Kingdom's Swords

by David Sherman

  Lambsblood's face went pale, but he bowed his head and said, "Thy will be done."

  Outside the conference room, Lambsblood said to Spears, "Your military headquarters will be contacted by my operations staff to make the necessary arrangements." He didn't look at the Marine.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lance Corporal Schultz glowered. This was the kind of assignment he most detested. "I'm a lance corporal," he growled, "not an NCO. I follow. I fight. No leader. That's the deal."

  "I know that, Hammer," Charlie Bass said patiently. "And I'm not asking you to be a leader. If I wanted you to be a leader, I'd give you Marines to lead. I need you to help Corporal Kerr and Corporal Doyle teach these amateurs," he indicated the nearby platoon of Soldiers of the Lord, "how to patrol and fight." The Kingdomite soldiers were doing their best to not look at the two heads that hovered in midair a few meters from the formation.

  Schultz glanced at the sword-shaped pin in Bass's exposed hand. "That's their sergeant's collar insignia. You want me to wear it."

  Bass shook his head. "It's a ‘sword's’ rank insignia," he said. "A ‘sword’ is not the same as a Marine sergeant. Do you think I'd give a Kingdomite sword command of a Marine squad?"

  "You did this before," Schultz rumbled. On Wanderjahr the Marines had been integrated into the feldpolizei as commissioned and noncommissioned officers. Schultz, a career lance corporal, had been made an acting section leader in the feldpolizei—the equivalent of a squad leader. He'd hated that assignment.

  "And you did a very good job training the feldpolizei. I expect you to do the same kind of job training the Kingdomites." Bass groped for the invisible collar of Schultz's chameleon shirt and pinned the sword emblem on it.

  A Soldier of the Lord fainted at the sight of disembodied hands pinning the emblem in midair below a hovering head.

  Schultz looked like he wanted to kill somebody. Preferably starting with the Kingdomite platoon.

  Corporal Doyle broke off from admiring his own newly pinned-on Kingdomite rank insignia to cast a concerned glance at Schultz. He hadn't been with third platoon on the Wanderjahr deployment and knew only vaguely how Schultz had reacted to the assignment.

  Corporal Kerr ignored the byplay between Bass and Schultz. He was more concerned with the three ministers the Army of the Lord had posted with the platoon. He was concerned that before the mission was over those three men might pose problems even more serious for the Marines than the Skinks presented.

  First Acolyte Fakir sat most uncomfortably in a very unaccustomed place—the wrong side of his own field desk. The one-armed man who sat opposite, in Fakir's own chair, wore the doubled cross of a lesser imam on one collar point of his drab green shirt. Lesser imam was the proper rank of a company commander in the Army of the Lord. Should the Army of the Lord assign a lesser imam to take command of the 157th Defense Garrison, the command position Fakir had been filling for several months now, he could fully understand and accept it. And then beg forgiveness from God for the jealousy and rage he would feel at not himself being granted promotion to lesser imam. But the one-armed man who sat in his chair, on his side of his desk, who had just assumed command of his company, also wore, on the collar point that did not have the doubled cross of a lesser imam, the three chevrons and crossed blasters of a Confederation Marine Corps sergeant, a rank equivalent to sword, a squad leader. This First Acolyte Fakir did not fully understand, nor could he fully accept it. How had he offended God that he and his company should be placed under the command of a mere enlisted man—and a one-armed enlisted man at that? Outside the office, other Marines, men with ranks equal to subsword and ordinary soldiers, had assumed all of the command and leadership positions in the company.

  "Acolyte, I can understand if you're unhappy about our situation here. I'm not happy about being returned to duty before my arm's been regenerated either." Sergeant Bladon lifted the stump of his missing arm. "If it's too long before the regeneration process starts, the arm that grows here won't be as good as the arm that I lost. You lose some pride for a short period of time." He looked at the stump. "I stand to lose something more." He ignored the monk who sat to Fakir's right and slightly behind him.

  "Lesser Imam," Fakir said, "I didn't realize I said anything to indicate any unhappiness with a brave soldier such as yourself being in command."

  Bladon stared at him with a coldness that made the acolyte shiver. "We're starting off wrong," he said in a voice as cold as his gaze. "My men and I are not ‘soldiers,’ we are Marines, and you will address us as such. There is a very significant difference between soldiers and Marines. This is something you will learn very well in the coming days."

  Fakir wanted to clear his throat and run a finger around his suddenly too tight collar, to wipe the beads of persperation from his brow, but he didn't dare. This acting lesser imam might in fact have only the equivalent rank of a sword, but in manner he might have been a colonel deacon, a personage to be obeyed instantly.

  "As for the rest of what you said," Bladon continued more conversationally, "you don't have to say anything for me to know you're unhappy. You're an officer in a class-bound army, in a strongly hierarchical society—your unhappiness shows in your face." Bladon made to fold his arms on the desk and lean forward on them, flinched when he put weight on the stump, sat straighter. "But you have to understand something. I and all of my men have training in leadership for the units we will be commanding. Even more important than that, most of my Marines and I have experience in training and leading planetary forces. We know what we're doing. Also, all of us have faced the Skinks." He lifted his stump to drive the point home. He paused for a moment, then decided it was pointless to keep secret the fact that this wasn't the first appearance of the Skinks. "Most of us have faced them elsewhere—and defeated them. We are the best people in all of Human Space to train your people in how to fight them, and the best qualified to lead you against the Skinks."

  Fakir cleared his throat. "Lesser Imam"—he couldn't bring himself to say "sir"—"I doubt neither your abilities nor your qualifications."

  "Of course not," Bladon said dryly. "Now, to business. We—this entire company—need to be able to respond immediately to a report anywhere in our assigned area, this thousand-square-kilometer area." He turned on a map projection and studied it. The map showed ten small settlements and a number of isolated homesteads. "What kind of communications do you have with those villages?"

  "Lesser Imam?"

  "How do they get in touch with you if they need help?"

  "Our headquarters notifies us." He sounded as if the thought of the villages making contact on their own was an alien concept.

  "Not good enough. By the time they contact your headquarters and your HQ notifies us, the Skinks will be gone." He glanced sharply at Fakir. "How do they contact your HQ?"

  "The village headman radios the district town, and the district council decides whether the military needs to be called. If so, they notify headquarters and headquarters calls us."

  Bladon shook his head sharply. "Even worse. That process takes entirely too long. Do those villages have your frequency?"

  "Lesser Imam?" Fakir looked confused; the question was too bizarre. "The village headmen have no need for our frequency."

  "They do now. I want you to contact every village immediately and instruct them to call here if they are attacked. Do those isolated homesteads have radios?"

  "I can't do that, I haven't the authority!" He looked at the monk for guidance.

  Bladon leaned toward Fakir and gave him a hard look. He ignored the pain in his stump. "This is not a religious matter, Acolyte," he snapped. "All the authority you need is right here." He tapped his chest. "I order you to do it. You will do it. You will do it right now. If you don't like it, or if you think it will get you in trouble with your HQ, report to them. After you have obeyed my order." He looked directly at the minister when he said the last.

  Fakir blanched, but headquarters was distant in both s
pace and time, and this off-world Marine was right here and right now. He jumped to his feet and hurried to obey the order. The monk followed more leisurely.

  "And every one of the isolated homesteads that has a radio," Bladon called after him. Alone at last, he allowed himself to grimace at the pain in his stump, and at the phantom pain and itching in his missing arm. He looked at where his arm should have been and wondered if he'd get the regeneration treatment in time. Fakir's lack of communication with the villagers flashed through his mind, and he wondered if the Army of the Lord was worth training and leading, whether even the damn planet was worth saving from the Skinks, worth the Marines who had already died or been maimed.

  He made a face and pulled himself together. Even if he didn't like the local government, there was no reason for him to condemn the people to the Skinks. Besides, he was a Marine, he went where he was sent and did his job to the best of his abilities. Nobody ever said he had to like any particular assignment. He glanced at his stump again. Neither had anyone promised he'd finish his time in the Corps whole in body.

  "Lesser Imam," Fakir said, interrupting his thoughts, "the settlements have been notified. We are in the process of notifying the farmsteads as well."

  "Good. Now we need to work out a reaction plan. Then I'll tell you about the training program we have." He gestured for Fakir to come in and resume his seat.

  The monk entered behind the young officer.

  None of the other commissioned and noncommissioned officers of the 157th Defense Garrison reacted any better to being under the command of off-worlders. Most of them attempted to resist.

  "Acolyte, I must insist!" Second Acolyte Balashir was confident he could overawe the off-worlder who, despite the gilded cross he wore on his invisible collar, was really only a subsword. After all, the simple fact that he was a duly commissioned officer demonstrated his superiority over a mere subsword given a sham "temporary" commission. "My soldiers know how to patrol. We know our territory from patrolling it constantly. We can go wherever we want whenever we choose, and none can find or stop us."

  Corporal Kerr idly scratched at his chameleon shirt over the place on his chest that should have born a scar from the time he was almost killed. "You're sure of that?" he asked.

  "Surety is not the question. I know it."

  Kerr looked down to where he knew the hand holding his helmet was, then abruptly lifted it and put it on. He slid the chameleon shield into place, flipped up his collar point to make the gilded cross vanish, and stepped back and to the side. Balashir started when the tall man he was addressing disappeared.

  "I'm in arm's reach," Kerr said. "Touch me." He sidestepped and took two paces forward, behind Balashir, who was groping at where he'd been.

  "That's not where I'm at," Kerr snapped.

  Balashir spun around.

  "You're looking in the wrong direction," Kerr said from yet another place.

  "What are you doing?" Balashir demanded. "This is a child's game. If you have a point, make it."

  "The point is," Kerr said, back in his starting place, his invisible helmet again off and hanging at the end of his invisible arm, "I was standing out in the open, in arm's reach of you, and you couldn't see me. The Skinks can see me at a distance in a forest or a swamp. I don't know how they do it, we've never found any evidence that they have infrared vision equipment. If they can see a man who you can't, what makes you think they won't see you?"

  Balashir swallowed. No one had told him the demons could see invisible men. "Is it possible to patrol so they can't see us?"

  Kerr slowly shook his head. "No. But it is possible to patrol in such a manner that you have a chance of spotting them before they kill you. It's possible to patrol in a way that won't allow them to kill all of you before you have a chance to fight back. If you start paying less attention to the fact that in the Confederation Marines I'm a corporal, and more attention to the fact that I've fought in campaigns on a dozen or more worlds—that the weakest foe I've fought was better trained, better led, and better armed than the toughest peasant revolt you've ever faced—then I can teach you things that just might keep you and your men alive."

  Balashir looked wonderingly at Kerr. Even if this subsword was exaggerating his experience, his knowledge of combat might in fact be superior to his own. "I will instruct my men to obey you as they would me in their training," he said. But he thought, Who has command when we fight is another matter.

  Some members of the 157th Defense Garrison had an easier time than others accepting the off-worlders' command. Sword Santa Jesus Maria took one look at the glare emitted from the eyes in the face that hovered too far above the ground in front of his reinforced squad and resolved to do absolutely nothing to rouse the man's ire.

  "I don't want to be in this position," Schultz growled at Maria and his soldiers. "I don't want to be on this silly assed excuse for a world. I want to kill Skinks. You will do what I tell you to. You will do it when I tell you to. You will do it the way I train you. If you prevent me from killing Skinks, I will kill you."

  Sword Santa Jesus Maria, a career soldier decorated three times for heroism in combat, struggled to control his shaking. This Marine frightened him more than any heretic he'd ever fought.

  "I'm going to teach you how to shoot."

  Nobody protested that they already knew how to shoot. Schultz taught them by example, and used far fewer words than he already had. He made them believe they needed to learn how to shoot.

  A few of the officers and noncoms thought it would be beneficial to bring the Marines under their own command: Marines were supposed to be superior fighters, and should prove to be excellent examples to their own men. Sword Sriyjava was one who thought so once he saw the uncertainty in the face of the Marine who was supposed to assume command.

  "Sword Doyle, I welcome you," he said effusively. "A fine soldier such as yourself is a most welcome addition to the 157th Defense Garrison. I hardily welcome you into my squad."

  "Ah, thank you. Thank you." Corporal Doyle was pleased that the nervousness he felt didn't come through in his voice. "Don't bother to introduce everybody right now, I'll get to know all of you soon enough." He hoped he would. "The first thing I need to know is the chain of command within the squad."

  "Absolutely, Sword! As experienced as you surely are, and bearing as you do the acting rank of sword, I have absolutely no qualms whatsoever, and neither do my men, at making you my second in command." A few of the soldiers in the ranks snickered behind their hands.

  Doyle blinked. "Ah, maybe you didn't get the word?" he said hesitantly. "I'm supposed to be in command. You're my second."

  "But Sword Doyle, surely you instantly recognize the folly in that. You do not know my men. You do not know the land. You do not know the people here!" He slapped his chest. "I know them intimately. It is absurd to expect an off-worlder to come in and take command." One or two of the soldiers laughed out loud.

  Doyle wished he had the quiet command presence of Corporal Kerr, or that he could inspire fear in people the way Lance Corporal Schultz did. He didn't and he couldn't, but he had to take command from Sword Sriyjava anyway. And he had to do it in a way that didn't turn these soldiers against him.

  "Sword Sriyjava," he said slowly, "do you normally disobey orders from Army of the Lord high command?"

  Sriyjava assumed the look of an innocent falsely accused. "Never! The Army of the Lord high command speaks with the voice of the Convocation. All Soldiers of the Lord are constrained to obey its orders as we would obey the word of Allah."

  "The order to place Marines in command positions came from your high command."

  Sriyjava nodded and stepped closer. "Sword Doyle," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone, "we will reach an accommodation. We can show you in command, while I—who know the men, the land, and the people—am actually in charge." The soldiers behind him exchanged knowing glances.

  Doyle sighed. He'd felt silly in making his preparations to assume command of this
squad, but more than half expected a confrontation, and he'd come prepared to impress them. He stepped back and peeled off his chameleon shirt to reveal the dress scarlet tunic he wore under it.

  "Do you know what these are?" he asked, running his fingers along the two rows of medals on his left chest. "These," he indicated the six medals on the bottom row, "are the Confederation Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal and campaign medals. The Expeditionary Medal, you will notice, has two comets on it to indicate I've been awarded it three times. That's eight times I've gone to different worlds on a combat deployment." These soldiers didn't need to know that he'd been a clerk on all those expeditions and campaigns, that he was on his first deployment as an infantryman. Anyway, he'd get around to the time he fought. "This," he indicated the leftmost of the two medals on the top row, "is the Marine Good Conduct Medal, with two comets for subsequent awards. Right, I've been a Marine for more than twelve years, I've got experience. These," the three ribbons on his right chest, "are unit citations. You'll notice they have gold comets on them, meaning I've been awarded each more than once. This," he saved the best for last and lifted the star hanging from the ribbon in the superior position on his left chest, "is the Bronze Star with Comet for bravery in combat."

  A couple of the soldiers in the ranks gasped. They'd heard about the Confederation Marines Bronze Star. So had Sword Sriyjava. None of them laughed; he had their complete attention.

  "I was awarded it for being one of eight Marines on patrol on a world called Elneal. We ran into, ah... let's say a whole lot of armed men who wanted us dead. A lot of them died before they backed off and let us walk out of the Martac Waste—and all eight of us did walk out." He paused and took a deep breath. "Do you know what you would have gotten if your entire defense garrison ran into the people we ran into? You would have gotten a lot of buzzards picking at your bones, that's what."