Redliners(54)

"I'm also concerned about the natural environment," al-Ibrahimi added. "While BZ 459 was clearly going to be a difficult location for a colony, the biota we've encountered in this crater is far more dangerous than survey data suggested for the planet as a whole. I believe the risk of waiting here until a rescue vessel arrives is greater than the risk of cutting our way out of the crater as quickly as possible."

"Better to stay a moving target," Farrell said before he remembered that he wasn't talking to other strikers. He cleared his throat and went on, "My lead scout says the whole jungle's alive and gunning for us."

"Of course it's—" Reitz said. "Oh. Consciously alive."

Farrell shrugged, wishing that he'd kept his mouth shut. "Blohm's been pretty close to the edge since the last operation. He's, I mean, I trust him, but I don't say his head's in a good place."

"There are twenty-seven colonists who refuse to leave the ship," Lundie said, looking unblinkingly at Lock.

"I'm going to talk to Margaret," Lock said abruptly. He stood and walked away from the group. "This is my problem to solve."

"Sir?" Farrell said to the project manager. "Do you have any idea what the Spooks are doing here? I never heard of them planting a base this far inside the human sphere."

There were a lot of things the Unity command didn't tell strikers. Spook soldiers in places the Unity couldn't afford Spooks to be, though—that was something the Strike Force was going to hear about pretty damn quick.

Lundie and al-Ibrahimi exchanged glances. "That isn't information which would be available to the Population Authority," the aide said. "I don't believe that the highest levels of the Unity administration would have authorized this colony had there been any knowledge of Kalendru penetration of this region."

Manager al-Ibrahimi nodded. "President Reitz," he said. "Councillor Lock is right that there will be objections to leaving. Please gather your deck monitors tonight and emphasize to them that no one will be permitted to remain behind. Our only chance of survival is to march to safety."

"I'll tell them," Reitz said. "We understand this isn't a democracy. But there'll be a lot of anger. And perhaps some rebellion."

"Rebellion will be ended by force if necessary," Lundie said. "They must understand that."

"They should be angry," al-Ibrahimi said. "They've been treated very unjustly. The citizens and your personnel both, Major Farrell. But we are going to act in the fashion that gives us the best chance of survival in the situation where we find ourselves."

"It's no use arguing with facts," Farrell said. "Sir, do you need me further just now? I'd like to check with my first sergeant on the munitions we're loading. I want to be ready to go in the morning."

"Of course," al-Ibrahimi said. "And see to it that you get some sleep yourself. We'll need you as alert as possible if we're to survive."

"I'll go with you, Major," Lundie said. She stood, then wobbled before catching her balance. "I want to discuss the alert system with you and Sergeant Daye, since I'll be monitoring the sensors of your personnel."

They walked toward the tandem-hitched trailers near the ship. Too near the ship, Farrell thought, because the hull might kick back if the ship fell. Still, it eased loading the heavy cases of ammo and explosives.

Life was a series of tradeoffs. Until you died.

Lundie stumbled again. "Are you going to be all right, ma'am?" Farrell asked. "That's a pretty bad wound, and . . ."

"The wound itself isn't serious, except that it handicaps me when using a keyboard," Lundie said. "Unfortunately the vine was covered with fine hairs, some of which broke off in the skin all over my arm. They're too small to remove. As they dissolve they release psychoactive chemicals."

She looked at Farrell and went on, "Generally this is a low-order problem, but I'm concerned that I might have a psychotic episode at any time. It gives you and me something in common, I suppose."

Farrell blinked at what she'd just said. Then he laughed harder than he remembered doing in years.

"Ma'am," he said at last. "You know, you're screwy enough to be a striker? But I think you're too fucking smart."



A civilian walked toward the plastic sheet on which 3-3 sat in darkness. Horgen hissed a warning. Abbado took the bladder of whiskey from Glasebrook and put it under the tunic lying beside him. If there was a problem, it was his squad and his problem.

"Excuse me?" said Dr. Ciler's familiar voice. "I'm looking for Striker Methie in the Third Squad?"