Rogue(3)
“So? There are others who can do that.”
I was forcing him to be honest and open, and he hated it.
“You, because, it’s got to be utterly silent. He certainly has friends back here, so anything we plan will be compromised. You can do it with cash and never be seen. No one knows you exist.”
“You really know how to fuck a guy.” Once again, I was the only tool who could do the job, and it was my duty, etc.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it. He killed one tracker already.”
“Really. Anyone I know? Anyone I should care about?”
This wasn’t going how he wanted it to. I’d changed, and he had no hold on me anymore. He actually said, “Please—”
I cut him off. “Resources?”
“Cash. The rest I don’t want to know about.”
I leaned back and casually said, “So, I can nuke a city to get him?
“You know better than that.” He actually grinned. I was so furious I wanted to kill him right there.
“You better spell it out.”
“Yes, I want you to kill him. Be certain he’s dead. Minimize casualties.”
“Not bring him in alive?”
“Do you think you can?”
“Not if he doesn’t want to, no.”
“We can’t trust his word, he has to be an object lesson.”
“Yeah, you’re fond of those. Have you noticed yet that they’re not working? Not Mtali. Earth just hates us and is still arguing to incorporate us. Think this’ll stop anyone who really wants to freelance?”
My voice was getting loud.
There wasn’t much he could say, so he didn’t. He was right this time, though. I hoped.
I asked, “No support at all?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I need Special Projects support—ID, devices, et cetera.”
“I can’t spare a team. It would be too obvious to pull one.”
I shook my head. “I want one person only. Preferably female so we look like a nondescript couple.” Why did that disturb me? “Must be good at ID, weapons, electronics. Very good. If I’m doing this alone, I’ll need lots of gear fast.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I haven’t agreed to do it yet.” It made sense. But he was involved. That made me leery.
“We need you. This guy has killed thirty-seven people on a bunch of planets, and sooner or later his background will come out. That risks our other troops.”
Yeah, that was the assessment I had. Eventually, we’d all get slimed.
“You knew that would get me. Asshole.”
“Yes, I am. But I need it done and you’re the only one who can handle it.”
My tactical brain already knew how to run it. I wanted to make him reconsider, though. Both agenda overlapped.
“I want five mil in cash up front.”
“Done,” he said with a nod.
Asshole. So I ended the interview.
“Then get out of here and don’t come back.”
He placed a card down on my desk, turned and left. He was really serious about needing me.
As he reached the door, I called, “Naumann.”
He turned.
I knew the answer, but I had to ask. “Did Deni . . . ?”
He did sound gentle when he said, “I’m very sorry. No, she did not survive the attack on your safehouse.”
I’d known that was the case, but I still winced. I wondered how long he’d practiced for that, too.
“I’ll have her personal effects delivered.”
He gave me a moment to refuse, and I didn’t. He turned and left.
In the decade since the War, I’d tried hard not to think about it. Now it all came back in a cascading storm of emotion and pain.
Most of my friends were dead. Lots of innocent Earthies were dead. So were a few guilty ones. I’d watched entire cities burn, first from my instigation, then from the frightened animal instincts of the residents. They lost power, communication, supply, the things that kept industrial creatures human. Then they beat, raped, burned, killed, trashed their own cities.
When I was young, I could convince myself I was “better.” But that all depends on context. I was faster, stronger, much better at problem solving, but when it comes down to it, my contribution to my species is my daughter. My contribution to my society is its continued existence, and a good many millions of other troops and civilians did as much, in their own way.
I’d reread my journal once. I noticed it had little mention of other troops. Part of that was because I didn’t want to dwell on dead friends, but part was also because I was an asocial little fuck. Then I’d been forced to watch the repercussions of my actions, and realized I deserved to die. Even if the attack was justified, and I could argue that both ways, for me to survive wasn’t moral. I was too dangerous to be allowed to live, and the burning hatred I feel when I remember is more than anyone should stand. If I’d been tried as a war criminal, I’d have demanded they kill me, to be merciful.