Duty, Honor, Planet

He was a short, broad-shouldered man, dressed in work clothes and a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed a hard, craggy face and deep-set dark eyes. His beard and salt-and-pepper hair were cut short and neat, and his whole bearing suggested discipline and control. With a start, McKay realized that the man reminded him of the Snake. Now that was a scary thought.

“Jorge, Carmella!” Val ran toward them, sweeping them both into a warm embrace. “You both look wonderful! It’s so good to see you!”

“Gracias, senorita Valerie,” Jorge said. “It is good to see you as well.” His eyes flashed at McKay and the others.

“Where are the children?” Val asked, looking around for them. “Are they well?”

“Si, Valerie,” Carmella answered. “They are visiting neighbors. We hoped to get them back in time to see you, but…”

“It’s all right,” Val assured her, smiling through her disappointment. “Jorge, Carmella,” she introduced, “this is Glen Mulrooney, my fiance.”

“Senor Mulrooney.” Jorge Mendoza shook the man’s hand. He glanced back at the stranger hesitantly, and Jason could have sworn that the man nodded at Jorge, as if giving him permission to tell the others his name. “This is Senor Carlos Gomez,” he said. “A leader in our community. He wished to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure, Ms. O’Keefe,” Gomez said in unaccented English. “I have much appreciated the work you have done for our people.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gomez,” she acknowledged. “I try to do what little I can.”

“Please, senorita,” Jorge said, “would you come inside and sit down with us?”

“Ms. O’Keefe,” McKay interrupted, “if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to have my people at least sweep the house with the scanners first.”

“Lieutenant McKay,” she snapped, spinning on him with a glare, “how many times do I have to tell you that the Mendozas are my friends?”

“Senorita,” Jorge spoke up. “It’s all right. We will not mind.”

“Well…” She didn’t like it, but if it would keep McKay quiet… “All right,” she acquiesced. “But make it quick.”

“Vinnie, Jock,” Jason ordered, “go inside and run a quick scan—sonic and metal detection.”

The two sergeants slung their shoulder weapons, pulled compact hand scanners out of the cargo pockets of their fatigue pants and headed into the farmhouse. The hand-held devices weren’t perfect, but they could pick up a human heartbeat and detect metallic weapons; it didn’t seem too likely that anyone out here would be able to get their hands on the polymer weapons used by military forces and police; but, at any rate, the chemscan that would have detected them would have required a much longer process with heavier equipment, which was more than O’Keefe was willing to allow.

While the two NCO’s scanned the buildings, Crossman started a slow patrol of the perimeter—without having to be told, McKay was glad to see—and the others waited uncomfortably in the intense heat. Of the O’Keefe party, only Valerie was dressed for the weather: she wore khaki shorts and a tan, long-sleeved shirt, plus a brimmed hat, similar garb to Shannon’s, although filled out in different places. Glen was in a short sleeved pullover shirt and slacks, which was going to leave him with a good sunburn on his pale arms, McKay thought; and the RHN cameraman was dressed likewise, while the governor’s representative, a short, slimy little man named Eberhard, wore a completely inappropriate business suit. That alone spoke volumes about how often the governor’s people got out into the Wastes, McKay mused. Tanaka, not surprisingly, was still in his standard black slacks and long- sleeved shirt, but the glare of Tau Ceti seemed to affect him as much as McKay’s temper had the night before; the only concession he made to it was a pair of mirrored sunglasses.

“How can anyone grow a damned thing in this God-awful heat?” Glen wondered, tugging at his collar.

“Genetically-engineered seed,” Valerie explained to him, surprising Jason with her knowledge. “It can grow with very little water, and its cycle’s adjusted to match the planet’s seasons. They provided each colonist an allotment of it, but it’s very expensive.”

“It is hard to afford to buy extra seed,” Jorge agreed. “We have enough to eat, now, but it was hard for a long time.”

“Sir.” Vinnie emerged from one of the outbuildings with Jock on his heels. “It’s clean, as far as these toys can tell.”

“Are you satisfied now?” Valerie asked McKay, not without a bit of disdain.

“Satisfied’s such a big word,” McKay muttered, stepping past her through the open door of the farmhouse. Tugging his sunglasses off and hanging them from his T-shirt, Jason looked around him.

The place was fairly roomy, which made its lack of furnishings even more glaring. The dining room table was built into the wall, but the rest of the furniture was either cheap, throwaway plastic or hand-built from local scrapwood. Cloth curtains partitioned the inside of the geodesic dome into the dining/living room area, a kitchen, and three small bedrooms; the only built-in internal doors were the ones to the storage closets. It was neatly kept, Jason admitted, though the ventilation wasn’t much to speak of and the unmistakable stench of human body odor filled the place.

Turning back to the door, Jason saw the Mendozas, Guzman, O’Keefe, Tanaka and the RHN reporter file in behind him. Shannon, as they had planned, would stay outside and keep a link open through the flitter’s radio to Kennedy, just in case. Why the governor’s rep had chosen to stay outside, McKay didn’t know—maybe the man didn’t consider smalltalk with the peasants to be part of his duties. Or maybe it was the smell that kept him out.

“Please, sit down,” Carmella invited them, waving at the dining room table: actually, a buildfoam booth that extended out from the wall, just beneath the window.

Jason waited for the Mendozas, Val and Glen to take a seat before he situated himself across from Guzman —he wanted to keep an eye on the man. Tanaka and the RHN cameraman both remained standing, the reporter setting up at a good angle for filming and the bodyguard taking a vantage point against the wall to the side of the table.

“So, Jorge, Carmella,” Val asked them, “have you managed to dig a well yet?”

Jorge shook his head. “Not as yet. The ground is too hard and the water too deep. We need to rent digging equipment, but we cannot afford enough seed to grow enough crops to make the money to rent it.”

“The multicorps have plenty of equipment for their mines and farms,” Gomez spoke up with a note of anger in his voice—yet McKay somehow got the impression that the words were rehearsed. “But we exiles are kept down, digging in the dirt with our hands while they lounge in their plantation houses, with their slaves catering to them, like medieval barons. How ironic that the Republic government, with its roots in the United States, has turned its back on the revolutionary ideals which founded that nation.” He glared at McKay. “Do you know that with the funds spent on shipping emigrants to the star colonies, a city the size of one of your Western megalopolises could have been built to house more than twice the number of indigents who have been sent to the colonies? But that would mean admitting that the problem is poverty and not ideology—and it wouldn’t give the multicorporations a ready and helpless work force.”

“You seem like a very well educated man, Mr. Gomez,” McKay observed. “How the hell did you end up here?” That earned him a nasty look from Valerie, but he was becoming inured to those by now.

“Nineteenth in my graduating class at UCLA, Mr. McKay” he replied, with something in the way of self- satisfaction in his voice smoothly replacing the righteous indignation as if it had never been. “Or is it Captain McKay?”

“Lieutenant,” Jason informed him, trying not to show the trepidation that was beginning to gnaw at his guts.

“I had everything,” Gomez went on, “that modern society could provide: a professorship at the University of the Americas, a real house away from the conditioned boxes of the cities, a family. But I was willing to risk it all to become politically active in my homeland of Panama, to try to bring justice to those less fortunate than I.”

“This particular brand of ‘political’ activity,” Jason surmised, surreptitiously slipping his right hand inside his open overshirt and letting it drift toward the butt of his shoulder-holstered pistol, “wouldn’t happen to be the Panamanian Liberation Front, would it, Mr. Gomez?”

“For the sake of argument, Lieutenant,” Gomez said with a wave of his hand, his smile much too confident for