by David Drake
"I appreciate that, Sergeant," Waldstejn said with raised eyes and a sharper tone. "If you need my decision now, however—"
Hussein ben Mehdi stepped between the two men. He gave Waldstejn a salesman's broad grin. "Hey," he said, "it's three days before we dock on Novaya Swoboda. No hurry, sir, no hurry." He put his hands on the shoulders of the two big non-coms. "Come on, boys," he added, "we need to settle bunk arrangements now that the crew's quarters are the sick bay."
The three men walked forward. Albrecht Waldstejn was staring at his hands again.
* * * *
Churchie Dwyer cried out sharply and awakened. Del Hoybrin held his comrade's hands firmly until he was sure that Churchie would not strike himself in the face the way he had an hour before. "Are you all right, Churchie?" the big man asked.
"Jesus, Del, Jesus," the wounded man whispered. The drugs left him without physical pain, only patterns of weights and pressures which trapped his body. That made it hard to tell reality from dream . . . but Del Hoybrin was here, and in his dreams—
"Jesus!" the veteran repeated. He tried to focus on the concerned face of his friend. Bertinelli glanced over, then went back to the trooper whose grazed scalp needed a fresh dressing.
Churchie licked his lips. "Del," he whispered, "how many people have I killed, do you suppose? The ones that I could see, I mean."
The bigger soldier wrinkled his brow in concentration. "Gee, Churchie," he said, "I don't know. A lot, I guess?"
"Every damned one of them deserved it, sweetheart," the wounded man said. He closed his eyes. "Nobody alive don't deserve it, and it don't bother me a bit to handle things. . . . You know that?"
"Yes, Churchie," Del said. "But why don't you go back to sleep now?"
The Doc had told him it was best for Churchie to sleep for the next twenty-four hours or so. Del really did not like it when his friend was asleep, though. Churchie kept moaning all the time.
* * * *
"Hey, Lieutenant," called someone as Hussein ben Mehdi walked through Hold One on his way to the bridge.
He paused, looking for the speaker. Trooper Powers waved. She sat on the end of a cot; but it was Sergeant Hummel, supine on the same cot, who had spoken. Hummel raised herself to one elbow and beckoned him over.
Ben Mehdi obeyed with a blank face. "Didn't expect to see you here, Sergeant," he said neutrally.
"Had them shift me out as soon as I woke up," the non-com grumbled. "If I'm going to feel like hell, I may as well have some elbow room while I do it." She paused. Her eyes and the cold blue eyes of Iris Powers were on the Lieutenant. He shifted his weight, preparing to leave. The Sergeant stopped him by adding, "Bunny tells me we owe you one."
Ben Mehdi looked at the seated woman, then the reclining one. "Yeah, well," he said. "I'm just as glad it was you being carried, not me."
Sergeant Hummel nodded, then grimaced at the pain. "I'm not worth a damn," she muttered to no one in particular. Then she focused on ben Mehdi again. "Yeah," she said as the officer fidgeted, "but we got three days of this, they tell me." She looked at her blonde friend and asked, "Bunny, how long's it been since we really partied?"
Trooper Powers' mouth spread in a wide, slow grin. "Podele's World, wasn't it?" she said. "Sure, Podele's World. The bartender."
Hummel looked back at ben Mehdi. "I'll tell you what, Lieutenant," she said. "We'll get a room in a good hotel when we dock in. And we'll lay on enough booze and food for—" she pursed her lips as she examined the officer—"four days, let's say. And then we'll party."
Ben Mehdi's eyes widened. He stared at the older woman, then the younger one. Both of them were smiling wickedly. "Allah!" he said. He started to point but caught himself. "You mean both of you?"
"Hey, Lieutenant," said Iris Powers. The smile was in her voice as well as on her lips. "Don't knock it till you've tried it." She chuckled aloud. "And I don't remember anybody knocking it then."
After a further moment of gaping, Hussein ben Mehdi began to grin also.
Chapter Twenty
"Hi, Lieutenant," said a voice. Its language and familiarity broke into Albrecht Waldstejn's black revery better than a shout could have.
"Hi, Pavel," said the ex-officer, ex-Cecach citizen. He gestured toward the jumble of ingots on which he sat. It occurred to him that he would need to borrow some kit for at least the next three days. "Make yourself at home."
"Thank you, sir," Hodicky said shyly. "I suppose I ought to call you Captain now." When Waldstejn looked at him with an odd expression, the smaller man added, "They've signed me on, sir—into Black Section with Churchie and Del. I'll be under you again. Ah, if you join."
Waldstejn managed to smile. He put out his hand. "Congratulations, Trooper Hodicky," he said. He shook with his beaming former subordinate. Then the smile faded. He added with the bitterness which had until then been internal, "It's not quite what you were raised for, though, is it?"
"Oh, you mean supply?" the new Trooper said in surprise. "Oh, that was just the army. But Lieutenant Mehdi says if I want, I'll get trained on really hot electronics, the sort of thing I'd never see back on Cecach. Not just computers, but commo and sensors like you wouldn't believe!"
"I suppose I meant the killing, soldier," the ex-officer said flatly. "That's the bottom line, isn't it? For a job as a 'contract soldier'."
Hodicky's face changed, but he did not edge back from the man beside him. "Yes sir," he said, "I suppose it is. I guess I can handle that, sure." He paused. "And I guess I'd rather do it for other people. Leave them with the hate that eats them up every night. I don't like to feel that way myself."
Waldstejn blinked at the younger man. "Sorry, Pavel," he said, "I don't—"
"Don't understand what it's like to be so small that anybody on the block can beat the crap out of you?" Hodicky said. "And smart enough, smartass enough, that most of them want to try?" He took a deep breath and swallowed. With less passion he continued, "I guess your family had enough money that it wasn't a problem anyway. I'm glad for you, sir. . . . But the first person I ever met who needed me and wanted me around was Q. And him and you were the only two who ever tried to stand up for me, ever. Well, I've got a family now, sir. It's not screaming kids and an old man who beats me with a chair leg whenever he's sober enough to move. I'm in the family business. And I'm going to be good at it, all of it."
The anger that had welled up out of the little man's past suddenly evaporated in a smile. He reached out to Waldstejn again, touching the older man on the wrist. "But Mother of God, sir, I won't be as good as you. You talk about killing? You saved the life of everybody in this ship!" He waved at the hold and beyond it, the troopers beginning to settle in for another night in a freighter. "And that's why they saved you. We saved you."
Albrecht Waldstejn turned his arm to link his hand again with that of the younger man. "Pavel," he said, "you don't have anything to justify. Certainly not to me."
Hodicky squeezed the hand, then released it as he stood up. "Look, sir," he said. He had lost both the shyness and the anger of previous moments. "I'm not a priest. Maybe Q's burning in Hell, even though he died to save me. But I don't think so. And I don't think God gave us talents we weren't supposed to use. You've got a hell of a talent for leading troops, sir." Smiling again, the little man gave a finger-to-brow Federal salute before he strode away.
I envy you your belief, thought Albrecht Waldstejn. His lips passed only a smile.
, The tall, young man looked at his hands. This time he really saw them, the flesh and the crucifix ring, instead of shadows from the past and future. Most of the scrapes and cuts had healed, though there was still a pucker where the head of a deep-driven thorn was working back to the surface.
Waldstejn had not killed anyone, not directly. He was fairly sure of that, as clumsy as he had proven to be with a gun. But the flesh would have looked the same if every shot he fired had snuffed out a life.
And his soul?
It was a big universe, even the hu
man part of it. Perhaps Hodicky was wrong, perhaps there was no God who granted talents . . . but at one level or another, Waldstejn, too, felt that doing a job well was good, a Good, and that doing a job in the mutual respect of one's companions was a Good as well.
Even if the job were slaughter.
The air whispered with a nearby presence. Waldstejn looked up. Sookie Foyle stood as Hodicky had, with a trace of nervous shyness on her plump face. When she caught the tall man's eye, she smiled into sudden beauty. "I just wanted to, to say I'm glad you made it, sir," she said. "And that I'm glad you're with us."
Instead of gesturing the Communicator to a seat, Albrecht Waldstejn took her by the hand. As he guided her gently down beside him, he said, "You know, Sookie, I've pretty well decided that I'm glad too."
THE END