Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  Gaea Worldwide was part of the Peace Front, but Jaromir Horvath and Paddy Davies seldom listened to their program. The Gaean sects had not been major players. But the two leaders had been notified that Gaea Worldwide would release a shocker on the roundup, at noon Greenwich and at intervals afterward. So both men were tuned in, Horvath in Kunming, and Davies in Sydney. They'd discuss afterward whether to follow through on it.

  The roundup began with a summary of refugee labor battalions: their locations, projects, home worlds, and the number of refugees "enslaved." Old stuff, thought Horvath. Obviously not the promised bombshell.

  Next was a report from "an anonymous source high within the government." Horvath's ears perked up; Gaea was trying to add authority to what came next.

  A different voice read it, the accent British. "Kunming," it said, "has inaugurated a new and unspeakable outrage against humanity and the Holy Mother. This station has previously uncovered Kunming's unconscionable use of mentally handicapped persons as slaves for War House. Now the government has taken those vile, soul-corrupting acts a long and evil step further. They have conscripted a large number of severely handicapped children and have… " The voice stumbled, paused. "Have murdered them!-butchered them like animals, then ripped out their brains and spinal cords and transplanted them into what are termed… `bottles'!" He almost choked on the word. "Bottled innocence! Human beings designed by Gaea's holy evolution as the ultimate life-form for Planet Terra. In bottling the pitiful shards of these sad creatures, Kunming, under the leadership of Chang Lung-Chi and Foster Peixoto, has not only enslaved the souls of these children, their very humanity has been stolen. They are being installed in guided missiles, and assigned to Kunming's war fleet for use in the brutal war against our visitors from deep space.

  "This incredible atrocity proves the utter depravity of our elected government. I urge everyone listening to waste no time in spreading the word, personally and electronically, to everyone you know."

  Horvath's first reaction was how incredibly cliche-ridden the script was. It discredited the story, and would deflect uncommitted listeners. But he believed the underlying claim, and muting the audio, called Paddy Davies in Sydney.

  Foster Peixoto's phone trilled. "Yes, Ilse?"

  "You have a call from Director Al-Kathad, sir."

  "I'll take it." It seemed to him that an unexpected call from the director of Internal Security would not bring good news. "Peixoto," he said.

  "Mr. Prime Minister, this is Nabil Al-Kathad. I have a recorded radio broadcast you should hear, broadcast ten hours ago. It was just now brought to my attention. I recommend you record it."

  Peixoto touched a switch. "Very well, the recorder is on. Let's hear it."

  The director began with a brief rundown on Gaea Worldwide, and the Reformed Church of the Holy Mother (Gaean). Then he played the cube, his eyes on the prime minister's long thin face, reading annoyance in it.

  When it was over, Peixoto thought for a moment. "I want you here in my office in thirty minutes," he said. "You and Chief Kumoyama."

  In his office, thought Al-Kathad. Unusual. "Certainly, Your Excellency."

  The prime minister disconnected at once, and his fingers rapped out another number, this one at Special Projects. "Dr. Franck," he said, "I need you here in thirty minutes, to meet with the president, myself, Director Al-Kathad, and his chief of investigations." He paused. "Meanwhile, I want you to hear a radio address, broadcast by a station in Oaxaca, Mexico. Please record it."

  He gave her a moment to activate record mode, then turned on the cube with the director's comments and the Gaean broadcast. He listened again himself, while watching Dr. Franck's slender brown face. When it was over, she switched off record mode and was about to speak. The prime minister cut her off. "Be in my office in twenty-five minutes," he said, and disconnected.

  He could deal with this without the president, he told himself, but Chang would want to be involved. A long finger tapped a dedicated switch. They'd eaten lunch together half an hour earlier; the president would be at his desk now.

  "President Chang's office."

  "Good afternoon, Setsuko. This is the prime minister. I would like to speak with the president, please."

  "I believe the president is indisposed for the moment. Shall I interrupt him?"

  Chang, like himself, had a phone in the private bathroom off his office. But no. "I'll wait," Peixoto said.

  "Thank you, sir. It shouldn't be long."

  An anonymous source, Peixoto thought. If we have a traitor, we need to know who. From the comments it wasn't a highly placed source. Someone overheard something in the office, or at lunch, and made up the rest. Installed in missles for godsake!

  He became aware he was grinding his teeth, a habit he'd defeated years before. Stopping, he took three long breaths: in, one two three; hold, one two; out, one two three four… Our first concern is to counter this attack, he told himself. It is not one we can ignore. Detecting the source comes second. He fidgeted impatiently, his mind moving back to the leak. The most direct approach would be to interrogate the Gaeans who obtained the story, but they are unlikely to inform. An investigation of staff would distract from the many jobs at hand, but it would also tend to increase their awareness of the risks. On the other hand, if actual treason was uncovered…

  His phone warbled again, and he reached for the switch, wondering what the president would say.

  When their meeting was over, Peixoto was glad the president had attended, for the strategy they'd agreed on was Chang's. They would not attack the Gaeans. They would take the issue away from them. Broadcast a prime-time special, publicizing the project as giving dying children a chance at extended life in a-call it a "life module," or something like that. Not a "bottle." While at the same time filling a vital, nonviolent defense need. The truth would outweigh Peace Front ranting.

  There was no need to feel apologetic about defense; the polls confirmed that regularly. A promotional video would be made, beginning with crippled, mentally retarded children declining toward death. Afterward they'd show newly "converted" savants functioning as communicators. And painting, doing mental computing, listening to music… whatever their personal play might be. Franck, at Special Projects, would assign and oversee production responsibility, and run quality control.

  Chang was confident it would work with the public. Peixoto, on the other hand, could visualize it backfiring if it wasn't done well. Franck assured them it would work beautifully, and that she knew just the producer for the job. Al-Kathad and Kumoyama hadn't volunteered their opinions; they'd been there to discuss the security problem, and how the source might be found. But Al-Kathad's face suggested skepticism. He was skeptical by nature, of course; it went with his profession.

  With some misgivings, the prime minister had given the go-ahead on the project. They'd know soon enough how successful it was.

  Chapter 31

  Airborne!

  The sweat shed had had only the body heat of the trainees, initially twelve platoons, to warm it above the frosty morning. Twelve platoons, one selected from each company in the regiment. Captain Mulvaney had chosen 2nd Platoon.

  The shed was large and strange, as well as cold, with no lecture platform and no "pulpit"-the Jerrie term for lectern. But Esau had gotten used to strangeness. By now he felt at home in the army, though it was a lot different from his favorite army in Scripture: Gideon's, whose warriors had lapped water like a dog.

  He smiled inwardly, imagining Gideon's Hebrew warriors sitting crowded on benches, with parachutes strapped on their backs. A strange thought, even though Sergeant Hawkins had said their airborne trainers were themselves Hebrews, from a world called Masada. A world whose people still spoke the Hebrew tongue; now that was strange.

  It was also strange to have their Sikh cadre-even Captain Mulvaney!-training with them, with Masadans as instructors. The division's Sikhs had all been airborne trained, Hawkins had told them, but War House had decided they'd retake t
he training.

  Esau's eyes focused on Hawkins a couple of benches ahead, and he wondered what his sergeant was thinking about.

  Hawkins wasn't thinking; that is, he wasn't processing data. He was meditating. He'd begun by focusing on his breathing cadence, which from long experience produced a deepening calm. And a viewpoint exterior not only to events, but largely to his own personality. Nonetheless, he was aware of his surroundings. He saw a door open-the benches faced it-and a Masadan sergeant stepped in. Heard the man call for C and D Companies' platoons, and watched some eighty men get to their feet. Burdened with chute packs and hampered by harness, they sidled to the aisle and filed out. Most of the benches had already been empty; the Masadans had begun with K and L Companies' contingents, and were working their way toward A and B.

  Despite his calm exterior, Hawkins could flip out of trance and into action instantly. In more profound trances, a meditator might be oblivious to physical events, but Sikhs didn't court oblivion or bliss. Gopal Singh had advocated meditation to enhance living, not avoid it.

  Isaiah Vernon often sought to enhance his life by silent prayer. For the most part he'd lived life cautiously, and stepping out of floaters far above the ground was seriously out of character for him. But dedication and duty were very much in character, and he was determined to be a strong and effective soldier for God and humankind. To calm his fear of jumping into what he thought of as nothingness, he sat praying and reciting Scripture in the privacy of his mind. At the moment he was repeating: "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; he leads me beside still waters; he restores my soul…"

  Jael Wesley dealt quite differently with her nerves. In her mind's eye, she'd been jumping from a floater-without a chute-and watching the ground rush up at her. At the last moment she snatched herself away, back inside the floater, then jumped again, and again, until she was bored with it. The technique was nothing she'd been taught; it had simply occurred to her.

  Beside her, Esau sat calmly unconcerned. He thought about the briefing Captain Mulvaney had given them, on why they were being trained as paragliders. Paragliding was an ancient technique, something the Wyzhnyny were unlikely to expect. So on New Jerusalem, paraglider platoons would come silently down into Wyzhnyny positions at night, and with luck, wouldn't be detected till they were on the ground raising Cain.

  He was glad that 2nd Platoon had been chosen. In his mind, paragliders were special.

  Paraglider raids would be particularly dangerous, of course, but Division didn't intend they do a lot of them. The main reason for doing them at all was that War House wanted Wyzhnyny prisoners. The Wyzhnyny had rejected human surrenders, so they probably wouldn't surrender themselves. Getting prisoners would take special measures, and paragliders seemed the best bet.

  The danger was something Esau knew mentally, but not yet viscerally. He couldn't recall ever being afraid for more than a moment; not in his entire life. His most intense emotion in life had been anger, and for whatever reason, during the course of military training his temper had grown more moderate and less frequent. Which pleased him. He'd wondered if daily contact with Sikhs had anything to do with it.

  The shed door opened again, and a burly Masadan called in. "A and B Companies on your feet and file out!"

  2nd Platoon, along with Captain Mulvaney and Lieutenant Bremer, shuffled to the nearest aisle and out into the autumn sunlight. There'd been a shower the day before, and this morning the ground was frozen. Only thinly though, Esau thought as they walked to the floater. No more than a crust. It hadn't been cold enough to freeze solid.

  The transport floater was ten feet wide but low, a semi-cylinder flattened on the bottom, with a wide entry/exit at the rear, where a ramp was extruded for boarding. The troop compartment was a more solid version of the roughly-made stationary mock-ups they'd practiced in. There were two long benches, one down each side. When all the trainees were seated, the Masadan jump master murmured to the pilot via the microphone strapped to his wrist. A moment later, the seventy-foot armored floater lifted on its silent AG drive and they were on their way. Esau wished there were windows to look out of.

  He ran through the jump drill in his mind. It was simple enough; no one was likely to screw up. Refuse to jump maybe, but not screw up. Captain Mulvaney had said that anyone who couldn't do it should stay in their seat and not interfere with the flow to the doors. Esau glanced at Jael beside him. It occurred to him that being a woman, this might be too much for her, and that if she couldn't jump, she might be transferred to a different platoon. But he reminded himself that when she decided to do something, she wasn't one to back down.

  It was a ten-minute flight to the drop area. The word was, it had been plowed, then harrowed, to provide softer landings. Also, for safety, the trainees wore no equipment except their chutes. They'd been told that with the parachutes they wore today, they'd fall faster than with parasails-about twenty feet per second in Luneburger's gravity. That seemed awfully fast, but they'd been assured that on mass jumps, these chutes were safer than parasails. There was less risk of tangling in each other's lines.

  A buzzer sounded. "Stand up!" called the jump master. On both sides of Esau and across the aisle, trainees got to their feet-but to his dismay, his own legs failed to obey the order! For a horrified second, Esau couldn't move. Then Jael's hand was on his sleeve, pulling, and somehow he managed to stand, his mind a fog of utter shock and confusion. Upright, his knees felt watery, as if he might sink to the floor.

  "Hook up."

  It was all well-drilled. On its own, his hand unhooked the static-line snap from its D-ring, hooked it onto the jump cable overhead, and tugged sharply. His mind, however, was frozen. "Sound off for equipment check." Each jumper, including Esau, checked the chute pack of the man ahead of him, and reported. "Twelve okay!" he called hoarsely.

  "Stand to the door!" The two files shuffled toward the ten-foot-wide exit, each jumper sliding his static line along his file's jump cable. Esau felt paralyzed; Jael's hand on his back helped him move. Now the first man in each file stood in the exit looking out, a jump master beside him, eddies of cold wind snapping at his trousers. The others crowded behind. Esau's guts churned, and it seemed to him he was suffocating. Actually he'd stopped breathing.

  He didn't see the light flash above the exit, didn't even hear the buzzer. He knew only that Masadan voices were shouting "Go! Go! Go!" The men in the doors had stepped out, the trainees behind them following quickly. Jael's helping hand was pushing, and somehow Esau kept pace. Then 3rd Squad was out, and the exit's lip was at his feet-the exit and empty air. For just an instant he hesitated. His jump master's meaty hand slapped his shoulder, and his feet obeyed, his traitorous mouth wailing feebly. He felt the jolt as his chute opened… and suddenly he was floating beneath its mottled green canopy-with a sense not of fear but exultation! Beneath him-2,300 feet beneath him-was the ground. He laughed aloud. His mental paralysis of a moment before was gone as if it had never been.

  He gave it no attention, simply looked around. Parachutes formed irregular twin lines in the chill air. Invigorating! Pay attention, he reminded himself. You're supposed to be learning. As if paragliding, he examined the field for nonexistent obstacles. As he approached the ground, it seemed to accelerate toward him, a false apparency they'd been warned about. Don't reach for it, he reminded himself. Landing straight-legged destroyed knees. At almost the last moment he looked ahead, then felt the impact, and reflexively did a proper landing roll. Coming to his feet, he pulled in his risers and suspension lines, collapsing his chute. It was over.

  He'd have happily gone back up at once, and jumped again.

  "At once" was not an option. The rest of the day they went back to the physical regimen of infantry training, harder than ever, as if to make up for an easy morning. After supper, they did a ninety-minute speed march with sixty-pound sandbags and flak jackets. But at 2130 that evening, the platoon and its company CO and XO, were back in the
sweat shed, waiting for the platoon's first night jump. No one had failed to jump that morning. Esau wondered if any of the others had felt as he had. It seemed to him he wouldn't have made it without Jael.

  I sure as heck won't let that happen again, he thought, and behind the thought was total warrior intention.

  This time the selected platoons from A and B Companies were tabbed to go first. As 2nd Platoon shuffled to its carrier, Esau noticed the brisk breeze. When they'd arrived twenty minutes earlier, it hadn't been half as strong, he was sure. They'd been told in their first lecture that for safety reasons, War House had decreed that no training jumps be made in wind stronger than 18 knots. On New Jerusalem there were no anemometers, and he had no real sense of what an 18-knot wind felt like, but it seemed to him this might be stronger.

  Still, he told himself, the Masadans knew what they were doing. Aboard the floater, he felt as calm as he had that morning when he'd boarded. But this time, he knew, there would be no water-kneed paralysis. Reaching, he squeezed Jael's hand in reassurance. Eight minutes later, the jump master ordered them to stand, and they went through the drill again, Esau grinning widely. He literally dove from the exit, and with his head-down attitude, the opening shock jerked him viciously.

  He hardly noticed. The night was clear, quiet, dark-peaceful!-and seemed more beautiful than any he'd ever seen before. The sky glittered with stars. The wind began oscillating him like a pendulum, and he reached the ground on the upswing, softening the landing. Then the wind in his chute was dragging him briskly on his side, and he half-twisted onto his belly, powerful arms pulling in his front risers and suspension lines, spilling the air from his canopy.