It probably didn’t matter. The Alliance commandoes weren’t coming to stage a fashion show. The blood that stiffened the shoulders and right sleeve of Daniel’s shirt wouldn’t surprise anybody either.
Barnes and Dasi were across the strait, tending the original camp on the other island. It was a dangerous job, but that description would cover most of what was going on tonight.
The eight other ratings guarded the prisoners. They were all neck deep in the water of an inlet eighty yards from the Kostroman camp. Overhanging foliage ought to block the remainder of the human heat signature, at least from a quick-reaction force that was trying to locate known groupings rather than searching for people who weren’t where they were supposed to be.
“Zojira civilians,” a voice rasped from the radio. The person speaking was male, but the single-sideband emergency signal and a degree of professional disdain almost concealed even his sex. “Give us a vector from your camp to the bandit position. Over.”
The burned Kostroman had died, so Daniel hadn’t been required to decide whether to put her in the water with the others. Both her hands had been charred off, and her heat-shriveled intestines writhed where there was no longer a ribcage to cover them.
Her death had been the best option for all concerned. Daniel supposed it was a failing of his as a man as well as an officer that he’d been unwilling to speed the result himself.
Daniel bent over the microphone. The emergency unit’s poor sound quality was a blessing under the circumstances: it’d take a better linguist than most commandoes to notice a problem with his accent.
“Master, the pirates’re east of us,” he said in tones of breathy nervousness. “Maybe a little south, too, a little southeast. They’re not half a mile away!”
Daniel could hear the deep bass note of an APC at speed now. The commandoes were coming in fast, despite the risk that the sound of their ducted fans would alert their quarry.
The power it took to lift and propel twenty-odd tons by thrust alone came at the price of a sonic signature, no matter how much you tried to minimize it. Quick and dirty was probably the better choice, as well as the option that would appeal to members of a strike force.
“On my signal,” the radio voice said, “fire a flare straight up. I repeat, straight up. And stay off the radio! Out.”
Woetjans smiled lazily and stood, holding the flare gun from the Ahura’s emergency kit. She was obviously glad to have a task to occupy her while the others could only wait.
Adele sat on an upturned metal bucket. Her attention was seemingly a million miles away. Daniel grinned at her. She raised an eyebrow in question, realized Daniel was just being sociable, and returned to her reverie. Her hands slowly rotated the head-sized object she held between spread fingertips.
Lamsoe and Sun held submachine guns; the Kostromans had salvaged guns, so the Cinnabars taking their place had guns too. Lamsoe held his as if it were a bomb. Daniel wouldn’t let him disconnect the battery because the APC’s sensors might be able to tell the difference, but the safeties of both weapons were on.
The APC’s thrum was louder now. A few minutes earlier the pulsing note could have been concealed in the night sounds except to ears that were searching for it.
“Zojira civilians,” the radio ordered, “fire one flare now! Over!”
Woetjans walked two steps closer to the bank of the inlet, aimed the gun skyward, and sent up a flare as close to vertical as you could tell without a plumb line. Daniel hoped the process hadn’t been too expert, but the commandoes would probably figure the wogs had just gotten lucky.
“Good, I’m already stiff from sitting here,” said Hogg. He still looked like he’d been exhumed on maybe the third day. Daniel’d planned to leave his servant with the prisoners, but at the last instant he’d lacked the courage to say that.
Hogg would’ve ignored the order anyway. The fellow who’d changed your diapers wasn’t going to kiss your boots just because you had “Lieutenant” before your name now.