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Jim Baen’s Universe

Page 26

by Edited by Eric Flint


  It was ra­ining and well af­ter lo­cal mid­night. This sec­tor was un­der blac­ko­ut con­di­ti­ons; wa­ter run­ning down the in­si­de of Rut­h­ven's fa­ce-shi­eld blur­red his lig­ht-en­han­ced vi­si­on and drip­ped on the tip of his no­se. It was cold, col­der than he'd dre­amed it got on At­c­ha­fa­la­ya, and he was mo­re alo­ne than he'd ever be­fo­re felt in his li­fe.

  "Sir, you got­ta get out," the dri­ver sa­id mo­re for­ce­ful­ly. "I ne­ed t' get back to Cap­ta­in Dol­gosh."

  Besides the je­ep's id­ling fans, the only so­und in the fo­rest was ra­in drip­ping in­to the pud­dles be­ne­ath the tre­es. Air-plants hung in she­ets from high bran­c­hes, twis­ting and shim­me­ring in the dow­n­po­ur. Rut­h­ven co­uldn't see an­y­t­hing hu­man in the lan­d­s­ca­pe.

  "Where do I…?" he sa­id.

  Two fi­gu­res ca­me out of the blur­red dar­k­ness. "Hold he­re, Ad­kins," one of them sa­id. "I'll be go­ing back with you. It won't be long."

  "If you say so, El-Tee," the dri­ver sa­id. In bright con­t­rast to his re­sig­ned ag­re­ement he ad­ded, "Hey, it's cap­ta­in now, right? That was su­re go­od news, sir. No­body de­ser­ved it mo­re!"

  "Lieutenant Rut­h­ven?" the new­co­mer con­ti­nu­ed brus­qu­ely, ig­no­ring the con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons. He was bu­ilt li­ke a fi­rep­lug and his vo­ice ras­ped. "I'm Lya­uty; you're ta­king E/1 over from me. I tho­ught I'd stick aro­und long eno­ugh to in­t­ro­du­ce you to yo­ur squ­ad le­aders."

  "Ah, thank you very much, Cap­ta­in," Rut­h­ven sa­id. He'd he­ard the man he was rep­la­cing'd be­en pro­mo­ted to the com­mand of Com­pany K. That'd wor­ri­ed him be­ca­use it me­ant Lya­uty must be a go­od of­fi­cer. How am I go­ing to me­asu­re up?

  The tro­oper who'd ac­com­pa­ni­ed Lya­uty was lo­oking in the di­rec­ti­on they'd co­me from, wat­c­hing the­ir bac­k­t­ra­il. He had his right hand on the grip of his 2-cm we­apon; the stubby iri­di­um bar­rel was crad­led in the cro­ok of his left el­bow. He hadn't spo­ken.

  "This yo­ur ge­ar?" Lya­uty sa­id, re­ac­hing in­to the back of the je­ep be­fo­re Rut­h­ven co­uld fo­res­tall him. I tho­ught the tro­oper wo­uld carry the duf­fle bag. "Via, Li­e­ute­nant! Is this all yo­urs? We're in for­ward po­si­ti­ons he­re!"

  "I, ah," Rut­h­ven sa­id. "Well, cle­an uni­forms, mostly. And, ah, so­me fo­od items. And the as­sig­ned equ­ip­ment, of co­ur­se."

  The dri­ver snic­ke­red. "He's got his own auger, sir," he sa­id.

  "Right," sa­id Lya­uty in sud­den har­s­h­ness. "And you let him bring it. Well, Ad­kins, for that you can ha­ul his bag over to the car. I've got Sel­lars on com­mo watch. The two of you sort it out. Le­ave him a pro­per fi­eld kit and I'll ta­ke the rest back to Re­gi­ment with me to sto­re."

  "Sorry, sir," the dri­ver mut­te­red. "I sho­ul­da sa­id so­met­hing."

  "Come along, Rut­h­ven," Lya­uty sa­id. "Sorry abo­ut the tra­il, but you'll get used to it. Say, this is Tro­oper Ren­nie. I've got him as­sig­ned as my run­ner. You can ma­ke yo­ur own cho­ice, of co­ur­se, but I'd re­com­mend you spend a few days get­ting the fe­el of the pla­to­on be­fo­re you start ma­king chan­ges."

  The tro­oper le­ading them in­to the fo­rest tur­ned his he­ad; in gre­eting, Rut­h­ven sup­po­sed, but the fel­low didn't ra­ise his fa­ce-shi­eld. He was as fe­atu­re­less as a bil­li­ard ball.

  Ruthven tur­ned his he­ad to­ward Lya­uty be­hind him. "A po­wer auger is as­sig­ned equ­ip­ment, sir," he sa­id in an un­der­to­ne.

  "Right," sa­id the cap­ta­in. "We've got three of them in the pla­to­on. A blo­ody use­ful pi­ece of kit, but not as use­ful as ex­t­ra ra­ti­ons and am­mo if things go wrong. The brass at Re­gi­ment can af­ford to co­unt on re­sup­ply be­ca­use it's not the­ir ass swin­ging in the bre­eze if the truck do­esn't ma­ke it for­ward. He­re in the fi­eld we pretty much go by our own pri­ori­ti­es."

  The tra­il zig­zag­ged ste­eply up­ward; Ren­nie in the le­ad was using his left hand to pull him­self over the worst spots, hol­ding his 2-cm we­apon li­ke a hu­ge pis­tol. Rut­h­ven's sub-mac­hi­ne gun was strap­ped firmly ac­ross his chest, le­aving both hands free. Even so he stum­b­led re­pe­atedly and on­ce clan­ged flat on the wet rock.

  "It's not much far­t­her, Li­e­ute­nant," Lya­uty sa­id. "Anot­her hun­d­red me­ters up is all."

  "I tho­ught-" Rut­h­ven sa­id. He slip­ped and ca­ught him­self on all fo­urs. As he star­ted to get up, the toe of his left bo­ot skid­ded back and slam­med him down aga­in. The sub-mac­hi­ne gun po­un­ded aga­inst his body ar­mor.

  "I tho­ught yo­ur he­ad­qu­ar­ters wo­uld be the com­mand ve­hic­le," he sa­id in a rush, trying to ig­no­re the pa­in of his bru­ised ribs.

  "We co­uldn't get the car to the top of this co­ne," Lya­uty sa­id. "I've be­en le­aving it be­low with three tro­opers, ro­ta­ting them every night when the ra­ti­ons co­me up."

  "The je­eps co­uldn't climb abo­ve that last swit­c­h­back," sa­id Tro­oper Ren­nie. "We had to hump the tri­bar­rels from the­re, and that's hell's own job."

  There was a te­aring hiss abo­ve. Rut­h­ven jer­ked his he­ad up. The fo­li­age was spar­se on this ste­ep slo­pe, so he was ab­le to catch a glim­p­se of a gre­en ball stre­aking ac­ross the sky from the west.

  "Is that a roc­ket?" sa­id Rut­h­ven. Then, "That was a roc­ket!"

  "It wasn't aimed at us, Li­e­ute­nant," Lya­uty sa­id we­arily. "Anyway, our bun­kers're on the re­ver­se slo­pe, tho­ugh we've got fig­h­ting po­si­ti­ons for­ward too if we ne­ed them."

  "I just tho­ught…" Rut­h­ven sa­id. "I tho­ught we, ah… I tho­ught that in­co­ming ar­til­lery was des­t­ro­yed in the air."

  "They can't hit an­y­t­hing with bom­bar­d­ment roc­kets," Lya­uty sa­id. "Anyway, they can't hit us. To use the tri­bar­rel in the com­mand car for air de­fen­se, we'd ha­ve to shift it in­to a cle­aring. That'd ma­ke it a tar­get."

  "We're in­fantry, Li­e­ute­nant," Ren­nie sa­id over his sho­ul­der. "If you want to call at­ten­ti­on to yo­ur­self, you ought to've put in for tanks."

  Ruthven ope­ned his mo­uth to dress the tro­oper down for in­so­len­ce. He clo­sed it aga­in, ha­ving de­ci­ded it was Lya­uty's job pro­perly sin­ce he hadn't for­mal­ly han­ded over com­mand of the pla­to­on.

  "We can hit hard when we ne­ed to, Li­e­ute­nant," Lya­uty sa­id. "But un­til then, ye­ah-ke­eping a low pro­fi­le is a go­od plan."

  "Who you got with you, Ren­nie?" a vo­ice cal­led from the dar­k­ness abo­ve them.

  Ruthven lo­oked up. He co­uldn't see an­y­body, just an out­c­rop over which a gnar­led tree ma­na­ged to grow. His tor­so be­ne­ath the clam­s­hell body ar­mor was swe­ating pro­fu­sely, but his hands we­re numb from grip­ping wet rocks and bran­c­hes.

  "Six's co­me up, Has­sel," Ren­nie sa­id. "And we got the new El-Tee along."

  "Sir?" sa­id a man kne­eling be­si­de the out­c­rop. "Co­me on up but ke­ep low. If you stand he­re, the Wops get yo­ur he­ad in sil­ho­u­et­te. I'm Has­sel, First Squ­ad."

  "It's Has­sel's bun­ker, pro­perly," Lya­uty sa­id. "I as­ked the ot­her squ­ad le­aders to co­me he­re to­night so I can in­t­ro­du­ce you."

  Another man step­ped in­to the night; this ti­me Rut­h­ven saw his arm swe­ep back the cur­ta­in of lig­ht-dif­fu­sing fab­ric han­ging over a ho­le in the si­de of the hil­lsi­de. "This the new El-Tee?" he sa­id.

  "Right, Wegs," sa­id Lya­uty. "His na­me's Rut­h­ven. Li­e­ute­nant, Ser­ge­ant We­ge­lin's yo­ur he­avy we­apons squ­ad le­ader. Co­me on, let's get un­der co­ver."

  "Yessir, two tri­bar­rels and two mor­tars in­s­te­ad of three of each," sa­id We­ge­lin as he held the cur­ta­in for Has­s
el, then Rut­h­ven af­ter a di­rec­ti­ve jab from Lya­uty's knuc­k­les. "And if you think that's bad, then we only got three wor­king je­eps. It don't mat­ter he­re sin­ce we of­f­lo­aded the guns, but we'll be scre­wed go­od if they ex­pect us to dis­p­la­ce on our own."

  Ruthven hit his he­ad-his hel­met, but it still stag­ge­red him-on the tran­som, then mis­sed the two steps down. He'd ha­ve fal­len on his fa­ce if the tall man wa­iting-he had to hunch to cle­ar the ce­iling-hadn't ca­ught him.

  "Have you he­ard so­met­hing abo­ut us dis­p­la­cing, Wegs?" the man sa­id, step­ping back when he was su­re Rut­h­ven had his fe­et. "Be­ca­use I ha­ven't. Talk abo­ut get­ting the shaft! E/1 su­re has this ti­me."

  "Troops, this is Li­e­ute­nant Rut­h­ven who's ta­king over from me," Lya­uty sa­id. "Li­e­ute­nant, that's van Ronk, yo­ur pla­to­on ser­ge­ant, Ax­bird who's got Se­cond Squ­ad-"

  "How- do, Li­e­ute­nant," sa­id a short wo­man who at first se­emed plump. When she lif­ted her ra­in ca­pe to po­ur a cup of ca­cao from the pot bub­bling on a led­ge cut in­to the si­de of the bun­ker, Rut­h­ven re­ali­zed she was we­aring at le­ast three ban­do­li­ers la­den with equ­ip­ment and am­mu­ni­ti­on.

  "And that's Pur­c­has the­re on watch," Lya­uty sa­id, nod­ding to the man in the so­ut­he­ast cor­ner. "He's Third Squ­ad."

  Purchas was on an am­mo box, using a ho­log­rap­hic dis­p­lay which res­ted on a si­mi­lar box aga­inst the bun­ker wall. He didn't turn aro­und.

  "We pi­pe the sen­sors thro­ugh op­ti­cal fi­bers," Lya­uty ex­p­la­ined, ges­tu­ring to the ske­in of fi­la­ments en­te­ring the bun­ker by a ho­le in the ro­of. Ra­in drip­ped thro­ugh al­so, po­oling on the flo­or of gritty mud. "Be­low the rid­ge­li­ne the­re's a mic­ro­wa­ve co­ne aimed back at the com­mand car. We ne­ed the car for the link to Cen­t­ral, but ot­her than that we're on our own he­re."

  Everybody'd ra­ised the­ir fa­ce-shi­elds; Rut­h­ven ra­ised his too, tho­ugh the bun­ker's only il­lu­mi­na­ti­on was that scat­ter from the sen­sor dis­p­lay. My eyes'll adapt. Won't they?

  "If you're won­de­ring, the­re isn't a se­pa­ra­te com­mand bun­ker," Lya­uty sa­id. "You can chan­ge that if you want, but I fe­el li­ke mo­ving to a dif­fe­rent squ­ad each night ke­eps me in the lo­op bet­ter."

  Everybody was lo­oking at Rut­h­ven. Well, ever­y­body but Pur­c­has. They ex­pec­ted him to say so­met­hing.

  Ruthven's lips we­re stic­king to­get­her. "I… " he sa­id. "Ah, I see."

  "Well, I'll le­ave you to it, then," Lya­uty sa­id. "This is as go­od a pla­to­on as the­re is in the Slam­mers, Rut­h­ven. You're a lucky man."

  He tur­ned to­ward the cur­ta­ined en­t­ran­ce. "Ah, ex­cu­se me, sir," Rut­h­ven sa­id. How do I ad­dress the man? Oh Lord, oh Lord! "Ah, my sle­eping bag is with my ot­her ge­ar. Ah, in the je­ep."

  "No swe­at, Li­e­ute­nant," sa­id Tro­oper Ren­nie, po­in­ting to the bag ro­ughly fol­ded on a wall nic­he. The out­si­de was of re­sis­tant fab­ric; be­ne­ath we­re la­yers of mic­ro­in­su­la­ti­on and a soft li­ning. This co­ver was torn, and from what Rut­h­ven co­uld see, the li­ning was as muddy as the flo­or. "The­re's an ex­t­ra in each of the squ­ad bun­kers. You and me won't both be sle­eping at the sa­me ti­me."

  Lyauty cle­ared his thro­at. "Well," he sa­id, "ke­ep yo­ur he­ads down, tro­opers. I'll be thin­king abo­ut you, be­li­eve me."

  He mut­te­red so­met­hing el­se as he step­ped back in­to the ra­in. Rut­h­ven tho­ught he he­ard, "I've got half a mind-" but it might not ha­ve be­en that.

  The bun­ker was cold and it stank. Swe­at and ra­in wa­ter we­re co­oling bet­we­en Rut­h­ven's skin and his body ar­mor, and he was su­re he'd cha­fed blis­ters over his hip­bo­nes. Anot­her roc­ket scre­amed thro­ugh the sky; this ti­me it hit clo­se eno­ugh to sha­ke dirt from the bun­ker ce­iling.

  Ruthven lo­oked at his new su­bor­di­na­tes. The­ir ex­p­res­si­ons we­re wat­c­h­ful, hos­ti­le, and in the ca­se of Pur­c­has com­p­le­tely dis­mis­si­ve.

  He wis­hed he we­re back on Ni­e­uw Fri­es­land. He wis­hed he we­re an­y­p­la­ce el­se but he­re.

  Lieutenant Henry Rut­h­ven wis­hed he we­re de­ad.

  ****

  There was a knock on a do­or down the cor­ri­dor. "El-Tee, is that you?" so­me­body cal­led. Rut­h­ven, his fa­ce blan­king, step­ped qu­ickly aro­und the bed to get to the do­or.

  Muffled words an­s­we­red unin­tel­li­gibly. "Sorry," sa­id the fa­mi­li­ar vo­ice. "I'm lo­oking for Li­e­ute­nant Rut­h­ven and-"

  "Axbird, is that you?" Rut­h­ven sa­id, step­ping in­to the cor­ri­dor. "Via, Ser­ge­ant, I tho­ught you'd al­re­ady ship­ped out! Co­me on in-I've got a bot­tle of so­met­hing you'll li­ke."

  "Don't mind if I do, El-Tee," Ax­bird sa­id. "Tell the truth, the­re isn't a hell of a lot I don't li­ke, so long as it co­mes out of a bot­tle. Or a can-I'm de­moc­ra­tic that way."

  E/1's for­mer pla­to­on ser­ge­ant had ga­ined we­ig­ht-a lot of we­ig­ht-sin­ce her inj­ury, tho­ugh that hadn't be­en but-well, it'd be­en fo­ur months. Lon­ger than Rut­h­ven wo­uld've gu­es­sed wit­ho­ut thin­king abo­ut it. But still, a lot of we­ight.

  The skin of her fa­ce was as smo­oth as bur­nis­hed me­tal. Her eyes had the milky lo­ok of a mol­ting sna­ke's, and she had an egg-sha­ped de­vi­ce clip­ped abo­ve each ear.

  Ruthven bac­ked in­to his ro­om and ro­ta­ted the cha­ir for Ax­bird, pri­ma­rily to call it to her at­ten­ti­on. A buz­zbomb had hit the si­de of the com­mand car whi­le she was in­si­de with her fa­ce-shi­eld ra­ised. The jet from the war­he­ad's sha­ped char­ge had mis­sed her-had mis­sed ever­y­t­hing, in fact; pat­c­hed, the car was still in ser­vi­ce with E/1-but it'd va­po­ri­zed iri­di­um from the op­po­si­te bul­k­he­ad. That glo­wing clo­ud had bat­hed her fa­ce.

  Axbird en­te­red with the ca­re­ful de­li­be­ra­ti­on of a ro­bot. She wasn't using a ca­ne, but she held her hands out at wa­ist he­ight as tho­ugh pre­pa­ring to catch her­self. When she re­ac­hed the cha­ir, she put one hand on the back and tap­ped the de­vi­ce abo­ve her right ear. "How do you li­ke them, El-Tee?" she sa­id with a plas­tic smi­le. "I al­ways wan­ted to ha­ve black eyes. Didn't say they sho­uldn't be li­dar tran­s­ce­ivers, tho­ugh. That's what you get for not spe­cif­ying, hey?"

  "You're get­ting aro­und very well, Ax­bird," Rut­h­ven li­ed. He squ­at­ted to rum­ma­ge in the ca­bi­net un­der his si­de tab­le. The­re was only one glass, and the brandy was too go­od to po­ur in­to the plas­tic tum­b­ler by the wa­ter pit­c­her.

  "I'm still get­ting used to them," Ax­bird sa­id. "Di­aling 'em in, you know? They say I'll get so I can tell the num­bers, but right now I'm co­un­ting do­or­ways."

  "There's a li­nen clo­set in the mid­dle of the cor­ri­dor," Rut­h­ven sa­id apo­lo­ge­ti­cal­ly. He of­fe­red her the glass, won­de­ring if she co­uld see his ex­p­res­si­on. Pro­bably not; pro­bably ne­ver aga­in.

  Axbird drank the brandy wit­ho­ut lo­we­ring the glass from her lips. "Via, I ne­eded that," she mut­te­red, wi­ping her mo­uth with the back of her hand. She for­ced anot­her grin and sa­id, "How are you do­ing, sir? I he­ard you guys re­al­ly got it in the neck."

  "It was bad eno­ugh," Rut­h­ven ag­re­ed ca­re­ful­ly. He'd he­si­ta­ted a mo­ment, but he to­ok the glass and re­fil­led it for her. "Thank the Lord for Fi­re Cen­t­ral."

  "You can't trust wogs," Ax­bird sa­id. Her vo­ice ro­se. "We might as well kill 'em all. Every fuc­king one of 'em!"

  "There's bet­ter lo­cal for­ces and wor­se ones, Ser­ge­ant," Rut­h­ven sa­id with de­li­be­ra­te for­ma­lity. "I'd say the Ro­ya­lists he­re we­re pretty mid­dling. They'd
do well eno­ugh if they got any sup­port from the­ir own go­ver­n­ment."

  "Yeah, I sup­po­se," Ax­bird sa­id. She was trem­b­ling; she held the glass in both hands to ke­ep from spil­ling. "You trust yo­ur bud­di­es and screw the rest, every one of 'em."

  A re­bel sap­per had got­ten clo­se eno­ugh to na­il the com­mand car with a buz­zbomb be­ca­use the Ro­ya­lists hol­ding that sec­ti­on of the pe­ri­me­ter had all be­en as­le­ep. The car's Auto­ma­tic De­fen­se System hadn't be­en li­ve wit­hin the com­po­und; it wo­uldn't ha­ve be­en sa­fe with so many fri­en­d­li­es run­ning aro­und.

  "Sorry, El-Tee," Ax­bird sa­id. She se­emed to ha­ve got­ten con­t­rol of her­self aga­in. "Ye­ah, re­mem­ber on Di­de­rot whe­re our so-cal­led al­li­es we­re trying to earn the bo­un­ti­es the Char­tists we­re of­fe­ring on a Slam­mer's he­ad?"

  "Umm, that was be­fo­re my ti­me, Ax­bird," Rut­h­ven sa­id, sit­ting on his bed. He held the brandy bot­tle but he didn't think a drink wo­uld help him right now. "I jo­ined on At­c­ha­fa­la­ya, re­mem­ber."

  "Oh, right," sa­id Ax­bird. She drank, gu­iding the glass to her lips with both hands. "Right, Di­de­rot was back when I was a tro­oper."

  For a mo­ment she was si­lent, her clo­udy eyes sta­ring in­to spa­ce. Rut­h­ven won­de­red if he sho­uld say so­met­hing-and won­de­red what he co­uld say-but Ax­bird re­su­med, "They got a gre­at spot li­ned up for me, El-Tee. The Co­lo­nel did, I me­an: a con­do right on the be­ach on San Car­los. It's on Ma­in­land be­ca­use, well-un­til I get the­se di­aled in bet­ter, you know."

  Her right hand ges­tu­red to­ward the li­dar ear­pi­ece, then qu­ickly clo­sed aga­in on her empty glass.

  "And for ma­in­te­nan­ce at first, I don't want to be out on my own is­land," she con­ti­nu­ed in a to­ne of bir­d­li­ke per­ki­ness. "But I can be. I can buy my own blo­ody is­land, El-Tee, I'm on full pay for the rest of my li­fe! That'll run to a lot­ta brandy, don't you know?"

 

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