Redliners(27)

Farrell shrugged. "Life has risks," he said. Some of his people worried more about transport than they did about what the Spooks had waiting at the far end, but it'd never particularly bothered him.

"Tamara's organizing the colonists into skill groups, but she'll be back shortly," the manager said. "I'll have her download full data on BZ 459 so that you and your company will know what you'll be facing after we land. Or I can do that myself, if you'd like?"

"We've got a week and a half," Farrell said. "I don't guess another hour's going to make any difference."

He cleared his throat, wondering how to get out what he'd come to ask. This was the first time he'd talked—really talked—to the manager.

"One advantage of the unusual makeup of the Bezant 459 colony," al-Ibrahimi said, "is that we have four fully-trained MDs. We don't have the equipment that would be available on a developed world, but we're far better off than the normal run of Population Authority initiatives."

"Look, sir," Farrell said abruptly. "You could have C41 relieved immediately as the security detail, right? You've got that power?"

"Yes I do," al-Ibrahimi said. "I could send a message capsule to the base at Varnum, approximately a day and a half from BZ 459. I would expect it to take the base commander a day to arrange for the personnel and transport, then three days for a full-sized vessel to make the return trip."

Al-Ibrahimi touched a control on his desk and nodded approval at whatever the database told him. He returned his attention to Farrell, smiled mildly, and said, "I have no intention of doing anything of the sort, however. I'm extremely pleased with the way your company has performed."

Al-Ibrahimi's eyes were an unusually deep blue. Farrell had found it disquieting when the manager watched the display while looking toward him. The weight of al-Ibrahimi's direct gaze was uncomfortable, though the fellow was perfectly calm.

"Sir, I appreciate you saying that," Farrell said. Only as the words came out did he appreciate how true they were.

Mostly in the Strike Force—in life, Farrell suspected, though life wasn't something he claimed to be an authority on—praise was a gruff, "Nice job!" Followed with a tougher mission the next time to prove the statement was sincere. Al-Ibrahimi sounded like he meant it, and it was important to him that Farrell knew he meant it.

"The thing is, sir," Farrell said, "we really need a stand-down. I suppose somebody at Regiment thought that's what he was doing, pulling C41 out of combat and letting my people, you know, relax."

"I don't think BZ 459 is going to be very relaxing, Major," al-Ibrahimi said. In a funny way, the manager struck Farrell as having a striker's personality. The man looking over that desk had the right focus on mission, the willingness to do whatever it took to achieve the objective. "Compared to one of your normal insertions, perhaps; but that's a relatively short period of time, whereas you'll be on BZ 459 for at least six months."

"Sir," Farrell said. Al-Ibrahimi hadn't gone through the roof when Farrell made the request, but Farrell no longer thought there was a snowball's chance in hell that the manager was going to pull C41 from the project. He hoped he wasn't whining, but he had to make this cold man understand. "It's not us I'm worried about, it's your people."

He shook his head and continued, "Look, I—shit, I love my strikers if the word means anything at all. But they're tight, really tight since the last mission. I'm afraid something's going to happen, somebody's going to nut and, you know, hurt a bunch of civilians. Hurt them bad."

He rubbed his forehead with the tips of all eight fingers. He could see it like it had already happened: a striker standing over a dozen bodies sprawled in a circle of guts and blood and scraps of bone. The only thing the image lacked was the striker's face. It could be anybody, God help them all. Up to and including the company commander.

"We shouldn't be around where people don't . . . understand what we're like, sir," Farrell said. He met al-Ibrahimi's still blue eyes. "We're not, not the way civilians mean it. We're not really human anymore."

"I'm also concerned about my people, as you put it, Major," al-Ibrahimi said calmly. "I appreciate the risks to all concerned rather better than you think I do. If I didn't believe that the risks were justified by the benefits of the colony having C41 as its security element, I wouldn't have accepted your assignment in the first place."

Farrell braced to attention. "Yessir," he said to a point beyond the manager's right ear. "I'll return to my strikers then, sir. You'll find C41 ready to carry out its responsibilities insofar as humanly possible."