The Service of the Sword

by David Weber

  "But, Sir," the bosun said, regretting the words even before they left his mouth, "we don't have any thumbscrews."

  "That, Bosun," the XO replied in a low, mad whisper, "is why they give us machine shops!"

  "Tester, spare us this day from your Tests. It's been nearly a day, Tester, with the Captain in a coma, and the Exec is preparing capital charges for a quarter of the crew. Based on simple statistics, Tester, no one is going to be alive when we reach Grayson. The ship will be a tomb, drifting helplessly in the grip of gravity wells and the solar wind . . ."

  "Doc, I've got a problem," the bosun said, slipping into the sickbay after a cautious look around.

  "Don't we all," the medic snapped, looking up from the captain's recumbent figure.

  "I don't suppose the dwarf's come around yet?"

  "No," Kearns replied.

  The bosun looked up as Tyler slid through the door.

  "I'm not going out there," Tyler said. "It's a zoo."

  "The crew's ready to mutiny," the bosun went on. "They agree with the Chaplain; if we let the Exec get away with spacing a quarter of us every day, there won't be any of us left by the time we get to Grayson."

  "That's an ugly word," Doc said. "Mutiny."

  "Yeah, but it's better than 'explosive decompression,' " Sean pointed out.

  "That's not a word, it's a phrase," Doc replied.

  "They're both going to be phrases we'll all get accustomed to if we don't figure something out!" the bosun muttered.

  "Well, Manticore doesn't generally use the death penalty," Tyler pointed out, rubbing his chin in thought. "And if they do, they generally wait until the ship gets to a major port where a court-martial can take place with due process. Why not try to . . . Never mind."

  "Yeah, he'd never go for that," the bosun said. "If we even brought it up we'd be added to the list."

  "Is he talking about just spacing them?" Kearns asked. "I mean, not even a bullet in the back of the head or anything?"

  "No," the Bosun replied with a grimace. "He wants to either shoot them or give them a lethal shot and then . . . Hey!"

  "Yeah," Kearns said with a narrowed glance. "Now all we have to do is convince him not to space the bodies."

  "Decent burial," Tyler said after a moment. "I mean, you're all religious nuts, right? Surely it would only be proper to return them to the cool green hills of Grayson or something."

  The warrant looked at the senior NCO and the SBA for a moment and then narrowed his eyes.

  "Okay, what we're talking about here is conspiracy to mutiny by circumventing direct orders of a superior." He looked them both in the eye. "And the penalty for that is death."

  "I'll take my chance on a court-martial on Grayson," the bosun responded.

  "Me too," Tyler said. "Hell, I'd prefer Peep justice to this friggin' nut-case."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Quick and the Dead

  The XO stomped down the deserted corridors of the crew compartment, looking around in delight at the near pristine conditions. With none of the pesky crew cluttering things up, it was possible to have a truly efficiently run ship. Suddenly he slid to a stop.

  "BOSUNNN!" he shouted, pointing at the floor. "What is that??!"

  "Gum, sir," the bosun replied.

  "Who is in charge of this area?" the XO asked, furiously.

  "Cooper," the bosun replied. It was getting easier and easier to remember as the number of crew dropped precipitously.

  "Well, space him!" the XO said. "Gum on the floor is just slackness."

  "Yes, Sir," the bosun replied. "You'll remember that we're returning them to their families . . ."

  "Very well," the XO said, continuing on his survey. "Send him to the medics."

  "No, no!" Cooper yelled, hopping up and down in the grip from two men-at-arms and winking for all he was worth. "Don't kill me, Doc!"

  "Oh, shut up and take it like a man," Tyler replied tiredly. He rolled up Cooper's sleeve and injected the engineering tech with a sedative. "Take him to the forecastle."

  "I bet he dropped that gum on the floor on purpose," one of the men-at-arms grumped. "I could do with a three day vacation at this point."

  "If we lose many more engineering techs, we're never going to make it," Sean replied darkly.

  Captain Zemet opened his eyes and stared blearily into the face of Admiral Judah Yanakov. A quick glance to the side showed the two medics, the engineering officer and the astrogator lined up against one wall of what was apparently a hospital room.

  "Captain, would you kindly tell me what in the Tester's name was going on up there?" the admiral said furiously. "I would especially like to know how you came to be in a coma and left that Masadan of an XO in charge. The one hundred and twenty-three personnel that your former XO had sedated have all been returned to duty, by the way."

  "Well, Sir," the captain said, not even glancing at the figures against the wall, "we were drilling on compensator adjustments in movement. The ship went right and I went left and that's all I remember."

  "Warrant Officer Kearns?"Admiral Yanakov asked. "Corpsman Tyler? Is that an accurate report?"

  "He's our Captain, Sir," Kearns replied. "What he says is what happened."

  "Hmmmph." The admiral peered at the captain for a moment then shook his head. "That's not quite the same as saying 'It happened like he said.' I don't have anywhere more out of the way to put you, Zemet, except Blackbird Base and I already stashed your XO there. So I guess I'll have to leave you in command. The rest of you are dismissed."

  * * *

  "That's it?" Tyler asked, collapsing into the sickbay chair. The flight back from Grayson had been made in total silence.

  "What's it?" Kearns asked, pulling out his bladder of whiskey and pouring some into his cup.

  "No investigation?" the Manticoran asked. "We just go back out on patrol?"

  "You remember you're in Siberia, right?" the warrant asked, taking a sip of his tea. "And you know that Siberia was nothing but a giant prison?"

  "Sort of."

  "We're all prisoners, trapped in a Siberia called the Francis Mueller. You. Me. The Captain. Hell, even Kopp and the Chaplain, both of whom have been thrown out of at least one decent ship so far. And prisoners don't rat out other prisoners to the warden."

  "Oh."

  "I notice you didn't say anything," Kearns pointed out.

  "Well . . . hell," Tyler said. "I guess you're right. Why didn't he just say he fell in the shower?"

  "He's too professional for that," the warrant officer said, tossing the bladder over to the corpsman. "Only amateurs fall in a shower. Welcome to Siberia."

  LET'S GO TO PRAGUE

  by John Ringo

  CHAPTER 1

  A PLAN IS HATCHED

  "Let's go to Prague, Johnny!"

  John Mullins looked across at his partner and seriously contemplated pegging him in the head with his beer mug. Instead he slid the container of thin, sour brew aside and let the next drop of condensation hit the tabletop.

  He recalled the heady days when they first arrived at Seaforth Nine. The most prestigious base in the entire Havenite Republic had just been taken intact by a coup de main and since ONI was already going to be pouring over it, what better use could it be put to than stabling the elite Covert Insertion Teams. Heady days indeed; the unit had been barracked in a converted warehouse behind the Manticoran consulate on New Ghuanzou.

  As it turned out, there were worse things than New Guano; the "most advanced base" the People's Republic of Haven had ever produced turned out to be a dump. Make that a dump and a half.

  Much of the interior partitioning was of wood, for Christ's sake. Combined with the fact that the dessicators didn't and the chillers wouldn't, the place was a perpetual steam bath. It said much that teams had been trying to get moved up in the mission roster, just to get the relative luxury of beating around on Silesian tramp freighters and risking their lives behind Peep lines.

  But that didn't mean he was willi
ng to take leave in Prague.

  "So, for our leave, you want to go beat around on tramps for two weeks, maybe a month, spend a couple of tension-filled months hoping we don't get picked up by StateSec and then have to hop tramps back? In what possible way does that differ from work?"

  "I hear it's lovely in the spring," Charles said with a sardonic grin. He pushed his hair back and chuckled. "And we can drink as much of that fine Peep beer as we choose. Besides, you know how much you love your work."

  When Charles Gonzalvez wasn't on a mission he was the spitting image of a mad scientist. Same wild hair, same crazed, glazed expression, same oddball sense of reality. He would be discussing Peep information system security in one breath and be off on how best to kill a sentry in the next.

  Come to think of it, that was pretty much how he acted when he was on a mission.

  Gonzalvez been through a half a dozen partners before he and Mullins met up. Nobody wanted someone who was that . . . frenetic when they were snooping and pooping around in the Peep's back yard. But, somehow, he and Mullins made a great pair. The hyper aristocrat from Manticore A and the quiet farmboy from Gryphon balanced each other. Or, perhaps, enhanced each other; there was no question that they were both the most experienced insertion team and the most successful. The former sort of assumed the latter; losses in CITs ran upwards of thirty percent per mission.

  Insertion teams had a variety of uses, from direct reconnaissance, checking out Peep installations and equipment, to retrievals. Sometimes there were defectors to be pulled out or cells to be extracted or the occasional deep mole to be rescued. There was one Manty intelligence agent, Covilla, who had been supplying information for years from deep in Peep territory. That operative was one of the survivors, but not all were so capable. Or lucky.

  The People's Republic of Haven had some pretty decent counterintelligence goons in their State Security. They were quite good at compromising cells and rolling up lines. So all too often some poor unsuspecting CIT would go strolling into what was supposed to be a safe house, only to find out that "safe" is a relative term.

  Gonzalvez and Mullins had, so far, managed to avoid that fate. Whether it was Johnny's habit of never accepting anything at face value or Gonzo's ability to extract any information he needed at the drop of a cred piece, the two of them had survived every mission, despite some hairy encounters. And if nothing else worked, they had both proven on several occasions that, stolid or wacky, they were, in that delightful phrase, "good with their hands"; the very few times that it had come down to violence the situation ended up in their favor.

  But he still wasn't going to Prague.

  "How are we getting there?" Mullins asked, finishing the beer with a grimace. It really wouldn't have taken that much to improve the living conditions on Seaforth, but the fact that insertion teams were on the base was so secret it was hard to complain to the right people. "Minister, we need to upgrade the living conditions on Seaforth." "Why?" "Uh . . ."

  "It's not like going to Basilisk or Manticore; we can't just jump on a freighter. Where are the travel documents coming from? The cover gear? Where, precisely, are we going to get the internal Peep documentation?"

  "Ah, well," Charles said with a grin. "That's not a problem, old boy. Let's just say that Q has some files on his computer he doesn't want coming to life."

  "Well, sure, doesn't everyone?" Mullins said. "But . . . wait . . . you cracked Q's computer?"

  "Boredom doesn't befit me, old boy," his partner replied. "I asked him, politely, for an upgraded extraction pack. When he said no, what was I to do but take it as a challenge? All I was really looking for was inventory information. How was I to know he had a thing for wee beasties."

  Mullins choked back a laugh and shook his head. "You're serious."

  "Disgusting really," Charles said, taking a swill of beer. "So, are we going to sit in this bleeding steam bath for the next few months or what?"

  "What's wrong with just going home?" Mullins asked. "You go to Manticore and hang out at the family estates and I'll . . ."

  "Go home to the farm?" Gonzo asked with a grin. "Wander down to the local pub and not show off the uniform you don't have? Not impress the girls with the medals you can't wear?"

  "Oh, shut up."

  "I suppose we could go down to south coast and hang out on the beach," Charles continued. "Watch all the swabbies wandering around in uniform, telling their tales of how they all fought with the Salamander at Basilisk and Grayson. Flexing their nonexistent muscles and flashing their measly collection of ribbons."

  "I get the picture . . ."

  "While the girls ooh and ahhh . . ."

  "All right . . ."

  "Then we can go to the bar and watch the bartender filling up their mugs for free . . ."

  "I really do understand . . ."

  "While we're spending all our credits on overpriced sex in a canoe beer . . ."

  "All right . . ."

  "You know, very close to water . . ."

  "All right . . ."

  "When we could be in Prague . . ."

  "I'll go . . ."

  "Wearing StateSec uniforms, not having to pay for our really good beer . . ."

  "I'LL GO . . ."

  "Impressing the girls with our stories of how we were in on the kill of the Salamander . . ."

  "I said I'LL GO! Okay, enough. I give. You're right!"

  "I knew you'd see it my way old boy."

  "Thanks."

  "And it really is lovely in the spring."

  CHAPTER 2

  SUPPLY AND COMPROMISES

  "Hallo, Q! Beautiful day isn't it?"

  The position of covert operative supply officer had been known as "Q" since time immemorial. The reason was lost in the mists of time, but various reasons, most dependent on the nature of the current holder, had been suggested over the years. "Quality officer" was one. The current holder of the title suggested "Queer Bastard" to most who had to deal with him.

  "You don't have a mission scheduled," Q said, waving at the door. The severely overweight supply officer was bent over what appeared to be a beer flask, picking at the base with a dental tool. Whatever was involved must have been very small because he had a video loupe slipped over his right eye. "And I don't have any interest in listening to your whining. Get out."

  "Oh, is that any way to treat a friend?" Charles continued. "We're just here to pick up a few items for our leave."

  "And what makes you think I'd let you have anything to take on leave?" Q asked, straightening up.

  Johnny always imagined Q as some weirdly transformed amphibian. He had a wide mouth with fat lips and a foreshortened forehead that gave his face a faintly piscine look. Combined with the hundred kilos or so that he could stand to lose, the impression of an annoyed toad was hard to ignore.

  "Oh, nothing old boy, just these," Charles said, handing the supply officer an envelope.

  Q accepted it suspiciously and opened it with a closed expression. After a moment he took off the loupe and went to his computer. A few taps later he was rubbing his jaw.

  "These were obviously planted on my system," the supply officer said with a questioning tone.

  "Don't think so," Mullins interjected. "Files are logged onto secure systems."

  Q made a moue of distaste and tapped a couple more keys. Only then did his expression start to become more waxen.

  "I took the liberty of locking down the evidence while I was in there, old boy," Charles said. "Just doing my job as a good citizen. Those pictures are illegal just about everywhere but New Las Vegas; and they're questionable even there. What that fellow is doing with the goat . . . tch, tch, tch . . ."

  "Err . . ."

  "And that picture of you and the sheep . . ."

  "What picture???!" Q said then hit a series of other keys. His head tilted to the side and an unfathomable expression crossed his face. "Hmmm . . . . But that's definitely a fake!"

  "Hard to prove, old boy," Charles said. "What with all
the others . . . I mean, you're not even a Marine."

  "Hey!" Johnny said.

  "Sorry old boy."

  "Bastard," the supply officer said, giving up.

  "Definitely," Gonzalvez said, handing him another envelope.

  Q opened this one with a great deal more trepidation and his eyes widened as he read the list. "What in the hell do you want with these?"

  "Going on leave, old boy," Johnny interjected with a creditable mimicry of his partner. "Prague's beautiful in the spring, don'cha'know."

  With Q's more than willing support, getting to Prague was remarkably easy. With their bags marked as "Secure Material: Courier Only" they got a ride on a destroyer headed for Basilisk easily enough. Once there they changed identities to Silesian diplomats and, again, cleared customs without incident. A tramp freighter to Chosan, another change of clothes and in less than two weeks they were sitting in a bar in downtown Prague.

  "You were right, Charles," Johnny said in Allemaigne. "The beer is definitely better."

  One of the oddities that had led the then Private John Mullins from the Marines to the insertion teams was his ease with languages. What oddity of genetics had permitted a farm boy from Gryphon to smoothly learn nine languages, and he was working on Egyptian, was unsure. All that he knew was that he only had to hear one for a few days and before he even realized it, he was idiomatic.

  Stranger things had happened in the universe. But not many.

  "So are the girls old boy," Charles said, slipping a ten credit coin into the thong of the dancer in front of him. "So are the girls."

  Prague had been settled by a society of Aryan racial homongenists from old Earth. The planet itself was a paradise with a temperature and weather regime remarkably similar to Earth's and the residents were among the "prettiest" to be found in the human settled worlds. Soon after landing the initial nutcases that had founded the colony were tossed out and a more realistic social structure based upon constitutional democracy was installed. The colony, which had been rather small to start and well off the main trade lanes, was nonetheless undergoing a real renaissance when the Peeps landed.