by Chris Bunch
“Good aft, friend.”
“ ‘Day,” the young man said. “I’m interested in joining up.”
“Well, this is certainly the place,” Kerle said. “And you’ll never regret it if you do. The Confederation needs good men, and will make you proud you decided to serve your government.”
“What I’m really interested in is travel.”
“Then the Confederation is your ticket. I’ve seen twenty, thirty worlds, and I’ve only been in ten years, made tweg in the first four, and should be up for senior tweg when the next promotion list comes out,” Kerle said. “Not that you have to enlist for that long. Standard term is only four Earth-years.”
“Reasonable,” Garvin Jaansma said. “Gives everyone a chance to see if they get along.”
“Any particular trade or skill you’d be interested in?”
“I’m not much on working inside. Prefer to be outdoors if I can. What about that?” The young man was pointing at a small model of an assault lifter. Kerle picked it up.
“That’s a Grierson. Used in Armored Infantry. The Grierson’s the standard assault vehicle, called an Aerial Combat Vehicle, an ACV. Carries two attack teams. Chainguns here and here. Rocket pod here. There’s a whole lot of different configurations. Ultrareliable. Dual antigrav units under here, give it about a thousand meters overground lift. We use it for patrols, or attack. In the assault it’d be backed up with heavy lifters, gunships like that model of a Zhukov there, and of course there’d be other assault lifters with it. You can even modify it into an in-system spaceship. You could command one of these in a year, maybe less. Five million credits the Confederation’d trust you with. Plus twenty men’s lives, which is the real price. Not many jobs give someone your age that kind of responsibility,” Kerle said, sounding truly impressed.
“Sounds interesting,” Jaansma said.
“A couple of things first,” Kerle said, toes curling inside his mirror-bright boots, anticipating the bad news. “Have you talked to your family about this?”
“They don’t mind,” Jaansma said. “Whatever I think is best for me they’ll go along with. Anyway, I’m eighteen, so it’s my decision, isn’t it?”
“The first big one you can make,” Kerle agreed. “Another question. I don’t suppose you’ve had any trouble with the authorities?”
“None at all.” The answer came quickly.
“You’re sure? Not even a joyriding or maybe a fight or two, or getting caught with alk or a snort? If it’s minor, we can generally get clearance.”
“Nothing whatsoever.”
The young man’s smile was open, sincere.
CHAPTER
4
Capella/Centrum
The Malvern bulged far overhead, dwarfing the line of men trudging toward its gangway. Garvin Jaansma gaped upward.
“Move along, dungboot,” a cadreman snapped. “The Confederation don’t want you to break your neck before you even get trained.”
“Good advice, Finf,” a voice grated, “you being the experienced star-rover and all. I’m surely admiring all your decorations and such.”
The junior noncom flushed. His uniform breast was as slick as his shaven head. “Quiet, you.”
The man who’d spoken stared hard, and the finf flinched back as if he’d been struck.
“Keep on moving,” he muttered, and scurried away.
The man was big in any direction, not fat, but heavy, solid. His face was set in a perpetual scowl under his forward-combed, thinning black hair. A scar ran down one cheek and faded out in the middle of his thick neck. He appeared to be in his early thirties. He wore unshined half boots, heavy black canvas dungarees, a green tunic that would have been expensive new, sometime ago, and had a small, battered bag at his feet. There was a military-looking stencil on it: KIPCHAK, PETR.
He eyed Jaansma and the recruit beside him, snorted, and turned away.
“I want to learn how to do that,” the other recruit said in a low voice.
“Do what?”
“Melt ‘em with a look like that guy did. Cheaper’n a blaster and not nearly as convictable.”
Garvin extended his hand, palm up, and the other man repeated the greeting.
“Garvin Jaansma.”
“Njangu Yoshitaro.”
Garvin considered the other young man, who was about his age and height, dark-skinned with close-cropped black hair and Asiatic features. He wore charcoal trousers and a pale green shirt. Both fit poorly and looked cheap. He had a collarless windbreaker over his shoulder. Yoshitaro reminded Jaansma of an alert fox or hoonsmeer.
“Did anybody say where we’re going?” he asked.
“Of course not,” Njangu said. “Recruit scum don’t get told shit ‘til they have to know it, which I guess’ll be whenever we get where we’re going.”
“What about training?” Jaansma said. “I enlisted for Armor, and so far all I’ve done is polish toilets.”
The older man turned back.
“And that’s all you’ll do ‘til you get to your parent unit. The Confederation’s got a new policy. They ship your young ass to your home regiment, and let them whip you into shape.”
“That isn’t the way it is in the holos,” Njangu said.
“Damn little is,” the man said. “It’s ‘cause the Confederation’s falling apart, and they don’t have time or money to take care of the little things like they used to.”
“Falling apart?” Garvin said incredulously. “Come on!”
Garvin had seen troubles in his wanderings, but the Confederation itself in trouble? That was like saying the stars were burning out tomorrow, or night might not follow day. The Confederation had existed for more than a thousand years, and would no doubt exist for another ten thousand.
“I spoke clearly,” Kipchak said. “Falling apart. The reason you don’t see it is because you’re right at the center of things. You think an ant knows somebody’s about to dump boiling water on its nest? Or a wygor ever realizes what the skinner wants?”
Neither young man understood the references.
“What do you think all the riots are about?” he went on.
“What riots?”
“You didn’t watch any ‘casts while you were farting around in the ‘cruit barracks?”
“Uh … no,” Yoshitaro said. “I don’t pay much attention to the news.”
“Better start. A good holo-flash’ll generally clue you how deep the shit is you’re about to get tossed into, and maybe even give you time to pack hip boots.
“People are rioting, tearing things up because they can’t get things. Centrum being a high-class admin center, nobody bothers to grow anything. Which means everything from biscuits to buttwipe gets shipped in, not produced locally. Since the system’s showing cracks, sometimes those shipments don’t get here in time for dinner.
“It’s real hard to accept you’re on the greatest planet in the universe, like the holos say, if you can’t afford beans and bacon.”
“How come you know so much, anyway?” Njangu said, just a bit billigerently.
This time the look came at him. But he didn’t quail. Kipchak let his glower fade down.
“ ‘Cause I pay attention,” he said. “Something you better learn. For instance, I could tell you where we’re going, what unit we’re headed for, and even what the pol/sci setup is there. If I wanted to. Which I don’t, much.” Perhaps he was about to add more, but they’d reached the ship’s gangway.
“Your name and home world,” a synthed voice intoned.
“Petr Kipchak,” he growled. “Centrum, when it suits me.”
“Noted,” the robot said. “Compartment sixteen. Take any bunk. Next.”
And the huge Malvern swallowed them.
• • •
The compartment stretched into dimness. It was filled with endless four-high rows of bunks, with small lockers under the bottom one, and, like the rest of the ship, was spotless and smelled of fresh paint. Fresh paint and an incongruous odor
of dust, as if the Malvern was an antique.
The recruits were ordered by a harried-looking crewman to strap down in their bunks and stand by for lift.
The Malvern came alive, a deep hum reverberating through every deck. The deck speaker said, “Stand by.” The hum grew deeper until it made your bones sing, and the Malvern shuddered.
“Are we in space?” Njangu asked.
“I think so, but — ”
The speaker interrupted Garvin, and said, “Stand by for jump,” and moments later the slight nausea, disorientation came, and they were in stardrive. They waited to see what would happen next, but, characteristic of space travel, nothing did.
“Let’s go see what there’s to see,” Garvin said, unstrapping.
“I thought we’d be in zero gravity,” Njangu complained.
“Be grateful we’re not,” Garvin said. “Lots of people’s stomachs would be real unhappy, and I don’t get my thrills swabbing up puke in midair.”
“Oh yeh?” Njangu said. “You been out before?” The phrase, heard on holos, rang tastily on his tongue.
Garvin smiled, shrugged, and led the way out of the compartment.
There wasn’t much to see. More crew bays, deserted assembly areas, long corridors looking like the one they’d just left. There weren’t any viewports, even on the outer decks, and neither Njangu nor Garvin could figure out how to operate the occasional screen they came upon.
Njangu stopped atone compartment hatch labeled LIBRARY.
“Let’s go educate ourselves, like that goon told us we were supposed to do.”
Low tables lined the walls, with screens and keypads at regular intervals. Njangu sat behind one, touched a key. The screen lit:
ENTER REQUEST
“What?”
“Try, uh, destination,” Jaansma suggested.
Yoshitaro touched keys.
THAT IS NOT A PERMITTED REQUEST. TRY AGAIN.
“What about where we’ve been? Do what Scarface suggested and see what the holos say about riots.”
“ ’Kay.”
A line scrolled across the screen: BASHEES NG, SERMON CON-FED PUNDITS.
“Huh?”
Another line: BOSHAM RADS 4 STUN; then a third: LOK BLOOIES TURN WUNKIES BAK, 32 BAGGED, 170 INJ.
“I’m getting the feeling I don’t speak Confederation,” Njangu said.
“Guess the journohs have their own shorthand, maybe?”
A rather voluptuous young woman smiled out. She wore nothing at all. Another line scrolled: PROKKY SEZ WORRY NU, SPORTY ALWAYS.
“Well good for ol’ Prokky,” Garvin said. “I’d sure sporty with her.”
“Wonder if we’ll find something like her where we’re going,” Yoshitaro said.
“If we do, she’ll be officers only,” Garvin said. “The hell with it. Let’s get eddicated later.”
A crewman hurrying past spotted them.
“You two.”
They stopped.
“What’re you doing outside your compartment?”
“Nobody said we couldn’t,” Jaansma said.
“Nobody said you could, either,” the sailor snapped. “And I just happen to need two servers in the mess hall. Let’s go.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and went back down the corridor, obviously expecting them to follow. Njangu and Garvin glanced at each other, then obeyed.
“What is this?” Jaansma said. “Everything not ordered is forbidden?”
“I think we’re starting to understand things,” Njangu said wryly.
• • •
On the third ship-day, they were ordered to pack their civilian clothes and issued gray tunics and pants, and soft-soled boots that strapped at the ankles. There were no patches, no insignia, not even name tags.
“We look like damned prisoners,” Garvin said.
“No we don’t,” Njangu disagreed. “Prisoners wear red.”
“Thank you for the educational information, sir.”
“Quite welcome.”
“By the way,” Garvin said carefully, “that outfit you were wearing?”
“Yeh?” Yoshitaro’s voice was flat.
“You, uh, don’t look like the sort who’d wear something like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you’d thread a little better style.”
“I would. I did. But I didn’t have any choice. Somebody bought my outfit before I shipped out,” Njangu said. His expression didn’t encourage Garvin to ask more.
• • •
The ship schedule was simple: Stand in line to eat, exercise, stand in line to eat again, eat, try to find somebody to talk to or game with, stand in line to eat, eat, sleep … and the days ground past.
Petr Kipchak had a bunk at the far end of the compartment, but he was uninterested in making friends. He was either in a rec area, working out on the weight machines for endless hours, or in his bunk, reading a disk, completely engrossed.
• • •
“Dunno if I agree with this monosexual ‘freshing,” Njangu muttered.
“Why not?”
“Liable to give some of us ideas.”
“Naah,” Garvin said. “They put something in the food to keep it from happening.”
“Hey,” Yoshitaro said. “You’re right. I haven’t had a hard since we’ve been shipboard!”
“See? Just listen to Uncle Garvin, and you’ll know everything in time.”
• • •
“Allah with a yo-yo,” the recruit named Maev gasped. “You won’t believe this.”
“What?” Garvin and Njangu rolled out of their bunks.
“C’mon. You’ve got to see it.” Maev beckoned them to the refresher, which was nearly full of men and women getting ready for the third-meal.
She pointed to one shower cubicle, large enough for a dozen people. But there was only one in it — Petr Kipchak, who appeared oblivious to their attention.
Garvin was about to ask what was so special, when he saw.
Kipchak was busily washing his genitalia with one of the stiff nylon brushes they used to scrub the shower walls and singing loudly off key.
“Good flippin’ gods!” Garvin blurted, and the three retreated as Kipchak raised his head.
“What the hell … th’ bastard’s mental!” Maev said.
Njangu was about to agree, then realized — as he’d ducked back around the corner, he’d seen something very much like a smile on the burly man’s face. One way to have a little privacy, he thought, and hid his amusement.
• • •
Garvin was awakened by a series of double-dings he’d learned told the time to the Malvern’s crew. It was deep in the ship’s sleep cycle, and there were snores, some light, some hearty, around the compartment.
It was dark except for the dull red ready lights on the bulkheads, and, at the end of the room, white light from the refresher.
He sleepily decided he was thirsty and padded into the refresher.
It was deserted but for four men, two women. One woman stood by the hatchway on lookout, the other five sat or squatted around two blankets spread on the plas-slotted deck. All were older recruits. One was Petr Kipchak.
There were money and cards on the blankets. Kipchak had only a few bills and some coins, while the dealer had a wad of currency from a dozen worlds.
The five eyed Garvin. But he showed no particular interest, and went to the urinal. His expression flickered suddenly as he watched the game out of the corner of his eye, then became calm, innocent once more.
He finished, drank water from a tap, walked back by the game. One man, the dealer, a heavyset, balding man, looked up.
“Go to bed, sonny. This is way over your head.”
“Children’s money’s not good, huh?” Garvin asked.
The dealer started to snap, then smiled, a rather nasty smirk. He evaluated Jaansma, absently twisting a large silver ring on his left hand back and forth. Finally, he said, “You wanna get bur
ned, it’s your business. I got no objections. Anybody else?”
Kipchak seemed about to say something, then shook his head. The others shrugged or nodded as well.
“Table stakes, so you best be ready for some hard ridin', troop, and no sinvelin’ when we wipe you out,” the dealer said. “Go get your stash.”
Garvin went to his bunk, spun the combination wheels on his small carryall, took out a pair of socks. Inside was a thick roll of bills. He dressed hurriedly, making sure his boots were carefully strapped.
Njangu’s eyes were open. “What’s going on?”
“There’s a game back in the refresher. Thought I’d get in it.”
“Didn’t think you were a gambler.”
“I’m not.” Jaansma hesitated. “And neither is the guy with the cards. He’s a mechanic.”
Njangu sat up. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
“Make me some money.”
“Be careful.”
“I’m always …” Jaansma broke off, thought a minute. “You want in on the action?”
“I don’t play cards.”
“You don’t have to. Look, I just got an idea that’ll make for a lot of fun for everybody.”
Garvin spoke in low, quick tones. Njangu frowned, then started grinning.
“One question,” he said. “Why’re we doing this? It could mean trouble.”
“Didn’t you just answer your own question?”
“Maybe I did,” Yoshitaro said. “Sure. We can do it like that.”
Jaansma peeled some bills from the roll.
“Here. Give me, oh, fifteen minutes.”
• • •
Garvin curled the five cards in his hand, examined them. Not good, not bad. This was the fourth hand he’d played. He’d dropped out of two, bet on one and lost.
“Ten credits to play,” the woman said, and tossed a bill into the center of the blanket.
Garvin tossed two coins on top of the ante, and other notes followed. Three players, including Kipchak, stayed in.
“Go ahead, kid,” the dealer said. “You’re off.”
“I take one,” Jaansma said, discarding and taking a single card from the five-card widow, and the dealer replaced it from the deck in his hand.
“No help,” he sighed, and tossed his hand into the discards.
