by Chris Bunch
The last was Ton Milot. He was also small, but very solidly built, always laughing. Like Faull, he never seemed tired or sore, and had told Njangu that Lir was a foam-bubble. Nothing she could come up with was as much an ass-buster as fishing.
"Plus," he said, "she hasn't figured out a way to drown us."
"Yet," Penwyth added.
The five stood by their log about fifty meters from the company mess hall. The sun was straight overhead, and soldiers were filing into the building.
"Is everybody hungry?"
"YES, DEC!"
"No, you're not. Are you?"
"NO, DEC!"
"We don't want to eat, we want to run, don't we?"
"YES, DEC!" Njangu felt his stomach start gnawing on his lungs.
"That wasn't loud enough! Right . . . hace. Forward, harch! Double-time . . . HARCH! Straight down to the beach, people. Let's see if we can run all the way to the swamp before anybody falls out! Maybe then we'll have a nice, refreshing crawl for a few hundred meters."
———«»———«»———«»———
Garvin checked the torque setting once more, put a little extra muscle on the wrench, and the nut snapped cleanly in half.
"Son of a bitch," he muttered, remembering what Dill had said about the fate of those who were redlined. Would this take the Aerial Combat Vehicle off READY status? He pushed gingerly on the Grierson's intake shield, and it wiggled visibly. No way around it . . . somebody'd notice the bare bolt sticking out of the Greierson's roof and they'd be for the solvent tubs, great barrels cut in half, filled with corrosive muck used to clean weapons and parts. Jaansma climbed off the ACV's roof and started out of the hangar toward the far-distant Supply.
Half an hour later, he trailed disconsolately back. No such animal, the clerk had said snippily. Back-ordered. Sounds like you're down, he'd said, malicious glee in his voice. Always need a good 'cruit to polish some of the mung off these drive rollers, and maybe the rest of your crew'll give you a hand. Tough titty.
Garvin suddenly stopped. Were all those bolts holding the hangar's door slider in place really necessary? They certainly looked the right size.
He got his wrench and buzzed one nut free. Perfect, he congratulated himself, tossing the nut in the air and catching it.
"What the hell're you doing?"
Garvin jumped a meter, spun, and saw First Tweg Malagash, red face sculpted into a scowl.
"Uh . . . nothing, top. Just took a break, and I'm going back to—"
"With what in your hand?"
"Uh . . . nothing. Just this nut."
"Which you're doing what with?"
Garvin tried to look innocent.
"You ever hear the word mil-spec, young soldier?" Malagash grated. "As in military specification? That nut you just pirated off the door isn't authorized on any Grierson I've ever ridden."
"Nossir, but—"
"ARE YOU ARGUING WITH ME?"
"Nossir, First Tweg, sir."
"Perhaps you'd like to finish your training with the motivational platoon?"
Garvin shuddered. Their duties were simple—dig a hole on the first day, fill it in on the second day, dig another hole on the third day, and so forth, their shovel work interspersed with extreme physical training.
"Nossir, First Tweg, sir."
Malagash glared at him for a moment, relented.
"Go get your vehicle commander, young soldier. We'll have a chat about what you did . . . and whether he's giving you proper leadership. Then report to the mess hall. Tell the mess sergeant his grease trap needs cleaning."
———«»———«»———«»———
"This is what, in the end, you're all about," Lir said. Njangu examined the rounded, black-anodized box in his hand. It was about 18 cm long, 8 cm wide, and 13 cm high, and was featureless except for two locking clips on top, a guarded trigger mechanism and a safety switch on the bottom, and a feed slot in front of the trigger guard. It was also surprisingly heavy—about a kilo and a half.
"Blaster Mark XXI Operating Mechanism," Lir went on. "This is the guts to almost everything you'll be carrying. Look." She held up an identical box to the ones the recruits held. Behind her in the arms room were several weapons. One was short, about the length of Yoshitaro's arm from shoulder to wrist; another, nearly identical but a meter long with a heavier butt, longer barrel, and fitted with a more elaborate optical sight. A third, even larger, sat on bipod legs and a fourth was on a low tripod mount.
Lir picked up the stubby weapon, turned it over, dropped the box into it, and snapped the locks closed. "Now you've got your basic-issue carbine. Pull the guts back out"—and she did—"put them in this, and you've got a sniping rifle. This one's a basic Squad Support Weapon, and this one on the tripod's a Medium Crew-Served Blaster. All of them take the same mechanism, and the ammo is fed in through the base. Sometimes it'll be in a magazine like this, or a belt, or even a drum, which is what we generally carry on patrol, since I&R's policy is to hit 'em hard, break contact and scoot."
"A magazine'll give you thirty chances to kill somebody, drum a hundred, and the belt holds two-fifty or five hundred. Here's what the ammunition looks like." She picked up a rounded cylinder the diameter and length of her little finger.
"Neat, no muss, no fuss. All the energy goes out the barrel, burning up the case while it goes, so you don't have to worry about leaving a pile of empty ammo for the goblins to find."
Goblins, Yoshitaro noted. Petr'd used the same word. Obviously a generic I&R term for bad guys.
"We're now going to spend the rest of the morning learning how to field-strip and clean these suckers. Then we get to run and lift weights all afternoon," Lir went on.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll start dry-firing, which is about as much fun as screwing your hand. But we'll do that for about five days, then we go out to the range and see what we shall see."
———«»———«»———«»———
"Gunner!" Dill warned. "Standby! Target!"
An alarm clanged on Jaansma's control panel.
"Enemy scanning," Kang's voice said. "Reaching . . . I have their TA radar diverted. They're blind."
"Take it on down," Dill ordered. "Half meter nap of the earth."
"Doing it, Skipper," Gorecki said.
"Gunner! Search to the front."
Garvin obeyed clumsily, moving his helmet back and forth, searching the display inside the faceplate. All he saw at first was a rocky formation, with a cluster of huts to one side.
"Gunner!"
Garvin looked more closely, and one of the huts moved.
"Target acquired, Dec . . . I mean, Skipper," he said hastily. "Enemy track . . . no, there's two of them."
"Fire when ready."
"Launch one," Jaansma said, squeezing the soft grip in his right hand.
The Grierson lurched, and a wisp of smoke curled past Garvin's vision as the missile spat out of its tube. Jaansma squeezed the grip in his left and became the missile. He moved the grip in his left back, forth, and the large track grew closer, blast-cannon aiming, then nothing.
"Hit!" Dill said. "No flames, but it's dead!"
"Launch two," Garvin said, keeping back the urge to exult, and became the second missile. The track at the center of his vision spouted fire, and Garvin rolled, bucked, was upside down, and the missile slammed into the hut beside the tank.
"Miss . . . launch three," he said, and another missile went out from the Grierson, through the shockwave of another cannon blast, and exploded against the track.
Garvin jerked back to main control in time to see the tank's center turret flip back, tearing armor like paper, and flames gout.
"Area clear," Dill began. "Lift—"
"Negative," Jaansma shouted, seeing movement. "They're still out—"
"Shuddup, Gunner," Dill said. "I have them. Enemy infantry in the open, range three hundred meters."
"Get them quick," Kang broke in. "They've got missiles, and they're seeking us.
I've got serious indicators."
Jaansma hit the selector bar with his chin to choose the chaingun and crosshairs appeared across the landscape. He found the infantrymen, put his sights in their center.
He slid a crossbar on his right grip, pulled his index finger tight, and the chaingun outside the Grierson roared. A red blast swept the center of the formation, and Jaansma hosed it back and forth.
"Targets destroyed," he reported, and the landscape faded. He took off the helmet.
"Not bad," Dill grudged over the intercom. "Now, let's try it aerial. Another scenario."
Garvin wiped sweat, put the helmet back on.
He . . . and the Grierson . . . were in close orbit off some asteroid. Below him on the surface missile launchers opened fire at other Griersons trying to land, and heavy gunships—Zhukovs—slammed smart shells down.
"Target," Dill said. "Enemy starcraft taking off."
Jaansma looked back and forth, didn't see anything, then saw the ship—he didn't know what kind it was—climbing from behind a bluff.
"Acquired, Skip—"
He heard a dull thud, glanced down, below his faceplate, saw a cylindrical grenade land on the deck beside his chair in the simulator.
An instant later, it exploded, and white, strangling smoke boiled out, enveloped Jaansma and tears poured from his eyes. He choked, gasped, tried to breathe.
"Come on, Gunner," Dill's amused voice came. "Where's the friggin' starship? Come on, man. Like I warned you, anybody can do it when it's easy."
———«»———«»———«»———
Njangu Yoshitaro lay in perfect position in the dirt, looking across a brushy field with dirt splotches here and there. His legs were splayed, toes pointing, feet flat on the ground at a forty-five-degree angle to his body. He was on his elbows, blaster tucked securely into the pit of his right shoulder.
Lir dropped down beside him, on his right, very close. She held a small transmitter in her left hand.
"Ready?"
"Ready, Dec."
"Load and lock one round." She handed him one shell. He slid it into the feed slot, worked the blaster's operating rod.
"First time you've ever shot for real?"
"Yeh," Njangu lied.
"Safety off."
He clicked the lever.
"Look downrange. Stand by."
He obeyed, both eyes open, looking through the small optical sight.
Lir's thumb twitched on the transmitter.
Movement! A man's torso and head came up from nowhere. Njangu put the dot in the sight's center on it, touched the stud.
There was a whiplash crack, the blaster's butt tapped his shoulder gently, and flame gouted in the center of the target.
"Hit. Center." Lir said, handing him another round. He loaded.
"Downrange. Stand by."
Ten rounds later, ten targets had gone down.
"You sure you've never shot at anything before?"
"Would I lie?"
Lir suddenly grinned, tapped him on the shoulder. "Not bad, troop. You may make it."
She came lithely to her feet, and moved to where Rada lay.
Yoshitaro sniffed, smelt ionized air, something else. It was gentle, flowering, a bit like violets, a bit like frangipani.
Njangu decided his drill instructor, while certainly not human, had good taste in perfume.
Chapter 9
"It's easy to dream about what will happen when Cumbre is ours, and we've finally got a chance to change things so all practice the Way of the 'Raum," Comstock Brien said to the seven men and women in the jungle clearing, "all knowing the Truth, all obeying the Truth, all empowered by the Truth."
"But to sit and dream is ultimately against the Cause, for the Planetary Government has real spies, their soldiers have real bullets, and death is a serious rebuttal to rhetoric. First we fight, then we debate." He allowed himself a smile, and six of the seven laughed obediently.
Brien noted Jord'n Brooks' immobile face.
"You don't agree?"
"Of course I agree," Brooks said. "But there's nothing funny about our Duty. And we must always be sure we're following the right track, or we run the risk of falling into the same traps as the soh, our elders who taught that time and understanding would bring the Way to everyone, and were ground under by the pigs on the Heights."
"Of course, brother. But we must never forget the human values of love, laughter, kindness, even in the midst of our struggle."
"Humanity," Brooks said flatly, "is for after we hold the Heights, and eliminate PlanGov."
Brien's face grew grim, then calm.
"Very well, brother. We can debate this matter this evening. But now is the time for action and learning." He unstrapped a canvas roll, took out seven small weapons.
"Perhaps you recognize these, if you have children. They aren't quite toys," Brien continued, "but a young hunter's learning device. They're fairly accurate for about twenty meters, which is the real distance most fighting is done in these hills. The gun is air-powered, hand-pumped, and shoots small balls of copper. They strike hard enough to kill a bird or felmet . . . or blind a man."
"We cannot afford firing ranges like the Confederation has, nor do we have sufficient ammunition for training. But these will do well to teach you how to shoot . . . and hit."
He passed six out, plus a palmful of the copper shot. Brooks was the only one he didn't give a weapon to.
"The first exercise we shall attempt is tracking. One of us will be a fleeing fugitive, the rest will be a patrol trying to find him."
"When you find him, please try to remember not to aim at his face. We cannot afford to lose a gun, but we can afford less to lose a man. Brother Ybarre, you will command the patrol."
"Brother Brooks," Brien said, an unpleasant smile on his face, "I'm sure, since you breathe and eat the theory of revolution, you'll happily be willing to play the part of the properly revolutionary fugitive."
Brooks stood.
"You have a count of twenty," Brien went on. "Then we shall come after—"
Jord'n Brooks sprinted into the brush. Brien looked after him in surprise, then shrugged, and began counting. At fifteen he broke off.
"There is no fairness in battle," he said. "Go after him."
The six obeyed, some moving with some familiarity of the wild, others more slowly and clumsily. Brien listened to them move away noisily, shook his head, remembered he, too, had once been that unpromising.
He went to the edge of the clearing, looked down the sweep of jungle toward the distant ocean. To the east, he could barely see the outskirts of Leggett. One day, Brien thought, one day. He heard a slight noise, turned, about to reprimand whoever'd given up on the exercise, saw Brooks crouched. He held the last air gun aimed at the center of Brien's chest.
"Brother, this isn't—"
There was a pop, and a pellet thwacked into Brien's stomach. It hurt.
Brien jumped.
"I said—"
"Be so good as to lie down as if you were dead," Brooks said. "Or I'll be forced to shoot you again."
Brien stared, then obeyed.
"You were right," Brooks said. "There is no fairness in battle."
He crouched behind a tree, waiting in ambush for the others to return.
Chapter 10
"You had no trouble before this?" Wilth Haemer, Governer General, asked, his voice worried.
"None, sir," the communications tech said. "I was making the normal commo check with my opposite number on Capella Nine, and discovered the channel was down. The autolog said it had been down for seventy-three E-minutes, to be precise."
"You attempted to reestablish communication with the Confederation?"
"Immediately, sir. I've been trying constantly for the last three hours, without any result."
"Nothing at all?" Haemer said. "No static or whatever you call it?"
"I've never heard of any problem with a subspace com, sir," the technician said. "Especially a con
stantly open channel like this one is . . . was."
Haemer fumed. "You're the senior technician? Or is there someone at the station with more experience?"
"I'm the ranking operator, sir," the man said. "Trained on Centrum, seven years' field experience, all ratings AA-Plus."
"Don't get huffy," Haemer said. "I just wanted to make sure."
The technician didn't reply. Haemer gnawed his upper lip. "Very well. Stand by to record. Message in Q-code, personal, to Alena Redruth, Protector of Larix and Kura. Message follows: I have been unable to contact Capella. Are your channels still intact?"
"There'll be a problem with your message," the tech said. "I tried to send a query to Larix/Kura myself, to their Com Division, about an hour ago, and got a negative response. Nothing at all, sir."
"Try again. Redruth won't fail to answer me."
"Yessir."
Haemer turned to his aide. "Contact all Council members and Caud Williams. I want them at PlanGov headquarters within an hour!"
"Very well, Governor," the woman said.
Haemer started for the door, stopped. "Technician, you're aware of the gravity, correction, potential gravity of this situation, I assume?"
"Yes, sir."
"Do not inform anyone, and that means anyone, of this incident."
"My superior's already been notified."
"I'll take care of him myself," Haemer said.
"She's a her," the tech said.
"Regardless, dammit! Don't tell anyone anything, and that's a direct order!"
"Yes—" The governor general was gone before the technician could add "sir."
He whistled soundlessly, touched a sensor, and a microphone dropped from the ceiling. "Scramble IX-N-8." A speaker blatted, then cleared. "Ybar, Qual, 23. Balar, Balar, this is PlanGov Central, over."
"PlanGov Central, this is Balar, over," a voice answered from C-Cumbre's single moon.
"Keren?"
"Me," the voice said.
"The fewmets're in the centrifuge," the technician said, "and this time it's a real jewel."
Chapter 11
Njangu was company runner. The duty wasn't much—sit in the company outer office, field the com, get whatever the Charge of Quarters, one or another of the company noncoms, wanted. It gave the recruits a chance to clean their gear and relax a bit.