by John Dalmas
Simply standing by the microphone and raising his long arms, Ignatiev caused the clamor to fade, the drums to stop. The bagpipes groaned to a halt. He had a magnificent voice. He didn't test the sound system, didn't think about what he was going to say. He simply lowered his arms, opened his mouth, and began.
When he finished, thirty minutes later, the crowd cheered their heads off. Nothing he'd said had differed in substance from what they'd heard before. Afterward one of the major news anchors termed it "the same tired old bunkum." But Ignatiev had given it a sense of higher truth. And if it did not specify new efforts, it bathed the demonstrators in a pool of righteousness, strengthened their sense of unity in the cause, and inspired new fervor. While undoubtedly, some among those who watched and listened on television were converted. At least temporarily.
It was, Paddy thought, up to himself and others now to capitalize on it. Create and implement projects that would make a difference. Projects already prepared, that together would change the flow, turn public opinion around, and end this dedication to war. He left uplifted, less by Ignatiev's thirty-minute oration than by its effect on the crowd.
Jaromir Horvath had not been inspired. His cynicism left no room for that. Instead he returned sour-faced to his small grim apartment to plan and write, and channel the movement's efforts. Rarely did he imagine success-the war effort abandoned, the Infinite Soul triumphant, the Wyzhnyny invasion turned aside. But he would persist. It seemed to him that in another twenty years he'd be dead one way or another. And whether or not the Front prevailed in its struggle with a blind and perverse government, the all-creative, all-seeing Infinite Soul would take him into its loving arms.
Basically, Horvath was really rather orthodox.
Foster Peixoto had watched from his apartment high in the executive tower, as Jaromir Horvath had supposed. But he'd watched alone, and via television, not from his balcony, which was much too far from the scene. When Fritjof Ignatiev had finished, and the cheering had finally faded, only then did the prime minister switch off the set and step onto the balcony. There his tall form was susceptible to a marksman with a long-range weapon, but that was not the sort of thing that worried him. In such matters he was a fatalist.
He considered the Peace Front an annoyance of limited potential. It could produce mischief, but not revolution. Nothing Ignatiev had said had changed his mind on that. An overwhelming majority of Terrans found the Front's position seriously unconvincing. If history had done nothing else, he told himself, it had demonstrated the creator's disinclination to meddle in human affairs. Humankind would live or die by its own efforts.
Presumably the Front didn't expect to convert the broad public to its point of view. And surely its members were contemplating more than demonstrations. Even now, extremist splinters would be planning serious terrorism and sabotage. Or efforts to lever the political and theological primitivism of refugee labor battalions into strikes and uprisings. That had been his reason for setting up a government cable channel-for and restricted to-refugee labor camps. A channel with mostly entertainment, and educational/propaganda programming that would not offend refugee ethno-religious sensitivities.
But a certain risk remained: benign, well-intentioned civic organizations had begun inviting groups of refugee laborers to members' homes on Sevendays. One could cautiously vet such organizations in advance, but they could not be controlled without stirring up civic resentment and uproar. Thus Peace Front agents could infiltrate, as Internal Security agents had. Fortunately, the damage the Front might accomplish through such groups seemed limited. His main worry was that the media might fan small flames into something more troublesome.
Foster, he chided, you have taken steps; let IntSec do the worrying. If they uncover anything, act accordingly. Otherwise do not tire yourself over these matters.
***
Chang Lung-Chi had watched the video in his living room, from the comfort of his recliner. When the cheering had died, he switched off the set. Such delicious self-righteousness, he thought ironically, then grunted. In their imaginations, they no doubt say the same of me. He hoped devoutly they did not create serious problems. Neither he nor Foster believed they would. History showed that Homo sapiens had come a long way: it was far less susceptible to having its emotions hijacked by agitators. Though there was still room for worry. So they'd agreed: let the Front march and rant as long as their resistance didn't seriously impair the war effort. Since the Troubles, martial law was anathema. It would do more damage than a hundred Ignatievs. He was willing to tolerate even a certain amount of activist destructiveness, if it came to that.
But if it became serious… Then the trick would be to take countermeasures that met with broad public acceptance.
Chapter 18
Camp Mudhole
The Madam Jao-another converted bulk carrier-emerged from warpspace less than two hundred thousand miles off Pastor Luneburger's World. Brigadier Pyong Pak Singh had been waiting in his cabin to witness the event. Pak, his staff, his regimental commanders and their staffs, and their company commanders had made the trip from Terra "live," sixteen days in hyperspace, then a half-dozen hours in equally featureless warpspace. In between there'd been perhaps a minute in familiar F-space, but he'd been sleeping, and missed it.
They'd hardly noticed the lack of scenery. They'd spent six hours a day in class, reviewing the cube of New Ground Tactics, produced by War House staff. Each day ended with another six of discussion and simulation exercises.
They needed to know the stuff cold, and see that their troops did. Because if things came together as planned-ship-building, fleet training, weapons delivery, and their own preparation-in nine months they'd take this now utterly green division to its home world, New Jerusalem, to wrest it back from the invaders. Whether or not they succeeded, it would be the Commonwealth's first ground campaign; War House had decided to start ground warfare-not defending but attacking. And in the process, for better or worse, they'd learn a lot, both War House and his task force. Though War House wouldn't pay for it the way his people would.
Of course, Pak mused, that assumes the invaders have gotten that far by then. Given their progress to date, and the lack of resistance, they should, easily. But who could be sure about the behavior of an unfamiliar alien life-form? And how large a battle force they'd leave behind in the New Jerusalem System was anyone's guess. Guesses! He'd take Kulikov's and Sarrufs's guesses over anyone's, but still…
Pastor Luneburger's World now occupied all but a corner of his screen. Seen from this distance it showed no sign of humanity. It was almost a core world-an inhabited planet within ten parsecs of Terra. It had been Terra's third outsystem colony, and the first and nearest of the first dispersion. But like most worlds of the first dispersion, it had been settled by an agrarian sect, in this case United Mennonites. Even after the century of Troubles had ended, and Terra had finally begun reconnecting with the worlds of the dispersion, acceptance of technology had been slow and selective on Luneburger's world.
Not as slow as some, he reminded himself, thinking specifically of New Jerusalem. Before leaving Terra, he and his entire staff, down to platoon sergeants, had studied a cube on the planet their recruits were from. The ethnologist who'd done the narration had called New Jerusalem an unintentional reconstruction of the United States in the early 1800s.
Pak could feel the ship slowing under gravdrive. They must, he decided, be getting close to the F1 layer. The view before him was probably centered on the gravitic vector they were riding down. Much of the surface was dominated by forest, with the larger rivers visible, and to one side, ocean. He couldn't make out towns yet, but they were there. Pastor Luneburger's World held some 200 million humans, nearly twenty percent of them townsfolk. Leaving plenty of partially cleared and semiwild tracts on the fringes of settlement, areas well suited for training.
Somewhere down there was Camp Woldemars Stenders. They'd studied a cube on it, too, showing the Terran 4th Infantry Division in trai
ning there. The Terrans had dubbed it "Camp Mudhole." Within the hour, the brigadier thought, I'll see it live.
In the real world, Pak had never commanded anything larger than a battalion before-no one on Terra had-and under the circumstances it was natural to feel misgivings. But in sim training he'd commanded a corps, so his misgivings were mild.
The Madam Jao sat on an AG cushion five inches above the surface. Herded by officers and sergeants, the disembarking Jerries saw a world looking not greatly unlike New Jerusalem or Terra: the sky was blue, the vegetation green. It had rained not long before, and things even smelled more or less familiar.
Esau was disappointed. It seemed to him a different planet should look, smell and, in general, feel more different. He could as well have felt that way when he'd disembarked on Terra, but he'd been too uprooted and anxious then to pay much attention. Now, by contrast, he had a new and major stable element in his life-the army-and some idea of what the future held for him: training. Though what training would be like, he hadn't tried to imagine.
Once on the ground, the recruits formed ranks-they'd learned to do that much on Terra-and were led down a graveled road toward camp, lugging their duffel bags, and sweating.
Camp Stenders was unlike the temporary wartime camps on Terra. Basically it consisted of low-tech huts and sheds-concrete slabs, lumber, and linoleum-though with Plastosil panels from a newly built local factory. War House had earlier provided the camp's administrative staff-the bureaucrats who were an essential if not always appreciated part of the system. They'd kept the place running while the 4th Terran Infantry Division got its basic and advanced training there, then had sent them off to Camp Chu Teh, for unit training exercises with the Terran 3rd Armored.
Most of the key administrative elements were "retreads," retired military personnel from the marines or the small, pre-war, Terran planetary defense force. The company clerks, supply clerks, cooks and flunkies were conscripts not considered suitable for combat. They'd been rushed through three weeks of mini-basic, then enough specialist training to function, and learned the rest of their duties on the job.
The second-tier training cadre were holdovers from the 4th Terran, mature men who'd completed their basic and advanced training right there at Stenders, and earned a stripe or two. They would help the first-tier cadre train the recruits.
Esau and Jael Wesley knew nothing of all that. They did know the name of the world they were on, and the camp; reception center personnel had told them that much before loading them onto a snooze ship. The time of day they could only guess-somewhere in the middle, because the sun was high.
They didn't talk as they hiked-no one had told them they could-but there was lots of observing and more than a little wondering. It seemed to Esau that a pound wouldn't weigh a pound here, either, but closer to it than on Terra; apparently Luneburger's World had grabbity, too. Meanwhile he was hungry. They'd each been given an energy bar and a carton of apple juice when they'd been wakened, but it hadn't been enough, for him at least. The road brought them to camp, a broad featureless area of featureless shedlike buildings. Companies began to peel off from the column, moving into company hutments. Shortly, B Company, 2nd Regiment halted on what they would learn was their company drill field and mustering ground.
The second-tier cadre, who'd marched them in, formed up to one side. All wore at least one chevron on their sleeves. In front of the recruits stood the company's first-tier cadre-commissioned and noncommissioned officers. Like the recruits, they'd just arrived, but been bussed to the company area. A step in front of them stood a large, thick-bellied, fiftyish marine retread, with three stripes and three rockers on his sleeve. "All right, recruits," he bellowed, "listen up. I am Master Sergeant Henkel. To you I am god. You are not part of the 587th Infantry Training Regiment, as originally informed. Instead you are Company B, 2nd Infantry Regiment, First New Jerusalem Infantry Division. If any of you goddamn sonsabitches can't remember that when asked, you're in deep shit. So I'll repeat it once: this is B Company… 2nd Infantry Regiment… 1st New Jerusalem Infantry Division."
A voice called from the ranks, loud, clear, and righteous. It was the student speaker of the books, Esau realized, the guy who'd told him about grabbity. "Master Sergeant Henkel, sir," the youth called, "in addressing us, you have twice taken God's name in vain and used several obscenities. Offending everyone, and more serious, offending God. You-"
The sergeant interrupted, his voice soft but easily heard, and dominating. "What's your name, recruit?"
"Isaiah Vernon, sir."
"Come up here, Recruit Vernon."
The young man did so.
"Do you know what pushups are, soldier?"
"Yessir."
"Good. Drop down and give me fifty."
"Fifty, sir?" Vernon sounded unbelieving. He'd never been much for sports or exercise.
"Make that a hundred, for backflash."
"For… but… I can't do a hundred!"
The voice almost purred. "Make that a hundred and fifty, and start NOW!"
Suddenly realizing his situation, Vernon dropped to the ground and started. In Luneburger's relatively modest gravity-1.25 gees compared to New Jerusalem's 1.42-he managed to squeeze out fifteen, then collapsed. To lie there looking up at Henkel. The sergeant's voice became almost kindly.
"Recruit Vernon, you are guilty of backflash, disrespecting a superior, and refusing an order. Considering how green you are, I can overlook your ignorance. But not your stupidity. Common sense should tell you you don't mouth off like that to a superior. And here, anyone with a stripe on his sleeve or an insignia on his collar is your superior. Tonight, report to the orderly room at 2200 hours, to receive company punishment. Now, on your feet."
Pale-faced, Vernon struggled to his feet while Henkel scanned the recruits. When the sergeant spoke again, his voice was no longer soft. "Look at you!" he bellowed. "You look like some goddamn dog shit you out! STAND STRAIGHT!"
Every recruit straightened. Esau's eyes sized the sergeant up. He could, he told himself, throw down the big tub of lard and sit on him, but he doubted the satisfaction would be worth the punishment.
The sergeant turned sharply to the company commander and saluted. "Sir," he said, "with your permission, I will have the men shown to their quarters."
"Do so," the captain said mildly.
Before getting a break, they were shown to their huts, two squads per hut; assigned cots and open-faced wall lockers; given a guided, familiarization tour of the company area while marching in ranks; then issued bedding, field uniforms, and boots. Finally they were taken to the drill field, where they practiced close-order drill for an hour. Esau wondered what possible good close-order drill was.
Finally they were released to use the latrine and wash for supper. The company latrine was a shed with two long parallel rooms, one with two rows of washbowls and mirrors, the other with a row of commodes, and long, troughlike urinals. At one end of the building was the shower room, about twenty by thirty feet, with showerheads at thirty-inch intervals all the way around, and wooden duckboards on the floor.
Most of the recruits headed directly for the latrine. Others went first to the huts, to get towels and soap. Jael went to their platoon sergeant, above whose left shirt pocket "SFC Hawkins, A." was indelibly printed. What SFC meant, she didn't know, but she already knew the three chevrons, and guessed that the two rockers below them stood for increased authority. "Sergeant," she said hesitantly, "where do I go?"
"Go?"
"To-relieve myself."
He regarded her mildly. "There is only the latrine," he answered. "If you are willing, you can use it when the others do. Otherwise you can wait till they're done."
She looked at him with dismay. Dismay and pain, it seemed to him. He made a decision. "Come with me," he said, turning, and led her to the orderly room. There Master Sergeant Henkel ruled. When Sergeant Hawkins stepped to his desk, Henkel looked up at him. "What can I do for you, Sergeant?" he asked.
<
br /> "Sergeant, I need to speak with the company commander."
"Bypassing your platoon leader?"
Hawkins' voice took an edge. "This is urgent."
Henkel gestured. "Go ahead."
The plaque on the door read CO. Hawkins went to it and knocked, leaving Jael standing in the middle of the orderly room. Through the door, a voice called, "Come in." Hawkins went in and closed the door behind him.
"Sir," he said, "something has come up that needs your attention."
"And what is that?"
Hawkins explained.
Captain Martin Mulvaney Singh's red eyebrows rose. "You've already presented her the options, such as they are, but it's not really practical for her to wait. She'll just have to use the latrine when the men do."
"I realize that, sir. But these Jerries are fundamentalist Christians. It may require some setting up. To lessen embarrassment and avoid incidents."
Mulvaney frowned. His briefing on the Jerries hadn't covered situations like this. "Being a Jerrie, she'll find it embarrassing enough anyway," he said, then paused. "Call her in." Hawkins opened the door to the orderly room and ordered her in. She stood before the captain sturdy but forlorn, and with pain that was more than psychological.
I wonder how old she is, Mulvaney thought. Seventeen? Eighteen? "Sergeant Hawkins explained your difficulty to me," he said mildly. "He has already told you the alternatives, such as they are. But it will seldom be practical for you to wait, so for the most part you'll have to use it when the men do. However, the company will muster before supper, and I will set certain rules of behavior. Which-" His face turned stern. "Which they will obey, as you will, or receive company punishment."