Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  That, Pak thought, helps explain the railroad coming here. "Couldn't they float them down the river?" he asked.

  "Most logs are sinkers, too heavy to float."

  The forest changed little for several miles, then the road doubled back eastward. The driver surprised him by turning onto another spur road that went south, and the general unfolded another map.

  "Where are we going now?" he asked.

  "To the edge of the virgin reserves," said the corporal. "Captain Hippe said you'd ought to see it."

  Hippe, Pak recalled, would be briefing officers today.

  Half a mile later, the spur ended in a loop, a turnaround. The driver stopped, and they got out. "Everything south from here," Muller said, "is the reserve. That there," he added pointing, "is the boundary."

  "That there" was an east-west line of blazes hacked on trees, apparently with an ax. South of it the forest had many large old trees. Slowly the two men strolled into it a short distance, their eyes exploring. It would, Pak thought, be beautiful in summer: green with foliage, and no doubt bright with birdsong.

  "The number of people keeps growing," the corporal told him, "and the need for wood along with them." He gestured at the surrounding forest. "When it's needed, the government'll open it up for cutting, but for now it's wild; no farms, no roads, nothing but woods from here on. Folks hunt in here, of course, as much to keep down the wolves and lions and bears as for game." His right hand slapped his sidearm. "And boars; they're worser'n mean if you come across one. They can gut a man in a minute."

  He pointed to a tree whose otherwise smooth bark was vertically scarred to about seven feet above the ground, as if by large claws. "That there is bear sign; made about two years back, judging by the callus. Some he-bear marked it to warn off others. Lions mark by spraying piss on things. Hasn't been a lion reported north of the river for ten, fifteen years; they don't much tolerate people. But they're in here. Folks hear one screech from time to time."

  Wolves. Bears. Lions. Boar. Pak wondered what manner of beasts the Burgers applied those labels to. Nothing trivial, he supposed. He was surprised he hadn't been shown pictures of them. He'd have to correct that when they got back to camp.

  "Hunting helps keep predators leery of folks," the young man went on, "and out of the livestock. It's rare that one of them jumps a person, but now and then they do raise Cain in a pasture or sheep pen, or paddock."

  He grinned at the general. "Your Jerries need to be ready to switch their blasters to hard fire."

  It occurred to Pak to wonder if Muller would dare pull a general's leg. It seemed unlikely. "Are you from around here?" he asked.

  "Yessir, General. My family's steading was just about where division headquarters stands now."

  "Ah. It must have hurt to have your land condemned for a military reservation."

  The corporal shrugged big shoulders. "There's some folks sour over it. But if the Wyzhnyny get this far, we'll lose it anyway, and worse. As it is, Terra paid us good money for it, more'n anyone else would've. And when the war is won, if it gets won, we get it back for free."

  The young man had seemed to turn inward as he talked. Now his eyes met the general's again. "Pastor Luneburger told us to care for the land, the planet, and treat it with respect. Not abuse it like our long-ago forefathers did on Terra." He shook his head. "But he never foretold any alien invasion."

  Pak nodded. "Few did," he said. "Few did."

  They walked back to the car in silence and continued the tour, getting back to camp for lunch. Pak realized more fully now how suitable a range of conditions Camp Bosler Nafziger provided: forest, open farmland, rugged hills, small and large streams, even swamps and marshes in the north. And a sizeable section that was essentially virgin. All in all, it resembled conditions described for New Jerusalem.

  Chapter 34

  Reunion

  Esau Wesley lay still on sodden leaves, peering across a forested draw. With the sun up, he told himself, they're not hard to see. Not this time of year, with the leaves down.

  Not all the leaves were down, of course. There were patches of evergreen shrubs whose stiff leathery leaves looked nearly black at a hundred yards. And some trees had kept their leaves, mostly dead and brown. He could hear them rustling dryly in the breeze overhead, a breeze that scarcely touched the ground.

  Much of the hundred-yard separation between ridgetops was unobstructed, for the two ridges were steep, and looking across the draw was mostly looking through empty air. His narrowed eyes could make out folks dug in over there, obscured by undergrowth and not moving around. If those are enemy, he thought, we could open fire and really play Tophet with them. Blasters, slammers… Heck, our grenade launchers would reach that far. The umpires would charge them heavy casualties.

  Friend or foe, that was the nub of it. If this was for real, it'd be easy to tell. Something that walks on four legs with the top half of something like a man stuck on the front-that'd be easy to recognize. But playing war against other humans would have to do.

  Just think of them as the enemy, he told himself. Whoever, whatever they were, they were dug in. Esau wondered if the real Wyzhnyny dug foxholes. It would, he thought, be awkward for folks like them. And how would they climb in and out?

  "Can he get close enough without being noticed?" Ensign Berg murmured it from a corner of his mouth, as if for secrecy.

  Hawkins too only murmured; a nod involved movement. "He scored higher than anyone on the stealth tests."

  That didn't really answer the question, Berg thought, but visor magnification didn't fill the bill. Too much obscuring undergrowth. "All right," he said, and triggered his helmet mike with a syllable. "Esau," he murmured, "cross the draw farther up, and get close enough to see whether those are our people or enemy. Then back away and let me know. If they are enemy, and see you, cover yourself with a smoke grenade. Then we'll give them something else to worry about."

  The Jerrie's voice answered in his ear. "Yessir."

  Not yessir, Ensign, just yessir, Berg observed. Terse. Good stealth discipline. Even so tiny and short range a source of electronic activity as an ultra-short-range helmet transmission on low might be picked up at 200 yards. He'd risked their security himself, with so long an order, but delivering it in person was a greater risk.

  Carefully he turned his head in the young man's direction, but couldn't see him. Some evergreen brush was in the way. He'd already learned, though, that to give Lance Corporal Esau Wesley an order was to start a prompt response chain. He decided to talk to the CO about promoting Esau to full corporal. And to buck sergeant when they left Luneburger's, unless he went sour along the way. And he wouldn't, not Wesley. Not seriously.

  The first thing Esau did was crawl backward over the crest of the ridge. Slowly, with short pauses. Any movement might catch the eye. Protracted movement held the attention, with greater risk of recognition. Once behind the crest he arose, ran off to his left 200 yards, then crossed it again on his belly. When well below the skyline, he moved in a low crouch. Here the ridges were somewhat less steep, and the draw between them considerably less deep. Thus the forest provided a thicker screen than at the point from which he'd left.

  He understood without being told why the ensign wanted him to identify the people on the other ridge. The draw opened into a grassy glen, a sort of natural travelway. Both 2nd Platoon and the force across the draw could lay down fire on armor or anything else using it.

  He didn't think the fact. It was simply there, an operating datum. Once atop the other ridge, he'd need to get close; see whether those others wore gray-blue Burger armbands on their left sleeves, or yellow-brown Jerrie armbands like his own. He didn't intend to get close enough to hear their accents. Even though they'd shown no sign of having seen 2nd Platoon, any talking they did would likely be quiet.

  His advances continued smooth and intermittent, even as far up the draw as he was. He moved from cover to cover, down the slope and up the other, taking advantage of evergreen shr
ubs. At every pause, his eyes scanned. The "enemy" would have sentries out: human sentries-electronic sentries were "noisier."

  At one pause he peered long and carefully across the draw, toward where he'd come from. Spotted the outline of a helmet against an outcrop. Some folks had trouble getting it through their heads that the camouflage pattern on your uniform wasn't enough. A little brush, strategically attached, made a lot of difference. He'd mention it when this was over.

  He still couldn't see the folks on this side. Some forty yards ahead, a rocky prominence hid them from view. It was a good place for a lookout, too, lying low beside a tree, watching for someone like himself. Esau didn't move again till he was satisfied with his surveillance. He couldn't afford carelessness. With backcountry like this, there'd be skilled hunters among the Burgers.

  After seconds he moved on. The wet leaves on the ground made effectively no noise, and the dry leaves rustling in the treetops helped cover the occasional wet twig breaking. When he reached the outcrop he paused again, then slipped past it on his belly. He spotted his first "enemy" thirty yards away, and stopped. He couldn't see an armband, but if he…

  What caused him to look aside just then, he would never know. What he saw was something he'd only heard about, but he knew what it was, and it was looking right at him. It gathered itself, and for just a moment Esau froze mentally.

  Then the lion rushed him, and Esau's paralysis transformed into action. Not to turn his blaster and fire. That would have taken too long, for he was prone, and the lion was to his right. Instead he twisted onto his back, coiling, interposing the weapon between himself and the predator, while loosing a shout at the top of his lungs. Then the 300-pound feloid was on him, and Esau jammed his blaster sideways into its mouth. He felt the front claws not as pain but as deadly threat. For a moment it tried to reach him with its jaws, but the blaster was in the way, and the young man's powerful arms held it off. Then it tried to move around him, flank him, and he pivoted on his back in desperation.

  He didn't hear the popping of blasters across the ravine, firing soft pulses at the "enemy"; 2nd Platoon had misconstrued his shouts. He could only fight. Salvation came as unexpectedly as the lion. Steel fingers, numbingly powerful, penetrated the ruff, gripped the hide beneath, hauled the predator back, then swung it, slamming it hard against a tree, so quickly and overwhelmingly, the lion didn't have time to twist and fight back. Swung it again, and again, till it lay broken on the ground, hissing coarse bloody hisses at its metal assailant. The warbot set its right-arm blaster on full, and fired a single pulse, putting the lion out of its pain.

  Esau stared up at the cyborg. It looked back down at him. "Hello, Esau," it said quietly. "You took us by surprise."

  The "enemy" turned out to be 1st Platoon, E Company. Its ensign radioed 2nd Platoon B, and the firing stopped. Meanwhile 1st Platoon E's medic cut off Esau's torn camos, poured antibiotic on his lacerations, bandaged him, gave him an injection, and wrapped him in a casualty blanket. Then Isaiah Vernon picked up his ex-squad leader and carried him down the slope to the meadowed glen as if Esau were a child. Within ten minutes an evac floater was there, and carried the injured man to the division hospital.

  2nd Platoon was told that Esau's wounds weren't serious. Jael asked Sergeant Hawkins if she could go with her husband. He'd told her no, that she was a soldier, and this was part of war.

  That evening Hawkins came to her while the platoon ate. The ensign had just gotten a message from Esau: he was fine, and expected to be back in two or three days.

  The estimate was Esau's, not the doctor's. He rejoined the platoon and his wife five days later, when the regiment returned to camp. That was also the day Isaiah Vernon went to 2nd Battalion headquarters and asked to see the CO. He had the permission of Sergeant Henry Okinwobu, his squad leader, an ex-marine medically discharged for cascade syndrome.

  The battalion sergeant major looked up at the towering metal-and-composites human standing in front of his desk. "What's this about, Vernon?"

  "Sergeant Major, it's about my old platoon. I'd like a transfer to 1st Battalion, so I can work with it. I trained with it. I even jumped with it. My best friends… "

  The sergeant major cut him off with a gesture. "Just a minute, Vernon," he said, and touched a key on his desk comm. "Major, a personnel matter has just come up, something not covered by policy. You might want to consider it." He listened to something Isaiah couldn't hear. "It's Corporal Vernon of the bot squad." Again he listened. "Yessir, that's him. He went through basic and part of advanced training with 2nd Platoon, B Company, before his chute malfunctioned. The guy he rescued from the lion is one of his old buds. Vernon would like to be swapped for one of 1st Battalion's bot squad… Yes, Major, that's the key to it. We're not likely to get a replacement with his level of infantry training, but… Yessir. Thank you, sir."

  He jabbed the switch and looked back up at Isaiah. "Sit down, Private. I have another call to make."

  Isaiah sat. In five minutes he had an answer. It wasn't all he'd hoped for, but it might work out. Technically, a warbot platoon was assigned to a regiment as a tactical reserve, which meant the regimental CO could use it any way he wanted. But Division had ordered them divvied out to the battalions. "So if you can find someone in 1st Battalion's bot squad willing to switch," the sergeant major said, "the major will take it up with the colonel." He paused. "But if you're going to do it, do it no later than tomorrow."

  Isaiah got to his feet. "Yes, Sergeant," he said. "I'll get right on it."

  Sergeant Major Pieter Fuentes Singh watched him leave. According to the grapevine, Captain Chatterjee, Division's technical specialist, had said that even bots weren't strong enough to swing 400-pound lions by the scruff, and beat them to death against trees. But this one did.

  Fuentes shook his head. Apparently the adrenaline analog system built into them was more effective than the specialists had realized.

  Meanwhile, Private Isaiah Vernon had laid to rest any reservations Fuentes might have harbored about the basic humanity of warbots. They felt the human bond. Certainly this one did.

  Chapter 35

  Hanging Around Sagenwerk

  This was the third Sevenday in a row that Joseph Switzer had hung around the depot to watch soldiers on pass pile out of coach cars. If he'd gotten to Luneburger's World a few weeks earlier, he wouldn't be in this miserable village. He could have gotten his business done in North Fork.

  On Terra, even a backwater like Sagenwerk would have a square with trees, planters, maybe a brass sundial on a granite pedestal. A good bookstore and a nice cafe with outdoor tables, bright awnings, a friendly waitress. And there wouldn't be a railroad reeking with soft-coal smoke and gritty soot.

  The depot here had no amenities except a weedy path leading to an outdoor privy with back-to-back rooms, one for men, one for women. Until the soldiers had come to Camp Nafziger, passengers were few, and most trains had only a single coach, inserted at the head of a string of log cars, lumber cars, or boxcars.

  Switzer dug his watch from a pocket and snapped the lid open. It was twelve minutes past time, but the train wasn't in sight or hearing. On Luneburger's World, schedules were casual.

  Grunting, he rotated his shoulders. He'd gotten a job at the sawmill, stacking lumber, and was still a bit sore. In North Fork he'd found work as a free-lance engineer, but with eleven thousand inhabitants, North Fork was an important regional center. Sagenwerk's only excuse for existing was the sawmill that provided its name. Its population was said to be five hundred. Here a free-lance engineer would draw too much attention, and he'd make too little money to pay for the one-room shack he rented. The war had caused prices to rise.

  When he'd left Luneburger's, twenty years earlier at age sixteen, he'd intended never to come back. On Terra he would get an education and interesting work, and live in the 30th century instead of the 19th. And he had. Then this corrupt war had come along, an affront to the All-Soul, fouling the mother world with chauvinism and go
dless self-justification.

  Actually, North Fork hadn't been so bad. It was civilized, with electricity, plumbing, green lawns, shrubs and flowerbeds. The streets were shaded by overhanging trees. Its main lack was people who could carry on a modern conversation; even the All-Soul congregation there was provincial. But the only language you heard was Terran, unless you hung around one of the dwindling old-order congregations.

  Here in Sagenwerk, on the other hand, you were more likely to hear the old Bauerndeutsch than Terran, and got scowls if you didn't understand. Bauerndeutsch! A blend of 18th and 19th century peasant Plattdeutsch, Switzerditsch, Volgadeutsch… and old church German. Along with a sprinkling of recent Terran, and a mixture of archaic, germanized Anglic-words necessary to function in 19th and 20th century North America. Gawd! Even then, a millennium ago, Bauerndeutsch had been dying out. The early colonists had revived it as part of their blockheaded ethno-religious chauvinism, as if Jesus had spoken a broken-down peasant German! But gradually it had receded again.

  And worse, Sagenwerk was a stagnant pool of bigots! Mention the Church of the All-Soul and you risked a black eye. Say that being "born again" referred to reincarnation, and you'd lose your job before you could pick up your lunch pail. Refer to Jesus as an avatar of the All-Soul, and some ignorant fool on the green chain, who didn't know the meaning of "avatar," was likely to break your face in the name of God.

  The town was changing-a result of the war-but even the changes weren't good. Greed was flourishing. The railway had brought in twenty coaches to shuttle soldiers on their days off, though the village was less a magnet than its people had hoped. The rundown old tavern faced competition from a new beer garden. There was a theater still smelling of fresh lumber and paint, and two large houses, refurbished, had been supplied with women and girls from Landfall and other "cities."