The Vengeance Trilogy.

2: Somethings Never Change

He could have been a Roman auxiliary, stopping off in Andalusia to break the long journey from Italy to Britain. He could have been a USAF sergeant, seeing the sights in London before returning to his squadron at Mildenhall. Instead, he was a trooper in the Dominion Marines, on furlough at Capella Two- Five.
He walked in from the sanitized metalwork of the station corridors and into the bar. Soft music with a repetitive beat thrummed through the air. His nostrils twitched at the scent of pine-needles flowing from the forest scene on the holowall. He stepped through the open door-seal and surveyed the room, chose a table that was clean and unpatronized. He moved with the upright, tender tread of a spacefarer, alert against any tiny errors in gravity field compensation, shifts and changes in momentum that could throw the unwary across a room. He slid his card through the wipe, touched the screen on the autovend, selected a drink. The unit hummed and a panel slid open. A small glass and a bottle frosted with ice stood revealed. Martian brandy, a clear blue, potent and heady fluid with the tang of oranges and the kick of a mule. Pulling up the plastic chair, he sat and helped himself to bottle and glass.
"Fine so far," muttered the first scientist, "Can we regress further, do you think?" His companion made a few minor adjustments then hissed in satisfaction as the regression stabilized at the second harmonic.
He could have ducked under the door lintel, stepping into the gloom from the hot Mediterranean sun. Then he stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The air held the usual smells: stale wine, sour beer and cat piss. He made his way carefully to a table in one corner where he would have his back to the wall and could watch the door. He walked with the bow-legged gait of one who spent more time astride a horse than walking on his own feet. He sat down wearily on the hard wooden bench and watched as the slave-girl left the counter to take his order and his coin. Her coarse black hair was pulled back into a braid similar in style to his own and her eyes were the same shade of dark brown. Her skin, though, was tone or two lighter and lacked the wind-beaten, leathery look of his. A difference that reflected their different life-styles rather than different genetic background. Both were Cypriots by birth, before Rome had intervened and sent their lives on different courses. "Wine," he said, "The strongest that you have." He flipped her a couple of sesterces, which she snatched out of the air with a practiced hand.
He eased his legs out under the table, rubbing the left one whilst he waited for the slave to return. His leg still ached where it had been broken five years earlier. It had been a skirmish with the Celts, his horse had been gutted and he had been unable to slip clear of its falling body. Mithras had not frowned on him too heavily that day, though. Priancus had cut down the Celt responsible before he could knife the trapped auxiliary. He half-smiled at the grim memory, then the girl set a small earthenware bottle and leather cup on the table before him. The warrior reached out, broke the wax seal on the bottle and poured himself a dark red drink. Then he poured a small libation upon the floor, out of respect for his memories. The wet stain on the earth reminded him of blood.
"Good, very good. Can we try to achieve the first harmonic as well?" asked the first scientist. His companion made a gesture of uncertainty. "Why push it so fast?" he enquired, "Are we that short of time?" The first scientist's tongue flicked out and licked around his lips in a characteristic gesture. "We may be," he answered, "If Proconsul Hzzaz hears of our research, I think we can expect to get hauled back to Graak by the fastest ship available - unless we have some results to show for it." The companion lowered his head fearfully at this. He did not relish being brought before Proconsul Hzzaz, especially as a lack of results would forfeit them the protection of the Base Commander. Reluctantly, he made more adjustments. It was a much longer process this time, but stability was finally achieved. Then three sets of waves marched neatly across the screen, shouldering aside the weaker sub-contacts and disassociated frequencies. Highly satisfactory. The companion glowed in pride.
He could have pushed the door open, shouldering his way in out of the rain. Shaking his raincoat, he made his way to the bar. He ordered a beer, sat on a tall stool while the thin young man behind the counter chose a glass and pulled the lever once, twice and a slow third. He watched the golden-brown liquid froth into the glass. The sergeant handed the bartender a note, received his change. He stood, collected his beer and wandered over to a table near the jukebox. Loud music was belting out, a strong, monotonous beat. The Air Force man felt he needed the noise to drive away the chill damp of the day. He looked around, taking in the mass of polished wood and old monochrome photographs upon the walls. Most of them featured the same actor, resplendent in a deer-stalker hat and overcoat. Other memorabilia studded the walls or stood in glass cases behind the bar. Typical English reverence for anything old - if it was ancient, it had to be good. The sergeant drank in the atmosphere; the haze of cigarette smoke, the smell of stale beer and the babble of conversation behind the strident beat of the jukebox, then turned his attention to the beer. "Damn!" he muttered to himself, pulling a face. Why did the Brits have such a thing about drinking warm beer? Couldn't they even get a lousy refrigerator to work? He was prepared to swear that the beer was warmer than the air outside. What did they do, warm the stuff up deliberately? He set the drink down angrily, slopping some of the golden-brown liquid over the edge of his glass. That annoyed him still further. Why did they insist on filling the glasses right up to the brim? It made no sense, no sense at all. Like a lot of things in this crazy country. Some of the folks were fine, made you feel really welcome. Others looked down their noses at you, just because you couldn't boast of a history that went back to Roman times and before. At least, that was what Chris Novak had reckoned. The airman felt warmed by the memory of his friend. Chris had been his wingman in 'Nam. Chris had saved his life once, nailing a Mig that had seemed glued to his tail. He'd tried everything to shake that Mig but nothing had worked. He'd been panicking, then Chris had caught the s.o.b. A good man to have around, Chris Novak.
The liquor slid down his throat and exploded in his belly, turning to liquid fire. A warm glow started deep within him, started sending questing fingers of flame into his veins. Phew! That was good, just as good as he remembered. It was nearly twelve months subjective time since he'd been anywhere civilized enough to carry Martian brandy. Closer to eighteen months, real time. His last taste of the blue fire had been before the Hulag campaign, half a lifetime ago. At least, that was how long it felt. What was it really? Nine months of his time?
Even with the jump, there was enough real-space travel to combat, when you could become like an old, old man in a single day... He shook his head. It was no wonder that he got confused sometimes. He could remember the drink, though. It had been Brodag's bottle, passed around as they were all strapped in making the run on Catia-Taurus Four. That had been a bad one. He's been caught by an explosion, lost his heat-sink. A Hragk had picked him up then, sensing his body-heat now that the camouflage had been torn away. The enemy had swung up a heat-seeker, lining it up on the prone marine. Brodag had lasered the lizard a split-second before it had pulled the trigger. He owed Brodag for that, as well as the drink. He looked idly around the room, saw a couple of women sat at a table with three men, half-watching him. He raised his glass to them in mock-salute, gave them a smile. Perhaps Capella Two-Five wasn't going to be too bad after all. The bar was pleasant enough, if a little too clean and antiseptic for his tastes. The women looked presentable, dressed in kilts and cross-strapped blouses that he guessed were the latest fashion here. One was a strawberry-blonde, her hair swept up and back then falling in a cascade of ringlets down her spine. The other was a brunette, hair loose to her shoulders. Her hair gave off electric blue flashes when she moved, an intriguing effect. The trooper idly wondered if he'd get a shock if he touched it, ran his fingers through it. Perhaps he'd find some unattached girl with the same styling and find out. It was a pleasant fantasy, bringing another smile to his lips. He eased back in his chair, stretching out his long legs under the table and poured himself another drink.
Young, strong and vigorous, if a little on the rough side. Dry enough to pucker the insides of his mouth. Not bad for two sesterces, not bad at all. He drained the last of the wine from the cup, refilled it from the earthenware bottle. He wondered what they might have in the way of food. He could eat most things, having served with the eagles for nearly twenty years. Burnt food, raw food, it all filled your belly. If you were hungry enough, you could eat anything. He'd eaten rats on campaign in Gaul, dog outside Londinium - and cat in Rome itself. He chuckled to himself at that memory. It had been for a bet and had won him twenty sesterces. Roasted over an open fire on the end of some elder twigs. He'd been ill for the next three days. Not an experience he wished to repeat.
The doorway darkened as two figures moved in to block out the sun. The auxiliary looked them over carefully, sipping some wine as he did so. Local bravos, from the looks and swagger of them. Out looking for trouble, at a guess. He leant back into his corner, careful to move slowly and easily, fading into the background. He didn't wish for any trouble. He just wanted to be allowed to finish his wine in peace. He'd seen his share of fights, skirmishes, bar-room brawls. He'd started more than his share of them, in his youth. Now, he was older and wiser. He intended to live to draw his pension, set up in one of the colonies, find a wife or a slave, and settle down.
The three sets of waves marched in time across the screen. The scientist and his companion nodded to themselves, well pleased with the fruits of their labour.
They looked him over. They took in the small details that set him apart from the rest; the close-cropped hair, the faint creases in his clothes, the way he sat on his own. The hair was short so that the helmet electrodes made good contact. The creases betrayed that his civ gear had spent more time packaged than being worn. His solitary state suggested that he was just passing through, with no comrades in easy hailing distance. Everything about him shouted, "Military!" They'd seen enough Dominion ships crewmembers to recognize the style.
All three pushed their chairs back, walked menacingly over towards his table. They spread out as they did so, so they stood spaced around the circumference of his table, leaving each other room to move freely. He straightened up slightly as they approached but still seemed relaxed, unconcerned. They didn't notice the change that crept into his eyes, or the way his legs folded back under the table. "Hi there, gents. Can I do anything for you?" he asked, raising his glass first to them, then to his lips. They failed to notice that he didn't drink any of the blue liquid. "Yeah, you can scoot your fat backside outa here," sneered the one in the middle, "We don't like your kind giving our girls the eye." The trooper studied him and his companions for a moment before replying. They were all tall, heavily built, like football players. They wore identical red and orange hipsters, tight around the thighs and groin. The spokesman wore a green tee-shirt with a garish holomotive in blue and yellow. All three wore their hair brushed to one side and tipped with pink spikes. The trooper noticed that the one to his right wore a set of heavy rings that would serve as a knuckleduster if it came to a fight.
He pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, intending to blow his nose. As he did so, someone jostled his table and more of his beer slopped out of the glass, into his lap this time. "Hey, buddy, why don't you watch what you're doing!" he cried out, further annoyed. The youth who had bumped the table turned and leant over towards him in a jangle of chains and metalwork. "Why, Yank, what you goin' to do about it?" he jeered, recognizing the accent. He pushed his face close to the sergeant's. The youth's eyes were red-rimmed, more than a little crazy. His skin was sallow and pock-marked, his nostrils flared wide, great yawning pits in the centre of his face. A silver stud pierced the flesh of his left nostril. The sergeant recoiled, revolted by the sight of the youth and the stench of his breath. "Yeah, whatcha gonna do, soldier?" joined in another youth, his hair gelled up into a fluorescent green swathe along the centre of his skull. This one had noticed the tan shirt and green tie the sergeant was wearing. The second youth leant over as he spoke, dipped two fingers in the airman's beer and flicked the liquid at the sergeant. With a roar of anger, the seated man thrust himself out of his chair. Both table and chair toppled over, the heavy table making a resounding crash as it hit the floor.
"We're losing him!" cried the companion.
"Stabilise with six vaaz of hymphroga'ak," ordered the scientist, voice low with urgency. "Harmonics are breaking up," hissed his companion, "I have already administered three vaaz of hymphroga'ak and two of aidropene. I don't think he can take any more."
"He must, he must," urged the scientist, "We must re-stabilise. It is vital that we restore the patterns. We can't lose it now! The data on his ship is of little importance; this is vital!"
For a moment, the sergeant was off-balance. He was trained to fight at a distance, to kill remotely. His enemies were nice, neat little targets seen from 1,000 feet or more. Or even not seen at all, just a dot on a radar screen, a release point in the sky. The first yob struck him a hard blow on the side of his head. The second, stepping aside to avoid the table, swung a fist and missed, then landed a kick on the airman's left thigh. This was the sort of fighting the yobs were used to. Fists and feet, preferably two or more against one. Close up and bloody, the adrenalin flowing. Uproar filled the bar, even drowning out the jukebox. Patrons stared in stunned amazement, cowered in corners, unable to believe this outbreak of violence. The airman staggered back, blood running from his left temple, trickling down his neck. He tripped over his fallen chair, fell heavily to the floor. With jeers of triumph, the yobs ran from the bar, the crowd parting miraculously before them like the waters of the Red Sea.