Disguised and watching the mob loot another apartment tower as the displaced families hustled away into the gathering dusk with the night’s desert wind coming on, Puncher had to bend down and whisper to the agitated dog whose big brown eyes watched the scene on the street with a mix of concern and anger.
“It’s okay, boy,” whispered Puncher over subvocal. “Let this go. We’re looking for her. Just find her.”
The Reaper’s pilot had given Puncher one of the marine sniper’s T-shirts. Puncher now held it under Baldur’s muzzle like a dirty rag, perfect for their disguise, to remind the dog what their mission was.
But Baldur wasn’t having any of it. The dog wanted to get involved. It knew a bad pack when it saw it.
And then the dog’s mind came through to Puncher’s loud and clear.
This is bad. This isn’t good.
Baldur whined and beat his tail against the dirty street.
“I know, boy,” soothed Puncher. “But we’re here for someone else. We’re here for her… and our brothers.”
Baldur whined again and gave a little growl as the mob began to break up furniture in the street. They would light it for their fire for the night. Other people’s things would serve. For just tonight.
“Plus, we’re homeless, boy,” Puncher reminded him. “Won’t do for us to go in there and fix things.”
The dog came back with…
What that?
Puncher thought about it for a moment. How to describe their camouflage to the dog. After inserting on the rooftop, Puncher had deployed a standard hostile urban area operations disguise, covering his armor in an old coat—specifically constructed in handler school as part of the course and testing—and greasy old rags. A tent-like canvas poncho covered all this and the SAB he was strapping. His bucket was obscured by a large desert tribesman’s head scarf. He’d even put a bandana and a ragged leather collar around Baldur, despite some protestation. But he hadn’t explained to the dog why. Baldur had made it clear on many occasions that he thought humans were strange.
“Nomad,” whispered Puncher. “We’re nomads.”
The dog seemed to understand that word and again grew distracted by the injustices on the street. The wrongs it wanted to right. The comfort it wanted to give the crying children clinging to their parents.
No pack? asked the dog.
On Schwarzenwald some Malinois could become separated from their pack. These were held as either cursed, or prophets, by the other Malinois who roamed that planet alone for centuries after an early-generation colony ship had gone down there, killing all its human crew. They were packless. There was nothing worse for a Malinois.
“No,” said Puncher, rubbing the dog’s fur-covered chest. “We’re here to find our pack. Find her. Find our own.”
The dog suddenly raised its head high and paced about, smelling at the smoke-laden wind. Seeking.
This way. Maybe.
“Good boy. Good Baldur. Let’s find her now.”
And they were off into the gloom of the gathering night. Just a homeless wanderer and his only friend. Looking for something no one bothered to ask after.
Looking for their pack.
16
It was early evening by the time Rechs made it back to the David Sanford’s bar. The old bartender, the owner, was still there. His face red. His gray hair combed. Slicked back like they used to do it when he was young. The same constant news cycle, whose facts clashed with the actual events on Detron. Reporting that House of Reason junior delegate Syl Hamachi-Roi had departed to the system on an urgent fact-finding mission.
She would only make things worse, Rechs thought as he tried to put his plan in order. It would be tougher once she got here. And things were already out of hand and getting crazier.
He sat at the bar once more, and the old guy appeared with another pale draft fresh from the tap.
“You’re back for somethin’,” he mumbled as he wiped the bar and watched the other customers. “Been around the concourse long enough to know trouble when it comes lookin’. No offense, mister, but trouble and you are well acquainted by my guess. Don’t mean nothin’ derogatory by that. Sometimes that’s a good thing.”
Rechs smiled and took a sip of the beer. “I need to get into the city without being noticed.”
“That so?” the old man asked, leaning against the counter and inviting Rechs to speak low.
Rechs nodded. “It’s so. Someone’s always got a way to run OS&D freight direct to the supplier. No customs. Know anybody that might provide that service here in the Docks?”
Rechs reached into his coat and laid down a pre-authorized credit chit. The amount shimmering across the front was enough for passage back to any of the core worlds, and then some.
The old man’s lined face was a disbelieving mask as he studied the amount on the chip.
“For your time in the navy,” Rechs said. “It takes more than one hand for me to count the number of times me or a buddy was saved by you spacers.”
More than a lot of hands. And feet. Two thousand years made for a lot of battles. A lot of deaths. A lot of buddies lost. And saved.
But the old man didn’t need to know about all that.
The man suddenly beamed and Rechs could see the young man he’d once been, proud of his uniform and service stripes. The battle hashes on the left sleeve. Young and unable to believe he’d one day be so old and out of options.
“We did indeed. Thought you was Legion.”
Rechs nodded. “Yep.”
And for a moment the old man was back there. Just a kid on an Ohio-class battleship.
“Yeah,” he said slowly, still holding the credit chit like it was the
