The Military Megapack

by Harry Harrison

  And Russat was saying: “Same here, Ank! And, gee, you’re looking great. I mean, real great! Tough as ever, eh, Ank?”

  “Yeah, sure, tough as ever. Sit down, boy. Memi! Pour us something hot and get that bottle out of the cupboard!”

  Anketam pushed his brother back towards the chair and made him sit down, but Russat was protesting: “Now, wait a minute! Now, just you hold on, Ank! Don’t be getting out your bottle just yet. I brought some real stuff! I mean, expensive—stuff you can’t get very easy. I brought it just for you, and you’re going to have some of it before you say another word. Show him, Memi.”

  Memi was standing there, beaming, holding the bottle. Her blue eyes had faded slowly in the years since she and Anketam had married, but there was a sparkle in them now. Anketam looked at the bottle.

  “Bedamned,” he said softly. The bottle was beautiful just as it was. It was a work of art in itself, with designs cut all through it and pretty tracings of what looked like gold thread laced in and out of the surface. And it was full to the neck with a clear, red-brown liquid. Anketam thought of the bottle in his own cupboard—plain, translucent plastic, filled with the water-white liquor rationed out from the commissary—and he suddenly felt very backwards and countryish. He scratched thoughtfully at his beard and said: “Well, Well. I don’t know, Russ—I don’t know. You think a plain farmer like me can take anything that fancy?”

  Russat laughed, a little embarrassed. “Sure you can. You mean to say you’ve never had brandy before? Why, down in Algia, our Chief—” He stopped.

  Anketam didn’t look at him. “Sure, Russ; sure. I’ll bet Chief Samas gives a drink to his secretary, too, now and then.” He turned around and winked. “But this stuff is for brain work, not farming.”

  He knew Russat was embarrassed. The boy was nearly ten years younger than Anketam, but Anketam knew that his younger brother had more brains and ability, as far as paper work went, than he, himself, would ever have. The boy (Anketam reminded himself that he shouldn’t think of Russat as a boy—after all, he was thirty-six now) had worked as a special secretary for one of the important chiefs in Algia for five years now. Anketam noticed, without criticism, that Russat had grown soft with the years. His skin was almost pink, bleached from years of indoor work, and looked pale and sickly, even beside Memi’s sun-browned skin—and Memi hadn’t been out in the sun as much as her husband had.

  * * * *

  Anketam reached out and took the bottle carefully from his wife’s hands. Her eyes watched him searchingly; she had been aware of the subtleties of the exchange between her rough, hard-working, farmer husband and his younger, brighter, better-educated brother.

  Anketam said: “If this is a present, I guess I’d better open it.” He peeled off the seal, then carefully removed the glass stopper and sniffed at the open mouth of the beautiful bottle. “Hm-m-m! Say!” Then he set the bottle down carefully on the table. “You’re the guest, Russ, so you can pour. That tea ready yet, Memi?”

  “Coming right up,” said his wife gratefully. “Coming right up.”

  Anketam watched Russat carefully pour brandy into the cups of hot, spicy tea that Memi set before them. Then he looked up, grinned at his wife, and said: “Pour yourself a cup, honey. This is an occasion. A big occasion.”

  She nodded quickly, very pleased, and went over to get another cup.

  “What brings you up here, Russ?” Anketam asked. “I hope you didn’t just decide to pick up a bottle of your Chief’s brandy and then take off.” He chuckled after he said it, but he was more serious than he let on. He actually worried about Russat at times. The boy might just take it in his head to do something silly.

  Russat laughed and shook his head. “No, no. I’m not crazy, and I’m not stupid—at least, I think not. No; I got to go up to Chromdin. My Chief is sending word that he’s ready to supply goods for the war.”

  Anketam frowned. He’d heard that there might be war, of course. There had been all kinds of rumors about how some of the Chiefs were all for fighting, but Anketam didn’t pay much attention to these rumors. In the first place, he knew that it was none of his business; in the second place, he didn’t think there would be any war. Why should anyone pick on Xedii?

  What war would mean if it did come, Anketam had no idea, but he didn’t think the Chiefs would get into a war they couldn’t finish. And, he repeated to himself, he didn’t believe there would be a war.

  He said as much to Russat.

  His brother looked up at him in surprise. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Why, the war’s already started. Sure. Five, six days ago. We’re at war, Ank.”

  Anketam’s frown grew deeper. He knew that there were other planets besides Xedii; he had heard that some of the stars in the sky were planets and suns. He didn’t really understand how that could be, but even The Chief had said it was true, so Anketam accepted it as he did the truth about God. It was so, and that was enough for Anketam. Why should he bother himself with other people’s business?

  But—war?

  Why?

  “How’d it happen?” he asked.

  Russat sipped at his hot drink before answering. Behind him, Memi moved slowly around the cooker, pretending to be finishing the meal, pretending not to be listening.

  “Well, I don’t have all the information,” Russat said, pinching his little short beard between thumb and forefinger. “But I do know that the Chiefs didn’t want the embassy in Chromdin.”

  “No,” said Anketam. “I suppose not.”

  “I understand they have been making all kinds of threats,” Russat said. “Trying to tell everybody what to do. They think they run all of Creation, I guess. Anyway, they were told to pull out right after the last harvest. They refused to do it, and for a while nobody did anything. Then, last week, the President ordered the Army to throw ’em out—bag and baggage. There was some fighting, I understand, but they got out finally. Now they’ve said they’re going to smash us.” He grinned.

  Anketam said: “What’s so funny?”

  “Oh, they won’t do anything,” said Russat. “They fume and fuss a lot, but they won’t do anything.”

  “I hope not,” said Anketam. He finished the last of his spiked tea, and Memi poured him another one. “I don’t see how they have any right to tell us how to live or how to run our own homes. They ought to mind their own business and leave us alone.”

  “You two finish those drinks,” said Memi, “and quit talking about wars. The food will be ready pretty quickly.”

  “Good,” said Anketam. “I’m starved.” And, he admitted to himself, the brandy and hot tea had gone to his head. A good meal would make him feel better.

  Russat said: “I don’t get much of a chance to eat Memi’s cooking; I’ll sure like this meal.”

  “You can stay for breakfast in the morning, can’t you?” Anketam asked.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble. I have to be up to your Chief’s house before sunrise.”

  “We get up before sunrise,” Anketam said flatly. “You can stay for breakfast.”

  II

  The spring planting did well. The rains didn’t come until after the seedlings had taken root and anchored themselves well into the soil, and the rows showed no signs of heavy bruising. Anketam had been watching one section in particular, where young Basom had planted. Basom had a tendency to do a sloppy job, and if it had showed up as bruised or poorly planted seedlings, Anketam would have seen to it that Basom got what was coming to him.

  But the section looked as good as anyone else’s, so Anketam said nothing to Basom.

  Russat had come back after twenty days and reported that there was an awful lot of fuss in Chromdin, but nothing was really developing. Then he had gone on back home.

  As spring became summer, Anketam pushed the war out of his mind. Evidently, there wasn’t going to be any real shooting. Except that two of The Chief’s sons had gone off to j
oin the Army, things remained the same as always. Life went on as it had.

  The summer was hot and almost windless. Work became all but impossible, except during the early morning and late afternoon. Fortunately, there wasn’t much that had to be done. At this stage of their growth, the plants pretty much took care of themselves.

  Anketam spent most of his time fishing. He and Jacovik and some of the others would go down to the river and sit under the shade trees, out of the sun, and dangle their lines in the water. It really didn’t matter if they caught much or not; the purpose of fishing was to loaf and get away from the heat, not to catch fish. Even so, they always managed to bring home enough for a good meal at the end of the day.

  The day that the war intruded on Anketam’s consciousness again had started off just like any other day. Anketam got his fishing gear together, including a lunch that Memi had packed for him, and gone over to pick up Blejjo.

  Blejjo was the oldest man in the village. Some said he was over a hundred, but Blejjo himself only admitted to eighty. He’d been retired a long time back, and his only duties now were little odd jobs that were easy enough, even for an old man. Not that there was anything feeble about old Blejjo; he still looked and acted spry enough.

  He was sitting on his front porch, talking to young Basom, when Anketam came up.

  The old man grinned. “Hello, Ank. You figure on getting a few more fish today?”

  “Why not? The river’s full of ’em. Come along.”

  “Don’t see why not,” said Blejjo. “What do you think, Basom?”

  The younger man smiled and shook his head. “I’ll stay around home, I think. I’m too lazy today to go to all that effort.”

  “Too lazy to loaf,” said Blejjo, laughing. “That’s as lazy as I ever heard.”

  Anketam smiled, but he didn’t say anything. Basom was lazy, but Anketam never mentioned it unless the boy didn’t get his work done. Leave that sort of kidding up to the others; it wasn’t good for a supervisor to ride his men unless it was necessary for discipline.

  Basom was a powerful young man, tall and well-proportioned. If the truth were known, he probably had the ability to get a good job from The Chief—become a secretary or something, like Russat. But he was sloppy in his work, and, as Blejjo had said, lazy. His saving grace was the fact that he took things as they came; he never showed any resentment towards Anketam if he was rebuked for not doing his work well, and he honestly tried to do better—for a while, at least.

  “Not too lazy to loaf,” Basom said in self-defense. “Just too lazy to walk four miles to loaf when I can do it here.”

  Old Blejjo was taking his fishing gear down from the rack on the porch. Without looking around, he said: “Cooler down by the river.”

  “By the time I walked there,” said Basom philosophically, “walking through all that sun, I’d be so hot it would take me two hours to cool down to where I am now, and another two hours to cool down any more. That’s four hours wasted. Now—” He looked at Anketam with a sly grin. “Now, if you two wanted to carry me, I’d be much obliged. Anketam, you could carry me piggyback, while Blejjo goes over to fetch my pole. If you’d do that, I believe I could see my way clear to going fishing with you.”

  Anketam shook his head positively. “I’m afraid the sun would do you in, anyway.”

  “Maybe you’d like The Chief to carry you,” said Blejjo. There was a bite in his voice.

  “Now, wait,” Basom said apprehensively, “I didn’t say anything like that. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Blejjo pointed his fishing pole at the youth. “You ought to be thankful you’ve got Anketam for a supervisor. There’s some supers who’d boot you good for a crack like that.”

  Basom cast appealing eyes at Anketam. “I am thankful! You know I am! Why, you’re the best super in the barony! Everybody knows that. I was only kidding. You know that.”

  Before Anketam could say anything, the old man said: “You can bet your life that no other super in this barony would put up with your laziness!”

  “Now, Blejjo,” said Anketam, “leave the boy alone. He meant no harm. If he needs talking to, I’ll do the talking.”

  Basom looked gratefully reprieved.

  “Sorry, Ank,” said Blejjo. “It’s just that some of these young people have no respect for their elders.” He looked at Basom and smiled. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you, Bas. There’s a lot worse than you.” Then, changing his tone: “Sure you don’t want to come with us?”

  Basom looked apologetic, but he stuck to his guns. “No. Thanks again, but—” He grinned self-consciously. “To be honest, I was thinking of going over to see Zillia. Her dad said I could come.”

  Anketam grinned at the boy. “Well, now, that’s an excuse I’ll accept. Come on, Blejjo, this is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is more our speed.”

  Chuckling, Blejjo shouldered his fishing pole, and the two men started down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river.

  * * * *

  They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweatbands of their broad-brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their bodies.

  “I kind of feel sorry for that boy,” old Blejjo said at last.

  “Oh?” said Anketam. “How so? He’ll get along. He’s improving. Why, he did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year, he bruised the seedlings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he remembered it. He’ll be all right.”

  “I’m not talking about that, Ank,” said the old man, “I mean him and Zillia. He’s really got a case on with that girl.”

  “Anything wrong with that? A young fellow’s got a right to fall in love, hasn’t he? And Zillia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father doesn’t object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly.”

  “Her father might not object,” said Blejjo, looking down at his feet as they paced off the dusty road. “But there’s others who might object.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  Blejjo was silent for several steps. Then he said: “Well, Kevenoe, for one.”

  Anketam thought that over in silence. Kevenoe was on The Chief’s staff at the castle. Like many staff men—including, Anketam thought wryly, his own brother Russat, on occasion—he tended to lord it over the farmers who worked the land. “Kevenoe has an eye on Zillia?” he asked after a moment.

  “I understand he’s asked Chief Samas for her as soon as she’s eighteen. That would be this fall, after harvest.”

  “I see,” Anketam said thoughtfully. He didn’t ask how the old man had come about his knowledge. Old Blejjo had little to do, and on the occasions that he had to do some work around The Chief’s castle, he made it a point to pick up gossip. But he was careful with his information; he didn’t go spreading it around for all to hear, and he made it a point to verify his information before he passed it on. Anketam respected the old man. He was the only one in the village who called him “Ank,” outside of Memi.

  “Do you think The Chief will give her to Kevenoe?” he asked.

  Blejjo nodded. “Looks like it. He thinks a great deal of Kevenoe.”

  “No reason why he shouldn’t,” said Anketam. “Kevenoe’s a good man.”

  “Oh, I know that,” said the old man. “But Basom won’t like it at all. And I don’t think Zillia will, either.”

  “That’s the way things happen,” said Anketam. “A man can’t expect to go through life having everything his own way. There’s other girls around for Basom. If he can’t have the prettiest, he’ll have to be satisfied with someone else.” He chuckled. “That’s why I picked Memi. She’s not beautiful and never was, but she’s a wonderful wife.”

  “That’s so,” said Blejjo. “A wise man is one who only wants what he knows he can have. Right now”—he took off his hat and wiped his bald head—”all I want is a dip in that river.”

  “Swim first and then f
ish?”

  “I think so, don’t you? Basom was right about this hot sun.”

  “I’ll go along with you,” agreed Anketam.

  They made their way to the river, to the shallow place at the bend where everyone swam. There were a dozen and more kids there, having a great time in the slow moving water, and several of the older people soaking themselves and keeping an eye on the kids to make sure they didn’t wander out to where the water was deep and the current swift.

  Anketam and Blejjo took off their clothes and cooled themselves in the water for a good half hour before they dressed again and went on upriver to a spot where Blejjo swore the fish were biting.

  They were. In the next four hours, the two men had caught six fish apiece, and Blejjo was trying for his seventh. Here, near the river, there was a slight breeze, and it was fairly cool beneath the overhanging branches of the closely bunched trees.

  Blejjo had spotted a big, red-and-yellow striped beauty loafing quietly in a back eddy, and he was lowering his hook gently to a point just in front of the fish when both men heard the voice calling.

  “Anketam! Anketam! Blejjo! Where you at?”

  Blejjo went on with his careful work, knowing that Anketam would take care of whatever it was.

  Anketam recognized the voice. He stood up and called: “Over here, Basom! What’s the trouble?”

  A minute later, Basom came running through the trees, his feet crashing through the underbrush.

  Blejjo sat up abruptly, an angry look on his face. “Basom, you scared my fish away.”

  “Fish, nothing,” said Basom. “I ran all the way here to tell you!” He was grinning widely and panting for breath at the same time.

  “You suddenly got an awful lot of energy,” Blejjo said sourly.

  “What happened?” Anketam asked.

  “The invasion!” Basom said between breaths. “Kevenoe himself came down to tell us! They’ve started the invasion! The war’s on!”

  “Than what are you looking so happy about?” Anketam snapped.

  “That’s what I came to tell you.” Basom’s grin didn’t fade in the least. “They landed up in the Frozen Country, where our missiles couldn’t get ’em, according to Kevenoe. Then they started marching down on one of the big towns. Tens of thousands of ’em! And we whipped ’em! Our army cut ’em to pieces and sent ’em running back to their base! We won! We won!”