Rogue: Chapter Three

    The alarm went off at 2 divs. That's about 5 am, allowing for our longer day and different clock. The warble sounded and the lights came on. I was on my feet at once, because if I hesitate, I fall back asleep.

    "Good morning!" I said, doing my best impression of the type of morning person I despise. "Time for our morning workout!" I added.

    "Right. Okay," she croaked, eyes squinted and face pinched. She didn't look bad in the morning, but she certainly wasn't pretty. She rolled out and clutched at clothes.

    I was dressed in seconds, pulled on my running shoes and snugged them down. I hopped into the kitchen and grabbed the kits I'd prepared the night before—two of the detachable assault packs from the SW's large rucks, filled with water, some sundry items and food bars for warmup. I came back through, dropped them on the bed and hit the bathroom. She was running a brush through her hair to get rid of the crinkles. She wore tight shorts, running shoes and a ziptop, and looked disgustingly trim. When I came out, she had hold of one of the packs.

    "Why these?" she asked.

    "Practice," I said. "We might need to carry gear, and if we can run with it, we can run without it. We'll work up to boots in a few days, too. Grab your weapon and let's hit it." I pointed at the pile as I leaned in and grabbed a pack and my holster.

    We slipped out quietly. Chel was still asleep and wouldn't be up until 2.5 for school. No need to wake her. Then we were down the stairs and into the shop, quickly through the machines and out the back personnel door. Silver apparently thought it was fun. It wasn't likely she'd done anything like this. Heck, she was only 6 years--less than 12 Earth years--older than my daughter. That was almost scary.

    We walked the first couple of hundred meters, stretching out our pace to let muscles warm up. Then we moved into a loping jog.

    I wanted to start easily. As I'd told her, the purpose was to get used to gear. We were both in good shape.

    I was still in decent shape.

    I wasn't in bad shape.

    I'd thought I was in shape.

    Yes, I practice military hand-to-hand regularly. Yes, I have a fairly active lifestyle, walk regularly and carry large loads around the shop. I found out then there's a huge difference between an active lifestyle for a civilian and a top-trained soldier.

    The pack fit okay, pulling at my shoulders only a little. My holster wasn't bad, though it bounced a bit against my hip. The weather was a nice 23 with a slight breeze coming from the northeast—sea breeze; we were about twenty-five kilometers inland. It was still dark, with gray tinges we wouldn't see yet, and certainly not with even the few streetlights there were. I headed straight for Perimeter Road so we could parallel the fence around the starport for a bit.

    I was sweating and ragged by the time we got there. I got worse as we ran along it, heading west toward the mountains. Breath was burning my throat, my guts were hard and lumpy in pain, and I was bulling my way through from sheer bloody-minded determination. At least I still had that. I didn't have my wind anymore.

    I turned us around after three kilometers and headed back, against the sea breeze. It was past dawn now, Iota rising and the wind freshening against us. That was good because it was cool against the clammy sweatiness of my body, bad because it was more resistance.

    I was only too glad to be back at the shop, my lungs screaming, muscles spasming and sweat pouring out of me. She was still fresh. Obnoxious little bitch. Then I saw her indulgent smile. She was trying to politely mask it, but not well enough.

    Another lesson had to be delivered. "Pushups," I said, and dropped, still wearing the pack.

    She actually tried to keep pace with me.

    First of all, men have far more upper body muscle than women. This is why women carry their rucks on their hips, men on their shoulders. Second, I might not be fifteen anymore, but I still carried heavy loads often, and Special Warfare Candidate School had taught me about pushups. You get very good at them when they're handed out like candy. I recalled several days when I'd had to deliver 1500 or more for some minor infraction.

    She stayed with me up to 70. Not bad. In fact, I was impressed. But I pushed through to 150. She was impressed. I counted them as I went, nose down to the cast floor of the shop, inhaling the tang of metals, plastics, ceramics, solvents and oils, then up. I focused on a tiny chip in front of me, barely deep enough for a fingernail, and pumped up and down.

    Then I sat back against the Number 2 mill.

    "Well, I've got to work on my running," I admitted. There was no point in pretending.

    "You'll be fine in no time," she replied. She had that hint of bother that said she was afraid of saying more lest she annoy me or embarrass herself. She zipped her top open, the stretchy fabric bouncing free from her chest. "Damn, that feels better," she said with a smile. She was admitting she wasn't as tough as she'd made herself out to be. So, she'd been pushing, too. That was a good sign. I respect determination.

    Oh, damn me, that was a perfect pair of breasts. If I'd walked by in the park and seen them, I'd have stared discreetly and politely. Now I had them intimately close and off limits.

    They say Lawrence of Arabia was a masochist who only got off on pain and suffering. Was I that way, too?

    I wasn't sure I wanted to learn all these things about myself. I just wanted to raise my daughter in peace. After that…

    Yes, I had seriously considered checking out after she reached adulthood. I could arrange an honorable accident, leave no note as to my past, and no one would ever know.

    Except, of course, Naumann knew now, Silver did, Chelsea did, Andre could guess…if I killed myself now, no one would believe an accident, and if I didn't leave a note, they'd suspect foul play.

    I couldn't even die in peace.

    I don't know if a god, the god, some god and goddess or some committee exists. If they do, though, when I get to the afterlife, someone is getting an ass kicking, and if they think their being omnipotent will stop me, they've never met a pissed off Operative.

    I cleaned up and went to the shop, because I did have actual work lined up. One of the warehouses needed new bearing rollers for their loadout system. Silver went to her "job." I actually don't know where she disappeared two divs a day. I should probably learn that, though I assumed it involved talking to Naumann about me, though hopefully through mail drops. I couldn't imagine he'd risk face to face, but I should find out.

    I worked until lunch, and was able to stop thinking. The rollers were straight tube, with pressed in bearing surfaces on each end. I did that part by hand, once I had them cut, because there were only fifty of them and it was easier to hold the piece and crank the press than to set up the Brett Loader to do it. I hate having the mechanical monstrosity walk around the shop anyway. It feels too much like a person I can't stop.

    I grabbed a calzone from Andre at lunch time. It felt as if everyone was watching me, and probably a few were. The story of the robbers was out, and a few knew I'd been the agent who dealt with them. Probably quite a few knew I was a vet, and it was statistically certain the story had blown out of proportion. I wasn't exactly discreet at this point.

    Had Naumann chosen me because he knew I could be manipulated? Was this even more dangerous than he'd hinted and he expected me to be taken out in the process?

    Well, bring it on, dogfucker. I'd welcome it.

    Andre handed over my usual and smiled.

    Maybe I was reading too much into things.

    I finished the steaming pastry, finished setting the bearings, and delivered the crate of goods. McMillan are honest business people, so I was happy to let them accept an invoice with net 50.

    Silver's runabout was parked near the shop when I got back. I glanced at the time and yes, that's how late it was. The bay door was open so I slipped in quietly and looked around.

    I heard her voice. She was in the reception room that led to the stairs and lift. I'm a natural spy and a trained one as well. I eased into a slouch next to the engine lathe and listened. Chelsea was there, too.

    "So what's your dad like? How do you handle him?"

    Chelsea said, "He can be very intense. Unforgiving, some ways. He has no patience for quitting."

    "Yeah, I found that out," Silver said, a slight rueful tone in her voice.

    "But he's very generous and compassionate. He lets me be my own person, even if he's strict. I love him a lot."

    "Sounds as if he's a good dad."

    "I suppose. I know I feel luckier than most of my friends. Though I'm not sure how to handle this new past of his. He'd told me he'd been a soldier, and done some rescue work. He said he'd been in some ugly combat and didn't want to talk about it. But now…" she paused, "…I dug into the records about his career and unit. They're…disturbing. I never realized how much abuse he took, even before the war. Even before Mtali. He's spent sixteen years dealing with death and pain." She sounded hurt.

    Yeah, I'd wanted to save her from that. That, and there's just no way to explain it. Nor could I trust anyone with that information. No priest, no therapist. The only counselor I had was me.

    I'd never thought about that, either. I'm probably a shit counselor.

    "Yes," Silver agreed. "I've seen the stuff you probably couldn't find. It's a sad story. The military uses its resources, and he's just another resource to them. One that can cause a devastating amount of damage. Yet he's a totally different person from Marshal Naumann, who's done about the same. I think Naumann handles it better."

    "Oh?"

    "Yes. But he doesn't have a family, and he's…colder. Probably sociopathic to some degree. Your dad's really too nice to have done what he has. And he's still nice after taking it all. He's a very strong man."

    "It doesn't sound like a job you put a nice person into," she said.

    "Would you want a cruel one doing it?" Silver asked.

    Right. A cruel one like Naumann who could sentence people to die and not feel compassion. The right person at the strategic level. At the tactical level, he would be war crimes waiting to happen. Instead, send a nice kid. You'll fuck his brain, but his guilt will stop him before he randomly kills people in compensation for the stress. A few may even kill themselves. Another may even start killing others, but rationalize it as moral because he's being paid.

    I'd avoided going mad by avoiding thinking about this. I'd flushed large part of my past from memory. Now I was recalling it, and recalling why I'd flushed it.

    I made a little noise and entered. Chel was upstairs by the time I reached the shop room, and Silver was near one of the machines.

    "This arrived for you," she said, and pointed.

    It was a meter long, narrow box. It didn't match anything I remembered ordering. I pulled out my knife and grabbed it, and stopped.

    Return ID was Alan David. That was Naumann's name.

    Deni's personal effects.

    Deni had a family. There was no ill will that I'd ever heard of, but she, or he, had saved this for me. If her, I was even more touched, hurt, raw. It meant we'd both known we were lovers and been unable, and afraid to admit it.

    If Naumann was behind it, I couldn't know if it was an honest gesture, or manipulation. I suppose that depended in part on whether or not he'd seen the contents.

    I slit the binder tape and it snapped back. I took a breath, opened the box…

    Her sword, which I'd suspected. Combat fittings at one end, dress fittings on the blade inside the crushed linen wrap. An Eaves custom wakizashi, of the style we favored in the unit.

    There were a couple of printed pictures of her, which I flipped over quickly. A last generation memory zip, which I'd have to get decoded and run through my system to read. Some souvenirs, a few of which I recognized, from various planets, including a prisoner receipt from a drunken brawl in which we'd gotten arrested, some coins and notes, a grenade pin and some small gems and carved wooden talismans.

    I found the note. It was basic paper from a desk pad.

    "I'm sorry this isn't on nicer material. I don't plan ahead that well. That's why you're the officer.

    "As I write this, you're across the op room from me, finishing boarding plans for the mission. We're both pretending not to notice the other, not to need each other.

    "You're reading this, so I'm glad one of us made it. If we both make it, I'll show you this, and make a ritual of burning it. Then we'll formalize things. Then we'll be in bed about a week.

    "I love you. Beat you to it.

    "Deni."

    Well, at least I knew Naumann hadn't seen it. He'd never have let me have it if he had.

    Yes, I loved her. She loved me. We knew that and could never admit it, because we served in and out of the same unit, and supported each other, and at the end I was her commander. And I knew it when a stressed out mission and a weird schedule found us alone for an hour, and our daughter was conceived.

    And I loved my daughter, but part of me hated that bitch Deni for sticking me with her, because it meant I'd had to stay alive, facing what I'd done, and now I had to go back there.

    This stuff would mean more to me later. For now, it could go in a closet.

    McLaren was good at reading people. She was on the far side of the shop studying my on-hand material inventory. I was as alone as feasible.

    I carefully closed the box and carried it upstairs, where I could wrap it and hide it, even from me, until I was up to dealing with it.

     

---

 

    I gradually shipped incoming jobs to other shops around the port, and even over to the harbor area. I completed the ones I had, and kept the machines running on stuff I came up with, just for the hell of it, so when anyone came in I was busy as hell and could claim overbooking as a reason not to take jobs. That also justified my publicly expressed desire to take a vacation. My standard line was, "In a few days."

    The worst part was playing the love-smitten single father. In public, Silver got felt up and caressed every little while, and we threw a few kisses in there now and then. Damn, but that woman could kiss. She accepted the role as camouflage and ran with it. Little gifts, occasional comm messages. Then soft, chewable lips brushing mine, with hands on my chest and shoulders.

    I made it a point not to go to bed until I'd gotten some kind of release from somewhere. Otherwise, I couldn't have slept, with her next to me.

    But I wanted the human contact. When I'd been working sex for quick startup cash, that was the one part that I really enjoyed. I knew the clients needed and wanted that contact, and I could accept that as valid human touch, even if I hated myself too much to have any emotional involvement. Their need filled mine.

    There was no way I'd emotionally involve with a subordinate I might have to order to die. Not again. Not ever again. But I wanted that body. I couldn't have it.

    I'd found a situation where a smart, sexy woman made things tremendously worse and more depressing than I'd started with.

    I didn't want to consider that I could reach lower emotional depths.

    Silver did good work. Her qualifications were honest. She arranged multiple usable IDs for several systems, faked up plenty more that were decorative only, converted cash into various other exchange media, built concealed weapons, tools and scanners for us. She could rip circuitry and code and rebuild faster than anyone I'd ever seen. That's always been my weak point. I'd been machining a decade, largely self-taught, but I did it full time. She could keep up with me. I wasn't worried about explosives. If she couldn't swing that, I could.

    I hit the banks, and so did she. We needed multiple IDs of pre-paid, collateraled cards, because I didn't intend to make payments. We'd use them until they were depleted, or until we had to scrap IDs. So each ID had three to five cards with a limit of ten grand each.

    Each day she went to work for a couple of divs. Each afternoon she came back with more resources, and an intel report. For all I know, she showed up on base in uniform and had a cover of being out on local assignment, which would technically be true.

    I really wanted to take a week and do a bare bones insertion, starting in the mountains and walking/hitching back, and break into my own perimeter, and possibly on base as well. But, the latter posed a serious operational security leak, and the former part would take time we just couldn't spare, with me about to abandon my business for as long as it took.

    At least we had intel. She brought us DNA scans, a list of previous victims with bios and backgrounds, lengthy lists of connections.

    One afternoon she came in, looking very serious, and said, "We believe he's in Caledonia."

    "Right now?"

    "Yes. We have tickets for tomorrow at two seventy."

    "Won't those be a bit obvious and pricey?" I asked.

    "No, we've had open tickets on retainer. Typical for business these days."

    "Really. I should know things like this. Except I've not been off planet since I got back." I was paranoid enough not to mention I had a similar setup. I should have made the connection, too.

    "Well, can we do it?" She looked hesitant, about the mission or about me, I wasn't sure.

    "Yes." I was nervous, too. I felt that gutfall that I recalled from last time. Kiss everything goodbye and hope you'll see it again.

    "I'll pack personal stuff."

    I nodded. "I need a div alone with my daughter."

    "Absolutely," she agreed, and was out as fast as the door moved.

    It was time for a discussion with Chel, that I'd never wanted to have, and would rather avoid. I had to, though, for all the reasons you can guess.

     

---

 

    I cooked up a lamb curry, with her favorite vegetables, and got out the good root beer and a bottle of Silver Birch Special Reserve.

    It didn't fool her, of course.

    She came in from school, smelled the food, saw the bottles, and said, "You're leaving tomorrow."

    "I am," I said.

    I got tackle-hugged. This was going to be hard on me, too. I'd never been away from her. Not since she was 3 days old.

    We ate, and it was somber. I'm not a vid person, so there was nothing to distract us, though it might have helped. She had one shot of the liquor, and two of her root beers, and picked at her curry. I wasn't that hungry myself, but I knew I needed food.

    I cleared the table, and said, "So, we need to cover some things."

    She tried to smile. "Don't burn the place down. If the thought of something makes me giggle I shouldn't do it. I don't need to set any records…"

    "Yes, all the usual stuff. But this is more important, and new."

    She nodded and came over.

    "Now, I told you you can't come. This is a military mission and the people involved are dangerous pros. In addition, don't talk to anybody. Nothing. Not even Andre. I'm so ass over heels I took my new girlfriend and went on a trip and left you behind. You hate the fossil-hunting bitch. Whatever. But not a hint that it's duty related. Your life depends on it. And stay armed. It won't do you any good, but there's no reason not to."

    "They don't like us armed at school, Dad. You know that," she said.

    Playing me off against the school, of all places. I could only assume it was adolescent rebellion on her part. "I don't care what they like," I said, exasperated. "It's your right, and I pay a lot of money for you to go there, so they can get stuffed. Carry a fucking gun."

    "Yes, sir," she said. That told me she believed that I believed what I was telling her.

    "Good," I said. "Don't be nice, either. If someone makes a move on you, shoot. Don't give them first aid if wounded, just keep shooting until you get the head. Then get it again. You've got court legal cause to be afraid. This type of asshole is especially dangerous if wounded."

    "Ripper?" she asked.

    "About that mean," I nodded. "A ripper is slightly faster. Slightly. But these people are much smarter and much trickier."

    She said, "So you're going to kill someone?" She looked really bothered and trembly.

    I sighed. Dammit.

    "Yes. I am. I can't tell you why and you need to forget it, but a lot of people's lives are riding on it and I have some specific skills, so does Silver. I shouldn't even say this much, and you're at risk if you ever mention it. Remember what I said we were doing?"

    She's a decent actress. She clouded up and said, "You're taking that hatchet-faced slut on a vacation and didn't invite me. I guess I'm glad you're dating, but you could have some class. Maybe getting over it will let you find someone worthwhile."

    "Good," I agreed. It was good. The way she delivered it, I not only believed it, I felt contempt for this asshole father of hers.

    "Now, let me tell you a few more things," I said. She nodded. "First, hit me. Full contact punch."

    She studied me for a moment, then tossed a creditable sunfist.

    I wasn't there. "Again," I said. She punched once more with a parallel kick. I slipped past the punch, and instead of deflecting her leg aside, I got my hand underneath and followed the motion through and up, taking her foot with it and up past two meters. She went down, slapped the ground to break her fall—good form, I was proud of her—and tried to sit up.

    Her eyes were very wide when she saw the Merrill growing out of my fist. The muzzle was against her nose. That got her attention, and I panned it down, following her throat then to center of mass, just under her breastbone. "I'm not Boosted," I told her. "You've never seen me all out. Until last week. Now, imagine me Boosted. Imagine me just this fast, from behind. You're dead." Helping her to her feet I said, "You did well. Have a seat."

    "You're young, flexible, smart, well-trained and a very good girl," I told her. She smiled just slightly and I said, "And that means shit in a fight. Fights go to the mean ones who don't stop. That's me and my target. Fights go to those who expect to get hurt and don't care. Who have years of experience killing people. Who are tired and cynical and lumber through like a stumblebeast, not like a leopard or ripper. You're graceful and strong and any normal attacker is going to find you more than he wants to screw with. But they or I could kill you and barely notice."

    She was looking put upon. "So why'd you train me?" she asked.

    "Same reason I keep weapons, fire extinguishers, insurance, first aid kits and tools. You can't fix everything. You can't stop everything. But you're better off with a chance. And your chance with this guy means shoot first, shoot second, reload and shoot some more. Distance is your friend, and remember he may dodge when closing. Kung Fu is great, batons are great, and none of it will matter if a vicious guy who can press your mass with one hand gets hold of you. The gun might not even matter. But it's better than anything else, because it only takes the strength of one finger, and can be done from underneath in a clinch. So says the old guy with five unarmed kills and several hundred deadly shots."

    She was really looking scared now, as I'd never discussed my past with her in any detail. "You really mean it," she said.

    "I do," I nodded. "And the alarms will be active, as will the traps. So let your boyfriend in through the front and don't sneak him through the window."

    She flushed red at that. "How'd you know?" she asked. "I thought we were quiet?"

    I tried not to smile. I really did. It was a weak, sickly smile, because this was my little girl and I'm psychopathically protective. Maybe too much Earth "morality" soaked in. I knew she took sex training in school. I knew every boy and girl she'd dated because I'm a paranoid asshole. She had a sex life, but I wanted to pretend it didn't exist. Stupid, I know. "No one is that quiet in the throes of passion. And I'm not stupid, and footprints on the deck are easy to decipher. So bring him through the front."

    She nodded, swallowed, and said, "I thought you didn't like him?"

    "Not really," I said. "He's a punk. But you won't stop seeing him if I tell you to, you're old enough to make that mistake on your own and learn from it, and frankly, he's irrelevant to the real problems I'm facing.

    "You'll sleep in my room," I said, "because it's harder to get into from outside. That won't stop them, but it might slow them down. And I bought that fifteen millimeter Armtech riot gun. Keep it by the bed, and take it with you when driving." As her face reacted I said, "Yes, I'm leaving you the van. And Andre will be watching, so no stupid stuff. You can get spread in the back if you really want to, but it's not as comfortable as a bed."

    "I know," she said, smiling. She said it just to throw me off guard. Not an image I wanted. But hey, I'd taken the conversation there.

    "Will you screen messages?" she asked.

    I winced. "Probably not." She looked confused and upset and once again she was my little girl. "Outsystem calls are monitored most places. And there's few enough of them relatively that they're easy to trace. Very basic traffic analysis will narrow it down to only calls to the Iota Persei system, and any suspicions will be proven with my pic. So I won't. Sorry. Andre's here if you need any help, and here," I said. I handed over the flashcard. "That's Marshal Naumann's ten-div-a-day emergency number. It's wired into his skull. Don't call if you don't have to, but do if you have any confirmable fears. 'Is that bad enough to call about?' is a confirmable fear.

    "So call if you need to, but not if you don't, but don't hesitate and don't abuse it," I said with a grin. "Because one hundred seconds after you call that number, there will be a Black Ops counter-terror squad and three battalions of Blazers and Mob surrounding the building. Memorize it and keep the card. Now let's look at the Armtech."

    She followed me through to my room. I keep the weapons on a rack in the closet, where I can get to them in a hurry. I have the basic five everyone should have, plus three—now four—more for her. I have my Merrill pistol, a last generation M-5 I bought surplus, sub-caliber rimfire practice versions of each and a 20 mm Pendleton riot gun, police spec. To her Little Weasel I'd added an Alesis carbine, not as massive as the M-5 but decent for a military engagement (and we were invaded by Earth not ten years ago, so don't give me that "it can't happen here" crap. Arm your adolescents. We may need them again) and she had a little Merrill that would do the job and fit inside her clothes without bulking up. Now she had a 15 mm Armtech.

    I slipped it off the rack, inspected the already open chamber and handed it over. She took it, inspected the chamber and dropped the bolt. It was a bit large for her, but manageable. "It's a double-roller blowback with a gas piston shock absorber," I told her. "But it will still kick. Take it to school tomorrow and go practice afterwards. Do a test range with it this weekend." I handed her two boxes of ammo to supplement the ten rounds in it and the two magazines clipped to the butt and receiver. It was a bulky weapon, but the best thing for her to have at any range practical. "And the ammo in your pistol is at least six months old," I told her. "Shoot it out after you buy some fresh."

    "Yes, Dad," she agreed. She felt a bit reassured with the riot gun in hand. I'd really scared her.