Ballistic (The Palladium Wars)

do it,” Idina said and surreptitiously flexed her right hand. She was a soldier, not a police officer, and most of the time she found police work boring and frustratingly restrictive. But chasing down live quarry was one of the few exciting activities of this assignment. The adrenaline rush from the threat of impending conflict made her feel awake and alive. It was the challenge of the chase more than the tussle at the end that gave her enjoyment. Too few of the belligerent Gretians she had fought during an arrest had any direct experience with Palladians, and they always overestimated their own abilities against a short, stocky woman who was used to living under 20 percent higher gravity than they did. Fighting them was never a challenge, but she always enjoyed seeing the look of astonished surprise on the face of some young Gretian hothead after getting put on his ass by a woman who was two heads shorter.

Dahl put the gyrofoil down on the square, drawing a few curious looks from passersby. There was a fountain nearby that sprayed changing water patterns into the air, something that would have been a scandalous waste of water on every other world in the system. The mist from the sprayers permeated the air above the square. Idina climbed out of the gyrofoil and enjoyed the sensation of cool humidity on her face.

“Here we go,” Dahl said. She had left her helmet on, something she rarely did on patrol because she felt it depersonalized her and encouraged conflict escalation. In the beginning, Idina had entertained the idea of patrolling without a helmet, but the bombing a few months prior had dissipated the notion completely. To her, planning to put on a helmet only when trouble required it was like flying in a gyrofoil without a safety harness and planning to buckle up just before a crash. Dahl wore her green police bodysuit as always, but now it was reinforced with ballistic armor on her chest, back, and shoulders.

Idina was in full light scout armor, tinted dark blue and emblazoned with “JSP” and MILITARY POLICE. It wasn’t the most comfortable setup in the summer heat even with the built-in cooling system, but it would keep out bullets and shrapnel, and Idina had learned long ago that it was impossible to predict when those would start flying.

“I don’t like it when guns are in play,” Dahl said, echoing the sentiment of Idina’s thoughts. “It never ends well. Somebody ruins a life one way or the other. Theirs or someone else’s.”

They crossed the intersection and turned onto Eleventh Street. Overhead, the drone kept watch, silently and invisibly, transmitting a visual stream to Idina’s helmet display. The street was not as busy as she would have liked, not enough people for her and Dahl to disappear among. But it didn’t matter. The suspect in the blue bodysuit and the white thermal vest was walking toward them, looking at a comtab screen projection as he rushed down Eleventh. He was close enough for Idina to make out his face: a young man, short and slender, with a fashionable asymmetrical haircut that was colored stark white and wearing a wraparound sun visor. He could have been any of the kids they usually chased off the front steps of the Sandvik vactrain station on a weekend night. Idina maintained her casual pace, trying to pretend that she wasn’t walking with a purpose. If they got close enough to rush him, they could secure him before he could draw his stolen gun and make things complicated for everyone. Eleventh Street wasn’t very crowded, but there were still plenty of people around, and Idina didn’t like the idea of having to fire her weapon here. Even with the aim assist of her suit, rounds could miss their target, or overpenetrate it and strike someone who didn’t need to get shot. Out in the field as an infantry trooper, she’d rarely had to think about things like collateral damage or restrain her firepower for fear of hitting the wrong target. The AI in her armor wouldn’t let her fire on a friendly accidentally, and all the people on her side had their own armor, which would deflect stray rounds and ricochets.

And that’s why soldiers don’t make good police officers, she thought.

“Eighty meters,” Dahl said, with her head turned pointedly to the side as if she were merely looking at the food stand they were passing instead of tracking their target. “Do you see anyone who might be walking with him as rear guard?”

Idina studied the live overhead footage from the drone again. It was strange to see Dahl and herself from this perspective, like unsuspecting targets in the crosshairs of a missile strike.

“I don’t think so. Can’t rule it out, though.”

“When we make contact, I will secure him quickly and you will stand guard,” Dahl said.

“You got it,” Idina replied. Her brain didn’t like to concede the possibility that anyone on this street could be working in tandem with their suspect. In this setting, the other side didn’t wear uniforms or armor, so anyone could be on the suspect’s team, and she wouldn’t know it until they started drawing fire. For a moment, she considered telling Dahl to back off and call in the JSP’s quick-reaction team. But that would be an overwhelming and very public show of force, overkill for what was most likely just a single armed and unaware suspect, and they were too far along in the original plan already.

“Fifty meters,” Dahl said. The suspect’s attention was still absorbed by the contents of his comtab screen. He was striding along briskly but without unusual haste. His step had the slight swagger common to young men in every culture. The thermal vest he was wearing to mitigate the summer heat showed no sign of the gun he was likely hiding underneath, no telltale bulge, no muzzle poking out from beneath the lower hem.

The suspect looked up. The pace