Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks

by Ronald Wintrick

"Get these fools back in their beds!" He snarled viciously, so there would be no confusion. "We've a long day ahead of us tomorrow." He turned from Jorg, his eyes following the path the falling spacecraft had taken, memorizing its location.

  They were going there tomorrow. He would be able to lead them directly to it. Unerringly. He was an expert in such things. And others. It was why he ruled. Why he was Chief. Why he would have to watch his back around Jorg now. The man's intentions were clear enough. Jorg wanted to rule.

  "Back to your beds!" Jorg yelled as he moved among them, lashing out with a leather clad foot at those who moved too slowly. They scrambled out of his way and back into their homes, but Nago doubted they would be immediately asleep.

  If they were tired tomorrow, that would be their problem.

  "Check the sentries." Nago said before Jorg moved from view, then he turned and passed his empty tankard to Mirla, his third wife, who stood in the open entrance to their home. All of them were there, peering out, as curious as anyone else. They had not dared Nago's anger, however. There would've been cuffs. He was not brutal with his wives, as some were, but he was firm. A woman's place was to quietly mind the home.

  When Mirla returned with his refilled tankard, he waved them all back into the house and sat in the large, crudely wrought wooden chair that served as his throne, outside the door of his log home. He had much to think about.

  He was only a second generation on his mother's side, but his father's line reached deeply into the past, its origins forgotten in time, as were most here. They had been nearly completely segregated here for a very long time. Very little Outsider influence was felt here. Outsiders were to be feared. Over the many generations ritual superstitions had grown concerning them, until the people feared them as evil. What could not be understood was relegated to the supernatural by primitive peoples. The Dunaj were such. Their superstitions were as old as their tribal name; legend, passed down around the campfires of uncounted evenings, said Dunaj had been their earliest tribal Chieftain, the man who formed them into the cohesive group they now were, in a time of great chaos. The time after the Great Upheaval! So the legends told.

  In many ways Nago was as superstitious and naive as the rest. It was hard to break from the general beliefs so pervasive in those around him. However, his own mother had been an Outsider. A little known fact. His father had known, but then he had not been as superstitious as he had pretended. He had worn a facade of ignorance to match the majority, but Nago's father had been anything but ignorant.

  When Nago was in his early teens, his mother began telling him stories about the Outside. The stories his mother told changed the way he viewed the world around him. She only lived until Nago was sixteen, her physical disposition was not suited to the rigors of the life here, and she aged and passed away quickly, but not without leaving her indelible mark upon her son.

  When Nago saw the fireball slow before crashing, he'd known immediately that it was a spacecraft. The Outsiders used them to fly between the stars. That is what his mother had said. Machines that flew through the air. That were made of the same materials as their swords, knives and other implements. What if such a craft could be commandeered! Then forced to take them wherever they wanted! The implications were immense.

  He knew that Bali was a Prison Planet. The concept was not foreign to the Dunaj, who banished tribesmen occasionally (but never the women, they were forced to conform) though not since his own ascension to power. Nago did not banish. To do so only meant they would have to kill the man later. Nago solved his problems with knife or sword. It was more final that way.

  If only, Nago thought.

  The whispered conversations inside, among his women and children, came to him softly on the cool night breeze, but he had no interest in what they thought or in explaining himself to them. A man did not explain himself to women and children. Henpecked men were beneath contempt.

  Nago wondered if the ship would still function. It had come down no more than a day from the village. One days run, which meant the Dunaj were the closest tribe to its location, if it did not fly away in the interim. He would know this by this time tomorrow.

  "What nonsense are you talking?" Jorg asked as he appeared out of the darkness. He had not tried to mask his approach this time, but the bones were cast.

  Nago didn't look at him as he responded. He did not want to see the lie that would be written there on Jorg's craggy countenance. He knew that it would be believable without looking. He did not want to see it. He peered off into the darkness in the direction the spacecraft had gone down.

  "That was a man-made object. From the Outside. A flying machine. Tomorrow we go to search for it. To take it from those who possess it. If we can."

  "If any but you had spoken thus!" Jorg said.

  "Be careful of what you insinuate." Nago warned. The pair had been friends since childhood; the strength of one had always been the strength of the other. Their friendship had not ended when Nago's sword had cut his path to the Chieftainship of the Dunaj; he had made Jorg Sub-chief.

  Because of their long friendship, Jorg expected such liberties of association, but the situation had now changed. It was there between them, where it would remain, until one spilled the blood of the other.

  Jorg's expression, when Nago glanced at him, said that he understood. There was a new wariness there. Their relationship had changed. Now he spoke honestly;

  "Humans in flying machines from the Outside!" The stumps of his rotted teeth were visible past his sneering lips. Nago was the only adult in the tribe who still possessed all his teeth, due to the cleansing rituals his mother had forced him to practice, and which he now forced his own wives and children to practice. He showed them to Jorg now, in a wide smile.

  "I don't believe in coincidences." Nago said. "There are too many here to be dismissed."

  "You're insane."

  "Best you keep that in mind." Nago said, staring into his Sub-chief's eyes. Jorg was not ready to challenge him openly. Jorg looked away.

  "We leave at dawn." Nago said.

  Chapter 6

  Baldwin woke first. He had no idea where he was or what had happened to him, but realization slowly settled in. He sat up. It hurt to do so. The light trickling into the Bridge had a strange cast to it that seemed somehow wrong, until he realized from where it was coming. It was natural Starlight. The Bali System Star, to be exact.

  The crew were dead, chopped apart as by an insane God bent on mayhem. Whatever force had done this had been irresistible. Why had he alone lived? It made no sense. He recognized his befuddled state, but yet . . . it made no sense.

  Their location was not lost on him either. The ship had somehow crashed mostly intact, or at least he was intact, on the Prison Colony World Bali. He knew what these people would do to him if he were captured and subsequently recognized.

  Would recognition even matter? They would hate the Federation, and who better represented the Federation than the Federation Space Corps itself. There would be no law here, to govern their actions. Only the law of survival, the ultimate law, kill or be killed.

  Baldwin climbed to his feet. His only injury seemed to be the blow he had sustained to his temple, which his exploring fingers now found to be crusted over with dried blood.

  How much time did it take an injury like that to coagulate? He did not know, but it must have been some few hours. His survival seemed nothing short of a miracle.

  A quick survey of the bodies on the Bridge revealed that Colonel Collins was not one of them. Baldwin released the sigh he now realized he had held pent up, but he was confused. This was another mystery which did not make sense.

  Did it mean she was alive?

  Could someone have come aboard and taken her? It seemed unlikely they would have come and gone without disturbing him. What were the odds? The more he thought about it, the less it seemed to make sense. He would have to search for her.

  Baldwin had never seen nano-composites and metals crushed and shatt
ered the way these had been. It told of tremendous forces. Forces which had raged perilously about him, but had left him unscathed.

  He was scared. He could admit it. He had to be that honest with himself, at least. He had too many questions and no answers, and no time. Rebecca, he decided, must already be gone. She wouldn't consciously have walked off without him, so she was either hurt or delirious, or she had been taken.

  Somehow, whoever had murdered the crew and also taken her had missed him, probably assuming him dead. He was blood soaked. His injury had bled profusely. So when would they return? He owed it to Rebecca to search for her, but he was confident of his analysis; he would search the wreck, but he was sure he would not find her.

  Benefactor would be a treasure trove to the natives; of weapons, equipment, and even just as raw material. A smashed open weapons locker, with its contents strewn out along the crumpled corridor he was following away from the Bridge, stopped him immediately. Whoever had been aboard had missed this prize.

  Baldwin picked up a blast rifle. He had never fired one before, but it felt good in his hands, and its operation seemed simple enough. It whined to life as he toggled the safety, as it charged its capacitors. Then it was ready to discharge.

  The remaining weapons strewn about were an appealing lure. He thought the blast rifle sufficient to his needs, but could not be content. He realized that anything he left he would be leaving for the natives, and there could be no forgetting who they were. A very salient factor.

  He set the blast rifle against the wall, its butt plate on the deck, and proceeded to strap on two separate hand-blaster holsters. There were no dual belts or he would've chosen one of those. He took a left and a right hand holster, so that when he put the blasters in them, both hand-grips faced backwards, ready to either hand.

  Baldwin picked up the blast rifle and held it across his chest, emulating the Corps' men and women he had seen at their posts. He felt like a trackless adventurer with his crossed holsters and blast rifle, but quickly put aside his infantile fantasies. This was real life and he was in real danger.

  Rebecca was somewhere in even worse trouble!

  He continued down the corridor, his thoughts now completely on Rebecca, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. Conflicting emotions warred within him. He wanted to destroy the weapons locker and the extra weapons he could not carry away, but what kind of reaction might that set off? It might blow away a large chunk of the ship and him with it as well. He did not know how volatile these things were.

  Reluctantly he gave up on the idea, but thought that maybe he should carry away more of them. The blast rifle he already had was quite heavy, despite its obvious nano-manufacture; everything Corps made was nano, it required less raw material, formed stronger bonds, and was easier for the Troopers to carry. It was still quite heavy. Best to go as he was he decided, but he felt reservations. He couldn't help it. He felt as if he was making a big mistake.

  "Colonel Collins!" Baldwin yelled. "Colonel Collins!" There was no response. That didn't mean a damn thing. She could be somewhere near, injured, unable to respond. She could be, but he did not think so. If she had been able to move, she would be able to respond, in some manner or other. She had been right here with him on the Bridge when they were attacked by the Satellite Defensive System, so the fact that she was not here now left few possibilities. He was sure she would not have walked off and left him willingly.

  No, she was gone. He was quite sure of that.

  Despite his surety, he searched thoroughly. He searched and called. He yelled until his voice grew hoarse. There was no response. He searched Benefactor thoroughly, every level, back to front, side to side, but somehow he missed the Engine/Drive room completely. At least on its hatchway entrance level. He ran into its walls elsewhere, but his total unfamiliarity with the ship played a large part in this failure.

  There was no trace of her. Everyone else was dead. Benefactor and her crew had done their job, but they had all died doing so. All but Rebecca, who he could not find. He gave up with a heavy heart.

  It wasn't hard to find his way to the lowest level and then to an outer bulkhead. The hull. It took almost no time to find a tear in the material of the hull large enough for him to pass through. A search of but a couple minutes. He looked out into a jungle through the gap. The jungle began where the ship ended, nestled right up against her.

  Baldwin turned back to the interior of the ship and gave vent to his loudest yell yet. There was no answer. He was confused, but he felt that he had been thorough. He could imagine no further step that he could take. He felt that he had exhausted his options.

  Wistfully he turned to the gap in the ship's hull and stepped through to the jungle beyond. This first step landed in moist, soft loam which he sank into past the top of his shoe. When he put his second foot down, he was in an entirely different world. A world he was not prepared to face, but must.

  As he stood looking into the gloom beyond, he realized that he was ravenously hungry. It had not occurred to him when all he had been able to think about was finding Rebecca, but now it made its presence known.

  The gloom of the unknown ahead, and the empty ache inside, nearly decided him to turn around and go back, to search for food, maybe to take his chances sticking with the ship, but that was a useless empty gesture. The ship was wrecked. The automated food-server systems would not be functioning. And to stay with the ship was almost certain suicide.

  He took a step forward, and then another, and was soon moving away rapidly. If he had waited a moment longer, possibly he would have heard Colonel Collins cry out in agony as she approached consciousness, but he was already deep into the surrounding forest and did not hear the much muted noise.

  Baldwin knew he had little going for him. He had hunted a bit on the family ancestral lands for sport and pleasure, but this was for survival. It was not the same and he understood the difference intrinsically. He had no military or police training. From college he had gone straight to the District Attorney's Office. His gear consisted of the two blasters, the blast rifle, the retractable bayonet blade on the end of the blast rifle and the cigar lighter he always carried in his pocket.

  If he could make a kill he would not starve, but it was so very little to put all of one's hopes on.

  His low cut loafers and his socks became soaked immediately. Yet despite the severity of his predicament, it must be much worse for those sent here as punishment for the crimes they had committed, those committed here for life, with the primitive few articles they were allotted; they were given a knife, a sword, a bow and quiver of arrows, and a small pack of essentials. That was it.

  His own circumstance must be many times less severe. His own circumstance now put the whole issue in a new, less savory light. He had been quick to sentence the condemned to Bali. Might he have been less severe knowing the reality of it, the harsh life or death struggle he had sentenced them to! He pushed that thought from his mind. It was almost too much to face.

  The verdant growth limited visibility to about 20 meters. At first Baldwin thought his senses were playing tricks on him. A person often times may think he catches motion in the periphery of his vision, only to find nothing there when he turns to look. As he walked, unobservantly at first, his attention was attracted to motion just outside the range of his perception, on the very edges of his awareness.

  When he turned to look there was nothing there. Just the forest and the natural movements to be expected there. The flutter of leaves, the ripple of the undergrowth on the breeze, the occasional twig falling from the branches above, but the half seen movements continued to draw his attention as he moved. But never where he was looking.

  There was something out there! He stopped dead in its tracks. He turned, peering all around. There was nothing there, no discernible movement anywhere and he began doubting his senses. Was he just being paranoid? He had seen it a dozen times! It could not just be his senses playing tricks, could it?

  The crackle of a
twig breaking somewhere off behind him brought him spinning around, blast rifle shouldered and level. But there was nothing to be seen, just innocent jungle.

  "Come and get me!" Baldwin said loudly, his voice grim. What predator might be out there? Something native, or the more savage two legged variety!

  In either case, it hadn't taken them long to find him!

  "Come on then." Baldwin said. He was ready, come what may. He only regretted the noise the blast rifle would make. It would be loud and it would bring the two legged hunters, if they were not already here. Suddenly he saw motion clearly.

  Chapter 7

  Rebecca woke in agony. She had dreamed for hours, or so it seemed. Awaking dreams were often misleading like that. Dreams of only a few minutes or even a few seconds real-time could seem to have spanned hours. In this instance however, she believed the dreams had spanned hours. Her mind was overly rested, it was her body which was damaged and exhausted.

  Her mind was working clearly, in other words.

  The crash had thrown her to the middle of the deck, between the wall of computer terminals and the casing of the Engine/Drive Unit, which was now buckled and crumpled all along its visible length. Its loss of structural integrity, which was a factor in its production of the electrical field which allowed it to produce gravity, had been its final end.

  And now Benefactor was where? On the surface of Bali? The thought was not an appealing one.

  At least two cracked ribs. A lump the size of a goose egg on her forehead, which she only vaguely remembered receiving and which had also nearly swelled shut her right eye. Her neck was stiff and sore as if she had suffered whiplash. Her body was battered and bruised but had been saved worse by her Corps uniform, which besides its pliability, had a tensile strength comparable to plas-steel. Body armor.

  Agony slammed through her as she moved to lift herself from the deck. She cried out reflexively, in excruciating pain. Her left wrist bent under the pressure. It was broken. The hand was useless.