Morgan had never thought he would see such a thing. He was supposed to be inside the house, hiding, but he had seen this through the window, and it was so amazing that he had to watch. For fifteen seconds, the angular black aircraft, barely visible against the dark sky, hung motionless as it poured bullets down onto the street. Then it turned and floated off to another place in the town, where it stopped, turned and opened up with its gun again. When it ceased, Morgan heard no battle cries, no screams and no cursing-- no signs of a bandit victory. He breathed out, balancing himself against the wall, suddenly realizing how terrified he had been. Now, for the second time, Bonde Wakulima had pulled through.
On the far side of town, the aircraft settled in the air above no-man's-land and started flying big, high-speed loops around the town. With every lap, its sinister thumping rose and fell in Morgan's ears, an alien howl that filled the air.
A machine like that could never come from the savages in the jungle, but he knew it had not been built here either.
So where did it come from?
For several minutes, Morgan stood gawking, then another rotor noise reached his ears, this one slower and heavier. From the north, a bulbous hulk of a VTOL plane soared over the canopy. It hung in the air above the center of town, and Morgan ran to it.
He arrived just as the big aircraft touched down in the biggest square in town, its rotor draft blowing his hair back. Women had already gathered around, most with their guns out and the safety off. Morgan looked for Zanele, but could not find her. Worry needled him.
The rear door of the helicopter folded slowly down, and Zanele vanished from Morgan's thoughts. Soldiers filed out of the helicopter-- not bandits, not militiawomen, but real, professional soldiers. From neck to foot, they wore bright green camouflage, their hair hidden beneath mesh and metal helmets, with supplies and bullet magazines hanging neatly on their chests. In perfect symmetry, twenty of them marched out from the aircraft, forming a semicircle around the ramp. Standing as straight as tent poles, they faced the people of Bonde Wakulima, ominously calm. Morgan scanned their faces one at a time, finding a few Asians among the group, a few South Americans-- which Morgan had never seen in person before-- and even one white woman. Grief stabbed him as he remembered Otta.
Dress shoes clicked on metal, and one last woman stepped down from the helicopter. She, too, was South American, but instead of soldier's gear, she wore a light grey suit with black accents on her long-sleeved arms and legs. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a bun, making her head look tiny, and her eyes surveyed the town from the cover of a strong forehead. Finally, she spoke, "I am Chief Officer Freya Sanchez, and we come as allies. Who is the commanding officer here?"
The mayor ran into view, pulling her sweaty hair out of her eyes, and said, "I'm the mayor. What do you want?"
"We've come to help you. Allow me to demonstrate." She tapped something on her wrist, and the attack helicopter stopped orbiting the town. It arced into the center above their heads, hung in the air for one uncomfortable moment, then sank to the road behind the big transport and shut down. At last, the air was free of its ferocious noise. The powerful draft of its rotors lingered for a few seconds before dying away.
"That," said Freya, pointing, "Is the SA-32 Assegai, the most effective anti-infantry weapon on Venus. With an effective range of two kilometers and a fire rate of four hundred and thirty-two rounds per minute, it can keep the looters running scared. Worldwide, we own three of them." She smiled, letting it sink it. "We are the CSF, a corporation dedicated to maintaining order in the frontier regions. You are suffering from a looter incursion that, reasonably, a national army should handle. But there is no national government this close to the equator. That is why we exist."
