Starfist - Kingdom's Swords Part 1

Kingdom's Swords.

David Sherman.

PROLOGUE.

Clouds made the night so dark a Soldier of the Lord would have had to step on a raider to know one was in the area, and the rain and thunder masked what little noise the raiders made as they crawled through the muck and ground cover toward the Army of the Lord outpost. Lack of visibility didn't bother the raiders; their plan was detailed, they knew their routes. Nor did the rain bother them. The receptors that lined their sides detected and located life-forms, could tell the difference between their own kind and others and were more effective in the rain than on a clear, dry night. The Soldiers of the Lord were all gathered in their barracks or in the duty office. None of them manned the observation posts; on a night like this, they knew, there would be no one about to guard against. Most of the eighteen soldiers in the duty office ignored the displays from the remote sensors; the effectiveness of the sensors was seriously reduced in severe weather, and they were unlikely to detect the approach of any ma.s.s smaller than a mob or an army, though no mob or army would be on the move on such a night. The Soldiers of the Lord had grown to like dark and stormy nights, for it gave them a break from the toils of guard duty at that remote outpost. Which was why the raiders selected a dark, stormy night. A Master led the night's raid, though with only fifty Fighters slithering and crawling toward the barracks and duty office, it needed no more than a Leader in command. This raid was the first direct strike in several months against the Army of the Lord, and the Over Master in command of operations in that sector of Kingdom greatly desired certainty of success. Sword Worshipful, the duty noncommissioned officer, briefly glowered at the displays. He took security duty in the farming lands more seriously than most; he thought most of the soldiers in the outpost risked their immortal souls with their laxness. But glowering at the displays did nothing to improve their efficiency.

"I am going to make the rounds," Sword Worshipful announced. The other soldiers looked at him curiously as he donned his slicker. What posts would he check?

Everyone who should be manning a post was huddled in the duty office, reading sacred tracts, talking, or sinfully playing cards. There were no manned posts for him to make the rounds of.

"Soldier Truth, Soldier h.e.l.lsbane, come with me." Soldiers Truth and h.e.l.lsbane grumbled at having to leave the dryness and warmth of the duty office, but they didn't grumble loudly or long; Sword Worshipful was an easy taskmaster, but a harsh disciplinarian. They shrugged into slickers and picked up their weapons, then stood next to the exit while Sword Worshipful gave instructions to the a.s.sistant duty noncom. Outside, rain battered the three men as they headed toward Post One. It drummed on their heads and shoulders, cascaded down their slickers, and gusts of wind blew it up under their raingear. Except when bolts of lightning allowed brief glances of the surrounding farmland, they could see no farther than a rod through the driving rain. Yet, with the ease born of constant repet.i.tion, they found their way unerringly to 3 3 the post.

Sword Worshipful stepped down into the unmanned watch post. Under the woven-reed overhead the rain dripped rather than pelted, but water flowed steadily into the pit, and muddy water sloshed over the tops of his boots. Soldiers Truth and h.e.l.lsbane huddled together on the post's leeward side. Careful not to allow water to drip onto the infrared scanner Sword Worshipful raised its waterproof sh.e.l.l and leaned his eyes into the viewing port. He scanned the area a.s.signed to Post One, saw nothing but wind-and rainswept grain as far as the treeline windbreak. Carefully, he secured the scanner, then called in an "all-secure" report.

They repeated the process at Post Two and Post Three. Soldiers Truth and h.e.l.lsbane looked forward to returning to the warmth and dryness of the duty office.

The five Fighters were close to each other, and had a Leader seen them, they would have been ordered to maintain the proper interval. But neither Leader was close enough to detect their bunching up. Suddenly, a Fighter hissed at the others-something-three somethings-was approaching from the left. They needed a Leader to tell them what to do. One of the five had a genetic defect-his intelligence was far higher than Fighters were bred for, and he quietly harbored the ambition to become a Leader. He growled an order to his four companions to get on line facing the oncoming trio. The four hesitated; obeying orders from another Fighter was as unheard of as a Fighter giving orders. But the one growled his orders more harshly, and the four recognized the command voice of a Leader even though they knew it came from another Fighter. They formed the line as ordered.

Three humans loomed out of the darkness, two slightly to the rear and flanks, one centered and leading. The Fighter with the genetic defect aimed the spout of his weapon at the centered Earthman, the obvious Leader, and shouted the command to fire. Each Fighter fired at the closest Earthman. Fluid, vaguely greenish in the dark, shot from the muzzles of the Fighters' weapons and splashed on the Earthmen, eating through the waterproof fabric, through the soldiers' uniforms, and into their flesh. The screams of Soldiers Truth and h.e.l.lsbane were drowned out by a crack of thunder. Sword Worshipful didn't scream; the fluid had struck him square in the face, was sucked into his lungs, and he began burning from the inside. The defective Fighter barked another order, and the other Fighters fired again at the Earthmen. He ordered them to cease fire and crawled to the downed Earthmen to make sure they were dead. One wasn't, but would be soon. The Fighter turned away, leaving the Earthman to die agonizingly in his own time, and ordered his companions to resume the crawl toward the duty office. Some minutes later the a.s.sistant duty noncom noticed that Sword Worshipful was late reporting in from Post Four. As he wondered why, the door of the duty office burst open and ten shrieking, growling, barking, manlike h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n were in the office, spraying greenish fluid. The soldiers screamed as the viscous fluid began eating into their flesh. Five who weren't hit in the initial volley scrambled for their weapons, but two of them were doubled up in agony before they reached the rack. A third was. .h.i.t before he could bring his weapon to bear. The fourth was. .h.i.t by three streams, and his finger spasmed on the trigger of his flechette rifle, spraying miniature darts into the ceiling of the duty office. One man got off a directed shot, and one of the demon creatures screamed as flechettes shredded its chest. Half a dozen 4 4 streams of fluid struck that soldier, and he died much faster, though with no less agony, than the others. Simultaneously, twenty raiders burst into the barracks. The weapons of the off-duty soldiers were locked in racks. The slaughter was one-sided. A Leader and three Fighters raced into the small side building that housed the First Acolyte and Lead Sword who commanded the outpost. They caught the First Acolyte in the bath and the Lead Sword at his prayers. Both died before they could begin to fight. The Fighters who had been left outside as a blocking force saw no action. In less than a minute the fifty-six Soldiers of the Lord who manned the outpost were dead. The Master commanding the raid ground his teeth when told of the Fighter killed in the duty office. He ordered the body to be bagged and all interior surfaces of the office to be sprayed with acid from the weapons, then had the building burned down. The few helix traces left should prove impossible to find.

CHAPTER ONE.

Big Barb's, the combination bar, bordello, and ship's chandlers that served as third platoon's headquarters when the men were on liberty in Bronnysund, was jumping. To start the evening out, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Ba.s.s, along with Joe Dean, Rock Claypoole, and some others, had shoved three tables together in what they called the banquet room and ordered beer. Hours had pa.s.sed, during which the other members of third platoon had trooped in by ones and twos, each new arrival greeted by loud cheers and hardy backslapping. Eventually almost the entire platoon was crowded around the tables, drinking, eating, and singing, as Ba.s.s held court at one end. Sitting nearby was Lance Corporal Chan, the unofficial honoree of the evening. Chan would soon be the newest corporal in third platoon, and Ba.s.s and the other NCOs were flexing their arms and clenching their fists in antic.i.p.ation of the pinning-on ceremony. Chan sipped his beer happily, eagerly antic.i.p.ating the sore shoulders that would plague him for a week after Captain Conorado pinned on the new chevrons. Owen the woo perched comfortably on Dean's shoulder, glowing the bright pink of wooish contentment, rocking gently back and forth, seemingly taking in everything with his enormous eyes. Top Myer had taken good care of the woo while Dean was away on Havanagas, but he confided to the lance corporal upon his return, "Dean, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d never got beyond light gray the whole time you were away. He missed you, lad!" Owen extended an appendage and s.n.a.t.c.hed up a ceramic fragment from a stein someone had broken earlier. The fragment disappeared down Owen's gullet and stayed down. It seemed to like ceramics. Several Marines applauded, and Claypoole, who was watching the woo carefully, was sure the little creature appreciated the attention. Claypoole had not forgotten the corpsman's story about the woo shouting a warning when the Skinks attacked his aid station on Waygone. Though Claypoole had never heard the woo make any sound that could be interpreted as words, he believed the story. Barmaids flitted in and out of the room, trays loaded with one-liter steins of Reindeer Ale. The women slapped away eager, groping hands and enthusiastically traded verbal barbs with the Marines, to everyone's great enjoyment. To be a barmaid at Big Barb's, a girl had to know English well and be able to think and move quickly, because after a few beers many of the patrons forgot who was a barmaid and who was a wh.o.r.e. But Big Barb's other girls were there too, matching the Marines beer for beer, joining in with the singing and holding their own in the repartee. To be a wh.o.r.e at Big Barb's a girl had to know some English, work fast, and move men quickly to the upstairs rooms and give them what they bargained for-and if they were really good, more than they bargained for. That's what kept 'em coming back. 5 5 But that night was special, not particularly because Lance Corporal Chan was antic.i.p.ating his forthcoming promotion, but because it was one of those nights fueled by the magical chemistry of alcohol, companionship, and shared experiences. It was just one of those magnificent nights for drinking with friends. They'd worry about their heads in the morning. Occasionally a Marine would get up, his arm around one of the girls, and drift out into the bar, headed for the stairs. Everyone cheered and clapped and shouted ribald advice to the pair, and those behind loudly ordered more rounds of beer to celebrate a comrade's good fortune. Out at the bar, sailors from the ships in port crowded three deep. Someone had brought an accordion and another man a fiddle, and they wheezed and scratched lively sea chanteys. Men and women stomped onto the dance floor, shaking the boards with the pounding of their feet. The bonhomie was infectious: sailors wandered into the banquet hall and were made welcome at the tables with the Marines. And as Marines stumbled through the crowded bar to the rest rooms, they were swept into the arms of the dancers and whisked around the room, to the delighted cheers of the patrons.

But sometimes at Big Barb's it wasn't all just beer and skittles and a headlong rush to the private rooms upstairs...

A new girl was holding court, seated on the bar in the main room. Hilma was above average height, full-breasted and broad-hipped, with her hair a blond that would have given even Mother Nature pause to wonder whether that shade of yellow actually existed anywhere in the spectrum. Her laugh was full and nearly as bra.s.sy as her hair. A dense knot of Marines and fishermen surrounded her, eager to get acquainted. She laughed and sang and joked-and urged her throng of admirers to drink up and eat more. The men roared approval with each sound she emitted, every move she made. And her movements were many; exotic, graceful, and s.e.xy all at the same time. So n.o.body noticed particularly when the door opened and John Francis walked in. One of the many off-worlders who'd come to Thorsfinni's World to pursue the wild and freewheeling life of the fisheries, Francis had the build of a tugboat and short-cropped black hair above a moon face. He walked with a limp occasioned by an encounter with a trawler that wanted to occupy the same s.p.a.ce he and a dinghy happened to hold. Looking around just inside the entrance, Francis saw an open s.p.a.ce at a table occupied by some acquaintances. He worked his way through the crowd and slowly, like a davit lowering a fragile cargo into a ship's hold, levered himself into the empty chair. The fishermen exchanged greetings. A harried serving girl popped up at his shoulder almost immediately to take his order for beer and brownies.

John Francis slowly shrugged off the satchel slung on his left shoulder. Moving just as deliberately, he opened it and withdrew a portable trid viewer.

"Were any of you at Einaar's Fjord on First Day?" he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "Rumbart Tomison ran his sprint-hover." He turned on the viewer and popped a trid crystal into it. "I had my cam with me, got some beautiful pictures." While he talked he fiddled with the viewer's controls, then turned it toward the other fishermen. "Look at this. He hit 225 kph in the half-K run. He let me into his pits and I got to work on the engine." The others exchanged glances before they turned toward the viewer. They weren't ready to talk about the races just yet, but they knew they had a choice: listen to John Francis talk about the hovercraft sprints and watch his trids, or get up and leave the table. There wasn't another open table, so moving wasn't 6 6 much of an option.

John Francis talked and talked and showed his trids of the previous First Day's sprints. His tablemates felt twinges of jealousy that they hadn't been there. He drank his beer and ate his brownies. Every time the laugh of the new girl, Hilma, cut through the din, he c.o.c.ked his eyes toward her, and each time he did, his eyes glowed more brightly. Francis wasn't known as a ladies' man, so the fishermen who watched his sprints trids paid his glances no attention. At length one of the fishermen in her circle broke through Hilma's mesmerizing spell long enough to announce that he was taking her upstairs. The announcement was greeted by an uproar of protest from the others.

"Excuse me," John Francis said to his tablemates, "I have to take care of something. You know how to use this; you can look at more pictures." Then he ponderously levered himself to his feet and heavily limped toward the bar, where a good-natured argument was in progress about the selfishness of the one fisherman who wanted to take Hilma away from the rest. Hilma, for her part, laughed about it with raucous delight.

Limp or not, no crowd could divert John Francis's progress. He waded through like an icebreaker in pack ice until he stood with his belly against Hilma's knees. He looked seriously into her face. She looked back and a laugh dribbled away before reaching full throat. Her broad grin melted into a sweetly timorous smile.

"Hi, sailor," she said softly, but not coquettishly.

"I'm John Francis," he said. "You're Hilma." She nodded shyly. He backed just far enough to turn around without pushing her knees, looked out at the surrounding men, and said in a voice that sounded like the foghorn on the tugboat he was built like, "This one's mine!" He turned back to Hilma and offered his hands. She slid off the bar into his grasp, and he gently lowered her to the floor.

A hush fell over the bar and a way parted for them to the stairs. They went up. They didn't come back down.

The next time anyone at Big Barb's saw Hilma, she was on John Francis's arm, flaunting a wedding band on her finger.

Sometimes at Big Barb's everything wasn't just beer and skittles and a headlong rush to the private rooms upstairs.

"I have a song!" Corporal Raoul Pasquin shouted, standing up and waving his arms. The Marines listened attentively. That he could stand and wave his arms so soon after what he'd been through on Havanagas was a bit of a miracle in itself, but he was not the kind of Marine who'd let a few missing body parts keep him down very long.

When Pasquin had joined 34th FIST from his old outfit, 25th FIST, he'd given every indication he was a problem child, and gotten off to a bad start at Camp Ellis. He and Dean had serious words just before they deployed to Society 437, but once there, and during the Avionian mission, Pasquin proved he could 7 7 handle himself in combat and was accepted in third platoon as a trusted NCO. More important, on Havanagas, where the corporal had withstood vicious torture at the hands of the mobsters who'd been running the place, he'd proved to Dean and Claypoole that he was far more than a Marine corporal, more even than their fire team leader. He was a proven comrade, a man Marines could trust their lives to. But the best proof that Corporal Raoul Pasquin was not the a.s.s he'd started out as was that Owen the woo had taken a liking to him. Everyone was sure Owen could tell good from bad, and the Marines trusted his judgment.

So when Raoul Pasquin stood up, he was given a measure of respect. Dean and Claypoole shouted for silence. Ba.s.s gestured him to continue.

"I learned this song in 25th FIST," Pasquin said. "It's called 'Erika.'" He nodded at Dean's companion, whose name just happened to be Erika. "No offense to the beautiful lady here." Erika, who'd been leaning her head on Dean's shoulder, smiled and blushed. "It's just coincidence, Erika, and the song's not dirty or insulting." Several men loudly groaned their disappointment. Pasquin gave them the finger. "It was the unofficial marching song of 25th FIST," he continued. "It's an old song that's come down from the twentieth century or earlier. It's in a good march tempo. Here, listen..." He hummed a few bars. "Get it?

Here..." He sang the first verse: "In the meadow blooms a tiny flower." Boom-boom-boom-boom, he stamped the floor with his foot to get the cadence. "And we call her Erika! Get it?" He took a deep breath and sang: "In the meadow blooms a tiny flower / And we call her Erika. The bees cannot resist her power / Little Erika, 'Cause her heart is soft and sweet Her petals trim and neat / Dainty little Erika!

In the village lives a tiny maid / And we call her Erika. She's prim and sweet and oh, so staid / Little Erika!

Yet she lets us kiss her, but not too long And when we're done we sing this song: 'In the meadow blooms a tiny flower / And we call her Erika...'" Pasquin's singing voice was not the best, but the tune was catchy, and as Pasquin warmed to his singing, he got better. Soon others began to join in, hesitantly at first and then with more confidence as they learned the words. Everyone at the table began to sing, and as they sang they stamped their feet at the appropriate place in the music-boom-boom-boom-boom!-like a ba.s.s drum beating out the cadence. When they got to the name Erika, they shouted it out at the top of their voices so it rang in the rafters far above them. The real Erika's face turned brick red with pleased embarra.s.sment, and Owen the woo actually began to sway in time to the music. It was a soldier's song, the kind men far from home have sung since the dawn of warfare to keep up morale. But even if hearing it for the first time-as the men of third platoon were-its subject was familiar and dear to all men who've ever worn a uniform. Each man had known an Erika back home, or in a foreign town somewhere, or hoped he would someday meet an Erika. Young men need young women as much to comfort their souls as to relieve their hormonal urges, and "Erika" emphasized the gentler side of s.e.xual relations. It made Claypoole think of Katie, back on Havanagas; and despite the real Erika snug against his side, Dean was reminded of Hway back on Wanderjahr. Every man at the table cast his thoughts back to some Erika, not thinking about s.e.x with her, just wanting to relive the experience for a few moments.

But they were young men, and young Marines at that, and ten seconds after the music was done they'd 8 8 all be thinking about the women around them again. Pasquin jumped up on the table and led them in chorus after chorus. Between the Marines' singing and stamping their feet in the banquet hall and the sailors' dancing in the bar, the whole building shook. A crash echoed through the building as the door to Big Barb's private office suddenly slammed open and she sallied forth, her vast bulk bouncing startled men out of the way. But the music and dancing did not slow a beat. She headed straight to the banquet hall. Big though she was, none of the Marines noticed her rolling down on them. Pasquin squawked in mid-verse as she grabbed him, one hand on the seat of his pants, the other by his shirt collar. She picked him up bodily and dropped him heavily into an empty chair.

Huffing and puffing with the effort, she waggled a ma.s.sive finger at Gunnery Sergeant Ba.s.s. "Charlie!" she gasped, "vat you doing? Ve haf der erdquake, mine whole place comin' crashin' down!" Everyone went silent for a moment. Several patrons from the bar, expecting the fight of the century, stuck their heads cautiously through the door to watch. And then Ba.s.s began to laugh. Big Barb couldn't help herself. She smiled. She was soft on Gunny Ba.s.s. "Siddown with me, Barb, and have a G.o.dd.a.m.ned beer," he said.

"Vell..." Big Barb frowned at the Marines. "Okay! Bud only one." She eagerly slid into a chair beside Ba.s.s, s.n.a.t.c.hed a nearby stein and drank. She made a terrible noise, spit the beer out in a spray and threw the stein across the room. "G.o.dd.a.m.n! Somebuddy, he puts oud his segar in dat one!" A barmaid quickly offered her mistress a fresh stein, and she drank thirstily. "Aaah." She wiped foam off her upper lip and belched. "Pasquin! Dat song, is gut one, ya! You sings gut too. Owen, he likes it too, dat liddle woo! But you gotta stop pounding wit der feets! You crazy Marines, you gonna wreck my place!" She laughed and drained the rest of the beer in one vast gulp. Someone thrust a full stein into her ma.s.sive hand and she drank again, one arm draped affectionately across Ba.s.s's shoulders.

"Charlie, ven ve gettink married?" Barb roared, her chins jiggling with merriment. Although she was huge, Barb-whose real name was Freya Banak-carried her ma.s.sive weight well. She was more a solid woman than a fat one.

"Tonight! Right G.o.dd.a.m.n now!" Ba.s.s shouted, pounding the table enthusiastically. The Marines roared approval. Ba.s.s winked clandestinely at Barb and her face turned a bit redder. She was reminded of that time Ba.s.s was alone with her in her office... that had been a sweet moment, but that was all it had been, just a moment. Big Barb and Charlie Ba.s.s were the kind of man and woman who could be good friends but never man and wife. Ba.s.s grinned fiercely at Barb over the rim of his stein as a thought struck him: on a cold night, what did a man need most, another blanket or an ample woman? And a girl, even a girl like Big Barb, could dream.

The onlookers at the door, realizing it would be just another night of drinking and bonhomie, returned to the dancers in the bar, and Big Barb's establishment settled down once again into the dull roar of drunken camaraderie.

Ten kilometers from Camp Ellis lay Mainside, the fleet naval base that was the hub of Confederation military operations for that quadrant of Human s.p.a.ce where Thorsfinni's World was located. Ten kilometers from Mainside was the dependent housing area where the men who were authorized to have their families with them lived. Marines in the grade of staff sergeant and up and equivalent naval ratings 9 9 were allowed to marry, but only those men occupying "key" command and staff positions could have their families with them on hardship tours. And if a man was authorized to have his family with him, his tour was automatically extended. The Confederation Navy was not about to ship dependents to far-off worlds and then let their sponsors return to civilization on a normal two year rotation. Not that that meant much to the men of 34th FIST just then; they'd found out that somebody had secretly slapped them with involuntary extensions.

The dependent housing on Thorsfinni's World was known as Safe Harbor and consisted of two separate areas-one for the enlisted's families and one for the officers'. Everything the residents needed was provided for at Safe Harbor-a commissary, an exchange, medical facilities, a school for the children, recreational facilities. Regular transportation between Safe Harbor, Mainside, and Camp Ellis was also provided. For most of the family members a trip to Mainside was a regular outing; dependents were not normally allowed on Camp Ellis. But trips to New Oslo and other cities were a regular feature of the recreational programs available to them. Senior field-grade officers-commanders, lieutenants colonel, colonels, and navy captains-occupied single-family dwellings; all others lived in apartment-style buildings. The grade of the sponsor and the number of dependents in his family determined the size of individual quarters. All furnishings were provided by the navy and were pa.s.sed from family to family until they wore out. The Confederation was not about to bear the expense of shipping anyone's furniture from one side of Human s.p.a.ce to another. Permanent personal possessions were generally limited to the family's personal transportation ma.s.s allowance, and when a family rotated out of Thorsfinni's World, the things it had acquired while there were either given away or sold to those who were staying, or to new families just coming in. Life could be dull at Safe Harbor, but it was better than living years away from husbands and fathers. Unmarried men called navy wives "camp followers" (or worse) and their children "navy brats" (and much, much, worse), and at Camp Ellis the enlisted Marines referred to Safe Harbor disparagingly as the "Bay of Pigs."

In general, the Confederation military policy was that if it wanted its men to have wives, they'd have been issued one.

Captain Lewis Conorado trudged wearily up the sidewalk into Tarawa Terrace, the apartment building housing the families of company-grade officers. The Conorados had not been living there long. Because of the shortage of family quarters when he was a.s.signed to 34th FIST, his family had originally been placed in spare housing operated by the Confederation's emba.s.sy in New Oslo. Their apartment in Tarawa Terrace had only recently been vacated by a navy family. In the lobby, the children of a naval lieutenant in the supply corps were screaming shrilly at their play. The shrieks reverberated painfully off the bare walls and floor. "Shaddup!" Conorado bellowed. The children went silent instantly; Conorado was known in the community as a man who tolerated no insubordination.

One of the children had urinated in the corner by the elevators, and the acrid odor was heavy in the still air of the lobby. Conorado wrinkled his nose. "Who did that?" he demanded, pointing a rigid finger at the large puddle. There were three of them, ranging in age from six to nine. None answered. Conorado addressed the eldest child: "Brian, you are in charge of your brother and sister. You let it happen, you clean it up. If it's still here when I come down, I'm coming after you." He pressed his palm into the entry 10 10 pad and the elevator door hissed open. He turned and smiled fiercely at Brian as the doors closed. The Conorados' one-bedroom apartment was on the top floor of the building. As the building's senior occupant, Captain Conorado could have squeezed a two-bedroom apartment out of the billeting officer, but he felt that he and his wife, Marta, should give up the larger quarters for some officer whose family was larger.

Two hours later, when the Conorados descended to the lobby on their way to the commissary, the noisy children were gone. But the puddle was still there.

CHAPTER TWO.

Colonel Israel Ramadan, deputy commander of 34th FIST, believed firmly that a Marine officer should at all times demonstrate austerity in his personal lifestyle and official conduct. He made it a point to eat in the enlisted messes several times each week, and when a unit went on a field problem he would often accompany it and share living conditions with the men. In this regard he was a carbon copy of Brigadier Sturgeon, the FIST commander. The two officers complemented each other perfectly. Ramadan's bachelor living quarters were spartan, enlivened only by a wall of bookshelves containing volumes of military cla.s.sics bound in the old-fashioned way. While almost everyone else was satisfied to get his reading material from vids and trids, Colonel Ramadan had spent a fortune collecting his books, and he had read them all many times. Books were his greatest indulgence. But Colonel Ramadan had one other weakness, if you could call it that. He loved fine cigars. Oh, there were the Clintons and the Fidels and they satisfied most smokers. But for the real connoisseur, the Clintons left a lingering and slightly unpleasant aftertaste, and the Fidels, although an excellent smoke, were too big, too "long-winded"-at 400mm, they just seemed to go on and on. His favorites were Davidoffs, particularly the Anniversario No. 2 brand. The cigars were grown and produced on New Geneve according to the centuries-old traditions of the Davidoff family. Rumor had it they were rolled on the thighs of nubile native maidens just out of p.u.b.erty. A box of twenty-five cost the colonel a month's pay. They were his only indulgence other than his books. He husbanded his supply carefully because it took months to get a reorder. He owned three state-of-the-art humidors, one for the cigars in his quarters, one for those he kept in his office, and the third a portable unit he kept filled when traveling. That morning, as he sat at his desk reviewing the incoming message traffic from Fleet, he decided to have an Anniversario. He pressed a b.u.t.ton on the office humidor and its lid hissed open, releasing the rich aromatic fragrance of the cigars stored inside. He picked one carefully and ran it under his nose. Ah, delicious! He noted there were only ten left. Hmm. Must bring some more from my quarters, he thought, and then: Better put in a reorder! It could take up to eight months for a new shipment to reach him. He calculated: 240 days, and he had about six boxes left. That'd be one cigar every other day with a few left over for special occasions. In a pinch he could get some Fidels from New Oslo. Perhaps the tobacconist he dealt with there might even have an Anniversario or two in his private stock. A man could never have enough ammo or enough good cigars!

Carefully, the colonel clipped the end off his cigar and struck an old-fashioned sulfur match. He drew slowly as he rolled the cigar over the flame, drawing in the rich, aromatic smoke and exhaling luxuriously. Sulfur matches were also an indulgence, but a real connoisseur never lighted a good cigar with one of those mechanical devices! Thank G.o.d the 'Finnis were traditionalists who appreciated their cigars. Sulfur matches were hard to get anywhere else. Wreathed in cigar smoke, Colonel Ramadan briefly reviewed the incoming message traffic on his screen. 11 11 He could have delegated the ch.o.r.e, but as Brigadier Sturgeon's deputy he felt it his responsibility to check everything personally to be absolutely certain the action and information a.s.signments were correct. He was careful to forward to the brigadier a copy of every message he thought would interest him, but he directed routine traffic to the appropriate staff office, with terse comments where necessary. He and Brigadier Sturgeon had worked together for so long, Ramadan knew precisely what the FIST commander would want to see.

Suddenly the computer bleeped and a yellow warning flashed across the screen: SPECAT! EYES ONLY, CO 34TH FIST.

"Oh, s.h.i.t!" Ramadan muttered. A deployment order. The colonel was both excited and disappointed. Excited because any Marine worth his salt wants action; disappointed because he knew he would not deploy; he was still on a light-duty profile after being severely injured in a Dragon accident. He set the cigar in an ashtray and typed in his pa.s.sword. Only he, the F2, and F3-intelligence and operations officers-and Brigadier Sturgeon were authorized to read "special category" messages. And the F2 only got them if he and the brigadier agreed he should see them. The message flashed on his screen. It was very short but he had to read it twice. "Print!" he said to the system. Then: "Delete!" The hardcopy would suffice to execute the order.

"Get me the brigadier!" he ordered the computer system. The screen went blank for an instant, and then Brigadier Ted Sturgeon's face appeared. "Sir, I've got to see you right away. Message from Fleet."

"Come," Sturgeon replied.

Colonel Ramadan limped from his office so quickly he left the Anniversario smoldering in the ashtray.

Stor Evdal, mayor of Bronnysund, sat contentedly in a comfortable chair at the coffee table in Brigadier Sturgeon's office. Mayor Evdal visited the brigadier regularly to coordinate and discuss events of mutual interest with the commander of 34th FIST, usually some terrific fight the night before between his townspeople and 34th FIST's Marines. But far from complaining about the incidents, Evdal enjoyed Monday-morning quarterbacking the fights. The citizens of Bronnys liked fighting second only to drinking, and often Evdal thought that without the fights, he might not be reelected when his term of office was finally up.

In his eighties, Stor Evdal was still as rugged as the fjords that ringed the seacoast he had fished for most of his life. He was a big, hardy man with a deep voice, rugged, hamlike fists scarred by years of deckwork, and huge mustaches that drooped down the sides of his face. He was smoking a Fidel, courtesy of Brigadier Sturgeon's private supply. The purpose of his visit was to discuss the Marines'

"Toys for Tots," the annual Christmas drive to collect toys for the children of Bronnysund. Privately, some enlisted men referred to the program as "Toys for Snots," but generally the Marines derived a lot of satisfaction from partic.i.p.ation in the program.

"You know," Mayor Evdal said as he regarded his cigar appreciatively, "the worse times for us here is when da Marines is on deployment. Yah. Tings too quiet den for us in Bronnys!" They both laughed.

"Those are usually bad times for us too, Your Honor," Sturgeon replied. 12 12 "Huh? Oh," Evdal nodded, "yah, you lose some gud fellows on dose deployments. Gud fellows." He nodded seriously. "Well," he prepared to get up, "den we is set for der toys raising program dis year! By golly, Brigadier, I can't tell you how much we appreciated vat you does for us!" Brigadier Sturgeon's computer bleeped. "Sir, I've got to see you right away. Message from Fleet," Colonel Ramadan said.

"Come," he told the machine. Then: "Well, Your Honor, business intrudes." He smiled apologetically and extended his hand as he rose. They shook.

"Anodder of dem G.o.dd.a.m.n 'deployments' maybe?" Evdal asked. He held up his hand. "I knows, business iss business but schnapps is schnapps, and we done talkin' about da schnapps. Tank you agin, Brigadier, and G.o.d bless." He turned to go.

"Your Honor, even if it is another deployment, the stay-behinds will take care of the toy program. My Marines have never left anyone in the lurch and we aren't going to start now, especially not your kids." Evdal paused and drew deeply on his cigar. "Yah," he said gravely, "we all knows dat too." He nodded amiably at Colonel Ramadan as he left.

"Look at this G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing!" Ramadan raged. Sturgeon glanced briefly at the paper. It ordered Captain Lewis Conorado to report to Headquarters Marine Corps in Fargo on Earth by the quickest possible method of transportation. Nothing else, just a fund citation to pay for his transportation. Sturgeon sighed. "I know what this is, Ram. Please sit down." Colonel Ramadan did not know what had happened to Lima Company on Avionia. The only reason Brigadier Sturgeon knew was because General Cazombi, the army general in command of the operation, had stopped on Thorsfinni's World and filled him in on the details on his way back to Earth. Now Sturgeon told Ramadan. The colonel took it all in silently. "So I guess despite this army general's promise, this Hoxey woman really has filed charges against Lew for letting her guinea pigs go," Sturgeon concluded.

"This army general-Cazombi, you said his name was?"

"Yeah. Lew swears by the guy, so I guess he's okay, did his best to kill the d.a.m.ned incident, I'm sure. G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Ram!"

Sturgeon slapped the order with his hand. "They're keeping us here on Thorsfinni's World like lepers, quarantined, because we have knowledge of alien sentiences the government wants to keep quiet. That's what I found out when I went back to HQMC. All right, I accept that. But this-this-" He slapped the paper again. "-this c.r.a.p goes too d.a.m.ned far! They're taking away one of my best officers because some dried-up old..." He let the words trail off. Then: "Okay. Ram, get Van Winkle at Battalion, tell him to have Lew report to me personally, on the double. We keep this to ourselves. But you know, all this hush-hush stuff, I really don't give a d.a.m.n anymore. My Marines are taking it on the chin because a bunch of G.o.dd.a.m.ned government bureaucrats don't trust anybody but themselves with the truth. I'm up to here with it! Let them sentence me to Darkside. All right, Ram, see to it." Back in his office Ramadan discovered the Anniversario had gone out. He relit it. These were the only 13 13 cigars he knew of you could do that with and lose none of the flavor. He got Commander Van Winkle on the system.

Captain Conorado finished reading the message and looked up at Brigadier Sturgeon. "I guess General Cazombi wasn't able to get Dr. Hoxey to withdraw the charges."

"Are you ready to go back to Fargo and face these charges then?"

"Yessir, I am," Conorado replied evenly.

"n.o.body from 34th FIST is being subpoenaed except you, Lew. Plenty of the men in your company witnessed what went on at Avionia Station. Seems to me the court's being packed against you." Conorado thought about that for a moment. "General Cazombi will be there. So will Mr. Nast from the Ministry of Justice. I think they're all I'll need to support me."

"Didn't you tell me that this Hoxey woman tried to get Dean to give up the woo for experimentation?

And Charlie Ba.s.s was there with you when you released the Avionians. Can you think of anyone else in your company who witnessed what she was doing to the creatures? I'll have them deposed, and you can take the depositions back with you."

"But sir, this is all ultrasecret information, and the staff judge advocate isn't cleared-"

"Lew, how long have we known each other?" Sturgeon interrupted.

"Years and years. Since I was a corporal and you were an ensign." Conorado laughed. "Since Caesar was a road guard."

"Since Christ was a corporal," Sturgeon added. "Well, I'm not going to let you go down by yourself on this, Lew. You put your career on the line out there for something you believed in. I believe in you and the other Marines in this FIST, and by the cheeks of Mohammed's hairy a.s.s, I don't give a d.a.m.n for 'security' when it comes to this business. Good G.o.d, those pirates knew all about Avionia! By now every crook in the Confederation must know. So the Confederation wants to keep only the honest citizens in the dark? And we haven't even mentioned the Skinks! What the h.e.l.l are things coming to with all this 'security'? We all know now that they're keeping us here because of this 'alien sentiences' c.r.a.p!

It's wearing mighty thin, Captain.

"Now, I want Ba.s.s and Dean deposed by the SJA. I've already talked to the judge. Have them report over there when you get back to the company."

"Yessir. And sir? Thanks."

"Don't mention it. We'll team up on Darkside and make a breakout.

"The F1 and the finance people have arranged for your transportation back to Earth. The next ship leaving for there takes off from New Oslo in two days. It's a civilian job, the SS Cambria SS Cambria . It stops somewhere en route, but even so, it'll get you back to Earth before any naval vessel we can scare up on such short notice. Turn Lima Company over to your XO." He stood and extended his hand. "Lew, we're going to miss you." . It stops somewhere en route, but even so, it'll get you back to Earth before any naval vessel we can scare up on such short notice. Turn Lima Company over to your XO." He stood and extended his hand. "Lew, we're going to miss you."

14 "Thank you, sir. I'll be back." They shook hands for a long moment.

"I know you will, Lew," Sturgeon replied, but he wasn't so sure.

CHAPTER THREE.

It was a case of garbled communications, miscommunication, and bureaucratic arrogance right from the start. Not to mention ignorance brought about by secrets kept too tightly. Amba.s.sador Friendly Creadence, emissary of the Confederation of Human Worlds to the human planet formally known as the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles, but more commonly called simply "Kingdom," wasn't certain who the invaders were, or even that they were invaders from off-world. So his dispatch to the Ministry of State didn't make that fully clear. Moreover, he was a career diplomat whose only military contact-not experience; he had no experience-was with military attaches who more often owed their appointments to political connection than to military ac.u.men. Consequently, he had a dreadfully minimal understanding of the nature of military weaponry, which ignorance caused him to omit information about the invader's armament. The dispatch Amba.s.sador Creadence sent to the Ministry of State on Earth requesting Marines noted horrendous fighting, death, and destruction in the outlands, against a foe of unknown origin, armed with weapons evidently superior to those used by the armed forces of Kingdom. a.s.sociate Vice Consul for Consular and Amba.s.sadorial Affairs Moyamenssing, the mid-level Ministry of State bureaucrat who was charged with disposition of the dispatch, began by looking up Creadence in the Blue Line of Amba.s.sadors, Ministers, and Consuls. The five paragraph entry outlined an undistinguished career. Creadence seemed to be a competent enough man with no great political connections but sufficient social ones to a.s.sist him in gaining advancement through the ranks slightly faster than routine. Kingdom was his third amba.s.sadorial a.s.signment. The earlier two-one as a consul, the other as an amba.s.sador-were, like the present one, to unimportant worlds. Kingdom had to be unimportant; a.s.sociate Vice etcetera Moyamenssing had never heard of it. He looked it up in the eighteenth edition of The Atlas of the Populated and Explored Planets of Human s.p.a.ce.

The governing body of the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and Their Apostles was an ec.u.menical theocracy. Reading between the lines of the short entry, he concluded that the government must be repressive: over the past couple of centuries it had suffered more than ten major rebellions and numerous lesser revolts; on six occasions Confederation Marines had been dispatched to put down the revolts. The entry included an annotation that requests for military a.s.sistance were handled by the Office of the President of the Confederation of Human Worlds. Then there was that pa.s.sage in the dispatch: "Certain images of one of the possible invaders indicates that they might be of a nonhuman origin. "So where are the images?" Moyamenssing muttered. Well, the suggestion that the possible off-worlders might be an alien sentience was simply too absurd to even consider. Everybody knew that h. sapiens was the only sentience anywhere near Human s.p.a.ce. Moyamenssing duly queued Amba.s.sador Creadence's urgent dispatch via routine channel to the President's office, where two days later it reached the top of the queue of Second a.s.sociate Deputy Director for State Affairs Lumrhanda Ronstedt. 15 15 Ronstedt's hobby was the history of the lesser worlds of the Confederation. He recognized the world in question immediately and laughed with delight. "Again?" The follies of humanity never failed to amuse him. After a second reading of the dispatch-it was marked "urgent," but obviously State didn't think it was, since it had been queued to him via routine channel-he looked up Creadence's entry in the Blue Line... And laughed with yet more delight; the man had absolutely no experience that would allow him to make a considered judgment on whether military a.s.sistance was necessary. Further, his dispatch didn't note any immediate threat to either Interstellar City, the off-worlder enclave outside Kingdom's capital of Haven, or to Confederation citizens outside Interstellar City-the prerequisites for Confederation military intervention on Kingdom.

And the intimation that it might be an alien invasion? He laughed again. It was absurd. The comedic possibilities of amba.s.sadorial level appointees who lacked experience outside diplomatic circles were just too rich!

In total, Ronstedt saw no justification for military intervention. Still... If memory served-and he was confident it did-the Confederation hadn't used military force on Kingdom in more than twenty years, even though there had been two or three uprisings during that time. He pondered. The simple fact the "rebels," if that's what they were, were allegedly using weapons superior to anything in the Kingdom a.r.s.enal at least theoretically implied a threat to the security of Interstellar City and Confederation citizens. And there was that silly intimation of aliens. Yes, he could find justification for Amba.s.sador Creadence's call for Marines. Ronstedt chuckled. If he was patient enough to wait for the Marines to get to Kingdom-which meant if he didn't forget about it during the many months it would take for orders to reach an appropriate unit, for the Marines to travel to Kingdom, and news of the mission to get back to Earth-it could provide him with months of amus.e.m.e.nt.

He marked the dispatch "Approved, Office of the President" with not even a twitch at exceeding his authority, and queued it via "fast"-he wasn't prepared to exceed his authority far enough to queue it "urgent"-channel for the offices of the Combined Chiefs of Staff. The next day the dispatch reached the top of the message board for Colonel Alleghretti Adoni, Confederation Army, the a.s.sistant Director of Civil Affairs of the Combined Chiefs. Colonel Adoni checked the authenticity certificate of the "Approved, Office of the President" annotation, and then read the dispatch. Since the dispatch was marked "Approved..." he didn't bother to look up Amba.s.sador Creadence. He did, however, look up Kingdom. When he interpreted the diplomatic language of the brief entry in military edition of The Atlas of the Populated and Explored Planets of Human s.p.a.ce, he sadly shook his head. Adoni had spent his entire career as a staff officer in higher command headquarters, but he was enough of a humanist to realize the necessity of decent treatment of people. His own subordinates almost invariably thought well of him and did exemplary work, which made him look good, and he rewarded it as well as he could. It was evident to him that Kingdom's governing body probably brought the repeated revolts on itself. Even though he could request Headquarters Marine Corps to dispatch up to a FIST to quell a civil disturbance or put down a revolt-only the Combined Chiefs could actually order it-he decided that, given the history of Confederation military interventions on Kingdom, his boss should make the decision. He queued the dispatch urgent to Major General Michael Khanzhak, his boss and the Director of Civil 16 16 Affairs of the Combined Chiefs, checked that General Khanzhak was available, and walked down the hall to his office.

"Big Mike" Khanzhak, Major General, Confederation Army, rumbled, "Come on in, Al," when Colonel Adoni appeared in his office door. "Big Mike" certainly was, but the bigness of muscle he'd had when first given the name as an artillery officer had morphed into fat from too many years spent c.o.c.king a desk instead of a cannon. "What do you have for me?"