“Well—well, no, Sir—”
“Spit it out,” Baker said.
Martins frowned. “Sir—”
“Leftenant Martins, you are not usually so reluctant to speak,” Baker said. “Colonel, his problem is that he believes we have only to shoot you down and take over your operations, and the Galactics will permit us to return to Earth. Home by Christmas, if only you weren’t in the way.”
Martins turned beet red. Sergeant Bisso stood impassively.
“Now, mind you, if I thought that were true,” Baker said, “I might be scheming to accomplish it myself. But it’s not.”
“Not a chance,” Larry Warner said. “Excuse me, Colonel.”
“Nothing to excuse,” Rick said. “If we’re all going to work together, the first requirement is that we all understand the situation.” Rick looked Richard Martins full in the eye. “Did you get this notion from Inspector Agzaral, or the Shalnuksis?” he asked.
Martins gulped.
“I never had much chance to speak with the Inspector, Sir.” He hesitated, then decided. “It was the aliens who told me they’d come back to get us. We should collect whatever you were growing for them—” He looked around for support, got none, and plunged on. “Drugs. A crop of drugs. If we could collect what you were growing and turn it over to them, it would be enough to pay our passage back to Earth.”
Baker nodded.
“Henry, were you also told this?”
“Aye.” Cargill had a definite Glaswegian accent. “I was, Sir. I didn’t believe a word of it.”
“Why not?” Rick asked.
“Sir. That policeman made it very clear to begin with. We’ll never go home again. And if anyone has ever returned to Earth with a story like this, I never heard it. And I would have; I was always interested in stories about aliens. Besides, if those bawbags get the crops they want, what’s their incentive to defy the police and put us back on Earth? A ship coming here for these drugs isn’t going to Earth afterwards; there’s nae a market there. More likely to dump us out the airlock! We’re here, and we’ve nothing for it but to make the best of it.”
“But the troopers—”
“Richard,” Major Baker said. “We’ll have to cope with what the troopers believe, but right now it’s important for us all to understand just where we are.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“We’re not going home,” Clyde Baker said. “I wish otherwise, but that’s the situation. We have to make the best for ourselves right here. I’m convinced that our best course is to ally with Colonel Galloway. I’ve told you why; do I need to repeat it?”
“I’d like to hear it,” Art Mason said.
Baker smiled.
“Certainly, Major Mason. First, and most important to me, is that Inspector Agzaral told me directly that Captain Galloway was the only man on this planet I could trust.”
“Good advice,” Mason said.
“And since we arrived here I’ve heard no reason to doubt that,” Baker said. “Colonel, even your enemies speak highly of you. Many speak in awe, even reverence. You seem to be something of a military genius.”
“Or damned lucky,” Rick said with a laugh.
“I never discount luck. I also know what von Moltke said about luck.”
“Comes only to the well prepared,” Warner said sotto voce.
“Precisely. The Inspector also told me that the only Confederate group authorized to visit this planet would be controlled by Colonel Galloway’s employers. No one else was coming here. The aliens delivering us were not coming back, and we hadn’t met the group who were coming to buy from Colonel Galloway. So I had two facts: I was never going home, and I could trust Colonel Galloway.
“I considered my alternatives. One was to serve the Five Kingdoms as mercenaries. That would put us in competition with Colonel Galloway, but we have three score Gurkhas and the Five Kingdoms are more powerful than your Wanax Ganton, so we might be successful. If we took that course, we would have power so long as our ammunition lasts. After that we’re in competition with the locals. I’m not saying we can’t learn to use local weapons, or even develop some new ones of our own, but we would never catch up with Colonel Galloway. His forces already have cannon and muskets, in addition to modern weapons—and he has a source of supply for his modern weapons. For that matter, it’s clear he has at least some modern heavy weapons, which we do not. Even to get more ammunition for our rifles or the Brens we would first have to defeat Galloway, learn how to grow the crops, make contact with his Galactic buyers, persuade them to do business with us—and do all that while keeping our local employers happy enough that they feed and pay us.” Baker looked at Martins with a raised eyebrow. “There are other variants on that course but none presents very attractive prospects, don’t you agree?”
“But the aliens who brought us here?” Martins protested. “Even if they won’t bring us home, don’t we have to worry about them?”
“According to Inspector Agzaral, they won’t be coming here at all,” Baker said.
“But Sir, why would they want us to—to plunder Colonel Galloway’s supply if they’re not coming to profit from it?”
Baker looked to Rick.
“I confess I hadn’t thought that through,” he said.
Rick thought furiously, then shrugged.
“I can think of two reasons. First they may hope Agzaral or his superiors reverse the ruling and give them trade rights. That doesn’t get you back to Earth, but it does give them a reason to make you think you can get there.
“Second, clearly they have no love for the Shalnuksi faction that brought us here. Anything that damages a rival. After all, it’s not likely anyone would know why you went rogue and kept us from gathering crops.”
“Which rules out that alternative,” Baker said. “Striking our own deals with the rogue Galactics doesn’t seem a very worthwhile idea. I found Inspector Agzaral believable enough, and he was very clear that he wasn’t pleased with the people who brought us here.”
“People who brought you here,” Art Mason said. “And just who would those be?”
Baker spread his hands.
“I suspect I know less about the Galactics than you do, but my surmise is that there’s a group authorized to grow and harvest drugs on this planet. That’s the group that brought you. There’s another that wants to become a part of that trade and they’re the ones who brought us here. Thugs seeking to muscle in on the activity? But with enough influence that the Galactic authorities deal with them, if reluctantly. But frankly I was hoping you could tell us more about the situation.”
“Aye,” Cargill muttered. Martins was silent.
“Another possibility would be to strike out on our own,” Baker continued. “Find some local backwater and take it over, become feudal lords in our own right and begin to blend in with the local customs. Properly cared for, our weapons will last a long time, and if we’re careful with the ammunition we won’t run out very soon. We could probably do that, developing better weapons made with local technology and our own skills.”
“Gengrich,” Art Mason said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Gengrich tried that. Led a bunch of mercenaries south to set up their own kingdom. How’d it work, Mr. Warner?”
Larry Warner made a sour face.
“You know damned well how it worked. Granting Major Baker is smarter or luckier than Gengrich, it would still be a near thing whether they got through the first winter. It’s primitive out there, Major! Colonel Galloway married into the local leadership, and now we all have status without having to beat up anyone to get it. We don’t have to forage, locals do that for us. We don’t have to grub around for money to pay for consumables. When we do have to fight, we get credit for the victories. All that no matter what happens with the Galactics. Much better even if we never hear from them again.”
“Well summarized, Mr. Warner,” Baker said. “The point being that it would be hard to get a better status than Co
lonel Galloway has already offered us.”
Rick nodded.
“There is also what the locals call the Time,” Baker said.
“Yeah, there’s sure that,” Art Mason said. “How much of that do you understand, Major Baker?”
“Not a lot, Major Mason. Clearly less than I ought to know.”
Mason looked up the table at Rick.
“Colonel, you’re better at explaining this than I am.”
“I’ll give you the essentials. We can do details later,” Rick said. “This appears to be a binary star system with the smaller secondary circling the primary at about the distance from Saturn to the Sun, but in fact there’s a third component. Every four hundred or so local years—six hundred Earth years—the third element, a red dwarf, approaches close enough to affect local climate. Ice melts, seas rise, general merry hell with the weather. That’s the time when the madweed crops grow. Apparently the crop grown in the twenty years of the Time, the third star’s closest approach, is enormously valuable. The Shalnuksis have been sending expeditions to gather and grow ‘Tran Natural’ every six hundred years or so for at least two or three thousand years. Every time they’ve come they brought a new military faction from Earth. Greeks, Romans, Scythians, God only knows who else. Which is why this place is a mess! Incidentally, Lieutenant Martins, in all that time none of this ever seems to have seeped into Earth myth and legend, which is a pretty good argument that no one ever got back from here.”
“Yes, Sir,” Martins said. “But—my fiancé—”
“Your fiancé will marry another or die an old maid,” Rick said with an edge of compassion. “Sorry to be so blunt, but that’s the way it is.”
“On the other hand, there are girls here,” Warner said. “Some delightful. As a star lord you start with pretty high status.”
“Star lord,” Cargill repeated. “We’re all lairds?”
“We are,” Warner said. “Some are loftier than others, but we’re all nobles.”
“So we’re in for a time of troubles,” Major Baker said. “I presume you have plans for getting through them?”
“I do,” Rick said. He kept his tone confident. “We’ve allied with Rome, the Wanax Ganton, a maritime republic, and a dominant highland clan. The Roman and Tamaerthan alliances are rock solid.”
“But not the Drantos alliance?” Baker asked.
Rick frowned.
“Solid enough. The King resents his dependence on us, but he doesn’t have a lot of choices. And my wife is quite solidly in control of the County of Chelm, the single most powerful county of Drantos. Most of my local troops are loyal to Tylara, not the Wanax, and the Tamaerthan archers and pikemen have no ties to Ganton at all. We’re pretty solidly established, Major.”
“So what’s our goal?” Baker asked.
“Long term or immediate?”
“Both. Sir.”
“Long term, to be well established enough that we can retire to a secure place. Our children will inherit our weapons. If we’ve done our job right, they won’t need to use them much.
“To do this, we’ll need status and land. I have both, in Chelm and in Tamaerthan, and I hope to gain status in the Roman Empire as well. Relevant to you, I also have an alliance with several clans of Westmen.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Cargill said. “Scythians, no?”
“More like Mongols, I’d say,” Rick said. “Possibly the same thing.”
“Are those the dark-skinned young ladies who are serving my lads dinner this evening?” Baker asked.
“Yes,” Rick answered.
“I see,” Baker said. “Some of the ladies were quite striking. I’d say some of my lads were quite taken by them.”
“The point being that they’re very likely distantly related to the Gurkhas. Major Baker, if your troops are interested they’d start with good prospects among my allies in the Silver Wolves tribe.”
“Even still, who wants to tell them they’re nae going home?” Cargill asked.
“No one, but I’ll have to do it,” Major Baker said. “As to when, I’ll leave that for a council of war to decide.”
“It’s the Colonel’s decision,” Art Mason said.
“Well, I don’t dispute that,” Baker said. “So. The goal is to settle onto our own lands and raise warrior children. Not a loftier ambition?”
“Something like that,” Art Mason said. “With status and stability. It’s stability we need, and if we go conquering we won’t get that. What we want is that not all our kids have to turn soldier. Stability. If we go legitimate there’s need here for every kind of professional. And our girls can marry well, they start with a big advantage.”
Rick tapped his glass on the table to get attention.
“Major, we went through most of these questions when we first came here. Lieutenant Parsons thought we could all be kings. That didn’t work out so well.” Rick raised his voice slightly. “Did it, Sergeant Bisso?”
“No, Sir, that it didn’t,” Bisso said from his place near the door. “Those were bad times, Major Baker.”
“I’ll tell you about that another time,” Rick said. “Meanwhile, our dinner, such as it is, awaits. Sergeant, you may have the service begin, please.”
* * *
Rick waited until the dinner plates were cleared away.
“We have a passable local port,” he said then. “Courtesy of Sergeant McCleve, Professor of Medicine at the University.”
“Sergeant McCleve?” Lieutenant Martins asked.
“Our medic,” Rick said. “He earned his degree from the University of Guadalajara but never received his license. Turns out he’s a pretty good doctor and teacher. In any event, I put him full time on learning the rest of his trade.”
“And viniculture as well?” Baker asked dryly.
“He didn’t need any orders for that,” Mason said. “But not to worry. Since Colonel Galloway took charge, McCleve’s been a connoisseur, not a drunk. Mostly, anyway.”
Bisso’s stewards brought in glasses and three bottles of local make.
“Sergeant Lewin is our professor of agriculture at the University and grew the grapes used in the wine,” Rick said proudly. “We’ll pour our own, Sergeant. Thank you.”
“Sir.” Bisso waited until the other orderlies had left. “I’ll be right outside, Colonel.” He left the mess room.
Baker inspected one of the wine bottles.
“Help yourselves, gentlemen,” Rick said.
Baker poured himself a glass of the wine, sniffed it, and sipped.
“My, that’s quite good,” he said. “All right, Colonel, I suppose this is the next step.” He stood and saluted. “Colonel Galloway, I accept you as commanding officer. I reserve my allegiance to the Queen, but I accept that I will not be receiving orders from the Crown.”
Rick stood and returned the salute. They shook hands. “Thank you. I accept your allegiance.” He stood, waiting.
There was a long pause, then Henry Cargill stood. He saluted.
“Colonel Galloway, I accept you as commanding officer, reserving only my allegiance to Major Baker and the Queen.”
Rick returned the salute. As Cargill sat, Richard Martins stood.
“Colonel Galloway, I accept you as my commander under the same conditions as Lieutenant Cargill.”
Rick returned the salute.
“Thank you.” He sat. “Now, Major Baker, you mentioned something about Brens?”
“I did.”
Baker sipped more wine, then sat back in his chair.
“We were a travel draft, returning the lads home to be demobilized, not moving to another combat posting, so we were scarcely what one might call fitted up for a mission to an alien planet.
“Our abductors didn’t seem to quite understand all that implied. Or perhaps they simply didn’t care.” He grimaced, and not at the taste of his wine. “They asked me to recommend an equipment list, and I did. I asked for the sky, actually. Didn’t get it, or anything like it, of course. A
nd after their run in with Agzaral, they had precious little interest in completing the list. Still, I did get a goodly bit of what I’d asked for. Initially, they planned to equip us with your M-16, but I, ah, objected strenuously, shall we say? It’s a better weapon than the L85, which—no offense, Colonel—is a piece of shite, but—”
“Excuse me, but what’s an L85 and why should I be offended by your opinion of it?” Rick interrupted quizzically. Baker looked at him for a moment, then snorted.
“Apologies, Sir. I’d forgotten how long you and your chaps have been away.”
“One way to put it,” Art Mason acknowledged, and he and Warner chuckled.
“The L85 is what’s replaced the SLR, which was basically the FAL,” Baker said. He arched one eyebrow at Rick, who nodded in understanding. There were a few M-16s among his mercs, although the CIA had armed most of them with the H&K G3 assault rifle, for which he was grateful, but there were a couple of FALs, as well. Both the G3 and the FAL were bigger and heavier than the M-16, but the FAL, especially, was also incredibly rugged. Both of them had a longer effective engagement range than the M-16, and their 7.62-millimeter round was more effective against armored Tran warriors than the M-16’s 5.56-millimeter slug.
“I like the FAL, myself,” he said. “Why was it replaced?”
“That’s why I said ‘no offense,’” Baker said with a smile. “The L85’s chambered for the same round as your M-16, and it’s the second time you Yanks have pushed NATO into standardizing on one of your rounds instead of one of ours!”
“Sorry about that,” Rick said with an answering smile and Baker shrugged.
“Actually, the five-point-five-six works quite well at its designed ranges, but we found out in the desert that the L85 Enfield designed to use it still has a few teething problems. Pity, really. I like the layout a lot, but not at the expense of reliability. Besides, my chaps hadn’t been upgraded yet. So I insisted on the SLRs they’re familiar with, and I think it pissed our ‘sponsors’ off right royally.”
“Why?”
“I’m not positive, but I suspect one reason they preferred the M-16 originally was that they had better local contacts—for creeping around under Agzaral’s radar, at any rate—in North America. All the ammunition they supplied to us has US or Canadian head stamps, and almost everything else came from the US, as well. I did manage to hold out for Brens for our light machine guns, but I suspect they only agreed because I argued in favor of ammunition commonality. And they’re the South African conversions of the old Mark One.
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