by John Ringo
“How’s your comfort?” Mosovich asked.
Chan looked at the table between them for a long moment.
“Perhaps too high,” the mentat said. “My father was Admiral Chan Kushao, the senior Chinese officer in Fleet. Unlike the… latter officers, including those of the Race of Han, he was a man of honor.”
“Indra?” Mosovich asked.
“Oh, far earlier,” Chan said, snorting. “He was in command of CruRon Fourteen at Second Diess.”
“That’s where about the only thing we recovered was the Yamato, right?” Jake said. “The rest of the fleet, and all the cruisers, were if I recall clearly, scrap.”
“I was… ten? Yes, ten.” Chan sighed and shrugged. “The younger members were… younger when they were taken in by the Indowy. Many of them barely remember their parents. I can remember my mother crying when father’s shuttle was gone. And I can remember my sisters.”
“They… stayed in China?” Jake asked.
“They did indeed,” Chan said. “One of the reasons I generally work for the Darhel at arm’s length. I have gotten over the rage, but I will admit that I am perhaps less… tamed than the Indowy would wish. So,” he said, looking up. “No, I have no issues with this mission. I am the son of a Chinese admiral, who was the son of a naval captain. Our family was one of the few of the Manchu to survive the Communists, mostly because my great-grandfather saw the writing on the wall and went over to them very early. My grandmother had a list of every Chan who had served under the Emperors going back several centuries. I may be a mentat instead of a ship’s commander or a colonel. But.”
“But,” Jake said, grinning. “What are you gonna do about Pawle?”
“I think he chose to take the active role in his own attempt to get over his self esteem issues,” Chan said. “To prove himself if you will. I also see the issues with that.”
“One way that goes bad is they don’t,” Jake said, nodding. “That is, they crack under the pressure. The other way it goes bad is they over-react and end up a dead hero.”
“Answer?”
“Training,” Jake said. “And selection. You can sort of do both at the same time. Hmmm… ”
“What are you thinking?”
“We haven’t really been training you guys for resistance,” Jake said. “Once we get up to full run, in about a week, I was going to be throwing wrenches in the ops to test my guys. I think we need to do that to yours.”
* * *
“Glandri,” Toucher said, pulling back. “Corridor’s packed with them!”
“Alternate four,” Moustache said, automatically. “Payback, seal this corridor.”
“On it,” the demo man said. The door closed and he laid a sealer on it, igniting it as the team retreated.
They turned a corner and hurried down it but before they reached the end there was a rave of sound that filled the corridor.
“Autogun,” Daisy Mae announced. “Lt. Penis and Glasshoppah are graded as terminated.”
“Glasshoppah?” Chan snapped.
“Thanks, Daisy,” Mosovich said, grinning. “See you, Glasshoppah.”
“Glasshoppah?” Chan repeated as the team continued down the corridor.
* * *
“How can Master Chan be terminated?” Pawle asked as he hurried to keep up.
“Is it possible?” Master Sergeant Jesse asked. The third stick NCOIC was not a fan of his ‘principal.’ “It’s possible. This is designed as a hard run. You and Dust-devil are on your own.”
“There is… ” Dust-devil said then paused. “Oh… that is not fair.”
“Master Chan is… playing the… Imeg,” Pawle said, panting. “He is attempting to shut down your weapons and prevent our movement.”
“Well, you two had better fucking keep him from doing it,” Hooter said. The second stick NCOIC looked back at Dust-Devil. “How’s it going?”
“He’s a seventh level sohon,” Dust-Devil snarled. “It is not going well. Now let us concentrate!”
* * *
Payback laid a strip of cutting paste on the hatch and hit the igniter. It didn’t flare.
“What the fuck?” he snarled.
“Master… Chan,” Dust Devil said from across the compartment. “Wait… ”
The paste suddenly ignited, flaming even hotter than normal.
“Sk… Pawle,” Dust Devil said through clenched teeth. “Hold… reality.”
“I am holding,” the fifth level said, gritting his teeth. “I think I… ”
Suddenly the heavy duty fire-fighting sprinklers cut on, dousing the team in a spray of water like a firehose.
“What the… ” Moustache snarled as they cleared the far compartment.
“My visor just went down!” Mangler snarled, ripping the VR goggles off.
“Fuck,” Buster shouted as his weapon was ripped from his hand.
The walls of the compartment deformed, closing in on the assault team.
“Hold… reality,” Dust Devil said. “Damnit, I can’t fight him and the walls at the same time!”
“I… have it,” Pawle said. The walls had stopped closing in and the water shut off. “Holding. Go, Moustache!”
“Payback,” the team commander said, pointing at the next hatch. Which slid aside.
“We don’t have time,” Pawle said. “MOVE!”
* * *
As the team entered the final compartment they found Master Chan seated in a lotus, eyes closed and a faint smile on his face.
“Securing team,” Moustache said.
Alpha’s One and Two darted forward and bounced off a field that was clearly invisible.
“That is not reality,” Pawle said, his eyes closed. “Dust… ”
The second level mentat was suddenly lifted off his feet and slammed into the bulkhead.
“Dust Devil is graded as injured,” Daisy Mae said. “Up to you, Skank.”
“I cannot… ” Pawle ground out.
“You’d better do something fast,” Cheeto shouted. The shooter from Charlie was covering the door of the compartment. “We got Glandri moving in.”
* * *
This is not a fair test, Pawle thought. The Imeg would be dealing with the other sohon at the same time. In this case it is only you.
I have factored for that, Chan thought. Don’t think this is the all of my ability, young one. But it is what I would have left if I was also attempting to destroy the attacking ship. And, think, there may be more than one. The reality is that there is no shield about me. Establishing reality is easier than changing it. Establish reality. And if you are talking you are not fighting.
Fine, Pawle thought, savagely.
* * *
“Field’s down,” Spice said. He was ignoring the blood running down his nose from impacting the field. “So, do we get to taser Master Chan? Please?”
“Terminate exercise,” Daisy Mae said. “And, no, don’t taser Glasshoppah.”
* * *
“Grasshopper?” Master Chan said. “That wasn’t even the name of Kang’s master. It was Kang’s apprentice name!”
“And your point?” Mosovich asked.
“It’s just… wrong,” Chan said. “And, I might add, mildly insulting.”
“That’s the other point of team names… ” Mosovich said.
* * *
“So when do I get a better team name?” Pawle asked. “I mean I did defeat Master Chan.”
“You don’t,” Hooter said, shrugging. “Look, once you get a handle, well, getting it changed, like, takes an act of congress.”
The team, less the bosses, was having a bit of down-time. A bottle of high-grade moonshine had appeared from somewhere. The adepts refrained but they were still hanging with the SRS team. Which was a change. Normally they would have been back in their quarters doing whatever it was adepts did to blow off stress. Fucking meditating or making up koans.
“That doesn’t seem… fair,” Pawle said. “I mean, Adept Hoover gets Dust-Devil and I get… Skank
?”
“Adept Pawle, my team name is Lieutenant Penis,” Master Sergeant Field pointed out. “I knew a colonel one time whose team name was Buckbreath. Which, trust me, was worse than Skank. And practically nobody used it to his face.”
“See, the thing is, you got to make it your own,” Redman said, shrugging. “You go complaining about a team name, well… ”
* * *
“… it shows you’re not confident in yourself,” Mosovich said. “Special operations, submariners, firefighters, they all have team names, they all play practical jokes and they all push all the time. If you can’t handle the pressure, you’re a pussy and don’t belong in the unit. It seems stupid but it’s a constant method of testing to ensure mental readiness to sustain the pressure of high-intensity combat. If you can’t handle a little abuse from friends, you’re not going to be able to handle the abuse from an enemy. The enemy is not going to care about your feelings, they’re not going to let you hold up a stress card. They’re going to try to kill you as hard as they possibly can so that you don’t kill them. Horrible team names, practical jokes, psychological and verbal abuse, they’re all methods that small high-intensity groups use to constantly test for the weak link. Most of them don’t realize it, not intellectually, but they do it. The harder the job, at least ones that require team-work, the more you find people constantly testing. This completes your lesson for today, Glasshoppah… ”
* * *
“Skank, toss me a water,” Adept Hoover said, not looking up from the schematic he was studying.
The captain’s cabin, not particularly generous in space, now had eight bunks arrayed in it. There was very little room to raise so much as one’s head. To study the paper schematic, Dust-Devil had it plastered to the underside of the bunk above him and was moving it around using sohon disciplines. He had the schematic for the ship already stored in his nannites but looking at the paper, for him, made it more real.
Pawle, without looking at him any more than he’d looked up, pulled a bottle of distilled water from the compartment behind his head and shot it across the room at very nearly the speed of sound.
Dust-Devil just held out his hand and caught it.
Doesn’t it matter to you that he calls you that… name? Adept Sissy Harris asked. The sixth level sohon adept was the lead for the sohon support team that was going to be staying on the ship. Their primary job was to be making sure the Hedren ship didn’t escape the trap rather than engaging the Imeg directly.
No, Pawle thought back. You either live up to it or you’re not good enough to be on the team. Even if you live up to it, you might not be good enough. But if you can’t take a little pressure like an embarassing team name you shouldn’t even bother.
She was as aware as Mentat Chan of Pawle’s problems. He had always been brilliant at the theory of sohon, but unconfident of his ability to execute it. She had seen vast improvement in the last week and considered his answer carefully.
Do you feel ready to face the Imeg? she asked.
I don’t know, Pawle replied. We don’t know their power. If they are no more powerful than Master Chan, then yes. Especially if you guys give us cover fire.
She could feel the doubt in his answer but it was not the usual self-doubt she had come to expect. It was simply rational unsurety based on their lack of knowledge of the enemy. It also lacked his usual arrogant tone.
The Indowy trained on the basis of interest. They used the open hand, from it you could take what you wished or were able. They encouraged, they praised but they never pressed or stressed. Pressure was anathema to their methods of training.
She was forced to wonder if that was the best way to train humans.
Or at least human males, come to think of it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Is the force going to make the schedule?” Mike asked, looking up at his daughter.
“Yes,” Michelle said, looking at him carefully. “The actions should be in close time proximity.”
“Then we’d better start shifting,” Mike said. “You said four days, right?”
“Yes,” Michelle said. “But, really, we won’t know what the true capacity of the Imeg are until the attack on the transport.”
“Never give cousel of your fears,” Mike said, picking up his AID. “AID, I need General Tam, Tir Dal Ron and Rigas.”
* * *
“I’m going to go join the assault force,” Mike said as soon as the three-some had joined them.
“Even using a destroyer… ” Tam said, his brow furrowing.
“Michelle’s taking me,” Mike said. “And on the basis that even if it slips out, the Hedren can’t get the information in time, the target of the assault force is not Gratoola.”
“What do you mean,” Tir Dal Ron asked, angrily. “Gratoola is the… ”
“Capital of the Federation,” Mike said, sighing. “I know that, Clerk. And that it’s strategically vital. I didn’t say I’m not going to stop the attack on it. I’m just not going to defend from there.”
“Daga Nine,” Tam said, his face paling. “I was trying to figure out why you had the damned SS load all those pallets and field projectors. Are you nuts?”
“Crazy like a fox, Tam,” Mike said. “You’ve got the reins while I’m gone. Don’t let the Clerk screw you over. I will be watching.”
He winked at Rigas and then they were gone.
* * *
“The condemned ate a hardy last meal,” Harz said, taking three more slices of succulent pork.
The troops had been brought out of Hiberzine practically on top of the objective. They’d been told that after the meal and a brief preparation period, mostly to let the food settle, they were going to be loading up. The major portion of the prep involved reconfiguring their gear. Normally, personal gear was primarily hung on the outside of the vehicles. In combat it might be destroyed, but with so little room inside the vehicles it was practically a necessity. The order, though, was firm. No personal gear on the outside of the tanks and AFVs.
They were assured that, if possible, additional gear would be brought to them on-planet. But they were only to take what would fit.
Frederick was picking at his first plate of food. He knew that as a soldier he should eat when there was food and sleep when there was security. But soon the Hedren would come. When he couldn’t know and that bothered him.
“I think the yellow-shit does not have the stomach for good food,” Joachim said, taking a bite of curry wurst.
“He will not be a yellow-shit much longer,” Harz said, cutting into the pork. “That is, if we don’t send his fiancee an urn of his ashes.”
“I have asked to be given a decent burial,” Frederick pointed out.
“When one of the modern tanks burn there is rarely much left to bury,” Harz said. “The ashes are going to be mixed with those from your seat and personal gear.”
The rejuv was no longer looking at his food but off into the distance as muscle-memory that was burned deep shoveled food into his mouth without the slightest slip or any need for thought.
“Actually, sometimes the drivers were almost intact. It depended on what hit. An HVM would sometimes kill them from pure overpressure. A plasma blast? Well, if it hit the turret often they survived. Direct hits and it was find any bits of bone that hadn’t been turned to gas and scrape some of the char up. The ones that were really write-offs were the inhabitants of the turret. The blow-out panels worked more often than you’d think. But when they did not it was not worth looking for the bodies. I recall… damn, can see his face but I can’t think of his name. Berlin was what we called him. Anyway, they took a plasma hit directly in the ammunition compartment and the blast penetrated into the turret. At least that was what we figured out later probably happened. The turret didn’t jump. You saw that often. This time it stayed on but the ammunition just… burned. Very very fast. The cupola blew off, but not the turret. It was a pillar of white flame. Night-time… cold. Just this thing like returning lig
htning to Thor. It seemed to go on and on but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. It heated up the tank so much we couldn’t touch it. When we came back through a few days later, retreating as we generally were, it was still warm but we could look inside. And there was nothing. At least nothing that wasn’t heavy metal. Even the springs for the seats were gone; the fire had been so hot they’d been turned into iron gas. All the electronics, the sights… Just gone. Crew? Heh. The driver, though, he was still there. Sort of. We got him out in pieces. It must have been hell for him… ”
He stopped and blinked his eyes, looking at his two crewmen.
“What, Joachim? Lost your appetite?” Harz said, taking another bite of pork. “Damn, am I done already? I must get more. This pig was raised with care just to feed me… ”
* * *
“Yellow-shit,” Feldwebel Ginsburg said, sitting down with a filled plate. “Nothing kosher?”
Hagai had a plate of fruit and salad with a small beef steak. That was it.
“No, Feldwebel,” Hagai replied, shrugging. “It will be fine. I don’t have much appetite, anyway.”
“Of course you don’t, yellow-shit,” Fredrik said, grinning as juices ran down his face. “My, this pork is good… ”
“And of course if it is not kosher, you must not enjoy it,” Ginsburg said. “You can eat it as a last resort, but it must be eaten only to push off starvation.”
“Yes, Feldwebel,” Hagai said, looking at his quizzically.
“I had a friend in school who was a Maccabean,” Ginsburg said, shrugging.
