March To The Sea

fashioned, muscle-powered weaponry in reserve.

For himself, Roger suspected that he would never have bothered to try to overcome the all but insuperable difficulties involved with the use of loose-powder, muzzle-loading weapons on a planet like Marduk. But the locals had managed it, and he had no desire at all to see what a two-centimeter pistol ball would do to one of his people, so if it did come to a fight, he was determined that the company would have the upper hand from the start. That was why Aburia's team was busy planting explosives throughout the camp; if the barbarians didn't surrender, the plan was to back off and blow them in place.

Roger and his team froze as a figure stepped out of one of the huts. The small buildings of the mining facility were made of rock rubble from the mine shafts, but their doors were nothing more than hide flaps, and the Mardukan's exit had been silent. One moment, the street was empty—the next the scummy was in clear view. Despite the darkness, they would be spotted in an instant if he looked around, and the entire plan would be blown.

The barbarian scratched at a dried patch on his arm and snarled. Then he relieved himself on the side of the hut, and went back in.

Roger breathed a silent sigh of relief and continued onward. He detoured slightly to get away from the restless barbarian's hut and cut between two of the rough buildings.

His team ended up behind the hut of the mercenary leader and crept around to its front. Roger consulted his helmet systems and looked around. Aburia's team was nearly done placing their explosives, but not quite, so he held in place to give them a bit more time. The squad headed for the gates was already in position and hadn't been spotted as they set up for an ambush. Their only job was to make sure that the Mardukans at the gates didn't come to the aid of their compatriots when Roger's squad hit the main encampment. If the plan went off without a hitch, their presence would never even be noticed.

Roger consulted the demo schematic and his toot clock again. The charges were emplaced, and Aburia had pulled her team back to provide cover if the entry team needed it. And if that wasn't enough, Roger had a hole card.

He'd lost out on the argument over who went through the door first. Actually, it would have been fairer to say that there'd never been anything which might properly have been called an 'argument' in the first place. Pahner might have delegated field command to 'Captain Sergei,' but there were definite limits to the freedom Roger was permitted in the risk-taking department, and so he waved Julian forward, instead.

The squad leader smiled and waved in turn to Gronningen, who stepped forward quietly and pushed the flap aside. Julian followed him through, and Roger entered behind the NCO. The hut was larger than most, and had a few appointments, including a writing desk, but it was still basically a hovel. Roger shook his head and stepped over to the still-sleeping scummy leader as the team fanned out to cover the other scummies in the room. Two of them were women, but the humans were taking no chances and made certain that all of the Mardukans were covered.

Once they were, Roger bent until his helmet was pointed at the barbarian's face, and triggered the helmet light.

* * *

Rastar Komas Ta'Norton of the Vasin, Prince of Therdan, stared up into the light, and all four hands filled with the knives that were his trademark. But he'd hardly moved when he encountered the hard shape of what could only be a gun barrel pressing into his chest. He wasn't sure, because the light in his eyes was the brightest he'd ever seen in his life, but it was unlikely to be anything else.

'Do you want to live?' a disembodied and very peculiar-sounding voice asked from beyond the light. 'Or do you want to die, and have your entire tribe die with you?'

'What's the difference?' Rastar snarled. 'You'll kill us all anyway. Or make us slaves. Kill us now. At least that's freedom, of a sort.'

'Death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than mountains,' the voice, which sounded like no Mardukan Rastar had ever heard, said. 'Yet we take up the burden of duty, do we not? I have been given permission to spare you and your tribe if you surrender and leave. You may even retain your weapons. You simply have to pack up and go, taking with you nothing but what you arrived with. If you are in the Vale of Ran Tai at sunset of this day, your lives are forfeit. Your call.'

Rastar considered the knives. He was certain he could kill this one, but there were other lights, other guns, and he couldn't kill his women, his tribe. It was the last duty he had, and he could not drop it, even when death beckoned so seductively.

'We keep our weapons?' he asked suspiciously.

'Yes,' said the voice. 'However, if you try to double-cross us, we'll be forced to kill you all.'

'No.' The chieftain sighed and put his knives on the floor. 'No, we won't double-cross you. Have this foul valley, and more power to you.'

* * *

Things were still going too smoothly.

Roger watched the Vasin filing out of their huts and gathering in the central square. He had his own squad moving about in an intricate, flowing pattern that gave the impression he had forces everywhere, when the barbarians actually outnumbered him by three to one, in hopes of keeping things smooth. In fact, the mercenaries outnumbered the force that he had in the camp itself by nearly ten to one, and he congratulated himself, in a modest sort of way, on how well the op had gone down.

Of course, he admitted, it had nearly gone the other way. Roger had been terrified by the speed with which the Mardukan had reacted—those knives had seemed to teleport into the chieftain's hands, and he'd had them out and ready before Roger could even blink. If the Mardukan had decided to start the ball, the Empire would have been short one fortunately disposable prince. It had been a sobering experience.

The Vasin's equipment was much better made and finished than Roger had expected, but their nomad background was obvious, for they were packed before Roger had imagined they could even get started. Their civan were lined up to leave in less than ten minutes, and Roger approached the chief, Rastar, and nodded.

'It's better this way,' he said.

'I hope you won't mind, but if we actually get out of this valley alive, we're planning on being out of the Vale before dawn,' the Mardukan told him with a grunt of laughter.

'Not at all,' Roger said. 'You're not terribly popular. Just one question,' he added. The Marines had watched the packing with an eagle eye, and he knew the Mardukans hadn't packed any large amounts of gold and silver. 'Where's the shipment?'

'Your guess is as good as mine, basik,' the chieftain told him. 'They keep talking about their 'shipment,' but we've never understood why. There's no large store of metals here.' The chief gestured to a heavily built stone shack near a worked-out, abandoned mine shaft. 'That's the storehouse. It was empty when we arrived.'

'What?'

'Hah!' the chieftain grunted. 'Let me guess—that was your pay.'

'Yes!' the prince snarled. 'What happened to it?'

'As I said,' the barbarian said in a voice which held a sudden hint of dangerous ice, 'it was gone when we arrived here. We don't know what happened to it.'

'Sir,' Sergeant Major Kosutic put in, 'they didn't load it, and there's no way out of the valley, so they didn't carry it out after they got here. Either it left before they arrived, or else it's still here somewhere.'

'Shit,' Roger said. 'Okay, Rastar, you can leave. Pick up your guards on the way out. If you try to come back, I might just get pissed.'

'Not as pissed as I am, Lord Sergei,' the Mardukan told him. 'But for whatever comfort it's worth, I've always heard that the life of a mercenary generally consists of getting stuck with the sword of the paymaster far more often than with the swords of the enemy. From my own limited experience, that's putting it mildly.'

He tossed his head in a Mardukan nod, walked over to his civan, and climbed into the saddle. In moments, the Vasin column was gone.

'All right, Sergeant Major,' Roger sighed wearily. 'Let's tear this place apart. Find our gold.'

'Yes, Sir,' the sergeant major said. But she already had a sinking feeling.