Grant laughed. “The hell you are, mister,” he said. “You’re too valuable to the war effort.”
The data chip was reporting Kowacs’ service record to present. Part of the Marine’s mind was amazed at the length of the listing of his awards and citations. He supposed he’d known about the decorations when he received them, but they really didn’t matter.
His family had mattered before the Khalians massacred them.
And it mattered that the 121st Marine Reaction Company had cut the tails off more dead Weasels than any other unit of comparable size.
“Fuck you,” said Nick Kowacs distinctly. “The war’s over.”
“Don’t you believe it, mister,” Grant replied. There was only the slightest narrowing of his cold blue eyes to indicate that he’d heard everything the Marine had said. “We’ve got a real enemy, now—the Syndicate. The humans who’ve been using the Weasels for their cannon fodder. The people behind the whole war.”
Kowacs shut off the projector. The list was reminding him of too much that he usually managed to forget while he was awake: hot landings . . . civilians that neither god nor the Headhunters had been able to save from the Khalians . . . Marines who hadn’t survived—or worse, who mostly hadn’t survived.
“I don’t . . . ,” Kowacs muttered.
“We’ll be raising mixed units of our best and the Khalians’ best to go after the Syndicate,” Grant said. “You’ll want to be in on the real kill, won’t you?”
From his grin, Grant knew exactly how Kowacs would feel about the suggestion of working with Weasels. It was the civilian’s response to being told to fuck himself.
“Besides,” Grant went on, “What would you do as a civilian, Kowacs?”
“I’ll find something,” said the Marine as he stood up. “Look, I’m leaving now.”
“Siddown, mister!” Grant said in a tone that Kowacs recognized because he’d used it often enough himself; the tone that meant the order would be obeyed or the next sound would be a shot.
Kowacs met Grant’s eyes; and smiled; and sat in the chair again.
“Let’s say that you’re here because of your special knowledge,” the civilian said. Grant could control his voice and his breathing, but Kowacs saw the quick flutter of the arteries in the big man’s throat. “If you know who I am, then you know too much to think you can just hang up your uniform any time you please.”
But I wouldn’t have to work much harder to be buried in that uniform.
Aloud, Kowacs said, “You didn’t call me in here to promote me.”
“You got that right,” Grant said, his voice dripping with the disdain of a man who doesn’t wear a uniform for a man who does. “We’ve got a job for you and your Headhunters.”
Kowacs laughed. “What’s the matter? Run out of your own brand of sewage workers?”
“Don’t push,” said the civilian quietly.
After a moment, Grant resumed, “This is right up your alley, Kowacs. The Syndicate used cut-out bases in all their dealings with the Khalians, so the Weasels don’t have the locations of any of the Syndicate home worlds. But we think we’ve got the coordinates of a Syndicate base—so you’re going to grab prisoners and navigational data there before the Syndicate realizes they’re at risk.”
Kowacs frowned as he considered what he’d just been told. There had to be a catch. . . .
“All right,” he said. “What’s the catch?”
Grant shrugged. “No catch,” he said.
“If there wasn’t more to this job than you’re telling me,” Kowacs said, unsure whether he was angry, frustrated, or simply confused, “we wouldn’t be briefed by the fucking Eight-Ball Command, mister. Is this some kinda suicide mission, is that what you’re telling me?”
But that couldn’t be right either. Normal mission-control channels hadn’t shown any hesitation about sending the Headhunters on suicide missions before.
And the Headhunters hadn’t hesitated to go.
“Nothing like that,” said Grant. “It’s safer than R&R—you won’t even risk catching clap.”
Kowacs waited.
“You see,” Grant continued, “you’re going to use A-Potential equipment for the insertion. All points are the same point to the device you’ll ride in. The Syndicate won’t have any warning.”