School of Fire

by David Sherman

  They got off the train in Mannerheim, a sparkling clean, middle-size city in the style of an earlier era. In the downtown area, where the monorail station was, most of the buildings were at least five stories high, none more than ten. The architectural team that designed it favored plate glass and bronzed aluminum for facings. The architects eschewed ornamentation. The overall effect was what one visiting critic described as "the boxes other buildings came in." Needless to say, that critic's visitor's visa was not renewed and he was soon ushered away from Wanderjahr.

  Hing and his guide left the station through a side exit to a street so narrow it could have been an alley. The runner led the way along ill-traveled side streets for three blocks until a disreputable-looking utility car with faded Arschmann Plantation markings slowed almost to a stop just ahead of them. The runner quickly opened the cargo door and almost bodily set Hing inside the cabin. A dim light cast by a small dome light revealed a bench along each side of the cabin. Hing sat on one, and the runner took his place across from him. A crate against the front wall seemed to be the only cargo. The vehicle sped up.

  "Now I have to blindfold you, Commander," the runner said without a hint of apology.

  Hing lowered his head to make the runner's job easier.

  Several turns and many stops and speed-ups followed. Eventually the vehicle stopped.

  "This is where I leave you, Commander," the runner said.

  The cargo door opened and there were sounds of one man exiting and another boarding. The doors closed. The car started.

  "I'll take you the rest of the way, Commander," a new voice said.

  "Yes," Hing replied. There were more turns, slows, stops, and speed-ups before the utility car reached what must have been a highway leading away from the city. Hing doubted there were any roadways in the city where a utility car could go that fast without having to slow or stop.

  Blindfolded as he was, and with no conversation with the guide—whom he now thought of as a guard—to pass the time, Hing had no way of knowing how much time passed before the utility car slowed to a complete stop and the driver cut the power to let it whoosh down on its skirts. It was at least a half an hour, possibly much longer.

  "You must remain blindfolded until after we get inside, Commander," the guide/guard said.

  The cargo door opened and hands helped Hing to get out. Wherever they were, Hing felt bright sunlight on his face. The strong hands of the guides/guards gripped his upper arms to lead him briskly across a slightly spongy surface. Grass, he thought. This was a place with a lawn of imported Earth grass. Part of his mind wondered what would happen if the grass was allowed to go to seed. Was it strong enough to germinate on its own? What would be the impact on the planetary ecology if it spread? The more active part of his mind wondered if the summons was a trap, if the oligarchs had somehow managed to infiltrate the Peoples Liberation Army at the highest levels and the summons was a ruse to arrest him. There were few places on Wanderjahr where grass grew—and all of them were fully under the control of the oligarchs.

  "Step up," a voice on his right said. "There are five steps here." Simultaneously, both hands on his upper arms lifted up, almost pulling him off his feet. He managed to fully recover his balance by the third step.

  Hing was marched across a broad veranda and through what must have been a wide doorway, since it didn't feel like either of his guides had to make room to fit through it. Then the echoes of their footsteps told him they were in a large room with a polished wooden floor. A few paces into the room the guides turned him to the right and guided him a few more paces before they stopped.

  "When we let go of you, Commander," the voice on his right said, "go forward two paces. When you hear the door close behind you, remove the blindfold."

  The hands let go and he heard his guides step backward. Had they then drawn hand weapons to burn him down if he made a wrong move? Hing stepped forward two paces as they'd told him to. The door closed behind him with a solid chunk. He listened for a second but didn't hear a lock being thrown, then reached up and removed the blindfold.

  After so long without light, his eyes watered. He blinked several times at the sudden brightness of the room. Almost immediately he squinted to see.

  He was in a spacious formal dining room with a south-facing wall that was almost completely windowed to allow light to flood in. Draperies could be closed for privacy on dim days or at night. As large as the room was, it was dominated by a table that could easily seat more than twenty people and leave them elbow room. Most of the chairs around it were already occupied by men in civilian clothing. Hing recognized several of the seated men, most of them brigade commanders like he was. One, rising from his place at the head of the table, was a somewhat shorter than average, slender man. Generalissimo Zot, overall commander of the PLA in Arschland. Hing snapped to attention facing him. The Generalissimo extended his hand as he briskly approached Hing.

  "Commander Hing," Zot said as he took Hing's hand. "So good of you to come on such short notice. I'm sure you will forgive me the cloak-and-dagger method of your travel, but you understand the necessity of keeping the location of this meeting place absolutely secret." With the hand that wasn't gripping Hing's, he guided him toward an empty chair at the table. "Please, be seated. We should get started very soon. There are only a few more coming, and they will all be here momentarily."

  Thoroughly confused, Hing mumbled his greetings and thanks as he took the offered seat. No one other than the Generalissimo spoke. Unless many of his peers and his superior had changed sides and this was the most elaborate charade he could imagine, he wasn't under arrest by the oligarchs. From the position of his seat, slightly more than halfway down one side of the table, neither did it appear that it was a court-martial with him in the docket.

  Hing exchanged curt nods with the men he knew, none of whom even opened then lips to say hello, then examined the table. There were twenty-two chairs at it, four of which were unoccupied. Each place was set with a coffee cup and saucer, a dessert plate, a fork, a spoon, and a napkin. Unless he was mistaken, they were fine china, real silver, and imported linen. Each place at the table also had a small computer console, stylus, and keyboard. Coffeepots and plates of cakes were lined down the middle of the table within easy reach of each place. The table itself was dark, deeply polished, and real wood—probably imported from Earth. Hing marveled at the expense of the table and its settings.

  "Please, Commander," Zot said, "help yourself to coffee and cake. The coffee is special, it's imported from America Sud." The Generalissimo grinned. "America Sud on Earth. The province of Colombia, I believe."

  Hing nodded at Zot. "Thank you, sir. That would be a very special treat." Real Colombian coffee? He'd heard of it, but the only coffee he'd ever had was from locally grown beans, which he was told was vastly inferior to Earth coffee. He glanced about. Everyone seemed to have filled his coffee cup. None of them looked happy or even comfortable, but they all seemed to like the coffee.

  Before he could reach for a pot, the door opened behind him. He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see what the others on his side of the table were doing. When they turned, he did the same.

  A blindfolded man in tattered and filthy civilian clothing was stepping through the door. The door closed and the man removed his blindfold. Generalissimo Zot was already on his way to greet the newcomer, whom he addressed as Commander Tslotse. Zot guided the man to an empty seat. Tslotse looked as confused as Hing felt.

  No sooner had Hing poured himself a cup of coffee than the door opened again and another confused and blindfolded field commander entered the room. Within three minutes all the chairs were occupied by the Staat commander and his twenty-one brigade commanders. There were no guards, no orderlies, and no staff officers. Hing thought this was very peculiar, but it seemed to bode well—at least there were no trappings of court-martial. Everyone sipped at the coffee. It was the best Hing had ever had. Too bad his state of mind didn't allow him to enjoy it,
he thought.

  Generalissimo Zot looked benignly at each of his brigade commanders, then said, "In case you haven't yet surmised, gentlemen, this is one of Oligarch Arschmann's estates." He looked contentedly around the room and continued slowly and softly, "When this meeting is over, I think I will take a VR recording of myself sitting here and walking around the room." He looked back at his officers. "And have that VR sent to Arschmann. He'll have a stroke when he sees me sitting in his place in his own dining room." He laughed. Then he abruptly turned serious, and angry.

  "Four days ago someone raided the household of Oligarch Gretel Siebensberg in Friedland. The commander of the raiding party identified himself as Lieutenant Xuyen Phong of the PLA. My headquarters has no record of a Lieutenant Xuyen Phong—or a person of any other rank going by that name." Zot pounded a fist on the table. "I want to know who he is!" He took a deep breath to calm himself, then said, "Do any of you have anyone in your commands who goes by that name or has ever used it? Have you ever even heard that name?" He looked intently from man to man.

  The Che Loi Brigade, like most such units of the PLA, had fewer than three hundred officers, staff, and fighters. Hing knew them all. He looked at Zot, mouthed "Xuyen Phong," and shook his head; it was a strange name to him. The other commanders he could see were doing the same.

  "Look at your consoles, gentlemen," Zot said in a calm but firm voice. "See for yourselves what this 'Lieutenant Xuyen Phong' did." He tapped a key on his keyboard.

  Hing looked at the console. A moving flatvid image appeared. The vid was recorded by a walking man who angled his camera downward. Occasionally the angle shot upward for a few seconds, but mostly it was down. The image was of bloodied bodies hacked to pieces. The upward shots showed the scene was in a courtyard. A burned corpse dangled from a scorched tree. The cameraman went through a doorway and panned the room beyond, a chapel. Blood stained the front pews. A headless corpse lay in a pool of blood before the altar. Another body with blood on his shirt, but no evident wounds, was sprawled across a front pew. The image blinked out.

  "That is what this Lieutenant Xuyen Phong and his men did," Generalissimo Zot said. "The husk in the tree? That was identified by witnesses to the atrocity as Gretel Siebensberg. You don't need to know how we got that vid. Nor do you need to know how I came into possession of this." He flipped a small, red-covered book to the brigade commander on his right. The brigade commander picked the small book up and quickly flipped through its pages. He gave Generalissimo Zot a puzzled look, and passed the book on when Zot indicated he should.

  It took a couple of minutes for the book to reach Hing. He blinked at the crudely printed title: The Beliefs of the People's Liberation Army; as taught by Marks, Limn, Mao, and Guevera. He opened the book at random to three pages and quickly read brief quotes from it He passed it on.

  "According to Xuyen Phong," Zot said when the book was returned to him, "this book is our bible." He raised his eyebrows at the book. "How curious they didn't bother to spell the names in the title properly. And where would anyone get the idea we're reincarnated Communists?" He looked back to the assembled brigade commanders. "I need to know what any of you know about the book or the atrocity committed on Friedland." He tapped another key on his keyboard and watched his console as the brigade commanders all protested innocence and ignorance. After a moment he cut them off and stood.

  "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "you have my apologies for the way you have been treated today. The coffee was treated with... Never mind precisely what it was treated with. An inhibitor that made it difficult for you to lie. There are sensors throughout the room. The sensors agree that you are telling the truth." He sighed and sat back down.

  "This thing that happened," he waved his hand weakly at the console, "is a severe blow to us. Many people throughout Wanderjahr believe we are responsible for that. They don't stop to think that we have no reason to murder Gretel Siebensberg. Or that we have no activity in Friedland.

  "As you probably know, this is the second incident of an attack on an oligarch's household since the Confederation Marines arrived. Two weeks ago Morgenluft, Oligarch Keutgens's home, was attacked. That time some Marines were on the scene and defeated the attackers. Our sources in Stadtpolizei HQ in Brosigville tell us the investigators are not convinced we were behind it. Interestingly, Morgenluft is also a Staat where we have no activity. Neither of these raids was authorized by PLA high command. So every Staat generalissimo was ordered to assemble his brigade commanders to find out if any of them has been operating beyond his jurisdiction." He smiled wanly. "Before we were charged with investigating our brigade commanders, PLA command subjected us to exactly the same interrogation you have just been through."

  Zot rose again. "Gentlemen, enjoy your coffee and cake." He held up a hand to forestall any protest. "I will have fresh coffee brought in that hasn't been treated." He smiled. "Later, in the same order you arrived, you will be blindfolded and escorted away. While you know this is one of Arschmann's estates, you do not need to know which one." He bowed slightly, then left the room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The planning for the raid on Multan's fortress home proceeded under the cloak of absolute secrecy. The only Wanderjahrian officer included in the deliberations was Commissioner Landser himself. Besides Chief Long, the only other civilian participant was Ambassador Spears. Landser would issue the necessary orders to the Stadtpolizei officers selected to participate, and only after the contingent was on board the Denver in orbit would they be informed where they were going; the twenty-five policemen required for the assault would not even be notified they had been picked for the mission until an hour before departure. Aside from the brigadier's immediate planning staff, only the commander of the security party was privy to the attack plan. Of course, as Chief Long's military assistants, Dean and Claypoole were included.

  For security, training for the assault would take place on the Denver. Although he hadn't been able to track them down, Commissioner Landser was certain that Multan had agents on his force. Spies and informants at every level of government in Arschland were essential to a man like Multan, who depended on intelligence of all sorts to carry out his vast criminal enterprises.

  Multan's headquarters was located in the small Staat of Porcina in Wanderjahr's temperate zone, about ten thousand kilometers east of Arschland, on the opposite shores of the Adier Ocean. The installation from which he ruled his domains—the Eagle's Nest—was situated in rugged mountains fifty kilometers from Thigpen, his capital city, population 75,000. Multan was known to have a security force of two thousand well-equipped men who kept order among the inhabitants in Porcina.

  Due to the remoteness of their country from the other Staats, and Multan's iron handed but very effective rule, there had never been any disorder among his people. His security force did not hesitate to exercise brutal authority over the citizens of Porcina. In one infamous incident, they cleared traffic on a narrow bridge simply by pitching the stalled vehicle into the river below. They would have shot the driver and pitched him over too, except he was connected to one of Multan's enterprises. The man's sister, niece, and brother-in-law rode the stalled vehicle into the river. No protest of any kind was ever registered.

  Multan's personal bodyguard consisted of over a hundred handpicked mercenaries, and the Marines knew they were armed with at least a few plasma weapons. Since the raid on his smuggling operation in Brosigville, he had refused to leave Porcina even for Council meetings, temporarily putting himself out of reach of any authority. Or so he thought.

  "Gentlemen," Brigadier Sturgeon began the initial planning meeting, "bringing Multan in is our number one priority just now. We know he has plasma weapons in contravention of Confederation laws, and for that reason alone he must be dealt with. But we have intelligence," he nodded at Chief Long, "that he is selling arms and equipment to the guerrillas. We don't know just yet if any of these sales have included the latest weapons available on the black market, but I cannot w
ait to find out. I cannot allow the lives of my men to be jeopardized by Multan. He must be taken out. Quickly. We are going to mount a surprise attack on his headquarters and capture him or kill him. I don't particularly care which."

  Brigadier Sturgeon paused. "Finally, I have no choice. I have been ordered directly by the Confederation Council to arrest Multan. As the senior Confederation official in this sector, I must enforce its laws. The order was endorsed by Fleet and confirmed to Ambassador Spears by a communique through diplomatic channels."

  "How are we going to be sure Multan's there when we bust in on him?" Colonel Ramadan, the FIST'S executive officer, asked.

  "Very simple," Ambassador Spears said. "Brigadier Sturgeon and I will be there in a meeting with the man himself." A low murmur of surprise circulated among the men in the briefing room.

  "That will be very unwise, Mr. Ambassador," Commissioner Landser said.

  "Sir," Colonel Ramadan protested to Brigadier Sturgeon, "he's right. You can't afford to put yourself and the ambassador in such a dangerous position. The bastard'll take you hostage if he doesn't kill you outright."

  "Relax, Colonel," the brigadier replied, straightening up and leaning forward on the table. "I'll have my two favorite lance corporals with me for security." He grinned at Dean and Claypoole, sitting quietly along the wall of the conference room. Dean's stomach plunged crazily down to his toes at the announcement, and Claypoole's face went white, but neither said anything. "I'm taking you two with me," he addressed the pair, "because Multan will expect it. This must look entirely like a nonthreatening visit to an oligarch's domains. As a result of your accompanying me to Morgenluft, Friedland, and other places, the Wanderjahrians see you as my bodyguard. And since you're both seen constantly traveling between here and police headquarters, people here think you two are a lot more than mere lance corporals on the staff.