Shadows, стр. 39

Slowly, so as not to attract attention with fast movements, Cutter rose. First Squad followed, hunched behind what cover they had, and picked up their weapons, careful not to get them dirtier than they already were. The enemy didn’t notice. Cutter’s robe hung like lead weights on his shoulders, having soaked up the rancid liquid until saturated, but its brown color was the perfect camouflage. When the militia leader only had five men around him, Cutter aimed the Thompson at the one furthest to the left and fired.

Being trapped and outnumbered outweighed the risk of accidentally hitting the militia commander, but Cutter had trained his platoon well. All five targets twitched and fell under a fusillade of bullets, while their leader covered his head and crouched against the wall. Slipping out of his robe so it didn’t slow him down, Cutter splashed forward in his underwear, the wet sewage blocking the burning UV rays like body paint.

Within seconds, he’d deployed men to cover the road to the north and south, and two men to watch across the sewer to the east. Cutter grabbed the lead man’s robe and pulled him to his feet, putting his lips within inches of the leader’s red-painted face. The dilation of the man’s nostrils told Cutter that his reek nauseated the militia leader. Good.

“I don’t have time for bullshit,” he said, using the English word. His men smiled, having heard it so often they knew its meaning, even if the idea of a bull was foreign to them. “Do you want to live, or should I kill you where you stand?”

The man, tubbier than most citizens of Imsurmik, made an attempt to resist. “Do you know who I am?” he said.

“Yeah, another dead guy in the street, unless you do exactly what I tell you. Now answer my question.”

“I do not want to die.”

“Good answer. Here’s what’s going to happen.” Cutter barely had time to give instructions before the rest of the red militiamen rounded both corners at a dead run. Rifles came up on both sides, but the militia leader called for his men to stop. He was pushed forward with the barrel of Cutter’s Thompson under his chin, and he ordered his men to back off and let them pass. Cutter and his squad withdrew east, toward the main road, guns ready and pointing in all directions, but the militiamen didn’t seem eager for any more fighting. As Cutter suspected, once their leader was in custody, they had a good excuse to go home…and stay alive. None even hesitated; as one, they turned around and melted back into the ghetto.

Experience taught Cutter to take nothing for granted in a free fire zone, so they kept their guard up until Moorefield’s men spotted them at the intersection with the main road. By then, the brutal sunshine had evaporated all the moisture from the sewage clinging to First Squad’s bodies, leaving only a cracked and flaking shell. The stench remained, however, and while handing over the militia leader, Moorefield’s men waved Cutter and his squad back.

“There’s a well over there…sir,” one of them said, his head half-turned in disgust. Cutter insisted that his unit clean its weapons first, and then allowed the men to take turns covering each other while using buckets of water to get off as much of the now-dried muck as possible.

Rinsing off was no substitute for immersion in the river, but they removed enough to once again be tolerable to other human beings. Cutter returned to the main road to discuss getting new robes and was mid-sentence when several of Moorefield’s men leveled their rifles at someone running toward them. The man was wearing a simple robe smeared with blood on the left leg, left shoulder, and several places along his side, but he didn’t seem badly injured. He wore no paint or face covering, and his skin was not much darker than his white hair. He was ordered to halt, and he did so, bending over, hands on knees, breathing hard.

“I seek a Captain Cutter,” he said between gasps.

“Who are you?” Moorefield’s guard asked. “Why should we trust you?”

Cutter waved the trooper back, too tired to worry about any tricks. If the newcomer tried something, Moorefield’s men would cut him to ribbons. “I’m Cutter. What’s it to you?”

The man’s eyes shifted, and for the briefest instant Cutter saw doubt there, which wasn’t surprising. A stinking, semi-naked man didn’t exactly present an image of authority. But the newcomer only hesitated for a moment.

“Lieutenant Tanavuna needs your help. He said there may be tunnel exits to the Outer City against the plateau wall, but for you to bring reinforcements to the main tunnel.”

“Is that where he is?”

“No,” the newcomer said, shaking his head. “He discovered another exit, and beyond that an archive of some kind, but the J’Stull have it blocked. He said to hurry.”

“Can you show me?”

“I can try, but as you see, I am wounded.”

“Sir, you can’t trust this man,” Riidono said. “He’s leading you into a trap. Look at him, he’s a nobody; I’ve known Tanavuna all of my life and he would never send such a man to find you.”

“I have to agree,” said one of Moorefield’s men.

“Tanavuna sent a young man with me, named Unaa. He was killed in the tunnel leading into the plateau from the Inner City.”

“You see?” Riidono said, stepping toward the man.

Cutter stopped him with an outstretched hand. “Then how did he know the lieutenant’s name, Sergeant? And he’d have to be suicidal to deliver himself to us if he planned betrayal. No, either the enemy has captured Lieutenant Tanavuna, or this man is telling the truth. My gut tells me he’s not lying.” Holding the Thompson in the crook of his right arm, he turned to face the newcomer. “But be aware, if you are lying,