire killed a Cobra named Buckley,” Jody said. “I think he was the only one.”
“Buckley,” Uy mused, and she saw him relax fractionally at the news that the Troft’s violent response hadn’t taken his own son. “Inevitable, I suppose, that it was him. You didn’t know the man, but Joe was one of those who courted death on nearly a daily basis, yet always came cheerfully back for more.”
“I’m sorry,” Jody said, quietly. “So that brings the total to sixteen?”
“Oh, it brings it much higher than that,” Uy said sourly. “We’d learned our lesson on that one, all right, but the day’s seminars were hardly over. A few minutes after we gave up our assault, a ramp lowered from partway up the bow of each of the ships and a half dozen floatcycles came buzzing out and headed over the wall to-ward the gate. We took out three of them before the ship’s lasers opened fire again. We lost five more on that one.”