John Scalzi - We Only Need the Heads

Wilson got up to look. “That took a little bit longer than I expected,” he said.

“He’s been driving us all a little crazy with the gung ho thing,” Lee said.

“He’s new,” Wilson said.

“Hopefully it wears off,” Lee said, “before the rest of us kill him.”

Wilson smiled at this and then threaded back through the mess to Jefferson.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. He was kneeling by the body of the late Vasily Ivanovich, a puddle of sick off to his side. His other two fire team members had found some other place to be.

“You’re hanging out near two partially decomposed, partially eaten bodies,” Wilson said. “Being sick is a perfectly rational response.”

“If you say so,” Jefferson said.

“I do say so,” Wilson said. “My first mission, I almost wet myself. Throwing up is fine.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jefferson said.

Wilson patted Jefferson on the back and glanced over at Vasily Ivanovich. The man was a mess, bloated and with a significant amount of his abdomen chewed away by scavengers. From his vantage point, Wilson could see into the gnawed-on remains of Ivanovich’s digestive system.

Inside of which something glinted.

Wilson frowned. “What is that?” he said.

“What is what, sir?” Jefferson asked.

Wilson ignored him and looked closer and then, after a minute, thrust his glove into what remained of Ivanovich’s stomach.

Jefferson gagged but didn’t have anything else to throw up, so instead he stared openly at the small, glittery thing in Wilson’s gore-coated hand. Wilson delicately picked out the thing with his other hand and held it up in the light.

“What is that?” Jefferson asked.

“It’s a data card,” Wilson said.

“What was it doing in his stomach?” Jefferson asked.

“I have no idea,” Wilson said, and then turned his head. “Lee!” he shouted.

“What?” Lee shouted back from the other side of the hut.

“Have your people look for a functioning PDA and bring it to me immediately,” he said. “One that takes data cards.”

Shortly thereafter, Wilson had jammed the data card into a handheld and connected his BrainPal to the computer.

“Why would he swallow a data card?” Lee asked, as she watched Wilson.

“He wanted to keep the data out of enemy hands,” Wilson said. He was simultaneously going through the file hierarchy on the data card.

“That’s why he destroyed the computer and communications equipment,” Lee said.

“I’d have more answers for you if you let me actually concentrate on what I’m doing,” Wilson said. Lee shut up, slightly annoyed. Wilson ignored this, closed his eyes and focused on his data.

Several minutes later, Wilson opened his eyes and looked at Ivanovich with something that approached wonder.

Lee noticed. “What?” she said. “What is it?”

Wilson looked up at Lee blankly, and then back to Ivanovich, and then at the body of Martina Ivanovich.

“Wilson,” Lee said.

“I think we better take back these bodies,” Wilson said.

“Why?” Lee asked, looking at the corpses.

“I’m not sure I can tell you,” Wilson said. “I don’t think you have the clearance.”

Lee looked back at Wilson, annoyed.

“It’s not about you,” Wilson assured her. “I’m pretty confident I don’t have the clearance either.”

Lee, not precisely satisfied, looked back at the Ivanoviches. “So you want us to haul these up to the Tub .”

“You don’t have to bring all of them,” Wilson said.

“Come again?” Lee said.

“You don’t have to bring their entire bodies,” Wilson said. “Their heads will do just fine.”

“You feel it, too, don’t you,” Abumwe said to Schmidt, during a break in negotiations. The two were in the conference room hallway, drinking the tea Schmidt had gotten them.

“Feel what, ma’am?” Schmidt said.

Abumwe sighed. “Schmidt, if you don’t want me to keep believing that you are entirely useless to me, then you have to actually be useful to me,” she said.

Schmidt nodded. “All right,” he said. “There’s something not right about Sub-Ambassador Ting.”

“That’s right,” Abumwe said. “Now tell me what that something not right is.”

“I don’t know,” Schmidt said. He saw Abumwe get a look on her face and held up his hand peremptorily. This surprised Abumwe into silence. “Sorry,” Schmidt said, hastily. “I say I don’t know because I’m not sure what the cause of it is. But I know what the result is. She’s being too easy on us in the negotiations. We’re getting too many of the things we want from her. We’re getting something close to a rubber stamp.”

“Yes,” Abumwe said. “I’d like to know why.”

“Maybe she’s just a bad negotiator,” Schmidt said.

“The Bula pulled out these parts of the negotiations specifically for more detailed attention,” Abumwe said. “This suggests they are not trivial to the Bula. The Bula also aren’t known for being pushovers in negotiations. I don’t think they’d put a poor negotiator in charge of this part of the process.”

“Do we know anything about Ting?” Schmidt asked.

“Nothing Hillary could find,” Abumwe said. “The Colonial Union files on diplomatic missions focus on the primary diplomats, not the secondary ones. I have her looking for more, but I don’t expect to find too much. In the meantime, what are your suggestions?”

Schmidt took a small moment to internally register surprise that Abumwe was indeed asking for options from him, and then said, “Keep doing what we’re doing. We are getting what we want from her. The thing we have to worry about at this point is getting them too soon, and getting done before the Tubingen finishes her mission.”

“I can come up with some reason to suspend negotiations until tomorrow,” Abumwe said. “I can ask for some more time to research some particular point. That won’t be difficult to do.”

“All right,” Schmidt said.

“On the subject of the Tubingen, any news from your friend?” Abumwe asked.

“I sent him an encrypted note on the next skip drone to the ship,” Schmidt said.

“You shouldn’t trust our encryption,” Abumwe said.

“I don’t,” Schmidt assured her. “But I think it would have been suspicious for me to send him an unencrypted note, considering the mission. The note itself is innocuous blather, which contains a line that says, ‘It was like that time on Phoenix Station.’”

“What does that mean?” Abumwe said.

“Basically it means ‘Tell me if something interesting is going on,’” Schmidt said. “He’ll understand it.”

“Do you want to explain to me how it is the two of you have your own little secret code?” Abumwe said. “Did you make it up together when you were six?”

“Uh,” Schmidt said, uncomfortable. “It just sort of came about.”

“Really,” Abumwe said.

“Harry would see you pissed at me during some negotiation or another and came up with it as a way to let me know he was interested in knowing the details later,” Schmidt said, quickly. He looked away as he said it.

“Are you actually that scared of me, Schmidt?” Abumwe said, after a second.

“I wouldn’t say ‘scared,’” Schmidt said. “I would say I have a healthy respect for your working methods.”

“Yes, well,” Abumwe said. “For the moment, at least, your terrified obsequiousness is not going to be useful to me. So stop it.”

“I’ll try,” Schmidt said.

“And let me know if you hear from your friend,” Abumwe said. “I don’t know what Sub-Ambassador Ting is up to, either. It’s making me uncomfortable. But I have a worry that somehow that wildcat colony on Wantji is involved. If it is, I want to know how before anyone else.”