Free Soldiers Out of Time by Steve White Page A

expressionlessness, allowed his eyes to narrow and his lips to thin into a hard line of disapproval. But McGillicuddy, now in full tilt, was oblivious. Jason was not surprised, for he had known too many similar cases. Typically, the next stage beyond idealism was a disillusioned idealist who had seen the light and switched sides. “And anyway, I’ve got what counts: the financial backing of some of the most important human merchants with a stake out here. They know I’m their best bet to restore stability on this planet. They also know that after I’ve cleaned out the Dazh’Pinkh I’ll have a lot of influence; I’ll be in a position to make it easier for our people to do business here without interference.”
    Either this character is madder than a hatter , thought Jason, or else he’s the mercenary leader we were speculating about. Or, possibly, both. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Chang was looking very serious indeed.
    “In the meantime,” he said aloud, “I gather that it was while working for the IDRF that you found out about the Transhumanists.”
    “Well, yes, although that’s giving me too much credit. All I discovered was that some humans were buying large supplies of food. We mercs naturally obtain the bulk of our own supplies locally, you know.”
    “Naturally,” Jason echoed. Except for low-volume, high-value luxury items and novelties, and required dietary supplements, no one transported foodstuffs across interstellar distances—certainly not in bulk. It just wasn’t a paying proposition.
    “So I have contacts in the local high-volume food markets. And I began to hear that other humans were buying so much as to drive the prices up.”
    “That must have been distressing,” said Rojas drily.
    “You bet.” McGillicuddy, like most of his ilk, was clearly impervious to irony. “I brought it to Captain Chang’s attention, of course. The IDRF likes to keep tabs on the humans doing business here—they’re a mixed lot, and I’m afraid that lately we’ve been getting a questionable element.” His listeners carefully kept straight faces. “And my men I’d sent to watch the markets spotted some humans who were unfamiliar to us but somehow didn’t quite seem to fit the usual riffraff profile.”
    “So,” Chang took up the narrative, “I looked into it personally, just doing surveillance around the markets. I never dreamed that my implant would come into play.”
    “But after that,” Rojas prompted, “you never got another lead.”
    “No. Everything dried up after that one contact.”
    “But,” McGillicuddy put in, “ someone is still doing the buying, because the prices are still going up.”
    “Presumably,” said Chang, “they’re doing it through go-betweens among the . . . riffraff. So many layers of them that we can’t trace it.”
    “Well,” said Rojas to McGillicuddy, “thank you for your help.” With a few more mumbled pleasantries, the group took its leave, standing up carefully to avoid bumped heads. As they emerged from the door, Jason halted, snapped his fingers and swore.
    “Damn it, I forgot something! I’ll be right back.” Before anyone could ask any questions, he ducked back inside the house, where McGillicuddy was still reclining and sipping his tchova.
    “Unless I’m mistaken,” Jason stated without preamble, “you know more than you’re telling the IDRF people.”
    “Well,” the mercenary drawled, “a man must protect his confidential sources, mustn’t he?”
    “Of course. But remember, I work for the Temporal Regulatory Authority, which doesn’t give a damn about your . . . business associates here on Zirankhu. My colleagues and I are here for a limited time, and for a limited purpose which involves only the Transhumanists. And whatever the Transhumanists are up to here, it can’t be good news for you.”
    That last obviously made an impression. McGillicuddy’s expression showed that the word “Transhumanists” had the same