Charles Stross - The Clan Corporate

"Shizz…" His knees sagged.

"Wait," Mike said, trying his hochsprache. "You-carry-me. Yes?" He saw the other man's eyes. The expression of terror began to fade. "Come-go-back here." Mike paused. "Does he know what the collar is?" he asked Smith, lapsing into English.

Smith nodded.

"They take"-gesture at throat-"undress, off. You run"-tap at wrist, at the bracelet Smith had put there, then finger across throat. "Understand?"

"Yes," said the prisoner. Then a gabble of words jumbled together too fast for Mike to parse.

"Slower."

Courier Three fell silent. "Not kill."

"No. You carry me."

"I carry, yes, I carry!"

The courier's head bobbed as if his neck had been replaced by loose springs. Mike tasted stomach acid, swallowed. This isn't right. I'm supposed to capture more people, so we can use them like this? Even a prison cell had to be better than being led to a dingy room and having a bomb clamped to your neck.

"Ready?" asked Smith.

"Yeah." Mike pointed to the X on the floor. "Stand here." Courier Three crouched down on the spot, legs and arms braced. Mike looked at him, momentarily perplexed. "What do I do now?" he asked.

"You sit on him," said Smith. He was holding something. "Go on."

"Okay." With some trepidation, Mike lowered himself onto Courier Three's back. The man grunted. Mike could feel his spine, the warmth of his ribs through the seat of his pants. This is weird, he began to think, just as Smith held something under Three's nose. Then the world changed.

Mike blinked at the darkness. Someone tapped him on the back of the head with something hard. "Say your name."

"Mike Fleming." His seat groaned and began to collapse, and he fell over sideways. "What the fuck-"

A thud was followed by a muffled groan. "Okay, wiseass, cut that out!" Light appeared, and Mike rolled over onto his back and tried to sit out.

Someone else was groaning-Courier Three? he wondered. "What's going on?"

"All under control, sir," drawled the man with the gun. "You just sort yourself out while we keep watch."

Mike nodded, taking stock of the situation. He was in some kind of room with no windows, a door, a dirt floor, three armed strangers, and a captured Clan courier wearing a bomb around his neck. The good news was that the desperados were pointing their guns at the courier, the door, and the ground, respectively-which left none for him. Ergo, they were friendly. "Which of you is Sergeant Hastert?" he asked.

"I am." Hastert was the one covering the ground. He grinned at Mike, an expression he'd have found deeply alarming if it wasn't for the fact that any other expression would have been infinitely worse. Courier Three groaned again. Mike realized he was clutching his head. "Dennis, keep laughing boy here covered. Mr. Fleming, you've got the remote control. If you'd care to pass it to me, we can take care of the mule until it's time for him to go home. Meanwhile, you 'n I've got some talking to do."

"Okay." Mike unlocked his bracelet with a shudder of relief and passed it to the sergeant, who leaned over Courier Three while one of the others kept his AR-15 pointed at the prisoner the whole time.

"Listen, you," said Hastert. "This here won't go off now-" He was speaking English, loudly and slowly.

"He doesn't understand," said Mike.

"Huh?"

"He doesn't speak English. He thought we were going to kill him, back in New York."

"Hmm." Hastert stared at him with pale blue eyes. "You try, then."

Mike stared at Courier Three. "You go. Soon, now, back over. Not die. Shoot if run? Yes."

The prisoner nodded slightly. Then went back to groaning quietly and clutching his head.

"Not much to look at, ain't he?" Hastert was genial.

"Let's get out of here."

Hastert opened the door and led Mike through into another bare room with a dirt floor, leaving the two other soldiers with their precious courier. There was a window in here, with wooden shutters, and Hastert switched off his flashlight. As Mike's eyes adjusted he got a good look at what the sergeant was wearing: rough woolen trousers and jerkin over another layer that bulged like a bulletproof jacket. "We stay indoors during the day," Hastert said, acknowledging his curiosity. "But this is a special occasion. Keep your voice low, by the way. It's a crowded neighborhood."

"You know where the palace is?"

"Yeah. We'll get you there. Once laughing boy has gotten over his headache and gone home."

"Huh." Mike sank down into a crouch against one wall. It was whitewashed, he noticed, but the plaster or bricks underneath it were uneven. "This the best hotel you could get?"

"You should see how they live hereabouts." Hastert shrugged. "This is the Sheraton. Let me fill you in…"

Mike tried to listen, but he was too tense. There were noises outside: occasional chatter, oddly slurred and almost comprehensible snatches of hochsprache. The thud of horses' hooves passed the door from time to time, followed by the creak and rattle of carts. After about an hour, the inner door opened and one of the other soldiers came out. He nodded. "All done."

Mike shifted. "What now?"

Hastert checked his watch. "One hour to go, then we move out. Jack, go dig out a couple of MREs, and you and Dennis chow down. Sir, do you know what this is?" He held up a radio transmitter, like the one Colonel Smith shown Mike earlier.

"Yes." Mike nodded. "Radio transmitter. Right?"

"Right." Hastert looked at him thoughtfully, then reached into a shapeless-looking sack on the floor beside him and pulled out an entrenching tool. "We're going to put it in right-here." He buried the gadget under a thin layer of soil and tamped it down, then scattered the residue. "Think you can find it?"

Mike mentally measured the distance from the door. "Yes, I think so."

"Good. Your life depends on it." Hastert didn't smile. "Because when you get back here, we won't be around."

"I've been briefed." Mike tried not to snap. It was warm and stifling in the dirt-floored shack, and the endless waiting was getting to him.

"Yes, sir, but I didn't see you being briefed, so if you'll excuse me we'll go over it again, shall we?"

"Okay…" Mike swallowed. "Thanks."

The next hour passed a bit faster, which made it all the more shocking when the inner door opened and the other two men came through. "Ready when you are, boss." It was the taller one, O'Neil. Mike blinked. Hey, all three of them are white, he realized: a statistical anomaly, or maybe something else. No sugar trade here means no African slave trade. Just another logistics headache that Smith was dealing with behind his back, finding special forces troops who looked like locals.

"Let's go." Hastert stood up. "Far as the garden party, we're your bodyguard. Once you're inside, we'll split. Anything goes wrong, make for the garden gate opposite the ceremonial parade ground-I'll point it out to you."

He opened the door. It was late afternoon outside, dusty and bright and hot, but with a breeze blowing off the sea that took the edge off the heat. The shack turned out to be one of a whole row fronting a narrow dirt track: a similar row faced them. Half the doors and windows were wide open, with chickens and geese wandering in and out freely to peck in the roadside dirt. There were people. Ragged, skinny children, stooped women and men in colorless robes or baggy trousers. People who looked away when Hastert stared at them, hastily finding somewhere else to go, something else to do. The road was filthy, an open gutter down the middle running with sewage. "Come on," said O'Neil, behind Mike. "You're blocking the door."

Mike stepped forward, trying to project confidence. I'm a big man, he told himself. I'm armed, I've got bodyguards, my clothing's new, and I'm well-fed. He glanced up the street. Nothing on this row was straight: whoever built it hadn't heard of zoning laws, or even a straight line. A cart pulled by a couple of bored oxen, piled high with sacks, was slowly rattling toward them. Behind it, a mass of sheep bleated plaintively, spilling into doorways in a slow woolly flood. "Follow me, and try to look like you're leading," Hastert muttered.