Emile and the Dutchman

by Joel Rosenberg

  Officially, I didn't hear that; my comm unit must have slipped off and broken when I ducked down. It took only three sharp blows to make sure that I wouldn't have to disobey an order. I'll do humanity's dirty work, and I won't hesitate to kill in self-defense, but that's as I define it, not because some creature's closed to within springing distance. That doesn't constitute a capital crime, not as far as I'm concerned.

  When I raised my head, an icy wave of panic washed across me. I couldn't see Ahktah. His sledge was still parked on the trail, the empty straps of his harness lying on the ground.

  Where the fuck is he?

  Blind Man's Edge is an old Triple-E technique; I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting the air slip quietly from my lungs, and listened.

  I could hear the wind blowing through the brush, and the splutter of a dead leaf caught between two twigs . . .

  . . . but that was all.

  It was time to move. If he was stalking me, I might be able to lose him.

  A basic principle in Triple-E, all things being equal, is to move away at right angles to the direction that your opponent is expecting you to move in, but not to spend a whole lot of time working out what direction your opponent is expecting you to move in. I headed for the igloo, hoping Ahktah would figure I'd run away.

  Besides, it offered the best cover around.

  I paused for a moment at the door, debating whether or not to go in. Enclosed spaces are a two-edged sword, but if I had to make a stand, it was best to do it with my back to a wall. I swung the door open and dove inside.

  And crashed into a dark shape, sending an armload of wood and roots flying in all directions.

  Absently, Ahktah mimed eating. His arms extended with strange slowness.

  I knew that I wouldn't be able to get the Magnum out of my coldsuit quickly enough; I drew my Fairbairn knife and held it out in front of me. Light flashing off the blade. I gripped it easily.

  Ahktah already had his eyes closed. He cringed, kneeling in front of me.

  "What the hell?"

  Ahktah's voice quavered, his head lowered, not meeting my gaze.

  He had been carrying an armload of wood and food. The bastard was stealing from the old ones' bins, as though the tithes from those below wasn't enough. Disgusting.

 

  I didn't answer. The sort of filth who would steal from old, starving people didn't deserve an answer.

  Ahktah's arms were extended, pleading.

 

  He buried his wolfish face in his six-fingered hands.

  III

  "He wasn't bringing food and wood out. Major. He was bringing both of them in." I lay back on my cot, my head pillowed on my hands. It was good to be horizontal.

  "Very clever, Emmy." The Dutchman's tone of voice suggested that he was thinking that a halfwit could have figured all that out. And that a halfwit had figured it all out. "You're a fucking smart little German, okay?"

  Then why haven't you worked it all out, Dutchman? I thought. They can't court-martial you for what you think.

  What I said was: "You know as well as I do that the von du Marks have been Austrians for—" I closed my mouth; the Dutchman was too busy laughing to listen.

  "I swear," he said, "just once I'd like to run into an Austrian-style kraut who admits what everyone else knows: that an Austrian's only a half-assed German." He waved the subject away. "But tell me," he went on, "how does all this do us any good?"

  Reluctantly, I got to my feet and buttoned my coldsuit tightly. "You don't understand, do you? What Ahktah was doing was denying the gods their tithes—"

  "One-twelfth. Base six, remember?"

  "—spending Heaven Day splitting up the food and wood among the old ones, sneaking it into their bins. Not something even they could talk about—to suggest that Ahktah was doing it would be a deadly insult."

  The Dutchman had finished donning his suit. He took a longing look at the dregs of his last bottle of wine before walking to the door. "So what?"

  "So." I turned the heat control on my belt up to full. It was wasteful of power, perhaps, but I deserved a treat. "So, you've got to remember that Ahktah is basically a believer. The reason that Ahktah couldn't ask his unseen gods blessing for dealing with humans was that he was, well, cheating them—by his lights, anyway—denying them their rightful due. That's why he didn't think they'd give their blessing for dealings with humans. Instead of burning the offering up on Heaven's top—which is what he was supposed to do—he was . . ."

  I held the door for the Dutchman, then followed him out into the darkening street. "Giving charity, Captain?"

  "Right. A double sin."

  We started to walk toward the palace, but I stopped. "Did you call me Captain?"

  The Dutchman smiled as he pulled a cigar out of his coldsuit pocket and lit it. "You got promoted just before we left on this one. I figured I'd rather not deal with your swelled head for the nonce, so I sort of delayed letting you know. And since—"

  "And since I didn't get myself killed—"

  "—and since you didn't fuck up badly enough in the line of duty that I had to blow you away, you may as well enjoy, your new railroad tracks." He tossed me a set of captain's bars, stuck into a piece of cardboard. "These . . . mean something, Emmy."

  There was a catch in his voice that I'd never heard before. I was touched. "They were yours?"

  "No, shithead—I bought them at the PX before we left. They mean you owe me twenty quid."

  "I'll pay you later." Bastard. "We'd better hurry, Major, or we're gonna be late."

  "Right. And try to keep the stuff down until the ceremony's over. If I can do it, you can do it."

  "Makes me nauseous, Major. Almost as bad as your cigars," I said, stepping up the pace as I unpinned my lieutenant's bars and pinned on the shiny railroad tracks. I held the two little pieces of silver in the palm of my hand and looked at them for a moment. I'd been wearing them for one hell of a long time.

  Captain Emile von du Mark, eh? I liked the sound of that. "And what are you grinning about? Sir?"

  "I'm still basking in your reflected cleverness. But you still haven't told me how you blackmailed Ahktah. From the way you've been chortling to yourself, I'm assuming it was something a tad more clever than 'Geek or I'll tell on you.'"

  As we approached the palace, a crowd of poncharaire of all ages looked curiously at us, but kept a respectful distance.

  "Yes, sir. Just a bit cleverer. I told him we were gods."

  I'd timed it just right; Norfeldt's jaw actually dropped. He tilted his head and peered over at me. "He didn't believe that. Did he?"

  I shrugged. "Well, yes and no. It's an absurd proposition—but Ahktah wants to believe it. It gives him an out. If we are gods, then the reason I gave him for humans landing on Pon begins to make sense."

  "And what reason was that?"

  "So that we can see to an increase in both our number of worshipers and our take. See, if Ahktah believes that we heard his prayers for forgiveness as he sinned by giving charity, and that's why we came, well, then, he isn't going to give the Trade Team a whole lot of trouble, is he?"

  K'chat stood beside Ahktah.

  I leaned over and whispered to Norfeldt. "I told him we didn't want it generally known that we're gods, and that his prayers and . . . sinning brought us. Might make it look like we're too easy to trade with. A god has to be a tough trader, no?"

  "Cute. And that means that you promised him you wouldn't tell anyone about him sinning. At least, you implied it. Hmm . . ."

  "So?"

  "So, it mea
ns you're becoming quite a hypocrite yourself, Emmy."

  "Emile."

  <. . . and since our priest has returned,> K'chat said in a half singsong,

  I suppressed a chuckle. "Hypocrisy, so I'm told, is a fine social lubricant, useful in many situations."

  "Pretty fucking funny. So we're gods, eh?"

  "Just to Ahktah. We gods like to keep our secrets."

  The Dutchman studied my face for a moment. "But I don't understand why you didn't ruin him. Sounds like you had Ahktah pretty much broken up there. He wouldn't have had to believe anything if you'd done things the simple way—taken a few holos, threatened to show them to the locals. If they thought their priest was stealing from the gods—giving charity, of all things—"

  "They would have ripped him to pieces. Literally."

  He shrugged. "So? I thought you didn't like the little hypocrite."

  Oh, hypocrisy isn't all that bad, Dutchman, I thought. Depends on what you use it for, depends on who benefits. Most people lie to themselves and to others in order to line their own pockets. Ahktah did it to feed the hungry and warm the cold.

  I can live with that. How about you?

  Ahktah rose.

  I turned to the Dutchman. He wouldn't have understood. If I told him the truth, he'd just snicker at me.

  "It just seemed more convenient this way," I said.

  "Mmm-hmm." The Dutchman shrugged. "I guess it doesn't make any difference, Lieutenant—"

  "Captain."

  "—as long as it worked."

  If I didn't know better, I would have sworn that the Dutchman smiled. Like he meant it, I mean.

  Interlude

  Destination: Señora Veronica Curdova

  c/o Señor Cruz Curdova

  Hacienda Curdova

  Sueca, Espagne

  Routing: I800RQW5ZI2AB71

  Origin:Captain Emile von du Mark, TWCS

  Aboard TWS NEIL ARMSTRONG

  (#LC3369)

  Subject:Personal

  File Created: 1 May 2248

  My Dear Victoria,

  I just heard about Manuel, and I had to write and say how sorry I am.

  I know that's at best cold comfort in this time of grief for you, Emilita, and Arturo. I wish I could do more.

  I'd hoped to be able to tell you how Manny died. I've tried to find out, but I still don't know. As you know, the whole affair has been slapped with a Security seal, and while I've done my best to crack through, I haven't been able to.

  The only thing I know is the identity and reputation of his second-in-command.

  Manny and I have known Captain Moriarty from our first day in the Contact Service. "Professor" Moriarty was and is a good and competent man. Manny didn't choose his exec carelessly when he decided to go back into the field, although I'm sure he had an internal chuckle or two out of becoming the commander of someone who had been a first classman during our plebe year.

  I believe that there is no possibility that Manny's life was lost due to any incompetence by his second-in-command. While it wouldn't be wise to go into any detail here and now, I'm sure that you'll be hearing from the Professor once he gets out of the hospital.

  Please ask Señor Curdova not to take offense, but I've written to my parents, asking that they call on you and see if there is anything they can do. While I know that the Curdova family can take care of itself, I'd take it as a kindness if you'd agree to see them.

  As for me, I'm not sure what your feelings are going to be toward me. Perhaps, you'll be thinking, if I'd only been able to persuade Manny not to go back into the field, he'd still be alive.

  If so, I understand. I will be thinking the same thing myself.

  Manny was my first friend in the Service; I will miss him very much.

  Please convey my regards to the Señor and Señora, and my love to Arturo and Emilita.

  All my best,

  Emile von du Mark

  File Transmitted: 1 May 2248

  DUTCHMAN'S PRICE

  Three friends died on Schriftalt.

  No. Not friends. Brothers? Not brothers, either. More than that. Much more. . . .

  If only I'd known, I might have treasured our last few moments together, paid more attention. But I didn't know. I just had a feeling, just an unfounded—and, as it turned out, plain wrong—premonition from the moment we hit Schriftalt's atmosphere.

  Not that I was wrong to be worried; I was right. But I wasn't worried about them. Just about the shuttle. Just about the damn shuttle.

  I

  A flier has to have both caution and confidence. But the shuttle screamed all the way down, in my ears and in my mind.

  I still don't know where the fear came from. Maybe it was just that I didn't like being Second Team. Better to be First, where all you have to do is build the Gate, locate any possibly habitable planets, then do the orbital survey. Better to be Third, where at least you know there's something serious out there.

  But it's not fun to be Second. When you're Second, it's too easy to be a bit too slow on the uptake, or—more likely—let your adrenal glands keep pumping, pushing you until you don't know when you're firing at shadows, or don't notice when the shadows reach out with their needle-pointed, retractile claws. . . .

  For whatever reason, the shuttle screamed.

  It isn't supposed to sound different until we hit about Mach 2—from the high side, of course—not as long as it's coming in at the right attitude, through the right land window.

  We were at the right attitude. That was easy to check and easier to verify.

  To check, I glanced at my attitude display. The screen was solid green, which meant that our actual attitude was what the computer thought it ought to be.

  To verify, I noted that I was still breathing. Reenter at the wrong attitude and you're dead once you hit atmosphere.

  Land windows are a different matter. If the computer and I were bringing the shuttle in too shallowly, the shrill thrumming of the heat shield wouldn't stabilize; instead, it would begin to ease off, as the shuttle started to gain altitude, bouncing off the atmosphere of the planet like a stone skipping across the water. And if we came in too steeply, the skin temperatures would go above the heat shield's classified but very high tolerance, the shield would ablate, and the shuttle would become a brightly glowing cinder for a few seconds.

  Either way, it wasn't supposed to sound different.

  Maybe it didn't. Maybe it was just me.

  The Dutchman frowned over at me. "Trouble?" he asked around the unlit cigar clamped between his teeth.

  "Don't know, but something sounds funny."

  "Sounds?"

  "Sounds."

  "Mmm . . . N'Damo, punch up an audio comparison, and analysis."

  "Yes, sir." Donny's fingers beat a rapid tattoo on his keyboard. "Here it comes. . . . Nothing special, Major. External ambient sounds indicate normal atmospheric entry," he said. "As far as the comp can tell, performance of all subsystems is nominal."

  That sounded good.

  "I don't know, Major," I said. "Maybe it's just me. I've got a funny feeling." I punched the program button to let the computer fly the shuttle for a few seconds while I tested the stick against the fly-by-wire computer.

  Again, nothing. I took control back.

  The Dutchman snickered. "Nice try, Captain von du Mark. But this horseshit isn't going to work, Emmy."

  "What isn't going to work?"

  "You're not going to get even with me for your Quarterly by spooking me." The Dutchman snickered. "I don't spook easy."

  Akiva Bar-El gave out a sound halfway between a throat clearing and a growl. "Captain von du Mark does not operate that way, sir."

  "You being insubordinate, Lieutenant?"

  "No, sir. Accurate, sir."

  The Dutchman snickered again.

  I don't know.
Maybe there was something to the Dutchman's accusation. I'll give him the point: I was hurt by the meat of his last Quarterly Evaluation: While Captain von du Mark's reflexes and judgment are generally adequate or better, he has on more than one occasion demonstrated an unfortunate sentimentality in his behavior. I cannot at this time recommend him for Team Leader status. . . .

  To hell with him. I deserved my own Team; I'd proved it on more than one world. Pon, particularly.

  Right on schedule, I thumbed for a bit of wing, and felt them take a tentative bite into the thin but fast-moving air, I pulsed the radar for a quick look downward through the clouds.

  The plan called for the final approach and landing to be over the western half of the dirtball's smaller continent, the half now mostly covered by oncoming clouds chasing a slow-moving warm front. As to exactly where to land, we weren't sure; the weather was likely to mess up an approach anyway. It was just as easy to make a decision on the fly.

  The screens went gray. I gave the shuttle more wing and locked the radar on as we entered the upper layer of clouds at fifteen klicks. While I don't like radar announcing my presence, I like flying blind less.

  About ten klicks south of a nice-sized mountain, there was a decent-looking LZ: an extension of the western plain, bordering on what looked to be swamp. It was well within our unpowered-landing footprint.

  I tapped the screen with a fingernail. "That look okay to you. Major?"

  "That where you want to put her down?"

  "Looks good to—"

  "Then do it."

  The shuttle screamed all the way down to the ground.

  I've had tricky landings; this one wasn't one of them. Energy was just about perfect: the spot we'd picked out fell just halfway between the max-range and min-range lines on the energy display. At fifteen klicks out, I spread the wings fully open, put the shuttle into a nice gentle bank that gave us—and, more important, the belly cameras that we could extrude, now that the speed had dropped and the skin cooled sufficiently—a quick tour over the area around our LZ.