by Allan Cole
The flare bloomed, and Sten saw two. . .five. . .seven assault tracks grinding up the base of the hill. "Flash "em."
The platoon leader keyed his central weapons board, and high-pressure tanks, emplaced at the hill's base, sprayed into life. The gas mixed with the atmosphere, and the acting lieutenant fired the mixture.
A fireball roared across the hill's base, and three of the tracks caught and exploded.
"Leapfrog back. About sixty meters and set up an interior perimeter."
Sten rolled out of the hole and skittered back toward the CP.
By the time he flattened beside Morghhan, he had a plan.
Shadows went across his front toward Second Platoon's area. Firing suddenly redoubled in volume from the Third's last-stand perimeter.
Sten gratefully shed his pack and command net, port-armed his weapon and went after them.
There was dead silence in the office.
Sten stared straight ahead.
"Four survivors, recruit company commander. You were wiped out."
"Yes, Sergeant Lanzotta."
"I would be interested in your prognosis of the effects of such an action in real combat. On the rest of the regiment."
"I. . .guess very bad."
"I guess very obvious. But you don't know why. Troops will take massive casualties and maintain full combat efficiency under two circumstances only: First, those casualties must be taken in a short period of time. Slow decimation destroys any unit, no matter how elite.
"Secondly, those casualties must be taken with an accomplishment. Do you understand, Sten?"
"Not exactly, sergeant."
"I will be more explicit. Using last night's debacle. If you had held on that hilltop, and died to the last man, the regiment would have been proud. That would have been a battle honor and probably a drinking song. The men would have felt uplifted that there were such heroes among them. Even though they'd be clotting glad they weren't there to be with them."
"I understand."
"Instead, your unit was lost trying to save itself. It's very well and good to talk about living to fight another day. But that is not the spirit that ultimately wins wars. Failing to understand that is your failure as a company commander. Do you understand?"
Sten was silent.
"I did not say you had to agree. But do you understand?"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Very well. But I did not relieve you and confine you to barracks for that reason. Your test scores indicate a high level of intelligence. I broke you because you showed me you are completely unsuited for the Guard or to be a guardsman. Effective immediately, you are removed from the training rolls."
Sten's mouth hung open.
"I will explain this, too. You have a soldier. He takes a knife, blackens his face, leaves all his weapons behind. He slips through the enemy lines by himself, into the shelter of an enemy general. Kills him and returns. Is that man a hero? Of one kind. But he is not a guardsman." Lanzotta inhaled.
"The Guard exists as the ultimate arm of the Emperor. A way of putting massive force into a precise spot to accomplish a mission. The Guard will fight and die for the Emperor. As a fighting body, not as individuals." Sten puzzled.
"As a guardsman, you are expected to show bravery. In return, the Guard will provide you with backing. Moral and spiritual in training and garrison, physical in combat. For most of us, the bargain is more than fair. Are you tracking me?"
Most of Sten was wondering what would happen to him next—washed out to a duty battalion? Or would they dump him straight back to Vulcan? Sten tried to pay attention to Lanzotta.
"I will continue. A guardsman is always training to be more. He should be able to assume the duties of his platoon sergeant and accomplish the mission if his sergeant becomes a casualty. A sergeant must be able to assume the duties of his company commander.
"And that means no matter how tactically brilliant he is, if he does not instinctively understand the nature of the men he commands, he is worse than useless. He is a danger. And I have told you time and again. . .my job is to not just make guardsmen. But to help those men stay alive."
"Is that all, sergeant?" Sten said tonelessly.
"Four survivors. Of fifty-six men. Yes, Sten. That's all."
Sten lifted his hand toward the salute.
"No. I don't take salutes—or return them—from washouts. Dismissed."
Sten ate, turned in his training gear and went to bed in a thick blanket of isolation. Emotionally, he wanted one of his friends to say something. Just good-bye. But it was better like this. Sten had seen too many people wash, and knew it was easier on everyone if the failure simply became invisible.
He wondered why they were waiting so long to get him. Usually a washout was gone in an hour or two after being dumped. He guessed it was the seriousness of what he'd done. The cadre wanted him around for a while as an object lesson.
It gave Sten time to make some plans of his own. If they were sending him to a duty battalion. . .he shrugged. That was one thing. He didn't owe anything more to the Empire, so as soon as he could, he'd desert. Maybe. Or maybe it'd be easier to finish his hitch and take discharge into Pioneer Sector. Supposedly they never could get enough men on the frontiers, and anyone who'd been even partially through Guard training could be an asset.
But Vulcan. . .Sten's fingers automatically touched the knife haft in his arm. If he went back, the Company would kill him. He'd as soon go out quick before they got there. Besides, there was always a chance. . .
Not much of one, he decided, and stared blankly up at the dark ceiling.
Sten half felt a movement—his fingers curled for the sheath—and Carruthers' arm clamped on him.
"Follow me."
Sten, still dressed, stepped out of the bunk. Automatically, he S-rolled the mattress and picked up his small ditty.
Carruthers motioned him toward the door. Sten followed. Dazed. He had just realized Carruthers had stopped him as if she knew about the knife. He wondered why they'd never confiscated it.
Carruthers stopped beside an automated weapons carrier. Indicated the single seat, and Sten climbed in.
Carruthers tapped a destination code, and the car hummed. Carruthers stepped back. And saluted.
Sten stared. Washouts didn't rate, but Carruthers was holding the salute. Sten was lost. He automatically returned it.
Carruthers turned and was double-timing away as the car lifted.
Sten looked ahead. The car angled out of the training area a few feet clear of the ground, then lifted to about twenty meters. Its screen flashed: DESTINATION RESTRICTED AREA. REQUEST CODE CLEARANCE. The car's computer chuckled, and printed numbers across the screen. The screen blanked, then: M-SECTION CLEARANCE GRANTED.
NOTIFICATION. ON LANDING AWAIT ESCORT.
Sten was completely lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MAHONEY CEREMONIOUSLY POURED the pure-quill medalcohol into the shooter, and dumped the pewter container into the two-liter beermug. He handed the mug to Carruthers, and turned to the other three in the room. "Anyone else need refueling?"
Rykor lifted a fluke and propelled a minicascade from her tank at Mahoney. "I have a mind that needs no further altering, thank you," she rumbled. Lanzotta shook his head.
Mahoney picked up his own mug. "Here's to failure." They drank.
"How did he take it, corporal?"
"Dunno, colonel. Kid's a little shocky. Prob'ly thought we was gonna ship his butt back for recycling on that armpit he came from."
"He's that dumb?"
"I crucified him, colonel," Lanzotta said. "I would assume he isn't guilty of any thinking at this moment."
"Quite likely. You're pretty good at slow torture, Lan." Mahoney paused. "Rykor, sorry to bore you for a minute. But I got to tell these two. Obviously all this is sealed—saying that's a formality. But since it's closed, we can knock off the colonel drakh for a while."
Carruthers shifted uncomfortably and buried her nose i
n her mug.
"I need a very fast final assessment. Rykor?"
"I have no reason to change my initial evaluation. His training performance, as predicted, was near record. His profile did not alter significantly. In no way could Sten have become a successful Guard soldier. His independence, instinctual animosity to authority, and attraction toward independent action are especially jagged on the curve. For your purposes, he seems ideal.
"The peculiar individual traumas we discussed when he entered training are maintained at close to the same level in some ways. But in others, since he has proven himself successful in training and in dealing with other people, he is far more stable an entity."
"Carruthers?"
"I dunno how to put it, sir. But he ain't anybody I'd pick to team with. He ain't a coward. But he ain't for-sure either. At least not in, mebbe, a red-zone assault."
"Only one sir! Thank you. Buy yourself another drink. And me one, too."
Mahoney passed his mug across.
"I could probably elaborate on Carruthers' assessment," Lanzotta said carefully, "but there's no need. Gargle words don't explain things any better than she did."
"Come on, Lanzotta. Like pulling teeth. You know what I want."
"I'd rate Sten first rate for Mantis Section. He reminds me of some of the young thugs I tried to keep under control for you."
Carruthers spun, spilling beer.
"You was in Mantis Section, sergeant?"
"He was my team sergeant," Mahoney said.
"And I got out. Carruthers, you don't know any of this. But there's a clotting difference between going in hot, facing entrenched troops, and cutting the throat of some small-time dictator while he's in bed with a girl. Remember that, colonel?"
"Which one?"
Mahoney gestured, and Carruthers passed Lanzotta his shot/beer. Lanzotta stared into the amber distance, then upended the mug. "I didn't like it. I wasn't any good at it."
"Hell you weren't. You stayed alive. That's the only grade."
Lanzotta didn't say anything.
Mahoney grinned and affectionately scrubbed Lanzotta's close crop. "I'd still trade half a team if you'd come back, friend." Then Mahoney turned business. "Evaluations?"
"Transfer recommended, Psychiatric Section," Rykor put in briefly.
"Recommend transfer," Carruthers aped awkwardly.
"Take him, Mahoney," Lanzotta said, sounding very tired. "He'll be a great killer for you."
Frazer slipped off the slideway and hurried toward the zoo. He was nervous about the meeting and the handivid burned in his pocket. He carded into the zoo and walked past the gate guard, waiting for the hand on his shoulder.
His clerk's mind told him there was nothing to be worried about—Frazer had covered all of his tracks—He was a master at the computer and the Imperial bureaucracy. No way could anyone know why he was there.
Frazer stopped at the saber-tooth tiger cages. He grew more edgy as the beasts paced back and forth. Like all the creatures in the zoo, the tiger was part of the gene history of humankind. If Frazer had gone farther, he would have encountered sloths and giant-winged insects and enormous warm-blooded reptiles. He could smell the reptiles from where he was, rotten meat and bubbling swamps. . .
The assassin moved in beside him. "Got it?"
Frazer nodded and handed the assassin the vidpack. A long wait.
And the assassin said: "Excellent."
"I chose someone whose record could be easily manipulated," Frazer said. "All you have to do is step in."
The assassin smiled. "I knew I could count on you. The best. You have the computer touch."
Someone recognized Frazer's talents. Only he could dip into the informational pile and cut it out, one onion slice of information at a time.
"Ah—the money?"
The assassin handed him a slip of paper. Frazer studied it. "It is untraceable?"
"Of course, pride in my work, and all that. You can see. . ."
Frazer was satisfied. His only regret was that Rykor could never know exactly how clever he was.
The assassin draped an arm over Frazer's shoulder as they walked away from the cages.
"You wonder about loyalty," Frazer began.
"Yes. You do," the assassin said.
The arm draped lower, curling around. Right hand curling around Frazer's chin, left hand snapped against the back of his head. There was a dull snap! Frazer went limp. Dead.
No one was around as the assassin dragged the body back to the edge of the cage. Lifted, braced, and Frazer's body lofted down.
The roars and the sound of feeding finished the matter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE EMPEROR, MAHONEY decided, had finally gone mad. He was hovering over a huge bubbling pot half filled with an evil-looking mixture, muttering to himself.
"A little of this. A little of that. A little garlic and a little fat. Now, the cumin. Just a touch. Maybe a bit more. No, lots more." The Emperor finally noticed Mahoney and smiled. "You're just in time," he said. "Gimme that box."
Mahoney handed him an elaborately carved wooden box. The Emperor opened it and poured out a handful of long reddish objects. They looked like desiccated alien excrement to Mahoney.
"Look at these," he boasted to Mahoney. ‘Ten years in the biolabs to produce."
"What are they?"
"Peppers, you clot. Peppers."
"Oh, uh, great. Great."
"Don't you know what that means?"
Mahoney had to admit he didn't.
"Chili, man. Chili. You ain't got peppers, you got no chili."
"That's important, huh?"
The Emperor didn't say another word. Just dumped in the peppers, punched a few buttons on his cooking console, stirred, then dipped up a huge spoonful of the mess and offered it to Mahoney. He watched intently as Mahoney tasted. Not ba—then it hit him. His face went on fire, his ears steamed and he choked for breath. The Emperor pounded him on the back, big grin on his face, and then offered him a glass of beer. Mahoney slugged it down. Wheezed.
"Guess I got it just right," the Emperor said.
"You mean you did that on purpose?"
"Sure. It's supposed to scorch the hair off your butt. Otherwise it wouldn't be chili." The Emperor poured them both two beers, motioned to Mahoney to join him, and settled down in a huge, overstuffed couch. "Okay. You earned your check this month. Now, how about the next?"
"You mean Thoresen?"
"Yeah, Thoresen."
"Zero, zero, zero."
"Maybe we should escalate."
"I was gonna recommend that in my report. But it's dangerous. We could blow the whole thing."
"How so?"
"It's Lester. He says there's a lot more motion on Bravo Project. And he's got a way in. Trouble is, if he's caught, we're out an inside man."
The Emperor thought a moment. Then sighed. "Tell him to go ahead." He drained his glass, filled it with more beer. "Now, what about the other matter?"
"The gun smuggling? Well, I still can't prove it."
"But it's happening? That's a fact, right?"
"Yeah," Mahoney said. "We know for sure that four planets—all supposedly our confederates—are shipping weapons to Vulcan."
"Thoresen again. To hell with it. Let's quit playing games with the man. Send in the Guard. Stomp him out."
"Uh, that's not such a hot idea, boss. I mean—"
"I know. I know. Lousy diplomatic move. But what about my ‘buddies' on those other four planets? No reason I can't take them out."
"It's done."
The emperor grinned. Finally, a little action. "Mantis Section?"
"I sent in four teams," Mahoney said. "I guarantee those guns will stop."
"Without any diplomatic repercussions?"
"Not a whisper."
The Emperor liked that even better. He got up from his couch and walked over to the bubbling pot. Sniffed it. Nice. He started dishing up two platefuls.
"Join me for dinner,
Mahoney?"
Mahoney was out of the couch in a hurry and headed for the door. "Thanks, boss, any night but tonight. I gotta—"
"Hot date?"
"Yeah," Mahoney said. "Whatever that is. Not as hot as that stuff."
And he was gone. The Emperor went back to his chili. Wondering which members of the Royal Court deserved to share his company tonight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE BARON WATCHED the screen anxiously as a swarm of Techs moved quickly about the freighter's hold, making final connections and adjustments. This was it. A few more minutes and he would learn if all the credits and danger were worth it.
The Bravo Project test was taking place light years away from Vulcan, and far away from normal shipping lanes. The picture on Thoresen's screen changed as the Techs finished, then hustled out of the hold, crammed into a shuttle and started moving away from the ancient freighter.
Thoresen turned to the Tech beside him, who was studying swiftly changing figures on his own screen. Then: "Ready, sir."
Thoresen took a deep breath, then told the Tech to begin.
"Countdown initiated. . ."
The shuttle came to a stop many kilometers away from the freighter. The on-board Techs went to work, changing programs in their computers, getting ready for the final signal.
The inside of the freighter had been gutted, and at opposite ends the Techs had constructed two huge devices—they would have been called rail guns in ancient times—each aimed exactly at the electric "bore" of the other.
Thoresen barely heard the countdown. He was concentrating on the two images on the screen: One was of a huge glowing emptiness inside the hold of the freighter. The other was of the outside of the freighter, the shuttle in the foreground. The Tech tapped him on a shoulder. They were ready to go. All of a sudden, the Baron felt very relaxed. Flashed a rare smile at the Tech, punched in the code that was the trigger.
