Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  He already knew that all fifteen men who'd "resigned" were in E Company, as Private Crisp was. The tallest man in E Company was a Private Moses Wheeler, who at five feet eleven was one of the tallest Jerries in the division. He was one of only four in his squad who hadn't defected. He was also 4th Squad's slammer man, and a troublemaker from the start. He'd done nothing extreme, at least not till now, but he led 2nd Battalion in the number of times on company punishment.

  Coyote then called up the information on Spieler's death. The pulse had struck him in the left side of the left buttock, below the flak jacket, destroying the left pelvis. Overall the damage indicated an impact vector diagonally upward, out through the ribs on the right side, shattering the right humerus. The overall damage could only have been done by a slammer. It must have been after the troops had hit the dirt in response to the air attack, but the angle practically guaranteed it had not been fired by a killer craft. So. Something else then.

  Coyote asked his computer for the regimental formation during the advance across the fields of Muller's Settlement. Spieler had been in B Company, 1st Platoon, 4th Squad. E Company had been about 30 yards behind B Company, and one position to its left. Wheeler had been in 4th Squad, 4th Platoon, but with almost all his squad locked in the stockade, he'd probably… Yes. He'd been attached as an augmentation to-2nd Squad, and from his position there, could easily have fired the pulse that killed Spieler. Judging by the angle, the only one else who could have, given the high-powered weapon used, was 2nd Squad's slammer man. The provost marshal saw no clear way, yet, to prove that Wheeler was the murderer, but this established opportunity, and greatly reduced the apparent alternatives.

  His next step, Coyote decided, would be to have Wheeler brought to him for questioning, and meanwhile have his belongings searched. If they were lucky enough to find an M-6 power slug… Then talk with E Company's 4th Platoon sergeant, and learn who were Wheeler's close associates. They were probably in the stockade, he thought. I'll have them wired before I question them. See how they read. Maybe that'll lead somewhere.

  He was reaching for his comm switch when it occurred to him: What was the source of this Peace Front line? Could some Jerrie have come up with it independently? It seemed doubtful.

  ***

  The good weather had broken near midday. Then Joseph Switzer had worked in the rain, piling slabs. The rain had turned to thick wet snow-a rarity at Sagenwerk-as wet as the rain but colder. Switzer's blanket-lined jacket had soaked up about five pounds of ice water, or so it seemed. At the end of the shift he headed home without stopping at the tavern. His nose had begun to run. His heavy work shoes were saturated. He'd have to dry them by the stove, and grease them in the morning. He'd stay home tomorrow, sleep, and nurse whatever he was coming down with.

  He looked around him and grimaced. He had never, he'd decided, hated any place as much. Sagenwerk was a backwater without any backwater charms. In general, Mennonites liked flowers, liked to grow things, kept their buildings and yard fences painted. But Sagenwerk-ugly, weedy, and filled with truculent, narrow-minded people-Sagenwerk, he told himself, was where the mean and spiteful were reincarnated as punishment. Even sunny and warm he didn't like it. And in weather like this…

  He shut out the surroundings he slopped through-rain, slush, weed-edged streets, slab fences… A chill shook him, and he wiped his runny nose on a sleeve. But as much as he'd like to, he didn't feel free to leave. Not yet. Private Moses Wheeler had arrived at their third meeting not only with his mind made up, he'd arrived with a plan! His own plan, and therefore the only plan he'd consider: work through the speakers. They had influence, and authority in religious matters.

  Actually it made sense-except that Wheeler had telescoped it. He wanted to build Rome in a day.

  Maybe he could. Joseph Switzer hoped devoutly that he could. If confidence-positive thinking-meant much, he might. For Moses Wheeler was a maverick, and a bomb waiting to go off. The problem was his fuse. Once lit, there was no way that he, Switzer, could do anything about it-control, guide, or even advise. If he'd realized, when they'd first met, what an arrogant asshole Wheeler was, he'd have made his pitch to someone else. But Wheeler made a good first impression. He was big, fearless, and had an aura of power. And he'd seen what Switzer was leading up to while Switzer was still feeling him out. Had taken over and made the mission his own.

  In a way, Switzer told himself, he'd suffered from Wheeler's problem-one of Wheeler's problems-overconfidence. Now, though, he wasn't confident at all. Wheeler, on the other hand-he couldn't imagine Wheeler losing confidence. And if Wheeler showed more patience than seemed probable-if he let the speakers do their thing in their own time-the Jerrie army might be compromised enough that War House would be unwilling to send it to New Jerusalem. That was the theory. It was what he'd intended, and what the Front had financed him to do.

  The only reason he was hanging around was to learn the results. The Front would expect him to. Word might well never get to North Fork, and almost certainly wouldn't surface on Terra except through him. And quite a few civilian workers at Camp Nafziger came into Sagenwerk on their days off, full of gossip.

  Through gray rain and gray introspection, Switzer reached his shack near the tracks at the east edge of town. Stepping onto the rough stoop, he dug his house key from a pocket. With red trembling hands, he got it into the keyhole and turned it. Pushed the door open, then closed and locked it behind him. That was another thing about Sagenwerk: there were thefts.

  Inside it was half warm. The single room was small enough to heat with the cookstove, which he'd banked with coal before work, then closed both damper and draft to hold fire. After stripping off his sodden jacket, he dug coal from a sack and put it on the embers.

  Someone knocked on the door. Switzer's guts knotted; he had no friends here. "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Nockey Brant."

  Brant? The constable? "What do you want?"

  "You. You going to let me in, or do I kick the door down?"

  Switzer thought of the pistol in his bag. But if he shot Brant, and they caught him… Maybe it was about that tool theft at the sawmill. He was an outsider; maybe they thought he'd done it. Brant would search the place, and when he didn't find the tools, that would be the end of it. Then he could fix his supper, eat and go to bed.

  "Just a minute."

  He stepped to the door, turned the key, then the knob, and pushed. As it opened, Nockey Brant grabbed and held it. He was broad and extremely strong, a veteran of the green chain. Behind him were two MPs from Camp Nafziger. Brant grinned a stained, spade-toothed grin. "Couple of soldiers want to talk to you," he said. "About conspiracy, and being an accomplice before the fact of murder."

  With his other hand, the constable gripped Joseph Switzer by his wet shirt and pulled him out onto the stoop. One of the MPs brought forth a pair of handcuffs and secured Switzer's wrists behind his back. Then they pushed him ahead of them in the direction of the depot. No one locked his door. He supposed his stuff would be stolen before the night was over.

  Not, he realized, that it would make any difference.

  Chapter 40

  A Change of Plans

  General Pyong Pak Singh finished reading the summary of evidence, then cleared it from the screen. The case was cut and dried, he told himself: simple, nicely tied together, and unbeatable. He'd send Switzer back to Terra tomorrow, via an embassy courier craft, for a civil trial in Kunming.

  Ignorant, well-intentioned Switzer. In the "theology" of the Gopal Singh Dispensation, the evolution-genetic, social, and spiritual-of the human species grew from the interplay of individuals of every type. Remote interplay, and direct, immediate interplay. Joseph Switzer was part of it, and was not-was not faulted for that by THE ONE. Persons like Switzer were not only inevitable, but necessary to that evolution. But it was entirely valid for him to be tried and punished by social authority, also as part of that interplay.

  Intellectually, Pyong Pak Singh knew and accep
ted all that. Emotionally, however, he felt offended by what he considered gratuitous troublemaking like Switzer's. He always had, he thought ruefully, and probably would throughout this lifetime.

  The nature of the charges made Switzer subject to the court system on Terra. And when informed, the Luneburgian chief magistrate had declined to claim him. Though born on Luneburger's, Switzer held resident rights on Terra, and had come to his birth-world on a visitor's visa. He hadn't applied for more. On a world as loosely administered as Luneburger's, a visitor's visa might be overstayed forever.

  On Terra, according to Coyote, Switzer would almost surely be imprisoned but not executed.

  Here on Luneburger's, the courts-martial of the division's fifteen defectors would begin, and no doubt end, next Threeday, the day after the officers of the court returned from the Maple Mountain maneuvers. The trial of the five conspirators would have to wait till the day after, as three of them were among the defectors. That trial might require two, or possibly three days of argument and deliberation.

  The murder trial would start the day after the conspirators' trial ended, because Wheeler was a defendant in both. Considered with other evidence, the used M-6 power slug found folded in a towel in Wheeler's footlocker would probably clinch a murder conviction, even if none of his coconspirators testified against him. Actually his mouth had killed any chance he had.

  After the murder trial, Pak would ship the conspirators to Terra, because sentencing would have to consider the death penalty. And because Luneburger's World was (1) not a war zone; and (2) had no military appeals authority. And where capital punishment was an option, a prompt, automatic appellate review was required before sentencing, except in a war zone.

  The whole mess has been a distraction, Pak told himself. I should be at Maple Mountain right now. Though Frosty's undoubtedly enjoying running the show. And it's good experience for him, so it's probably for the…

  His intercom chirped. "Pak here," he answered.

  "Sir, the ambassador wants to speak with you. He's got a message from War House, via savant."

  Pak frowned. "Switch him through."

  The ambassador himself required only a minute. Then they both listened live to the embassy's savant, channeling Lefty Sarruf-Sarruf's words in a remarkable mimicry of Sarruf's voice. Altogether, the exchange took nearly thirty minutes, followed by another twenty or so with Admiral Apraxin-DaCosta of the Admiralty's Liberation Task Force.

  There had been a change in the training schedule of the New Jerusalem Liberation Corps. Apraxin's space force had been engaged in battle exercises in the neighborhood of Luneburger's System for more than a week. Now War House had decided they'd all trained enough-both the admiral's force and Pak's soldiers. The invasion of New Jerusalem had been moved up two weeks. After Pak's corps had established itself on New Jerusalem, the task force was to leave, to rendezvous with Soong's provos as soon as possible after Soong's attack on the Wyzhnyny armada. Apraxin-DaCosta would leave an "adequate" force to back up the troops on the surface.

  The corps' transports would land on the Sixday following the Maple Mountain maneuvers, bringing several savants. His troops would begin loading out at once.

  When the conference was over, Pak half-whistled a gusty sigh. He'd still send Switzer to Terra the next day, but the courts-martial would have to wait till his corps was outbound. The trial and sentencing would be held aboard his flagship, in hyperspace; then the prisoners would be stored in stasis as long as necessary.

  He'd rather sentence them to service in a punishment unit, assigned to high hazard duty. Let them experience the Wyzhnyny firsthand. It didn't seem right for them to sleep in stasis while the men they'd betrayed put their lives on the line. He decided to ask Captain Coyote about the possibility. If the provost marshal sounded encouraging, he'd run it past Lefty Sarruf, by savant. But he wasn't optimistic.

  Chapter 41

  Harvesting Trouble

  Captain (Lieutenant Commander) Christiaan Weygand's handling of the Survey ship Vitus Bering reflected several astrogational facts of life. Warpspace differs from hyperspace in many ways besides the number of dimensions. For Weygand's purposes, four of those differences were decisive. (1) Hyperspace drive is far "faster" than warpdrive (which in turn is far "faster" than gravdrive). (2) In hyperspace, astrogation is approximate, with vagaries whose effects accumulate over the duration of a jump, while in warpspace, astrogation is quite precise. (3) In warpspace, the F-space potentiality is far less distorted by nearby planetary masses. With sufficient skill and care, one can venture minutely near a planetary mass. In hyperspace, approaching as near as a million miles to a planet no larger than Pluto would destroy the ship. And (4), warpdrive is suitable for covert encroachment, particularly since warpspace does not produce emergence waves in the warp-space potentiality.

  Thus Weygand had first brought the Bering out of hyperspace two weeks short of the Tagus System, after a forty-seven-week jump. It was time to locate himself in F-space-familiar space, "real" space-and take a new set of astrogational readings. It was common to think of it in golfing terms, as sizing up the "lie" before hitting the approach shot-the final hyperspace jump to the Tagus System.

  Then he'd generated hyperspace again, to reemerge in the system's remote fringe-far enough out that the Bering's hyperspace emergence waves would be undetectable on Tagus.

  Theoretically of course, the Wyzhnyny could surround the system with alarm buoys or picket boats parked twelve or fifteen billion miles out, in the cometary cloud. But given the enormous spherical surface that went with such a radius, to provide and place the necessary number of sentries would be impractical at best.

  Survey ships had some drawbacks for such missions, but one decisive advantage: their superb instrumentation. Even from where she'd emerged, 29 billion miles from the primary, the Bering could plot the orbits of the system's planets and major satellites. And do it in a few hours, applying the mechanics of planetary systems to the tiny orbital segments observed. The info was necessary for the warpspace "chip shot" Weygand made next.

  ***

  That chip shot-that warpspace jump-took more than a day to bring the Bering near enough to Tagus's sole moon to detect it in the F-space potentiality. But once in F-space, and so near to Tagus, the ship's electromagnetic output could quickly be detected from the planet's surface, or by ships in the vicinity. And Drago Dravec's experience had been that the Wyzhnyny left a space force at their colonies. Something one might assume without evidence.

  Weygand had known all that since he'd been given his first mission briefing, a year earlier. It hadn't troubled him then, and it didn't now. He ordered key personnel wakened from stasis, and still in warpspace, maneuvered into the lee of the moon before emerging. Hidden from the planet, less than a mile from the lunar surface. Which just now was the bright side, for on Tagus, the moon was near the "new" phase.

  After a brief sensor scan, he landed.

  Now come the real challenges, he told himself. Find the Wyzhnyny colony at the old pirate base. Put down a team to collect hornets and bring them back to the Bering, which was to remain behind the moon. Then send marines down to take some Wyzhnyny prisoners and bring them up. After that, he'd generate warpspace, the science team could start their examinations, and they'd all fly home.

  Simple but not easy. The hornets alone sounded daunting; Weygand had had a lifelong aversion to stinging insects, and Morgan had said the Tagus hornets were as big as his thumb. But with decent luck they could capture their hornets and be gone without the Wyzhnyny knowing they'd been there. Capturing Wyzhnyny, on the other hand… that would bring them into physical contact with the enemy. He carried two squads of marine commandos in stasis, under a captain, with gunnery sergeants as squad leaders. Two squads! How many fighting personnel did the Wyzhnyny have on Tagus? A division? Half a dozen divisions?

  But War House wants those prisoners, he thought. And what do I know? I'm a Survey skipper, not a general.

  A lot depended
on how slack the Wyzhnyny had become here, after a Standard year without anything resembling a threat. Because if any of them-the Bering, the scout, the collection boat-caught the Wyzhnyny's attention, the prospect of getting away with prisoners would be nil.

  "Captain, sir," said a man behind him, "the personnel you requested are being revived."

  Weygand swiveled his command chair halfway around. "Thank you, Chief. And the steward?"

  "The steward is preparing their meal."

  "Good. Tell Captain Stoorvol I want to talk with him as soon as he's finished eating."

  There was no rush, but the sooner done, the sooner gone.

  ***

  They'd drilled the procedure back in the Sol System. The Bering had emerged off Luna's far side (and been snooped by a police craft from nearby Yerikalin Dome). The Tagus rainforest had been represented by the Maranon Ecological Benchmark Preserve, in Terra's Peruvian Autonomy. And to make the drill complete, the hornet team had returned (illegally) with a bunch of outraged Terran hornets. None had been the size of a man's thumb, but they were big-time mean.

  There too it had been Captain Paul Stoorvol who'd piloted the short-range scout, SRS 12/1. And beside him, as here, had been Alfhild Olavsdottir, blond and perhaps forty years old, stocky and fit-looking. Now as then, Stoorvol guided the scout smoothly across the lunar gravitic field, veering around occasional topographic obstacles, then slowing as he approached the limb of the moon. He stopped when he'd cleared it, parking a bare hundred feet off the surface.

  From there they got their first look at Tagus, a little less than 170,000 miles away. Alfhild Olavsdottir inhaled sharply. "Holy Gaea!" she said. "It's gorgeous!"

  Her oath annoyed Stoorvol; he disliked Gaeans. But the annoyance was remote; his feelings were often somewhat remote. Besides, lots of non-Gaeans used that oath, and somehow Alfhild Olavsdottir didn't strike him as a Gaean. A deist maybe. Deism was supposed to be big among scientists.