TEXT: BattleCorps
  SELF DEFENSE
  Jason M. Hardy
  
  BattleCorps
  Self Defense • Page 
  Loon Lake 
  Canopus IV 
  24 June 2763
  The sounds of pleasure changed as the day moved along. They 
  were quietest in the morning, when most of the people in the Loon 
  Resort slept or enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. A few slot machines 
  clanked and rang—a sound that, aside from variations due to the 
  number of players, was constant all day, every day.
  Then afternoon came, and the casino tables started filling. Music 
  came from every corner of every room, ice clinked into glasses, and 
  people started talking louder, assuming their headaches allowed 
  it. In the later afternoon, matinee shows started, loud enough for 
  the sound to bleed through theater walls into the open air.
  Distant shrieks of delighted children carried through the air. The 
  amusement park for them was two kilometers down the road—
  Loon Resort had a firm policy that children were fine, in their place, 
  and that place was two kilometers away. They managed to keep 
  children from being seen by their adult patrons, but nothing could 
  stop them from being heard.
  After nightfall, the noises of the adults crescendoed as the 
  children staggered to bed. The music became even louder, the 
  gamblers shouted to make themselves heard, and the drinkers 
  shouted just for the hell of it. You could stand on the opposite 
  shore of the resort’s lake and see the flashing lights and hear the 
  ever-present noise. But if you were standing there, you’d look at 
  Loon Resort and think, “I’d rather be over on that side,” so why 
  bother being on the wrong shore of the lake in the first place?
  Then the late night and very early morning came, and the noises 
  in the casino and bars faded to a degree. They were replaced by 
  other, scattered noises, intense but isolated. Every room in the re-
  sort was carefully soundproofed, so that these particular sounds 
  would not travel.
  At 4:30 in the morning, a man named Ekkers was thinking just 
  how much he appreciated that particular feature of the resort. He 
  looked around his room before opening the drapes. It was empty, 
  except for him. The bed was tidy. It appeared as if the maid had 
  just been there.
  Perfect. He pulled the curtains open and looked at the black lake 
  outside. The reflection of the flashing lights looked almost serene.
  
  BattleCorps
  Self Defense • Page 
  He knew he shouldn’t be here. The risks of his first stay had 
  been bad enough, but the repeat visits were completely reckless, 
  bordering on insane.
  But business kept taking him to this planet. And each time he 
  stepped off the DropShip … well, each time it seemed like he 
  could hear this place, no matter how far away he was. It wouldn’t 
  stop calling to him.
  But it would be okay. He was safe. Anyone looking in would sim-
  ply see a single man on a well-earned break. They would know 
  nothing about what else had gone on in the room.
  Everything was fine.
  * * *
  “He’s only a tax collector.”
  “He’s a little more than that.”
  “Doesn’t mean he’s important.”
  The glass dome was just above the water level, and it would have 
  taken a careful observer indeed to pick out the submersible in the 
  dark. The dome covered a camera, and the camera was trained on 
  the room of Ronald Ekkers, Star League Regional Deputy Consul.
  “He’s not showing us anything we can use,” said the submers-
  ible’s pilot, a short, impatient man.
  “Not from this angle, perhaps,” the other man said. He looked 
  quite comfortable despite the cramped quarters he had been sit-
  ting in for hours. “But we’re not the only ones watching. Once we 
  put everything together, I’m sure we’ll have enough.”
  “But he’s only a tax collector. He doesn’t control the level of the 
  taxes. You get rid of him, they’ll send another one in his place.”
  The other man, whose name was Burlson, smiled thinly. “Let’s 
  get rid of him safely first. Then we’ll worry about what happens 
  next.”
  “What do you mean, ‘safely’? He’s a bureaucrat. What’s going to 
  happen?”
  Burlson didn’t respond.
  
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   “It just doesn’t make sense, is all I’m saying,” the pilot muttered. 
  Then he watched the picture on the monitor, which showed noth-
  ing more than a Star League consul standing in his bathrobe while 
  he looked at the lake.
  Burlson put his feet up on the submersible’s console. “One step 
  at a time,” he said.
  * * *
  “I trust everything was according to your desires, Mr. Tait?” the 
  desk clerk asked.
  Ekkers, who was smart enough not to use his real name, smiled. 
  “Very much so,” he said. And it had better be. If it wasn’t—well, 
  then what other purpose would this entire nation serve, if they 
  couldn’t provide a good time? He signed for the bill, which was 
  paid with funds that even a veteran intelligence agent would have 
  had trouble tracing, smiled at the desk clerk one more time, then 
  went on his way. A few kilometers down the road he’d shrug off 
  the identity of Mr. Tait and return to the business of representing 
  the Star League’s interests in the Magistracy.
  “Mr. Tait!” said a voice to his left. Ekkers started. Besides the 
  desk clerk, he’d only given his name to three or four people at the 
  resort, and none of them were the type to be greeting him openly 
  in the lobby.
  He recovered soon enough, he hoped, so that his face looked 
  bland when he turned toward the speaker.
  “Yes?”
  A lean whippet of a man with grey hair and a neatly trimmed 
  beard smiled as he walked toward him. “I wonder if I might have 
  a moment of your time?”
  “Not at the moment, I’m afraid. I was just leaving.”
  “Would it help if I told you the matter was urgent?”
  Ekkers pursed his lips. “No. I have no time to talk at the moment, 
  and your claim of urgency will do nothing to make the day longer 
  and create more time.”
  “I understand, of course. If you’d prefer, I could talk to you as you 
  walked to your vehicle.”
  
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  Ekkers was on the verge of offering another dismissive reply 
  when the man leaned closer, looking much like a palm tree bend-
  ing in the wind.
  “I was wondering,” the man said in an undertone, “if you’d be 
  interested in seeing some pictures of your activities last night. 
  Before we send them on to your family.”
  Ekkers stopped in mid-stride. “I was in my room last night,” he 
  said. “I retired early.”
  “Indeed you did,” the man said, “but not for sleep. Are you sure 
  this is a conversation you wish to have here?”
  Ekkers looked at the thin man. I could snap him like a twig if I 
  wanted to, he thought.
  “You have no idea who I am,” he snarled.
  “I know precisely who you are,” the man said smoothly. “That’s 
  why I’m doing this.”
  * * *
  For a man who had just been blackmailed, Ekkers was in a sur-
  prisingly cheerful mood. He could still hear the resort’s noises as 
  he drove away, watching the sun glint off the lake behind him. 
  He chuckled to himself. Maybe it was true, he thought, that too 
  much pleasure addled the brain. If the Canopians thought they 
  could force the Star League to ease up on its tax collections 
  through an elementary blackmail scheme, then they underesti-
  mated the League’s dedication to implementing tax laws, not to 
  mention Ekkers’ own personal preparedness—which some mis-
  takenly called paranoia.
  He would not take long to make their mistake plain.
  * * *
  There were many in the Star League who argued that sending hu-
  man bureaucrats all the way to the Periphery was an unnecessary 
  waste. It wasn’t as if cash needed to be handled in person—the 
  tariffs and excise taxes could be transferred to the appropriate ac-
  counts by bureaucrats thousands of light years away.
  
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  But Ekkers’ superiors had argued that the purpose of having 
  deputy consuls in the system had nothing to do with handling 
  the actual funds. The deputies were there to make sure the taxes 
  were collected smoothly, to ensure that any hitches were resolved 
  as easily as possible. The deputies had a number of persuasive 
  tools at their disposal to keep the funds flowing in the proper 
  direction, and Ekkers was ready to call on one tool he had hand-
  picked. There had been serious questions when he proposed his 
  contingency plan—many of his colleagues thought he was being 
  excessive—but now events showed he was only demonstrating 
  foresight. Now, because he had the right tool in place, ready and 
  waiting, collections would proceed without interruption. This mis-
  sion would justify his supposed paranoia. 
  The regional consul, however, was not immediately convinced 
  that it was time to put Ekkers’ special contingency into action.
  “Couldn’t you just reject the blackmail?” The consul, Mildred 
  Canuth, pushed her glasses to the top of her nose. “Just don’t do 
  what they want, and everything continues on its normal course.”
  “It’s not enough,” Ekkers insisted. “Turning them down won’t 
  send a harsh enough message. They need to know we won’t put 
  up with their nonsense. And my family…”
  “Well, yes, but what you’re proposing…”
  “…will send a strong message.”
  “It could start a war!” Canuth’s right eye was visibly twitching.
  “The Magistracy is not going to declare war on the Star League!” 
  Ekkers said. “They’re children, trying to see how much they can 
  get away with. We’re the adults here, so we need to punish them 
  when they get out of line.”
  She was starting to cave—not because she agreed with him, but 
  because she didn’t like to argue and generally saw concession as 
  the simplest way out of any disagreement. It was why, after de-
  cades of loyal service, she was still mired at the farthest edges of 
  the Star League.
  She had one more weak protest to make. “But what you’re pro-
  posing could hurt innocent people. That isn’t right.”
  Ekkers smile was more wolfish than he intended. “Trust me, 
  Mildred,” he said. “No one on Canopus is innocent.”
  
  BattleCorps
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  * * *
  It was times like this that Ekkers briefly wondered if the Star 
  League was perhaps too wealthy, too powerful. There were na-
  tions on the Periphery that couldn’t put any firepower together 
  when pirate raids came, and here he was, gliding in a customized 
  Cormorant WiGE, complete with LRMs, about to pump a few vol-
  leys of missiles into a resort simply because they’d irritated him.
  But then he dismissed his reservations. It only seems like too 
  much power if you’re on the wrong end of it.
  The speed of the Cormorant as it sped over the lake was exhila-
  rating. Ekkers wished he had a better view of the resort drawing 
  closer in front of him, but he was lucky to be on this mission at all. 
  The vehicle’s commander was understandably reluctant to carry a 
  non-military person on board, but when Ekkers reminded him that 
  the vehicle and crew would not exist without him, the commander 
  relented. He was not, however, about to give Ekkers a front seat 
  view of the action.
  “Mdobe, what’s on the radar?” Commander Ferenze asked, as he 
  had every few minutes. Ekkers wasn’t sure why he bothered, as 
  Canopian resorts were not known for their security presence. But 
  better safe than sorry, he supposed.
  “Plenty of vehicles in the area, but most of them are powered 
  down,” Mdobe said. 
  Ekkers saw the lights of the resort through the craft’s front win-
  dow, and leaned forward. They didn’t have to do much—some 
  missiles here, some machine gun rounds there, a few broken win-
  dows, maybe even a fire somewhere—that should be enough to get 
  the message across. And if the first pass didn’t seem to do enough 
  damage, they could always make another one or two or three.
  “I’ve got something,” Mdobe said abruptly, and his tone turned 
  Ekkers’ head.
  “What?” Ferenze asked.
  “There’s two, four—six. It looks like six crafts powered up and on 
  the move. All towards us.”
  “What kind of craft?”
  “Planes, all of them. Spread out in an arc, closing on an intercept 
  course.”
  
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  Ferenze looked quickly at Ekkers, and Ekkers hoped he looked 
  composed and confident. What were these vehicles? Why were 
  they closing?
  He wanted to give orders. After all, he’d paid for the plane. He’d 
  arranged for the existence of the crew. What good was being a 
  patron if you couldn’t direct how the assets you supplied would 
  be used? But he knew that military types did not take well to civil-
  ians attempting to issue orders. He bit his tongue and tried to let 
  Ferenze do his job.
  “Hail them,” Ferenze said. 
  And with that, Ekkers could bite his tongue no more.
  “This is a stealth mission!” he said. “We are sneaking in! That 
  means we should not announce our presence over the comm!”
  Ferenze turned on Ekkers and showed the mettle that made him 
  a commander of a small vehicle out in the Periphery rather than in 
  any significant military unit.
  “I’m … I’m sorry, Deputy Ekkers. Thank you for the correction.” 
  He turned to Mdobe. “Keep all channels silent.”
  Ekkers smiled. There was so much to appreciate about being a 
  big fish in a small pond.
  Mdobe continued staring at his scanner in a way that Ekkers 
  didn’t appreciate—he hoped the aircraft would be something he 
  could ignore, but Mdobe’s vigilance was not encouraging.
  He wondered how far off they were. He wanted to ask, but 
  he probably shouldn’t. He’d already undermined Ferenze 
  enough.
  “How long until the aircraft intercept us?” Ferenze asked.
  “At the present speed, just under a minute.”
  Ferenze looked at Ekkers. Ekkers returned what he intended to 
  be a steely, determined gaze. Ferenze, however, did not seem sat-
  isfied.
  Then the comm came to life.
  “Hey,” a rough voice said. “You in the Cormorant. Get the hell 
  out of here.”
  
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  Ekkers raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t have time to give Ferenze 
  instructions. The commander was already angry. 
  “This is Commander Ivor Ferenze,” he said, “Star League Revenue. 
  Identify yourself—and watch your tone.”
  “Shove your outrage up your ass, Ferenze,” the voice said. “You 
  don’t need any names. You just need to know that the minute you 
  fire a shot, we’re sending you to the bottom of the lake.”
  Ferenze, leaving the comm microphone off, shook his head. 
  “Must be mercenaries. Most of them don’t have the manners of 
  barnyard animals.” He glanced toward Ekkers, but did not seem to 
  want to look him in the eyes. “Perhaps we should…do this another 
  time?”
  Ekkers sighed. Spinelessness clearly was a very limited virtue. 
  “This is not a bloody tea party!” he said. “We are not going to 
  reschedule! The people here attempted to blackmail an officer of 
  the Star League, and we will not turn away!” He took a breath. 
  “Commander Ferenze, you are relieved. I’m taking command of the 
  vehicle.”
  “You…command?” Ferenze sputtered. “Under what authority?”
  “Under my own damn authority since this craft wouldn’t exist 
  without me! It’s my craft and I’m taking it back.” It probably wasn’t 
  a secure legal precedent he was invoking, but Ekkers was pretty 
  sure Ferenze would back down.
  And, with a sulk, he did. “Fine. It’s your mess now.”
  “Mdobe, turn off the comm. I don’t want to talk to them and I cer-
  tainly don’t want to hear any more from them. You, pilot, get into 
  position and execute the attack as planned.”
  He looked out the forward window now, scanning for a visual 
  on the aircraft, but it was night and they, like the Cormorant, were 
  flying without lights. The first time he saw them might be when 
  they fired on him.
  He could, however, see the resort, gaudy and bright. An inviting 
  target, easy to hit.
  “The intercepting craft are curving away!” Mdobe said abruptly. 
  “Breaking into two groups, looking like they’re going to pass us.”
  Ekkers smiled hesitantly, though he suspected this was too good 
  to be true. Ferenze confirmed it.
  
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  “They’re wheeling around behind you,” he said. “They’ll wait un-
  til you fire, then close on your tail.”
  Ekkers gripped his armrests. They would not frighten him.
  “Are we in range?”
  “We will be in less than thirty seconds,” Mdobe said.
  “Fire with everything we’ve got as soon as we’re in range!”
  The fraction of a minute passed silently. There weren’t any more 
  orders to give.
  “In range!” Mdobe finally said.
  “Fire!” Ekkers said, but it was unnecessary. A volley of missiles 
  was already on its way.
  “Get us out of here!” Ekkers ordered, and the pilot banked the 
  Cormorant as sharply as she could—though it was tough to pivot 
  sharply with only a cushion of air for traction. The tail of the craft 
  bobbed and weaved, skimming over the air instead of grabbing it 
  as it turned.
  “Craft behind us are firing!” Mdobe yelled.
  “Countermeasures!” Ekkers said, but no one did anything. 
  Ferenze shook his head.
  “What kind of a craft do you think this is?” Ferenze said.
  Ekkers was thinking that he probably could have prepared for this 
  mission better when the first volley of missiles hit the Cormorant. 
  It was closely followed by metal slugs digging into the skin of the 
  craft, rattling into the sides like hail stones on a tin roof.
  “Evasive action!” Ekkers cried.
  Something hit him. A hand. A bony hand caught him across 
  his cheek and he tasted blood. Ferenze stood above him, glaring 
  down, his hand open and visibly shaking but still ready for another 
  backhanded slap. 
  “Shut the hell up!” he said, his voice high and cracking. “You 
  haven’t known what you were doing this whole damn mission! 
  Don’t say another damned word!”
  Ekkers started to reply, wanted to reply, but his mouth opened 
  and closed a few times without words coming out. Then he thought 
  
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  he had a reply, and he started to talk, but something else hit the 
  WiGE. The whole cockpit shook, and the concussion of a blast 
  made Ekkers feel like his skull had imploded.
  His vision had narrowed to a small cone. He could only see the 
  sky beyond the window, and it was filled with explosions and 
  glowing trails. He wished he could see the pilot, wondering if he 
  was as dazed as Ekkers felt. He better not be. If he was…
  * * *
  The submersible came up to the surface when it received the 
  all-clear signal.
  “Seemed like it went pretty cleanly,” the pilot said.
  “I’m satisfied,” Burlson said.
  “Can I ask you a question?” the pilot asked.
  “Sure.”
  “Where did those aero units come from? Since when does the 
  Magistracy have an air force to spare on defending a resort?”
  Burlson chuckled. “We don’t. Those were mercenaries.”
  “The government has enough spare cash to hire mercenaries to 
  shoot down a WiGE over the Loon Resort?”
  “No, no, no. Those were volunteers. Volunteers with no traceable 
  attachment to the Magistracy.”
  “Volunteers?”
  “Yes. Once we knew about Ekkers’ plan—“
  “And how did you know about that?”
  “When you have access to pillow talk,” Burlson said airily, “you 
  have access to all the secrets of the universe. Anyway, once we 
  knew about Ekkers’ plan, we spread the word among some of the 
  resort’s guests. And some of them stepped forward, volunteering 
  to defend us. A gesture of goodwill born of their love for Loon 
  Resort.”
  “Is that…normal to have a number of mercenaries staying 
  here?”
  
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  “Of course! Good quality ones, too. It’s an important thing to re-
  member—poor mercenaries spend their money on new gear. Rich 
  mercenaries spend it here.”
  
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