The ship circled until it had lost enough speed to make a landing approach. Then it ran eastward, and we could see the city. My briefing folio said it was the only city on Arrarat. It stood on a high bluff above the sea and seemed huddled in on itself. It looked like a medieval walled town, but it was made of modern concrete, and adobe with plastic waterproofing, and other materials medieval craftsmen probably wouldn't have used if they'd had them.
As the ship passed over the city at 2000 meters it became obvious that there were really two cities run together, with only a wall between them. Neither was very large. The oldest part of the city, Harmony, showed little evidence of planning: there were little narrow streets running at all angles, and the public squares were randomly placed. The northern part, Garrison, was smaller, but it had streets at precise right angles, and a big, public plaza stood opposite the square fort at the northern edge.
All the buildings were low, with only a couple more than two stories high. The roofs were red tile, and the walls were whitewashed. Harmony reminded me of towns I'd seen in Mexico. Bright sun shone off the bay below the city bluff. Garrison was a harsher place, all neat and orderly, everything strictly functional. There was a square fortress at its northern edge. My new home.
I was a very junior lieutenant of CoDominium Marines, only three months out of the academy and green as grass. It was academy practice to commission the top 30 graduates in each class. The rest went out as cadets and midshipmen for more training. I was proud of the bars on my epaulettes, but I was also a bit scared. I'd never been with troops before, and I'd never had any friends from the working classes so I didn't know much about the kind of people who enlist in the Line marines. I knew plenty of stories, of course. Men join to get away from their wives, or because some judge gives them a chance to enlist before passing sentence. Others are recruited out of Bureau of Relocation ships. Most come from Citizen classes, and my family's always been taxpayer.
It was just as well for me that my father was a taxpayer. I grew up in the American southwest, where things haven't changed so much since the CoDominium. We still think we're free men. When my father died, Mom and I tried to run the ranch the way he had, as if it still belonged to us. It did, on paper, but we didn't have his contacts in the bureaucracy. We didn't understand all the regulations and labor restrictions, and we didn't know whom to bribe when we broke the rules. When we got in real trouble I tried to keep the government people from taking possession, and that wasn't too good an idea. The judge was an old friend of my father's and offered to get me into the academy. The U.S. courts don't have jurisdiction over CoDominium officers.
I didn't have a lot of choices, and CD Fleet service looked pretty good just then. I'd not only get out of trouble, I'd leave Earth. Mom was getting married again, so she'd be all right. The government had the ranch and we'd never get it back. I was young enough to think soldiering was a romantic idea, and Judge Hamilton made it pretty clear I was going to have to do something.
"Look, Hal," he told me. "Your dad should have left. There's no place for people like us. They want people who want security, who'll obey the rules. People who like the welfare state. Not ornery cusses like you and your father. Even if I can get you off this time, you'll get in trouble again. You're going to have to leave, and you'll be better off as a CD officer than as a colonist."
He was right. I wondered why he stayed. Same reason my father did, I supposed. Getting older, used to his home, not ready to go make a new start somewhere. I hadn't said anything, but he must have guessed what I was thinking.
"I can still do some good here. I'm a judge for life; they can't take that away from me without damned good reasons, and I can still help kids like you. There's nothing here for you, Hal. The future's out there. New worlds, new ones found every year. Serve out a hitch in the Fleet service. See what's out there and decide where you want your kids to grow up. Someplace free."
I couldn't think of anything else to do, so I let him get me into the academy. It had been all right here. The Fleet has its own brotherhood. I'd been a loner most of my life, not because I wanted to be-God knows I would have liked to have friends!-but because I didn't fit anywhere. The academy was different. It's hard to say how. One thing, though, there aren't any incompetents whining to have the world take care of them. Not that we didn't look out for each other. If a classmate's soft on math you help him, and if somebody has trouble with electronics-I did-a sharper classmate sits up nights boning with him. But if after all that he can't cut it, he's out. There's more to it than that, though. I can't explain the Fleet's sense of brotherhood, but it's real enough, and it was what I'd been looking for all my life.
I was there two and a half years, and we worked all the time, cramming everything from weapons' maintenance to basic science to civil engineering and road construction. I finished seventh in the class and got my commission. A month's leave to say goodbye to my mother and my girl- only I didn't really have a girl, I just liked to pretend I did-and I was on an Olympic Lines passenger ship headed for another star system.
And now I'm here, I thought. I looked down at the planet, trying to spot places I'd seen on the maps in our briefing kit. I was also listening to the troopers in the compartment. The instructors at the academy had told us that officers could learn a lot by listening to the men, and I hadn't had much opportunity to listen to these. Three weeks earlier I'd been on the passenger ship, and now I was at the end of nowhere on an ancient troop carrier, with a detachment commander who'd kept us training so hard there'd been no time for talk or anything else.
There were only a few viewports in the compartment, and those were taken by officers and senior enlisted men. Behind me Sergeant Cernan was describing what he saw. A number of younger marines, recruits mostly, were crowded around him. The older troopers were catching naps in their seats.
"Not much outside the city walls," Cernan said. "Trees, look like scrub oak. And I think those others are olives. There's palms, too. Must be from Earth. Never saw palm trees that didn't come from Earth."
"Hey, Sarge, can you see the fort?" Corporal Roff asked.
"Yeah. Looks like any CD post. You'll be right at home."
"Sure we will," Roff said. "Sure. Christ, why us?"
"Your birthday present." Cernan said. "Just be damned glad you'll be leavin’ some day. Think of them poor bastards back aft in the can."
The ship circled the harbor, then glided in on its stubby wings to settle into the chop outside the breakwater. The waves were two meters high and more, and the ship roiled badly. One of the new recruits was sick. His scatmate handed him a plastic bag.
"Hey, Dietz." Roff called. "Want some fried bacon? Little salt pork?" He grinned. "Maybe some sow belly-"
"Sergeant Cernan."
"Sir!"
The captain didn't say anything else. He sat forward, a dozen rows in front of me, and I hadn't expected him to be listening, but I wasn't surprised. I'd learned in the past three weeks that not much went on without Captain John Christian Falkenberg finding out.
Behind me, Cernan said, very tight-lipped, "Roff, one more word out of you-"
Dietz's buddy found another bag. No one else kidded the sick recruits. Soon the shuttle moved into the inner harbor where there were no waves, and everyone felt better. A lone tugboat came alongside and eased the spacecraft toward a concrete pier. There was no other traffic in the harbor except a few small fishing boats.
A navy officer came into the compartment and looked around until he found Falkenberg. "Sir, the governor requests that you turn your men out under arms to assist in the prisoner formation."
Falkenberg turned toward the navy man and raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded. "Sergeant Major!"
"Sir!" Ogilvie shouted from the rear of the compartment.
"Personal weapons for all troops. Rifles and cartridge belts. And bayonets, Sergeant Major. Bayonets by all means."
"Sir." There was a bustle of activity as Sergeant Major Ogilvie and his weapons sergeants u
nlocked the arms chest and began passing out rifles.
"What about our other gear?" Falkenberg asked.
"You'll have to make arrangements with the garrison," the ship's officer said.
"Right. That's all, then?"
"Yes. That's all, Major."
I grinned as the navy man left the compartment. To the navy there's only one captain aboard ship, and that's the skipper. Marine captains in transit get a very temporary and utterly meaningless "promotion" to major for the duration of the voyage.
Falkenberg went to the forward hatchway. "Lieutenant Slater. A moment please."
"Sir." I went forward to join him. I hadn't really noticed the low gravity until I stood, but now it was obvious. It was only 85 percent Earth standard, and on the trip out Falkenberg had insisted the navy skipper keep the outer rim of the old troopship at 110 percent spin gravity for as much of the trip as possible. The navy hadn't liked it, but they'd done it and Falkenberg had trained us in the high-gravity areas. Now we felt as if we could float away with no trouble.
I didn't know much about Falkenberg. The service list showed he'd had navy experience, then transferred to Fleet marines. Now he was with a Line outfit. Moving around like that, two transfers, should have meant he was being run out, but then there was his rank. He also had a Military Cross, but the list hadn't said what it was for. It did tell me he'd entered the academy at 1 5 and left as a midshipman.
I first saw him at Betio Transfer Station, which is an airless rock the Fleet keeps as a repair base and supply depot. It's convenient to several important star systems, but there's nothing there. I'd been on my way from graduation to Crucis Sector Headquarters, with assignment to the Fleet marines. I was proud of that. Of the three marine branches, Fleet is supposed to be the technical elite. Garrison outfits are mostly for riot suppression. The Line marines get the dirty jobs left over. Line troops say theirs is the real elite, and they certainly do more than their share of the actual fighting when things are tough. I didn't know if we'd be fighting on Arrarat. I didn't even know why we were sent here. I just knew that Falkenberg had authority to change orders for all unassigned officers, and I'd been yanked off my comfortable berth-first class, dammit!-to report to him at Betio. If he knew what was up he wasn't telling the junior officers.
Falkenberg wasn't a lot older than I. I was a few weeks past my twenty-first birthday, and he was maybe five years older, a captain with the Military Cross. He must have had something going for him. Influence, possibly, but if that was it, why was he with the Line marines and not on staff at Headquarters? I couldn't ask him. He didn't talk very much. He wasn't unfriendly, but he seemed cold and distant and didn't encourage anyone to get close to him.
Falkenberg was tall, but he didn't reach my height, which is 193 centimeters according to my id card. We called it six-four where I grew up. Falkenberg was maybe five centimeters shorter. His eyes were indeterminate in color, sometimes gray and sometimes green depending on the light, and they seemed very bright when he looked at you. He had short hair the color of sand, and no mustache. Most officers grow them after they make captain, but he hadn't.
His uniforms always fit perfectly. I thought I cut a good military figure, but I found myself studying the way Falkenberg dressed. I also studied his mannerisms, wondering if I could copy any of them. I wasn't sure I liked him or that I really wanted to imitate him, but I told myself that anybody who could make captain before he was 30 was worth at least a bit of study. There are plenty of 40-year-old lieutenants in the service.
He didn't look big or particularly strong, but I knew better. I'm no 44-kilo weakling, but he threw me easily in unarmed combat practices, and that was in 100 percent gravity.
He was grinning when I joined him at the forward hatch. "Ever think. Lieutenant, that every military generation since World War I has thought theirs would be the last to carry bayonets?" He waved at Ogilvie, who was still passing out rifles.
"No sir, I never did."
"Few do," Falkenberg said. "My old man was a CoDominium University professor, and he thought I ought to learn military history. Think about it. A weapon originally designed to convert a musket into a pike, and it's still around when we're going to war in starships."
"Yes, sir-"
"Because it's useful. Lieutenant. As you'll find out some day." The grin faded, and Falkenberg lowered his voice. "I didn't call you up here to discuss military history, of course. I want the men to see us in conference. Give them something to worry about. They know they're going ashore armed."
"Yes, sir-"
"Tell me, Harlan Slater, what do they call you?"
"Hal, sir." We had been aboard ship for 21 days, and this was the first time Falkenberg had asked. It says a lot about him.
"You're senior lieutenant," Falkenberg said.
"Yes, sir." Which wasn't saying much: the other lieutenants had all been classmates at the academy, and I outranked them only because I'd graduated higher in the class.
"You'll collect the other officers and stay here at the gangway while we go through this prisoner formation. Then bring up the rear as we take the troops up the hill to the fort. I doubt there's transport, so we'll have to march."
"Yes, sir."
"You don't understand. If you don't understand something, ask about it. Have you noticed our troopers, Mr. Slater?"
"Frankly, Captain, I haven't had enough experience to make any kind of judgment," I said. "We have a lot of recruits-"
"Yes. I'm not worried about them. Nor about the regulars I brought with me to Betio. But for the rest, we've got the scrapings out of half the guardhouses in the Sector. I doubt they'll desert during their first hours ashore, but I'm going to make damned sure. Their gear will stay aboard this ship, and we’ll march them up in formation. By dark I'll have turned this command over to Colonel Harrington and it will be his worry, but until then I'm responsible, and I'll see that every man gets to the fort."
"I see. Yes, sir." And that's why he's a captain at his age, on independent assignment at that. Efficient. I wanted to be like that, or thought I did. I wasn't quite sure what I really wanted. The CD service wasn't my idea, but now that I was in it I wanted to do it right if I could. I had my doubts about some of the things the CoDominium did-I was glad that I hadn't been assigned to one of the regiments that puts down riots on Earth-but I didn't know what ought to replace the CD and the Grand Senate either. After all, we did keep the peace, and that has to be worth a lot:
"They're opening the gangway," Falkenberg said. "Sergeant Major."
"Sir!"
“Column of fours in company order, please."
“Sir." Ogilvie began shouting orders. The troops marched down the gangway and onto the concrete pier below. I went out onto the gangway to watch.
It was hot outside and within minutes I was sweating. The sun seemed red orange and very bright. After the smells of the troop ship, where men had been confined with too little water for adequate washing, the planetary smells were a relief. Arrarat had a peculiar odor, a slightly flowerlike sweetness, with an undertone of wet vegetation. All that was mixed with the stronger smells of a salt sea and the harbor.
There were few buildings down at sea level. The city wall stood high above the harbor at the top of its bluff. Down on the level strip just above the sea were piers and warehouses, but the streets were wide and there were large spaces between buildings.
My first alien world. It didn't seem all that strange. I looked for something exotic, like sea creatures, or strange plants, but there weren't any visible from the gangway. I told myself all that would come later.
There was one larger structure at sea level. It was two stories high, with no windows facing us. It had big gates in the center of the wall facing the ship and a guard tower at each of its corners. It looked like a prison, and I knew that was what it had to be, but there seemed no point in that. The whole planet was a prison.
A squad of local militiamen stood on the pier. They wore drab coveralls, which
made quite a contrast to the blue and scarlet undress of the CoDominium marines marching down the pier. Falkenberg talked with the locals for a moment, and then Sergeant Major Ogilvie shouted orders, and the marines formed up in a double line that stretched up the dock to the aft gangway. The line went from the gangway to the big gates in the prison building. Ogilvie shouted more orders, and the marines fixed bayonets.
They did it well. You'd never have known most of them were recruits. Even in the cramped quarters of the troop carrier Falkenberg had drilled them into a smart-looking unit. The cost had been high. There were 28 suicides among the recruits, and another 100 had been washed out and sent back among the convicts. They told us at the academy that the only way to make a good marine is to work him in training until he can have some pride in surviving it, and Falkenberg must have believed that. It had seemed reasonable enough back in the lecture theater at Luna Base.
One morning we had four suicides, and one had been an old Line regular, not a recruit at all. I'd been duty officer when the troops found the body. It had been cut down from where he'd hanged himself to a light fixture, and the rope was missing. I tried to find the rope and even paraded all the men in that compartment, but nobody was saying anything. Later Sergeant Major Ogilvie came to me in confidence. "You'll never find the rope. Lieutenant," he said. "It's cut up in a dozen pieces by now. That man had won the military medal. The rope he hanged himself with? That's lucky, sir. They'll keep the pieces."
All of which convinced me I had a lot to learn about Line marines.
The forward companionway opened, and the convicts came out. Officially they were all convicts, or families of transportees who had voluntarily accompanied a convict; but when we'd gone recruiting in the prison section of the ship, we found a number of prisoners who'd never been convicted of anything at all. They'd been scooped up in one of Bureau of Relocation's periodic sweeps and put on the involuntary colonist list.
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