by Allan Cole
It had been his day as company runner and he had been dozing at the desk. He didn't hear the door open or close.
"You the only one here, guardsman?"
Sten snapped awake and was on his feet.
The man standing in front of him was tall and slender. Sten blinked and found himself staring at the uniform. Almost imperceptibly, it was changing shade to match the paneled wall background. The man wore a soft hat of the same kind of strange material that Sten later learned was a beret. It was tilted rakishly over one eye.
A winged dagger was pinned to the beret The only other insignia on the uniform were captain's stars on one shoulder and on the other the black outline of some kind of insect.
For some reason, Sten found himself stammering.
"Uh, yessir—they're—they're all out in the field."
The officer handed Sten a sealed envelope.
"This is for Sergeant Lanzotta. It's personal, so see it's delivered directly to him."
"Yessir."
Then he was gone.
A week later, Sten got a chance to ask Carruthers who the man was. The corporal whistled when Sten described the uniform.
"That's Mantis Section!"
Sten looked at her blankly.
"You mean you ain't heard?"
Sten shook his head, feeling like a pioneer-world idiot.
"They're the nastiest bunch of soldiers in the Imperial Army," Carruthers said. "Real elite. They work alone—humanoids, ETs. The Empire takes the best the Guard has and then disappears them into the Mercury Corps—Intelligence."
Sten remembered Mahoney and nodded.
"Anyway. Mantis wears those fancy trop-camouflage uniforms when you see them. Mostly, you don't see 'em at all and you'd better hope it stays that way."
"Why is that?"
"If you see one of those boys in the field you know you're about to be in deep trouble. Any one of 'em's probably got about two thousand and three of the enemy on his butt."
Carruthers smiled a rare smile. There was nothing she liked better than war stories. "I remember one time on Altair V. We were down with a regiment on a peacekeeping mission and somehow we'd got outselves surrounded.
"We were screaming for help on every wavelength we could reach and tryin' to hang on. We figured the next thing that'd happen is we'd have to die a lot."
Carruthers laughed. Sten figured that she had just made some kind of a joke and laughed back.
"So, one night this woman shows up at the command post. A Mantis Section troopie. She'd come through the enemy lines, through our pickets, through the support lines and first thing we know she's sitting down with our CO eating dinner. When she finished, she borrowed some AM2 tubes and bester grenades and disappeared again.
"I dunno what she did, or how she did it, but about twelve G hours later six Imperial destroyers showed up and bailed our tails out."
Carruthers glared at Sten, which made him feel a whole lot better. A smiling Carruthers was something he didn't think he wanted to get used to.
"But that's not the way it usually works," she told him. "You ever see one of those guys again, troop, you crawl under something. 'Cause as sure as your tail is where your head ought to be, there's something big and nasty about to come screaming in—you just remember that, hear?"
Sten heard her real well.
"You will all learn about the fighting suit," Lanzotta said. "Chances are, some of you will even die in one. And you will discover, as I did, that the suit will kill you faster than the enemy, more often than not."
At that point, Sten and the others turned their minds to "doze." They all thought they had Lanzotta figured now. All of his little lectures were structured the same. First, an introduction. Then—Lanzotta's favorite part—a history lesson. Followed by the informatipn they really needed to know. At which point they snapped awake again.
"I am particularly fond of this subject," Lanzotta continued. "In fact, I have made a personal study of the suit. Because it was with this piece of equipment that the technicians reached the absolute height of absurdity."
Click. Snap. Every recruit mind instantly slipped into a deeper state of unconsciousness. Lanzotta motioned to Halstead, who walked to a terminal and rapped on a few keys. There was a loud clanking and grinding and all the recruits came awake as a long rack of fighting suits ratcheted out into the lecture area.
Sten looked over the suits, and for once, he didn't have to fake interest. Many of them he recognized from the war feelies. They were huge, armored things shaped vaguely like humanoids. Some had what could pass for arms, but were track-based.
The first thing he noticed was they all seemed to be graded by size. At the beginning of the rack, they were small and flimsy-looking. From there they got larger and larger and more complex-appearing, until about two-thirds of the way down the line. Then they got smaller again, but with a more durable look about them.
Lanzotta paced along the line of suits, stopping at the largest one. "Now here, as I can personally attest, is where the Techs really outdid themselves. It was all so logical, you see. To anyone but a guardsman. They made bullets, therefore they made bulletproof vests."
Lanzotta looked his captive group over, as if anticipating a question. No one was that dumb.
"Now, I'm not going to explain what a bullet was," Lanzotta said, "except to say it was a projectile that was capable of creating a hole in you as big as the willygun. In some ways, it was worse."
The way Lanzotta grinned at that, Sten knew he meant worse.
"The larger the antipersonnel weapon," Lanzotta continued, "the more the Techs loaded on the armor. Until, finally, with this suit we could take anything. Lasers, nukes, bugs, null bombs, you name it, we were just about invulnerable."
Sten was starting to get the drift of what was wrong with the suit.
"About fifty years ago, I had the great pleasure of testing this suit in action. Myself and about two thousand comrades in arms."
Lanzotta laughed. And it was instant tension time for the recruits. Should they laugh? He obviously thought he had made a funny. But Carruthers and Halstead were stony-faced. They didn't think it was funny. Lanzotta ended their agony by not noticing anything and going on.
"Our orders were to put down a rebellion on a godforsaken planet called Moros. Besides the troops, we were supplied with everything known to modern military science—including the latest fighting suit."
Sten studied it more closely. It was the largest, non-tracked piece of equipment on the rack. There were tubes and wires, minividscreens, and knobs and bulges everywhere. It looked like it weighed about five hundred kilos and would take a whole battery of Techs to operate.
"I love this suit," Lanzotta said. "It can do anything. "It's AM2-powered and pseudomuscled. Anyone inside it would be equal to thirty beings in strength. A small company dressed in these could advance through any kind of fire the enemy threw at them. It's impervious to almost anything and you can live in it for months without outside support."
Lanzotta shook his head with the wonder of it all. "Of course, no one thought to brief the natives on Moros. They weren't told what brave and fierce warriors we were. They didn't even know the word technology, so what could they think?
"We landed and they ran into the jungle. We advanced under fire—mostly spears and blowguns—and burned their villages. Then one day they grew tired of running."
Lanzotta laughed again. But this time, Sten and the others were too caught up with his story to notice.
"What they discovered was this: Yes, we were big strong soldiers with the firepower of a small tank. But we couldn't maneuver. And we were cut off from our environment. So, they worked out this simple little trick.
"They dug pits, camouflaged them, and then fled before our advance. Of course, many of us fell in. The pits were lined with nets that tangled us up." Lanzotta wasn't laughing.
"And while we were struggling out of the nets, they'd run up to the pit and stick a big long spear through the sui
t's waste vent. The spear made large holes in the trooper inside.
"Naturally, the excrement was carried into the body. The wound festered so badly that the medpaks froze up—and many of us rotted to death." Lanzotta shook his head.
"We lost two-thirds of the guardsmen that made the assault. And more in another landing. Finally the only solution was to dust the planet, sit back, and watch Moros glow."
Lanzotta patted the suit.
"Destroying planets isn't done in polite diplomatic circles. The Emperor was very unhappy."
Lanzotta grinned as he came to his final point.
"The new Techs," he said, "started redesigning the suit."
Sten wished he could find a place to hide. From the look on Lanzotta's face, he knew it would have to be very deep and made of something at least as strong as titanium.
"It is a sin and an abomination in the eyes of the Lord," Smathers frothed. "It was my duty to report their behavior to you."
Lanzotta stared at him, then at the two men standing at attention nearby. Sten, he ignored—for the moment.
"Colrath, Rnarak, is he telling the truth?"
"YES, SERGEANT."
Lanzotta sighed and turned to Smathers.
"Smathers, I have a distinct surprise for you. The Guard doesn't care about what beings do with each other when they're off duty, so long as everyone falls out for formation the next morning."
"But—"
"But you come from a world settled by the Plymouth Brethren. Fine. Some excellent guardsmen have been produced by your beliefs. But all of them learned their ideas are not to be applied to anyone but themselves. And since when have you ever interrupted your sergeant?"
Smathers stared at the floor. "Sorry. Sergeant."
"Your apology is accepted. But have you ever been to bed with a man?"
Smathers looked horrified. "Of course not."
"If you don't know about it, did you ever consider that you're missing something?" Lanzotta said.
Smathers' eyes bulged.
"In any event," Lanzotta said briskly. "You are spending time worrying about something that is none of your business. And since you seem so preoccupied ferreting cesspools, I think we need one volunteer to clean the one in the barracks. You're accepted."
"You're not going to—"
"I'm not going to," Lanzotta agreed. "Now move out."
Smathers walked down the barracks toward the latrine. Lanzotta turned to Colrath and Rnarak.
"While the Guard isn't concerned with what you do or don't do with each other, we still must respect the beliefs of the other trooper. I am deeply distressed by the fact that you two couldn't be bothered to find a private place for your recreation, and instead disturbed the sleep and happiness of other trainees. Go help him clean the cesspool."
The two shame-faced men walked slowly away. Now Lanzotta turned his attention to Sten.
"Recruit Corporal Sten!"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Why didn't you deal with this matter yourself?"
"I tried to, sergeant. Smathers insisted on seeing you."
"As is his right. Especially when confronted with a recruit corporal incapable of handling a simple barracks dispute."
"Yes, sergeant"
"First, you will remove those stripes."
"Yes, sergeant."
"Second, you will join those three on the cesspool detail."
"Yes, sergeant."
"Dismissed."
Sten followed the others out. Next time, he thought, he'd save everyone a whole lot of trouble and just tear Smathers in half.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
BASICALLY, STEN DECIDED, he didn't give a Mig's ass. He touched the anodizer to the last bit of exposed metal on his weapons belt, then tucked it back in his cabinet.
Then looked up.
Tomika stood there, kitbag in hand.
He decided, for about the gigatime, she was the nicest-looking thing about training. And he'd tried. Indeed he'd tried.
"Who's paired with you, Sten?"
"My left hand," he said.
She tossed her ditty on his bunk and started patting the pillow into shape. Sten's mouth dropped.
"Uh, Tomika? I asked before and—"
"I don't bag with NCOs. I got standards."
Sten suddenly decided it not only wasn't important, but it was funny, Broke his laugh off as he looked at Gregor.
"You see what I meant," Gregor said. "And you were wrong."
"I'm always wrong, Gregor. Howcum this time?"
"They are arbitrary. They wouldn't give me the rank I deserve. And they broke you. You see?"
"Nope. Far as I can see, I stepped on it."
"It's right there. In front of you." Sten decided that Gregor was getting a little shrill.
"DNC, troop. Does not compute."
"My father taught me that any business that doesn't respond to new stimuli is doomed. That's the Guard. All they want is cannon fodder. Anybody who doesn't fit their idea of a moron hero, they'll put to scutwork. And if they make a mistake, like they did with you, they'll bust him down as soon as they see it."
"You really believe that, Gregor," Tomika said.
"Dash-A right I do," Gregor said. "I've written another letter to my father, Sten. He'll see things are rectified."
Sten sat up. "You, uh, mention me?"
"No, I did not. Just like you would have wanted. But you will regret it. You'll see."
And Gregor laughed, turned, and walked back toward his bunk.
"Hey, Ex Recruit Trainee Small Time Corporal Sten? Is he two zeds short of a full count?"
Sten didn't answer her, just listened to Gregor's laughter as he clambered into his bunk.
"And what happens when I do this?"
Tomika giggled. Sten suddenly sat up in his bunk and put a hand over her mouth. Movement. A buried snicker. Tomika reached up and grabbed him, pulling Sten down to the pillow.
"No, Sten," she breathed. "Wait."
Sten did—for a long count of heartbeats.
And then the shouting started.
Somebody hit the lights, and Sten bolted out of the bunk. The shouting came from Gregor's area.
Sten rolled out of his bunk, reflexively sliding up into an attack stance. And then he slumped down again, laughing helplessly.
Gregor screamed louder and started flailing.
Sten and the other recruits gathered around Gregor's area. The man did have problems.
"It's the Giant Spider of Odal," somebody said in a mock hushed voice. "You're in trouble, Gregor."
Gregor was indeed in trouble. Somebody must've snuck a spray can of climbing thread out of the training area the day before. And while Gregor slept, he, she, or they had spun the thread from bunk to cabinet to boots to bunk to combat shoes to cabinet to end up connected to Gregor's nose.
The high-test, incredibly sticky goo made a very effective spider web, Sten decided. Whoever had spun the web had unclipped the hardener from the nozzle tip, so the more Gregor flailed, the more he became enmeshed in the strands.
Gregor by now had trussed himself neatly in the strands and was moaning.
Sten looked at Tomika. "Who's got the real case at Gregor?"
She motioned blankly. "Just about everybody." The woman giggled. "Guess he'll make a fine officer."
"Bet three-one it won't straighten him out," Sten said. "Not just that, but prog—"
"Are we enjoying ourselves, children?" The recruits turned to instant statuary.
Sten could never figure how Carruthers managed a 116-dB(A) whisper. "Is there any particular reason we aren't all at attention?"
"Ten-hup!" somebody managed. Carruthers waddled forward through the cluster. Looked at Gregor and clucked thoughtfully.
"The Giant Spider of Odal. Knew we had lice and a few rats, but thought we fumigated those spiders last cycle."
Carruthers turned.
"Morghhan! Why don't you stroll down to supply and draw a tank of solvent. If you wouldn't mind."
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The squadbay door slammed on Morghhan before Carruthers finished her sentence.
"Giant spiders, hmm. Serious business." Whisper into shout. "Recruit Sten, what's the uniform of the day for spider hunts?"
"Uh. . .I dunno, corporal."
"DROP, DROP, DROP. YOU ARE AN EXNONCOM AND YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT! TRAINEE TOMIKA, YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM—DROP, DROP, DROP!"
Carruthers walked back to the door.
"You will fall out in five minutes in full spider-hunt dress, and prepare to spend the remainder of the night looking for what I estimate is five giant spiders."
She slammed out. The recruits looked around. Bewildered. The door creaked open again.
"Anyone who is not in the proper uniform draws two days' kitchen detail. That is all, children. Time's a-wast-ing."
When Bjhalstred ran over Corporal Halstead with a combat car, Sten knew he had been right all along. There was nothing stupid about the farmboy. Now, no one ever accused Bjhalstred of crunching Halstead on purpose. It was an accident. Sure, Sten thought to himself, sure.
"This," Halstead proclaimed, "is another Empire tool for wormbrains. One gauge shows you battery charge. Turn this switch, and the car starts. You adjust the lift level stick to the desired altitude. One to one-grand meters. Doppler radar keeps you automatically that far off the ground.
"Shove the control stick forward, you lift up. Farther forward, the faster. Max speed, two hundred kph. Move the stick to the side, the combat car turns. Do we have a volunteer?"
Halstead looked around the trainees until he saw someone trying to be invisible.
"Bjhalstred," he crooned. "Come on up here, my boy." Bjhalstred locked his heels in front of the corporal. "Never driven a car, hmm?"
"NO, CORPORAL!"
"Why not, trainee?"
"We don't believe in them on Outremer, corporal. We're Amish."
"I see." Halstead considered for a minute, then evidently decided not to say anything. "In the car."
Bjhalstred clambered in.
"You don't have any religious objections to driving, do you?" Halstead asked.
