Blood and War

by Gordon R. Dickson

  "I was nearest. We all knew what was going on," Sventur said.

  "And this time we have real trouble," said Goriz, her bright green eyes shining.

  It happened very quickly. A tall young man in a Petit Harrier uniform with The Hub colors on his sleeve badges appeared in the doorway, moving fast. His stride was long—he could be running—and his platen was in disarray. There was blood and bruises on the side of his face and his eyes, grotesquely swollen in purple abrasions, did not focus well. None of the three Group Line Chiefs could say for certain that this was actually Group Chief Willister, but they could not be sure that it was not.

  "The Emerging Planet Fairness Court. Lontano . . . subterfuge. The Grands . . ." The young officer lurched and blood sprayed into the room from the disruptor blast to his back. He dropped into a heap, unable even to twitch.

  Sventur was already on her feet and calling for a Bunter when a squad of five Grands in Guard tunics came into the room, nodded efficiently but uninformatively to the others before tucking the body into a blue-and-white Graves' Registration sack.

  "Wait a minute—" Sventur began as she rose.

  "No time," said one of the Grands as he and the others hastened away.

  "What in all the pogging—" began Line Commander Apanali.

  Group Line Chief Goriz was on her feet, already hurrying into the corridor, her officer's patch on full so there would be no mistaking her rank or intent.

  The other two were right on her heels.

  But the hall was empty. The nearest intersections were some distance in both directions. There was no sign of the dead body and not one breathing Grand Harrier anywhere in sight.

  "Zamlots," whispered Sventur. "Where did they go?" She asked the question for the other two. "Well?"

  "This is very bad," said Group Line Chief Apanali as he started back toward the Mess. He stopped at the half-open door. "Do you wish to . . . go elsewhere?"

  "Perhaps it would be better just to walk," suggested Group Line Chief Goriz. She realized her hands were unsteady, and if they walked, she would not give it away.

  "I think that's best," said Apanali.

  "Yeah." Sventur made an effort to return to what they had been saying before Willister—if it was Willister—was murdered in front of them. "Once we leave this Semper, we're under Fayrborn. We'll be answerable to Fayrborn. This time Fayrborn could get us all killed, and start an inter-species war besides." She pressed her lower lip with her teeth. "Pogger all, anyway."

  "Ahmeen," said Apanali, who was devout.

  Goriz made a gesture of resignation. "What are we going to do? They've given us cross-coded written orders, hand-delivered. We can't get out of it. It's registered in our brains. If we fail, we fry our synapses at the least."

  "Then we have to stop Fayrborn and the war," said Sventur as if it were the simplest thing imaginable.

  "We can stop a war," said Apanali as if there were no trick to it. "Fayrborn might be another matter. I don't know what we're going to do about him."

  "So might the Grands," added Goriz, "be another matter."

  "Yeah, the Grands," Sventur echoed glumly.

  Charge Lomat Pallisenne was waiting in Line Commander Fayrborn's quarters, his Grand level three dress uniform impeccable. The very ancient Suomish skinning knife he held glistened as much as the braid on his epaulets. "Good evening, Line Commander," he said at his most urbane.

  Line Commander Fayrborn stood very still. "Why are you here?" he asked without returning the greeting. He wanted to pull the stealth saber from its hidden scabbard just to show Pallisenne that he, too, appreciated edged weapons.

  "To discuss a few things with you. I want to assure myself of your attention," he added, holding up the knife.

  "You have it," said Fayrborn, thinking that he ought to be the Grand Charge instead of that Gascoygnai.

  "You're the Fleet Commodore's errand boy, aren't you?" He sneered, relishing his contempt.

  "Most Secret," said Fayrborn, which was all he could say.

  "Too bad," said Charge Pallisenne. "The Marshall-in-Chief wants to know what's up. You're the only one who can tell us. And you haven't been filing your reports as promised."

  "I can't, can I? Not with a Most Secret lock on," said Fayrborn, doing his best to conceal the fear that gripped him.

  "There are ways to override a Most Secret lock," said Pallisenne, his grin without a trace of humor.

  Now Fayrborn was terrified. He knew, just as every Harrier did, that there were ways to open a Most Secret mental lock, ways that left the mind stripped of memories and logic. His hands were shaking so badly that he shoved them into his hip pockets. "I'm on orders. If I don't command this mission, the mission doesn't leave. You won't gain much."

  Pallisenne's expression did not change. "The Marshall-in-Chief of the Grands wants you to know that your transfer might be processed after the mission. Your record will still be clean if you leave soon. We've already made an attempt to . . . find out more, about a quarter of an hour ago. The young officer probably regretted his obduracy at the end. He was not capable of listening to reason. But that's up to you."

  There was nothing Fayrborn could say without humiliating himself more than he was already. He tried to maintain his dignity, and wished he had a Kleestick, or his stealth saber in his hands.

  "You want that transfer, don't you?" Pallisenne mocked Fayrborn with his question. "The Magnicate Alliance exists because the Grand Harriers protect it, not because the Petits police minor planetary disputes. The Grands are the only ones dealing with the big picture. You do want to be a Grand?"

  Fayrborn wanted to be a Grand more than anything. It had been galling to accept his commission in the Petits, and to have his requests for transfer consistently ignored or refused. To have this opportunity was so tantalizing. "I want to be a Grand."

  "Then act like one. Take your orders from the Grands, not from the Petits. Not even from the Fleet Commodore of all the Harriers. We have to know where your loyalties lie. We have to know you're with the Grands. Otherwise upstarts like that Haakogard will get position and importance. Do you want that?" He toyed with his knife. "If there is any hint of betrayal, if you have any idea of playing a double game, I promise you that this"—he lifted the blade toward Fayrborn's throat—"will end up in your liver."

  "You don't need to do that," said Fayrborn, swallowing hard.

  "I hope that's true." Pallisenne made a circuit of the room. "When you reach Lontano, take your orders from the Grand Flotilla Master. No more of this accommodation to the Petits. You owe us, Fayrborn."

  "All right," said Fayrborn, trying to match Pallisenne's cool authority. "And if there are questions from The Hub?"

  "Make sure there aren't," said Pallisenne. "You Petits aren't going to get mixed up in that skirmish. This time you're going to have to let the Grands handle it."

  "I'll do my part," said Line Commander Fayrborn, already starting to think of himself as Flotilla Master Fayrborn, the rank that ought to have been his from the first.

  "Keep in mind the stakes we're playing for, Fayrborn. If we handle it just right, we can break the back of the Emerging Planet Fairness Court. No more Mromrosii keeping an eye on us, no more need to follow the rules those six alien races have set down for us. Bonock! Doesn't it make you sick to see those unhuman things lord it over us? Space is for humanity, for The Hub and the Magnicate Alliance, and we shouldn't need the permission of huge predatory insects"—by which he meant the sagacious and gende Wammgalloz—"or gaseous will-o'-the-wisps"—by which he meant the preternaturally sensitive Cyi—"or muscular starfish"—by which he meant the Ghethept—" or idiotic clown wigs"—by which he meant the Mromrosio—"or the rest of them to be out here."

  Charge Pallisenne's outburst so completely matched Line Commander Fayrborn's innermost convictions that he could hardly bring himself to speak. "If I can contribute anything . . . anything at all . . ."

  "Do your part in this and you'll share our glory," Pallisenne promise
d. "One more thing. Just a word of caution. In case you think you can change your mind out there. One of your officers is working for us. And he will kill you if you don't do your job." He chuckled at the shock Fayrborn was unable to conceal.

  "One of my officers?" Fayrborn repeated dumbly. "On my ship or in the mission?'

  Charge Pallisenne only laughed.

  The Senior Bunters were assembled on the staging deck, each with its own inventory for its ship. The Senior Bunter of the Suidotal was still attached to the ship's servo-system, finishing the last stages of loading and stowing. It had reported finding the body of Maintenance Supervisor Barr Zeitmein to Security and was still waiting to turn the body over to someone in authority.

  At six-thirty, Group line Chief Apanali presented himself at the staging deck, his uniform splendidly neat, the red horse-head tag of the Petit Harriers on his collar, shining, his ship's flashes glistening red-and-silver. He paled when informed of the dead Maintenance Supervisor. "When did he die?"

  "An hour ago, more or less," said the Senior Bunter for the Yamapunkt. "His spinal cord was cut and scrambled with a laser weapon of some kind."

  "A stealth weapon?" asked Group Line Chief Apanali, making the guess he wanted to be wrong.

  "It is most likely so," said the Senior Bunter. "I surmise that someone was waiting for him when he came on duty, which would have been eighty Earth Standard minutes ago."

  The other Senior Bunters hummed in agreement.

  "Well, keep it quiet," he ordered as he gave it his consideration. "The fewer of us know about it, the better. We can't make this mission more risky than it already is."

  The Senior Bunters signaled their acceptance of the order, and posted one of their number to stand guard over the body until Security claimed it.

  "You're informed about this mission? You're aware of what's happened?" Group Line Chief Apanali asked his Senior Bunter, trying to do his work properly; the dead Maintenance Supervisor remained in his thoughts like a stubborn pebble in his shoe.

  "There are certain orders in the cybernetic system, yes. Very new and unexpected." The Senior Bunter made a clicking sound. "We are ordered to go to Lontano without formal mandate."

  "That's the basics," said Group Line Chief Apanali. He was tired, the back of his head feeling not-quite-awake. He had taken two stimulants while he showered but neither had kicked in yet, and with the body to consider he did not think he could concentrate properly. "I need a full report of weapons, fuel and ammunition," he said to the Senior Bunter. "For all the ships."

  "Of course," said his Senior Bunter, examining the clips attached to him. "We can present you with complete data in three Earth Standard minutes."

  "Quite satisfactory," said Group Line Chief Apanali, glancing around as he heard the whiffling sound of a Mromrosi.

  He liked to think that the mound of curly orange hair with the single bright green eye mounted atop was his Mromrosi, the one the Emerging Planet Fairness Court had assigned to his ship, and no other. He fancied he could recognize that one. But, in fact, there was no way humans had found to tell one Mromrosi from another, and this might be his or one of the other five with their mission. This one bounded up to Group Line Chief Apanali on all eight of his short little legs, apparently expressing enthusiasm about their departure; he stood about as high as Group Line Chief Apanali's shoulder, which was tall for a Mromrosi. Unless he was stretching, in which case it might mean little or nothing.

  "There is misfortune at Lontano. It is appropriate that we depart at once." He favored Group Line Chief Apanali with a long, penetrating, green stare.

  "We depart very shortly. We're not quite ready yet," said Group Line Chief Apanali.

  "It is wise to maintain readiness," declared the Mromrosi, his cascade of curls turning from orange to chrome yellow.

  "We've done that," said Group Line Chief Apanali, doing his best to be reasonable. There was no telling what the Mromrosi might intend by this observation.

  "But one must always remember that there is surprise, both pleasant and unpleasant," the Mromrosi declared, and headed for the Ikemoos. So it was his Mromrosi; Group Line Chief Apanali felt very proud of himself.

  While he was watching the Senior Bunters process all their inventories and print out a written record for him, Group Line Chief saw Communications Leader Gara Gaikhu come sauntering into the staging deck. Her green-and-purple flashes identified her as one of the Yamapunkt's officers.

  "Morning," said Communications Leader Gaikhu, her eyes flicking over Group Line Chief Apanali in cool evaluation. There were rumors about her and a number of Petit Harrier officers that Apanali had always thought exaggerated, but seeing her this way, he wondered. She did not smile at him, but neither did she leave him standing by himself.

  "Morning," said Group Line Chief Apanali. "Where's everyone else?"

  "Most of them are having a bite to eat, to wake up." She looked toward the Yamapunkt. "His nibs in yet?"

  "If you mean Line Commander Fayrborn, no he isn't," said Group Line Chief Apanali, his manner becoming stiff. He decided to say nothing about the dead Maintenance Supervisor. "No one has arrived on board that I know of."

  "Lighten up, GLC. I don't mean anything against you. We've got a LC who's scared of shadows and orders that head us right into trouble. We're going on a chancey mission. What do you expect me to do? Dance?" She was a very beautiful woman if your taste ran toward leggy, small-busted brunettes. She wore her Class Six standard uniform with distinction and carried herself with an air.

  "Line Commander Fayrborn accepted our orders," said Group Line Chief Apanali formally. "We're all bound by our oaths to the Petit Harriers and The Twelve."

  "Right," said Communications Leader Gaikhu. "And we have to follow Fayrborn. Great." She started toward her ship and paused to check in with the Senior Bunter. Before she went up the gangway, she looked over at Group Line Chief Apanali. "I hope we might have a drink after it's over. If you Kousrauni socialize with Kiriopolites."

  "Persia and Greece stopped fighting a long time ago," said Group Line Chief Apanali, recalling the legends that had made his childhood so fascinating. "Even in Old Earth terms."

  Communications Leader Gaikhu chuckled as she went aboard.

  "What was that all about?" asked Protocol Officer Group Leader Jarez gos Mecur of the Reiwald, who had left Yerba Buena more than fifteen years before and showed no desire to return, no matter how lovely the planet. He had a look of permanent disbelief about him, which was often the case with Protocol Officers, who were usually expert spies as well as diplomats. He stared at the skimmers and gave a single, pained sigh. "I suppose we have to follow orders. Pity. How much longer before we leave? Twenty minutes?"

  "Nothing more," said the Senior Bunter of the Reiwald. "You should go aboard, sir."

  "Possibly, possibly," said Protocol Officer Group Leader gos Mecur. "But I think I'll have one last look at the game room before I leave." He turned on his heel and almost bumped into Executive Officer Jaan Duykster from Neue Neue Amsterdam, of the Daichirucken. "Morning," he said, exchanging the most minimal salutes.

  "And to you," said Executive Officer Duykster. He looked over at the Senior Bunter for the Daichirucken, his flash of the ships gold-and-black colors identifying him among the other Senior Bunters. "Who's aboard?"

  "You're the first, sir," said the Senior Bunter. "Group Line Chief Sventur has notified me that she is on the way. A most unusual turn of events. And coming at a . . . an awkward time."

  "Yes," agreed Executive Officer Duykster. "Morale isn't what it should be, understandably. But that is—In any case. Let's hope that it doesn't turn out—" He broke off as he went toward the gangway.

  "There is something you should be aware of," the Senior Bunter of his ship said, detaining him. "It will have to be kept confidential for a short while."

  "What will?" Executive Officer Duykster asked, becoming apprehensive at the withdrawn tone of the Senior Bunter.

  "There has been a . . . misf
ortune." The Senior Bunter was about to go on when Executive Officer Duykster tried to cut it short.

  "You mean Willister? Yes, that was shocking. But we have a duty to do." He made no attempt to hide his nervousness but neither did he display it.

  "Sadly, there is another . . . event you ought to be aware of," said his Senior Bunter, and indicated where the Maintenance Supervisor was being guarded. "He died little more than an hour ago."

  "An accident?" Duykster asked, hoping against the certainty he felt.

  "Unfortunately, it would appear he was murdered," said the Senior Bunter.

  "Great," muttered Duykster. "Two in one night, and we're not underway yet."

  "Most certainly, sir," the Senior Bunter agreed. It swiveled its upper body and made a last survey of the area, then followed Executive Officer Duykster up the gangway and into the Glavus-class skimmer.

  The Senior Bunter of the Ikemoos—flashes red-and-silver—lingered by the gangway, still showing as much apprehension as a machine could: three little lights blinking on its shoulder. At its base the body of Maintenance Supervisor Zeitmein continued to cool.

  "Trouble?" asked Group Line Chief Praechee of the Sakibuckt, preparing to go aboard his ship. "Is something wrong?"

  He was informed of the dead Maintenance Supervisor, which made him swear colorfully for two minutes. "Any idea who did it?"

  "No, Group Line Chief, we have no idea," said the Senior Bunter.

  "Where was Fayrborn when this man was killed, does anyone know?" he asked, directing his question to no one in particular.

  "His location is not accounted for," said the Senior Bunter guarding the body.

  "I see," said Group Line Chief Praechee, then deliberately changed the subject. "Are we ready to depart?"

  "I don't know," said the Senior Bunter, a phrase that was rarely heard from Bunters. "I can find no malfunction, try as I may, but—"

  "Check it out again," Group Line Chief Praechee recommended. "If you were human we'd say you have a hunch. I pay attention to hunches, myself."