Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  The security directorate! The confirmation added weight to the stone in Garmisch's belly. He looked from one to the other. Ms. Sriharan leaned back in her chair like someone who'd just eaten a very fine meal. "It has been brought to our attention," she said, "that military blasters assembled on your line have been found defective. The assembler program had been altered, and a small but essential component was omitted, converting each blaster to a small but quite deadly bomb. A man died testing one; it blew his head quite off, and his arms to the elbows. We trust you can enlighten us on how this came to be."

  Garmisch looked at Production Supervisor Reinholdt, who looked back at him grimly. Garmisch's gaze turned to his knees, and stayed there. It seemed to him that at the very least he would be discharged from his position. It was a good position. In these days, of course, there were many good jobs, but if they decided that what he had done was deliberate…

  "First though," she continued, "let me advise you that you are not required to answer our questions. What you tell us may be used against you in a court of justice. Or to exonerate you, as the case may be."

  They know. They surely know. I prepared the assembler program. I am in charge of it. Perhaps if I help them… Otherwise, it seemed certain he would be put in prison, where there were dangerous people who might harm him, beat him up for pleasure, or stab him to death so he could never tell what he knew. Inwardly he shivered.

  Ms. Sriharan was looking steadily at him, as was Supervisor Reinholdt. And the Malay, and the senior investigator, whose names had not registered with him. They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak.

  "I have a neighbor," he said softly, as if not wanting to be overheard. "Sometimes he asked me into his apartment, where we would drink beer together, and talk. It is very nice to drink beer with someone and talk. One time he asked me if I would like to go to a football game with him. He had tickets. There is always a party afterward, he said. There will be women, some of them looking for a good man…"

  The prime minister's office, five thousand miles from Leipzig, was considerably larger than Supervisor Reinholdt's. And the people gathered there were interested in the broad issue of sabotage, of which defective blasters were only a part.

  "It may be time," the prime minister said, "to take the issue to the public. Saboteurs have presented us with several cases having the potential of great harm, including defective equipment in warships and armored floaters. Even defective stasis lockers on troopships. All potentially serious, and a drag on the defense effort.

  "Now, from Luneburger's World, we have a case in which several parachutes arrived from the Indonesian Autonomous Republic improperly packed. One of them was used in a training exercise, and a soldier nearly lost his life-a nineteen-year-old from New Jerusalem. His body was effectively destroyed; he would not have survived the day had he not signed a warbot agreement."

  Foster looks worn out, the president thought, and the day has little more than begun; he needs more sleep. He would not, however, urge it on him. Defense of the human species took priority. Perhaps if his ability to function seemed threatened… But his friend would never agree to ease off. He'd argue that in Terran gravity, Lunies habitually looked tired.

  "I have heretofore been reluctant to bring the sabotage problem to the public attention," Peixoto went on. "Publicizing crimes sometimes does more harm than good by stimulating others to commit similar acts. Especially political crimes by extremists. But numerous inflammatory Peace Front harangues on the Ether and the broadcast media make this consideration less compelling than it might be. And now we are able to give the issue a suitable human face, an earnest, nineteen-year-old face. While at the same time promoting the warbot program."

  He scanned the faces around the table. "Any questions or comments at this point? Nabil?"

  The director of internal security had thrust his hand up, like Thor raising his hammer. He stood to speak, his words emphatic. "Declare martial law," he said. "Outlaw the Peace Front, and imprison its leaders for sedition or treason. Hold them incommunicado in special prison camps. Charges such as leading or organizing a demonstration, or burning the flag, deserve imprisonment at hard labor for the duration of the war. The most severe crimes-sabotage, mutiny, or inciting to mutiny-should bring sentences of hanging."

  He remained on his feet for two or three more seconds, all eyes on him. But the prime minister showed no sign of replying while Al-Kathad still stood, so the director sat down.

  "Thank you, Nabil. Martial law is an option, one I hope will not become necessary." He gazed mildly but unblinkingly at the director. "Imprisonment is appropriate, but not the death sentence. Historically, many fanatics have embraced execution to promote their cause. Often effectively."

  Peixoto's gaze moved to the minister of justice-a one-time senior jurist, and Al-Kathad's boss. "Bikel, how would you implement martial law from the viewpoint of justice?"

  Bikel Wong remained seated while he spoke. "Let me begin by agreeing with Nabil that martial law is advisable," he said. "Peace Front activities are building momentum. Its leaders are determined; they will not give in short of success-or their removal from the social/political environment. By which I mean imprisonment. Incommunicado.

  "Membership in Peace Front organizations, including subscribers to Peace Front talk groups and newsfaxes, is less than two percent of the Terran population, and even lower on the other Core Worlds. However, polls indicate that as many as fifteen percent have reservations about defending the Commonwealth. Mostly on the grounds that we cannot succeed, and might do better leaving it in the hands of the All-Soul. On Terra, fifteen percent means some one-point-two billion who are more or less susceptible to Peace Front propaganda.

  "At the same time, however, punishments for obstructing defense activities must be moderate and judicious. I recommend the use of civil tribunals, each consisting of three prominent and respected judges, sitting in closed sessions to evaluate the charges and evidence. And to pass sentence where appropriate." He paused, seeming unhappy at the prospect. "Nabil agrees, we do not want imprisonment based on rumors, nor an open season on dissenters. Or witch hunts. And people must not be arrested, then simply disappear. As for being held incommunicado-approved representatives of humanitarian organizations should visit the camps regularly, and question whomever they please. But complaints must be taken only to Justice, not to the public.

  "And finally," said the justice minister, "all sentences should be reevaluated at the end of the war, when the pressure is less and our perspective greater."

  Chang Lung-Chi grunted to himself. Justice delayed, he thought wryly, is better than no justice at all. He got to his feet without asking to be recognized; he was, after all, the president. "I recommend against martial law," he said. "Though I may change my mind later, the lessons learned from the Troubles advise against it. It is enough that our prime minister has extraordinary wartime powers.

  "Today's activists are not the seasoned, well-schooled insurgents of eight or ten centuries ago, and I do not believe they pose so serious a threat. Certainly not yet.

  "And let me say this about martyrdom: Peace activists are innately self-righteous. True believers. They will condemn any sentence, whether passed in closed or open courts, and deny all evidence, however compelling. They will declare-they will trumpet!-that everyone sentenced is a martyr. They are already our dedicated enemies, regardless of what we do. So in dealing with saboteurs, we must have two goals: first, the supression of sabotage, and second, the winning of at least acquiescence by those who have misgivings about defense."

  He paused long enough that Nabil took the opportunity to speak. "If we imprison their spokesmen… " he began.

  "If we imprison their spokesmen simply for speaking, we create additional martyrs and new spokesmen," the president said, "which we cannot afford to do. Certainly not yet. Arrests and punishment should be limited to those who commit crimes widely recognized as such. Meanwhile, we must strengthen public recognition that sabot
age, terrorism, and the destruction of property are felonies. And that it is destructive to pass them off as simply differences of opinion."

  Again he paused. "This means a bluntly honest exposure of Peace Front fallacies and lies. It means promoting the validity of our defense activities, and establishing that they are necessary and efficacious. And these efforts need to be headed by someone whom the population as a whole trusts and respects."

  With that the president sat down. From beneath arched brows, Foster Peixoto's eyes rested on him quizzically. "Indeed. And are you willing to take the job?-while seeing to your already existing responsibilities?"

  "I am. Though you may very well come up with a better candidate. Meanwhile, I am the head of state, not the head of government. If I have difficulties handling it all, I will delegate my ceremonial and other less essential duties, and give priority to this more critical work. But we should not create a special office. It should be done within the existing structure of government."

  Nabil Al-Kathad listened glumly. He recognized the factors the others had pointed out, but saw himself as ultimately responsible for enforcing the law and suppressing crime. I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't, he thought. Meanwhile there remained the matter of appropriate and effective punishment.

  This time he raised his hand, and the prime minister recognized him. "Yes, Nabil?"

  "I still believe it is appropriate to execute criminals for high war crimes. It establishes their gravity in the public mind."

  "Mr. Prime Minister," said Chang Lung-Chi, "if I may?"

  "Go ahead, Mr. President."

  "Nabil, my good friend, in cases sufficiently extreme, I would be willing to consider loading the guilty into a hyperspace courier and shipping them, without stasis, to a system in the path of the Wyzhnyny advance. There they would be shuttled to the surface of an enemy-occupied planet to negotiate peace. The minimum terms being Wyzhnyny withdrawal from the world they have taken, and from the general bounds of the Commonwealth sector."

  With that the prime minister asked for further comments. As these were people with strong demands on their time, within five minutes the meeting was adjourned.

  Chapter 33

  Camp Bosler Nafziger

  The third oldest deep-space colony, Pastor Luneburger's World began as an agrarian religious settlement. Over the centuries, its original Mennonite doctrines had blurred and weakened, but low-tech agrarianism persisted. About fifty percent of its people still lived on farms, about thirty percent in rural hamlets, and twenty percent in market and industrial towns. The only colleges were seminaries. Trades and professions were learned by apprenticeship, with professional and trade associations providing optional certification.

  Technological introductions were further hampered by disinterest in products. Nonetheless, over recent centuries, technology on Luneburger's had gradually, and more or less unintentionally, been upgraded. The slowness was largely a matter of cultural inertia, rather than Luddism. "Burgers" tended to like things as they were, and new things, to be successful, had to fit into the system. This was something the benign elected government considered very important in granting import licenses, especially the importation of technology.

  On Luneburger's World, railroads were thought of as "new." Actually they'd been used there for centuries, but only during the past eighty years had they spread beyond the mining regions. While "trucks"-steam-driven rigs that burned coal or wood-were a phenomenon of recent decades, filling the newly felt need for hauling heavy freight to the expanding railroads.

  Most Burgers with serious interest in technology migrated to the Sol, Epsilon Indi, or Epsilon Eridani systems. The Luneburgian government had established a small trust to help finance their offworld education. (A trust quietly supplemented by the Commonwealth.) On Luneburger's, this was considered Christian Kindness, not a means of developing a cadre of technicians and scientists. In fact, the expatriates were not encouraged to return.

  Some did of course. Luneburger's had a number of engineers who'd trained offworld, or apprenticed under someone who had.

  Given the circumstances, Luneburgian farmers and craftsmen, especially in frontier areas, tended to be innovatively practical with the materials at hand. They could drain a swamp, or build a house from scratch. A small crew of farm boys, using hand tools and a workhorse, could bridge a deeply-cut creek in an hour, and drive a loaded wagon over it. While those exposed to machinery quickly became decent jackleg mechanics. Thus given a handful of trained officers of whatever origin, Burgers were proving to make excellent engineering troops.

  The threat of alien conquest had already brought changes. Most new military training camps, Camp Stenders for example, consisted of buildings whose prefabricated sections and modules were assembled on site by local entrepreneurs. Such practices would not have been accepted earlier. But in warmer climates, military camps were primarily tent camps. Administrative buildings and lecture sheds were prefab, but living accommodations consisted of acres of squad tents on raised wooden floors.

  Camp Bosler Nafziger was sited in a region where winters were mild enough to live year-round in tents. The Luneburgian government had condemned nearly 40 square miles of rural land there for military use, including a village which was left intact. The Commonwealth had compensated the landowners liberally, and leased an additional 440 square miles of adjacent forest.

  When the Jerries finished their advanced training, they were sent to Camp Nafziger for twelve weeks of unit training: combat exercises on battalion, regimental-even divisional-scale. These were to be carried out in conjunction with the Indi 3rd Armored Regiment, camped six miles down the Bachelor River. The Luneburgian 4th Infantry Division, camped ten miles upstream, would provide opposition forces in conjunction with its own unit training.

  Major General Pyong Pak Singh had arrived by floater several days ahead of his division. He'd spent four days inspecting the camp and its facilities, getting acquainted with the Luneburgian staff in charge of maintenance and other services, being briefed on the military reservation itself, and finally reviewing the training plan with his general staff, and the Masadan commander and staff of the Indi 3rd Armored Regiment.

  They were four gray, chilly days, with sporadic, wind-driven showers. His division arrived on the third, fourth, and fifth days, mostly by rail. On the fifth afternoon and evening, Pak inspected each regiment separately in a cold drenching rain.

  The Indi 3rd Armored, with its Masadan cadre, had also traveled mostly by rail. He'd inspected them, too, at their own encampment.

  The sixth morning had dawned gratefully clear, with a temperature of 45deg., and a predicted high of 63deg.-much warmer than the Jerries had been having at Stenders. At 0815, he started off in an open command car, gloved, jacketed, and capped, with a map book on his lap, and a driver behind the wheel beside him. Pak had developed his trip itinerary in consultation with a Captain Hippe, a Luneburgian engineering officer. Hippe had assigned the driver, and Pak had given the man his itinerary.

  As they drove through the encampment, Pak gave his attention to the infantry companies standing in ranks on their mustering grounds. Shortly they'd march to lecture sheds for a two-hour orientation on the Camp Nafziger military reservation-a video lecture with large-scale topographic/vegetation maps and aerial photos. That would be followed by a two-hour talk on unit training, with an upfront caveat that the specifics might be changed.

  Just now Nafziger's roads were puddled and muddy, but the car rode an AG cushion at the default height of four inches-enough to buffer it against irregularities in the surface. There was no splashing, and of course no rutting. And at the camp speed limit of 25 mph, even the puddles were little disturbed by the vehicle's air wake. Another main road crossed the one they'd been on, and the driver turned south, passing a cluster of prefab buildings-a regimental headquarters.

  Ahead, the Bachelor River flowed through a stepped, steep-sided channel, its terrace forest jutting winter-bare treetops above the terrain
break. Moments later the car crossed the break and skimmed down the forest-bordered road to the terrace, and thence to the wooded floodplain.

  The river itself was about two hundred feet wide, crossed by a timbered bridge whose stone piers jutted from murky swirling water. On the other side, the car crossed the same levels in reverse order, until both road and forest spilled over the rim onto the plain above. Pak examined the open map book, checking road designations, and watched to be sure his driver turned west at the first crossroads. Corporal Muller was unfamiliar to him-a Burger assigned from the camp's driver pool, and supposedly familiar with the reservation's roads.

  The river was like a boundary. The south side was mostly forest, the farms in small clusters, their buildings abandoned intact. A mile or so to the south, high hills rose, with forest shown as unbroken, except by occasional wet meadows. The car took them past several junctions, with rutted spur roads leading southward at half-mile intervals. According to the map, the spurs didn't reach the hills. Then they came to another road, this one graded. Muller turned onto it. When they reached the first ridge, the road angled up its long slope.

  Stumps, most of them large and old, were scattered throughout the thick forest. Many of the remaining trees were quite large. Obviously the people here logged lightly, entering the forest now and then to harvest trees that met certain criteria, probably of species, size and condition. Here and there along the road were small openings, some overgrown by saplings, others with little more than coarse weeds matted down by winter's rains.

  "What are the openings?" he asked the driver.

  "Landings, sir."

  "Landings?"

  "Places where logs were decked, sir. Dragged out of the woods and piled. They load the logs on trucks there, and haul them to the railroad."