Profiteer

The plasma rifle swung back toward their position as the marine continued the patrol. The computer sight was still flashing “target acquired” at her.

 

Damn it, why was she stalling?

 

Did she know this person?

 

She’d never frozen in combat before, never.

 

An overwatted stunner could kill a person.

 

The marine stopped and turned. The plasma rifle tracked back to Shane’s position. The image froze for a second in Shane’s sights. Then the marine took a step forward.

 

Shane fired.

 

For the first time in her life, Shane felt a recoil from an energy weapon. The jerk she felt was the field generator exploding. Blue arcs from the discharging field shot out of the woods for ten meters. The cables to the stunner melted, smoldering in the mulch. The insulation cracked and blackened and the small targeting screen burned its last image permanently on its surface.

 

The image was of the marine dropping.

 

“Got ‘em,” Shane said. She looked across to the crumpled form and decided that she had finally chosen sides.

 

For better or worse. I can’t go back now.

 

“Gods be with us today,” Mosasa whispered. He started running to the perimeter. Ivor followed, and Shane took up the rear. The dead stunner was left where it was. It had served its purpose.

 

Shane wondered at Mosasa. At times the technical expert was prone to strange archaisms. But, then, stress could bring out odd things in a person. Especially combat stress.

 

As for instance, right now she was panting and grinning like a maniac. Whoever it was, she’d just dropped him. Poor guy didn’t even know what happened. It got her adrenaline pumping double-time and brought a feral smile even if there was a possibility she’d just killed someone who’d been a friend.

 

When all this was over, she was going to have to have a long talk with her neuroses.

 

When she got to the heap of marine, Mosasa had already stripped the helmet and had cables leading into the body of the suit. “I got patches into the transponder and the data recorder. Open up.”

 

Shane ripped off a patch that covered a few ports that Mosasa had installed in her armor. Mosasa had done extensive mods to the operating system of her armor, chief of which was modifying her transponder and data recorder to leech security codes from another suit’s system.

 

Mosasa plugged her into the fallen marine, and she saw that it was Corporal Hougland. Ivor noticed her stare and said, “Don’t worry, she’s still alive.”

 

That generated two thoughts. She thought, You’re not supposed to worry about the enemy’s casualties.

 

The other thought was that Corporal Hougland would have killed her without any hesitation.

 

Mosasa nodded a few times, looking at a readout mounted on Shane’s midsection next to the ports he was using. “Good, the transponder codes took. You’re her now.” Mosasa gestured toward Hougland and disconnected the cables at the same time.

 

Mosasa was right. Shane could call up Hougland’s tac database, the info on her data recorder, even the radio was modified to synthesize Hougland’s voice with patterns lifted from the recorder.

 

“Okay,” Shane said. “Ivor, take her. Mosasa, let’s get moving. It’s already past seven.”

 

Shane and Mosasa ran to catch up with Hougland’s patrol route while, behind them, Shane caught a glimpse of Ivor grabbing Hougland in a fireman’s carry and heading toward the woods.

 

I’m her now, Shane thought to herself.

 

It was an uncomfortable feeling.

 

<>

 

* * * *

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

Loopholes

 

 

“Never turn your back on the villain, especially when he’s unconscious.”

—The Cynic’s Book of Wisdom

 

“God Almighty hates a quitter.”

—Samuel Fessenden

(1847-1908)

 

 

07:01:00 Godwin Local

 

Ivor Jorgenson ran full tilt into the woods, toward the bolt-hole. Halfway there his shoulders ached and his lungs were on fire. The marine was too damn heavy. He had to put her down for a while.

 

Once he was out of eyeball range of the complex, he had time to set her down. The marine would be out for hours; they wouldn’t need him to pilot things until everything was over, forty-five minutes from now. It was good that he had the time, because the minute he leaned his burden against a convenient tree, he felt every joint in his body protest the exertion of the last ten minutes.

 

He was too old for this.

 

In his prime he could have carried this woman across a few klicks of tundra. He knew that because, when he was in his prime and Fleet Commander of the Styx Presidential Guard, he had done just that for a soldier wounded in an aircar crash.

 

But that was two decades ago.

 

Or, another way of thinking, it was only nine years ago.

 

Or, yet another way of thinking, it had never happened at all.

 

Hands on his knees, catching his breath, he realized that this was the first time he had thought about Styx in years. What should have been angry thoughts were predominantly nostalgic now. The nostalgia was embarrassing.