“Now, do we get the best kit or what?” he said, becoming the confident man he wanted to be again. “Name me another army where you get handcrafted Verps to play with.”
“The Verpine army,” Scorch said.
“Do they have an army?”
“Do they need one?”
Silence descended again. At 1150 Sev cut into the comlink circuit. “Stand by. Kal's moving into position.”
Skirata wandered into the plaza from the direction of the Senate with Jusik one on side and an excited Lord Mirdalan straining on a leash on the other. He was doing a credible job of looking as if the strill were his constant companion. The animal seemed remarkably content with him, given the number of times Skirata had driven it off or thrown his knife at it over the years. Maybe the riot of strange new scents had thrilled the strill enough that it didn't much care that the man who usually shouted at it was holding the leash. Fi watched as they took up a position near the door, sitting down on an ornate durasteel seat shaped like a bow.
Skirata's voice came over the comlink circuit.
“How's my boys?”
“Cramp, Sarge,” Darman said. “And Fi's dribbling over your Verpine.”
“He can clean it, then. Ready?”
“Ready.”
At 1159 a human male in his forties—green casual tunic, brown pants, collar-length brown hair, beard, tall, lean build—walked toward Skirata and Jusik in a purposeful line. Fi tracked him.
“Got him, Fi,” Darman said. If anything went wrong, the man would be dead in a fraction of a second from a silent high-kinetic round in his back.
“Escort,” Sev said. “Looks like three … no, four. Three male, one female, all human … one male twenty meters south of Darman. Spread out but all moving toward Skirata.”
“Got him.”
“Got the female,” Scorch said.
“You sure they're with the Beard?”
“Yeah, check their eyeline, Fi. They're watching him, nothing else. They're pretty cool about it but they're obviously not professionals. They shouldn't even be looking his way.”
Etain's voice cut in. “There's another female approaching slowly on the Senate side of the bench. I'm moving in behind her so you can spot her.”
Sev cut in. “Any more?”
“I can only sense four others plus the man approaching Kal.”
“Aww, look. They've taken up positions to block the main pedestrian routes off the plaza. Thank you! I love a target that identifies itself.”
“I hope this doesn't turn into a shooting match,” Scorch said. “Too many civvies.”
“I can get a clear shot,” Sev said. “And I can take at least three out from here. Relax. You just worry about tagging 'em.”
Tagging. Would they feel it?
Fi dropped in an EM filter with a touch on the optics housing. He focused the scope on the woman now standing almost under Darman's position by the walkway heading toward Quadrant N-10: shoulder-length red hair, blue business suit, tan leather document bag. The filter detected electromagnetic emissions, which made it not only handy for locating someone operating a comlink but also just perfect for seeing if Dust had hit its target. It cast a pinkish brown tinge across the image.
He checked for indications of wind speed. The woman's hair was moving slightly in the breeze: a flimsi cup discarded near the caf vendor rolled a little way along the paving. Fi adjusted his scope and checked the air temperature, which had crept up a fraction in the last twenty minutes. He adjusted the Verp's settings again and settled the weapon on his forearm.
Relax. Power coil set to medium. Don't want her to feel the projectile hit her. Don't want to spray the Dust over the whole plaza, either …
The crosshairs settled.
“So that's a strill.” The man's voice was a little fuzzy but Fi could hear the accent, even if he didn't recognize it. “Charming. Call me Perrive.”
“And you can call me Kal.”
Fi closed his eyes for a second and slowed his breathing. When he opened them, the aim was still dead center of the woman's chest.
“So let's see the goods.”
Fi exhaled slowly and held his breath.
“Here. Take it and have it tested.”
Fi's finger tightened on the end of the trigger. The Verp was so finely constructed that all he felt was a sudden lack of resistance under his finger and the rifle fired—silent and without recoil.
“How much stuff in all?”
“Hundred kilos. More if you need it.”
A smoke-like white puff billowed in Fi's filter. The projectile had burst on contact, showering the woman with microscopic tracking powder, each tiny fragment capable of relaying its location back to the base receiver at Qibbu's—or even to a HUD. She glanced down as if an insect had landed on her and then simply brushed the end of her nose as if she'd inhaled pollen.
“Five hundred grade?”
“All of it,” said Kal.
“Dets?”
“How many?”
“Three or four thousand.”
“Five-hundred-grade—I have it. Dets—just a matter of acquiring them discreetly. A day maybe.”
“Confirm—female target in blue, marked.” Fi tracked the rifle ninety degrees to his left. “Targeting the male farthest from Kal. Black jacket.”
Breathe easy. Relax. He aimed and adjusted the scope again, held his breath at the comfortable point of exhalation, and fired for a second time. Again, the man reacted and looked for something on his chest, then carried on watching Skirata as if nothing had happened.
“Male, black jacket—target marked. So they can feel it strike, then.”
“Don't hog them all,” Scorch said. “I want a go.”
“All yours, ner vod.”
“Targeting the male right of Skirata, gray robe …”
Fi lined up his EM scope on Scorch's target to observe. Scorch's breathing paused, and then Fi saw a puff of white smoke bloom on the gray robe. He didn't react at all.
“Now the other male, red vest, left of Skirata by the caf vendor … no, keep still, you di'kut … that's better.” Scorch was silent again. Fi watched through the EM filter. The projectile burst neatly on the man's shoulder and he brushed his nose without noticing, just like the first woman. Maybe it was a combination of seeing absolutely nothing as 'the pellet's binding agent vaporized, and being hyped up on adrenaline during a mission. They weren't tuned in to much beyond seeing and not being seen.
“Okay, who's taking Beard Guy? Perrive.”
“Me,” Fi said. “If I make it three for three, do I get to keep him? Y'know, stuffed and mounted?”
“He'd make a nice stand for your Hokan armor.”
Perrive—Beard Guy—stood at a slight angle, moving a little as he spoke to Skirata. He held the small pack of thermal plastoid in his hand, about a hundred grams of it, and was squeezing it between his fingers while glancing at the wrapping. It looked for all the world like a spice deal, and Fi wondered for a moment if they were all blind to how obvious that might appear.
Worry about that later. Tag him.
“Turn around, chakaar. I don't want to hit your back.”
Fi had settled into a rhythm now. He watched through the scope as Perrive slipped the plastoid into his pocket and stood with one hand on his belt, turning idly back and forth, presenting a good expanse of back and then a narrow angle of shoulder.
Fi relaxed, aimed and went for the shoulder, anticipating the turn.
Whuff.
The tracker projectile struck home and got no reaction.
“Okay we'll take a look at this and get back to you tomorrow at noon,” Perrive said. “If we like it, we meet somewhere private. If we don't, you never hear from me again.”