“Mr. Oliver Schmidt,” I said, “if I am not mistaken you almost got me fired back there. Us dog soldiers take a dim view of other people almost getting us made homeless, and maybe dead. What was that about? I could have just slipped out. Now she knows my name!”
Schmidt chuckled. “No, she knows Captain Johnson’s name. You were short-term wise not to correct her. Long-term the impact of people realizing that she got your name wrong will only increase. You might consider legally changing your name to Johnson. It would be the safe thing to do.”
“Mr. Schmidt. Perhaps you have mistaken me with someone else. I am a simple soldier. I do what I am ordered to do. Political battles are not my area of expertise.”
“You may not be interested in politics,” said Schmidt. “However, politics is interested in you. There is no hiding and there never was.”
“And who are you?” I said. “Apologies. Sir. You didn’t seem part of that executive group. Why are you still even here? I think that most people in that room would have liked to have seen you drawn and quartered. Then the remains incinerated with oxy-acetylene torches and thrown into a volcano.”
“Ah,” said Schmidt. “An intelligent and reasonable question that I cannot currently answer. Let’s just say that the central administration has yet some factions that want things to go well. I represent one of those factions.”
“Well then,” I said, “given that I currently have no coherent orders other than to ‘send a message to the enemy,’ whatever that means, what do you advise?”
“I think,” said Schmidt, “that you need to read more books.”
--------------------
I made my way back to company HQ. The aides to the late Captain Johnson, Private Wolfram and Corporal Dunleavy, briefed me on the situation. The other two platoons from mine had had similar experiences: the enemy had attacked from all around. Casualties had been overall light, but as our numbers were so small, and we don’t have any reserves, it’s still serious. I drafted a memo to the executive suggesting that any colonist whose specialty did not apply to this particular planet (such as the ones dealing with atmospheric generation) could be transferred to the military, and we’d train them up. I didn’t expect anything to come of it but as the saying goes, if you don’t buy a ticket you won’t win a prize.
We’d also expended about 15% of our ammunition, which was bad. On the other hand, we were finally getting some general-purpose attack drones unpacked and operational, which was very good. If we’d had a dozen of those online during the last attack, we’d have suffered half the casualties, if that.
I met with the chief of the civilian police force. She was a middle-aged woman, gray hair, very practically minded. She reminded me of my grandmother. Considering that they weren’t military, the police had acquitted themselves well, accounting for about a third of the attacking creatures that had made it past the perimeter. I commended the chief on the quality of her officers, and worked at setting up joint training exercises and communication procedures.
After that there were about 500 different issues involving supply requisitions, the energy budget, machine shop access, budget details, medical benefits for the wounded, settling the debts of the deceased, and so on. An hour of this and I delegated the rest to Wolfram and Dunleavy, and left to visit the platoon HQs.
The other two platoons were running well, which was no surprise as I knew the officers in charge and they were all professionals like me. You would have thought them jealous, seeing how I had become the acting Captain and not them, but they acted more like they were sad for me. As I said, they were professionals. Being made Captain of the Titanic just after it’s hit the iceberg is not always the best career move.
I returned to the HQ of my original platoon. I know that, as acting Captain, I can’t play favorites, and I should be spending more time in the company headquarters. But it had been a long day, and I wanted to be with people that I knew personally. I promised myself to be more by-the-book tomorrow.
Outside the metal hut I saw that a layer of plastic sandbags had been erected around it. Not nearly as good as a dug-in underground bunker, or an armored command vehicle, but much better than plain corrugated sheet metal. A little progress here, a little progress there, and in a century or two or three we might be a real army.
I walked in, and saw the newly minted second lieutenant Villers hunched over his terminal. “Hello,” I said. “Your fearless leader has returned from the executive division, and with all his limbs intact!”
“Huzzah!” said Villers. “The executives never knew what hit them. You dazzled them with your wit, and then took them all out with the power of your ineluctable reason. Well played, sir, well played!”
I smiled. “If only. The President is doing whatever it is that presidents do, and soon we will be given orders. If we are extremely fortunate and the patron saint of all soldiers is smiling on us, these orders will not be completely insane.”
“To hope for the best is not a sin,” said Villers, “although it’s not much of a strategy, either. Anyway. Welcome back. Sit down, I have snagged a bit of extra rations.”
I sat down heavily in one of the light metal folding chairs. “Status report, my oh-so-green second lieutenant?”
“Status is status quo,” said Villers. “Other than the attack the other day, it’s calm. We tried sending out another couple of scout drones, but as before they were eliminated without a trace at four to five kilometers’ range. So we’re still blind beyond the lights of the colony itself. The grid remains on active, we’ve radar and lidar scanning out as far as we can, but the last hostiles didn’t register on those, so that doesn’t mean much. The platoon is down five soldiers, as you know, so even more short-handed than usual. We are, however, making splendid progress on getting the last of the offensive drones up and running. The civilian cops came by and we’ve been reviewing joint procedures and I feel really good about that. So other than being attacked by inscrutable aliens with weird powers, it’s going well.”
Villers offered me an energy bar, which I gratefully accepted. It was good, but I could really have used a beer. I am told that, if all goes well, in 20 years the colony might have enough surplus that non-executives could actually have beer again. That’s something to look forward to.
“Villers,” I said, “what do you make of the other day? I mean not specific tactics, but the overall engagement.”
“Well,” said Villers, “it’s confusing. First we were attacked by an enemy of extremely high technological sophistication, well beyond what we have. And then we were assaulted by these weird scissor-jawed beasts that had less tactical skill than African hyenas. It’s a disconnect.”
“Almost like someone is playing with us,” I said.
“My thoughts as well,” said Villers. “They could have killed us, I think. They also could have made us suffer more, I suspect. They just wanted to mess with us. Like a bratty kid throwing a rock at a dog, just to see it turn and yelp.”
“A gloomy prospect, to be sure. If so, we need to be like that dog.”
“The dog that is having rocks thrown at? How?”
“We need to endure,” I said. “We need to survive, and not give up. Perhaps our enemy will tire of throwing rocks at us. Perhaps it won’t, and will someday kill us all. In the meantime, we meet each challenge as it comes.”
“I see now,” said Villers, “why you are the Captain. Inspirational, you are.”
“Hold the sarcasm,” I said.
“That’s the problem with having a lightning-quick wit,” said Villers. “People always think you are making a point. Which is generally OK. But not this time. I get what you are saying. We hang in there.”
“Like Bayonne,” I said.
“Or Augusta,” said Villers. “I think that was worse.”
“You may be right on that,” I said.
A terminal beeped. Villers went over and checked it. “Captain. We have direct orders from the President.” He turned visibly pale. Villers d
oesn’t usually turn visibly pale. He’s so naturally pasty-white that it must take a lot of effort to do even more. “You’re not going to like it.”
I checked the terminal myself. We were to engage in a multi-pronged seek and destroy mission, using carefully calibrated force to compel the enemy to the negotiating table while sending a message that we were not to be trifled with. Each platoon was to strike out on its own in a separate direction, without supporting each other. I am not pleased. We are do to this without any clear targets or intelligence. I am even less well pleased as we have hardly enough existing forces to provide even a joke of a perimeter, even with the support of the civilian police. My degree of lack of being pleased continues to increase. To top it off we are going perform this act of willful lunacy in three days. The meter that judges how unpleased I am has just gone off scale.
It just keeps getting better. Observers from the executive will be joining each platoon and the company HQ to offer their expertise (translation: fire or execute anyone not toeing the party line). Schedules of personal rotations and cross-cutting focus groups and thrust areas have been assigned, and hourly status updates will be logged in all relevant categories. Be still my beating heart. Oh, and we were to be prepared to manage refugee flows and provide humanitarian assistance to all fleeing persecution and promote democracy and free trade. I have run out of clever sarcastic comments. I’ll have to ask Villers to loan me some.
On the lighter side, in order to celebrate diversity, a member of the now-redundant atmospheric processing unit, a certain Mariah Smith, had been identified as being distantly related to Maori warriors. She was to be transferred to the military in the hopes that her ancient tribal spirit would inspire us. Well, frontline militaries don’t usually have women in the ranks, not when it counts, but right now I’ll take what I can get. If she’s a competent technician I don’t care if her ancestors were Elmer Fudd and Mary Poppins. I only wish that we had more time to train her up.
I left for the company HQ, but I detailed privates Brendan and Wolfram to come with me. Villers protested. “Captain,” he said, “I’ve only just been put in charge of this unit. We can’t leave the platoon so thin!”
“Villers,” I said, “normally I would agree with you. However, this is an abnormal situation, and in my opinion company HQ needs more support. I’ll see about getting you more personnel, but for now, I’m the captain. And that’s an order.”
Villers saluted, and I returned it, and I left to walk back to the company HQ. The external lights of the colony were still burning brightly. I was thinking that eventually we would have to dim them every 24 hours, or we’d start having circadian rhythm issues. For now it might not be too bad if everyone is out of sync, it could lessen the odds that we’ll all be in a down phase at the same time.
I entered the shack that was my company HQ, and saw that only private Wolfram was awake. He was checking on the status of our various scout drones (though now pulled back to barely a kilometer away from the colony), and continuing to review the AI-digested reports of our long-range sensor systems. I decided to leave him alone.
I walked to the back of the hut, to my palatial captain’s quarters: a folding cot over in the corner surrounded by grey plastic sheeting, like a shower curtain. I should have fallen asleep (lesson one for all you would-be soldiers out there: if the army takes you some place and doesn’t give you anything to do, take a nap. Who knows when you will get that chance again) but I noticed the book that Pascal had given me, which I had previously thrown on the edge of the cot. “The Essentials of Self Control,” by Protonicus. I idly picked it up, and began to read.
--------------------
“It’s two in the morning,” said Pascal.
“I sent you a message on the datanet,” I said. “You said you were awake. And it’s not like it’s ever morning here.”
“And I am awake,” said Pascal. “I haven’t been sleeping much lately. But still. Nominally it’s early. What brings you out here?”
I handed her the book by Protonicus. “I’ve read it,” I said. “I need more.”
“Aha,” said Pascal. “I hoped so. What is your reaction?”
“That I have missed the point,” I said. “That it was all lying in front of me, and I was too foolish and ignorant to put it all together. I feel different, I see things differently. I need more of this.”
Pascal yawned. “Great then. We’ll sign your copy of Protonicus back in, and I think we’ll go with Sincich next. And then I’m off to sleep. It’s late, even if only by the clock.”
-------------------
A day went by, and then another. The president gave an inspiring speech about fortitude and standing by each other in a time of peril. Pity that many of the people who had been seriously injured in the last attack were being denied medical care, because their insurance plans did not cover attacks by alien creatures (when colonizing an alien world, always check the box that you want coverage for attacks by alien creatures). Even so, it was an inspiring speech.
We had a few light attacks by the scissor-jawed beasts, but we beat them off with no causalities. We drilled with the civilian police, and established joint procedures. The last of our precious automated weapons were finally unpacked and activated. I was considering a proposal to have a ditch dug around the colony. That sounds positively medieval, but then this is a strange situation and if we are ever again assaulted by significant numbers of terrestrial creatures it could prove very useful. The central administration was considering whether they could spare a bulldozer for a few days, they said that they’d get back to me.
I met our newest recruit, Maori Warrior Princess Mariah Smith. She was an ordinary looking 20-something woman whose uniform was still heavily creased from storage. I expect she had as much Maori warrior blood in her veins as I do. She saluted awkwardly with her left hand; I corrected her and then returned the salute.
“Welcome to the army, Private Smith,” I said. “How are you getting on?”
Private Smith was clearly a bit flustered. “I’m doing fine, sir. Or do I call you Captain? Or officer?”
“Sir or Captain will do just fine, private,” I said. “Officer as a specific term of address is generally reserved for the civilian police. What are you training on?”
“Scanner maintenance, for now. Um, sir,” said Smith. “But… I can’t afford more training! I’m still paying off my loans for my degrees in planetary surface chemistry and life support administration, I can’t pay for more!”
“Private Smith,” I said, “I think you will find that in the army we do things differently. Once they tried to make us pay for our own bullets: you can imagine how well that worked out. The rest of the world has gone in for narrowly-focused training, and you pay for it yourself. The army is still old school: we are first and foremost generalists, and we train our own. I’m still paying off my loans for the service academy, and some medical bills, but that’s it. As an army takes casualties or is moved around it can’t afford to have a thousand sub-specialists for every minor issue.”
“Oh,” said Smith. She looked skeptical but didn’t press the matter further. “Will I need to carry a gun?”
“A weapon, you mean?” I said. “Someday we’ll make a rifleman out of you, but not now. Weapons are dangerous, much more dangerous than civilians realize. Pulling the trigger is easy, but to know when to pull the trigger, and what to point the weapon at, and what not to point it at, and where to be when you pull the trigger, that’s a lot more difficult. You concentrate on maintenance and leave the close combat to the rest of us for now. Again, civilians think that the military is all about fighting: it’s mostly about equipment maintenance.”
“But that didn’t happen last time! Um, sir,” said Smith. “I mean, you were fighting the scissor-beasts by hand in the streets!”
“That was an anomaly,” I said. “But even then, over 95% of the attacking creatures were killed by our automated systems before they reached the perimeter. So those automated syst
ems need to be in good working order. Their sensors need cleaning, and tuning, or next time we might not get off so lucky.”
Smith nodded. “Yes sir then. Um, do I need permission to leave? Or do I salute first? I’m sorry, I’m still not good at this.”
“You’ll pick it up,” I said. “For now, I’ll just say that you are dismissed, Private Smith, and you’ll say yes sir, and go back to your training.”
“Yes sir,” said Smith.
--------------------
The day finally came when we were to execute the central executives’ carefully-calibrated multi-pronged synergistic kinetic action. I had reached a pinnacle of un-pleasedness with the plan, but orders are orders.
I was in the company HQ, with privates Brendan and Wolfram, and corporal Dunleavy. Also with me was the observer from the central administration: The Under Secretary of Defense (for kinetic actions), a tall thin man in a striped gray suit. He was wearing a heavy armored vest over his suit, and a helmet two sizes too large, which made him look ridiculous, but all of us knew better than to say anything. Also accompanying him were two hulking members of the secret service – they already had armor underneath their black suits, so they looked the same as always. They had also brought along a quadrupedal security drone, the same style that I had tangled with on the arkship. I was pleased to see that it was still only armed with non-lethal weaponry. It tailed along after the under-secretary following his every move, doubtless using an implanted tracker-beacon.
After conferring with my three platoon leaders, we had originally decided that each platoon would send out an automated reconnaissance force. Each force was going to lead with two of the micro-scouts, then three of the light offensive drones, then two more light scouts. The idea was that they would cover each other, and if something started snuffing our units the superior sensors of the offensive drones should give us some peek at what we are up against.
The Under Secretary, however, had different ideas. “No, no, these plans are completely unacceptable. We need boots on the ground to establish zones of control and manage perceptions. You must send some of your actual soldiers out.”
Old Guy and the Planet of Eternal Night (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 6) Page 13
