War Criminals by Gavin Smith (ereader for textbooks .TXT) 📕

by now, which still seemed old, somehow, to Miska.

‘It’s colonel now,’ Miska told her. Jones smiled, though it didn’t seem to quite make it to her eyes.

‘So I heard,’ she said, and again there was something in her voice. ‘How long’s it been? Four years? Just before you tried for selection.’

‘That’s right.’ Miska noticed that the four other soldiers who had been sitting with Jones were either studiously avoiding looking at her by staring at their drinks, or just openly glaring.

‘How’d that go for you?’ Jones asked.

‘Y’know,’ Miska said, shrugging, a little distracted by the glares she was receiving.

‘Don’t mind them,’ Jones said, taking Miska by the arm and steering her to a high stool just inside the bar proper, at the window. She concentrated for a moment and a serving drone turned up with two more beers almost as soon as they sat down.

‘What’s their problem?’ Miska said, nodding back to Jones’s table.

‘You killed some of their friends at Port Turquoise,’ Jones told her, grimacing slightly.

‘Some of yours as well?’ Miska asked.

Jones shrugged.

‘That’s why they pay us the big bucks, I guess.’ She looked down at her beer bottle, smearing the condensation on the glass around with her thumb.

‘You with Triple S?’ she asked.

Jones nodded. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I am. That a problem?’ She looked Miska straight in the eyes.

‘Not for me. It’s just a pay packet. You up here on repatriation leave?’ Miska asked. When mercenaries were captured the victors rarely wanted the responsibility and cost of looking after prisoners. Most mercenaries had a clause written into their contract that the parent company would pay to have them repatriated. Part of the clause meant that the mercs were entitled to leave immediately after their repatriation.

Jones nodded.

‘You at Port Turquoise?’ Miska asked.

‘Yeah, I was there when your boys turned up,’ Jones told her.

‘Well I’m glad we didn’t kill you.’ Miska glanced at Jones’s angry comrades sat at the other table. ‘You got repatriated quickly.’

‘Triple S are pretty good about that. You’ve certainly shaken things up a bit.’

Miska shrugged again and took a sip from her beer.

‘We’re a new face, we’ve got to prove ourselves,’ she said.

‘The job’s a lot more dangerous now that you’re here.’

Miska leaned back on her high stool and studied Jones for a moment or two.

‘Like I told your boss, surrender faster or leave. I’m here to wage war, not dance around posturing.’

Jones held up her hands.

‘Hey, relax,’ she said.

Miska could make out the fading white of implant scars curling around Jones’s skull. It was good work, Triple S clearly paid well.

‘You got something to say?’ Miska asked.

Jones considered the question.

‘Yeah, yeah I do. You can’t blame us for wanting to minimise the risk, can you?’ she asked. Miska didn’t quite trust herself to answer. It sounded like rank hypocrisy to her ears. Profitable no-tears war. ‘But what you’re doing ain’t right, okay?’

‘Excuse me?’ Miska demanded. She was vaguely aware of Jones’s friends paying more attention, of Nyukuti shifting position slightly.

‘Sending criminals out to fight professionals—’ Jones started.

‘They seemed to do all right against you guys,’ Miska said and knocked back the beer.

‘—slave labour to take our jobs.’

Miska had been pushing the stool back, sliding off it, as Jones said this.

‘Everyone who fights for me volunteers and is paid,’ Miska told her.

‘They volunteer because you put bombs in their heads.’

‘The bombs are the prison, the discipline …’

‘What discipline? They massacred a hundred—’ Jones started.

‘Triple S elite? Ex-special forces? Come on, you don’t believe that bullshit, do you?’ Miska snapped. She was more angry with herself for getting drawn into the argument than she was with Jones, but the whole propaganda element of the conflict pissed her off.

‘Good to see you again,’ Miska muttered and made for the door.

‘Miska!’ Jones called after her. Despite her better judgement Miska stopped and looked back. ‘I’m sorry about your dad. I liked him.’

Miska felt something in her chest. She swallowed hard but nodded.

‘Miska …’ It was Nyukuti. She could hear the urgency in his voice. Jones, her table of friends, and about three-quarters of the people in the bar suddenly jumped to their feet and snapped to attention. Miska felt a sinking sensation as she turned around to see Colonel Duellona standing inches away from her. Resnick was outside the bar, close to Nyukuti.

‘So you’re going to use slave labour to undercut real soldiers?’ Duellona asked loud enough for the crowd to hear. The hatred coming from the soldiers standing at attention was palpable. There was even angry muttering from the non-Triple S mercenaries in the bar.

‘We’re mercenaries, none of us are real … wait, how’d you—?’

‘Perhaps you and your scum need a lesson in the capabilities of real soldiers, Corporal Corbin.’ Duellona had really emphasised the corporal.

‘Wait, you’re going to start a—’ Miska began. She didn’t even see the kick that knocked her through the window. It was too fast. Too strong. Unnaturally so. Lying in the glass, out on the Central Concourse, her left arm felt broken. She knew it wasn’t, because of her bone reinforcements. But it still hurt like fuck, as did her side, and she didn’t think that she was going to be able to move it much.

Duellona took her time walking around the now-broken window. Miska forced herself to her feet, glancing at Nyukuti. The stand-over man had his hands raised. Resnick was covering him with a gauss pistol.

‘You shouldn’t be able to do that,’ Miska muttered through gritted teeth, and it was true. Miska had military grade cyberware augmenting high-end skills that she had worked hard to develop. She should have been able to get out of the way of, or at least block, something as slow as a kick.

‘A disgraced tier-three special forces operator in charge of a crew of sick animals? Of course I can do this.’

Miska slapped the first blow out of the way, and too late realised it was a feint. She took a jab to the head that was hard enough to make her see lights. A blow