by David Weber
“We can preposition caches!” Gulyas gestured enthusiastically with his hands. “We send out a team that puts down a cache. Some of the team stays behind to guard it, while the rest come back to get supplies. They take them to the cache and use some of the cache to take them a little further. They leave a team with that cache and go back for supplies. . . .”
“We’d be defeated in detail if we strung ourselves out that way,” Sawato said severely.
“And that would take six times as many supplies!” Jasco snapped.
“We could carry the armor,” Roger suggested diffidently, and looked around at the lieutenants. Jasco rolled his eyes and leaned back and crossed his arms, while Gulyas and Sawato simply refused to meet his gaze. “It would save power . . .”
“Ahem,” Jasco said. “Your Royal Highness, with all due respect . . .”
“I think,” Roger said, “that it would be better in these sorts of meetings to use my proper military rank.”
Jasco cast a quick glance at Pahner, but the captain returned it blandly, and the lieutenant was suddenly reminded of one of those Academy tests where there was no right answer.
“Yes, um, Colonel. As I was saying, the suits weigh nearly four hundred kilos apiece,” he continued with a not particularly friendly chuckle.
“Oh,” Roger said with a chagrined expression. “I . . . oh.”
“Actually,” Pahner said quietly, “that was exactly what I had in mind.” He looked around at the stunned lieutenants and smiled kindly. “Ladies and gentlemen, you are a credit to your training. ‘Hit ‘em hard and hit ‘em low, grab their balls and don’t let go,’ right?”
The lieutenants smiled at the Academy drinking song. Even though most officers in the IMC, like Pahner himself (although usually with less . . . spectacular career summaries) were former enlisted, it was well known in the officers corps.
“Well, we will indeed hit these ‘scummies’ hard and low when we have to. But we don’t have the power to smash our way across the planet, so we’re going to have to make treaties when possible, trade when necessary, and only kick ass as a last resort. When we kick ass, we’d better kick ass with a vengeance, but we parley first.
“One platoon each day, on a rotating basis,” he continued, “will be detailed as bearers. We will carry one squad’s armor. We’ll take Second Squad of Third Platoon’s; they have the most veterans and the highest combat scores, currently.” He looked at Roger, obviously weighing pros and cons, then nodded. “And we’ll take the Prince’s. He doesn’t have much background in it, but it goes along with ensuring his survival.
“But we have to remember that crossing the planet only gets us halfway to our objective. The real mission is to take the port and get our hands on a ship home, and we’ll need the armor to take the port even more than we should need it on the way there. Initially, until we get the lay of the land, we’ll keep one team in armor at all times. Once we become comfortable with our ability to survive, we’ll make our way in normal uniforms to conserve power until we reach the port.
“Initially, we’ll maintain our security with bead rifles and plasma weapons. But we can assume that they, too, will become exhausted. So from our first encounter with the Mardukans, we will ensure that all Mardukan weaponry is gathered, and we’ll begin training with it.”
He looked at the lieutenants again. Jasco, at least, appeared to think he’d lost his mind. The other two were trying, unsuccessfully, to keep their thoughts off their faces, but the prince, to give him credit, just seemed confused. It amused Pahner to turn the lieutenants’ worldview on its ear; making them think was good for them, whatever the junior officers might believe. In the case of the prince . . . Pahner found himself moving from annoyed towards amused, which was another surprise.
Pahner had always considered the prince his charge, but never one of “his” officers. Or, for that matter, whatever the Table of Organization might say, his superior. But now the captain realized that what he actually had on his hands was a terribly confused, brand-new lieutenant. And since “Captain” Pahner had spent a good part of his life as “Gunny” Pahner, teaching confused lieutenants the rules of the game, the prince suddenly switched from a hindrance to a challenge. A tough challenge—Pahner had never seen a lieutenant with a lower likelihood of making a decent officer—but an approachable one, nonetheless. And the only kind of challenge worth facing was a tough one. With that realization, the mission, in Pahner’s mind, suddenly went from impossible to simply very difficult.
“Train with scummy weapons, Sir?” Lieutenant Jasco asked, looking at the other officers. “What are we going to do with them? Sir?”
“We’ll use them to hold off attacking Mardukans or hostile fauna until heavier weapons come online. And when we get to the point that our power supplies are at the minimum necessary, in my opinion, to take the port, we’ll use them exclusively.”
“Sir?” Lieutenant Sawato said diffidently. “Are you sure about this? Those—” She gestured at where the hologram had been. “Those . . . weapons aren’t very good.”
“No, Lieutenant, they aren’t. But we’ll just have to learn to get by. Our chameleon suits have limited ballistic protection, so we’ll be highly resistant to fire from their arquebuses. As for lower-velocity weapons like spears and lances and swords and everything else . . . we’ll deal with that as it comes.
“Now,” the captain continued. “What, other than charges for the weapons and armor support, are our largest issues?”
“Communication,” Lieutenant Gulyas said. “If we’re going to trade and negotiate, we have to be able to communicate. We have a ‘kernel’ of the Mardukan language, but that’s for one dialect on the subcontinent surrounding the base. We don’t have any kernels for other areas. Without kernels, our toots can’t translate for us.”
“I can work on that,” O’Casey said. “I’ve got a good heuristic language program I use for anthropological digging. I may have some trouble communicating with the first few groups we run across, but once I pick up a regional language base, even vast dialect changes won’t affect things. And I can create kernels for other toots.”
“Well, that’s that one solved,” Pahner said with a smile. “But you’ll need to get that program to other toots. We can’t have you as a point failure source.”
“That might be a problem,” she admitted. “It’s big. It will take a very capable toot to handle it. I’ve got one custom designed for me, but without a huge amount of processor capability and storage, this program runs like a slug.”
“I’ll load it,” Roger said quietly. “Mine’s . . . pretty good.” There was a slight, general chuckle at the understatement, for the Imperial Family’s implants’ abilities were almost legendary. “We might have some trouble loading it, but I’ll guarantee I can run it.”
“Okay,” Pahner said. “What’s next?”
“Food,” Lieutenant Jasco said. “We don’t have the rations for the trip, and we can’t forage and carry the armor and keep the Prince safe all at once.” His tone was respectfully challenging.
“Correct,” Pahner acknowledged calmly. “And what is the answer to this dilemma?”
“Trade,” O’Casey said definitively. “We trade high-tech items for whatever the Mardukans use for portable wealth. That might not be metals, by the way. The ancient North Africans traded salt. But whatever they use here, we trade the largest mass of advanced technology at the first city-state for our basic needs and a ‘nest egg,’ and then portion the rest out slowly as we go.”
“Exactly.” Pahner’s nod was firm. “So, what do we have that would make good trade goods?”
“Firestarters,” Jasco said promptly. “I saw a case of them in the supply room last week.” He consulted his pad. “I’ve got an inventory here—let me cross load.”
He set his pad down on the table to transmit the inventory data, and the other lieutenants and O’Casey captured the data and began perusing it while Roger was still pulling out his own pad. By the t
ime he had it opened and configured to receive, Jasco had cut the transmission and was back to looking at the data.
“Lieutenant,” the prince said in a lofty tone, “if you don’t mind?”
Jasco looked up from the lists in surprise. “Oh, sorry, Your Highness,” he said, and set the list to transmit again.
Roger nodded as his pad picked up the data.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. And, again, it’s ‘Colonel’ under these circumstances.”
“Yes, of course . . . Colonel,” Jasco said, going back to his data.
“What do we see?” Pahner asked, apparently ignoring the byplay. He didn’t have a pad out, nor had he received a download.
Roger transferred the data to his toot and put his own pad away. He would’ve taken the data straight into the toot from Jasco’s pad, but the implant had so many security protocols that filtering through the pad had been easier and faster. As Roger was going through these circumlocutions, the officers and O’Casey were studying the inventory.
“Virtually anything in here would be tradable,” and O’Casey said, her eyes bugging out at the thought. “Space blankets, chameleon liners, water carriers . . . not boots. . . .”
“We’ll be space and mass-limited,” Pahner noted. “The ship’s going to have to drop us fairly far out, and we’ll have to come down in a long, slow spiral to avoid detection. That means internal add-on tanks of hydrogen, and those will take up volume and mass. So the higher the potential profit, the better.”
“Well,” O’Casey continued, “not uniforms. Rucksacks. There are five spares; that might be good. Spare issue intel-pads? No. What are ‘multitools’?”
“They’re memory plastic tools,” Lieutenant Sawato said with a nod. “They come with four ‘standard’ configurations: shovel, ax, pick-mattock, and boma-knife. And you can add two configurations.”
“We’ve got fifteen spares,” Jasco said, flipping through the data. “And each Marine in the Company has one.”
“Of course,” Gulyas observed with a chuckle, “some of those have some . . . odd secondary settings.”
“What?” Sawato smiled. “Like Sergeant Julian’s ‘out of tune lute’ setting?”
“I was actually thinking of Poertena’s ‘pig pocking pag’ setting,” Gulyas snorted.
“I beg your pardon?” O’Casey blinked, and looked back and forth between the two lieutenants.
“The armorer controls the machine that resets the adjustable configurations,” Pahner told her in a resigned tone. “Julian used to be Bravo’s armorer before Poertena. Both of them are jokers.”
“Oh.” The prince’s ex-tutor considered for several seconds, then snorted as she finally completed the translation of “pig pocking pag” in her head. “Well, in this case the setting makes sense. We’re going to need lots of . . . large bags to carry equipment.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Hey, Julian, old puddy!” Poertena yelled across the shuttle bay. “Gimme a hand what t’is pag!”
“Jesus Christ, Poertena!” Julian hefted the carry handles on the outside of the quivering memory plastic sack. “What the pock . . . I mean, what the heck do you have in here?”
“Every pocking ting I could pocking pack,” the armorer answered. “Tee pocking suits don’ run on t’eir pocking own. You know t’at!”
“What the hell is in here?” Julian asked, reaching for the mouth of the sack. It was heavy as hell.
“Get chore pocking hands out o’ my pocking pag!” Poertena snarled, slapping at the offending member.
“Look, if I’m gonna help you hump it, I’m gonna know what the hell I’m carrying.” Julian popped the sack opened and looked in. “Jesus Christ, Poertena!” he repeated. “The fucking wrench?”
“Hey!” the little Pinopan shouted, practically hopping up and down in fury. “You got your pocking way of doin’ it, an’ I got my pocking way! You never can get people out, they power goes off? Huh? Have to blow tee pocking seals! Only ting holding t’em seals is tee pocking secondary latches! You get tee secondary latches loose, you got tee armor open, and tee seals not damaged! Bot no! Big time billy badass soldier always gotta blow tee pocking bolts!”
“That’s what it says to do in the manual,” Julian said, throwing his hands up in the air. “Not bang on ‘em until they come apart!”
“Hey!” Sergeant Major Kosutic shouted from the entrance to the bay as she strode across to break up the incipient fight. “Am I gonna have to jack both of you up?” she asked, glaring up at Julian.
“No, Sergeant Major,” he said. “Everything’s under control.” He should have known she’d show up. She popped up like a damned Djinn every time anything got out of whack.
“Well, keep it strack! We’ve got a hard, cold mission to perform, and we don’t need any sand in the gears. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major!”
“And, Poertena,” the sergeant major said, rounding on the braced Pinopan. “One, you’d better learn not to tell any more sergeants ‘pock you’ in public, or I will have your ass. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” Poertena said, looking for a convenient rock to melt away under.
“Two, you’d better learn a new word to replace ‘pock,’ because if you say it one more time in my hearing, I will personally tear off your stripes and feed them to you—raw. You are in The Empress’ Own now, not whatever rag-bag line outfit you came from. We do not say ‘pock’ or ‘rap’ or any of those other words. We especially do not say them while rigging the pocking Prince. Do I make myself pocking clear?” she finished, pounding a rock-hard index finger into the lance corporal’s chest.
Poertena’s eyes flickered for a moment in panic. “Clear, Sergeant Major,” he answered, finally, obviously unsure if he could get along without his verbal comma.
“Now what’s in the Santa bag?” she snarled.
“My pock . . . my tools, Sergeant Major,” Poertena answered. “I gotta have my po . . . my tools, Sergeant Major. Tee armor don’ run by itself!”
“Sergeant Julian?” the sergeant major said, turning to the sergeant who’d started to drop out of his braced position as Poertena seemed to be getting the worst of the chewing out.
“Yes, Sergeant Major?” Julian snapped back to attention.
“What was your objection? You seemed to have one.”
“We have mass limitations, Sergeant Major!” the NCO barked. “I objected to certain of Lance Corporal Poertena’s tools that I didn’t believe were strictly necessary, Sergeant Major!”
“Poertena?”
“He doesn’t like my po . . . my wrench, Sergeant Major,” the lance corporal answered somewhat sullenly. He was fairly sure he was going to lose the tool.
The SMaj nodded and opened the bulging sack. She glanced at the packrat’s nest inside, and nodded again. Then she turned to the armorer and fixed him with a glare.
“Poertena.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major?”
“You know we’re humping across tee whole . . . this whole planet, right?” the top sergeant asked mildly.
“Yes, Sergeant Major.” Poertena didn’t brighten up; he’d been on the receiving end of mild and bitter before.
The NCO nodded again, and pulled on her earlobe.
“Because of your unique position, you will probably be exempt from helping to hump the ammo, power, and armor.”
Kosutic looked around the bay, then back into the sack.
“But I’m not going to have any of these people carrying unnecessary stuff,” she growled.
“But, Sergeant Major—”
“Did I ask you to speak?” the NCO snapped.
“No, Sergeant Major!”
“As I say, I’m not going to have anyone carrying unnecessary stuff,” she continued, fixing the Pinopan with a frigid eye. “However, I’m not going to tell you, the armorer, what you really need to do your job, either. I’m going to leave that entirely up to you. But I will tell you that nobody else in the Compan
y is going to hump one item for you. Is that perfectly clear?” she ended, with another rock-hard index finger, and the armorer gulped and nodded his head.
“Yes, Sergeant Major.” He winced internally at what that meant.
“You are being given slack on what you’ve got to carry,” Kosutic said, “because you have your own stuff to hump. Not, by Satan, so that other people can hump it for you. Clear?”
Index finger.
“Clear, Sergeant Major.”
“So, if you want your hammer, or wrench, or whatever, fine. But you—” index finger “—are gonna hump it. Clear?”
“Clear, Sergeant Major.” Poertena’s voice sounded more strangled than ever, not least because Julian stood grinning at him behind Kosutic’s back. The sergeant major gave the armorer one last glare . . . then turned to the squad leader with cobralike speed.
“Sergeant Julian,” she said mildly, “I’d like a moment of your time out in the passage.”
Julian’s smile froze, and he cast a burning glare at the Pinopan before he followed the top sergeant out of the shuttle bay. Poertena, for his part, could have cared less about the glare. He was trying to figure out how to fit two hundred liters of tools into a ten-liter space.
“We can’t fit that in,” Lieutenant Jasco said, slowly and carefully so that Lieutenant Gulyas could understand. He pointed to his pad, where the loading program was already in the yellow. “We’re . . . gonna . . . be . . . overloaded,” he continued in the simplest possible terms, and Gulyas gave him a friendly smile that stopped at the eyes. Then he reached up to clap the much larger platoon leader on the shoulder.
“You know, Aziz, you’re an okay guy, most of the time. But from time to time, you’re a real prick.” He went on as the other lieutenant’s face colored up. “We need trade goods. We need ammo. We need power. But if we don’t have enough supplements to last the whole trip, we’re all gonna die anyway!”
“You’ve stripped the ship of every last vitamin and herbal remedy!” Jasco snapped, slapping the hand off his shoulder. “We don’t need three hundred kilos of supplements!”