Sten s-1

by Allan Cole

  Sten touched palms, and introduced himself. "Is there something the matter with farmers?" he asked curiously.

  "Not a thing. Just what the Empire needs to make into heroes." Gregor might have curled a lip.

  "But not you?"

  Gregor smiled. "You are on it. Not me."

  Sten lifted an eyebrow.

  "Officer. That's the ticket. You hide and watch. When they start combing the losers out. . ." Gregor smiled again.

  Halstead's whistle shrilled suddenly. Boots clattered as the trainees dashed for the door.

  "YOU'RE TOO SLOW, CHILDREN. WAY. . .TOO. . .SLOW. THE LAST FIVE OUT ARE ON MESS DUTY!" Halstead bellowed.

  "NEXT!" the corporal screamed. Sten, standing naked in the long line, wondered if Halstead could talk normally. Probably not, he decided. The trainee in front of Sten dashed to the large coffin, ran inside, put his toes on the mark, and Halstead banged the door shut.

  He waited, then jerked it open. "OUT OUT OUT," he bellowed.

  The man jumped out, and ran down the corridor to a dispenser trough that was already filling with packaged uniforms.

  Sten pulled his head out of the ultrasonic barber. He ran his fingers dubiously over his suddenly bare skull.

  Carruthers grinned at him and growled, "Yeah, you look even dumber than you feel."

  "Thank you, corporal," Sten shouted, and ran back to the waiting formation.

  Sten, the clumsy transport bag dangling from one shoulder, ran back toward the barracks.

  "FASTER, FASTER," screamed Halstead. "THAT ONLY WEIGHS FORTY KILOS, SCUM."

  Out of the corner of his eye Sten saw Carruthers kneeling on the chest of one recruit who'd gone down under the weight of the bag.

  "You've got to understand," Carruthers crooned, "we're just trying to help you, skeek." She suddenly bellowed, without getting off the panting man, "NOW ON YOUR FEET!"

  "Oooh," Lanzotta moaned as he walked down the long line of trainees. "You think you look like soldiers?"

  He stopped in front of one trainee. Instantly Carruthers and Halstead were beside him. "Son, your tunic lines up with your pants fastening."

  "DID YOU HEAR THE SERGEANT?" Halstead howled as he yanked the trainee's cap down over his eyes. "HE SAID YOU LOOKED LIKE DRAKH," Carruthers screamed in the boy's other ear. Lanzotta went on, as if the two bellowing corporals weren't there. "We want you to look your best." He shook his head sadly and walked on, as Halstead straight-armed the recruit back across his bunk, which collapsed sideways.

  Lanzotta stopped in front of Sten.

  Sten waited.

  Lanzotta looked him up and down, then stared into Sten's eyes. A smile touched the corners of his mouth again, and he walked on.

  There was a heavy whisper in his ear. "I think the sergeant likes you," said Carruthers. "He thinks you'll make a fine soldier. I do too. I think you ought to show us all just how good you are."

  Pause.

  "DROP! DO PUSHUPS! DO MANY, MANY PUSHUPS!"

  Sten went down, caught himself on his hands, and started down. Carruthers sat on his shoulders, and Sten collapsed to the floor. "I SAID DO PUSHUPS," Carruthers shouted.

  Sten fought to lift himself clear of the ground. Carruthers got up.

  "ON YOUR FEET," she howled. Sten snapped up, back at attention.

  "I THINK WE WERE WRONG. I DON'T THINK YOU'LL EVER MAKE A SOLDIER," Carruthers shouted. "YOU WON'T EVEN MAKE A GOOD CORPSE."

  Sten stood motionless.

  Carruthers glowered at him for a moment, then went on to the next victim.

  "Your father didn't love you, did he, trooper?"

  "NO, CORPORAL."

  "Your mother hated you, didn't she?"

  "YES, CORPORAL."

  "Why didn't your mother love you?"

  "I DON'T KNOW, CORPORAL."

  "She hated you because she was losing business until she had you aborted. Isn't that right, recruit?"

  "YES, CORPORAL."

  "Who is the only person who loves you, trainee?"

  "YOU ARE, CORPORAL."

  Sten winced as Carruthers hurled the recruit against the wall.

  "WHERE ARE YOU FROM, SCUM?"

  "Ryersbad Four, corporal."

  "WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?"

  "Ry—Ryersbad Four, corporal."

  "GET THAT TRASHCAN, RECRUIT."

  "Yes, corporal."

  "PICK IT UP. OVER YOUR HEAD."

  The garbage cascaded over the recruit's shoulders.

  "GET IN IT."

  The trainee knelt, lowering the steel container over his body. Instantly Carruthers and Halstead thudded kicks into the can.

  "SCUM—crash—YOU DONT HAVE ANY HOME—crash—THE GUARD IS YOUR ONLY HOME—crash—WHERE ARE YOU FROM—crash."

  "Nowhere, corporal," came the muffled voice from inside the can.

  Halstead moaned, and tried to tear his cropped hair.

  "It's hopeless," he said quietly. "Absolutely hopeless."

  Screaming again:

  "RECRUIT, YOU WILL GET OUT OF THAT TRASHCAN."

  He helpfully kicked the container over. The trainee crawled out, his uniform stained and smeared.

  "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST FOUND A HOME, RECRUIT. NOW YOU TAKE THAT CAN OUT OF HERE TO THE MESSHALL. AND I WANT YOU TO STAND IN IT AND TELL EVERYONE WHO COMES BY THAT THAT'S YOUR HOME."

  "Yes, corporal."

  The recruit shouldered the container and stumbled toward the door.

  "In your bunks," Lanzotta snapped.

  The naked recruits dove for their beds. Lanzotta walked toward the door.

  "I want you to know something, children," he said. "I can truthfully say that I have never spent a worse first training day with a sorrier group of scum. I'm not even going to enjoy killing you. Don't you agree?"

  "YES, SERGEANT," came the shout from a hundred bunks.

  "I really can't stand it. Good night, children."

  Lanzotta flipped off the light switch.

  "Are you all exhausted?" came the question in the blackness.

  "YES, SERGEANT."

  "What?"

  "NO, SERGEANT."

  The light came back on.

  "That's nice," Lanzotta said. "Five minutes. Fall outside dressed for physical training."

  He smiled and walked out of the barracks as the recruits stared at each other, stunned.

  Sten ran the depil stick over his face again, just to make sure, reslotted it, and picked up his shower gear. He hurried out of the refresher to his bunk. Flipped open the cabinet and, checking the layout chart pinned to the inside wall, put everything away.

  He checked the clock. He had a whole minute and a half until he had to dress. He sat down on the floor with a happy moan. His bunk was already S-rolled for the day, blanket folded in the prescribed manner on top of it.

  "Sten. Gimme a hand." Sten pulled himself back up, and grabbed the other end of Gregor's mattress.

  The two men looked at each other, and both of them suddenly snickered. "Definitely material for a recruiting livee," Gregor grinned. "By the way. You notice something interesting?"

  "There's nothin' interesting on this clottin' world. Except that bed if I could crawl back in it."

  "Look around. Somethin' interestin'. There's women in this unit, right?"

  "Good thinkin', Gregor. Guess they'll have to make you an officer."

  "Shaddup. But you know somethin' more interestin'? Everybody sleeps alone."

  "Probably some rule against anything else."

  "Rules ever stop anybody who's in the mood?"

  Sten shook his head.

  "They put something in the food. That's what it is. Chemicals. 'Cause they don't want anybody getting attached to somebody who probably's gonna wash out."

  Sten thought about it. Not likely. If everybody was like he was, they were just too tired to raise even a smile. He decided to change the subject. "Gregor. You said something about you're gonna be an officer?"

  "Sure."

  "How?"

  "I have t
hree things on my side. First, my dad. Don't say anything, 'cause I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, but he's a wheel. Our family owns most of Lasker XII. He's got touch. We've even been presented at court."

  Sten looked at Gregor thoughtfully. He guessed that was pretty significant.

  "Second. I went to military schools. So I know what they're talking about. And I'll tell you, that's a lot better than the conditioning they pour in us while we're trying to sleep."

  "Military schools. Doesn't the Guard have some kind of academy? Just for officers?"

  Gregor looked a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, but my dad. . .I decided it'd be better to start at the bottom. You know, so you understand the troops that you're gonna command. Be one of them, and all that."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Third. Every now and then, they make an outstanding recruit award and commission the lucky choice. Right out of basic."

  "Which you think is gonna be you?"

  "Pick somebody else. Look around. Go ahead. Pick somebody."

  Sten eyed the recruits, milling into their uniforms.

  "Like Lanzotta said. They're just cannon fodder. I'm not saying I'm great, but I don't see competition. Unless. . .maybe you."

  Sten laughed. "Not me, Gregor. Not me. I learned a long time ago, you keep your head down you don't get caught by the big pieces."

  The door crashed open. "AWRIGHT, LISTEN UP. WE GOT A CHANGE IN THE TRAINING SCHEDULE SINCE IT'S GETTIN' COLD OUTSIDE. ITS ALMOST TWENTY DEGREES CENTIGRADE, AND SO WE'RE GONNA PRACTICE. UNIFORM OF THE DAY WILL BE COLD-WEATHER GEAR."

  Gregor's mouth hung open. "Cold-weather gear? It's the middle of summer!"

  Sten jerked his cabinet door open and started pawing an arctic uniform out.

  "Thought you'd already learned what Lanzotta said about us thinking."

  Gregor wearily nodded, and started changing.

  "Report!"

  "Sten. Recruit in training!"

  Lanzotta leaned back in his chair.

  "Relax, boy. This is just routine. As you know, the Empire takes a great deal of interest in seeing that its soldiers are well treated."

  "Yessir!"

  "Therefore, I've got some questions to ask you. These will be filed with the rights commission. First question: Have you, since your arrival on Klisura, seen any instances of physical maltreatment?"

  "I don't understand, sir."

  "Have you seen any of the cadre abuse any trainee? It's a severely punishable offense."

  "Nossir!"

  "Have you witnessed any cadre member addressing any trainee in derogatory tones?"

  "Nossir!"

  "Do you consider yourself happy, trainee?"

  "Yessir!"

  "Dismissed."

  Sten saluted, whirled, and ran out. Lanzotta scratched his chin thoughtfully and looked at Halstead. "Him?"

  "Not sure yet. But probably."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE ASSASSIN WAS methodical.

  Mental notes: Sten; Thoresen; Time. . .time a question; Thoresen more so. Motive: personal. Possible—no, probable danger to me. Assignment questionable unless. . .

  "There's a matter of payment," the assassin said finally.

  "We've already settled that. You'll be well paid."

  "I'm always well paid. It's a question of delivery. Uh. . .my back door?"

  "You don't trust us?"

  "No."

  The Baron eased back in his chair, closed his eyes. There were no worries. He was just relaxing and taking in a bit more UV.

  "It seems, at this point, your problems aren't a back door—a way out—as much as they are your knowledge."

  "Knowledge?"

  "Yes. If you choose to not accept the assignment. . .well, you're privy to a great deal, you must realize. Need I go further?"

  The assassin casually reached over the desk and picked up an antique pen. "If you even look at one of the alarms," the killer whispered, "I'll bury this pen in your brain."

  The Baron was still, then pushed a smile across his face. "Do you have your own way out?"

  "Always," the assassin said. "Now, when I complete the task, I have a bank in—"

  Thoresen waved languidly. "Done. Whatever the arrangements. Done."

  "It's not enough money."

  "Why not?"

  "To begin. I must get inside the Imperial Guard. That may mean other deaths than your target."

  "You're thinking of joining the Guard?"

  "Possibly. There is also the matter of the man who recruited Sten, this Imperial intelligence operative."

  "A minor agent."

  "Are you sure?"

  The Baron hesitated. "Yes."

  "I still need more money."

  "That is not a problem."

  "The time?"

  "Yes. This must be done immediately."

  The assassin stood up to leave. "Then I can't do it. No one can. If you'd still like to try, I'll give you a few names, but no one who would take the job is competent. Be warned of that."

  The Baron looked at him thoughtfully. "How much time?"

  "As much as I need."

  Thoresen was running ahead of the assassin. He had the best here. So. . .yes. It was the only way. "Very well." The assassin started for the door. "A moment, please," Thoresen said. The assassin stopped.

  "The matter of the pen. How would you have killed me?"

  The assassin shook his head. "No."

  "I collect martial trivia—I'm quite willing to pay. . ." The assassin named a price and Thoresen agreed. A few minutes later he was holding his elbow crooked in just the right position.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  STEN FOUR-HANDED BEERMUGs and pushed away from the vendor. He clattered the mugs down on the table, drained one, and grabbed another before the other two trainees could get to it.

  "Whaddaya think, Big Time Trainee Corporal Sten?" Morghhan asked.

  "Just like the clottin' world I came off. Anytime you get promoted, you end up payin'. Only difference is they take the credits now instead of later."

  "Y'got a bad attitude, troop," Morghhan said as he sluiced down beer.

  Sten poured more down his own throat and considered. Bad attitude? Not hardly. He was still pretty happy, in spite of the best efforts of Lanzotta and company. Maybe he was stuck in the Guard. But it was just for a few years. And nothing he did could extend that contract.

  Also Sten had, if not friends, at least people he could sit and talk with. Even though most of their tune was spent deciding what sewer pit Lanzotta crawled out of, he wasn't alone anymore. The new jargon everybody used wasn't much different from Mig-talk.

  He put Bet back behind the wall quickly and turned to Morghhan, the skinny recruit he'd been sure wasn't going to make it through the last weeks of physical conditioning on that three-gee world.

  "Damn right I got a bad attitude. I didn't ask for no stripes. They don't pay me better 'cause I gotta tell you clots when to wipe, do they?"

  "If I was you," Bjhalstred said softly, "I'd be honored. Shows how much cadre thinks of you. Shows they think you'll make a real hero guardsman type."

  Sten snorted at Bjhalstred. He couldn't figure the agri-world boy out. Nobody could be so dumb. Or could they? Not that it mattered. Sten shrugged and dumped the spare beer in Bjhalstred's lap.

  He yelped and grabbed at his crotch. "Noncoms ain't permitted to discipline trainees. Ain't you listened to the regs? You wanna go outside?"

  Sten stood up. "You first."

  "Naw. You g'wan an' start without me. I'll work on your beer while you're gone."

  Morghhan interrupted. "Chop it. Here. Take Gregor's. Looks like he ain't gonna show."

  They drained their mugs, and Sten sourly held out another handful of credits. "I'm buyin', somebody else is flyin'." Bjhalstred headed for the machine.

  "You got any idea why they gave you the stripes?" Morghhan asked.

  Sten shook his head. "I sure ain't been leechin' Lanzotta. Maybe they figure on trainee rank to wash out
the weak ones, now they're finally gonna start teachin' us soldiering."

  "That don't compute."

  "Why not? We been nine weeks just doin' muscle-puffs, and we're down, what?"

  "Seventy-three left. Out of a hundred."

  "Way too high, Carruthers was tellin' me. They only graduate ten per company. Should've dumped forty percent by now, she said. Said they was gonna put everybody under the fine-line startin' right away."

  "So what? Either way they're gonna get you if they want."

  "Now there's a high-prob thought," Bjhalstred agreed, coming back with the next round. "Speakin' of high, here's ol' Lord Gregor himself."

  Gregor slid into a spare seat.

  "Looks like you're nursin' a case of the hips," Morghhan said. "Who put it to you?"

  "I was with Lanzotta."

  "For almost an hour? An' the bloodstains don't hardly show."

  Gregor smiled grimly. "I'm not the one with bloodstains. But Lanzotta's gonna be."

  Sten waited.

  "You went to him?"

  "You have it locked. To tell him I'm sending off a letter to my father."

  "I'll bet he was very interested," Bjhalstred said solemnly. "Very important for a young trainee to keep his family posted."

  "It was about this clotting trainee stripe thing."

  Sten eyed Gregor over his beer. "You still think you got raw 'cause they didn't give you any acting rank?"

  "Straight. Hell, I deserve at least as much of a chance as anybody. They say these jack stripes are to pick out potential leaders. Why not me?"

  "Maybe they figure you're nothin' but a potential wipe," Morghhan said.

  "Try me," Gregor glowered.

  "Shaddup, the both of you," Sten put in before Morghhan had time to bristle. "We are sittin' here, quietly drinkin' beer, and celebratin' that we can now get out of barracks for two hours a night an' get swilled."

  "Cadre gives us enough grief, we don't have to go out and synthesize our own," Bjhalstred agreed.

  Morghhan added a massive belch and went for more beer.

  "I ain't just blowin'," Gregor said. "You know my father's got influence. All I want is justice. Tell you what. I see all they gave you is a double stripe. Since you and I are the only ones in this company with any intelligence—"