by David Drake
Scott saluted. “I'll do that, sir.” Rhys waved him away, and he went out into the next room, finding Commander Bienne alone. The officer turned an inquiring look toward him.
“Sorry,” Scott said. “Geer gets the left-wing command this time.”
Bienne's sour face turned dark red. “I'm sorry I didn't take a crack at you before mobilization,” he said. “You hate competition, don't you?”
Scott's nostrils flared. “If it had been up to me, you'd have got that command, Bienne.”
“Sure. I'll bet. All right, Captain. Where's my bunk? A flitterboat?”
“You'll be on right wing, with me. Control ship Flintlock.”
“With you. Under you, you mean,” Bienne said tightly. His eyes were blazing. “Yeah.”
Scott's dark cheeks were flushed, too. “Orders, commander,” he snapped. “Get me a flitterboat pilot. I'm going topside.”
Without a word Bienne turned to the telaudio. Scott, a tight, furious knot in his stomach, stamped out of headquarters, trying to fight down his anger. Bienne was a jackass. A lot he cared about the Doones—
Scott caught himself and grinned sheepishly. Well, he cared little about the Doones himself. But while he was in the Company, discipline was important—integration with the smoothly running fighting machine. No place for individualism. One thing he and Bienne had in common; neither had any sentiment about the Company.
He took a lift to the ceiling of the Dome. Beneath him Montana Keep dropped away, shrinking to doll size. Somewhere down there, he thought, was Ilene. He'd be back. Perhaps this war would be a short one—not that they were ever much longer than a week, except in unusual cases where a Company developed new strategies.
He was conducted through an air lock into a bubble, a tough, transparent sphere with a central vertical core through which the cable ran. Except for Scott, the bubble was empty. After a moment it started up with a slight jar. Gradually the water outside the curving walls changed from black to deep green, and thence to translucent chartreuse. Sea creatures were visible, but they were nothing new to Scott; he scarcely saw them.
The bubble broke surface. Since air pressure had been constant, there was no possibility of the bends, and Scott opened the panel and stepped out on one of the buoyant floats that dotted the water above Montana Keep. A few sightseers crowded into the chamber he had left, and presently it was drawn down, out of sight.
In the distance Free Companions were embarking from a larger float to an air ferry. Scott glanced up with a weather eye. No storm, he saw, though the low ceiling was, as usual, torn and twisted into boiling currents by the winds. He remembered, suddenly, that the battle would probably take place over Venus Deep. That would make it somewhat harder for the gliders—there would be few of the thermals found, for instance, above the Sea of Shallows here.
A flitterboat, low, fast, and beautifully maneuverable, shot in toward the quay. The pilot flipped back the overhead shell and saluted Scott. It was Norman Kane, looking shipshape in his tight-fitting gray uniform, and apparently ready to grin at the slightest provocation.
Scott jumped lightly down into the craft and seated himself beside the pilot. Kane drew the transparent shell back over them. He looked at Scott.
“Orders, Captain?”
“Know where the Mob's fort is? Good. Head there. Fast.”
Kane shot the flitterboat out from the float with a curtain of v-shaped spray rising from the bow. Drawing little water, maneuverable, incredibly fast, these tiny craft were invaluable in naval battle. It was difficult to hit one, they moved so fast They had-no armor to slow them down. They carried high-explosive bullets fired from small-caliber guns, and were, as a rule, two-man craft. They complemented the heavier ordnance of the battlewagons and destroyers.
Scott handed Kane a cigarette. The boy hesitated.
“We're not under fire,” the captain chuckled. “Discipline clamps down during a battle, but it's O.K. for you to have a smoke with me. Here!” He lit the white tube for Kane.
“Thanks, sir. I guess I'm a bit—over-anxious?”
“Well, war has its rules. Not many, but they mustn't be broken.” Both men were silent for a while, watching the blank gray surface of the ocean ahead. A transport plane passed them, flying low.
“Is Ilene Katie your sister?” Scott asked presently.
Kane nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thought so. If she'd been a man, I imagine she'd have been a Free Companion.”
The boy shrugged. “Oh, I don't know. She doesn't have the— I don't know. She'd consider it too much effort. She doesn't like discipline.”
“Do your?”
“It's fighting that's important to me. Sir.” That was an afterthought. “Winning, really.”
“You can lose a battle even though you win it,” Scott said rather somberly.
“Well, I'd rather be a Free Companion than do anything else I know of. Not that I've had much experience—”
“You've had experience of war with Starling's outfit, but you probably learned some dangerous stuff at the same time. War isn't swashbuckling piracy these days. If the Doones tried to win battles by that sort of thing, there'd be no more Doones in a week or so.”
“But—” Kane hesitated. “Isn't that sort of thing rather necessary? Taking blind chances, I mean—”
“There are desperate chances,” Scott told him, “but there are no blind chances in war—not to a good soldier. When I was green in the service, I ran a cruiser out of the line to ram. I was demoted, for a very good reason. The enemy ship I rammed wasn't as important to the enemy as our cruiser was to us. If I'd stayed on course, I'd have helped sink three or four ships instead of disabling one and putting my cruiser out of action. It's the great god integration we worship, Kane. It's much more important now than it ever was on Earth, because the military has consolidated. Army, navy, air, undersea—they're all part of one organization now. I suppose the only important change was in the air.”
“Gliders, you mean? I knew powered planes couldn't be used in battle.”
“Not in the atmosphere of Venus,” Scott agreed. “Once powered planes get up in the cloud strata, they're fighting crosscurrents and pockets so much they've got no time to do accurate firing. If they're armored, they're slow. If they're light, detectors can spot them and antiaircraft can smash them. Unpowered gliders are valuable not for bombing but for directing attacks. They get into the clouds, stay hidden, and use infrared telecameras which are broadcast on a tight beam back to the control ships. They're the eyes of the fleet. They can tell us— White water ahead, Kane! Swerve.”
The pilot had already seen the ominous boiling froth foaming out in front of the bow. Instinctively he swung the flitterboat in a wrenching turn. The craft heeled sidewise, throwing its occupants almost out of their seats.
“Sea beast?” Scott asked, and answered his own question. “No, not with those spouts. It's volcanic. And it's spreading fast.”
“I can circle it, sir,” Kane suggested.
Scott shook his head. “Too dangerous. Backtrack.”
Obediently the boy sent the flitterboat racing out of the area of danger. Scott had been right about the extent of the danger; the boiling turmoil was widening almost faster than the tiny ship could flee. Suddenly the line of white water caught up with them. The flitterboat jounced like a chip, the wheel being nearly torn from Kane's grip. Scott reached over and helped steady it. Even with two men handling the wheel, there was a possibility that it might wrench itself free. Steam rose in veils beyond the transparent shell. The water had turned a scummy brown under the froth.
Kane jammed on the power. The flitterboat sprang forward like a ricocheting bullet, dancing over the surface of the seething waves. Once they plunged head-on into a swell, and a screaming of outraged metal vibrated through the craft. Kane, tight-lipped, instantly slammed in the auxiliary, cutting out the smashed motor unit. Then, unexpectedly, they were in clear water, cutting back toward Montana Keep.
S
cott grinned. “Nice handling. Lucky you didn't try to circle. We'd never have made it.”
“Yes, sir.” Kane took a deep breath. His eyes were bright with excitement.
“Circle now. Here.” He thrust a lighted cigarette between the boy's lips. “You'll be a good Dooneman, Kane, Your reactions are good and fast.”
“Thanks, sir.”
Scott smoked silently for a while. He glanced toward the north, but, with the poor visibility, he could not make out the towering range of volcanic peaks that were the backbone of Southern Hell. Venus was a comparatively young planet; the internal fires still bursting forth unexpectedly. Which was why no forts were ever built on islands—they had an unhappy habit of disappearing without warning!
The flitterboat rode hard, at this speed, despite the insulating system of springs and shock absorbers. After a ride in one of these “spankers”—the irreverent name the soldiers had for them—a man needed arnica if not a chiropractor.
Scott shifted his weight on the soft air cushions under him, which felt like cement.
Under his breath he hummed:
“It ain't the ‘eavy ‘aulin’ that ‘ urts the ‘orses’ ‘oofs,
It's the ‘ammer, ‘ammer, ‘ammer on the ‘ard ‘ighway!”
The flitterboat scooted on, surrounded by monotonous sea and cloud, till finally the rampart of the coast grew before the bow, bursting suddenly from the fog-veiled horizon. Scott glanced at his chronometer and sighed with relief. They had made good time, in spite of the slight delay caused by the subsea volcano.
The fortress of the Mob was a huge metal and stone castle on the tip of the peninsula. The narrow strip that separated it from the mainland had been cleared, and the pockmarks of shell craters showed where guns had driven back onslaughts from the jungle—the reptilian, ferocious giants of Venus, partially intelligent but absolutely untractable because of the gulf that existed between their methods of thinking and the culture of mankind. Overtures had been made often enough; but it had been found that the reptile-folk were better left alone. They would not parley. They were blindly bestial savages, with whom it was impossible to make truce. They stayed in the jungle, emerging only to hurl furious attacks at the forts—attacks doomed to failure, since fang and talon were matched against lead-jacketed bullet and high explosive.
As the flitterboat shot in to a jetty, Scott kept his eyes straight ahead—it was not considered good form for a Free Companion to seem too curious when visiting the fort of another Company. Several men were on the quay, apparently waiting for him. They saluted as Scott stepped out of the boat.
He gave his name and rank. A corporal stepped forward.
“Cine Mendez is expecting you, sir. Cine Rhys telau-dioed an hour or so back. If you'll come this way—”
“All right Corporal. My pilot—”
“He'll be taken care of, sir. A rubdown and a drink, perhaps, after a spanker ride.”
Scott nodded and followed the other into the bastion that thrust out from the overhanging wall of the fort. The sea gate was open, and he walked swiftly through the courtyard in the corporal's wake, passing a door-curtain, mounting an escalator, and finding himself, presently, before another curtain that bore the face of Cine Mendez, plump, hoglike, and bald as a bullet.
Entering, he saw Mendez himself at the head of a long table, where nearly a dozen officers of the Mob were also seated. In person Mendez was somewhat more prepossessing than in effigy. He looked like a boar rather than a pig— a fighter, not a gourmand. His sharp black eyes seemed to drive into Scott with the impact of a physical blow.
He stood up, his officers following suit. “Sit down, Captain. There's a place at the foot of the table. No reflections on rank, but I prefer to be face to face with the man I'm dealing with. But first—you just arrived? If you'd like a quick rubdown, we'll be glad to wait.”
Scott took his place. “Thank you, no, Cine Mendez. I'd prefer not to lose time.”
“Then we'll waste none on introductions. However, you can probably stand a drink.” He spoke to the orderly at the door, and presently a filled glass stood at Scott's elbow.
His quick gaze ran along the rows of faces. Good soldiers, he thought—tough, well trained, and experienced. They had been under fire. A small outfit, the Mob, but a powerful one.
Cine Mendez sipped his own drink. “To business. The Doonemen wish to hire our help in fighting the Helldivers. Virginia Keep has bought the services of the Helldivers to attack Montana Keep.” He enumerated on stubby fingers. “You offer us fifty thousand cash and thirty-five percent of the korium ransom. So?”
“That's correct.”
“We ask fifty percent.”
“It's high. The Doones have superior manpower and equipment.”
“To us, not to the Helldivers. Besides, the percentage is contingent. If we should lose, we get only the cash payment.”
Scott nodded. “That's correct, but the only real danger from the Helldivers is their submarine corps. The Doones have plenty of surface and air equipment. We might lick the Helldivers without you.”
“I don't think so.” Mendez shook his bald head. “They have some new underwater torpedoes that make hash out of heavy armor plate. But we have new sub-detectors. We can blast the Helldivers’ subs for you before they get within torpedo range.”
Scott said bluntly, “You've been stalling, Cine Mendez. We're not that bad off. If we can't get you, we'll find another outfit.”
“With sub-detectors?”
“Yardley's Company is good at undersea work.”
A major near the head of the table spoke up. “That's true, sir. They have suicide subs—not too dependable, but they have them.”
Cine Mendez wiped his bald head with his palms in a slow circular motion. “Hm-m-m. Well, Captain, I don't know. Yardley's Company isn't as good as ours for this job.”
“All right” Scott said, “I've carte blanche. We don't know how much korium Virginia Keep has in her vaults. How would this proposition strike you: the Mob gets fifty percent of the korium ransom up to a quarter of a million; thirty-five percent above that.”
“Forty-five.”
“Forty, above a quarter of a million; forty-five below that sum.”
“Gentlemen?” Cine Mendez asked, looking down the table. “Your vote?”
There were several ayes, and a scattering of nays. Mendez shrugged.
“Then I have the deciding vote. Very well. We get forty-five percent of the Virginia Keep ransom up to a quarter of a million; forty percent on any amount above that. Agreed. We'll drink to it.”
Orderlies served drinks. As Mendez rose, the others followed his example. The cine nodded to Scott.
“Will you propose a toast, Captain?”
“With pleasure. Nelson's toast, then—a willing foe and sea room!”
They drank to that, as Free Companions had always drunk that toast on the eve of battle. As they seated themselves once more, Mendez said, “Major Matson, please telaudio Cine Rhys and arrange details. We must know his plans.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mendez glanced at Scott “Now how else may I serve you?”
“Nothing else. I'll get back to our fort. Details can be worked out on the telaudio, on tight beam.”
“If you're going back in that flitterboat,” Mendez said sardonically, “I strongly advise a rubdown. There's time to spare, now we've come to an agreement.”
Scott hesitated. “Very well. I'm… uh… starting to ache.” He stood up. “Oh, one thing I forgot. We've heard rumors that Starling's outfit is using atomic power.”
Mendez's mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste. “Hadn't heard that. Know anything about it, gentlemen?”
Heads were shaken. One officer said, “I've heard a little talk about it, but only talk, so far.”
Mendez said, “After this war, we'll investigate further. If there's truth in the story, we'll join you, of course, in mopping up the Starlings. No court-martial is necessary for that crime!”
“Thanks. I'll get in touch with other Companies and see what they've heard. Now, if you'll excuse me—”
He saluted and went out, exultation flaming within him. The bargain had been a good one—for the Doonemen bad$$$needed the Mob's help against the Helldivers. Cine Rhys would be satisfied with the arrangement.
An orderly took him to the baths, where a rubdown relaxed his aching muscles. Presently he was on the quay again, climbing into the flitterboat. A glance behind him showed that the gears of war were beginning to grind. There was little he could see, but men were moving about through the courtyard with purposeful strides, to the shops, to administration, to the laboratories. The battlewagons were anchored down the coast, Scott knew, in a protected bay, but they would soon move out to their rendezvous with the Doones.
Kane, at the controls of the flitterboat, said, “They repaired the auxiliary unit for us, sir.”
“Courtesies of the trade.” Scott lifted a friendly hand to the men on the quay as the boat slid toward open water. “The Doone fort, now. Know it?”
“Yes, sir. Are… are the Mob fighting with us, if I may ask?”
“They are. And they're a grand lot of fighters. You're going to see action, Kane. When you hear battle stations next, it's going to mean one of the sweetest scraps that happened on Venus. Push down that throttle—we're in a hurry!”
The flitterboat raced southwest at top speed, its course marked by the flying V of spray.
“One last fight,” Scott thought to himself. “I'm glad it's going to be a good one.”
IV
We eat and drink our own damnation.
—The Book of Common Prayer
The motor failed when they were about eight miles from the Doone fort.
It was a catastrophe rather than merely a failure. The overstrained and overheated engine, running at top speed, blew back. The previous accident, at the subsea volcano, had brought out hidden flaws in the alloy which the Mob's repair men had failed to detect, when they replaced the smashed single unit. Sheer luck had the flitterboat poised on a swell when the crack-up happened. The engine blew out and down, ripping the bow to shreds. Had they been bow-deep, the blast would have been unfortunate for Scott and the pilot—more so than it was.
