by Ian Miller
There was an immediate call to parade. A number of very bleary young officers were put in single line, and a Russian Colonel inspected them. He stopped in front of each officer, looked at him or her, and then moved to the next. Marisa was the fourth; he stopped, tapped her on the shoulder with his staff, and ordered her to march ten paces forward, stop, and come to attention. He moved on, ordering the occasional recruit to march forward. He touched Harry's shoulder, and Harry marched forward.
Eventually twenty-four recruits were scattered in a line in front of the others. As Harry was to note later, thirteen of them were women, and there were only seventeen women in the whole intake. The captain stepped in front of them.
"You officers are designated alpha squad. You will be under the tuition of drill sergeant Roberts. Sergeant Roberts has been lent to us by the British Grenadier Guards, possibly the best of the ceremonial units on this planet. Sergeant Roberts has one assignment only, and that is to turn you into well-disciplined soldiers. You will obey his commands without hesitation on the parade ground. His orders can be considered as coming directly from the Commissioner. He is empowered to issue fatigue duties for any minor reluctance to fully comply with orders. With slightly more serious offences, I shall order more serious punishment. For serious insubordination, the Commissioner has requested me to inform you that she will, without hesitation, order corporal punishment. Absolute refusal to comply with orders will be considered mutiny; for that, the punishment is execution by firing squad. Alpha squad will fall into columns of three. Sergeant Roberts, take over."
Alpha squad was marched off. As the day progressed, and the temperature of the late Central Asian summer made its presence felt, almost all of alpha squad felt ready to collapse. Yet they stood there, they marched, they turned, and they were abused. They double-marched up hill, they crawled on their stomachs through a bog, they forded an artificial river, then they returned to double marching. Of the squad, Pennlington, Harry and Marisa alone were excused much of the drill, Pennlington and Harry because they had already undergone much of it, and Marisa because her status was now infuriatingly unclear. Harry and Marisa were given extra tuition, continuing to make up for the lack of previous academy work.
As the evening approached, the kitchen cleaners were marched to the kitchen and given brushes. Two hours of scrubbing, potato peeling, oven cleaning, and other general work was required before they could eat. Rather subdued soldiers then retreated to barracks, to shine and polish.
As Harry finally switched off his simulator, he looked across at the Brazilian, who was clearly tired, but clearly determined to improve. "Marisa?" he asked.
"Yes?" A tired expression, neither friendly nor unfriendly.
"How would you like dinner?"
"I'll get around to it soon."
"I mean," Harry stammered, "with me in the regular officer's mess." The girl seemed undecided, and he quickly added, "I thought you might like to watch the Brazilian news, and that's the only place you can."
"I'd like that," she smiled back.
At the same time, pairs of the fatigue squad approached the regular forces latrines. Each pair was escorted by a regular forces sergeant, and two soldiers. Buckets, soap, and scrubbing brushes were issued, followed by the order, "Scrub!" There were two reactions. Some pairs accepted their fate and scrubbed. Three hours later they emerged, knuckles raw, clothes dirty, with the clear instructions to wash their clothes, smarten up, then go to the fatigues mess where food would be available.
Some found it more difficult to accept. As the sergeants screamed abuse, the regular soldiers arrived to watch proceedings. A trainee would suddenly find his bucket tipped over him, then find the sergeant scream at him for being sloppy. As they wearily approached finishing, a soldier would tip a can of shit across the floor, then push the trainee into it. The sergeant screamed again, and the whole cleaning would start again.
The last pair returned to Harry's barracks at 0100 hours, and flopped dead tiredly onto their beds. There were two sudden twangs, and the whole bedding collapsed onto the floor, the three springs now holding each stretched to bent wire. Harry rolled over and smiled to himself. Revenge was sweet, and for those two, in four and a half hours, there would be more fatigues.
For four weeks the pattern was the same. In the mornings they marched. In the afternoons they went to course work and weapons training, and in the evenings they spent whatever time they wished on the simulators. Generally speaking, alpha squad avoided fatigues. They saw nothing of the other squads. They were moved into separate barracks, they ate separately, and, as they gradually learned, they had to get up half an hour before the others.
On the fifth week, some of the squads were brought together for demonstrations of self-defence. Alpha squad was singled out for a demonstration of unarmed defence by two rather brutal instructors. Marisa was singled out by one of the instructors, and she was thrown heavily against a padded wall. She scowled a little as she rose, and received a further throw. "Lesson one!" the instructor roared. "If you survive the first round, don't expect a bell. The enemy will come after you, so be ready!"
Van Lugt was selected, and the intake held its breath. This lasted a shade longer, but van Lugt was also thrown. As he moved to get up, he was struck in the back, and sent sprawling. "Lesson two," the instructor yelled. "Don't turn your back on the enemy." then he turned back to van Lugt, and said, "Come on, throw me. I want to show them how to land." Van Lugt obliged, and the instructor landed neatly. He looked at van Lugt, and held out his hand, as if wanting assistance to get up. Van Lugt offered his hand, and was thrown again. "Lesson three," the instructor yelled. "The enemy is a tricky bunch. There're no gentlemanly rules in combat. Lower your guard and you're dead!"
The lessons went on, and a rather bruised and battered alpha squad was beginning to look ruefully at the clock. Then an instructor threw a rifle with a bayonet attached to Harry, who had so far managed to avoid attention. "Strike me!" he called.
"I'd prefer to take the bayonet off," Harry replied, "I don't want to hurt you."
"This is a command!" the instructor yelled, and marched towards Harry.
Harry moved forward, and made the obvious bayonet move, but as the instructor began to reach forward for the rifle he pulled it short and kicked up with his boot, catching the instructor's thigh and spinning him to one side. Harry spun the other way, and brought the butt of the rifle against the instructor's backside, sending him sprawling. As the instructor turned over, he saw the bayonet at his throat.
"Very good!" the instructor nodded, as Harry backed away tentatively. "If the enemy's going to be a tricky bastard, you be trickier!" To the general surprise of the squad, the instructor regained his feet, and continued with the lesson, as if nothing had happened.
* * *
On the Monday of the tenth week, they were marched in single line up a ramp, and along a wall.
"Alpha squad, halt! Left turn! . . . Chins up, eyes forward! . . . Now, what do you think is down there?" Nobody looked down. Nobody spoke. "Very well, then. Eyes down!"
They looked. Recruits were double marching around a square while holding sand-filled bags above their heads.
"Eyes up! Left turn! Double march!"
They double marched back down the ramp, and halted at the base of the wall. Sergeant Roberts stood before them.
"Well, officers, you're hardly Grenadier Guards, but the Commissioner is more or less satisfied that you have gained some elements of discipline, which is what this has been all about. By now you may hate the sight of me, but if you can avoid letting these lessons slip, one day you may thank me. It is only by maintaining discipline without question that you have any chance to stay alive. I shall now leave you, but before I go, may I wish you all good luck."
They were dismissed, and they dazedly marched back to the course complex.
Chapter 2
Beth Hanson nervously tapped on the door. In principle she was to devote her time solely to Jennifer Munro's work,
but this time she seemed to be the only assistant acceptable to Harvey Munro. She had a trolley, and she was to take this into that room, where Harvey Munro was entertaining Max Reiner from MinCorp. She was afraid, because entertainment could mean almost anything, and many of the options were likely to be unpleasant.
On hearing the summons, she wheeled the trolley in, and saw two of the most powerful men on the planet staring at her. Fortunately, Harvey appeared to be in a good mood. She placed the tablemat on a space that was quickly made available, and neatly laid out the cutlery and glasses. The meals were placed in front of the men, and she quickly uncorked the wine and poured a small sample into Reiner's glass.
"Delightful," he remarked, as he gave Beth an unreadable smile.
Quickly she poured the necessary wines, and as she did so, she could not help seeing the meeting agenda notes in front of Harvey Munro. Without appearing to do so, she quickly memorized the contents, and as soon as she had left the room, she made notes of what she had remembered. She hid the notes in her handbag, intending to lock them away.
* * *
After they had been eating for about ten minutes, and Harvey judged the wine was beginning to have an effect, he looked at the chief of MinCorp.
"It's a pity, you know, that we hadn't got together more often before."
"You've got a good kitchen, Harvey," Reiner smiled evasively. After a moment, he smiled and added, "I suppose you must want something from me."
"Max," Harvey sighed, "why do you always think the worst . . ."
"I know you, Harvey," Reiner said without expression. "Why not get to the punch line right away?"
"The punch line's an opportunity to break free from the restraints we face, expand our interests, and make a significant advance," Harvey remarked coolly.
"Is that so?" Reiner said calmly. "May I ask why you're inviting me to share this opportunity?"
"I think it's highly desirable for our two great corporations to work together more. I think . . ."
"Oh deary me!" Reiner shook his head in despair. "You've brought me here to listen to a sales pitch. How thoroughly disappointing."
"Suppose I said I needed you?" Munro offered, after biting back his initial reply.
"That's at least credible," Reiner replied.
"Max, why're you so suspicious? Here I am, prepared to offer you an opportunity of a lifetime, and . . ."
"Harvey, you know as well as I do why we have the relationship we do. We may need each other, but our mutual distrust has been learned rather painfully. How about you tell me where's this opportunity?"
"Mars," Harvey said coolly, ignoring Reiner's speech.
"Isn't that occupied," Max Reiner retorted, "by a power that is so far advanced that anything Earth has borders on the irrelevant?"
"I believe so," Harvey replied simply.
"Isn't that a problem?"
"A problem for some is an opportunity for others," Harvey commented.
"Meaning?"
Harvey decided to take the plunge. "These M'starn. My reports indicate they don't care too much for direct contact with humans. From what I've gathered, most of the actual contact on Mars is through a bunch of collaborators called Brownshirts. It seems these Brownshirts have modelled themselves on a group of twentieth century Germans, and they see themselves as a vanguard of some great military force. The M'starn leave the entire administration to these Brownshirts, and I don't think they want any more contact with humans than they can help. All they want is labour, goods, and resources."
"So?" Reiner's face was unreadable.
"Well, just think about what we've got?"
"You're thinking of dealing with them?" Reiner's face was devoid of expression, but his darting eyes indicated that his mind was working overtime.
"Yes," Harvey replied quietly, "and don't get excited. So should you."
"I can't see Defence liking that very much," Reiner remarked in a voice devoid of any signs of commitment or detachment.
"I can't see them doing much about it, myself."
"What exactly are you thinking?"
"Just this. We've got agents on Mars, and so have you. Not officially, because the corporations have been kept off Mars, but you know as well as I do that sooner or later a chink would appear, and whoever's there first wins. So we're there under cover, and you're there too. Don't deny it."
"Officially, one Council member to another," Reiner gave a slight challenging smile, "I deny it."
"Sure! And I wouldn't mind betting that those non-existent MinCorp men have sent you a list of the GenCorp men there."
"Perhaps," Reiner said evasively.
"Of course they have. Officially, we're not there either, but we both know the reality."
"So what are you proposing?"
"Just this. The M'starn want goods and services, but to get them, they need competent organization. The Brownshirts are just a bunch of thugs. Sure, they can terrorize defenceless settlers, but how well do you think they'll organize the collections of what the M'starn want?"
"If the settlers don't cooperate, perhaps the aliens'll make them," Reiner objected.
"Phooey!" Harvey laughed. "My point is there's more to delivering minerals and manufactured goods than scaring the locals shitless. What's the betting those Brownshirt scum couldn't organize a beer party in a brewery?"
"So you're proposing we do the organizing?" Reiner mused. "That'd hardly win any popularity contests back here when the word gets out."
"Who's going to know?" Harvey smiled. "What I'm proposing is that our men jointly offer to provide the necessary skills. In return the M'starn'll rein in those Brownshirts. That way we'll get popular with at least a reasonable number of the settlers, and the M'starn won't care. If we deliver, they'll be thankful."
"And if we don't? If the settlers don't cooperate? They went to Mars to get away from the corporations, you know."
"The corporations won't be identifiable," Harvey replied, leaning forward and patting Max Reiner's arm. "Don't you see? We're not there. All the settlers'll know is that some collaborators have made their life easier for them. They'll grumble, but when push comes to shove, they'd rather work for collaborators and get paid than get beaten up by thugs."
"And the M'starn will be happy to deal with us."
"If all goes well and the M'starn win, we'll be the two king corporations," Harvey said with a grin. "We'll get out of our current bind, with the backing of the most powerful force in the Universe. Max, we're talking about real power. We help the aliens, they help us. With their backing, we take the whole bag of cookies."
"And if they lose?"
"Be your age! They can't. They're so technologically superior. The worst that can happen is they tire of the spot, and leave."
"And then?"
"We deny all knowledge of these traitors, and we've lost nothing. Don't forget, there're no corporation men on Mars."
"There'll be records."
"Of what? Don't you see the beauty of all this? We can't get records sent to Mars. Mars is isolated. Terran ships take weeks or even months to get there and the M'starn can cross the solar system in a couple of days. Earth has written off Mars. We can send communications, but not in a written form. If the agents write anything down, so what? They wrote it! What's important is we can't write anything and get it there."
"So the agents just have to take our word."
"Exactly! We disown them at the drop of a hat."
"So why do they go along with us?"
"Because they're chosen as good corporate men. And I dunno about you, but it wasn't my intention to tell them I'd disown them if things go wrong."
"So you propose?"
"One of yours and one of ours goes to the M'starn headquarters and propose that they organize the production of the required goods on the behalf of the M'starn. All the M'starn have to do is state their requirements, and ensure our agents have the required tools and muscle."
"And in return?"
"If the M'starn
stay, our corporations have a preferred position on Mars, or any other domain taken over by the M'starn."
"And if they want Earth?"
"We'll provide information, and we can turn around large sections of Defence."
"That's treachery." Reiner's face was still devoid of expression and it was impossible to tell whether he approved or disapproved of this proposal.
"Treachery only applies to the losing side. In any case, treachery to whom?"
"To the Federation, surely?"
"Really," Harvey sneered. "And what is the Federation? I'll tell you what it is. Apart from a number of self-important officials, a public service and the military, it's largely the corporations and a number of colonies the corporations can't get at because of a number of pathetic little officials who want to be empire builders. And who the hell pays for those officials?"
"We do," Reiner nodded, staring into space.
"You're only too right. Give them a job, give them a position, and suddenly they're answerable to nobody. They blunder around, secure in the knowledge that they never pay for their mistakes. In fact the bigger the mistake, the more important a position they get later. And don't tell me they're answerable to governments."
"Well, strictly speaking, they are," Reiner murmured, without enthusiasm.
"Yes, and we know your views on governments, don't we. That rousing little impromptu speech last week."
"You heard about that?" Reiner smiled.
"Who didn't? You want to hear what you said? Politicians are a self-perpetuating bunch of parasites, demanding that NewsCorp satiate their egos with praise for whatever random blunder they perpetrate that day, bleeding the industries dry, as they just grub around recycling meaningless legislation that nobody wants or cares for. Remember what you said about leadership? Leadership only occurs when the people follow voluntarily. The politicians show as much leadership as a rancher who leads cattle with a prod. Remember what you said about governments? They're about as meaningful as a monarchy; they're there to give the people the illusion that they have some miniscule say in their own affairs, when all they get is a self-perpetuating autocratic illogical cancer."