by David Drake
Pritchard nodded with a grim smile. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s that.”
Hammer turned to Huber again. The movement was very slight, but his gaze had unexpected weight. Huber felt the sort of shock he would if he’d been playing soccer and caught a medicine ball instead.
“So, Lieutenant?” he said. “Are you going to do what I tell you, or are you going to keep telling me what you’ll do?”
“Sir!” said Huber, sitting up. He didn’t feel the waves of nausea and weakness that’d crumpled him moments before, but neither did he push his luck by swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “You’re the Colonel. I’ll do the best job I can wherever you put me.”
Hammer nodded, a lift of his chin as tiny as the smile that touched his thin lips. Huber wondered vaguely what would’ve happened if he’d been too bullheaded to face reality. Hard to tell, but the chances were he’d be looking for a civilian job when he got out of the infirmary instead of arguing about where he belonged in the Regimental Table of Organization.
Danny Pritchard looked at the technician and said, “When’ll he be able to move? Sit in front of a console in the Operations shop I mean, not humping through the boonies.”
The technician shrugged. “I can have him over there by jeep in maybe three hours. It’s not how brave you are or how many pushups you can do, it’s just the neural pathways reconnecting. D’ye want me to requisition a uniform or did his own gear come in with him?”
All three men looked reflexively at Huber. Huber gulped out a laugh and felt better by an order of magnitude to have broken his own tension that way.
“Hey, when I came here the only thing I had on my mind was my hair,” he said. “Draw me a medium/regular and I’ll worry about my field kit later.”
“Roger that,” said Hammer, ending the discussion. His glance toward Huber was shrouded by layers of concerns that had nothing to do with the man on the bed. “You’ll report to Operations as soon as you can, Lieutenant, and Major Pritchard’ll bring you up to speed.”
Hammer started out of the room. Pritchard put a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder and said, “Sir? You might tell him about Ander.”
Hammer looked from his Operations Officer to Huber. “Yeah,” he said, “I might do that. Lieutenant, the UC government ordered General Ander’s arrest after his failure to execute their lawful orders. While he was in a cell pending his hearing before the Bonding Authority representative, he committed suicide.”
Huber frowned, trying to take in the information. “The UC arrested him?” he said. “Sir, how in hell did they do that? Ander’s Legion may not be the best outfit on the planet, but the UC doesn’t have anything more than a few forest guards with carbines.”
“I suggested they deputize a platoon of the White Mice for the job,” Hammer said. “I believe Major Steuben chose to lead the team himself.”
“Ah,” said Huber. He didn’t say, “Why would Ander kill himself?” because obviously Ander hadn’t killed himself. Huber’d turned down a chance to serve in the White Mice, the Regiment’s field police and enforcers; but he understood why they existed, and this was one of the times he was glad they existed.
“Right,” he said. “Ah …thank you, sir, though I hadn’t been going to ask. I know we’re in a complicated situation here on Plattner’s World.”
“You just think you know,” said Pritchard over his shoulder as he followed the Colonel out of the room. “After a day in Operations, Lieutenant, you’ll know bloody well.”
Like every other line soldier throughout history, Arne Huber had cursed because his superiors expected him to follow orders without having a clue as to what was really going on. Transferred now to the operations staff, he found himself in a situation he liked even less: he knew the Big Picture, and the reality was much worse than he’d believed when he had only a platoon to worry about.
Even more frustrating, there was nothing he could do to change the situation. It was like trying to push spaghetti uphill.
Huber cut the present connection, watching the image of a dark-skinned officer in a rainbow turban shrink down to a bead and vanish. Colonel Sipaji swore that his troops were already in position outside Jonesburg, save for the few support units which were still en route from the spaceport at Rhodesville. Jonesburg’s own spaceport had been closed because of the danger from Solace energy weapons. Like all the ports in the United Cities, it was only a dirigible landing field which small starships could use with care.
Sipaji commanded the Sons of Mangala, a battalion-sized infantry unit, not very mobile but potentially useful when dug in at the right place. Satellite imagery showed that not only were they not in Jonesburg, they were halted only two kilometers outside Rhodesville. The visuals were good enough that with a modicum of enhancement Huber had been able to see the cluster of officers outside the trailer that served as Colonel Sipaji’s Tactical Operations Center. They were sitting on camp stools with their legs crossed, drinking from teacups.
And that knowledge didn’t make the least bit of difference, because Colonel Sipaji was going to stick to his lie with the bland assurance of a man who knows what the truth ought to be and isn’t affected by consensus reality. Sipaji wasn’t a coward and if his battalion ever got into position it would be a very cost-effective way of protecting the northern approaches to Jonesburg; but it wasn’t going to get there before Solace forces had closed the route from Rhodesville. Intent was reality to Sipaji, and he truly intended to go to Jonesburg …soon.
Huber stood. He was at one of a dozen consoles under a peaked roof of extruded plastic whose trusses were supported by posts along each of the long sides. This annex to the Regimental Operations Center was located in the parking lot of the Bureau of Public Works for the City of Benjamin, the administrative capital of the United Cities.
The portable toilet within the chain-link fencing hadn’t been emptied in too long, which was pretty much the way life had been going for Huber during the week since he got out of the infirmary. He turned, then swayed and had to catch himself by the back of the console’s seat. He’d been planning to go inside the wood-frame Bureau HQ itself, but now he wasn’t sure that he’d bother.
“Lieutenant Huber,” said the officer who’d come down the aisle behind him. “Take a break. I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day and I mean it.”
Huber jumped in surprise. He’d been so lost in his frustration that he hadn’t seen the section chief, Captain Dillard, coming toward him. Dillard was a spare man with one eye, one arm, and a uniform whose creases you could shave with. Huber respected the man, but he didn’t imagine the captain had been anyone he could’ve warmed to even before the blast of a directional mine had ended Dillard’s career as a line officer.
“Sir,” said Huber, “I can’t get the Sons of Mangala to move. I thought if I took an aircar to where they’re camped, maybe—”
“Get out of here, Lieutenant,” Dillard said in the tone he’d have used to a whining child. “If you went to see Colonel Sipaji, his troops still wouldn’t move. I don’t care to risk the chance that you’d shoot him. That’d cause an incident with the Bonding Authority and delay the deployment even longer. Get a meal, get some sleep, and don’t return before ten hundred hours tomorrow.”
“But—”
“I mean it!” Dillard snapped. “Get out of here or you’ll leave under escort!”
“Yessir,” Huber muttered. He was angry—at the order, at Sipaji, and at himself for behaving like a little boy on the verge of a tantrum.
The troopers at the occupied consoles pretended to be lost in their work. Three of the eight were on the disabled list like Huber; the remainder had been culled from other rear-echelon slots to fill the present need to coordinate the mercenary fragments of the UC forces. Text and graphics were more efficient ways to transfer data to the other units, but face-to-face contact had a better chance of getting a result on the other end of the line of communication.
Huber gurgled a laugh, surprising Captain Dillard more tha
n the snarl he’d probably expected. Huber’s stomach was fluttery—he did need food—and if he was letting anger run him like that, he needed rest besides.
“Captain,” he said, “it looks to me like we’re hosed on this one. The UC’s hosed, I mean, so we ought to advise ’em to make peace with Solace on whatever terms they can get. Solace has columns moving on Simpliche and Jonesburg both. We can—the Regiment can—block either one, I guess, but I don’t see any way Solace won’t capture one place or the other unless the units we’re operating with get their act together. And when the core cities of the UC start to fall—it’s over, the rest of the Outer States’ll cut off their financing, and then everybody goes home. Which we may as well do right now, hadn’t we?”
“That’s not my decision, Lieutenant,” Dillard said impatiently, “nor yours either. Get some food and rest, report at ten hundred hours.”
He made a brusque gesture with his hand. So far as Huber had been able to tell during his week’s contact with Captain Dillard, the man genuinely didn’t care whether or not what he was doing had any purpose. Maybe to Dillard, nothing had purpose …which wasn’t a bad attitude for a professional soldier. Anyway, it didn’t keep Dillard from being efficient at his present job.
Huber walked out of the lot and stumped up the stairs to the back of the HQ building. His quarters were in a barracks within the Central Repair compound in the warehouse district. It was walled and guarded by a platoon of combat cars, making security less of a problem than it would’ve been elsewhere in the city. There’d be an aircar driven by a contract employee, a UC citizen, in front of the Bureau HQ, or if there wasn’t the receptionist in the entranceway would call one.
After he took a leak …
“Lieutenant Huber?” called the receptionist as he pushed open the door to the rest room. Huber ignored him. To his surprise, the door opened again as he settled himself before the urinal. The receptionist, a middle-aged warrant officer with signals flashes on his epaulets, had followed him in.
“Sir?” the fellow said. “There’s a woman out front to see you. She’s been waiting, but I told her nobody disturbed the personnel on duty.”
“I’ve been disturbed ever since I was assigned here,” Huber muttered, “but that’s nothing new. Who is she and what’s she want?”
His tension and frustration drained away as he emptied his bladder. Was it that simple? All the trouble in life was just a matter of physical discomfort?
No, there were still the Colonel Sipajis of this world. They might have no more value than a bladderful of urine, but they weren’t as easy to void.
“Her name’s Daphne Priamedes, sir,” the receptionist said. “I don’t know what she’s got in mind, but she’s a looker, that I know.”
She must be, to get a plump, balding veteran this excited. Well, the receptionist hadn’t spent the past fourteen hours talking to the commanders of mercenary units who had an amazing number of variations on the theme of, “No, I think I should do something else instead.”
“Never heard of her,” Huber said. Right now the only thing that was going through his mind was that if he let her, she’d slow him down on his way back to the barracks and a bed. He didn’t plan to let her. He turned, closing his fly. “There a car out front to take me home?”
“She’s got a car, sir,” the receptionist said. “A big one, brand new.”
Huber started to swear and realized he didn’t have the energy for it. The receptionist got out of the way as Huber lurched toward the doorway and down the hall.
Huber hadn’t been able to find a comfortable position to sleep in, and being tired made his left leg drag worse than it would’ve anyway. Slivers of metal from both the frangible shot and the bits it’d gouged from Floosie’s bow armor had spattered him from knee to pelvis, and even the most expert nanosurgery did additional damage in removing the tiny missiles.
A striking black-haired woman stood between Huber and the outside door. She was within a centimeter of his height; her gaze was as direct as it could be without being hostile.
“Lieutenant Huber?” she said in a pleasant contralto. “I heard you tell Chief Warrant Leader Saskovich that you needed a ride. I have a car, and if you’ll permit me I’ll also buy you a better meal than you’re likely to get on your own.”
“Ma’am …” said Huber. He wondered if she was going to jump out of his way like the receptionist—Saskovich, apparently, and this woman had not only noticed the fellow’s name but she’d gotten his rank right—or whether Huber would shoulder her aside on his way to the door. “The only bloody thing I know is that my job doesn’t include talking to civilians. Find somebody in the public affairs section or talk to your own government; I don’t have the time or the interest.”
Through the glass front door of the building Huber could see a combat car on guard—there were no unit numbers stenciled on the skirts; it was an unassigned vehicle from Central Repair—and two aircars. One was a battered ten-place van with a Logistics Section logo on the side; a local contract employee chewing tobacco in the cab. The other was a luxury vehicle.
“My government is the Republic of Solace,” the woman said. She stiff-armed open the swinging door and held it for him. “My father is Colonel Apollonio Priamedes. You saved his life at Northern Star Farms where he’d been in command when you attacked. I want to thank you in person before I accompany him back to Solace in tomorrow’s prisoner exchange.”
Huber’s mouth opened, then closed as he realized that all the several things he’d started to say were a waste of breath. He remembered the Solace colonel limping out of the smoke to surrender, just as straight-backed as this woman who said she was his daughter.
Huber knew now what that erect posture had cost Priamedes. Because of that, and because Daphne Priamedes really was a stunner, he said, “Ma’am, I don’t want company for dinner. But if you’ll run me back to my barracks down in the warehouse district, I’ll buy you a drink on the way.”
“Yes, of course, Lieutenant,” the woman said. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Daphne, but I understand that you may prefer a more formal posture. Perhaps you’re uncomfortable with the attitude toward hostilities we have on Plattner’s World.”
She strode past and opened the limousine’s passenger door for him. That was a little embarrassing, but there wasn’t a lot Huber could do about it in his present condition. Walking upright was about as much as he could manage at the moment. He braced his hands on the door and side of the vehicle to swing himself onto the seat, noticing the inlays of wood and animal products on the interior panels.
“I’m not uncomfortable, ah, Daphne,” he said, “since it’s the same attitude we mercenaries have toward each other: we may be enemies today and fighting on the same side tomorrow, or the other way around. Either way the relationship’s professional rather than emotional. But I didn’t expect to see a Solace citizen traveling openly in the UC capital when there’s a war on.”
Daphne Priamedes got in behind the control yoke and brought the car live. The vehicle had six small drive fans on each side instead of the normal one at either end; it was noticeably quieter than others Huber had ridden in.
Aircars were uncommon on most planets, but special circumstances on Plattner’s World made them the normal means of personal transportation. The per capita income here was high, the population dispersed, and the preservation of the forests so much a religion—the attitude went beyond awareness of the economic benefit—that people found the notion of cutting roadways through the trees profoundly offensive.
Only in the Solace highlands where trees were sparse and not parasitized by Moss was there a developed system of ground transportation. There a monorail network shifted bulky agricultural produce from the farms to collection centers from which dirigibles flew it to the Outer States and returned with containers of Moss.
“There’s ten generations of intercourse between Solace and the Outer States,” Priamedes said. “This trouble—this war—is only
during the past six months. We need each other on Plattner’s World.”
Her eyes were on the holographic instrument display she’d called up when she started the motors; it blinked off when she was comfortable with the readouts. She twisted the throttle in a quick, precise movement.
As the car lifted, she glanced over at Huber and went on, “Besides, for the most part it’s you mercenaries fighting—not citizens. We in Solace tried to fight with our own forces at the beginning, but we learned that wasn’t a satisfactory idea.”
She smiled. Her expression as bright and emotionless as the glint of cut crystal.
“War’s a specialist job,” Huber said, keeping his tone flat. The car was enclosed and its drive fans were only a hum through his bootsoles. “At least it is if you’ve got specialists on the other side. We are, the Slammers are, and the other merc units are too even if they don’t necessarily have our hardware.”
He paused, then added, “Or our skill level.”
“As I said, we recognized that,” Priamedes said. “A disaster like Northern Star Farms rather drives the point home, particularly since it was obvious that things could have gone very much worse than even they did. Instead we’re mortgaging ten years of our future hiring off-planet professionals to do what the Solace Militia couldn’t.”
Huber didn’t speak. He regretted getting into the car with this woman, but he regretted a lot of things in life. This wasn’t his worst mistake by any means.
Northern Star was a collective farm that’d been turned into a firebase under Colonel Priamedes. He commanded an infantry battalion and an artillery battery from the Solace Militia, with a company of mercenaries whose high-power lasers were supposed to be the anti-armor component of the force.
Huber’d led the combat cars in the company-sized Slammers task force that had punctured the defenses like a bullet into a balloon. The Militia were brave enough and even well trained, but they weren’t veterans. The cars’ concentrated firepower had literally stunned them, and the mercenary lasers were too clumsy to stand a chance against 20-cm tank guns which had virtually unlimited range across flat cornfields.
