Dusk (Dusk 1) (9 page)

“Mushroomed, sir?”

“Kept in the dark and fed bullshit.”

“If you want bullshit for breakfast, sir, I’ll see what the cook can do. My understanding is the galley’s serving up omelets today.”

Pete suppressed the urge to bite the warrant officer’s head off. If the general was determined to keep him out of the loop, there wasn’t much he could do about it except accept that he’d come as close to being a senior field-grade officer as he ever would. If he were lucky, he’d just wind up busting out as a private. If the mission went south and he was unlucky, he could be looking at ten to twenty years on Luna converting big rocks into gravel for export to Terra. Plum assignments like this had a nasty way of blowing up in Marines’ faces, thoroughly destroying their careers. Taking off the warrant’s head wouldn’t help, and might actually sabotage any chance he had of seeing this mission through to a successful conclusion.

Damned if he could see how that was going to happen, though.

“Never mind, Warrant. Fifteen minutes.”

“Sir.”

The screen went blank again.

Pete flicked some cold water on his face and then hurried to the closet. Quickly he donned a duty blouse, cargo pants, and boots. Then he slathered on beard-repressing gel and waited for it to sink into his skin.

Just because he felt like roadkill didn’t mean he had to look like it in front of someone below him in pay grade.

* * *

Pete tugged at the collar of his dress blue jacket. The eagles at his shoulders still looked strange, alien, gleaming silver from their lofty perch on his collar. He felt strangely out of place, as if someone had swapped out his uniform with the pips that denoted his real rank for a joke. Like most small details, that one tiny addition made a great deal of difference. It made him feel odd, like a kid playing dress-up with his dad’s suit.

In the past two weeks, he’d been forced to deal with a lot of things he didn’t like. This was just one more, he reflected ruefully.

Tugging the patent-leather belt at his waist, he pulled the buckle to the regulation attitude, straddling his “gig line.” The ceremonial saber hanging at his right hip formed a comforting counterbalance to the holstered sidearm on his left. Both weapons looked archaic, befitting the history and tradition of every element of the uniform from the bird, ball, and hook emblems at his throat to the “hash marks” denoting his years of service down the sleeves to the blood stripes running vertically down each leg of his pants.

Neither was.

The saber, although it was almost a precise replica of the Mameluke sword that had famously been awarded to First Lieutenant Presley O’Bannon during the First Barbary War over a millennium previously, carried a cutting edge that would have given the ancient Devil Dogs an unquestionable advantage over any opponent. The edge, contained in a magnetic flux field, was actually a fine line of plasma, roughly one-third as hot as the surface of Sol. The sidearm, on the other hand, had been cunningly crafted to look like an ancient Colt Model 1911. In actuality, it was a modern and utterly lethal plasma blaster, containing one hundred charges in the drop magazine within the grip. Although he wore the weapons secured with their straps to demonstrate peaceable intent, he could have either clear of its case and ready to go in less than half a second with either hand and you call it.

Despite the resplendence of the gleaming black shoes, belt, and brim of his cap, he felt far less snappy than his outward demeanor suggested. There were so many ways he could fail at this mission, so many things that could go horribly wrong that had absolutely nothing to do with him, or that had everything to do with him.

Part of the problem was a natural antipathy between himself and Ambassador Al-Aziz. The ambassador was unhappy that Pete was coming along for the ride, while Pete was disgusted by Al-Aziz’s idea of diplomacy. “If they do not give us the gallartium,” he had declared more than once, “we will simply take it.”

Pete had made the mistake of observing that one diplomatic away party, even accompanied by a Marine colonel and his retinue, was unlikely to make much of a dent in Dusk’s forces if they decided they really didn’t care to play ball. Al-Aziz simply fixed him with his burning anthracite eyes, beetled his bushy black brows at Pete, and said, “Then it is your job to make sure we
do
make a dent.”

Pete didn’t pretend to be a world-class negotiator, but Muhamed Quadri Al-Aziz was about the last person he’d have chosen to head up a negotiation. Not only did Al-Aziz hold to a very rigid and largely discredited interpretation of the Qu’ran, which said that women were to be seen and not heard, but he was generally boorish and impatient, both dangerous traits in a diplomat. Knowing the new senior ambassador for Dusk was a woman, Pete couldn’t help but anticipate stormy weather ahead for the negotiations.

Oh, well. If Al-Aziz screws this up, it’s not on me. I just have to keep his sorry ass alive; I don’t have to like him or invite him over to watch powered armor combat. Of course, it would be nice if he’d make my job a little easier by behaving like a proper diplomat instead of an argument for mind-washing
.

He sighed again and put on his best poker face. Dealing with Marine DIs had given him one of the best around. There was nothing quite like having a guy twice your mass and half again your height screaming obscenities about you, your mother, your intelligence, and the likelihood that someone in your family tree had sexual relations with an orangutan while repeatedly driving elbows and knees into your gut to keep you from showing any kind of emotion, ever. In private, Pete didn’t bother with the act. In public, especially in the company he was about to be keeping, the act might very well save his career, if not his life.

“Colonel, the shuttle to the surface is ready.”

Just the idea of riding down to the planet’s surface on a shuttle instead of being fired from the ship like a sentient bullet was enough to give Pete mental whiplash. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d taken the more leisurely method of transport rather than needing to be on the ground with a heavy weapons team ten minutes ago.

Gunny Larsen eyed him as he clawed his way out of the drop pod. “You okay, Captain?
”

“
I got this, Gunny. Sitrep
?”

“
We have local hostiles inbound. Guess they saw us coming down
.”

“
Backup
?”

Larsen snorted. “Not fucking likely, Cap. We’re about as alone as we can get out here. Nearest Marine detachment is three hundred klicks away. By the time they can drop their cocks and get over here, it’ll be all over but the shouting
.”

He didn’t add, “One way or the other.” There was no need to. Pete got the message loud and clear
.

Pete grimaced. “Okay, Gunny. Let’s get dug in. Weapons crew ready
?”

Larsen smiled. “Yup. Had ’em laced up for the last fifteen minutes
.”

“
Good to go
.”

Larsen’s leathery, tough face faded from Pete’s sight. Like so many other Devil Dogs who’d had the misfortune to wind up on that Christ-forsaken planet, Gunny Larsen now existed only as a handful of rags and a memory Pete would never fully be rid of.

He shook himself as if flinging away fleas. Larsen had known the risks, just like they all had. He went down doing what Marines were supposed to do: taking the fight to the enemy.

“Colonel?”

Pete jumped.

“You coming, sir?”

He turned to see Kozlowski looming in the doorway. As much as he hated to show alarm in front of friends, he hated it double in front of someone he couldn’t be entirely sure of. Kozlowski had never been anything but exactly what a good warrant officer ought, but he gave Pete an itch between his shoulder blades he could never quite scratch. Pete had learned the hard way to pay attention to that itch. It was usually a hint that someone nearby was thinking about sticking a knife there. The fact the warrant officer had opened his door, when he’d specifically said only Pete himself could do that, set off a dull warning chime in the back of Pete’s skull.

There was no doubt about it: Kozlowski bore close watching.

“Yes, Warrant. I’m ready.”

“Very good, sir.”

At the shuttle, Al-Aziz waited impatiently, his traditional robes swirling about his legs. As he caught sight of Pete and Kozlowski, he stopped and drew himself to his full height.

“So good of you to join us, Colonel. Perhaps next time you will do me the courtesy of actually being on time.”

Go fuck yourself
, Pete thought. Aloud he said, “I’m sorry, Ambassador. I had to send a communication.”

Al-Aziz’s hawkish face sharpened at the word “communication.” “Would you care to share the contents of this communication?”

“I was sending a final report to General Neville. I don’t know how many chances there will be planetside.”

Al-Aziz harrumphed. “And you did not see fit to clear the content of your message with me prior to sending it?”

Pete bridled a little. “With all due respect, Ambassador, while I am attached to your diplomatic team, I am not a part of your chain of command. My superior officer is General Fritz O. Neville, not you, sir. If you have a problem with that, feel free to take it up with him.” With an uneasy twinge of memory, he recalled Kozlowski saying something virtually identical to him almost two weeks prior. “I will not allow you to speak to me in such a disrespectful fashion, Ambassador. We are both professionals, and I suggest we put aside any personal animosity for the duration. If you cannot do that, I wish you luck in the negotiations. I’ll head back to my stateroom.”

Pete saluted crisply and turned to walk away.

“Stop!”

He turned back to see Al-Aziz looking shaken for the first time since Pete met him.

“Colonel, I beg your pardon. My nerves are… how do you say? Shot. Yes, my nerves are shot over these negotiations. I intended no disrespect to you or your service, and I hope you will forgive my inexcusable rudeness.”

For a second, Pete considered letting the ambassador grovel a little more. There was only so much anyone could be expected to take, and Pete had already had a bellyful of His Excellency and his belligerence. A lesson in humility might do him some good.

Yeah, and it might land you in the brig
.

True, but
…

But nothing. Just because he’s an unprofessional jackass doesn’t mean you have to be.

“I accept, Ambassador.” He gave Al-Aziz the look he’d rehearsed so often in the mirror, the one that froze the marrow of skylarking cadets and overreaching senior officers alike. “But I sincerely hope you’ll keep your nerves where they won’t impact these negotiations. Otherwise, I’ll have no choice but to inform General Neville and ensure he knows that any lapses in diplomacy are to be laid at your door, not mine.”

Al-Aziz’s upper lip twitched as if he had caught the odor of something dead and rotting. “I will be sure to bear that in mind, Colonel.” He made no effort to disguise the undercurrent of threat roughening the bottoms of his words. “And rest assured I will advise your superiors of your assistance with this endeavor.”

I’ll just bet you will
.

“Shall we?” Kozlowski asked, gesturing toward the shuttle.

Olivia slipped the crisp silver robe over her head. It whispered into place precisely as she might have wished, drawing just enough attention to her cleavage without showing so much as to offend propriety and hugging her hips in a way that flattered her body without being gauche.

The clothiers who attended to the formal wardrobes of the DDC members had been working night and day for a week to produce a number of dresses, robes, and suits suitable for any and all occasions. Although it was unlikely she would need such a trousseau again anytime soon, having such a formidable wardrobe made her feel a little more controlled. She tried very hard not to think of how much the elaborate creations cost. While Dusk was far from a poor planet, she could think of far better places for that many credits to go than draping her gangly form.

Poor Merrick looked even less comfortable than she felt. He wore a coat and pants of breathable black Dusk silk, with an iridescent high-collared shirt of the same material. Under the jacket he wore a holster in which rode his blaster. If misery could be said to have a face, Merrick’s would have fit the bill perfectly.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

“Yes. After I undo this button.” He reached for the large jeweled stud at the top of his throat.

“Don’t you dare! Martine spent a full day getting that shirt right, and you’ll just spoil the line of the collar if you undo the button,” she scolded.

“And of course you’re just loving your attire,” he sniped right back.

She glanced in the mirror. He had a point. Although the silk was as light and airy as any fabric anywhere in the galaxy she’d seen, she would still far rather meet the shuttle in her usual attire than this… this… this ludicrous robe. Seeing herself in such finery drove home the point all over again that she was really the one expected to navigate the rocky waters of the negotiations and carry the day for Dusk.

Will this
ever
seem real
?

With a grimace, she turned from the mirror to Merrick. “Shall we?” she asked, offering her arm.

He took it without a word, threading her arm through and under his in a way that left his hand ready to whip down toward his blaster.

Poor Merrick. He really does look quite handsome. I just wish that his devotion to me didn’t drive him to take such risks on my behalf. Bad enough I’m in the line of fire without pulling him in after me
.

He turned toward her just before they reached the door, his eyes smoldering as his gaze roamed over her face. “You look beautiful, Olivia. I love you.”

She leaned in for a kiss, careful not to get carried away lest she smudge her lip color. Merrick was having none of that, and pulled her tightly against him so she could feel the ridged bulge of his hardness against her belly. She gasped, opening her mouth for him, and he slipped his tongue inside without hesitation like a thief heading for sanctuary. With a whimper she melted into him, allowing him to make his claim on her before the real world intruded once more.