Dogs of War

by David Drake

  “Check, sir.”

  Rhys clicked off. Scott turned to face his orderly.

  “Hello, Briggs. Help me off with these duds. You'll probably have to cut ‘em off.”

  “Glad to see you back, sir. I don't think it'll be necessary to cut—” Blunt fingers flew deftly over zippers and clasps. “You were in the jungle?”

  Scott grinned wryly. “Do I look as if I'd been gliding?”

  “Not all the way, sir—no.”

  Briggs was like an old bulldog—one of those men who proved the truth of the saying: “Old soldiers never die; they only fade away.” Briggs could have been pensioned off ten years ago, but he hadn't wanted that. There was always a place for old soldiers in the Free Companies, even those who were unskilled. Some became technicians; others military instructors; the rest, orderlies. The forts were their homes. Had they retired to one of the Keeps, they would have died for lack of interests.

  Briggs, now—he had never risen above the ranks, and knew nothing of military strategy, ordnance, or anything except plain fighting. But he had been a Dooneman for forty years, twenty-five of them on active service. He was sixty-odd now, his squat figure slightly stooped like an elderly bear, his ugly face masked with scar tissue.

  “All right. Start the shower, will you?”

  Briggs stumped off, and Scott, stripped of his filthy, sodden garments, followed. He luxuriated under the stinging spray, first hot soapy water, then alcomix, and after that plain water, first hot, then cold. That was the last task he had to do himself. Briggs took over, as Scott relaxed on the slab, dropping lotion into the captain's burning eyes, giving him a deft but murderous rubdown, combining osteopathic and chiropractic treatment, adjusting revitalizing lamps, and measuring a hypo shot to nullify fatigue toxins. When the orderly was finished, Scott was ready to resume his duties with a clear brain and a refreshed body.

  Briggs appeared with fresh clothing. “I'll have the old uniform cleaned, sir. No use throwing it away.”

  “You can't clean that,” Scott remarked, slipping into a singlet. “Not after I rolled in mud. But suit yourself. I won't be needing it for long.”

  The orderly's fingers, buttoning Scott's tunic, stopped briefly and then resumed their motion. “Is that so, sir?”

  “Yeah. I'm taking out discharge papers.”

  “Another Company, sir?”

  “Don't get on your high horse,” Scott told the orderly. “It's not that. What would you do if it were? Court-martial me yourself and shoot me at sunrise?”

  “No, sir. Begging your pardon, sir, I'd just think you were crazy.”

  “Why I stand you only the Lord knows,” Scott remarked. “You're too damn independent. There's no room for new ideas in that plastic skull of yours. You're the quintessence of dogmatism.”

  Briggs nodded. “Probably, sir. When a man's lived by one set of rules for as long as I have, and those rules work out, I suppose he might get dogmatic.”

  “Forty years for you—about twelve for me.”

  “You came up fast, Captain. You'll be cinc here yet.”

  “That's what you think.”

  “You're next in line after Cinc Rhys.”

  “But I'll be out of the Doones,” Scott pointed out. “Keep that under your belt, Briggs.”

  The orderly grunted. “Can't see it, sir. If you don't join another Company, where'll you go?”

  “Ever heard of the Keeps?”

  Briggs permitted himself a respectful snort. “Sure. They're fine for a binge, but—”

  “I'm going to live in one. Montana Keep.”

  “The Keeps were built with men and machines. I helped at the building of Doone fort. Blood's mixed with the plastic here. We had to hold back the jungle while the technicians were working. Eight months, sir, and never a day passed without some sort of attack. And attacks always meant casualties then. We had only breastworks. The ships laid down a barrage, but barrages aren't impassable. That was a fight, Captain.”

  Scott thrust out a leg so that Briggs could lace his boots. “And a damn good one. I know.” He looked down at the orderly's baldish, brown head where white hairs straggled.

  “You know, but you weren't there, Captain. I was. First we dynamited. We cleared a half circle where we could dig in behind breastworks. Behind us were the techs, throwing up a plastic wall as fast as they could. The guns were brought in on barges. Lying offshore were the battlewagons. We could hear the shells go whistling over our heads—it sounded pretty good, because we knew things were O.K. as long as the barrage kept up. But it couldn't be kept up day and night. The jungle broke through. For months the smell of blood hung here, and that drew the enemy.”

  “But you held them off.”

  “Sure, we did. Addison Doone was cinc then—he'd formed the Company years before, but we hadn't a fort. Doone fought with us. Saved my life once, in fact. Anyhow—we got the fort built, or rather the techs did. I won't forget the kick I got out of it when the first big gun blasted off from the wall behind us. There was a lot to do after that, but when that shell was fired, we knew we'd done the job.”

  Scott nodded. “You feel a proprietary interest in the fort, I guess.”

  Briggs looked puzzled. “The fort? Why, that doesn't mean much, Captain. There are lots of forts. It's something more than that; I don't quite know what it is. It's seeing the fleet out there—breaking in the rookies—giving the old toasts at mess—knowing that—” He stopped at a loss.

  Scott's lips twisted wryly.

  “You don't really know, do you, Briggs?”

  “Know what, sir?”

  “Why you stay here. Why you can't believe I'd quit.”

  Briggs gave a little shrug. “Well,—it's the Doones,” he said. “That's all, Captain. It's just that.”

  “And what the devil will it matter, in a few hundred years?

  “I suppose it won't. No, sir. But it isn't our business to think about that. We're Doonemen, that's all.”

  Scott didn't answer. He could easily have pointed out the fallacy of Briggs’ argument, but what was the use? He stood up, the orderly whisking invisible dust off his tunic.

  “All set, sir. Shipshape.”

  “Check, Briggs. Well, I've one more scrap, anyhow. I'll bring you back a souvenir, eh?”

  The orderly saluted, grinning. Scott went out, feeling good. Inwardly he was chuckling rather sardonically at the false values he was supposed to take seriously. Of course many men had died when Doone fort had been built. But did that, in itself, make a tradition? What good was the fort? In a few centuries it would have outlived its usefulness. Then it would be a relic of the past. Civilization moved on, and, these days, civilization merely tolerated the military.

  So—what was the use? Sentiment needed a valid reason for its existence. The Free Companions fought, bitterly, doggedly, with insane valor, in order to destroy themselves. The ancient motives for war had vanished.

  What was the use? All over Venus the lights of the great forts were going out—and, this time, they would never be lit again—not in a thousand lifetimes!

  V

  And we are here as on a darkling plain

  Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

  Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  —Arnold circa 1870

  The fort was a completely self-contained unit, military rather than social. There was no need for any agrarian development, since a state of complete siege never existed. Food could be brought in from the Keeps by water and air.

  But military production was important, and, in the life of the fort, the techs played an important part, from the experimental physicist to the spot welder. There were always replacements to be made, for, in battle, there were always casualties. And it was necessary to keep the weapons up-to-date, continually striving to perfect new ones. But strategy and armament were of equal importance. An outnumbered fleet had been known to conquer a stronger one by the use of practical psychology.

  Scott found Comma
nder Bienne at the docks, watching the launching of a new sub. Apparently Bienne hadn't yet got over his anger, for he turned a scowling, somber face to the captain as he saluted.

  “Hello, commander,” Scott said. “I'm making inspection. Are you free?”

  Bienne nodded. “There's not much to do.”

  “Well—routine. We got that sub finished just in time, eh?”

  “Yes.” Bienne couldn't repress his pleasure at sight of the trim, sleek vessel beginning to slide down the ways. Scott, too, felt his pulses heighten as the sub slipped into the water, raising a mighty splash, and then settling down to a smooth, steady riding on the waves. He looked out to where the great battlewagons stood at anchor, twelve of them, gray-green monsters of plated metal. Each of them carried launching equipment for gliders, but the collapsible aircraft were stowed away out of sight as yet. Smaller destroyers lay like lean-flanked wolves among the battleships. There were two fast carriers, loaded with gliders and flitterboats. There were torpedo boats and one low-riding monitor, impregnable, powerfully armed, but slow. Only a direct hit could disable a monitor, but the behemoths had their disadvantages. The battle was usually over before they lumbered into sight. Like all monitors, this one—the Armageddon—was constructed on the principle of a razorback hog, covered, except for the firing ports, by a tureen-shaped shield, strongly braced from within. The Armageddon was divided into groups of compartments and had several auxiliary engines, so that, unlike the legendary Rover, when a monitor died, it did not die all over. It was, in effect, a dinosaur. You could blow off the monster's head, and it would continue to fight with talons and lashing tail. Its heavy guns made up in mobility for the giant's unwieldiness—but the trouble was to get the monitor into battle. It was painfully slow.

  Scott scowled. “We're fighting over Venus Deep, eh?”

  “Yes,” Bienne nodded. “That still goes. The Helldivers are already heading toward Montana Keep, and we'll intercept them over the Deep.”

  “When's zero hour?”

  “Midnight tonight.”

  Scott closed his eyes, visualizing their course on a mental chart. Not so good. When battle was joined near island groups, it was sometimes possible for a monitor to slip up under cover of the islets, but that trick wouldn't work now. Too bad—for the Helldivers were a strong outfit, more so since their recent merger with O'Brien's Legion. Even with the Mob to help, the outcome of the scrap would be anyone's guess. The Armageddon might be the decisive factor.

  “I wonder—” Scott said. “No. It'd be impossible.”

  “What?”

  “Camouflaging the Armageddon. If the Helldivers see the monitor coming, they'll lead the fight away from it, faster than that tub can follow. I was thinking we might get her into the battle without the enemy realizing it.”

  “She's camouflaged now.”

  “Paint, that's all. She can be spotted. I had some screwy idea about disguising her as an island or a dead whale.”

  “She's too big for a whale and floating islands look a bit suspicious.”

  “Yeah. But if we could slip the Armageddon in without scaring off the enemy—Hm-m-m. Monitors have a habit of turning turtle, don't they?”

  “Right. They're top-heavy. But a monitor can't fight upside down. It's not such a bright idea, Captain.” Briefly Bienne's sunken eyes gleamed with sneering mockery. Scott grunted and turned away.

  “All right. Let's take a look around.”

  The fleet was shipshape. Scott went to the shops. He learned that several new hulls were under way, but would not be completed by zero hour. With Bienne, he continued to the laboratory offices. Nothing new. No slip-ups; no surprises. The machine was running smoothly.

  By the time inspection was completed, Scott had an idea. He told Bienne to carry on and went to find Cinc Rhys. The cinc was in his office, just clicking off the telaudio as Scott appeared.

  “That was Mendez,” Rhys said. “The Mob's meeting our fleet a hundred miles off the coast. They'll be under our orders, of course. A good man, Mendez, but I don't entirely trust him.”

  “You're not thinking of a double cross, sir?”

  Cinc Rhys made disparaging noises. “Brutus is an honorable man. No, he'll stick to his bargain. But I wouldn't cut cards with Mendez. As a Free Companion, he's trustworthy. Personally— Well, how do things look?”

  “Very good, sir. I've an idea about the Armageddon.”

  “I wish I had,” Rhys said frankly. “We can't get that damned scow into the battle in any way I can figure out. The Helldivers will see it coming, and lead the fight away.”

  “I'm thinking of camouflage.”

  “A monitor's a monitor. It's unmistakable. You can't make it look like anything else.”

  “With one exception, sir. You can make it look like a disabled monitor.”

  Rhys sat back, giving Scott a startled glance. “That's interesting. Go on.”

  “Look here, sir.” The captain used a stylo to sketch the outline of a monitor on a convenient pad. “Above the surface, the Armageddon's dome-shaped. Below, it's a bit different, chiefly because of the keel. Why can't we put a fake superstructure on the monitor—build a false keel on it, so it'll seem capsized?”

  “It's possible.”

  “Everybody knows a monitor's weak spot—that it turns turtle under fire sometimes. If the Helldivers saw an apparently capsized Armageddon drifting toward them, they'd naturally figure the tub was disabled.”

  “It's crazy,” Rhys said. “One of those crazy ideas that might work.” He used the local telaudio to issue crisp orders. “Got it? Good. Get the Armageddon under way as soon as the equipment's aboard. Alterations will be made at sea. We can't waste time. If we had them made in the yards, she'd never catch up with the fleet.”

  The cinc broke the connection, his seamed, leathery face twisting into a grin. “I hope it works. We'll see.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Almost forgot. President Crosby's nephew—Kane?—he was with you when you cracked up, wasn't he? I've been wondering whether I should have waived training for him. How did he show up in the jungle?”

  “Quite well,” Scott said. “I had my eye on him. He'll make a good soldier.”

  Rhys looked keenly at the captain. “What about discipline? I felt that was his weak spot.”

  “I've no complaint to make.”

  “So. Well, maybe. Starling's outfit is bad training for anyone—especially a raw kid. Speaking of Starling, did Cinc Mendez know anything about his using atomic power?”

  “No, sir. If Starling's doing that, he's keeping it plenty quiet.”

  “We'll investigate after the battle. Can't afford that sort of thing—we don't want another holocaust. It was bad enough to lose Earth. It decimated the race. If it happened again, it'd wipe the race out.”

  “I don't think there's much danger of that. On Earth, it was the big atomic-power stations that got out of control. At worst, Starling can't have more than hand weapons.”

  “True. You can't blow up a world with those. But you know the law—no atomic power on Venus.”

  Scott nodded.

  “Well, that's all.” Rhys waved him away. “Clear weather.”

  Which, on this perpetually clouded world, had a tinge of irony.

  After mess Scott returned to his quarters, for a smoke and a brief rest. He waved away Briggs’ suggestion of a rundown and sent the orderly to the commissary for fresh tobacco. “Be sure to get Twenty Star,” he cautioned. “I don't want that green hydroponic cabbage.”

  “I know the brand, sir.” Briggs looked hurt and departed. Scott settled back in his relaxer, sighing.

  Zero hour at twelve. The last zero hour he'd ever know. All through the day he had been conscious that he was fulfilling his duties for the last time.

  His mind went back to Montana Keep. He was living again those other-worldly moments in the cloud-wrapped Olympus with Ilene. Curiously, he found it difficult to visualize the girl's features. Perhaps she was a symbol—her appearan
ce did not matter. Yet she was very lovely.

  In a different way from Jeana. Scott glanced at Jeana's picture on the desk, three-dimensional and tinted after life. By pressing a button on the frame, he could have given it sound and motion. He leaned forward and touched the tiny stud. In the depths of the picture the figure of Jeana stirred, smiling. The red lips parted.

  Her voice, though soft, was quite natural.

  “Hello, Brian,” the recording said. “Wish I were with you now. Here's a present, darling.” The image blew him a kiss, and then faded back to immobility.

  Scott sighed again. Jeana was a comfortable sort of person. But— Oh, hell! She wasn't willing to change. Very likely she couldn't Ilene perhaps was equally dogmatic, but she represented the life of the Keeps—and that was what Scott wanted now.

  It was an artificial life Ilene lived, but she was honest about it. She knew its values were false. At least she didn't pretend, like the Free Companions, that there were ideals worth dying for. Scott remembered Briggs. The fact that men had been killed during the building of Doone fort meant a lot to the old orderly. He never asked himself—why? Why had they died? Why was Doone fort built in the first place? For war. And war was doomed.

  One had to believe in an ideal before devoting one's life to it. One had to feel he was helping the ideal to survive—watering the plant with his blood so eventually it would come to flower. The red flower of Mars had long since blown. How did that old poem go?

  One thing is certain, and the rest is lies;

  The flower that once has blown forever dies.

  It was true. But the Free Companions blindly pretended that the flower was still in blazing scarlet bloom, refusing to admit that even the roots were withered and useless, scarcely able now to suck up the blood sacrificed to its hopeless thirst.

  New flowers bloomed; new buds opened. But in the Keeps, not in the great doomed forts. It was the winter cycle, and, as the last season's blossoms faded, the buds of the next stirred into life. Life questing and intolerant. Life that fed on the rotting petals of the rose of war.

  But the pretense went on, in the coastal forts that guarded the Keeps. Scott made a grimace of distaste. Blind, stupid folly! He was a man first, not a soldier. And man is essentially a hedonist, whether he identifies himself with the race or not.