There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Yes, I gather the Re-education Camps aren’t too bad,” the civilian agreed, walking past his brother to don a light jellaba of softer weave than his work garment. “I gather they’re not very full, either. A—a cynic, say, might guess that most of the troublemakers don’t make it to al-Madinah where journalists can see them. That they die in the desert after they’ve surrendered. Or they don’t surrender, of course. I don’t think Ali ben Cheriff and the others in the Bordj are going to surrender, for instance.”

  “Damn you!” the soldier shouted. “The choice is certain death, isn’t it? Any chance is better than that!”

  “Well you see,” said Juma, watching the knuckles of his right hand twist against the palm of his left, “they know as well as I do that the only transport you arrived with was the minimum to haul your own supplies. There’s no way you could carry over a hundred prisoners back to the capital. No way in… Hell.”

  Esa slammed the wall with his fist. Neither the concrete nor his raging expression showed any reaction to the loud impact. “I could be planning to put them in commandeered ore haulers, couldn’t I?” he said. “Some of them must be operable!”

  Juma stepped to the younger man and took him by the wrists as gently as a shepherd touching a newborn lamb. “Little brother,” he said, “swear to me that you’ll turn anyone who surrenders over to the authorities in al-Madinah, and I’ll do whatever I can to get them to surrender.”

  The soldier snatched his hands away. He said, “Do you think I wouldn’t lie to you because we’re brothers? Then you’re a fool!”

  “What I think, what anyone thinks, is between him and the Lord,” Juma said. He started to move toward his brother again but caught the motion and turned it into a swaying only. “If you will swear to me to deliver them unharmed, I’ll carry your message into the Bordj.”

  Esa swung open the massive door. On the threshold he paused and turned to his brother. “Every one of my boys who doesn’t make it,” he said in a venomous whisper. “His blood’s on your head.”

  Captain Mboya did not try to slam the door this time. He left it standing open as he strode through the courtyard. “Scratchard!” he roared to the sergeant with an anger not meant for the man on whom it fell. “Round up ben Khedda!” Mboya threw himself down on his skimmer and flicked the fans to life. Over their whine he added, “Get him up to me at the command dugout. Now!”

  With the skill of long experience, the captain spun his one-man vehicle past the truck and the jeep parked behind it. Sergeant Scratchard gloomily watched his commander shriek up the street. The captain shouldn’t have been going anywhere without the jeep, his commo link to Central, in tow. No point in worrying about that, though. The non-com sighed and lifted the jeep off the pavement. Ben Khedda would be at his house or in the cafe across the street from it. Scratchard hoped he had a vehicle of his own and wouldn’t have to ride the jump seat of the jeep. He didn’t like to sit that close to a slimy traitor.

  But Jack Scratchard knew he’d done worse things than sit with a traitor during his years with the Slammers; and, needs must, he would again.

  The mortar shell burst with a white flash. Seconds later came a distant chunk! as if a rock had been dropped into a trash can. Even after the report had died away, fragments continued ricocheting from rock with tiny gnat songs. Ben Khedda flinched beneath the clear night sky.

  “It’s just our harassing fire,” said Captain Mboya. “Your ragheads don’t have high-angle weapons, thank the Lord. Of course, all our shells do is keep them down in their tunnels.”

  The civilian swallowed. “Your sergeant,” he said, “told me you needed me at once.” Scratchard stirred in the darkness at the other end of the dugout, but he made no comment of his own.

  “Yeah,” said Mboya, “but when I cooled off I decided to take a turn around the perimeter. Took a while. It’s a bloody long perimeter for one cursed infantry company to hold.”

  “Well, I,” ben Khedda said, “I came at once, sir. I recognize the duty all good citizens owe to our liberators.” Firing broke out, a burst from a projectile weapon answered promiscuously by powerguns. Ben Khedda winced again. Cyan bolts from across the pit snapped overhead, miniature lightning following miniature thunder.

  Without looking up, Captain Mboya keyed his commo helmet and said, “Thrasher Four to Thrasher Four-Three. Anybody shoots beyond his sector again and it’s ten days in the glass house when we’re out of this cop.” The main unit in Scratchard’s jeep purred as it relayed the amplified signal. All the firing ceased.

  “Will ben Cheriff and the others in the Bordj listen to you, do you think?” the captain continued.

  For a moment, ben Khedda did not realize the officer was speaking to him. He swallowed again. “Well, I… I can’t say,” he blurted. He began to curl in his upper lip as if to chew a moustache, though he was clean shaven. “They aren’t friends of mine, of course, but if God wills and it would help you if I addressed them over a loudspeaker as to their true duties as citizens of Dar al-B’heed— “

  “We hear you were second in command of the Chelia contingent at Madinah,” Mboya said inflexibly. “Besides, there won’t be a loudspeaker, you’ll be going in in person.”

  Horror at past and future implications warred in ben Khedda’s mind and froze his tongue. At last he stammered, “Oh no, C-captain, before G-god, they’ve lied to you! That accurst al-Habashi wishes to lie away my life! I did no more than any man would do to stay alive!”

  Mboya waved the other to silence. The pale skin of his palm winked as another shell detonated above the Bordj. When the echoes died away, the captain went on in a voice as soft as a leopard’s paw, “You will tell them that if they all surrender, their lives will be spared and they will not be turned over to the government until they are actually in al-Madinah. You will say that I swore that on my honor and on the soul of my house.”

  Ben Khedda raised a hand to interrupt, but the soldier’s voice rolled on implacably, “They must deposit all their arms in the Bordj and come out to be shackled. The tunnels will be searched. If there are any holdouts, three of those who surrendered will be shot for each holdout. If there are any booby traps, ten of those who surrendered will be shot for every man of mine who is injured.”

  Mboya drew a breath, long and deep as that of a power lifter. The civilian, tight as a housejack, strangled his own words as he waited for the captain to conclude. “You will say that after they have done as I have said, all of them will be loaded on ore carriers with sunscreens. You will explain that there will be food and water brought from the village to support them. And you will tell them that if some of them are wounded or are infirm, they may ride within an ambulance which will be air-conditioned.

  “Do you understand?”

  For a moment, ben Khedda struggled with an inability to phrase his thoughts in neutral terms. He was unwilling to meet the captain’s eyes, even with the darkness as a cushion. Finally he said, “Captain—I, I trust your word as I would trust that of no man since the Prophet, on whom be peace. When you say the lives of the traitors will be spared, there can be no doubt, may it please God.”

  “Trust has nothing to do with it,” said Captain Mboya without expression. “I have told you what you will say, and you will say it.”

  “Captain, Captain,” whimpered the civilian, “I understand. The trip is a long one and surely some of the most troublesome will die of heat stroke. They will know that themselves. But there will be no… general tragedy? I must live here in Ain Chelia with the friends of the, the traitors. You see my position?”

  “Your position,” Mboya repeated with scorn that drew a chuckle from Scratchard across the dugout. “Your position is that unless you talk your friends there out of the Bordj—” he gestured. Automatic weapons began to rave and chatter as if on cue. “Unless you go down there and come back with them, I’ll have you shot on your doorstep for a traitor and your body left to the dogs. That’s your position.”

  “Cheer up, citizen,�
� Sergeant Scratchard said. “You’re getting a great chance to pick one side and stick with it. The change’ll do you good.”

  Ben Khedda gave a despairing cry and stood, his dun jellaba flapping as a lesser shadow. He stared over the rim of the dugout into a night now brightened only by stars and a random powergun bolt, harassment like that of the mortars. He turned and shouted at the motionless captain, “It’s easy for you—you go where your colonel sends you, you kill who he tells you to kill. And then you come all high and moral over the rest of us, who have to make our own decisions! You despise me? At least I’m a man and not somebody’s dog!”

  Mboya laughed harshly. “You think Colonel Hammer told us how to clear the back country? Don’t be a fool. My official orders are to cooperate with the District Governor, and to send all prisoners back to al-Madinah for internment. The colonel can honestly deny ordering anything else—and letting him do that is as much a part of my job as cooperating with a governor who knows that anybody really sent to a Re-education Camp will be back in his hair in a year.”

  There was a silence in the dugout. At last the sergeant said, “He can’t go out now, sir.” The moan of a ricochet underscored the words.

  “No, no, we’ll have to wait till dawn,” the captain agreed tiredly. As if ben Khedda were an unpleasant machine, he added, “Get him the hell out of my sight, though. Stick him in the bunker with the Headquarters Squad and tell them to hold him till called for. Via! but I wish this operation was over.”

  The guns spat at one another all through the night. It was not the fire that kept Esa Mboya awake, however, but rather the dreams that plagued him with gentle words whenever he did manage to nod off.

  “Well,” said Juma, scowling judiciously at the gun jeep on the rack before him, “I’d say we pull the wiring harness first. Half the time that’s the whole problem— grit gets into the conduits and when the fans vibrate, it saws through the insulation. Even if we’re wrong, we haven’t done anything that another few months of running on Dar al-B’heed wouldn’t have required anyway.”

  “You should have seen him handle one a’ these when I first knew him,” said Bog Muller proudly to his subordinates. “Beat it to hell, he would, Via—bring her in with rock scrapes on both sides that he’d put on at the same time!”

  The Kikuyu civilian touched a valve and lowered the rack. His hand caressed the sand-burnished skirt of the jeep as it sank past him. The joystick controls were in front of the left-hand seat. Finesse was a matter of touch and judgment, not sophisticated instrumentation. He waggled the stick gently, remembering. In front of the other seat was the powergun, its three iridium barrels poised to rotate and hose out destruction in a nearly-continuous stream.

  “You won’t believe it,” continued the Technician, “but I saw with my own eyes—” that was a lie—”this boy here steering with one hand and working the gun with the other. Bloody miracle that was—even if he did give Maintenance more trouble than any three other troopers.”

  “You learn a lot about a machine when you push it, when you stress it,” said Juma. His fingers reached for but did not quite touch the spade grips of the tribarrel. “About men, too,” he added and towered his hand. He looked Muller in the face and said, “What I learned about myself was that I didn’t want to live in a universe that had no better use for me than to gun other people down. I won’t claim to be saving souls… because that’s in the Lord’s hands and he uses what instruments he desires. But at least I’m not taking lives.”

  One of the younger Techs coughed. Muller nodded heavily and said, “I know what you mean, Juma. I’ve never regretted getting into Maintenance right off the way I did. Especially times like today… But Via, if we stand here fanning our lips, we won’t get a curst bit of work done, will we?”

  The civilian chuckled without asking for an explanation of ‘especially times like today.’ “Sure, Bog,” he said, latching open the left side-access ports one after another. “Somebody dig out a 239B harness and we’ll see if I remember as much as I think I do about changing one of these beggars.” He glanced up at the truncated mass of the plateau, wiping his face with a bandanna. “Things have quieted down since the sun came up,” he remarked. “Even if I weren’t—dedicated to the Way—I know too many people on both sides to like to hear the shooting at the mine.”

  None of the other men responded. At the time it did not occur to Juma that there might be something about his words that embarrassed them.

  “There’s a flag,” said Scratchard, his eyes pressed tight to the lenses of the periscope. “Blood and martyrs, Cap—there’s a flag!”

  “No shooting!” Mboya ordered over his commo as he moved. “Four to all Thrasher units, stand to but no shooting!”

  All around the mine crater, men watched a white rag flapping on the end of a long wooden pole. Some looked through periscopes like those in the command dugout, others over the sights of their guns in hope that something would give them an excuse to fire. “Well, what are they waiting for?” the captain muttered.

  “It’s ben Khedda,” guessed Scratchard without looking away from the flag. “He was scared green to go out there. Now he’s just as scared to come back.”

  The flag staggered suddenly. Troopers tensed, but a moment later an unarmed man climbed full height from the Bordj. The high sun threw his shadow at his feet like a pit. Standing as erect as his age permitted him, Ali ben Cheriff took a step toward the Slammers’ lines. Wind plucked at his jellaba and white beard; the rebel leader was a patriarch in appearance as well as in simple fact. On his head was the green turban that marked him as a pilgrim to al-Meccah on Terra. He was as devotedly Moslem as he was Kabyle, and he—like most of the villagers—saw no inconsistencies in the facts. To ben Cheriff it was no more necessary to become an Arab in order to accept Islam than it had seemed necessary to Saint Paul that converts to Christ first become Jews.

  “We’ve won,” the captain said as he watched the figure through the foreshortening lenses. “That’s the Kaid, ben Cheriff. If he comes, they all do.”

  Up from the hidden tunnel clambered an old woman wearing the stark black of a matron. The Kaid paused and stretched back his hand, but the woman straightened without help. Together the old couple began to walk toward the waiting guns.

  The flagstaff flapped erect again. Gripping it like a talisman, Youssef ben Khedda stepped from the tunnel mouth where the Kaid had shouldered aside his hesitation. He picked his way across the ground at increasing speed. When ben Khedda passed the Kaid and his wife, he skirted them widely as if he were afraid of being struck. More rebels were leaving the Bordj in single file. None of them carried visible weapons. Most, men and women alike, had their eyes cast down; but a red-haired girl leading a child barely old enough to walk glared around with the haughty rage of a lioness.

  “Well, no rest for the wicked,” grunted Sergeant Scratchard. Settling his sub-machinegun on its sling, he climbed out of the dugout. “Headquarters Squad to me,” he ordered. Bent over against the possible shock of a fanatic’s bullets, experienced enough to know the reality of his fear and brave enough to face it none the less, Scratchard began to walk to the open area between pit and siege lines where the prisoners would be immobilized. The seven men of HQ Squad followed; their corporal drove the jeep loaded with leg irons.

  One of the troopers raised his powergun to bar ben Khedda. Scratchard waved and called an order; the trooper shrugged and let the Kabyle pass. The sergeant gazed after him for a moment, then spat in the dust and went on about the business of searching and securing the prisoners.

  Youssef ben Khedda was panting with tension and effort as he approached the dugout, but there was a hard glint of triumph in his eyes as well. He knew he was despised, by those he led no less than by those who had driven him; but he had dug the rebels from their fortress when all the men and guns of the Slammers might have been unable to do so without him. Now he saw a way to ride the bloody crest to permanent power in Ain Chelia. He tried to set his flag in
the ground. It scratched into the rocky soil, then fell with a clatter. “I have brought them to you,” ben Khedda said in a haughty voice.

  “Some of them, at least,” said Mboya, his face neutral. Rebels continued to straggle from the Bordj, their faces sallow from more than the day they had spent in their tunnels. The Kaid had submitted to the shackles with a stony indifference. His wife was weeping beside him, not for herself but for her husband. Two of the nervous troopers were fanning the prisoners with detector wands set for steel and iridium. Anything the size of a razor blade would register. A lead bludgeon or a brass-barreled pistol would be ignored, but there were some chances you took in the service of practicality.

  “As God wills, they are all coming, you know that,” ben Khedda said, assertive with dreamed-of lordship. “If they were each in his separate den, many of them would fight till you blew them out or buried them. All are willing to die, but most would not willingly kill their fellows, their families.” His face worked. “A fine joke, is it not?” If what had crossed ben Khedda’s lips had been a smile, then it transmuted to a sneer. “They would have been glad to kill me first, I think, but they were afraid that you would have been angry.”

  “More fools them,” said the captain.

  “Yes…,” said the civilian, drawing back his face like a rat confronting a terrier, “more fools them. And now you will pay me.”

  “Captain,” said the helmet speaker in the first sergeant’s voice, “this one says he’s the last.”

  Mboya climbed the four steps to surface level. Scratchard waved and pointed to the Kabyle who was just joining the scores of his fellows. The number of those being shackled in a continuous chain at least approximated the one hundred and forty who were believed to have holed up in the Bordj. Through the clear air rang hammer strokes as a pair of troopers stapled the chain to the ground at intervals, locking the prisoners even more securely into the killing ground. The captain nodded. “We’ll give it a minute to let anybody still inside have second thoughts,” he said over the radio. “Then the search teams go in.” He looked at ben Khedda. “All right,” he said, “you’ve got your life and whatever you think you can do with it. Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”