Tactics of Mistake

by Gordon R. Dickson

  Walco’s face became strangely set. “You wouldn’t harm civilians!” he said, after a moment.

  “General Van Dassel believes I would,” replied Cletus. “Now I, personally, give you my word as a Dorsai—and that’s a word that’s going to become something better than a signed contract, in time—that no single civilian will be hurt. But have you got the courage to believe me? If I’m lying, and your takeover of the mines includes a blood bath of the resident townspeople, your chances of coming to some eventual agreement with Broza about these mines will go up in smoke. Instead of being able to negotiate on the basis of having a bird in the hand, you’ll have to face a colony interested only in vengeance—vengeance for an action for which all civilized communities will indict you.”

  Walco stood, staring at him. “I don’t have any more certificates with me,” he said at last, hoarsely.

  “We’ll wait,” answered Cletus. “You should be able to fly back and get them and return here by noon at the latest.”

  Shoulders slumped, Walco went. As he mounted the steps of the aircraft that had brought him to Watershed, however, he stopped and turned for a parting shot at Cletus.

  “You think you’re going to cut a swath through the new worlds,” he said, viciously, “and maybe you will for a while. But one of these days everything you’ve built is going to come tumbling down around your ears.”

  “We’ll see,” said Cletus.

  He watched the door shut behind Walco and the aircraft lift away into the sky of Newton. Then he turned to Arvid, who was standing beside him.

  “By the way, Arv,” he said, “Bill Athyer wants to have the chance to study my methods of tactics and strategy at close hand, so he’ll be taking over as my aide as soon as we’re back on the Dorsai. We’ll find a command for you, out in the field somewhere. It’s about time you were brushing up on your combat experience anyway.”

  Without waiting for Arvid’s response, he turned his back on the younger man and walked off, his mind already on other problems.

  22.

  “Your prices,” said James Arm-of-the-Lord, Eldest of the First Militant Church, on both the neighboring worlds of Harmony and Association—those two worlds called the Friendlies, “are outrageous.”

  James Arm-of-the-Lord was a small, frail, middle-aged man with sparse gray hair—looking even smaller and more frail than he might otherwise in the tight black jumper and trousers that were the common dress of those belonging to the fanatical sects that had colonized, and later divided and multiplied, on the surfaces of Harmony and Association. At first sight, he seemed a harmless little man, but a glance from his dark eyes or even a few words spoken aloud by him were enough to destroy that illusion. Plainly he was one of those rare people who burn with an inner fire—but the inner fire that never failed in James Arm-of-the-Lord was a brand of woe and a torch of terror to the Unrighteous. Nor was it lessened by the fact that the ranks of the Unrighteous, in James’s estimation, included all those whose opinions in any way differed from his own. He sat now in his office at Government Center on Harmony, gazing across the desk’s bare, unpolished surface at Cletus, who sat opposite.

  “I know we’re priced beyond your means,” said Cletus. “I didn’t come by to suggest that you hire some of our Dorsais. I was going to suggest that possibly we might want to hire some of your young men.”

  “Hire out our church members to spend their blood and lives in the sinful wars of the Churchless and the Unbelievers?” said James. “Unthinkable!”

  “None of your colonies on Harmony or Association have anything to speak of in the way of technology,” said Cletus. “Your Militant Church may contain the largest population of any of the churches on these two worlds, but you’re still starving for real credit—of the kind you can use in interworld trading to set up the production machinery your people need. You could earn that credit from us, as I say, by hiring out some of your young men to us.”

  James’s eyes glittered like the eyes of a coiled snake in reflective light. “How much?” he snapped.

  “The standard wages for conventional mercenary soldiers,” replied Cletus.

  “Why, that’s barely a third of what you asked for each of your Dorsais!” James’s voice rose. “You’d sell to us at one price, and buy from us at another?”

  “It’s a matter of selling and buying two different products,” answered Cletus, unmoved. “The Dorsais are worth what I ask for them because of their training and because by now they’ve established a reputation for earning their money. Your men have no such training, and no reputation. They’re worth only what I’m willing to pay for them. On the other hand, not a great deal would be demanded of them. They’d be used mainly as diversionary forces like our jump troops in our recent capture of Margaretha, on Freiland.”

  The taking over of Margaretha on Freiland had been the latest of a series of successful engagements fought by the new-trained Dorsai mercenaries under Cletus’s command. Over a year had gone by since the capture of the stibnite mines on Newton, and in that time they had conducted campaigns leading to clear-cut and almost bloodless victories on the worlds of Newton’s sister planet of Cassida, St. Marie, a smaller world under the Procyon sun with Mara and Kultis, and most recently on Freiland, which, with New Earth, were the inhabited planets under the star of Sirius.

  Margaretha was a large, ocean-girt island some three hundred miles off the northeastern shore of the main continental mass of Freiland. It had been invaded and captured by the nearest colony adjoining it on the mainland mass. The island’s government in exile had raised the funds to hire the Dorsais to recapture their homeland from the invaders.

  Cletus had feinted with an apparent jump-belt troop drop of untrained Dorsais over Margaretha’s main city. But meanwhile he had sent several thousand trained troops into the island by having them swim ashore at night at innumerable points around the coastline of the island. These infiltrators had taken charge of and coordinated the hundreds of spontaneous uprisings that had been triggered off among the island’s population by word of the jump-troop drop.

  Faced with uprisings from within and evident attack from without, the mainland troops that had seized the island chose discretion as the better part of valor and abandoned the island for their home colony. They reached home only to discover how few had been the troops that had actually driven them out, and turned swiftly about to return to Margaretha.

  When they reached the island this second time, however, they found watch fires burning on all the beaches, and the population aroused, armed and this time ready to die between the tide marks rather than let a single mainlander invader ashore.

  As with Cletus’s other military successes, it had been a victory achieved through a careful blending of imagination and psychology with what was now beginning to be regarded, on the other colony worlds, as the almost superhuman abilities of the trained Dorsai soldiers. Clearly, for all his apparent unwillingness to listen to Cletus’s offer, James was not unaware of the hard facts and advantages of the proposition. It was typical of elders such as James that they were either pro or con, but never admitted to indecision.

  Cletus took his leave, accordingly, having planted the seed of an idea in a Friendly mind, and being content to bide his time and let it grow.

  He took a spaceship to New Earth, that sister planet of Freiland, where his command of Dorsais and a new military campaign were waiting for him. Marcus Dodds, Eachan’s old second-in-command, met him at the Dorsai camp just outside of Adonyer, the main city of Breatha Colony, their employers on New Earth. In spite of the two new stars on each of his shoulder tabs, marking him as a field commander with a full division of mercenaries under him, Marcus’ face was solemn with concern.

  “Spainville’s formed an alliance with four of the five other city-states of the interior plains,” he told Cletus, as soon as they were alone in Marcus’ office. “They call it the Central Combine, and they’ve mustered a combined army of better than twenty thousand regular troops. Not onl
y that, they’re ready and waiting for us. We aren’t going to be able to use surprise the way we have in other campaigns, and this short division you’ve given me here has less than five thousand men.”

  “True enough,” said Cletus, thoughtfully. “What do you suggest I do about it?”

  “Break the contract with Breatha,” said Marcus, strongly. “We can’t possibly go up against this Central Combine now without more men. And how many other new-trained Dorsais are there? Certainly not more than a couple of hundred. We’ve got no choice but to break the contract. You can cite the fact that the situation has changed since we were hired. Breatha may squawk, but responsible people in other colonies wanting to hire us will understand. If we don’t have the troops, we don’t have the troops—that’s all there is to it.”

  “No,” said Cletus. He got up from his seat beside Marcus’s desk and walked across the room to a map showing the flat plains area of the continental interior, which Breatha shared with its rivals, five other colonies, each of which was essentially farming communities centered around one large city—hence their common name of city-states. “I don’t want to start breaking contracts, no matter how well justified we are.”

  He studied the map for a minute. Breatha, with a narrow corridor running to the coast, was surrounded by the city-states of the interior on four of its five sides. Originally it had been the manufacturing center that supplied the city-states with most of their factory-made equipment and brought farm produce from the city-states in return. But then Spainville, the largest of the five city-states, had ventured into manufacturing on its own, sparking off a similar action in the other city-states—one of which, called Armoy, had chosen to construct a deep-space spaceport in competition with the one existing in Breatha Colony.

  Now, with economic ambition burning bright in the former agricultural colonies of the central plain, Spainville, which bordered on Breatha’s corridor to the sea, had chosen to lay claim upon that corridor and threaten to take it over by armed force if Breatha did not yield it peacefully. Hence, the presence of the Dorsais on the Breatha payroll.

  “On the other hand,” said Cletus, turning back to Marcus, “if they believed we’d been reinforced, that might be almost as good as our actually getting the necessary extra troops in here.”

  “How’re you going to make them think that?” demanded Marcus.

  “It may take some thought.” Cletus smiled. “At any rate, I’ll make a quick trip back to the Dorsai now, as though I was going after extra men, and see if I can’t work out a plan on the way.”

  Having announced his intentions, Cletus wasted no time. By late that evening, after a wild trip halfway around the circumference of New Earth in an atmosphere ship, he was on board a deep-space vessel that had the Dorsai as its next port of call. Three days later he was back in Foralie. Melissa met him at the doorway of Grahame House with a warmth that was surprising. Since the marriage, she had slowly been softening toward him, and since the birth of their son, three months ago, that process had accelerated even while it seemed that all those others who had once been close to Cletus were becoming more and more estranged to him.

  Typical of these was Eachan, whose greeting to Cletus was almost as detached and wary as that which might be accorded a stranger. At the first opportunity, he got Cletus away from Melissa and the child to speak bluntly to his son-in-law.

  “Have you seen these?” he asked, spreading an assortment of news clippings out on the desk before Cletus. They were standing in Cletus’s office-study, in the west wing of Grahame House. “They’re all from Earth news services—Alliance and Coalition alike.”

  Cletus glanced over the clippings. Unanimously, they were concerned with the Dorsais and himself. Not only that, but their vituperative tone was so alike that they could have been the product of a single voice.

  “You see?” Eachan challenged, as Cletus finally looked up from the clippings. “It was the Coalition news service that started calling you a pirate after the Bakhalla business. But now the Alliance has taken it up too. These city-states you’re hired to go against on New Earth are backed by Alliance as well as Coalition aid and investment. If you don’t look out you’ll have the Alliance as well as the Coalition laying for you. Look”—his brown right forefinger stabbed at one of the clippings—“read what Dow deCastries said in a speech in Delhi—’If nothing else, the peoples of the Coalition and the Alliance both can join in condemning the brutal and bloody activities of the ex-Alliance renegade Grahame…' “

  Cletus laughed.

  “You think this is funny?” said Eachan, grimly.

  “Only in its predictability,” answered Cletus, “and in the obviousness of Dow’s intentions.”

  “You mean you’ve been expecting this—expecting deCastries to make speeches like that?” demanded Eachan.

  “Yes,” answered Cletus. He dismissed the subject. “Never mind that. I’m back here to go through the motions of transporting an imaginary extra division of troops to Breatha Colony. I’ll need at least two deep-space transports. Maybe we can arrange to lease some empty cargo spaceships for a diversionary trip—”

  “You’d better listen to something else first,” Eachan interrupted him. “Did you know you’re losing Swahili?”

  Cletus raised his eyebrows. “No,” he murmured. “But it’s not surprising.”

  Eachan opened a drawer of Cletus’s library desk and took out a resignation form, which he dropped on the table on top of the news clippings. Cletus looked down at it. Sure enough, it was made out and signed by Swahili, now a one-star general field commander. Promotions had come thick and fast among those men who had been with Cletus from the beginning. Only Arvid, now in the field, was still a commandant—the equivalent of his old grade of captain, and Eachan, who had refused the one promotion offered him. By contrast, the once ineffective Bill Athyer was now a rank above Arvid as commandant senior grade, less than two ranks away from field commander, with command of a regiment.

  “I suppose I’d better talk to him,” said Cletus.

  “Not that it’ll do you any good,” replied Eachan.

  Cletus invited Swahili up from his post at the main new-training center, now on the far side of Foralie. The next day they met briefly in that same office-study where Eachan had confronted Cletus with the news clippings shortly after his arrival home.

  “Of course, I’m sorry to lose you,” said Cletus, as the two faced each other. Swahili, a single star gleaming gold on each of his shoulder tabs, bulked larger than ever in his blue dress uniform. “But I imagine you’ve completely made up your mind.”

  “Yes,” said Swahili. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “I think so,” said Cletus.

  “I think you do,” echoed Swahili softly, “even if it is just the opposite of the way you like to do things. You’ve taken all the life out of war—you know that, don’t you?”

  “It’s the way I like it,” said Cletus.

  Swahili’s eyes flashed a little in the soft light of the peaceful library-office. “It’s not the way I like it,” he said. “What I like is what nearly everyone else hates—hates or is scared sick of. And it’s that you’ve taken out of the business for everybody who serves under you.”

  “You mean the combat, itself,” said Cletus.

  “That’s right,” said Swahili, softly. “I don’t like being hurt and all those weeks in the hospital any more than the next man. I don’t want to die. But I put up with all the rest of it—all the training, all the hurry-up-and-waiting, all the marking tune between engagements—I put up with all that, just for the few hours when everything turns real.”

  “You’re a killer. Or don’t you admit that to yourself?” asked Cletus.

  “No,” said Swahili. “I’m a special fighter, that’s all. I like to fight. Just the killing itself wouldn’t do anything for me. I told you I didn’t want to get hurt, or killed, any more than the next man. I feel just as hollow inside when the energy weapons start burning the air
over my head. At the same time, I wouldn’t miss it for anything. It’s a dirty, damn universe, and every once in a while I get a chance to hit back at it. That’s all. If I knew in the morning when I started out that I was going to be killed that day, I’d still go—because I couldn’t die happier than to go down hitting back.”

  He stopped talking, abruptly. For a moment he simply looked at Cletus in the silence of the room.

  “And it’s that you’ve taken out of mercenary work,” he said. “So I’m going someplace else where they still have it.”

  Cletus held out his hand. “Good luck,” he said.

  They shook hands.

  “Luck to you,” said Swahili. “You’ll need it. In the end the man with gloves on always loses to the bare-knuckle fighter.”

  “You’ll have your chance to test that belief, at least,” said Cletus.

  23.

  A week later Cletus returned to New Earth with two leased cargo vessels, the crew and officers of which had agreed to being held in a locked room during the embarking and disembarking of the troops they were supposed to carry. They could testify afterward only to hearing the sounds of boots entering the ship for two and a half hours, on the Dorsai, and to some four hours of similar sounds as they hung in orbit above New Earth, while landing craft shuttled from their ships to some unannounced spot on the planet below. Agents for the Central Combine of city-states, however, observed these landing craft making their sit-downs in a wooded area just inside Breatha Colony’s border with Spainville. On attempting to investigate further, the agents found themselves stopped and warned back by a cordon of armed Dorsais, but their estimate of the troops landed, taken from the number of trips from the spaceships in orbit, was of at least five thousand men.