Rogue(77)

As soon as any decent product comes out, someone will make a knockoff. Thus it was with the crap at the store. This stuff was certainly fourth rate. I had a “field knife,” so-called because “combat knives” are illegal in NovRos. Twenty centimeters of steel is twenty centimeters of steel, as far as I’m concerned, but the people who obsess over such things will accept one and not the other. It looked a lot like the standard issue military knife, but that’s where the resemblance ended. This thing was decently constructed at least, but of third rate materials. The hilt was nylon and glass instead of boron fiber, the blade was a cheap utility steel instead of a good tool or cutlery steel. The sheath was neither a decent plastic nor fiber nor leather, but was flimsy vinyl. On a scale of one to ten, this rated perhaps a three.

The knife simply needed a molded thermoplastic sheath with a fabric liner to quiet it. That took a few segs. Sharpening it barely took longer. It was ugly, but workable. For camo, I got some old workclothes, dyed them with carbon dust and grease, then washed them with strong soap and a little bleach. They came out a mottled gray-black. Perfect.

I was ready to go hunting, or to fight back against any intrusion. This was getting closer to my preferred environment.

Silver had a place to lay out tools and upgrade the vehicle, stitch armor if we needed it. She had encrypted channels to a remote booster, which I snuck up the side of a warehouse two hundred meters away, along with a spherical eye to watch for detection.

The one really tiresome aspect of this job is always having a bail-out bag and three escape routes ready. Every time one enters a building, one has to look for ways out, and assess everyone else. If you’re not paranoid when recruited, you are within a year. I remember one time, six of us went out for lunch and had to wait for a corner booth because no one was going to sit with their back to the door. Accordingly, our seats, desk and bed all faced out.

This also meant a lot more time working, but Silver and I could rest right on the spot, and generally in shifts. There was little overlap. I found it much easier to sleep, and I don’t think it was just the distraction of Silver’s body. I’d never had a regular sleep partner, and part of it seemed to be security tension; my hindbrain never believed I was safe with someone that close. Add in the sexual tension and it had been awful. I was much, much more relaxed and rested. It’s amazing how hard some things are to notice. Maybe it’s just me.

I did make a point of going out every morning with a stack of boxes to mail. It looked like we ran some home business or other.

This probably sounds like a major tasking, but we had most of it done in a local week—seven days, not ten.

The cargo hatch of the car was something we wanted to keep hidden. We lined it with some tools and scrap to make it look like a working car, to hide the guns, knives, spare clothes both camo and suit, node scrambling and spoofing gear, and other mayhem the police wouldn’t like if they found a reason to scan us. All we needed now was a lead on Randall.





The next day, we made a patrol around the town, seeking signals, DNA traces, listening to news and getting familiar with the area. I felt good generally, but antsy.

Silver asked, “How long do you think he’ll be here?”

“Another couple of weeks. He seems to be on a cycle of about an Earth month, thirty days.”

“When does he run out of planets?”

“Yeah, there is that. He hasn’t gone too far afield yet, and Mtali seems to be an aberration. Everywhere else he’s been have been wealthy systems. Eager to get home?”

“Eager to be done,” she said, and stretched. I stared at the road. “Home would be nice. This accidental tourism isn’t fun.”

“No, it’s not. I just realized I’ve never asked. Do you have family or a relationship back home?”

“Nothing long term. Couple of guys in the unit I go out with. They won’t say anything.”

“Good,” I replied, though that wasn’t what I’d been asking about. It said a lot about me. She assumed I wanted a tactical brief. I was trying to take an interest in my subordinate’s social well-being.

She continued, “My parents and sister know I disappear for long periods on duty. I’d like to ping them via repeater, but I’m sticking to the letter of the reg. This guy is not someone to mess with.”

“Good. I’ll get you home as fast as possible. I wish I’d asked sooner.”

“Yes, you focus on yourself a lot,” she said. “Given your history, it’s probably a healthy and necessary adaptation.”

“I hope so,” I said. Except I’d been the same way before all the crap on Earth. It was just the nature of me. It’s not that I’m not interested and compassionate, but I really don’t notice other people except as resources. I do care when they get hurt, but it’s a responsive act, not a natural interest. I don’t even know if that’s environmental behavior or instinctive.