Not For Glory

by Joel Rosenberg

  A handy possibility, that.

  Shimon Bar-El rose. "Take a walk with me."

  The downslope edge of the clearing was just that: an edge. A hundred meters below, the sharp drop ended in a stand of the ever-present rula trees. Bar-El gestured at the village below. "About how many would you say are in this next group?"

  I shrugged. "A thousand or so. Maybe a touch more." We now had almost all of the local effectives after us.

  I glanced over my shoulder. There was nobody in the vicinity. It wasn't impossible that Shimon Bar-El would slip over the edge, and maybe drag his aide with him. At least that's what it would look like. There was a convenient overhang, maybe fifty meters down. I could probably climb down and duck under before anyone could reach the edge.

  And then I'd hide until dark. It's easy to hide in the dark. You become darkness, and drift through the night.

  And then, when Yonni Davis took command, not knowing what Shimon Bar-El had planned, he'd have no choice but to withdraw, and quickly, quickly, before the villagers got their second force of horsemen around the mountaintop, and cut off the line of retreat. Over the mountain and down the other side; the regiment would make it to the port within a week, and leave Indess behind. They would have retreated out of an impossible situation, having relied on a Shimon Bar-El fix that had died with Shimon Bar-El.

  Old Rivka had planned it well. We'd collect the credits due us under the contract, and with minimal casualties and little damage to Metzada's reputation. Payment-under-all-contingencies contracts would be harder to come by, but what of that? All-contingencies deals come along once in a lifetime; the loss of revenue wouldn't be much.

  In a few weeks, when somebody who only looked vaguely like Tetsuo Hanavi appeared at the lowland port and booked passage out, nobody would suspect a thing. I'd make it home, and tell a story of lying under a pile of leaves with a broken leg.

  Easy.

  I turned, slowly. Bar-El had pulled out his utility knife, and locked the killing blade into place.

  "What's that for?"

  He smiled. "I know you're a wizard with the Fairbaim, but are you any good with this?"

  I could have sliced him from throat to crotch in less time than it would have taken him to blink. But Bar-Ell knifed by his aide was not the image I wanted to leave behind. The death that would trigger the retreat was supposed to look like the result of an enemy assassination, or an accident. The image would have to be maintained in front of the line troops; what they didn't know, they couldn't ever tell.

  "Reasonable," I said. "I may be just a staff officer, but I try to keep in shape."

  "So I recall." He chuckled, backing away from the edge before unlocking the blade and clicking it back into the body of the knife. "What I meant was, how good are you at cutting wood with this thing? I want to gather a bit for the fire tonight. Good exercise."

  The runner he'd earlier dispatched joined us, barely panting.

  " 'Silverstein to Bar-El: What the hell are you doing, Shimon?' " The runner, a tall, skinny private who looked about seventeen, shrugged an apology before continuing. " 'We're cutting wood, as per orders, and have relayed said directions to other battalions, but I'm damned if I understand what we're trying to do. Would you be good enough to enlighten me?' "

  He nodded. "Good. Tell him: we're starting a bonfire tonight, and I'm particular about the length of the firewood. Soon as it's dark—say, in another ninety minutes—leave First Company on watch, and get the hell up the trail to this clearing. Same thing for the Third Battalion. I don't want any interruptions from the locals."

  A fire wasn't a bad idea; it could cover a retreat. I smiled at him. "So that was your idea? A bonfire? Do you want me to go into the woods and cut my own contribution?"

  He clapped a hand to my shoulder. "Not a bad idea. I think I'll join you." He flexed his fingers. "I can use the exercise. These things are starting to get limber again." A few weeks of treatment from a medician can do wonders for arthritis.

  He nodded to the runner, who was still standing there. "That's it. Run along." He turned to me. "Coming?"

  I followed him into the woods. Good; he was taking us out of sight of the encampment. Perhaps it wouldn't be as neat a solution for him simply to disappear along with his aide, but it wouldn't take long for David to notice, and if a search didn't find his body, Yonni would have to attribute it to the opposition.

  I let my hand slide to the hilt of my Fairbairn. Just another moment, until he was stepping over the tree. He might be Bar-El the Traitor, but he was my uncle, and I loved him. I'd make it as painless as possible.

  I drew my knife, and—

  Pain blossomed in the back of my head. I tried to lift the knife—never mind, finish him off, finish it, finish it, you have to finish it—but it grew heavier, and heavier. Something hissed at me, and then rough hands seized me from behind, dragging me back.

  I gave up, and fell into the cool dark.

  ***

  I woke to someone slapping me with a wet cloth. There was a shooting pain in my head; with every heartbeat, the little man inside drove another nail into my skull.

  I tried to say something, but I'm not sure how it came out.

  "Easy, Tetsuo." Yonni Davis's voice was calm as always. "I hit you a bit harder than I should have, but," he said, gentle fingers probing at my scalp, sending more rivulets of pain through my head, "I don't think you've got a concussion."

  I opened my eyes, slowly. It was dark—and it took me a moment to realize that some of the lights dancing in my eyes were stars overhead.

  Somewhere in the darkness, Shimon Bar-El chuckled. "It's probably my fault. I took the wrong hypo out of the medician's kit Morphine. Didn't just put you under, Tetsuki, it almost killed you. Yonni, you sure he's going to live?"

  "Good chance."

  "Let's get him up."

  Far away, there was a rustling, as though a ship's sails were flapping in the wind. Sails?

  Hands grasped my arms, pulling me to my feet. It was hard to tell, but at the opposite end of the clearing, next to the ledge, it looked like the shelter halves were being . . . thrown off the edge?

  I blinked, trying to clear my eyes and head. I was still muzzy from the morphine.

  "They're called hang gliders, Tetsuki," Shimon Bar-El said, puffing on a tabstick, then handing it to me. "You take a specially designed piece of cloth—say, one that's been camouflaged as a shelter half—and then you attach it to three spears, one at each leading edge and one down the middle. And then you attach cables and bracing spars, and re-rig the pack harnesses to hold a soldier up instead of a pack down."

  He chuckled. "Instant air power. Then you have your men practice for a few hours, taking short flights across the clearing, before you make it real."

  I turned. He was rubbing at his chin.

  "Frankly," he said, "I doubt that one in ten will actually be able to control the silly things well enough to put their gliders down inside the walls. But the village is vulnerable now—most of the men of fighting age are up here, chasing shadows. Once we get the gates open . . ."

  He shrugged, then smiled. "Not as bloody as the Casa wars, eh?"

  "You did it."

  He actually laughed. "You, my dear nephew, have a keen eye for the obvious." He clapped a hand to my shoulder. "Of course I did it. Come morning, the few effectives inside the city will be captured or dead, and then we can see how much the Ciban horsemen like exchanging bowshots with their wives and children tied to the walkways around the walls. I think we'll be able to persuade them to move on. Lots of other places to settle on on this continent." He looked up at me, quizzically. "You like it?"

  "You intended this from the first."

  He spat. "Of course I did. The only worry was whether we were going to sneak the sails past the Commerce Department. I thought the messkits made a nice distraction, didn't you?" He looked at me long and hard. "Don't underestimate me again, Tetsuo. It wouldn't be safe." He brightened. "I do have a job for
you, though. If the local horsemen try being stubborn, it would be kind of handy if they start fighting among themselves. The leader taking a crossbow bolt in the chest might be a nice way to start things."

  He grinned. "Get going."

  Indess, Gomes's Continent

  Pôrto Setubalnôvo

  Thousand Worlds Port Facility

  8/11/40, 2043 local time

  I met him at the port a few weeks later. The regiment was loading itself onto shuttles, preparatory to leaving. Leaders are first down, last up; we had some time to talk.

  "Nice bit of work with the crossbow, Tetsuki. Old Yehoshua taught you well."

  I shrugged. Moving through the dark is something I do well; the crossbow shot that had taken the Ciban leader in the throat had been a lucky one. "No problem, General."

  He started to turn away.

  "Uncle?"

  He turned back, startled. "Yes?"

  "You knew from the beginning, didn't you?"

  "Of course, and send my regards to the deputy premier. A nice idea," he said, nodding, "arranging an all-contingencies contract where Metzada gets paid whether or not we win, and then working out a way to lose cheaply, without losing face, sacrificing only an old irritation."

  He thumped himself on the chest. "An old irritation. I can just see you explaining it to Regato: 'Sorry, Senhor, but the only one who could have successfully generaled such a campaign was Shimon Bar-El—you knew that when you hired us.' " He spread his hands. " 'And since the old traitor is dead, we had no choice but to retreat. Now, our contract calls for payment under all contingencies. Do you pay us now, or do we have the Thousand Worlds Commerce Department garnishee all your offworld credits until you do?' "

  He lit a tabstick and then chuckled. "That is how it was supposed to go, no?"

  "Roughly." I shrugged. "But I think I'd have had a bit more tact, a bit more finesse. Shimon, if you knew all that, why? Why did you—"

  "Stick my head in the buzzsaw?" He shrugged his head. "I could tell you that I knew that my hang glider gambit would work, but that'd be a lie. True as far is it goes, but . . . Regato told you about Cincinnatus, Tetsuo. About how he chose to come out of retirement, to command the armies of Rome again. I don't think Regato could have told you why. It wasn't just that he wanted the taste of blood in his mouth again. It was the same for him as for me.

  "I was a bad husband, a horrible father, and I've never been a good Jew, Tetsuki. But I am a general. Commanding an army is the one thing I do right." His faint smile broadened. "And I wouldn't have missed this for anything." He stuck out his hand. "Which is why we say goodbye here."

  "What do you mean?"

  He sighed. "You haven't been listening. Let's say I go back to Metzada with you. Do you think there's any chance Rivka is going to recommend to the premier that I get my stars back?"

  No. She'd been clear about that; I wasn't to even offer that to Bar-El as bait. Not because she'd been worried about paying—dead collect little—but because he never would have believed it. Metzada's reputation had been badly hurt by his selling out on Oroga; the damage would be irreparable if we let him come back and return to permanent duty.

  He nodded. "Correct. This was a special case. I'll be taking the next civilian shuttle up, and then heading back to Thellonee. New Britain colony, most likely—probably just hang around New Portsmouth. Perhaps another special case will come up someday. If you need me, find me." He turned his back on me and started walking from the landing field.

  "Uncle?"

  He turned, clearly irritated. "What is it?"

  "Did you take that payoff on Oroga?"

  Shimon Bar-El smiled. "That would be telling."

  PART ONE

  METZADA

  If brothers live together, and one of them dies childless, the wife of the dead brother shall not marry one not of his kin; her husband's brother shall marry her, and perform his duty to her. Her firstborn shall take the name of the dead brother, that his name be not blotted out among Israel.

  But if the man refuses to take his brother's wife, then his brother's wife shall go up to the gate, to the elders, and say, "My husband's brother refuses to maintain his brother's name in Israel; he will not perform the obligations of a husband's brother to me."

  Then the elders of the city shall call him, and speak to him, and if he persists and says, "I will not take her," then his brother's wife shall come close to him in the presence of the elders, and loose his shoe from his foot, and spit in his face.

  And she shall say, "This is what is done to the man that does not build up his brother's house."

  —Deuteronomy 25:5-9

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Wolf

  Metzada, Central Warrens,

  Medical Section, Reconstruction Division

  Reconstructive Physical Therapy Department

  12/20/43, 1057 local time

  Each year it gets a little harder to put it all back together. That includes me, as well as everything else.

  I was in a reconstructive therapy session when the deputy premier called.

  "Again, Tetsuo, again," P'nina Borohov said, pushing down on my right leg as I tried to raise it.

  P'nina was one of the ugliest women I've every seen. Well into her forties, she was easily seventy pounds overweight, thick-waisted with muscle, not fat. Pig-faced, mustached—and with fingers like steel clamps.

  One of the ways we're taught to deal with pain is by concentrating on something extraneous. She had a mole below her mouth, right on the jawline, with three long, black hairs sticking out of it. I tried to focus my attention on how ugly it was, but that didn't help much.

  I hurt.

  Everything hurt: a side-effect of one of the drugs they give you when they have to regenerate certain kinds of damage quickly. They call it NoGain. It's expensive as all hell, and it doesn't work with valda oil. Anything more, I don't Need to Know.

  Normally, after the aborted kneecapping I'd received in Eire, I could have looked forward to perhaps as much as a couple thousand hours of rest and gradual physical therapy, accompanied by whatever reconstruction and occupational therapy the fourth-best reconstructive surgeon on Metzada prescribed. Except for some of the occupational therapy, which I'd have enjoyed, it would have been a rough regimen, but I'd been through it before. But this wasn't normal.

  The stainless steel therapy table was painfully cold against my back as I lay there, wearing nothing but a thin pair of cotton shorts. The light of the overhead glow hurt my eyes.

  My heart thudded slowly in my chest, each dull beat a dismal, distant ache. That's the thing I hate most about NoGain; even when it doesn't put me through agony, it leaves me feeling exactly the way I do when somebody I love dies.

  When I was a boy, I thought heartache was just an expression.

  Boys can be such fools.

  Her fingers hurt.

  "Again, Tetsuo," she said, digging a knuckle into the back of my calf. That wasn't for therapy, not directly. It was just to force me to do what she wanted me to. "You will—"

  "You will be telling us what you are doing here," he says.

  He is the slightly larger, the fractionally older of a pair of big men in the black uniforms of Irish Republic guardsmen, politely wondering what somebody with no Sein ID is doing on the cobblestones of a Dublin back street. He rubs a large hand against his stubbled chin in curiosity while his partner sticks a spearpoint under my chin to push me up against the battered brick wall so they can comfortably inquire.

  "Sooner or later," he says. "Sooner or later." He slaps his nightstick against his palm. It isn't as though he's threatening me with it. It's more like he's fine-tuning, either the stick or himself. "Sooner or later, you will be telling us. I say again—"

  "Again. But harder this time. You're not scheduled for more NoGain sessions; we have to make this last one count."

  I pushed up my leg, my knee setting up a scorching, ripping pain that made me think she was going to tear the leg right of
f.

  The sadist responded by pushing down harder. There's supposed to be a point at which pain becomes so great that it overloads the mind; the mind blanks, and the victim smiles at his torturer. I don't believe in it, and I'm not sure P'nina did, but she was accelerating toward that point, like a ramscoop trying for lightspeed, knowing that it will never make it, but feeling that the effort is enough, will do enough, will result in—

  "Enough!"

  "Hardly. Push back."

  I screamed.

  Granted, I usually wear a soldier's uniform, but I'm a butcher, not a hero. I'm not downplaying my skills—

  Long-practiced skills come into play when the more soft-hearted of the two Irishmen drops the spearpoint and lets me collapse to the ground.

  I fall hard, limp, to the rough stones. It's a high art to fall hard without hurting yourself, but it's not art, not for me, not now. I'm just a man in agony.

  But then I move.

  Half-blind with pain, I brace myself on my hands, grit biting hard into my palms, making them bleed, but you need a tripod. Mine is two palms and a hip. I lash out with my good leg, steel-toed boot bites hard, deep into the soft muscle of his calf; on the backswing, heel catches him square on the shinbone. I fall to my shoulder while I slip my baby Fairbairn knife out of my left sleeve and into my right hand.

  Fingers tighten on the grip; I slash upward into his partner's groin. Slash-twist-pull-and-recover, and his eyes widen first in surprise, then narrow in pain. His high-pitched, womanlike scream makes my ears ring as I pull away my blood-drenched hand, watching him clutch the dark stain spreading across his crotch.

  I turn to finish off the soft-hearted guardsman.

  His mouth works soundlessly as clumsy fingers try to block my knife.