Redliners by David Drake

“They should be angry,” al-Ibrahimi said. “They’ve been treated very unjustly. The citizens and your personnel both, Major Farrell. But we are going to act in the fashion that gives us the best chance of survival in the situation where we find ourselves.”

“It’s no use arguing with facts,” Farrell said. “Sir, do you need me further just now? I’d like to check with my first sergeant on the munitions we’re loading. I want to be ready to go in the morning.”

“Of course,” al-Ibrahimi said. “And see to it that you get some sleep yourself. We’ll need you as alert as possible if we’re to survive.”

“I’ll go with you, Major,” Lundie said. She stood, then wobbled before catching her balance. “I want to discuss the alert system with you and Sergeant Daye, since I’ll be monitoring the sensors of your personnel.”

They walked toward the tandem-hitched trailers near the ship. Too near the ship, Farrell thought, because the hull might kick back if the ship fell. Still, it eased loading the heavy cases of ammo and explosives.

Life was a series of tradeoffs. Until you died.

Lundie stumbled again. “Are you going to be all right, ma’am?” Farrell asked. “That’s a pretty bad wound, and . . .”

“The wound itself isn’t serious, except that it handicaps me when using a keyboard,” Lundie said. “Unfortunately the vine was covered with fine hairs, some of which broke off in the skin all over my arm. They’re too small to remove. As they dissolve they release psychoactive chemicals.”

She looked at Farrell and went on, “Generally this is a low-order problem, but I’m concerned that I might have a psychotic episode at any time. It gives you and me something in common, I suppose.”

Farrell blinked at what she’d just said. Then he laughed harder than he remembered doing in years.

“Ma’am,” he said at last. “You know, you’re screwy enough to be a striker? But I think you’re too fucking smart.”

A civilian walked toward the plastic sheet on which 3-3 sat in darkness. Horgen hissed a warning. Abbado took the bladder of whiskey from Glasebrook and put it under the tunic lying beside him. If there was a problem, it was his squad and his problem.

“Excuse me?” said Dr. Ciler’s familiar voice. “I’m looking for Striker Methie in the Third Squad?”

“Hey Doc,” Abbado said. “Come sit down. What do you need with the Methman?”

“Aw, I was supposed to come by so he could look at my leg,” Methie said. “I’m okay, Doc. Really.”

“If you are,” the doctor said, “then ligaments have miraculously healed themselves in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I just need to watch how quick I turn, is all,” Methie muttered, but he pulled up his left trouser leg. The strikers still wore their boots, but they’d released the closure clamps for comfort.

Ciler squatted down on the sheet. Thirty feet away a gas pocket in a burning log ruptured. It shot blue flame with a banshee shriek for several seconds. The doctor tensed, then steadied. “Might I turn on a light, please?” he asked.

“Oh, sure,” Abbado said. “We didn’t want to get too much attention, you know. There’s some cargo we thought we’d use up since it don’t look like we’ll be back here any time soon.”

Ciler switched on the minilight clipped to his collar. He bent so that it bore on Methie’s knee as he probed with the blunt fingers of both hands. “You think anything we abandon will be lost forever, then?” he said while keeping his eyes on his work.

“Usually it’s just REMFs in base camps who steal your shit,” Horgen said. “The way this jungle grows, there’ll be a big green hill in no time. And I’m thirsty now.”

“Ah, would you like a drink, Doc?” the sergeant offered. “It’s whiskey from Earth, not something run through a heat exchanger while the tractor was shut down.”

“We wouldn’t be drinking it right now,” Matushek said, “except it’s that or leave it behind, you know?”

Ciler turned off the light. “I’d like a drink, yes,” he said. “Though I think you men and women need it worse than I do.”

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