Read Online By Force of Arms by William C. Dietz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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well packed earth was dry and hard.
The fire, augmented by some Legion-issue fuel tabs, burned hot and bright. Nocount took a pull from his canteen, passed the container to Dimwit, and delivered a prodigious belch. “I hope the human comes down tomorrow. We’re almost out of drak.”
The second Naa took a drink, felt the liquor bum its way down into his stomach, and wiggled his nose. That odor … What was it? Not drak, not his friend’s pungent body odor—it was something else. Then he had it. Dimwit’s brain sent the message to his lips, told them what to say, but not in time.
First Sergeant Neversmile had stripped to the waist. His fur was black with patches of white. They seemed to glow as he stepped out into the firelight. “Greetings my brothers … I saw your fire and wondered if you might spare a traveler something to eat.”
Both of the bandits were in the habit of taking things from travelers but never gave them away. They ran their eyes down the newcomer’s body, saw no sign of weapons, and felt a lot more secure. Nocount decided to toy with the stranger. He pulled a Legion-issue .50 caliber recoilless out from under his jacket and waved it back and forth. “Sure, I’ll give you something to eat… How ‘bout a bullet?”
Neversmile smiled. A bad sign if there ever was one.
“Sure, if you don’t mind eating a few yourself.”
Nocount frowned. “I have a gun, and you don’t.”
True,” the legionnaire said agreeably, “but I have a friend… and her gun is bigger than your gun.”
Dimwit squinted into the surrounding gloom. “Friend?
What friend?”
“That would be me,” Wilker replied, stepping out into the light. Servos whined as weapons came to bear. “Hi, how ya doin’?”
Dimwit peed his pants. Nocount decided to gamble.
The knife point struck metal and skidded through olive-drab paint. Booly gave a small grunt of satisfaction, scooped dirt with his hands, and revealed the top of an old ammo box. Though faded, the words “Grenades 40 mm HE,” could still be read. Such containers were highly prized by the Naa and used for a multiplicity of purposes. The officer dug around both ends, freed the handles, and checked for wires. There were none. Then, careful lest the box be resting on some sort of spring-loaded mine, he felt underneath. Nothing.
Confident that it was safe the legionnaire grabbed the handles and pulled the container out of its hole. It was light, too light for a box with grenades in it, which confirmed his initial impression. Someone had used the box for something else.
Booly carried the container over and placed it in front of the fire. Most of the dark green paint was intact, but there were patches of dark brown rust, and any number of scratches. There was no lock, just a series of latches, all of which were stiff. He pried them open, took a long deep breath, and pushed the lid up and out of the way.
The contents were sealed in clear plastic, and Booly recognized some of the items even before he sliced through the outer covering. He saw his grandmother’s Wula sticks. his father’s Medal of Valor, his mother’s long-barreled target pistol, and much, much more. There were photos, diaries, Naa story beads, his grandfather’s flick blade, and a Hudathan command stone. Not the sort of items most mothers would leave for their sons—but the kind that a warrior would. For each and every one of the objects told a story, was part of who he was, and a source of strength.
It was her way of reminding him of where he came from,
of who had gone before, and the nature of his inheritance.
Not land, not money, but a legacy of honor.
Suddenly, without knowing why, the officer thought of Maylo ChienChu. She had doubts about their relationship. That was obvious. Could her doubts have been related to his? After all, why should she be sure of him, if he doubted himself? Or was that too easy?
Whatever the reason, he felt stronger now, confident that he was entitled to
The fire, augmented by some Legion-issue fuel tabs, burned hot and bright. Nocount took a pull from his canteen, passed the container to Dimwit, and delivered a prodigious belch. “I hope the human comes down tomorrow. We’re almost out of drak.”
The second Naa took a drink, felt the liquor bum its way down into his stomach, and wiggled his nose. That odor … What was it? Not drak, not his friend’s pungent body odor—it was something else. Then he had it. Dimwit’s brain sent the message to his lips, told them what to say, but not in time.
First Sergeant Neversmile had stripped to the waist. His fur was black with patches of white. They seemed to glow as he stepped out into the firelight. “Greetings my brothers … I saw your fire and wondered if you might spare a traveler something to eat.”
Both of the bandits were in the habit of taking things from travelers but never gave them away. They ran their eyes down the newcomer’s body, saw no sign of weapons, and felt a lot more secure. Nocount decided to toy with the stranger. He pulled a Legion-issue .50 caliber recoilless out from under his jacket and waved it back and forth. “Sure, I’ll give you something to eat… How ‘bout a bullet?”
Neversmile smiled. A bad sign if there ever was one.
“Sure, if you don’t mind eating a few yourself.”
Nocount frowned. “I have a gun, and you don’t.”
True,” the legionnaire said agreeably, “but I have a friend… and her gun is bigger than your gun.”
Dimwit squinted into the surrounding gloom. “Friend?
What friend?”
“That would be me,” Wilker replied, stepping out into the light. Servos whined as weapons came to bear. “Hi, how ya doin’?”
Dimwit peed his pants. Nocount decided to gamble.
The knife point struck metal and skidded through olive-drab paint. Booly gave a small grunt of satisfaction, scooped dirt with his hands, and revealed the top of an old ammo box. Though faded, the words “Grenades 40 mm HE,” could still be read. Such containers were highly prized by the Naa and used for a multiplicity of purposes. The officer dug around both ends, freed the handles, and checked for wires. There were none. Then, careful lest the box be resting on some sort of spring-loaded mine, he felt underneath. Nothing.
Confident that it was safe the legionnaire grabbed the handles and pulled the container out of its hole. It was light, too light for a box with grenades in it, which confirmed his initial impression. Someone had used the box for something else.
Booly carried the container over and placed it in front of the fire. Most of the dark green paint was intact, but there were patches of dark brown rust, and any number of scratches. There was no lock, just a series of latches, all of which were stiff. He pried them open, took a long deep breath, and pushed the lid up and out of the way.
The contents were sealed in clear plastic, and Booly recognized some of the items even before he sliced through the outer covering. He saw his grandmother’s Wula sticks. his father’s Medal of Valor, his mother’s long-barreled target pistol, and much, much more. There were photos, diaries, Naa story beads, his grandfather’s flick blade, and a Hudathan command stone. Not the sort of items most mothers would leave for their sons—but the kind that a warrior would. For each and every one of the objects told a story, was part of who he was, and a source of strength.
It was her way of reminding him of where he came from,
of who had gone before, and the nature of his inheritance.
Not land, not money, but a legacy of honor.
Suddenly, without knowing why, the officer thought of Maylo ChienChu. She had doubts about their relationship. That was obvious. Could her doubts have been related to his? After all, why should she be sure of him, if he doubted himself? Or was that too easy?
Whatever the reason, he felt stronger now, confident that he was entitled to
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