But the Brotherhood, never a very numerous sect even after the persecutions had ended, soon realized that it could never recruit enough colonists from among its own members to make the venture work. Besides, even among the most faithful communicants, there were many who just would not leave Earth for life on a remote and possibly dangerous new world.
So Karl suggested, and the vestrymen accepted the suggestion readily, that they recruit from among Earth's underprivileged. They settled on peoples of Latin America and Asia known to be hardworking, energetic, and hardy people who would not find the intensive labor required to establish a self-sustaining agrarian economy on a virgin planet too unfamiliar a way of life. Young families were preferred, but single men and women with valuable skills such as doctors, engineers, technicians, and mechanics were also accepted. The prospective colonists were screened carefully by a Board of Colonization, and every individual accepted had to agree to undergo conversion and faithfully apply the religious doctrines and beliefs of the Brotherhood. Happily, most of the immigrants found the Brotherhood's doctrines far less onerous than those of the faiths in which they had been raised.
Return transport was not part of the agreement. Still, people came in the thousands.
Life on Wanderjahr was not easy at first, and tragedy struck within only a few years of the first settlement when the wise and charismatic Karl Wanderjahrer was carried off in the jaws of a ravening beast. Then, less than fifty years later, the enormous cost of supporting the colony bankrupted the Board of Colonization, and the immigrants suddenly found themselves on their own in a remote quadrant of Human Space. Through determination and necessity the colonists held on, year after year pushing settlements farther from Brosigville, their first town. Crops imported from Earth flourished in Wanderjahr's lush climate, and the local fauna and flora, when it wasn't eating the colonists, proved edible itself, so starvation was never a likelihood. Of necessity in those early years, the many cultural groups settled on Wanderjahr—the descendants of the Incas and Aztecs from the mountains of South America and Mexico, Indians and Pakistanis from that huge subcontinent, Vietnamese and Cambodians from the Mekong Delta region—intermingled.
The original German families kept mostly to themselves, although there was some intermarriage with the other immigrant communities. Race was not the barrier that separated them. The barrier most Wanderjahrians found impossible to cross was that the Germans were the bosses and everyone else their employees.
Government on Wanderjahr was decentralized. The ruling families ran their properties as individual fiefdoms called Staats, administering justice and local government from their home cities with total autonomy. A Ruling Council was established to deal with interplanetary trade, political relations, and common interests such as tariffs for offworld imports, common security, and intra-Staat affairs. The Ruling Council consisted of nine representatives, the heads of the nine families that owned all the arable land on Wanderjahr. Chairmanship of the Council rotated among its nine members. The Council members selected an ambassador to the Confederation of Worlds, and all his activities were subject to their supervision and approval. Four years earlier, the Confederation had delegated as its ambassador to Wanderjahr an aging diplomat ready for retirement. The man was a joke among the oligarchs, but the Confederation's ambassador nonetheless, and living proof that Wanderjahr had at last been accepted into the community of worlds.
English was the lingua franca on Wanderjahr, as it was throughout the Confederation of Worlds. The Brotherhood never thought to impose German on its colonists, since it believed a man should talk to God in whatever language he was most comfortable with. Along with the languages the original colonists brought with them to Wanderjahr, they also perpetuated the cultures of their native lands on Earth. English was taught in all the schools on the planet, and government business was conducted in English, but so long as the oligarchs could communicate somehow with their employees, they didn't care what languages they spoke at home.
The lower echelons of local government often resembled those of the places on Earth from which the majority of the local inhabitants' ancestors had come. So the mayor of a town where Hispanic people had established themselves might be referred to as its alcalde, while the chief official of a town where Germanic descendants prevailed might be called its Burgermeister. These arrangements existed, of course, only at the pleasure of the local oligarch, who ultimately held the real power within his Staat.
Nothing changed when thule was discovered and other Confederation worlds began to trade with Wanderjahr for the valuable commodity. At first the oligarchs' chief worry was suppressing the illegal production of the drug for home consumption and export. Local police forces, known as Stadtpolizei or metropolitan police, were used to deal with the illicit trade, turning a blind eye to those smugglers who could buy them off, while rigorously suppressing the ones who could not. Until the outbreak of the rebellion, an army and navy had been considered unnecessary.
The Christian evangelical spirit that drove early settlers like Karl Wanderjahrer soon dissipated, to be replaced eventually by a watered-down state sanctioned "ministry" preaching that what one gave to Caesar was as important as what one owed God; homegrown religious cults sprang up among the people. The portrait of old Karl Wanderjahrer seemed to glare balefully down upon him, Kurt Arschmann reflected as he brooded in his office.
And now, some 250 years after the old man first set foot on this world, now, as the oligarchs had virtually within their grasp the most profitable trading franchise in all of Human Space, those goddamned radicals had to go and kill Captain Rickdorf and nearly a hundred of his men!
"All right, Kurt, we all know what happened, just what the hell can we do about it?" Klaus von Hauptmann barked once the Council members had seated themselves. Klaus affected the mannerisms of a nineteenth-century Prussian Junker, even to the extent of carrying a riding crop everywhere he went, although the few horses there once were on Wanderjahr had long since become tasty snacks for the larger reptiloids. He was known to be quick to apply the crop to the backs of subordinates. He also considered the Wanderjahrian Feldpolizei nothing more than a convenient hiding place for the leading families' idiot sons, and shared not a bit of sympathy with Arschmann over the loss of his worthless nephew. The Peoples Liberation Army had found Hauptmann's plantations a fruitful source for recruits despite the private army he maintained to keep his workers in line. And the "von" in Hauptmann's name had been added by his grandfather, to bolster his own image, not as a legitimate connection to the ancient German royal line.
"I assume we'll ask for outside assistance." Lorelei Keutgens smiled. Kurt acknowledged the old matriarch with a nod, thinking. The goddamned bitch is right on cue! "Lori" Keutgens, in contrast with Hauptmann and some of the other members, took care of her people and donated generously to the appropriate charities. The guerrillas had had the least success proselytizing among her workers.
"Humph," Max Picker snorted. "That damned Feldpolizei is less than worthless, always has been. Damned waste of money. Damned comic-opera buffoons." He turned quickly to Arschmann, remembering that Captain Rickdorf had been the Chairman's nephew. "Sorry, Kurt, I meant no insult to your family." Within the Council, Picker was tolerated because he had inherited his lands. But as a manager he was worthless, giving control of his holdings to factors and spending most of his time gambling and scandalizing the countryside with his endless amours.
Arschmann merely nodded, then waited for the others to voice their opinions.
"Jesus our Savior protect us," Gretel Siebensberg sighed. "Why now, of all times, just as the Confederation has granted us the franchise to export thule without restrictions?" Gretel was a throwback to Karl Wanderjahrer's ancient faith. Extremely otherworldly, she had restored the faith of her fathers throughout Freidland, her Staat, spending large sums on churches and charities for the benefit of her workers. But she was also a sharp businesswoman.
"Money," Turbat Nguyen-Multan interjected. "The b
andits smell money, and with money comes power." Multan was an anomaly among the ruling families, the descendant of entrepreneurial Pakistani-Vietnamese ancestors. He ruled his Staat, Porcina, with the iron fist of a warlord. "These people claim ideology is their religion, but it isn't. Power is." The Feldpolizei, which was controlled by the Ruling Council and could be deployed anywhere it was needed on Wanderjahr, was never invited onto Turbat's lands. Like Hauptmann, he believed in settling scores by himself. He had turned his own Stadtpolizei into a private mercenary force. But unlike Hauptmann, who was not so draconian in his methods, Turbat protected his interests simply by killing anyone who even seemed to be out of line.
"Speaking on behalf of Herr Mannlicher, the bandits have legitimate grievances," Carmago Kampot Khong, Helmut Mannlicher's factor, said. Hauptmann and Multan snorted derisively. The others just stared at the Mexican-Cambodian half-breed. He was Mannlicher's trusted subordinate and had served Mannlicher faithfully his entire life, as other members of his family had served the Mannlichers from the time of the original settlement. The old man was not able to attend the meeting himself because he was only days, perhaps hours, from death. At the age of 140, Helmut Mannlicher was only one generation removed from people who had actually known Karl Wanderjahrer. When Mannlicher died, it was generally expected that Khong would share the vast holdings with the old man's own children, and then he would be a power to reckon with on his own. While not at all religious, Mannlicher had believed all his life in the value of labor and the dignity of the laborer, and Carmago Kampot Khong too was devoted to that philosophy. The bandits had found no foothold in their territory either, but Mannlicher believed the oligarchy could survive the crisis only by sharing its power with the people, and he had long advocated a dialogue with the guerrillas.
"Well, they are a problem," Hans Rauscher ventured timidly. He glanced apprehensively at Hauptmann and Multan as he spoke. The guerrillas were causing him great problems by destroying his crops and suborning his laborers. They were successful among his people not because Rauscher's workers were oppressed, but because they were neglected, and Rauscher, a weak and indecisive man who could not fight his own battles, depended entirely upon the Feldpolizei for security.
"Yes, and I go along with Lori. We should ask for outside help," Manfred Kaiserstuhl said. Kaiserstuhl was a compromising old charlatan who could always be counted on to take the easiest solution to any problem, preferring to buy his way out when that was possible. This approach had worked well with the guerrillas, who took the money he gave them to leave his properties alone and used it to finance their operations in other Staats while recruiting actively among his workers.
"Brothers and Sisters," Arschmann said, using a linguistic formality that had originated with the United Brotherhood almost a thousand years before, "I propose this: we dispatch an urgent message to Ambassador Misthaufen directing him to approach the Confederation of Worlds requesting military assistance—"
"But their Constitution forbids direct military intervention in member worlds' internal affairs," Lori Keutgens exclaimed.
"Except in the most extreme cases, and we are not yet that bad off," Rauscher interjected.
"Yes," Arschmann agreed. "But we will not ask for 'intervention,' only 'assistance' in the form of equipment and training for the Feldpolizei. It would be a short-term mission at most, and if the bandits mount any assaults while our men are being trained, the offworlders will have to act to protect themselves, thereby eliminating our problem for us. In any event, once they leave, the Feldpolizei can carry on the process of rooting out the bandits. Let the bandits suffer some casualties, and their zeal for living in the hinterlands will dissipate quickly enough."
"We do not need the Confederation Army here," Multan snorted.
"Send in the Marines?" Hauptmann laughed.
"Precisely," Arschmann responded. "I suggest we recommend asking for a small contingent of Confederation Marines, what they call a FIST, or something like that, to help train our men. They've done that before on other worlds and are famous for it. The Marines will obey their orders, and if they have to fight, they will make the bandits sorry they were ever born. Are we agreed on this course?"
"No foreign troops shall ever set foot in Porcina," Munan said.
"But do you agree, my dear Turbat, that those who wish for such help have the right to ask for it?"
Multan thought for a moment. "Yes. But none will ever come into Porcina," he repeated.
"All right, then, we are agreed. Nevertheless, there are some details we need to work out," he said.
"Rules of engagement and command authority?" Multan laughed, shaking his head. He had been wondering how long it would take Arschmann to get around to these all-important details.
"Yes," Arschmann said.
"The Confederation will impose strict conditions if they agree to deploy Marines here," Lori Keutgens said.
"Yes," Arschmann replied. "I suggest we instruct our ambassador to agree to the following: the Marines will take over complete command of the Feldpolizei, lead it, and train it. They will have the power to demote and promote."
"Who cares, so long as they do not set foot in my domains," Multan said. Hauptmann nodded his agreement vigorously.
"Then we are agreed on this?" Arschmann polled the other members, who each nodded approval.
"Finally, the local police forces," Arschmann began. "You all have them and control them as you see fit. I want mine completely retrained, as we are doing for the Feldpolizei. I will ask the Confederation for a team of professional police officers to be assigned here, same ground rules as for the Marines. Since Brosigville is within Arschland, they will start here. Any objections? Anyone else wish to participate?"
"Never! Never, never, never! Not in Porcina!" Multan raged, banging his fist on the table.
"Very well," Arschmann replied softly. "Anyone else wish to comment?"
"I am with Multan." Hauptmann glowered.
"Well, Turbat," Lori smiled sweetly, "some of us don't have quite the stomach for police work that you and Klaus do."
"None of you have 'stomach'!" Multan growled. Then he glared at Arschmann, who'd expected his reaction; a real police force in the capital would put the screws to Multan's clandestine business interests there, and Turbat Nguyen-Multan was not one to take that interference lightly, even though the operations were a personal insult to Arschmann since policing the capital city was his responsibility.
"Very well, then, to summarize," Arschmann sighed. "The Marines will operate under no restrictions. They will command and train the Feldpolizei, but no Feldpolizei or Marines will be allowed into Porcina. Those of you who wish may join me in asking the Confederation to provide professional police training for our Stadtpolizei, under the same rules as apply to the Marines." He looked in turn at each of the Council members and no one demurred. "Then it is agreed. I will draft a communique today and submit it to each of you for final review. A courtesy copy will be furnished to Ambassador Jayben Spears, of course."
Several of the Council members laughed outright when Arschmann mentioned the Confederation's ambassador by name. A stooped, gangly, slightly bowlegged man. Ambassador Spears was famous on Wanderjahr for eating his way through official receptions without apparently gaining much weight, and delivering advice in terse and very undiplomatic language. He could consume prodigious quantities of wine without showing any ill effects except that his language then became even more undiplomatic. Twice, to the great amusement of Lori Keutgens, he had brazenly asked her to marry him, once at a formal dinner party and another time at a funeral. Lori liked Spears, not because he flattered her with his attention, but because he always spoke the truth and never minced his words. And diplomatic protocol required the Ruling Council to inform him of any instructions passed to its ambassador for presentation to the Confederation Council.
"Kurt," Lori Keutgens ventured, "I agree to all your proposals, but before all these others here assembled, I want to say that inviting
these Marines to come here will change everything. I don't know if that will be good or bad."
Nobody said anything in response to her statement, but all knew that when Lori Keutgens spoke, she usually knew what she was talking about. A bachelor, Arschmann had often considered proposing to Lori after her husband had been killed. But years passed and he had never made the proposal because he knew the strong-willed woman would be difficult to manage. He would deal with her eventually, though. Things were about to change, all right. He smiled at Lori. She smiled back. Arschmann had the uncomfortable feeling she knew what he was thinking.
"We must do something," Rauscher said lamely. He was delighted with Arschmann's suggestions; if the Marines were successful, he could have the protection of a revamped planetary Feldpolizei at little cost to himself. He turned to Arschmann: "Draft the communique."
"Very well. Friends, I need only remind you that these deliberations must be kept entirely secret until the Marines deploy and start their work. Please, no incautious remarks?"
Arschmann then summoned Kalat. Two minutes after a smiling Kalat left the Council room, word of the deliberations was on its way to his contacts in the city. Just as Kurt Arschmann expected it would be.
Chapter Three
Two days after Chan and his patrol were captured, the exercise ended. And Ensign vanden Hoyt had his first chance to talk to Chan and the men he'd led into the cave. The platoon commander shook his head sadly. Staff Sergeant Bass stood a pace to his left, arms akimbo, glowering at them.
"Whose bright idea was it to shoot at a hopper formation?" vanden Hoyt asked.
Schultz turned his head and glared at MacIlargie. Godenov edged away from MacIlargie.
Chan swallowed nervously. He didn't think it mattered whose idea it had been; as the man in charge the mistake was his responsibility. He opened his mouth to say so, but MacIlargie spoke first.
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