Joe Haldeman - Future Weapons of War

What could he do? DeJahn didn’t know. Maybe nothing. Looked around the techs’ mess. He was the only one there. Coffee, ersatz shit… it was cold. Nothing worse than cold, bitter, pseudo coffee.

Bullshit, deJahn. Lots worse things. Just scared that it might happen to you. He pushed the thought away. Finally, he stood, shook his head.

He took the longer passageway. Softboots scuffed on the deck, almost silent. Everything was muffled and damped in the station. Missed real sunlight. Missed lots of real things. Sickbay was at the end, south end, he’d heard. Who knew when you never saw the sun?

He stepped inside sickbay. Duty medtech just watched. Watched close.

Vielho lay in the second bay, in a medsack that surrounded all of his body. Only his face was exposed. His eyes were open, and his chest rose and fell.

A long moment passed, before deJahn spoke. “You’ll be all right. You did a good job.” Was that right? Who the frig knew? “Vielho… I’m here… deJahn.”

There was no response. The blank eyes did not move, did not blink.

DeJahn looked around the cubicle, located a stool. He pulled it over and sat where Vielho’s eyes could see him, if they could see.

Finally, after another ten minutes, the silence pressed in on him. So much that he had to say something. Anything.

‘Vielho… you know … you remind me of my brother. He’s younger. Not much, two years. He’s a teacher… some out of the way place, Escalante… he’s like you, always had something pleasant to say… That’s why I asked about the tea. He drinks tea. You know, one time, when we were moving the herd… yeah, the old man still handles sheep the old way… Casimir found one of the ewes had dropped twins late… never found their mother… he bottle-nursed ‘em until they were old enough to go with the others….” DeJahn didn’t know why he’d told that story, or the one after it.

Finally, maybe an hour, maybe two, later, he got up from the stool, and leaned over and put two fingers on Vielho’s forehead. “Hold tight…”

Outside sickbay, he thought he saw Meralez in the passageway ahead, and he took the one to the left, that went back to the mess, not that he was hungry. Most times, he would have been glad to see Meralez.

Not this time.

Major Delles surveyed the techs seated at the tables in the mess. This time, more than ten chairs were empty. One would have belonged to Suares, another to Vielho… and Chihouly. Too many names for one lousy obsolete power plant.

Meralez had seated herself at one end of the single long table, with Castaneda on the other side.

DeJahn hadn’t tried to get close on the other side. He’d just taken the last seat near the bulkhead table.

“This is the big push.” Delles smiled enthusiastically. “What we have planned here will upset the Seasies’ economy for a decade or more, not to mention crippling their efforts to match us in biowar capabilities. What we’re doing is just a small part of an overall coordinated program…”

An overallcoordinated program? More like another frigged-up mess where nothing would go like planned, and a whole bunch of techs would get dis-shock or brain-fried.

“…it’s taken some time to identify the critical targets, and not all of them are obvious, but all are critical to the sectoral economy…”

Just tell us what they are, thought deJahn. Skip the enthuse shit.

“…Lumut is critical to the development of the next wave of warm-water bioconversion systems

…Targets will be the power systems, the membrane formulation complex, all comm links, and the potable water system, as well as all humint armed units…”

Turn the place into a wasteland, just like they did with Cascadia Coast… and make sure no one’s left who can explain what happened. Margot had been in Cascadia, just visiting. And deJahn had applied for spec-ops the next week.

“…all the biounits are in place and registering green…”

As if you’d tell us about those that aren’t.

“…We’ll be using the main pod for the heavies, and two and three for the aux bio-units. Here are the pod assignments.”

The holo image appeared in the air beside the major. One of the names under pod two was deJahn.

Frigging support. It didn’t help that Castaneda was assigned to the main pod. He forced a smile.

At least Meralez was in pod two with him. Not that she’d ever been other than polite to him, but even that helped.

“Any questions, Techs?” Delles barely paused before adding, “Dismissed. Operation begins at zero nine hundred local tomorrow.”

DeJahn stood.

Meralez walked by him, as if she would not speak to him.

He nodded, deciding against smiling.

“I saw that. With Vielho. You’re not so cold. Not like people think.” She flashed a quick smile, almost secretive, before her face turned just tech-pleasant.

Cold? He kept to himself, but he wasn’t cold, was he?

0849. DeJahn stood outside pod two. He didn’t like being early, but he liked being late even less. In front of him, Esquival stepped forward, extending her hand. As she did, deJahn was aware of someone behind him—Meralez. He wanted to look back. He didn’t.

Then it was his turn. He extended his hand to the sensor. Tech deJahn.

Entry granted.

He slipped into the dimness. Captain DiLayne was OpsCon again. That figured. Delles would

take the main pod. Pod two was smaller, with only four sensie-seats. DeJahn took the second seat, and watched as Meralez stopped beside the third. He smiled at her through the dimness, but only for a moment. She only nodded.

He eased the mesh linkcap into place, then settled himself. Tech deJahn.

Accepted. Flash background: Snators—bioexplosive. Clutches implanted in five locales, activated at thirty-six minus. Links confirmed. Five targets — all broadband nodecasters. See plots.

The good news was that his targets weren’t people, but the bad news was that he was riding herd on reptilian bioexplosives almost as deadly as ultra-ex. He’d need careful timing for the disengagement.

The five plots displayed thesnators, all arrayed around Lumut, each less than three thousand yards from the target. Each had been sent in with a biogator weeks or months before, little more than a programmed bioblastula with accelerated growth patterning. That kind of planning was something deJahn didn’t want to think about.

Interrogative vector status? snapped DiLayne.

Snators green, standing by for release.

Release at will.

He didn’t need any more urging. The first group of snators left wakes, so energetic was their water entry. The odor of decaying meat permeated that link.

No smell through the sensie-links? DeJahn snorted to himself, even as he blocked the decay odor and the snators slowed, their snouts turning from side to side, as if puzzled by the change, but they kept swimming downstream.

The second attack group had begun to slide through the marsh and reeds toward the nodecaster on the low hillock to the south. The last three hundred yards was across what amounted to mowed lawn, and deJahn would have to sacrifice one of the snators to take out the sonic electric gating to the lawn—it might have been a cricket field or pitch, whatever they called it.

Group three had a curving path through the public gardens, exposed most of the way. That worried deJahn. Gatorlike creatures in the gardens would certainly attract some attention, but then, if need be, he could push them into a run, and snators could make speed.