His jaw clenched at the thought. Somehow it had been much easier to contemplate the systematic massacre of civilians when he hadn’t had the capability to do it. Now he did, and he had no choice but to proceed, because “Mister Scully” was right about at least one thing. Anyone who could reequip the brigade so efficiently-and finesse its acquisition of two Golems, as well-certainly had the ability to destroy the Marauders if they irritated him.
Besides, why shouldn’t he kill civilians? It wasn’t as if it would be the first time. Not even the first time he’d killed Concordiat civilians. Of course, their deaths had usually come under the heading of “collateral damage,” a side effect of other operations rather than an objective in its own right, but wasn’t that really just semantics? “Scully” was right, curse him. The Marauders’ job was to kill people, and the payoff for this particular excursion into mass murder would be the biggest they’d ever gotten.
No, he knew the real reason for his depression. It was the Bolo. The goddamned Bolo. He’d seen the Dinochrome Brigade in action before his own military career came to a screeching halt over those black market operations on Shingle, and he never, ever, wanted to see a Bolo, be it ever so “obsolescent,” coming after him. Even a Bolo could be killed-he’d seen that, as well-but that was the only way to stop one, and any Bolo took one hell of a lot of killing.
Still, Scully’s “associates” were probably right. A Mark XXIII was an antique. Self-aware or not, its basic capabilities would be far inferior to a Golem-III’s, and, if Scully’s plan worked, its commander, like the militia, would be dead before he even knew what was coming.
If it worked. Matucek was no great shucks as a field officer. Despite whatever he might say to potential clients, he knew he was little more than a glorified logistics and finance officer. That was why he relied so heavily on Louise Granger’s combat expertise, yet he’d seen the Demon Murphy in action often enough to know how effortlessly the best laid plan could explode into a million pieces.
On the other hand, there was no reason it shouldn’t work, and He growled a curse and threw back another glass of whiskey, then shook himself like an angry, over-tried bear. Whether it worked or not, he was committed. Sitting here beating himself to death with doubts couldn’t change that, so the hell with it.
He capped the whiskey bottle with owlish care, then heaved up out of his chair and staggered off to bed.
13
“So, son. You finally all settled in as a Santa Cruzan now?”
Lorenco Esteban grinned as he leaned forward to pour more melon brandy into Merrit’s snifter. They sat on the wide veranda of Esteban’s hacienda, gazing out through the weather screen over endless fields of wine-melons and Terran wheat, rye and corn under two of Santa Cruz’s three small moons. The light glow of Ciudad Bolivar was a distant flush on the western horizon, the running lights of farming mechs gleamed as they went about their automated tasks, and the weather screen was set low enough to let the breeze through. The occasional bright flash as the screen zapped one of what passed for moths here lit the porch with small, private flares of lightning, but the night was hushed and calm. The only real sounds were the soft, whirring songs of insects and the companionable clink of glass and gurgle of pouring brandy, and Merrit sighed and stretched his legs comfortably out before him.
“I guess I just about am, Lorenco,” he agreed in a lazy voice. “I still wish it weren’t so damned hot and humid-I guess at heart I’m still a mountain boy from Helicon-but it does grow on you, doesn’t it?”
“Wouldn’t rightly know,” Esteban replied. He set the bottle on the floor beside his chair and settled back to nurse his own glass. “Only place I ever been’s right here. Can’t really imagine bein’ anywhere else, but I reckon I’d miss it iffen I had t’pull up stakes.”
“Then it’s a good thing you’ll never have to, isn’t it?” Merrit sipped at his glass and savored the cool, liquid fire of the brandy as it trickled down his throat. He’d made a point of spending at least one evening a week visiting with Esteban or his cronies since his arrival. Nike’s presence was no longer a military secret, after all, and he recognized the dangers of settling into hermitlike isolation, even with Nike to keep him company. Besides, he liked the old man. He even liked the way Esteban kept referring to him as “son” and “boy.” There were times he got tired of being Captain Paul Merrit, slightly tarnished warrior, and the old farmer’s casual, fatherly ways were like a soothing memory of his boyhood.
“Heard from Enrique day before yesterday,” Esteban said, breaking a long companionable silence. “Says he got top credit fer that last melon shipment to Central. He and Ludmilla’ll be bringin’ the kids home next week.” He snorted. “Wonder how they liked th’ bright lights?”
“They’re coming home?” Merrit repeated, and Esteban nodded. “Good.”
Enrique was Esteban’s youngest son, a sturdy, quietly competent farmer about Merrit’s own age, and Merrit liked him. He could actually beat Enrique occasionally at chess, unlike Nike. Or, for that matter, Lorenco. More than that, Enrique and his wife lived with the old man, and Merrit knew how much Lorenco had missed them-and especially his grandchildren.
“Bet you’ve missed ‘Milla’s cooking,” he added and grinned at Esteban’s snort of amusement. Ludmilla Esteban was the hacienda’s cybernetics expert. Her formal training was limited, but Merrit had seen her work, and she would have made a top notch Bolo tech any day. She spent most of the time she wasn’t chasing down her lively brood keeping the farm mechs up and running, which suited Esteban just fine. He’d done his share of equipment maintenance over the years, and ‘Milla’s expertise freed him to pursue his true avocation in the kitchen.
“Son,” Esteban said, “there’s only one thing ‘Milla can do I can’t-’sides havin’ kids, that is, an’ she an’ Enrique do a right good job of that, too, now I think of it. But the only other thing I can’t do is keep that danged cultivator in th’ river section up an’ running. Hanged if I know how she does it, either, ‘less it’s pure, ornery stubbornness. That thing shoulda been scrapped ‘bout the time she stopped wettin’ her own diaper.”
“She’s got the touch, all right,” Merrit agreed.
“Sure does. Better’n I ever was, an’ I was a pretty fair ‘tronicist in my youth m’self, y’know.” Esteban sipped more brandy, then chuckled. “Speakin’ of ‘tronicists, the field’s been crawlin’ with ‘em fer the last three days.” Merrit cocked his head, and Esteban shrugged. “Militia’s due for its reg’lar trainin’ exercise with the Wolverines this week, an’ they’ve been overhaulin’ and systems checkin’ ‘em.”
“Is that this week?” Merrit quirked an eyebrow, and the beginnings of a thought flickered lazily in the depths of his mind.
“Yep. Consuela moved it up ten days on account’a the midseason harvest looks like comin’ in early this year. Hard to get them boys and girls’a hers together when it’s melon-pickin’ time ‘less it’s fer somethin’ downright dire.”
“I imagine so.” Merrit pressed his glass to his forehead-even this late at night, it was perspiration-warm on Santa Cruz-and closed his eyes. He’d met most of the Santa Cruz Militia since his arrival. Like Esteban himself, they were a casual, slow-speaking lot, but they were also a far more professional-and tougher-bunch than he’d expected. Which was his own fault, not theirs. He’d grown up on a frontier planet himself, and seen enough of them in flames since joining the Dinochrome Brigade. Frontier people seldom forgot they were the Concordiat’s fringe, the first stop for any trouble that came calling on humanity-or for the human dregs who preyed upon their own kind. The SCM’s personnel might be short on spit and polish, and their Wolverines might be ancient, but they knew their stuff, and Merrit knew he wouldn’t have cared to be the raiders who took them on.