A Private Little War(108)

“No. What were you?”

“I was a geologist. I’d come along to take soil and mineral samples. But after almost a year, we knew that none of that mattered anymore. We’d talked to the company, to Eastbourne. We’d told them that we needed more men, more supplies, that there was something about this place that was… indefatigable. And do you know what they did?”

Ted looked away.

“Eastbourne abandoned us here. They forgot about us. Wrote us off. No, they are not a patient company. But the Akaveen are patient.”

Somewhere amid the bangles, tatters, and fur of Connelly’s outfit, there was a squealing chirp. Ted recoiled at the sound. “You pull a goddamn bird out of your ass or something, I’m going to be sick.”

Not a bird. An old-fashioned microwave radio receiver/transmitter headset that Connelly scissored open and tucked around the shell of his ear. By the local standard, it was still miraculous, of course, but it was the sort of thing that made the cast-away gear Ted had at the airfield look brand-new.

The indigs by the door had fallen silent as soon as they’d heard the chirp. They all watched their magical human, looking up from their crouches with big staring eyes.

Ted knew three words of indig. There was aka, which meant yes; nu, which meant no; and a word that sounded something like shipping and meant something like shit-eater, or close to it—an all-purpose exclamation and terrible insult to the natives which, for a time, he and his men had used at every opportunity because it’d been funny to watch the camp indigs flinch at hearing it. Oddly, or perhaps only coincidentally, Connelly used all three in his call. And only those three.

Aka, he said.

Nu.

Nu, nu, nu.

Shipping.

It was the first native conversation Ted had understood in two years, and he’d felt wise for it. Finally wedded to this place and this planet.

Connelly had taken off the earpiece. He’d folded it carefully and tucked it among his vestments. Standing there before the mess tent, waiting for the shipment to come in, he’d looked Ted up and down, something in his eyes expressing a sudden sadness and understanding.

Then he’d looked at his officers and made a sudden, sharp cutting motion with his hand, a sound with his lips like “Pssst.” Without a sound, they stood and lit out, loping, for the infield.

He turned back to Ted. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry? For what?”

“Ten percent, Commander. Take it or leave it.”

And Ted, wise for one instant, had suddenly felt once again as though great and terrible things were happening just out of his view. He was seized with the dream fear again of something sneaking up on his blind side, disaster personified and reaching for him. “Wait,” he said. “Wait. Ten percent of what? What happened? Who were you talking to?”

Over Connelly’s shoulder, Ted saw Diane step out of the comms tent and begin waving her arms. Ted pulled the radio handset off his belt and stared at it. It was turned off. He’d done that last night so he wouldn’t be interrupted. He’d forgotten to turn it back on.

“Ten percent of our deal. As a courtesy, you understand. For letting us use the field.”

Above them, a white and shining speck began to glow and grow larger. Orbital delivery, going through its first blazing molt.

“Our deal was twenty percent,” Ted said.

“Yes. Ten percent of that. Yes or no.”

Aka or nu.

“So, two percent, you’re saying. Two?”

“As a courtesy.”

“Wait. What happened? What’s…” Ted was fumbling with his radio. His fingers were frozen from the cold, clumsy with a sudden, fierce frustration. “Wait. Just let me…” When he finally got it switched on, it erupted with voices—controllers and pilots and a hundred different words he did not want to hear.

“The Akaveen,” Connelly said, his voice taking on a hectoring edge that Ted found unpleasant enough to want to hit him in the mouth, “the free Akaveen, mind you, not my troops—have just moved on Riverbend. Your planes have crossed into the highlands. Against orders, I suspect. Which is probably what all that yelling is about. As we discussed last night, NRI has been landing supplies behind the lines for the past five days. I tried to explain this to you, but—”

“You never said five days!”

“I didn’t know until just now. I knew that they were there, but my information, my lines of communication, have been less than perfect lately. No one is sure any longer who is going to win this planet, and my informants—rightly, I should say—want to make sure they come out on the victorious side. There’s no profit in doing otherwise. Something we taught them, I’m sure.”