There Will Be War Volume II

by Jerry Pournelle

  The street was empty again. All five troopers stared at it for some moments before any of them moved to the radio.

  Despite his haste, Youssef ben Khedda stopped his car short of the waiting gun jeeps and began walking toward the prisoners. His back crept with awareness of the guns and the hard-eyed men behind them; but, as God willed, he had chosen and there could be no returning now.

  The captain—his treacherous soul was as black as his skin—was not visible. No doubt he had entered the Bordj as he had announced he would. Against expectation, and as further proof that God favored his cause, ben Khedda saw no sign of that damnable first sergeant either. If God willed it, might they both be blasted to atoms somewhere down in a tunnel!

  The soldiers watching the prisoners from a few meters away were the ones whom ben Khedda had led on their search of the village. The corporal frowned, but he knew ben Khedda for a confidant of his superiors. “Go with God, brother,” said the civilian in Arabic, praying the other would have been taught that tongue or Kabyle. “Your captain wished me to talk once more with that dog—” he pointed to ben Cheriff. “There are documents of which he knows,” he concluded vaguely.

  The non-com’s lip quirked nervously. “Look, can it wait—” he began, but even as he spoke he was glancing at the leveled tri-barrels forty meters distant. “Blood,” he muttered, a curse and a prophecy. “Well, go talk then. But watch it—the bastard’s mean as a snake and his woman’s worse.”

  The Kaid watched ben Khedda approach with the fascination of a mongoose awaiting a cobra. The traitor threw himself to the ground and tried to kiss the Raid’s feet. “Brother in God,” the unshackled man whispered, “we have been betrayed by the unbelievers. Their dog of a captain will have you all murdered on his return, despite his oaths to me.”

  “Are we to believe, brother Youssef,” the Kaid said with a sneer, “that you intend to die here with the patriots to cleanse your soul of the lies you carried?”

  Others along the line of prisoners were peering at the scene to the extent their irons permitted, but the two men spoke in voices too low for any but the Kaid’s wife to follow the words. “Brother,” ben Rhedda continued, “preservation is better than expiation. The captain has confessed his wicked plan to no one but me. If he dies, it dies with him—and our people live. Now, raise me by the hands.”

  “Shall I touch your bloody hands, then?” ben Cheriff said, but he spoke as much in question as in scorn.

  “Raise me by the hands,” ben Rhedda repeated, “and take from my right sleeve what you find there to hide in yours. Then wait the time.”

  “As God wills,” the Kaid said and raised up ben Rhedda. Their bodies were momentarily so close that their jellabas flowed together.

  “And what in the blaze of Hell is this, Corporal!” roared Sergeant Scratchard. “Blood and martyrs, who told you to let anybody in with the prisoners?”

  “Via, Sarge,” the corporal sputtered, “he said—I mean, it was the captain, he tells me.”

  Ben Rhedda had begun to sidle away from the line of prisoners. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Scratchard snapped in Arabic. “Corporal, get another set of leg irons and clamp him onto his buddy there. If he’s so copping hot to be here, he can stay till the captain says otherwise.”

  The sergeant paused, looking around the circle of eyes focused nervously on him. More calmly he continued, “The Bordj is clear. The captain’s up from the tunnel, but it’ll be a while before he gets here—they came up somewhere in West Bumfuck and he’s borrowing a skimmer from First Platoon to get back. We’ll wait to see what he says.” The first sergeant stared at Aliben Cheriff, impassive as the wailing traitor was,shackled to his right leg. “We’ll wait till then,” the soldier repeated.

  Mboya lifted the nose of his skimmer and grounded it behind the first of the waiting gun jeeps. Sergeant Scratchard trotted toward him from the direction of the prisoners. The non-com was panting with the heat and his armor; he raised his hand when he reached the captain in order to gain a moment’s breathing space.

  “Well?” Mboya prompted.

  “Sir, Maintenance called,” said Scratchard jerkily. “Your brother, sir. They think he’s coming to, to see you.”

  The captain swore. “All right,” he said, “if Juma thinks he has to watch this, he can watch it. He’s a cursed fool if he expects to do anything but watch.”

  Scratchard nodded deeply, finding he inhaled more easily with his torso cocked forward. “Right, sir, I just— didn’t want to rebroadcast on the Command channel in case Central was monitoring. Right. And then there’s that raghead, ben Rhedda—I caught him talking to green-hat over there and thought he maybe ought to stay. For good.”

  Captain Mboya glanced at the prisoners. The men of Headquarters Squad still sat a few meters away because nobody had told them to withdraw. “Get them clear” the captain said with a scowl. He began walking toward the line, the first sergeant’s voice turning his direction into a tersely-radioed order. Somewhere down the plateau, an aircar was being revved with no concern for what pebbles would do to the fans. Juma, very likely. He was the man you wanted driving your car when it had all dropped in the pot and Devil took the hindmost.

  “Jack,” the captain said, “I understand how you feel about ben Rhedda; but we’re here to do a job, not to kill sons of bitches. If we were doing that, we’d have to start in al-Madinah, wouldn’t we?”

  Mboya and his sergeant were twenty meters from the prisoners. The Kaid watched their approach with his hands folded within the sleeves of his jellaba and his eyes as still as iron. Youssef ben Khedda was crouched beside him, a study in terror. He retained only enough composure that he did not try to run—and that because the pressure of the leg iron binding him to ben Cheriff was just sharp enough to penetrate the fear.

  A gun jeep howled up onto the top of the plateau so fast that it bounced and dragged its skirts, still under full throttle. Scratchard turned with muttered surprise. Captain Mboya did not look around. He reached into the thigh pocket of his coveralls where he kept a magnetic key that would release ben Khedda’s shackles. “We can’t just kill—” he repeated.

  “Now, God, now!” ben Khedda shrieked. “He’s going to kill me!”

  The Kaid’s hands appeared, the right one extending a pistol. Its muzzle was a gray circle no more placable than the eye that aimed it.

  Mboya dropped the key. His hand clawed for his own weapon, but he was no gunman, no quick-draw expert. He was a company commander carrying ten extra kilos, with his pistol in a flap holster that would keep his hand out at least as well as it did the wind-blown sand. Esa’s very armor slowed him, though it would not save his face or his femoral arteries when the shots came.

  Behind the captain, on a jeep still skidding on the edge of control, his brother triggered a one-handed burst as accurate as if parallax were a myth. The tribarrel was locked on its column; Juma let the vehicle’s own sideslip saw the five rounds toward the man with the gun. A single two-centimeter bolt missed everything. Beyond, at the lip of the Bordj, a white flower bloomed from a cyan center as ionic calcium recombined with the oxygen from which it had been freed a moment before. Closer, everything was hidden by an instant glare. The pistol detonated in the Kaid’s hand under the impact of a round from the tribarrel. That was chance—or something else, for only the Lord could be so precise with certainty. The last shot of the burst hurled the Kaid back with a hole in his chest and his jellaba aflame. Ali ben Cheriff’s eyes were free of fear when they closed them before burying him, and his mouth still wore a tight smile. Ben Khedda’s face would have been less of a study in virtue and manhood, no doubt, but the two bolts that flicked across it took the traitor’s head into oblivion with his memory. Juma had walked his burst on target, like any good man with an automatic weapon; and if there was something standing where the bolts walked—so much the worse for it.

  There were shouts, but they were sucked lifeless by the wind. No one else had fired, for a wonde
r. Troops all around the Bordj were rolling back into dugouts they had thought it safe to leave.

  Juma brought the jeep to a halt a few meters from his brother. He doubled over the joystick as if he had been shot himself. Dust and sand puffed from beneath the skirts while the fans wound down; then the plume settled back on the breeze. Esa touched his brother’s shoulder, feeling the dry sobs that wracked the jellaba. Very quietly the soldier said in the Kikuyu he had not, after all, forgotten, “I bring you a souvenir, elder brother. To replace the one you have lost.” From his holster, now unsnapped, he drew his pistol and laid it carefully down on the empty gunner’s seat of the jeep.

  Juma looked up at his brother with a terrible dignity. “To remind me of the day I slew two men in the Lord’s despite?” he asked formally. “Oh, no, my brother; I need no trinket to remind me of that forever.”

  “If you do not wish to remember the ones you killed,” said Esa, “then perhaps it will remind you of the hundred and thirty-three whose lives you saved this day. And my life, of course.”

  Juma stared at his brother with a fixity by which alone he admitted his hope. He tugged the silver crucifix out of his jellaba and lifted it over his head. “Here,” he said, “little brother. I offer you this in return for your gift. To remind you that wherever you go, the Way runs there as well.”

  Esa took the chain. With clumsy fingers he slipped it over his helmet. “All right, Thrasher, everybody stand easy,” the captain roared into his commo link. “Two-six, I want food for a hundred and thirty-three people for three days. You’ve got my authority to take what you need from the village. Three-six, you’re responsible for the transport. I want six ore carriers up here and I want them fast. If the first truck isn’t here loading in twenty, that’s two-zero mikes, I’ll burn somebody a new asshole. Four-six, there’s drinking water in drums down in those tunnels. Get it up here. Now, move!”

  Juma stepped out of the gun jeep, his left hand gripping Esa’s right. Skimmers were already lifting from positions all around the Bordj. G Company was surprised, but no one had forgotten that Captain Mboya meant his orders to be obeyed.

  “Oh, one other thing,” Esa said, then tripped his commo and added, “Thrasher Four to all Thrasher units—you get any argument from villagers while you’re shopping, boys… just refer them to my brother.”

  It was past midday now. The sun had enough westering to wink from the crucifix against the soldier’s armor— and from the pistol in the civilian’s right hand.

  Editor's Introduction to:

  ALLAMAGOOSA

  by Eric Frank Russell

  When I first read this story I was not long out of military service. I have remembered it ever since, and knew that it had to be in this collection.

  All good officers detest paperwork. The best know that it’s necessary. That doesn’t make them happier about it.

  There is another class of officer which thrives on paper work. These seem to believe that if all the forms are properly filled out, it doesn’t matter who wins the battles.

  These two kinds of officers are natural enemies.

  Each service has traditions, and among them are the means for dealing with official bat puckey. Headquarters knows of these traditions, and bureaucrats are perpetually closing loopholes. This is supposed to keep the serving officers on their toes.

  The tension is generally healthy, but sometimes things get out of hand.

  ALLAMAGOOSA

  by Eric Frank Russell

  It was a long time since the Bustler had been so silent. She lay in the Sirian spaceport, her tubes cold, her shell particle-scarred, her air that of a long-distance runner exhausted at the end of a marathon. There was good reason for this: she had returned from a lengthy trip by no means devoid of troubles.

  Now, in port, well-deserved rest had been gained if only temporarily. Peace, sweet peace. No more bothers, no more crises, no more major upsets, no more dire predicaments such as crop up in free flight at least twice a day. Just peace.

  Hah!

  Captain McNaught reposed in his cabin, feet up on desk, and enjoyed the relaxation to the utmost. The engines were dead, their hellish pounding absent for the first time in months. Out there in the big city four hundred of his crew were making whoopee under a brilliant sun. This evening, when First Officer Gregory returned to take charge, he was going to go into the fragrant twilight and make the rounds of neon-lit civilization.

  That was the beauty of making landfall at long last. Men could give way to themselves, blow off surplus steam, each according to his fashion. No duties, no worries, no dangers, no responsibilities in spaceport. A haven of safety and comfort for tired rovers.

  Again, hah!

  Burman, the chief radio officer, entered the cabin. He was one of the half-dozen remaining on duty and bore the expression of a man who can think of twenty better things to do.

  “Relayed signal just come in, sir.” Handing the paper across, he waited for the other to look at it and perhaps dictate a reply.

  Taking the sheet, McNaught removed the feet from his desk, sat erect and read the message aloud.

  Terran Headquarters to BUSTLER. Remain Siriport pending further orders. Rear Admiral Vane W. Cassidy due there seventeenth. Feldman. Navy Op. Command. Sirisec.

  He looked up, all happiness gone from his leathery features. “Oh, Lord!” he groaned.

  “Something wrong?” asked Burman, vaguely alarmed.

  McNaught pointed at three thin books on his desk. “The middle one. Page twenty.”

  Leafing through it, Burman found an item that said:

  Vane W. Cassidy, R-Ad. Head Inspector Ships and Stores.

  Burman swallowed hard. “Does that mean—?”

  “Yes, it does,” said McNaught without pleasure. “Back to training college and all its rigmarole. Paint and soap, spit and polish.” He put on an officious expression, adopted a voice to match it. “Captain, you have only seven ninety-nine emergency rations. Your allocation is eight hundred. Nothing in your logbook accounts for the missing one. Where is it? What happened to it? How is it that one of the men’s kits lacks an officially issued pair of suspenders? Did you report his loss?”

  “Why does he pick on us?” asked Burman, appalled. “He’s never chivvied us before.”

  “That’s why,” informed McNaught, scowling at the wall. “It’s our turn to be stretched across the barrel.” His gaze found the calendar. “We have three days—and we’ll need ’em! Tell Second Officer Pike to come here at once.”

  Burman departed gloomily. In short time Pike entered. His face reaffirmed the old adage that bad news travels fast.

  “Make out an indent,” ordered McNaught, “for one hundred gallons of plastic paint, Navy-gray, approved quality. Make out another for thirty gallons of interior white enamel. Take them to spaceport stores right away. Tell them to deliver by six this evening along with our correct issue of brushes and sprayers. Grab up any cleaning material that’s going for free.”

  “The men won’t like this,” remarked Pike, feebly.

  “They’re going to love it,” McNaught asserted. “A bright and shiny ship, all spic and span, is good for morale. It says so in that book. Get moving and put those indents in. When you come back, find the stores and equipment sheets and bring them here. We’ve got to check stocks before Cassidy arrives. Once he’s here we’ll have no chance to make up shortages or smuggle out any extra items we happened to find in our hands.”

  “Very well, sir.” Pike went out wearing the same expression as Burman.

  Lying back in his chair McNaught muttered to himself. There was a feeling in his bones that something was sure to cause a last-minute ruckus. A shortage of any item would be serious enough unless covered by a previous report. A surplus would be bad, very bad. The former implied carelessness or misfortune. The latter suggested barefaced theft of government property in circumstances condoned by the commander.

  For instance, there was that recent case of Williams of the heavy cruis
er Swift. He’d heard of it over the spacevine when out around Bootes. Williams had been found in unwitting command of eleven reels of electric-fence wire when his official issue was ten. It had taken a court-martial to decide that the extra reel—which had formidable barter value on a certain planet—had not been stolen from space stores or, in sailor jargon, “teleportated aboard.” But Williams had been reprimanded. And that did not help promotion.

  He was still rumbling discontentedly when Pike returned bearing a folder of foolscap sheets.

  “Going to start right away, sir?”

  “We’ll have to.” He heaved himself erect, mentally bidding goodbye to time off and a taste of the bright lights. “It’ll take long enough to work right through from bow to tail. I’ll leave the men’s kit inspection to the last.”

  Marching out of the cabin, he set forth toward the bow, Pike following with broody reluctance.

  As they passed the open main lock Peaslake observed them, bounded eagerly up the gangway and joined behind. A pukka member of the crew, he was a large dog whose ancestors had been more enthusiastic than selective. He wore with pride a big collar inscribed: Peaslake— Property of S.S. Bustler. His chief duties, ably performed, were to keep alien rodents off the ship, and, on rare occasions, smell out dangers not visible to human eyes.

  The three paraded forward, McNaught and Pike in the manner of men grimly sacrificing pleasure for the sake of duty, Peaslake with the panting willingness of one ready for any new game no matter what.

  Reaching the bow cabin, McNaught dumped himself in the pilot’s seat, took the folder from the other. “You know this stuff better than me—the chart room is where I shine. So I’ll read them out while you look them over.” He opened the folder, started on the first page. “Kl. Beam compass, type D, one of.”

  “Check,” said Pike.