The Regiment-A Trilogy

by John Dalmas

  "You see, you cannot successfully manipulate people, once they learn the T'sel, but you can collaborate with them on the basis of overlapping interests and mutually held reality."

  Varlik didn't respond for a long moment. His attention was elsewhere. When he spoke again, it was slowly. "All right. I can see that." Again he focused on Durslan. "There's another question that bothers me though."

  "What's that?"

  "The regiment, or regiments—sacrifice of. Why?"

  "From our point of view and the viewpoint of our program, the use of T'swa mercenaries permitted strong and favorable publicity of the T'swa. From the mercenaries' point of view, it provided a good war."

  Durslan leaned toward Varlik, forearms on knees, a pose unexpected of a nobleman. "Tell me, Varlik, are you familiar with a chart known as the Matrix of T'sel?"

  "In a general way. It's been explained to me, but I forget the details. I probably have a copy somewhere."

  "Good." Durslan got up and stepped to his desk, where his slender fingers tapped keys on his keyboard. The wall screen lit up, and a moment later a chart appeared on it, the now-familiar Standard translation, with an arrow. The arrow moved to the top row, the right-hand column. "Does this entry fit your impression of the Way of the T'swa warrior?" Durslan asked.

  Varlik nodded. "Right. 'War as play,' " he read aloud, " 'Victory unimportant.' " Then the words of Usu, the T'swa medic on the hospital ship, came back to him, clearly, almost as if he were hearing them again. " 'If you are truly at Play,' " Varlik quoted, " 'death will not matter to you.' A T'swa told me that on the ship to Tyss. And I accepted it as a concept, but it wasn't really real to me. It still isn't."

  It struck Varlik then what made it unreal. "How can the T'swa," he asked, "how can anyone, find satisfaction in a war without purpose? Without a purpose meaningful to them? On Kettle, did the T'swa know what was going on—that they were being used?" Or would they have cared if they'd known? he added to himself.

  "They may have known," Durslan said, "but I rather doubt it."

  He stroked his chin contemplatively. "You asked how they could find satisfaction in a war without a purpose meaningful to them. Recognize first that you asked that from a particular point of view. Now let me ask you a question—a very personal question. Do you have children?"

  The seeming non sequitur stopped Varlik. "Not yet. We hope to, though. We've recently gotten clearance."

  "Fine. What was the purpose of your sex life before you got clearance? Was it a source of joy and happiness? A form of pleasure without regard to production of offspring? Sex as play?" Durslan paused to smile. "And now that you have clearance for children, do you go to bed with the attitude of a worker going to his job?"

  Varlik smiled back ruefully, then unexpectedly laughed. "Okay, I see what you're getting at. I've had several T'swa, two at least, talk about the matrix to me. But you're the first one to find an approach that worked. Or maybe I was just ready this time."

  Durslan grinned. "Maybe you were. Now, one more thing while I have it on the screen: Where do you fit on this chart?"

  "Huh! Well, when I first went to work I was at 'Work for Survival'—payday, the weekly credit transfer. Then I moved to 'Work for Advantage'—promotions and raises."

  "Fine. And very valid, both of them. But right now, does it seem to you— Can you imagine yourself operating at the level of, say, Job as Play, with reward unimportant? Not 'no reward,' but 'reward unimportant.' "

  "I can imagine it, but it's not entirely real to me."

  He turned from the screen to look at Durslan again. "Where are you on the chart?"

  Durslan moved the arrow. "Games as Play. So is Beniker. So are Tar-Kliss and Wellem, even though, as Masters of Wisdom, they were at Study as Play for years. They moved to Games as Play when they agreed to take part in the game of overhaul the Confederation. At any lower level—say, at Compete or Fight—they couldn't hope to succeed in a game like this one."

  Varlik contemplated the chart, and the things that had been said to him by Durslan, Usu, Kusu, Bin. To T'swa mercenaries, war was an activity as pure as healthy sex, and apparently as satisfying. Eventually, through death or wounds, they lost the ability to play at war any longer. That would happen to him with sex someday, through death or age or whatever.

  And the people that the T'swa fought and killed? They were people at War, too, participating in it at levels of Fight or Work, most of them, though apparently not the Birds. That's why the T'swa warred as they did—very personally, knowing who they shot at, not killing indiscriminately, but so far as feasible shooting or striking only those who'd chosen war or allowed themselves to be coerced into warring.

  "Okay, I can see it intellectually," Varlik said, "and I'm beginning to feel it at a gut level."

  Durslan reached and the screen went blank. "Fine," he said. "Can I interest you in employment?"

  Varlik's brows rose. "What do you have in mind?"

  "Formally, you'd be self-employed as a free-lance writer. But the Foreign Ministry would contract with you confidentially to write certain types of articles, scripts, and books that would help prepare the people of the Confederation for changes to come. And it would be best if you stayed here; you could have an apartment in our guest house. Information and consulting would be more readily available to you, and Wellem could work on your education. Mauen could be your secretary." He laughed again. " 'Reward unimportant' wouldn't mean you couldn't afford to pay a secretary. You'd be well paid."

  Varlik looked at Mauen; her eyes were bright and on his, expectantly.

  "Garlan," Varlik said, "consider me your free-lance writer." Job as Play! By Pertunis! It was beginning to feel real to him.

  Durslan turned to Konni. "And as for you, Miz Wenter, in the new phase the program is entering, we have need of a video photographer, director, and producer. I'm sure that we—you and Wellem and I—can develop some attractive projects."

  She laughed. "If you hadn't offered, I'd have refused to budge until you did. This sounds like the best game around."

  "Good. Then let's talk about terms and timetables. I'll want you available as soon as possible."

  44

  He was in a little two-seat floater, flying over steep, forest-covered, storybook mountains, and remembered seeing them before in a dream. And I'm dreaming again, he thought. Even if this is in color.

  Below was a large fjordlike lake, richly blue, the mountains rising directly from its mostly beachless shores. Ahead, around the shoulder of a mountain, a broad park appeared, open and grassy, its green as rich as the lake's blue. Here and there were small colonnaded marble buildings with rounded roofs, and marble walks and benches. Not a typical dream setting—not a stage with props, so to speak. It was rich with detail.

  The floater bent its course toward the lawn, where a large number of children were playing. Some of them are T'swa, Varlik told himself. Some are black and some white. The children stopped as the floater approached, watching calmly, not quite motionless. It seemed to Varlik that somehow they'd expected him.

  Strange dream, he told himself. But what dream isn't? He knew who the children were, too. The regiment. Black or white, they were the regiment.

  The floater was on the ground, on the lawn, and he got out. There was no sense of his feet impacting the ground, and he told himself that proved it was a dream, if proof was needed, or made any difference.

  The place was holding remarkably stable for a dreamscape, though. As detailed and stable as reality.

  Then the children began to play again. He got the impression of voices laughing and chattering, but without the normal playground shrieking. Of course not. They're the regiment, he reminded himself. Several came walking up to him—his old squad, with Kusu. "We've been waiting for you," Kusu said, looking up at him.

  A marvelous dream, Varlik thought again: The impression of sound is almost real, almost sonic.

  And Kusu's face was Kusu's face, though he appeared to be perhaps nine years old. "Are
these your new bodies?" Varlik asked. "You look half grown already, but you've been dead less than two deks."

  Kusu grinned Kusu's grin. "Rules like those don't apply here," he said. "Time here is different. But that has nothing to do with how we look to you. We look like this for you."

  A recollection came to Varlik then, of something he'd read as an adolescent in a book of myths from prehistory. Is this heaven, then? he wondered. He didn't want it to be. He wanted Kusu and the others to have recycled, to live again in bodies, back in the universe of reality.

  But they were here and they were dead. And if they were dead . . . "Am I really here?" he wondered aloud.

  Kusu laughed happily. "Of course. You're always here."

  "Then—I'm dead," said Varlik slowly. The thought didn't upset him at all.

  "No, you're dreaming."

  That's right. This is a dream. It's not supposed to make sense. This is my superconscious playing.

  "It doesn't feel like an ordinary dream. It's so detailed. And it doesn't shift around." Varlik tapped his foot on the ground, and this time felt the impacts. "Why am I dreaming this?"

  "It's the clearest way for us to communicate with you. Look!"

  He pointed, and Varlik turned around. Another child had walked up behind him, and Varlik stared, recognizing him at once: Himself, also about age nine.

  Himself grinned at him. "We wanted you to know we're here," Himself said cheerfully. "You've—you and I have—taken on an interesting game, but don't expect everything to go smoothly."

  "Know consciously," Varlik echoed. "Does that mean I'll remember this dream?"

  It was Kusu who answered. "The parts you decide to. When you're ready for them."

  "Will I come here again?"

  "Probably. But like I said: Yourself is always here."

  Of course! Turn around and look at yourself! Varlik nodded and changed the subject. "Some of the regiment is white now, but you're still blue-black. Are you going to be a mercenary again?"

  "No. I'm going to play at Wisdom and Knowledge next time." Kusu laughed. "More knowledge than wisdom: I'm going to be a scientist. It'll be lots of fun, and open the doors to all kinds of neat games and jobs. Science is going to be the big thing to do in thirty or forty years, and I want to be in on the ground floor."

  Science. Varlik recalled the term from some reading Lord Durslan had given him, but the meaning was vague yet.

  "And will you remember after you recycle? Remember being a mercenary? Being Sergeant Kusu?"

  "Possibly. But that isn't important. On this side I'll never forget. On the other—it depends on several factors."

  "Will I ever see you again?" Varlik asked. He found he didn't want to lose touch with Kusu now that he'd found him again.

  "Oh, yes. We'll see a lot of each other. I'm going to be Iryalan my next cycle. In about eight deks."

  "Will we recognize each other?"

  "On one level, certainly. But the life one is living is always the important one."

  "I hope you get good parents."

  "I will. I will. I've got my penalty slate quite clean; that allows me to choose."

  The blue-black face grinned up at Varlik, the eyes friendly and touched with playfulness. Then the storybook world began to fade, the face fading with it, and as they disappeared, child Kusu's voice was saying, "Parents? I've picked the best, my friend, I've picked the best."

  * * *

  Then Varlik awoke. He knew he'd been dreaming, though he didn't remember what. Something good. Maybe it would come back to him.

  He sat up in the dimness and looked at Mauen asleep beside him. She stirred restlessly; perhaps she was dreaming, too. He leaned over and softly kissed her, and her eyes opened. She smiled and reached for him.

  Notes

  1 From A Child's First Book of T'sel, by Brother Banh Dys-T'saben.

  2 Words marked with a star are defined and talked about in the glossary volume.

  3 The Standard year is divided into ten decimi, or "deks."

  4 The Standard clock is divided into twenty hours of one hundred minutes each. Thus 13.20 is midafternoon.

  5 The first known emperor, Amberus, had had public and private libraries and collections destroyed wholesale. Government and other computer banks, archives, and paper files had been ruthlessly culled of everything earlier except Standard Technical material and very limited current administrative records, on the psychotic consideration that all events prior to his reign were not only irrelevant but an insult. Writing or telling about history became a capital crime, and historians were executed wholesale. While there were numerous efforts to secret historical materials, over the course of his twenty-seven-year reign, and with considerable use of bounties and informers, these were generally rooted out. Only fragmentary materials have been recovered.

  6 The Standard twenty-hour day, with its hundred-minute hours, are used throughout the Confederation, the unit lengths varying according to the planetary diurnal cycles.

  7 For torvard, sergeant in Standard.

  8 Half past five by the hundred-minute clock.

  THE WHITE REGIMENT

  This novel is dedicated to

  KRISTEN LYNN JONES

  my favorite redhead

  Born Dec 24, 1987

  Acknowledgements

  Jim Baen, for his encouragement.

  Rod Martin, Elaine Martin, and Larry Martin for ideas and discussions that were central in developing the philosophy of the T'sel. For example, Larry came up with the insight that grew into the Matrix of T'sel.

  In my infrequent visits to Arizona, some marvelous evenings

  have been spent in the Martin living room.

  Elizabeth Moon, for comments that have sharpened my writing skills. Elizabeth is the author of the outstanding Paksenarrion trilogy and such excellent shorts as "ABCs in Zero-G" and "Too Wet To Plow."

  Bill Bailie, U.S. Navy (retired), for the benefit of his knowledge of electronics, ordnance, and a great deal more; and for our yak sessions that cover the spectrum and help ideas germinate and mature.

  And again for his friendship.

  Staff Sergeant Phil Yarbrough, U.S. Army, eight years a ranger, for

  reviewing the manuscript and for the loan of material on

  military strategy and tactics.

  Also my respects to the elite forces, notably the U.S. Army Special Forces, the Ranger battalions, and their equivalents in the other

  services; and Air Force, Navy, and Marine fighter squadrons. These organizations in particular provide roles for warriors; may their

  careers be spent in training.

  And finally my respects and appreciation to all branches of the

  United States armed forces.

  Prologue

  Summer Solstice, the Year of Pertunis 736

  Head tilted, Lotta Alsnor looked critically at herself in the mirror, yet hardly noticed the freckled face and carroty hair, the skinny arms and legs. She'd dressed herself in what she thought of as her prettiest dress, a yellow print with small white flowers, that Mrs. Bosler had given her for Equinox. She'd worn it almost every weekend since, at Sixday mixers where you got to visit with the staff and the older children. Mrs. Orbig had showed her how to clean it—it was a kind you sprayed with a special cleaner, then rinsed with water and blew dry. At home she hadn't cleaned her own clothes. Her mama hadn't taught her, probably had thought she was too little. Things were different here, a lot, and of course she was seven now.

  Lotta frowned. The dress didn't have as much body as when it was new. Mrs. Orbig probably knew how to fix that too, she told herself. She'd ask her. Her eye noticed a small scuff on a white shoe, on the toe. Taking a tissue from her desk, she knelt and spit on the place, wiped it as shiny as it would get, then threw the tissue away.

  With a final glance in the mirror, she hurried out of the room she shared with two other little girls and an older girl, then down the hall, the stairs, through the vestibule and onto the side veranda, where she sto
pped to wait.

  Sunlight was hazy yellow on flowerbeds and lawn; insects floated among clustered blossoms. It was seldom this quiet. Summer Solstice was the first holiday since Equinox long enough for children from far away to go home. Lotta couldn't, of course. Pelstron was 1,600 miles1 away, and her daddy didn't make enough money to buy the ticket. That didn't bother her though; she took it for granted. And her mother had written that they'd be able to fly her home for Harvest Festival.

  A bee reconnoitered the bank of butterflowers at the veranda's edge, and Lotta wondered what it would be like to be a bee. Wisdom/Knowledge was her natural area; in a few years she'd be able to meld with a bee and find out. She gave the insect her full attention, intending that it happen now, that she suddenly slip inside it. Thus she didn't notice Mrs. Lormagen come out on the veranda.

  Mauen Lormagen watched the rapt child for a minute or so without speaking. "Good morning, Lotta," she said at last, and the child turned and looked at her.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Lormagen." The little girl's gaze was steady and direct. Mrs. Lormagen was old—forty-nine she'd heard someone say—but still pretty. She taught dancing as part of the T'sel. You knelt; meditated space, time, and motion; then practiced the forms; and finally you danced. Mrs. Lormagen could stand on one foot, put her leg out in front of her, her foot higher than her shoulder, and hold it there without falling down. Lotta could put her leg out like that too, either leg, but couldn't keep it there without holding on to the balance bar. She liked dance next best to meditation class, and Ostrak sessions with Mr. Bosler; actually she liked all her classes.