Redliners(48)

He was glad he was working with Glasebrook. He'd never seen the Flea lose his temper. Abbado's own disposition—usually balanced enough when he was sober—had gotten pretty frayed since the Spook bit him.

As soon as the strikers near the ship had their brainstems taped, Major Farrell had swapped them with the squads on the perimeter. When all the strikers were protected, the ones now with the ship had been tasked to take care of the civilians. They worked in pairs: one with the knife, the other to hold the civilian's head still during the rough-and-ready barbering. A twitch at the wrong time and a powerknife could take a head off as easy as it did the hair.

The woman moaned softly and obeyed, sweeping her hair in front of her face in a veil of the greatest delicacy. An insect sat like a tiny scab at the base of her skull.

The civilian behind her gasped and felt his own neck again. Abbado held his finger across his lips and scowled to keep the fellow from blurting something. He thumbed the powerknife live. Glasebrook took the woman's head between spread fingers that could crush walnuts.

Abbado sheared the back of the woman's scalp and the bug lurking there in the same swift, smooth motion. Severed hair trailed away as black gossamer. Abbado rubbed the shaven area with the edge of his right hand to smear off any remnants of the insect, then put the prepared square of cargo tape over it.

"There you go, ma'am," Glasebrook said as he raised the woman to meet his bright smile. "When we get where it's safe, you can take the tape off and your hair'll be just as pretty as ever in no time."

"Yeah," said Abbado. "The adhesive dissolves in alcohol and the tape falls off without you feeling it a bit."

And if you believe that, I'll try you on "I won't come in your mouth."

Aloud he said to the following man, "Next?"

Abbado would have liked to hurry things because the line was still damned long, but he knew that wouldn't work with civilians. He only hoped that the bugs took longer to get dug in than the strikers did to cover the brainstems. He didn't want some pretty girl to nut on him the way that Spook had.



A pair of fuel-air grenades went off fifty yards away. Strikers were blowing a firebreak to keep the plasma-lighted blaze from spreading toward the ship. A pebble thrown from the explosions bounced off Farrell's helmet, sounding like a gunshot. It didn't hurt him, but even Lundie and the manager started at the noise.

"We're going to get a storm," Top said, looking southward past the transport's nose. "Well, maybe it'll cool things down. Not that I'm counting on it."

Kuznetsov stood beside the staffer flying the aircar and called, "Everything checks out. Sir, are we clear to go?"

"When Mr. al-Ibrahimi gives you clearance," Farrell said. Strike Force companies were used to operating as a law unto themselves. Farrell didn't usually have a superior on the ground; but this time he did, and his strikers shouldn't imply that nothing a civilian said mattered.

"Sir, perhaps you should go instead of me," Lundie said. "The danger here probably is greater than—"

"There's more than enough danger for everyone on BZ 459, Tamara," al-Ibrahimi said. The tight-lipped blonde flinched as though al-Ibrahimi had whipped her across the face. It was the first time Farrell had heard him interrupt his aide. "The sooner the expedition removes to the proper site, the better off we'll be. Please proceed with your duties."

"Yes sir," Lundie said. She turned to Suares and added in a louder but still wooden voice, "Councillor, we're going now."

Suares stood hand in hand with a plumpish woman of his own age, shorter than the councillor by ten inches as well as being soft in contrast to his gaunt angularity. They looked as though they belonged together nonetheless.

Councillor Suares bent and pecked a kiss on the woman's cheek. "Be careful while I'm gone, my dear," he said.

She patted the back of his hand. "You be careful, Joao," she said. "Don't forget where you are and go wandering around by yourself."

"Sir?" said Top Daye. "The building superintendent wants to know if we can give her some strikers to manhandle heavy gear out of the ship. She doesn't have the people to do it, not with it tilting like it is."

The super, a stout woman with hairy arms named Rifkind, glared at Farrell in gloomy irritation. Two of her staffers watched from the hatchway.

Al-Ibrahimi heard the exchange. "No," he said. "The colonists will supply the manpower. Major Farrell and his personnel are here for what we can't provide for ourselves, protection."

The aircar lifted into a hover, then turned and headed north in a gradual climb. Lieutenant Kuznetsov waved back to the strikers on the ground.