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overranked for running a minor post on a world where he would have no chance to do any real damage, and, no doubt, being monitored, to be sure he didn’t get into trouble.
    And yet, Allen was still in the Army, still able to draw active-duty pay, still looked like a cat full of cream and canary with his two stars.
    Cutter knew that real-time justice was out of the mix. He hoped that karma might still operate.
    Not that he ever expected to see the man again, but he had considered this moment theoretically now and again for years. He had thought about killing him. Hand-to-hand, with the satisfying feel of fist on flesh, a beatdown ending in a boot to the throat, maybe a broken neck.
    He had considered a long-range shot, a klick or two away, single sniper’s round to the head or heart. It had been long enough so he wouldn’t be at the top of the suspect list though he would have to avoid being seen. If authorities knew he was on the same planet as Allen, they would want to speak to him.
    He had thought about it. Mostly, after the fantasies, he had let it go. It was done, history, no point in bumping into the furniture while looking back over your shoulder. Mostly he had let it go, but not entirely. The man who had gotten away with mass murder by blackmailing Cutter into taking the heat was right here in front of him, and even a saint would have trouble smiling and forgiving.
    Cutter wasn’t anybody’s candidate for saint.
    A lot of choices presented themselves: Allen’s father had been a four-star general, a rank his son would never achieve. It was a small barb, but the man’s ego was such that it would sting.
    â€œHello, Junior.”
    The smile vanished, and rage danced briefly over Junior Allen’s face.
    Cutter’s own smile arose.
    â€œJust so you know: If you spit crooked, you’re going away,” Junior said. “You will have more eyes on your operation than a swarm of horseflies on scat. Anything, anything at all, give me a reason.”
    â€œNot a problem, Junior. I know you’re behind me this time. I’ll watch my back.”
    â€œGet the fuck out of my office.”
    â€œNothing would please me more.”
    As he walked away, Cutter felt only a little better. Dinging the man’s ego was nothing compared to what he had done. Nothing Cutter could possibly do would compare. It was still hard to think about, after all the years since.
    Hard, but unavoidable.
    â€“ – – – – –
    Cutter’s Detached wasn’t within two klicks when the shooting started though the official records were altered to show they were on-site. That they had pulled the first triggers. He had heard the noise, but it was distant, and by the time he’d sorted out the reports and sped to the site, it was far too late.
    He looked at the vids, and they were gruesome.
    Amazing how many people you can kill with full-auto carbine fire and fragmentation grenades when you open up on a plaza full of demonstrators.
    Average-density-event-space put the crowd at ninety thousand, mostly human, men, women, children. Some were armed, but a scattering of hidden sidearms didn’t matter, wouldn’t have mattered if there had been ten times the hardware in the plaza. Anybody who tried to shoot back would have bounced non-AP bullets off military-grade armor.
    It was an out-and-out slaughter.
    â€“ – – – – –
    â€”sound was a mix of gunfire mostly overridden by screams of terror as the crowd mind realized it was trapped. The main opening between the buildings at the entrance to Strout Plaza was essentially a funnel, and no more than thirty people wide. The designers had never envisioned the possibility of what happened. Those in front couldn’t move fast enough for those being shot at the rear. The stampede turned into a crush, tight enough so people were carried along. To fall was to die underfoot, and dozens perished that