Company Wars 01 – Downbelow Station

the shrine. Lives for lives. Emilio worked down there to save Downbelow… to save

what of it they could. And the last thing he wanted was some quixotic move from

them.

“Quickfoot,” she said, “you run, find Downers, find all humans with me,

understand. Tell them… Miliko talks with Konstantin-man; tell all wait, wait,

make no trouble.”

Quickfoot tried to repeat it, muddled, not knowing all the words. Quietly,

patiently, Miliko tried again… and finally Quickfoot bobbed assent. “Tell they

sit,” Quickfoot said excitedly. “You talk Konstantin-man.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” And Quickfoot fled.

The Downers could come and go. Mazian’s men did not, as Whisper said, see any

difference in them, could not tell them apart. And that was the only hope they

had, to keep communication between them, to let the men down there know that

they were not alone. Emilio knew she was there. Maybe, for all he wished her

elsewhere, that was some comfort.

Chapter Three

« ^ »

i

Pell: green sector nine; 1/8/53; 1800 hrs.

Rumors floated all of green, but there was no sign of a shutdown, no searches,

no imminent crisis. Troops came and went to the usual places. The dock-front

bars rocked to loud music and troops on liberty relaxed, drank, some even openly

intoxicated. Josh took a cautious look out the doorway of Ngo’s and ducked back

in again as a squad of more businesslike troops headed up the hall, armored,

sober, and with definite intentions. It made him somewhat nervous, as all such

movements did when Damon was out of his sight. He endured the waiting under

cover, his turn to sweat out the day in Ngo’s storeroom, haunting the front room

only at mealtimes… but it was suppertime, and late, and he was beginning to

worry intensely. Damon had insisted on going yesterday and this day, following

up leads, hunting a contract—talking to people and risking trouble.

Josh paced and fretted, realized he was pacing and that Ngo was frowning at him

from the bar. He tried to quiet himself, finally walked casually back to the

alcove, leaned his head into the kitchen and asked Ngo’s son for dinner.

“How many?” the boy asked.

“One,” he said. He needed the excuse to stay out in the front room. Reckoned

when Damon got back he could order a refill and another helping. Their credit

was good, the one comfort of their existence. Ngo’s son waved a spoon at him,

wishing him to get out.

He went to the accustomed table and sat down, looked toward the door again. Two

men had come in, nothing unusual. But they were looking around too, and they

started coming toward the back. He ducked his head and tried to camouflage

himself in the shadow; market types, perhaps… some of Ngo’s friends—but the move

alarmed him. And they paused by his table, pulled a chair back. He looked up in

apprehension as one of them sat down and the other kept standing.

“Talley,” the seated man said, young, hard-faced with a burn scar across the

jaw. “You’re Talley, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know any Talley. You’re mistaken.”

“Want you to come outside for a moment. Just come to the door.”

“Who are you?”

There’s a gun on you. I suggest you move.“

It was the long expected nightmare. He thought of what he could do, which was to

get himself shot. Men died in green every day, and there was no law except the

troops, which he did not need either. These were not Mazianni. It was something

else.

“Move.”

He rose, walked clear of the table. The second man took his arm and guided him

to the door, to the brighter light of the outside.

“Look over there,” the man at his back said. “Look at the doorway directly

across the corridor. Tell me if I’ve got the wrong man.”

He looked. It was the man he had seen before, the one watching him. His vision

blurred and nausea hit his gut, conditioned reflex.

He knew the man. The name would not come to him, but he knew him. His escort

took him by the elbow and walked him in that direction, across the corridor and