Mutineer's Moon

The sense of ancientness behind those comely, youthful faces was frightening, and al-Nasir was glad there were no children. The thought of what any child who breathed this poisoned atmosphere must become turned his stomach, and it was no longer a stomach that turned easily.

His relaxed hand crooked casually, stroking the wooden bench absently, and his eyelids drooped as he listened to the tinkle and splash of the fountain. His entire body was eloquently if unobtrusively relaxed, and his fingers stroked more slowly, as if the idle thoughts that moved them were slowing.

He touched the tiny, barely discernible dot of the message chip, and his forefinger moved. The chip slid up under his nail, invisible under the thin sheet of horn, and no flicker of triumph crossed his face. If the colonel was wrong about Ninhursag, he was a dead man, but no sign of that showed, either.

He let his hand continue stroking for a few moments, then laid his forearm negligently along the armrest. Every nerve in his lax body screamed to stand up, to walk away from the drop site, but this was a game he’d learned to play well, and he settled even more comfortably on the bench.

About an hour, he thought. A short, restoring nap, utterly i

The city of La Paz dreamed under an Argentine moon, and the streets were emptying as Shirhansu sat by the window and stroked her ash-blonde hair.

Even after all these years, she still found it difficult to accept that her pale-ski

She sighed and shifted the energy gun across her lap, wishing yet again that they could have worn combat armor. It was out of the question, of course. Stealth fields could do a lot, but if the enemy operated unarmored or, even worse, were entirely Terra-born, they would be mighty hard to spot, and armor, however carefully hidden, could be picked up by people without it long before her own sca

This was a stupid mission. She was glad to have it instead of one of the other operations—she was no Girru and took no pleasure from slaughtering degenerates in job lots—but it was still stupid. Suppose she did manage to surprise some of Nergal’s crowd. They would never let themselves lead her back to the battleship. Even if she managed to follow them, it stood to reason that whatever auxiliary picked them up would carry out a careful scan before it made rendezvous, and when it did, it would spot her people however carefully they were stealthed. That auxiliary would undoubtedly be armed, too, and was there any fighter cover for her people? Of course not. The limited supply of fighter crews was being tasked with offensive strikes … aside from the fifty percent reserve Anu insisted on retaining to cover the enclave, though what he expected Nergal’s people to accomplish against its shield eluded Shirhansu.

Of course, she did suffer from one little handicap when it came to understanding the “Chief.” Her brain still worked.

Which also explained why she was so unhappy at the prospect of trying to follow one of Nergal’s teams. Their efficiency to date had been appalling, even allowing for the purely Terran nature of most of their targets, not that it surprised Shirhansu. She’d developed a deep if grudging respect for her enemies over the centuries, for the casualty figures were far less one-sided than they should be. They’d survived everything her own group had thrown at them from the lofty advantage of its superior tech base and managed—somehow—to keep their HQ completely hidden; they weren’t bloody likely to screw up now.

The whole idea was foolish, but she knew why the mission had been mounted anyway, and she approved of anything that kept Ganhar alive and in control of Operations, for she was one of his faction. Joining him had seemed like a good idea at the time—certainly he was far closer to sane than Kirinal had been!—but she’d been having second thoughts recently. Still, Ganhar seemed to be making a recovery, and if her presence here could help him, then it also helped her, and that…

Her hand—held security com gave a soft, almost inaudible chime. She raised it to her ear, and her eyes widened. Ganhar’s analysts had called it right; the bastards were going to hit Los Pun[atas!

She spoke succinctly into the com, hoping her own stealth field would hide the fold-space pulse as it was supposed to, then checked her weapon. She set it for ten percent power—there was no armor inside the approaching stealth fields, and there was no point blowing too deep a hole in the pavement—and opened a slit in her stealth field, freeing her implants to scan a narrow field before her while the field still hid her from flanks and rear.

Tamman followed Amanda along the sidewalk, as invisible as the wind. He felt more at home than he had in Tehran, but his enhanced senses could do more good watching her back than probing the darkness before her, and she’d convinced him of the virtue of keeping the commander out of the forefront.

He let a scowl twist his lips. The massacre of i

Yet that was the only southern attack that had been resisted, if that was the word for it, and the casualty count was starting to trouble his dreams. Watching World War One’s trenches and World War Two’s extermination camps had been horrifying, and Phnom Penh had been even worse, in its way. Afghanistan and the interminable, fanatical bloodletting between Iran and Iraq in the ’eighties had been atrocious, and the Kananga massacres in Zaire had been pretty bad, too, but this sort of desecration wasn’t something a man could become used to, however often he saw it.

Los Pun[atas—“The Daggers”—were pussy cats compared to Black Mecca, but they’d been positively identified ru

“Get ready,” Shirhansu whispered. “Take ’em when they reach the plaza.”

“Take them? I thought we were supposed to shadow them, ’Hansu.” It was Tarban, her second in command, and Shirhansu scowled in the darkness.

“If any of them get away, we will,” she growled, “but it’s more important to nail a few of the bastards.”

“But—”

“Shut up and get off the com before they pick it up!”

“Tamman, it’s a trap!” The voice screaming into Tamman’s left ear was Hanalat, their recovery pilot, who had been watching over them with her sensors. “I’m picking up a fold-space link ahead of you, at least two point sources! Get the hell out!”

“Gotcha,” he grunted, thanking the Maker for Hector’s suggestion that they carry Terran communications equipment. Hector had calculated that Anu’s people would be looking primarily for Imperial technology, and he must have been right; Tamman had received the warning and he was still alive.