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Simon Wentworth (order #1132857) 9“Status?” Picador asked Martinez, cautiously emerging fromthe trench.“Eight of ours wounded, sir. Battlecomm’s reporting thirtyfiveraiders down or wounded.”“Okay. Disarm and disable them. I want any of them who cantalk in C&C. The rest, put in the pen, have the medic treat themafter she deals with our guys, ask the village pajé if he will help,”she ordered, then bent down to look the older shaman in the face.“Shane, you go with Martinez, let her know which of these guys has‘warez or is Awakened.” The younger shaman had recovered fromhis swoon, white faced and trembling. She grabbed his arm, hauledhim up out of the trench, handed him a flask of whiskey. He gulpedit down, coughing and gasping as it burned down his throat.“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to… to…”Picador didn’t waste time on consoling him. You either madeit or you didn’t. She was willing to give magical assets a bit of leeway,considering their rarity and overall usefulness, but no amount ofTalent made up for putting your unit at risk. She sent him off to theunit’s temporary camp, without bothering to say that he’d be on aone-way trip back to Lisbon in the morning—she logged the orderwith the unit secretary over the battlecomm before shutting it down.Dismissing him from her mind, she took off for the one-room hutshe’d appropriated for her command center. Bragança was there,the swarthy dwarf that ran their battlecomm network, hands flyingthrough the air as he managed multiple AR sensor feeds, floatingicons of his combat agents providing post-combat reports.“Get the databases up, Braga; I want to know if any of theseguys are registered with the Association,” she told him, as Martinezand Shane came in with the first of the wounded raiders. The manwas wearing jungle-pattern armored fatigues, too non-descriptto ID, but certainly a higher grade than she’d expect on a jungleraider. Blood had soaked through his left pants leg and coveredmost of his upper body; man had probably taken at least one hitto his shoulder, and she could see shards of bone through the tornflesh on his leg.Martinez lowered him carefully to the dirt floor, mindful ofhis injured leg. Almost immediately, blood began to pool belowhim; this one wouldn’t last long without medical care. Picadorsquatted in front of the man, lifting up his head by his hair. Astrange scar, shaped like a thorny vine, slashed across his forehead.His eyes were full of pain and fear.“Article 12 of the Merc Association charter says I must offermedical care, shelter, and fair ransom to any captured merc orprisoner-of-war, if they inform me of their name, merc unit affiliation,employer, and rank. However, it says nothing about junglescum who raid farming villages and rape their women.“Which are you today, sir?”NETCAT (TECHNOMANCER)Netcat stumbled into her tiny kitchenette, her head aching.It was almost midnight, Monday—god, her internal clock was soscrewed up from yesterday’s all-night hacking binge. She fumbledfor a coffee mug with her eyes half-closed. Her beverage dispenserhad been stuck on the coffee setting for the last two months, eversince a rather grumpy little free-sprite had taken up residence.She stuck the mug into the dispenser, watched as the coffee slowlygurgled out, and slapped her hand against the unit. The spriteRunner’s Companiongave a grumble, but the coffee dispensed. She’d have zapped theannoying little bastard back to the Resonance Realms long ago, ifhe didn’t make such damn good coffee.With the first sip, Netcat opened up to the cobweb of thedatasphere constantly brushing against her skin. The ebb and flowof the wifi signals whispered over her skin, across her mind, feathersoft. Netcat reached out mentally and an AR window materialized,coalescing from the filigree of signals at the edge of her vision. Sheaccessed JackPoint, where a dozen messages were waiting for her.Welcome, the system said, today is Monday, June 8th, 2071. Yourlast visit was 12 hours, 3 minutes, 14 seconds ago. Netcat flickedher first message open while she browsed through the most recentpostings and news blurbs. She deleted most of the messages,although after a slight internal debate she replied to Slamm-0!’sannoyed request for a re-match in her favorite NightStalker game,sans Sprites this time: It wasn’t cheating, don’t be such a sore loser.Nothing else interesting, with the exception of a message markedUrgent from Pistons. It was text only, but Pistons’ normal flippanttone came through loud and clear: Got a job for someone with yourtalents. I can vouch for the Mr. J. Pays great. Nice ass, too—and he’ssingle, girl. Call him.Netcat contemplated the message for a few minutes, whileshe checked on her game stats for Rocket Thieves and updateda flame thread at her favorite forum. One of her sprites had registeredanother ping from a certain Azzie exec that she’d been179life on the run . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .