“Yes, Commodore,” said the Marine captain softly. “I suppose I did. Now, if you care to state your business, I’ll take care of it the best way I can.”
“Yes, I . . . ,” Herennis said. His body quivered as embarrassment replaced anger as his ruling emotion. “Here is the, the chip that was discussed.”
The hologram would take up only a corner of the data capacity in the Marines’ helmets, nestled among the sensors and recorders that let the high command look over each man’s shoulder after the action.
From a safe distance.
Kowacs set his knife on the fold-down desk that doubled as a keypad when he chose to power up his computer terminal. He took the holochip from the commodore and inserted it into the bulkhead projector. The unit was balky; he had to jiggle the handset several times before there was a hum and a face appeared in the air near the filmy opposite wall.
“That’s the boy?” Kowacs said. “Well, I’ll have it downloaded into the men’s helmets before we go in.”
The Honorable Thomas Forberry wasn’t a boy, not really. His image looked to be mid-forties, and that was at least five years back. Blue eyes, a ruddy complexion—dark blond hair with curls as perfect as an angel’s tits.
For all its pampering, the face was hard and competent. Young Thomas hadn’t followed his father into the Fleet, but he ran the family’s business concerns, and the Forberrys would have been rich even without the opportunities a grand admiral has of profitably anticipating economic changes.
Used to run the family business.
“Ah, five years could. . . .” Kowacs began, letting his voice trail off because he didn’t choose to emphasize the changes five years as a weasel slave could make in a man—even if he survived.
“Yes, he’s aware—” Herennis said, then caught himself. “Ah, I’m aware of that. I’m, ah, not expecting. . . . I know you must think—”
Kowacs waved his hand to cut off the staff officer’s words, his embarrassment.
“Look, Commodore,” he said gently. “Nobody in my outfit’s got a problem about releasing Khalian prisoners. If it takes something, whatever, personal to give the high command the balls to cut the orders—okay, that’s what it takes. Tell your friend not to worry about it.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Herennis said, sounding as if he meant it. He wasn’t done speaking, but he met the Marine’s eyes before he went on with, “The unofficial reward, ah, I’ve promised you is considerable in money terms. But I want you to realize that neither I nor—anyone else—believes that money can recompense the risk you and your men are running.”
“Commodore . . . ,” Kowacs said. His hand was reaching for the leather-wrapped hilt of his knife, but he restrained the motion because Herennis might have misunderstood. “I lost my family in the Gravely Incident.”
“I’m sor—” but the Marine’s hand moved very sharply to chop off the interruption.
“About half my team could tell you their own version of the same story.”
Kowacs saw the doubt in his visitor’s eyes and smiled. “Yeah, that high a percentage. Not in the Marines in general, and sure as hell not in the whole Fleet. But you check the stats on the reaction companies, not just mine, and see what you find.”
Herennis nodded and touched his tongue to his lips.
“Besides that,” Kowacs went on with the same tight, worn smile—a smile like the hilt of the knife his hand was, after all, caressing, “we’re the ones that hit dirt first after the raids. We’ve seen everything the weasels can do to human beings. Do you understand?”
Herennis nodded again. He was staring at Kowacs as if the Marine were a cobra on the other side of a pane of glass.
Kowacs shut off the holo projector. “You’re right, Commodore,” he said. “None of my team does this for the money, yours or the regular five-percent danger allowance.
“But you couldn’t pay us not to take this mission, either.”
* * *
The Bonnie Parker’s thunderous vibration was bad enough on any insertion, but this time they were going down in daylight. The bay was brightly illuminated, so you could look at the faces of the Marines beside you—blank with fear that was physical and instinctive.