by James White
As his eyes moved from face to face, Warren was becoming aware that his Staff was split down the middle, with Kelso, Sloan and himself ranged against Fielding, Hutton and Hynds. He knew that with each successive meeting the rift would widen and that in time he would have an open mutiny of his hands. The question was, how much time?
Could he hold them all together, and retain their loyalty and active support, for another three weeks?
Chapter 16
Implacably, E-Day moved from the minus twenties into the low teens. Two practice trips with Battler-wagons and ships had been completed with their time schedules and without incident, the wild Battlers who would be most likely to cause the incidents having been rendered virtually extinct by Sloan’s hunters. The sections of the dummy were ready to go, the ambush tunnels were a few days off completion and the areas for destruction by fire and explosive were being marked out.
The many accidents and setbacks which occurred were of a minor nature and were directly ascribable to nerves in one form or another. There had been no further acts of sabotage.
On Minus Twelve Warren was working with Fielding on the evacuation of injured from the Escape area when she said suddenly, “I don’t like what the Escape has done to some of the people here, sir. I especially don’t like what it has done to you. In my opinion you should slap an indefinite Hold on it—with a series of small delays to begin with, of course, so as to allow the Committee time to unwind—and start work on an alternative solution. It would be much better, sir, to found a dynasty ….”
If there had been anyone else present Warren would have silenced such seditious talk at once, but they had known each other and served together so long that all he could do was grunt disapprovingly.
“On Victorious I was the only unmarried female officer, she went on seriously, apparently changing the subject. “As an unattached female I kept the other girls from taking their men too much for granted—potentially I was the Other Woman for the whole ship—and as the doctor-psychologist, again female, I served many of the functions of a mother as well. You, sir, with your absolute authority combined with the ease with which you could be approached, not to mention the concern you displayed for the safety of the officers serving under you, were the great-granddaddy of all father-figures.”
“Even in these decadent times,” she went on, holding his eyes steadily but with her face growing redder by the second, “mothers and fathers are not infrequently married. To each other, I mean ….”
Warren gaped at her, unable to speak.
“This, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes, “is not a rhetorical proposal.”
A part of Warren’s mind seemed to be chasing itself into a tight circle of confusion while another and less chaotic segment remembered a sunlit observation platform in their first Post. On that occasion Warren had considered long and deeply this alternative solution, and rejected it as being too uncertain. One of the reasons then for its rejection had been his own advanced age, but this particular reason no longer seemed quite so valid after three years of healthy, open-air and virtually primitive living conditions. Those some conditions had done a lot for Ruth Fielding, too, Warren told himself as he tried not to look directly at her tight bolero jacket and even tighter pants, although in her case it was an improvement on near perfection.
He had to remind himself forcibly that the no longer valid reason had been a minor one in any case, and that all the other reasons still stood.
“I’m pretty sure the Escape will succeed, sir,” she went on suddenly, “but I wonder sometimes if our people back home are really capable of mounting the rescue operation. I realize that you are more aware of the overall tactical situation than any of us here, but your information is three years old and—”
“We have to escape!” said Warren harshly.
Until she had begun to talk again Warren’s mind had been very far away indeed from the Escape. He had been thinking that aboard Victorious some things had been neither possible nor desirable. A female ship’s doctor-psychologist was normally kept too busy seeing that every one else was happy to have any time to feel unhappy herself—if the officer was as dedicated as Fielding, at least. And while ship marriage was the norm on active service, it was not supposed to be entered into between such widely disparate ranks as a Major and a Sector Mashal! In order to attain such eminence an officer had to devote all his mental and physical energy to his career, and it was assumed that sheer force of habit would see to it that he continued this devotion to duty when the pinnacle of power had been reached. A Sector Marshal might very well be approachable and democratic and go through all the motions of being just one of the boys, but a girl might just as soon think of marrying God.
On the prison planet, however, the situation was not the same as aboard ship.
It was the sudden and surprising violence of the temptation, as if her words and her warm, vital presence had triggered off an emotional time-bomb within him, which had shaken Warren so badly and roughened his voice. That and a terrible, growing suspicion.
Still looking at the table-top, she went on quietly, “A female psychologist indulging in self-analysis on the subject of love is probably more than you could bear, sir. So let’s just say that I’ve taken so many men apart mentally that my need is for one with very special qualities and attributes, one that I can truly look up to. One of these attributes need not necessarily by youth.”
“Major Fielding … Ruth …!” began Warren, and stopped. When he went on a few seconds later he tried to adopt an avuncular manner, but his voice was so strained that he hardly recognized it. He said, “I think that I’ve just been handed the nicest compliment of my whole life, Ruth. But what you’re suggesting isn’t possible. You’d be much better advised using your feminine wiles on Hutton, who spends more time looking at you during Staff meetings these days than anything or anyone else..”
When Major Fielding left a few minutes later her face was stiff and unreadable. The thought came to him that perhaps she had been telling the truth about her feelings toward him, but he suppressed it with a violence which was close to panic. It was much better to think the other way, that he had just foiled the third and potentially the most damaging act of sabotage yet attempted.
On Minus Ten he had to read the riot act to Major Hynds, who had been complaining bitterly that his job was strictly third leg, and tell him in no uncertain terms that it was vital that the prisoners were not allowed to forget any of their technical know-how—or anything at all, for that matter. He sent Hynds on a five-day trip to the other continent to check on the re-education program on the same day that he sent Hutton off to check on practically everything else. If either officer suspected that he was pulling the old divide and rule gambit on them—splitting them up so that they would have no chance to unite in opposition to Kelso, Sloan and himself—there was nothing they could do about it. Major Fielding was angrily cooperative, and Warren could not be sure whether it was the anger of a woman scorned or a conspirator foiled. On Minus Eight he made it known for the first time that Majors Hutton, Hynds and Fielding would take no actual part in the assault, citing as his reason the necessity of leaving behind a nucleus of technical brains for a second attempt should this one fail. In his best dour old warrior’s voice he said that he was banking on this one succeeding, and if it didn’t he could not bear the thought of having to do it all again.
The news that he intended going up with them gave a tremendous boost to the morale of the assault groups, although when Fielding heard about it her anger towards him became overlaid with a quality which Warren suspected was clinical appraisal ….”
On Minus Seven the assault groups went gradually onto a low residue diet, so far as was possible with locally grown food, and they went off alcohol completely. Warren had let them know in no uncertain language that he didn’t want to go storming any ramparts with officers who were blind drunk or hung over. Six and Five he spent chiefly in reassuring officers of various ranks and specialties that he
did know how to handle himself in one of Hutton’s wastebaskets, that, having listened to the same lectures as they had, he was familiar with Bug physiology and the layout of their guardship, and that he was not contemplating any stupid heroics because he was getting too old and stiff. In short, he told them, he did not intent taking any risks and he was simply going along for the ride.
When they heard that, some of them tried to tell him how they felt. Awkwardly—even Kelso stumbled at it and Sloan was actually shy—they told him that he had done some highly peculiar things, almost suspicious things, in the past, but they knew now that he was with them and they were with him, no matter what. But the way they looked at him while they were talking made Warren feel even worse, because he had never been completely honest with any of them at any time.
In the late evening of Minus Four a top priority signal arrived from one of the observation posts on the eastern tip of the continent, which was already in darkness, saying that a Bug ship of the cruiser or small transport class was locked onto the guardship. It had arrived during daylight when the guardship was above the horizon and hence visible from the ground. Then four hours later, although both ships were by then well within the planetary shadow, the tail-flare of the cruiser illuminated the scene as it pulled away from the guardship preparatory to going into hyperdrive.
There could be no doubt as to what it meant.
“What a blasted inconvenient time for them to land prisoners!” said Kelso, considerably understating Warren’s own feelings in the matter. He added, “If the follow the usual procedure, sir, we can expect the shuttle early tomorrow morning.”
Warren said, “It would help to have some up-to-date intelligence about the crew and organization of the guardship, and the war, too, of course—but not if it means a Hold to get it. See that the prisoners are rounded up and interrogated as soon as possible. Lieutenant.”
The Bug shuttle landed on Minus Three at the time but not in the place expected. It used exactly the same landing spot as had been used on its previous visit, and it delayed several minutes so that the new prisoners could get clear of the tail-flare before it took off—a clear indication that the Bugs were growing careless or else feeling less nervous about the possibility of an ambush by prisoners. Either way it was to Warren’s advantage. The new arrivals were contacted and the position explained to them in double quick time—all except one.
Hynds, back from the other continent and somewhat happier now that he had Intelligence work to do instead of acting like a glorified school inspector, made the report.
“It’s difficult to process the men properly in the time allowed, sir,” He said briskly, “but it seems clear that they are no great shakes mentally, unobservant to an amazing degree and shockingly uninformed regarding the overall tactical position. The forty-three prisoners landed represent the survivors of thirteen ships and actions fought over a period of three years, and many of them have spent this time being moved about from ship to ship as if the Bugs did not quite know what to do with them. From this we might infer that the Bug military organization is beginning to go rapidly to pieces, and I’m sure the missing officer would corroborate this if we could find him.”
“Fleet Commander Peters,” said Kelso suddenly, “has his farm in that area.”
In spite of himself, Warren laughed. “I don’t think the Commander could do much to stop us, Lieutenant. Not with one convert, in three days …” He turned abruptly to Hynds. “Better call in the search parties and gliders, Major. If he hasn’t heard all that whistling and running or seen a plane and made a signal to it, a stray Battler must have got him. And would you pass the word to Major Hutton—I think he’s in Number Two Attack Point—to meet me at the grenade store in forty-five minutes….”
Three. Two. One….
Ponderous, faultless and by now unstoppable, the vast machinery of the Escape rolled on. Holding as it did a thirty-two-and-a-half hour orbit, which was the rotational period of the Bug home world, the guardship was below the horizon for just over sixteen hours. But in actual fact the Committeemen had closer to nineteen hours freedom from observation because they had been careful to choose for their surface transport routes which were well-sheltered by natural features—nearby hills and mountains, dense forest and the concealment afforded by the guardship’s acute angle of observation through the atmospheric haze. At the present time, four hours after sunrise on E minus one, the Bug ship was due to set in a little over three hours. In a very short time—Warren had to allow for possible delays in transmission—he could signal the final Go.
From Nicholson’s post, which was almost deserted now since it too was due for destruction, the town and bay looked peacefully and unremarkably busy in the early sunlight. But there was a growing commotion outside his office, with voices raised so loudly in argument that two of them were recognizable. So he was not completely surprised when Sloan conducted Fleet Commander Peters and a stranger into his presence.
“I expected to find you at the Escape site,” said Peters breathlessly, while Sloan was still opening his mouth. “We’ve wasted far too much time. I’ve got to speak to you, sir. Alone.”
Warren didn’t reply at once. Instead he examined the stranger from head to toe, seeing a small, overweight individual with a furiously sweating face whose expression reflected anxiety and confusion. Remembering his own feelings on being first pitchforked into the Committee-Civilian ideological conflict Warren felt a touch of sympathy for the man, but it was a very slight and fleeting touch. He nodded to Sloan to wait outside, then turned to Peters.
“Go ahead, Commander,” he said.
Peters had recovered his breath but for some reason seemed to be finding it difficult to speak, and his eyes as they met Warren’s held an expression which was very close to pity.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to call it off, sir,” he said finally. “You’ve no choice. The war is over ….”
Chapter 17
“My name is Hubbard, sir,” the new man put in in a nervous, jerky voice. “Political Officer from the late Resolution. It isn’t over, exactly—but it amounts to the same thing. Neither side has the resources, technical, material or personnel, to go on with it.
“Political Officer?” asked Warren dully. It was a completely new rank to him, and even though he felt that they planet had just been pulled from under his feet the process of satisfying his curiosity was automatic.
The position had been created because of the growing distrust of the field commanders by High Command, Hubbard explained, the situation being aggravated by the accelerating breakdown of all military organization and communications. In part this was due to the incredibly poor quality of present officer material, it being the accepted thing these days to refuse rather than force battle with the enemy. The men just would not fight—although in honesty Hubbard said that this was due to distrust of their own ships and equipment as much as inner qualms. Despite this the officers on space service had been built up as heroes by home propaganda in an attempt to boost the war effort, and this had given some of the field commanders a very nice idea.
Not just as single ships but in flotillas and whole Sector sub-fleets they had simply opted out of the war. But they had not gone home. Instead they had taken themselves to some of the colony worlds—planets with small populations and light defenses—and as heroes place their worlds under their protection. Or held them to ransom, or tried to carve small, personal empires out of them, depending on the characteristics of the commander concerned and the number of units he possessed whose captains were personally loyal to him. It was Hubbard’s duty, and the duty of the other political officers serving with the remains of the fleet, constantly to remind the ships’ personnel where there true loyalty lay, because not only the military organization but the whole of Earths interstellar culture was rapidly falling to pieces. And it was no comfort at all to know that the Bugs were having the same trouble.
“… The Fleet Commander has told me what you’re trying to do and I
think it’s tremendous!” Hubbard rushed on. “But it is a complete waste of live and effort, sir, believe me. What remains of our military organization is scarcely capable of mounting an offensive patrol much less a rescue operation of the rest of the prisoners! You’ve got a nice, tight organization here, sir. You’d be better advised to stay put and—”
“Peters,” said Warren suddenly, “how many people know about this?”
The Fleet Commander smiled. He said, “Give me credit for a little intelligence, sir. Nobody but ourselves. Releasing it to your people in the present frame of mind would not be smart. I thought you had better handle it, break it to them gently after a long series of Holds …”
“Sloan!”
The Major charged into the room, his cross-bow unslung and ready, eyes glaring. Harshly, Warren said, “Put these men under close arrest. They are not to be allowed to speak. They are to be confined separately so that they cannot attempt subversion by talking to each other and allowing their seditious talk to be overheard. They are not to say ‘Good Morning’ or ‘Thank you’ when meals are served. If they utter one word they are to be killed.”
“Yes sir!” said Sloan.
“You … you can’t,” began Peters incredulously. You’re mad, power mad …!”
The words were choked off as in response to Warren’s nod Sloan brought up his weapon, aimed at the center of the Commander’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The bolt thudded into a log two feet above the Commander’s head because at the penultimate instant Warren had used the heel of his hand to jar the Major’s elbow.
“You are not to speak at all,” he said quietly. “Is that understood?”
Second thoughts and last-minute changes of plan were dangerous, Warren told himself firmly, and a decision taken calmly and unhurriedly should not be altered because of them—especially if they arose because of cowardice, selfishness or the possibility of taking an easy way out. But he gave the final Go signal within minutes of Peters and Hubbard being marched out because he did not want to five himself time to think anyway….