Kingdom's Swords

by David Sherman

  "Speak up if you think you see anything," he told his staff. He thought it probably wasn't necessary for him to say that, but he couldn't take the risk that someone might see something and assume wrongly that he already had. None of the assembled officers said anything immediately. It wasn't until halfway through the next rotation through the map that Captain Shadeh, the personnel officer, spoke up.

  "Sir?" Shadeh, the F1 personnel officer, waited for Sturgeon's nod before continuing. "They seem to be widening the range of the raids, as though they intend to spread us thinner and thinner."

  Sturgeon hit a sequence of buttons and the map changed to show the entire area of operation. A series of tiny red lights blinked on, changed to yellow, were replaced by a different scattering of red lights, changed to green as the new red lights became yellow and were replaced by yet more red lights. Greens became gray and stayed that color as additional red lights demoted earlier reds to yellows and yellows to greens.

  "It looks like you're right," he said, glancing at Shadeh. "Trust the F1 to come up with a pattern that affects personnel disposition."

  Shadeh smiled grimly.

  "Anybody see anything that looks like it can indicate a starting point?" He looked at Commander Daana, the intelligence officer.

  "Nossir," the F2 said. "The latest computer analysis says a random pattern generator is behind it. So far it hasn't been able to come up with a logarithm to duplicate it."

  "Any other ideas anybody?"

  Commander Usner, the operations officer, leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Sir, an idea is niggling at the back of my mind. In some ways this is a reversal of the classic guerrilla campaign."

  "Explain."

  "Sir, the classic guerrilla campaign begins with small acts of terrorism and small hit-and-run hits on military targets to, let's say, cause ‘a death of a thousand cuts’ and damage morale. Over time it builds up to conventional force engagements. What happened when we made planetfall? First they gave us a sample of their strength by hitting a remote garrison. When we first encountered them it was in a major engagement. We won that one, but at a dear cost. We don't know how badly we hurt them, but there must have been enough of them left over for them to defeat us if they massed. They didn't. Instead they went to terroristic hit-and-run raids. They're hitting villages, hard. When we show up, they run before we can engage them—except when they've got an ambush set. Then they seem to fight us until we have to withdraw or until they're dead. They've convinced the people that neither the government nor the army can protect them." He made a sour face. "People in the outlying areas have no confidence in us. The army is losing its confidence in us. Even the theocracy is beginning to accuse us of incompetence."

  "Following your logic, their next step is minor terroristic acts."

  "Possible. They haven't conducted any raids for the past three days. That could mean they've given up. But maybe they've been stretching us out, wearing us out, damaging the morale of the army, in order to set us up for something big."

  Sturgeon looked back at the map. The ever-increasing lights showed no slacking of frequency. "The way they vaporize when they're hit with a plasma bolt," he shook his head, "we can't tell how many of them we've killed. Either they're losing much of their strength and exhausting their surviving soldiers, or they have a very substantial number of them—they certainly give no indication of a desire to conserve their lives. In the first case, they can't continue much longer, they won't have enough troops to carry on, and we go into a mopping up action. In the latter, we may not be enough to deal with them." He looked at his staff. "Do any of you believe they're near the end?"

  They all shook their heads.

  "Suggestions?"

  "Draw up a contingency plan in case they are setting us up for a big hit," Usner said.

  "Do it."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Anybody else?"

  "Sir, I believe our Marines are too thinly spread," Shadeh said. "Every squad reports conflict with the local unit command structure. It wouldn't take a very large Skink force to overrun any of those garrisons. A battalion could probably do it fairly easily. I'd like to see our Marines consolidated."

  Sturgeon shook his head. "While I sympathize and might even agree with you on that, if we pulled out of the garrisons, it would have an even more traumatic effect on the Army of the Lord than their losses and inability to close with the Skinks has."

  Shadeh nodded. The brigadier was right on that point. Still, it was liable to cost many more Marines their lives.

  "Anyone else? Four, I haven't heard from you."

  "Sir, logistics are in fine shape," Captain West said. "As for what to do, I'm thoroughly baffled. The Skinks don't seem to think like we do." He looked embarrassed at that. The Skinks weren't human, were they? It wasn't realistic to expect them to think like humans.

  "Dismissed," Sturgeon said, and turned off the map.

  When he was alone, he settled back in his chair and thought. A FIST commander always had to be prepared for the worst. The worst almost never happened, of course, but a commander who wasn't prepared for it lost the battle if it did happen. The worst here was that the Skinks were so strong they could continue raiding and fighting until 34th FIST was so worn down it was no longer functional—if the Skinks didn't do something to totally destroy the FIST. The only thing he could think of to deal with this worst was more Marines. First he needed to replace his losses. He shook his head. Not even in the war on Diamunde had 34th FIST suffered such heavy casualties. Beyond replacements, this situation could call for an additional FIST. But how could he request another FIST? As far as anybody on Earth knew, the problem on Kingdom was a peasant rebellion. The existence of the Skinks—or any alien sentience—was a closely held state secret. He couldn't request another FIST. Back at the Heptagon they'd think he'd lost it, was no longer fit to command. The most they'd do is send someone to replace him.

  There was only one person he could go to who wouldn't think he'd lost his mind or his courage, and that would mean bypassing the chain of command. He picked up his comm unit and punched in Ambassador Spears's code.

  "Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Jay," Sturgeon said as he entered the den in Spears's quarters.

  "Absolutely no problem," Spears said as he led Sturgeon to a comfortable chair. "I always have time to see a distinguished Marine. Especially one I've been through the mill with. Refreshment? I'm drinking tea myself. Sencha, grown locally from the descendants of shrubs imported from Japan."

  "Thank you. Tea sounds excellent."

  Spears busied himself for a moment, setting a cup for Sturgeon and ceremoniously pouring the tea, then sat. "Now, Brigadier, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Judging by your grave expression, I assume this isn't a purely social call."

  "I'm afraid you're right, Jay. Do you have a back channel for getting private messages to Earth?"

  Spears laughed. "As many decades as I've spent in the diplomatic realm? Ted, I have more ways of getting messages to anybody than the Minister of State does. How can I help you?"

  "I need to get a message to the Assistant Commandant of the Marine Corps."

  Spears looked at him curiously. "Don't you have your own channels for that?"

  Sturgeon took a deep breath. He'd spent too many years at the bosom of Mother Corps; what he needed to do now violated basic principles of his beliefs. "Yes, but the message would take too long to get to him via regular channels. And it might not reach him at all."

  "It's about the Skinks, isn't it?"

  Sturgeon nodded.

  "And the Heptagon doesn't know they exist, and some functionary will see the message and decide you've gone around the bend, so the assistant commandant may never get a message from you if you say ‘Skinks.’"

  "Right again."

  "But why the assistant commandant? Why not the commandant himself?"

  "Because General Aguilano is probably the only person in the entire Marine Corps outside 34t
h FIST who knows about the Skinks. If he knows what's really happening here, he'll see to it that the appropriate action is taken. I cannot count on anyone else in the entire Confederation military taking this situation seriously."

  Spears tipped his head back and thought. Abruptly he sat up straight again. "I have a friend at State who has a cousin on the staff at Headquarters, Marine Corps." He grinned. "A civilian employee, so there won't be any problem with the military chain of command. Compose your message. I'll write a chatty letter to my friend at State, and include your message with an urgent request that it be delivered most expeditiously. A diplomatic pouch is going out tomorrow. I'll include my letter and your message."

  Sturgeon looked uncertain. "Are you sure your friend will do it?"

  Spears laughed. "My friend is a career diplomatic bureaucrat. Thumbing his nose at military protocol is the most natural thing in the world for him."

  And just as natural, there was another problem Sturgeon had to deal with mere hours after the diplomatic pouch was dispatched via Beamspace drone.

  "YOU FAILED!" Ayatollah Jebel Shammar thundered. "You bring your infidels and your ideas of Shaitan to our holy land and you fail to exorcize the demons who torment us!"

  "Revered One—"

  "SILENCE!" Shammar cut Ambassador Spears off. "I speak not to you, but to this alleged military commander! He is the one who has failed. You are but a gnat buzzing about Mohammed's sacred nose, and you will remain silent until commanded to speak." He looked at Sturgeon, daring him to claim anything other than failure.

  "Revered One," Sturgeon said in a calm, firm voice, "we have not failed. The Skinks are wily and numerous. There is no discernable pattern to their raids, so we can't anticipate them. They run before we reach the villages they attack, so we cannot fight them when we arrive. But when we do make contact, we defeat them. Their casualties have been horrendous."

  "Yet they continue to ravage the Faithful!" He slapped the top of the massive table hard enough to cause his teacup to splash out a few drops. "We are of the belief that the demons stepped up their depredations against God's people when you arrived. A motion is before the Convocation of Ecumenical Leaders to demand the immediate removal from the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles of all infidels other than those few necessary to maintain needed contact with the Confederation of Human Worlds. It will pass when the Convocation meets tomorrow. You and your soldiers will be on board your ship and leaving our space by Haven's nightfall tomorrow."

  "With all due respect, Revered One, I am under the orders of the President and Congress of the Confederation of Human Worlds. They ordered 34th FIST to deploy to the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles to conduct military operations to a successful conclusion. The last time you wanted us to leave, it appeared that the mission was concluded. We now know the operations have not been successfully concluded. I am not at liberty to remove my FIST from this world without express orders from my commander in chief or the Confederation's properly designated representative."

  Sturgeon's reply caught Spears unprepared, but he was diplomatic enough not to let the surprise show on his face. He, Jay Benjamin Spears, was the properly designated representative of the Confederation President and Congress on Kingdom. He, with sufficient cause, had full authority to order 34th FIST to leave Kingdom. A ruling by the Convocation demanding that the Marines leave was sufficient cause. Spears was certain Sturgeon knew that; the Marine was taking a considerable risk if he was attempting to bluff these five men.

  "I care not for your Confederation!" Shammar roared, pounding the table and splashing out more of his tea. "You have failed miserably, and the Faithful suffer the consequences. I desire and command that you and your infidels quit this world! We shall find a way through our faith to exorcise these demons."

  Sturgeon couldn't help but catch Shammar's use of the first person singular pronoun. Was Shammar alone in this thinking, and using the force of his fury to bull the others into reluctant agreement? He calmly looked at the other members of the leadership council. Swami Bastar's expression reflected one of the more vengeful of the ancient Hindu gods. No help there. Cardinal Leemus O'Lanners could have been Ignatius Loyola's chief Inquisitor; he fiddled with his teacup, drank deeply from it, signed for a refill. The Venerable Muong Bo looked more ready to do violence than a Buddhist prelate should. Only Bishop Ralphy Bruce Preachintent seemed uncomfortable with the proceedings, with a leavening of fear underlying his discomfort. Bishop Ralphy Bruce might be the chink in their front he needed to reverse the decision.

  "And the rest of you?" Sturgeon asked. "Do you agree?"

  Swami Baster held up a long-nailed finger. "You have failed," he said.

  The Venerable Muong Bo composed his face into an expression of sublime serenity. "Violence is not the Way," he said softly. "You are creatures of violence."

  Cardinal O'Lanners drank down his cup again, signaled for an attendant to refill it, quaffed again. The liquid the attendant poured didn't look like the tea in the cups before the other four prelates. "Holy Mother Church holds exorcism to be a very serious matter," he said. "We would be using it only in matters of demonic possession. I cannot believe that anyone—or anyplace—on Kingdom is demonically possessed. Though certainly these ‘demons’ do exist and destroy our people and property."

  "Now—Now wait just—just a minute here," Bishop Ralphy Bruce stammered. "We've been invaded by someone who... someone nobody seems to know anything about. We can't beat them off by ourselves. Hell and damnation, that's why we asked for Confederation help in the first place! We can't do it. Ayatollah, these are flesh and blood creatures... Well, they're physical, whether they're flesh and blood like us or not. Exorcism won't work. They need to be fought with physical weapons. We don't have the weapons. The Army of the Lord can't stand against them. Except when the Marines are leading them. The army has never beaten any of them by itself." He glanced apologetically at Lambsblood. "If we send the Confederation Marines away, we're all going to die! We need more Marines, not none!"

  Before Shammar could react, a saffron-robed cleric with shaven head and clasped hands padded into the room, shuffled to Shammar's shoulder, and bent to whisper in his ear. The Ayatollah's already livid face turned nearly purple as he listened to the whispers. The message given, he imperiously flicked his fingers and the cleric shuffled away.

  "The demons dare attack Haven! Can you do naught?" he demanded of Sturgeon.

  "By your leave, Revered One." Sturgeon gave a small bow and left the room without waiting to be dismissed. It was time for the FIST's "cooks and bakers" to join battle.

  Chapter Thirty

  The suborbital flight from Fargo to Falls Church International Airport in Virginia took two hours. Coming in from the west, the morning sun gleamed brilliantly off the huge inland sea where the District of Columbia and the state of Maryland had once been, before the Second American Civil War. The ancient city of Falls Church, founded in 1690, had become a resort town. The Lenfens lived in a condo on the forty-first floor of the Skyline Drive Complex, only five kilometers from the beach.

  "I appreciate your coming, gentlemen," Jennifer's mother said as she greeted them at the door. "My daughter often mentioned you, Mr. Tuit—and she also mentioned you, Captain Conorado." Conorado exchanged a glance with Tuit. When did Jennifer ever have a chance to mention him to her mother? he wondered. "Please come in and have some refreshment."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Lenfen," Tuit said.

  "Please, calling me ‘Mrs.’ makes me sound so old." Jennifer's mother laughed. "Call me Homa—that's what everyone else calls me." Above a hundred, Mrs. Lenfen bore a remarkable resemblance to her daughter, and as he watched her, Conorado felt a powerful wave of sadness come over him. He'd often heard people say that if you wanted to know what a woman would look like in old age, just observe her mother. If poor Jennifer had lived to her mother's age, she'd still have been an attractive woman.

  A young man in his thirties stood as t
he pair entered the living room. "This is Charles, gentlemen, Jennifer's youngest brother. The other children are spread out all over the place, with their own careers and families, and as you may know, my husband has been dead for some while now. My other sons and daughters would have liked to meet you and talk to you, but they couldn't make it on such short notice. Charles is a student at George Mason University, not far from here, so," she smiled whimsically, "he lives at home and avoids the distractions and temptations of university life."

  They shook hands with Charles, an intense young man who did not smile. "How did my sister really die?" he asked even before the visitors were seated.

  "Charles!" his mother admonished. "Well, we are interested in how our Jenny died, but," she glared at her son, "not before you have refreshed yourselves." She poured hot tea from an ancient porcelain teapot.

  Tuit sipped carefully from his teacup. He set it down just as carefully before he spoke. "Mrs. Lenfen, er, Homa," he began, "your daughter was one of the bravest and brightest young officers ever to serve under me, in the navy or in the merchant marine." He looked first into Mrs. Lenfen's face and then to Charles. The old lady smiled and nodded, but Charles's face showed no expression. Tuit thought, They know something's fishy here. He glanced at Conorado, who nodded and set his own cup down.

  "We aren't going to bullshit you—" Conorado's face turned red and he grimaced. "Excuse me, Mrs. Lenfen, that just slipped out."

  Mrs. Lenfen smiled. "Captain, you are no diplomat. That's one reason my daughter liked you so much."

  Again Conorado was puzzled by the old woman's remarks. How could she know anything about what was between himself and her daughter?

  "I think they're lying, Mother," Charles said softly.

  Mrs. Lenfen silenced her son with a wave of her hand. "Tell us what you can, gentlemen."

  "All we are at liberty to tell you, Homa," Tuit said, "is that Jennifer volunteered for a very dangerous mission, the success of which saved all our lives and most of my ship. It did involve an, uh, ‘incident’ in the propulsion unit of the Cambria, which did explode. She was killed in that explosion. The incident was much more complicated than that, but that is all we're at liberty to say. I can only add this: Jennifer's courage saved my life too."