Emile and the Dutchman

by Joel Rosenberg

  He barely hesitated. "Understood."

  I beckoned Hischteeel to me. I looked at its huge fingers, and at the wiregun's triggerguard, measuring them by eye. No, its finger wouldn't fit. And besides, even if Hischteeel could hold one, Donny was likely to be a better shot than an alien that had never held a pistol in its life.

  "Translate, Donny. And listen up—" Thumbing the wiregun to single shots, I ducked out from behind the boulder and fired off a few quick ones, quickly answered by a pair of shots from the schrift below. I don't know what kind of slugthrowers they had, but one nicked a chip out of the boulder that missed my eye by a centimeter.

  I ducked back, and slipped in a puddle, almost losing my balance. Sheets of rain pounded me, trying to slam me down. I forced myself back to my feet, in a half-crouch next to Donny.

  "Listen up. We don't have much of a chance, and we've got zero chance if I can't get up to the shuttle and get the engine cleared, or at least get at the weapons locker.

  "So I go, and you hold the fort. If you can." If you survive long enough for me to get to the weapons, locker, Donny, I thought, I'll come back for you. But I couldn't say that. It would have been a lie.

  Telepaths are never to be armed; it's in the regulations.

  I handed him the wiregun. He took it in his right hand and held it awkwardly; he'd never held one before.

  There wasn't any choice. It was him or me, and I was the pilot. He was expendable, I wasn't.

  "Do the best you can," I said. "In the meantime, I want you running a constant translation over your transmitter—words, phrases, anything from the local language."

  "Yes, sir."

  I swallowed. No, I couldn't take the chance: it had to be said. There was just too much knowledge in his head. "Donny, translate for me: Hischteeel, Donny is not to be taken alive. It would be very bad for the Contact Service schtann if that happens. Understood?"

  Donny barely hesitated before hissing at the schrift.

  Hischteeel nodded slowly. "Yesss. Unnerstannn. Hischteeel keschun?"

  I couldn't tell him; I couldn't. I owed it to the schrift, which thought of itself as my brother, as more than my brother.

  But I couldn't tell him the truth. "You are to be taken alive. And you are to tell the other schtanns, the sharp knives, nothing except your name and your schtann, that of the Contact Service. Nothing else. Do you understand me?"

  Name, rank, and serial number, Hischteeel. That's all.

  Donny hissed at it, then took a long look at me. He stood silent for a short moment, then nodded briskly. "Yes, sir. Understood. By both of us." He actually smiled. "Good luck, Emile. You'd better get going."

  The schrift forced a nod. It looked strange, unnatural for the creature to bend its head forward and back, but it nodded. "Hischteeel unerstan."

  I'd often wondered what it felt like to send brave men out to die. It's strange: it was the worst thing I'd ever had to do, but mixed with the horror of what I was doing was burning pride that I'd been associated with Donald Kiri N'Damo, Lieutenant, TWCS.

  And Hischteeel.

  I turned the squelch on my transmitter down to zero, locked it on transmit, and stripped it off, dropping it to the ground. Transmitters are tough.

  I slipped away into the storm. There was only a hundred-meter stretch to climb.

  While the schrift killed my brothers, I scampered to safety.

  Up on the ledge, the rain and wind whipped hard at my face as I hit the annunciator button, pounding on the hatch. "Open it the fuck up, dammit!"

  It snapped open; I stepped into sudden peace of the inner hatch and shouted at the Dutchman to open the inner door. This wasn't time for any kind of decontam protocol.

  There was a trail of black, congealed blood on the steel floor. It hit me: the Dutchman had said he'd launched a balloon, and in order to do that he would have had to, at least, crawl to the door, pull the cord, and toss the package outside.

  As the inner door slowly wheezed open, I squeezed into the cabin.

  "How . . . how they hanging', Emmy?"

  The Dutchman looked bad. Twenty-plus hours in the couch with a compound fracture of the knee hadn't left the fat man well off. A crude tourniquet was wrapped around his thigh; the leg was swollen and his khakis were caked with black blood below. But care for the leg could wait until we were topside.

  His eyes started to roll up; I leaped over to the pilot's couch where he lay and quickly disabled his deadman switch. It was a neat idea: two springy contacts from the comm panel, held apart by the Dutchman's thumb. But we didn't need it, not anymore.

  "It's going to be okay, Major," I said. "I'll get the engine clear." That was the first thing I'd checked: the engine. The jagged piece of steel was jammed in, but maybe I could pry it out.

  "The . . . esper. And the lizard." He shook his head, trying to clear it. "They . . . didn't make it."

  "I know."

  "I . . . heard. I heard N'Damo die, heard the other lizards try to make Histeel talk."

  "Hischteeel, Major. Lieutenant Hischteeel. 'All members of the Contact Service are officers,' Major. Look it up; you'll find the words on the first fucking page of Contact Service Rules, Regulations, and Proprieties, Major. So you say its name with respect: it was Lieutenant Hischteeel, TWCS."

  The Dutchman's eyes widened. I didn't have time to explain, and it wouldn't do any good for the Dutchman to suffer any longer, so I grabbed a hypo from the nearest medikit and gave him a full dose of morphine before I snatched up a crowbar and started for the hatch, reaching for the nearest wiregun.

  i stopped myself. No. Better: tucking the crowbar under my arm, I took the Korriphila 10mm out of the weapons locker, slammed a clip into the butt, and pumped a round into the chamber before slipping a pair of extra clips into my pocket.

  When I go, I'm going to be accompanied by the thunder of gunpowder, not the hissing of a wiregun.

  The rain was worse than it had been. One eye on the ledge, I made my way to the rear of the shuttle.

  The jagged piece of metal was wedged in tight, but it was jagged, and there was—barely—enough room to get the tip of the crowbar between the metal and the lining of the engine. I tried prying gently, not daring to risk chipping the lining, but nothing happened. It didn't give at all.

  Even over the pounding of the storm, I could hear a scrabbling on the rocks below.

  "Fuck it." I tucked the pistol in my belt, stripped off my E-suit gloves, and then wrapped my fingers around the crowbar and pulled, hard.

  At first, nothing happened. I pulled harder, and then harder, until spots started to dance before my eyes and I thought I was going to black out.

  Move, you sonofabitch. I pulled like I was Arthur, going for the Sword in the Stone.

  The jagged metal squealed and popped out.

  Wiping rainwater and sweat from my stinging eyes, I tossed the crowbar aside and drew the Korriphila, thumbing the safety off. Theoretically, I should have checked on damage to the nozzle lining, but there wasn't time. Besides, who cared? There wasn't another choice. As the old saying goes, if you're drowning and someone throws you an anchor, grab it.

  I dropped to my belly and peered out over the ledge. Three schrift were working their way up, only a dozen or so meters below. I could have made it back into the shuttle, and maybe lifted before they reached the ledge, but that was only a maybe.

  Besides, it only seemed right that Hischteeel and Donny get some sort of salute. I stood and gripped the Korriphila in both hands, and then pulled the trigger, sending them lead and flame until the gun clicked empty.

  It only took a moment to reload. I kept firing until I was out of ammunition.

  The Dutchman must have had the constitution of a horse; he was groggy but awake when I got back in the shuttle, slammed the doors behind me, and then buckled myself into his couch with one hand while I started the computer on the launch sequence with the other.

  "Emile . . ."

  "Shut up, Dutchman. Von du Mark's driving, and he'
s busy."

  I'd done it before; it is possible to use charges intended to blow away stuck landing pods to bring the shuttle's nose up to horizontal, instead of firing up the belly jets. It saves fuel, and according to the computer, we had less than a klick-second to spare, unless—and I swear to God it said this—"you choose to wait for fifty-seven minutes and forty-three seconds for a better launch window for the upside stage."

  Wait for fifty-seven minutes?

  I swear I laughed as I punched the pods away and fired up the engines. The shuttle jerked itself to vertical.

  Engines roaring a farewell to Donny, Akiva, and Hischteeel, the shuttle lifted into the storm; I barely remembered to fire off a probe to blow up the cave where I'd left the lifters.

  Magic time?

  No; I just flew the damn thing.

  * * *

  A few hours, a shower, a bit of work by the autodoc, and a liter of wine made a huge difference in how the Dutchman looked. As we left the dirtball behind us, he lolled back in his chair, still a bit groggy from the drugs. His broken knee was encased in a huge plaster cast, the tiny monitor the autodoc had left on it pulsing a constant green.

  Norfeldt drank more wine. I would have told him to skip the alcohol, but what the hell, it was his life.

  He nodded slowly from behind his balloon glass. "Play it again. Please." The question of who was in command wasn't really important, not at this point, and both of us were dealing with the question by ignoring it. That may not be regulation, but there are times when regulations just don't matter.

  I scanned the audio record again, listening to Hischteeel's gentle words to Donny, Donny's brief cry, and the harsh voices of the other schrift.

  "Hischteeel didn't tell them anything; I'll bet anything on that."

  Norfeldt nodded. "We'll see what kind of translation they can hack together in New Berne—but so what if it didn't talk?"

  I shook my head. "You're missing the point. Intelligent amphibians are dangerous, particularly if they're anything near as clever at duplicating what we can do as Hischteeel thought they'd be. It's a matter of either coming to terms with them, or being forced to commit genocide. Take your pick."

  "But what kind of terms, Emmy? If they have that kind of worldview, we couldn't ever trust any of the schtanns, not if they're just waiting for an opening. It'd be like the West opening up Nippon—the Nipponese smiled and ducked their heads for a hundred years, and then bombed Pearl Harbor."

  I drew another bulb of coffee from the dispenser and took a pull on it before answering. "You don't see it, do you?"

  "No."

  "Hischteeel was a test case. If . . . if a schrift could really maintain his devotion to the Contact Service, then perhaps we'll be able to actually set up a local schtann."

  "To control the schrift." The Dutchman nodded approval. "Using them to protect us from their own kind."

  "You can think of it that way, Major. Our future . . . schtannmates won't see the other schrift as their own kind; they'll see us as their own kind. I'm going to recommend that the Service send a Third Team back—a heavily reinforced Third Team—and set up a . . . recruiting station. And then the Contact Service schtann is going to recruit itself some local members." I took a long pull on the coffee, then tossed the bulb into the oubliette and punched for a beer.

  I took a long pull of the beer, and when I was finished I punched for another. "We're not going to have a lot of trouble with the schrift members of the CS, not if they have the dedication of Hischteeel."

  "There is that." The Dutchman nodded. "There is that."

  I had to do it. Major. You haven't asked the real question: why leave Hischteeel behind, to be tortured and killed?

  We can do it this way only if the devotion of a schrift to this alien, Contact Service schtann can be as strong as the devotion of a schrift to a schtann of its own kind.

  And that was a question that had to be tested to destruction. There wasn't another way, I thought.

  There wasn't another way.

  I'd be telling myself that for a very long time: the rest of my life. No guarantees it'd be long; certain it would feel that way.

  "Sounds good." The Dutchman drained his balloon glass and tossed it into the oubliette.

  I glanced at the control panel; we were right on course for the Gate. Nothing to worry about; as long as the computer's working, a dog can navigate point-to-point in space.

  I manually cut the boost to one-hundredth gee; the computer compensated by minutely turning the scout on its gyros. "Here, Major, let me give you a hand to your room; I'll take first watch." And second, and third . . . after all, if you're not going to sleep, you might as well make yourself useful, no?

  "No. First things first." He worked his fingers together for a moment and came up with his Team Leader's ring, the one with the diamond on one side, the bezel on the other. "I've got a spare somewhere; I think you're going to need this."

  I didn't move.

  "C'mon." He held it out toward me. "Go ahead. Take it."

  What was I going to say? This is my reward for murdering two friends?

  I didn't say anything; the Dutchman said it for me.

  "I was wrong, kid," he said. "I thought you didn't have the guts. I truly didn't. After Pon, after you let Ahktah live, I didn't think you could send a friend to his death." He placed the ring in the palm of my hand and closed my fingers around it. "But a Team Leader has to, Emile. That's not just part of the job, it's number one on the job description. You know that I would have left without you, and I wouldn't have spent a fucking second regretting it. You've got to do what's necessary; the universe doesn't forgive wrong-minded mercy."

  Dazed, I eyed the cold metal.

  The Dutchman rose gently from his couch, gripping my shoulder for a moment, then letting go. "But you know all that, don't you?"

  "Major—"

  "No. That was just a rhetorical question. Captain. If I didn't know the answer, I wouldn't ask it." He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. "I only have one bit of advice for you. Emile, it doesn't get easier from here on in. Just the opposite. For the many nights when you'll hate yourself, when you'll absolutely despise yourself for sending friends out to die, I recommend wine, Captain von du Mark. Cheap wine, in great quantities."

  The Dutchman shook his head slowly, his eyes focusing on something far, far away. "Sometimes, brother, it even helps."

  Postlude

  I let myself fall back on my bunk, pillowing my head in my hands.

  Plenty of time to relax, and not much else to do: Da Gama's skipper was going to seal the lower deck off just as soon as the greenie arrived. Yitzhak Aroni, Philippe Descalier, the greenie, and I would be on our own. It looked to be a good Team.

  Descalier's psi rating was impressive, and this Yitzhak Aroni looked to be almost as tough as Akiva had been.

  Not tougher; there isn't such thing.

  Maybe it wasn't exactly fair to insist that Descalier and Aroni live up to the standards that Donny and Akiva had set, but the universe isn't fair. It's merciless, is what it is.

  And I'm not all that merciful, myself.

  The greenie was probably good; Jim Moriarty wouldn't have sent me the dregs of the Academy class. Good man, the Professor; a tour of teaching was probably just what he needed. I reminded myself to look him up, next time I was Earthside. When you're in the Contact Service, you tend to lose contact with people.

  Not that that was important. The work was all that mattered. Soon we'd tumble out of Da Gama's underbelly, and head for a new sky.

  Where would that be? What sky would we see?

  I didn't know, but a packet of sealed orders lay next to my bunk. General Snow had given me strict instructions to keep the orders sealed until after we were in our scout. Probably we had hit on a pretty hot assignment. Which was both good and bad . . . but sealed orders?

  I chuckled and picked up the packet, snapping the seal open with my thumb.

  And then I let the packet drop
to my chest. No need to read the orders yet. I didn't much care where we were going; it's all the same to me. But disobeying orders is good for practice. After all, if you're good enough at what you do, you can get away with almost anything.

  My name is Emile von du Mark.

  And I'm not just good enough.

  I'm the best there is.

  My Team Leader's ring was tight around my finger. I pulled it off and spun it in my palm, the diamond set into the front and the shiner cut into the back of the band alternately catching and shattering the light of the overhead glow.

  Damn right, Dutchman. One of these things does cost more than I would have thought.

  I glanced down at the bottle of cheap wine that stood next to my bunk, and read the inscription on the label for the thousandth time.

  Thought you might need this, you dumbass kraut, it said. And good luck, Emmy. You'll sure as hell need that. —Lieutenant Colonel Alonzo Norfeldt (you can still call me sir).

  I shook my head as I slipped the ring back on. Wine doesn't help, Dutchman. It just dulls the pain. And only for a little while.

  Donny, Hischteeel . . . I'm sorry.

  There was a knock on the door. I sat up.

  "Come," I said.

  The door opened, and he stood there, all clean and well pressed, eager as hell to be off on his First Assignment.

  Asshole.

  "Well, Mister? Speak up—are you the hotshot Jim Moriarty sent me?"

  "Sir. Second Lieutenant Daniel Oberon reporting to the Team Leader as per regulation—"

  I cut him off with a thump of my hand against the bulkhead. When my ring hit the metal, it sounded like a pistol shot. "Listen, Mister, I don't want you quoting regulations at me. Ever. Listen—" I stopped. It was just too much. "Just get the fuck out of here and down to the Rec. Move it."

  He shut the door behind him at a speed only a few klicks per hour short of light speed.

  I had to do it. No question. There is no way that the greenie would have understood why his Team Leader tossed a packet of orders across the room, and then lay back on his bunk—