Broken Angels (4 page)

“You're not doing them any favors, making them think men in uniform aren't all bad,” I said quietly.

Schneider cut me a curious glance and clapped his hands loudly. “That's it, guys. Get out of here. Come on, show's over.”

The children sloped off, reluctant to leave their little oasis of fun and free gifts. Schneider folded his arms and watched them go, face unreadable.

“Where'd you get those things?”

“Found them in the hold. Couple of aid packages for refugees. I guess the hospital we lifted this boat from didn't have much use for them.”

“No, they've already shot all the refugees down there.” I nodded at the departing children, now chattering excitedly over their new acquisitions. “The camp militia'll probably confiscate the lot once we're gone.”

Schneider shrugged. “I know. But I'd already given out the chocolate and painkillers. What are you going to do?”

It was a reasonable question, with a whole host of unreasonable answers. Staring at the nearest of the camp militia, I brooded on some of the bloodier options.

“Here she comes,” said Schneider, pointing. I followed the gesture and saw the sergeant, two more uniforms, and between them a slim figure with hands locked together before her. I narrowed my eyes against the sun and racked up the magnification on my neurachem-aided vision.

Tanya Wardani must have looked a lot better in her days as an archaeologue. The long-limbed frame would have carried more flesh, and she would have done something with her dark hair, maybe just washed it and worn it up. It was unlikely she would have had the fading bruises under her eyes, either, and she might even have smiled faintly when she saw us, just a twist of the long, crooked mouth in acknowledgment.

She swayed, stumbled, and had to be held up by one of her escorts. At my side, Schneider twitched forward, then stopped himself.

“Tanya Wardani,” said the sergeant stiffly, producing a length of white plastic tape printed end to end with bar-code strips and a scanner. “I'll need your ID for the release.”

I cocked a finger at the coding on my temple and waited impassively while the red light scan swept down over my face. The sergeant found the particular strip on the plastic tape that represented Wardani and turned the scanner on it. Schneider came forward and took the woman by the arm, pulling her aboard the shuttle with every appearance of brusque detachment. Wardani herself played it without a flicker of expression on her pallid face. As I was turning to follow the two of them, the sergeant called after me in a voice whose stiffness had turned suddenly brittle.

“Lieutenant.”

“Yes, what is it?” Injecting a rising impatience into my tone.

“Will she be coming back?”

I turned back in the hatchway, raising my eyebrow in the same elaborate arch that Schneider had used on me a few minutes earlier. He was way out of line, and he knew it.

“No, Sergeant,” I said, as if to a small child. “She won't be coming back. She's being taken for interrogation. Just forget about her.”

I closed the hatch.

But as Schneider spun the shuttle upward, I peered out of the viewport and saw him still standing there, buffeted by the storm of our departure.

He didn't even bother to shield his face from the dust.

CHAPTER FOUR

We flew west from the camp on grav effect, over a mixture of desert scrub and blots of darker vegetation where the planet's flora had managed to get a lock on shallow-running aquifers. About twenty minutes later we picked up the coast and headed out to sea over waters that Wedge military intelligence said were infested with Kempist smart mines. Schneider kept our speed down, subsonic the whole time. Easy to track.

I spent the early part of the flight in the main cabin, ostensibly going through a current affairs datastack that the shuttle was pulling down from one of Carrera's command satellites, but in reality watching Tanya Wardani with an Envoy-tuned eye. She sat slumped in the seat farthest from the hatch and hence closest to the right-side viewports, forehead resting against the glass. Her eyes were open, but whether she was focusing on the ground below was hard to tell. I didn't try to speak to her: I'd seen the same mask on a thousand other faces this year, and I knew she wasn't coming out from behind it until she was ready, which might be never. Wardani had donned the emotional equivalent of a vacuum suit, the only response left in the human armory when the moral parameters of the outside environment have grown so outrageously variable that an exposed mind can no longer survive unshielded. Lately, they've been calling it War Shock Syndrome, an all-encompassing term that bleakly but rather neatly puts the writing on the wall for those who would like to treat it. There may be a plethora of more or less effective psychological techniques for repair, but the ultimate aim of any medical philosophy, that of prevention rather than cure, is in this case clearly beyond the wit of humanity to implement.

To me it comes as no surprise that we're still flailing around with Neanderthal spanners in the elegant wreckage of Martian civilization without really having a clue how all that ancient culture used to operate. After all, you wouldn't expect a butcher of farm livestock to understand or be able to take over from a team of neurosurgeons. There's no telling how much irreparable damage we may have already caused to the body of knowledge and technology the Martians have unwisely left lying around for us to discover. In the end, we're not much more than a pack of jackals, nosing through the broken bodies and wreckage of a plane crash.

“Coming up on the coast,” Schneider's voice said over the intercom. “You want to get up here?”

I lifted my face away from the holographic datadisplay, flattened the datamotes to the base, and looked across at Wardani. She had shifted her head slightly at the sound of Schneider's voice, but the eyes that found the speaker set in the roof were still dulled with emotional shielding. It hadn't taken me very long to extract from Schneider the previous circumstances of his relationship with this woman, but I still wasn't sure how that would affect things now. On his own admission it had been a limited thing, abruptly terminated by the outbreak of war almost two years ago, and there was no reason to suppose it could cause problems. My own worst-case scenario was that the whole starship story was an elaborate con on Schneider's part for no other purpose than to secure the archaeologue's release and get the two of them offworld. There had been a previous attempt to liberate Wardani, if the camp commandant was to be believed, and part of me wondered if those mysteriously well-equipped commandos hadn't been Schneider's last set of dupes in the bid to reunite him with his partner. If that turned out to be the case, I was going to be angry.

Inside me, at the level where it really mattered, I didn't give the idea much credence; too many details had checked out in the time since we'd left the hospital. Dates and names were correct—there had been an archaeological dig on the coast northwest of Sauberville, and Tanya Wardani was registered as site regulator. The haulage liaison was listed as Guild Pilot Ian Mendel, but it was Schneider's face, and the hardware manifest began with the serial number and flight records of a cumbersome Mowai Ten Series suborbital. Even if Schneider had tried to get Wardani out before, it was for far more material reasons than simple affection.

And if he hadn't, then somewhere along the line someone else had been dealt into this game.

Whatever happened, Schneider would bear watching.

I closed down the datadisplay and got up, just as the shuttle banked seaward. Steadying myself with a hand on the overhead lockers, I looked down at the archaeologue.

“I'd fasten my seat belt if I were you. The next few minutes are likely to be a little rough.”

She made no response, but her hands moved in her lap. I made my way forward to the cockpit.

Schneider looked up as I entered, hands easy on the arms of the manual flight chair. He nodded at a digital display that he'd maximized near the top of the instrument projection space.

“Depth counter's still at less than five meters. Bottom shelves out for kilometers before we hit deep water. You sure those fuckers don't come in this close?”

“If they were in this close, you'd see them sticking out of the water,” I said, taking the copilot's seat. “Smart mine's not much smaller than a marauder bomb. Basically an automated mini sub. You got the set online?”

“Sure. Just mask up. Weapons systems on the right arm.”

I slid the elasticized gunner's eyemask down over my face and and touched the activate pads at the temples. A seascape in bright primaries wrapped around my field of vision, pale blue shaded deeper gray with the landscape of the seabed beneath. Hardware came through in shades of red, depending on how much it corresponded to the parameters I'd programmed in earlier. Most of it was light pink in color, inanimate alloy wreckage devoid of electronic activity. I let myself slide forward into the virtual representation of what the shuttle's sensors were seeing, forced myself to stop actively looking for anything, and relaxed the last mental millimeters into the Zen state.

Minesweeping was not something the Envoy Corps taught as such, but the total poise that only comes, paradoxically, with an utter lack of expectation was vital to the core training. A Protectorate Envoy, deployed as digitized human freight via hyperspatial needlecast, could expect to wake up to literally anything. At the very least, you habitually find yourself in unfamiliar bodies on unfamiliar worlds where people are shooting at you. Even on a good day, no amount of briefing can prepare you for a total change of environment like that, and in the invariably unstable-to-lethally-dangerous sets of circumstances the Envoys have been created to deal with, there just isn't any point.

Virginia Vidaura, Corps trainer, hands in the pockets of her coveralls, looking us over with calm speculation. Day one induction.

Since it is logistically impossible to expect everything,
she told us evenly,
we will teach you not to expect anything. That way, you will be ready for it.

I didn't even consciously see the first smart mine. There was a red flare in the corner of one eye, and my hands had already matched coordinates and loosed the shuttle's hunter-killer micros. The little missiles ran green traces across the virtual seascape, plunged beneath the surface like sharp knives in flesh, and pricked the squatting mine before it could either move or respond. Flash blast of detonation and the surface of the sea heaved upward like a body on an interrogation table.

Once upon a time men had to run their weapons systems all by themselves. They went up in the air in fliers not much bigger or better equipped than bathtubs with wings and fired off whatever clumsy hardware they could squeeze into the cockpit with them. Later, they designed machines that could do the job faster and more accurately than humanly possible, and for a while it was a machine's world up there. Then the emerging biosciences began to catch up and suddenly the same speed and precision capacity was available as a human option again. Since then it's been a race of sorts between technologies to see which can be upgraded faster, the external machines or the human factor. In that particular race, Envoy psychodynamics were a sharp surprise sprint up the inside lane.

There are war machines that are faster than me, but we weren't lucky enough to have one aboard. The shuttle was a hospital auxiliary, and its strictly defensive weaponry ran to the micro turret in the nose and a decoy-and-evade package that I wouldn't have trusted to fly a kite. We were going to have to do this ourselves.

“One down. The rest of the pack won't be far away. Kill your speed. Get us down on the deck and arm the tinsel.”

They came from the west, scuttling across the seabed like fat-bodied cylindrical spiders, drawn to the violent death of their brother. I felt the shuttle tip forward as Schneider brought us down to barely ten meters in altitude and the solid thump as the tinsel bomb racks deployed. My eyes flickered across the mines. Seven of them, converging. They usually ran five to a pack, so this had to be the remnants of two groups, though who'd thinned their numbers out so much was a mystery to me. From what I'd read in the reports, there'd been nothing in these waters but fishing boats since the war began. The seabed was littered with them.

I acquired the lead mine and killed it almost casually. As I watched, the first torpedoes erupted from the other six and rose through the water toward us.

“They're on us.”

“Seen them,” Schneider said laconically, and the shuttle flinched into an evasive curve. I peppered the sea with micros on autoseek.

Smart mine
is a misnomer. They're actually pretty stupid. It stands to reason: They're built for such a narrow range of activity it isn't advisable to program in much intellect. They attach themselves to the seabed with a claw for launch stability, and they wait for something to pass overhead. Some can dig themselves deep enough to hide from spectroscanners; some camouflage themselves as seabed wreckage. Essentially, they're a static weapon. On the move, they can still fight but their accuracy suffers.

Better yet, their minds have a dogmatic either-or target acquisition system that tags everything surface or airborne before it fires on it. Against air traffic it uses surface-to-air micros, against shipping the torpedoes. The torpedoes can convert to missile mode at a pinch, shedding their propulsion systems at surface level and using crude thrusters to get aloft, but they're
slow
.

At nearly surface level and throttled back almost to hovering, we'd been made out as a ship. The torpedoes came up for air in our shadow, found nothing, and the autoseek micros destroyed them while they were still trying to shrug off their underwater drives. Meanwhile, the spread of micros I'd launched sought and destroyed two—no, wait, three—of the mines. At this rate—

MALFUNCTION.

MALFUNCTION.

MALFUNCTION.

The fail light pulsed in the upper left field of my vision, detail scrolling down. I had no time to read it. The fire controls were dead in my hands, jammed solid, the next two micros unarmed in their launch cradles.
Fucking mothballed U.N. surplus
flashing through my mind like a falling meteor. I slammed the emergency autorepair option. The shuttle's rudimentary troubleshooter brain leapt down into the jammed circuits. No time. It could take whole minutes to fix. The remaining three mines launched surface to air at us.

“Sch—”

Schneider, whatever his other failings, was a good flier. He flung the shuttle on its tail before the syllable was out of my mouth. My head snapped back against the seat as we leapt into the sky, trailing a swarm of surface-to-air missiles.

“I'm jammed.”

“I know,” he said tautly.

“Tinsel them,” I yelled, competing with the proximity alerts that screamed in my ears. The altitude numerals flashed over the kilometer mark.

“On it.”

The shuttle boomed with the tinsel bombs' launch. They detonated two seconds in our wake, sowing the sky with tiny electronic appetizers. The surface-to-air fire spent itself among the decoys. On the weapons board at the side of my vision, a cleared light flashed green, and as if to prove the point the launcher executed its last jammed command and launched the two waiting micros into the targetless space ahead of us. Beside me, Schneider whooped and spun the shuttle about. With the high-maneuver fields belatedly compensating, I felt the turn slop through my guts like choppy water and had time to hope that Tanya Wardani hadn't eaten recently.

We hung for an instant on the wings of the shuttle's AG fields, then Schneider killed the lift and we plunged a steep line back toward the surface of the sea. From the water, a second wave of missiles rose to meet us.

“Tinsel!!”

The bomb racks banged open again. Sighting on the three undamaged mines below, I emptied the shuttle's magazines and hoped, breath held back. The micros launched clean. At the same moment, Schneider threw on the grav fields again and the little vessel shuddered from end to end. The tinsel bombs, now falling faster than the crash-reversed shuttle that had launched them, exploded fractionally ahead of and below us. My virtual vision flooded with crimson sleet from the storm of decoy broadcast, and then the explosions of the surface-to-air missiles as they destroyed themselves amid it. My own micros were away, fired through the tiny window of opportunity before the tinsel blew and locked onto the mines somewhere below.

The shuttle spiraled down behind the debris of tinsel and misled missiles. Scant moments before we hit the surface of the sea, Schneider fired one more, carefully doctored pair of tinsel bombs. They detonated just as we slipped below the waves.

“We're under,” said Schneider.

On my screen, the pale blue of the sea deepened as we sank, nose-down. I twisted around, searching for the mines, and found only a satisfying array of wreckage. I let out the last breath I'd drawn somewhere up in the missile-strewn sky and rolled my head back in the seat.

“That,” I said to no one in particular, “was a mess.”