“I think you may have lingering psychological effects from enduring intense and extended combat, yes, which is why I’m cutting you some slack. But whether you do or don’t, I need you down there.” He pointed at the floor to indicate R’Bak. “Would you like to hear the mission? You’ll be going one way or the other.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I think you know some of this already. We’ve been dropped into the middle of an ongoing conflict between oppressor robber barons whose planet orbits the primary star in this binary system. They’ve got all the advantages, particularly in terms of technology. They can reach us, but we can’t reach them. Bottom line: we’re facing worse odds than the Spartans at Thermopylae. Our erstwhile allies may or may not have our best interests at heart, with odds on the may not part, and the only way we’ll get out of here is to not merely end, but win the damned conflict, starting with the locals who effectively work as the oppressors’ vassals. Problem is there’s less than a hundred of us and thousands of them.”
“‘Them’ being the J’Stull?”
“Yes, along with their allies, most of whom are raiders and local militias under the rule of the satraps. The J’Stull have a professional military of sorts. The others are amateurs, but there are a helluva lot of them. Our top priority isn’t simply recruiting more men from among the rest of the indigs, although that comes first; it’s turning them into first-class soldiers. Which is where you come in. You’ve studied R’Bak’s topography and what we know of the people?”
“Studied is a pretty generous word for it, but yes, sir, I think I’ve got the big picture.”
“If you don’t, there’s no time to rectify that now. There is a small city that lies along the dividing line between the green area and the hot wastelands. It’s called Imsurmik. Population under normal circumstances is about twenty thousand. Most of the people live in rude stone and adobe hovels separated by narrow alleys and crowded streets. That’s the Outer City. Think of it as…I can’t think of a frame of reference you might understand. The Outer City is a slum. Higher up, on a slight ridge, is a walled area where we assume wealthier citizens live, and above that is another compound dug into the side of a ninety-foot-high rock plateau. The F’ahdn—the satrap’s local governor—rules Imsurmik through fear and intimidation.
“We have intelligence reports that Imsurmik is a refuge during the Sear caused by the approach of the primary star. It is also said to be a gathering spot for those moving north to escape the worst effects of the increasing heat. Major Moorefield plans to insert a human asset into the city—”
“Human asset? Is that like a spy?”
“It is a spy. As the Sear approaches, bringing with it the Harvesters, who come to rob the people of their medicinal plants, we have been told there will be a cache of those plants waiting to be handed over. Hundreds of outlying militia will pour into the city at that time, bringing with them their harvests and causing further overcrowding.
“All this is complicated by another factor: the rock formations in the region are honeycombed with natural caverns cut by millions of years of water erosion. Throughout the wastes, the indigs have expanded those. Imsurmik went further: in addition to housing dug into the plateau, there is likely an extensive tunnel network under the city. A river bypasses its outskirts, and it has both artesian wells and a spring.”
“No wonder people are heading there.”
“When the world becomes an oven, water and shelter mean life.”
“How many men are you giving me?”
“I’m not giving you any. Approximately fifty men from a village west of Imsurmik have volunteered to oppose this F’ahdn, but it’s up to you to convince them to stick around through the training and then to actually risk their lives for the freedom of their people. He has been preying on them for a long time, so there’s a lot of built-up resentment.”
“You can’t want me to seize the city with such a small force.”
“No. As things stand now, Major Moorefield’s job is to seize the ways in and seal off the exits. After he declares it secure enough for you to enter, you’ll lead your elite platoon to round up persons of interest who might have information we can use against the J’Stull and their out-system overlords, the Kulsians.”
“My men are elite?”
“I trust you’ll make them so.”
“And I’m supposed to do that with a platoon? Hell, Colonel, you’d need a battalion for this mission, maybe a regiment.”
Murphy shook his head. “First, the J’Stull presence in the city isn’t great, so there aren’t many regulars for you to deal with. Second, don’t confuse militia with trained soldiers, and third, I just said I don’t expect you to assault Imsurmik.”
“In my experience sir, any headquarters above company didn’t know shit from shinola about what was going on up front. You say one thing, but when it comes down to it—”
“This is the mission, Cutter. I’m already short of officers, so trust me when I say that Major Moorefield will kick open the doors. It will be your job to find the HVTs inside.”
“Colonel, I know you think I understand that jargon, but I don’t. What’s an HVT?”
“High Value Target, one of the persons of interest I mentioned.”
“In other words, a big shot?”
“Possibly, but not necessarily. We believe they have information about enemy security procedures and protocols, as well as potential codes, call signs, and protocols that relate to orbital operations. They may also have knowledge or access to ship designs, weaponry, operating systems, and similar functions. As they all gather in one place, this offers a unique opportunity for an intelligence windfall.”
“How many of these…uh, HVTs…are there?”
“We don’t exactly know how many there are, but not that many. Major Moorefield will be better able to inform you once the operation is underway.”
“Do they wear different uniforms than the others? Maybe have rank badges or something?”
“No, nobody’s in uniform except maybe the F’ahdn’s immediate bodyguards.”
“Is there some way to distinguish them from everybody else?”
“I would imagine their clothing is better-made, cleaner, and their shoes are probably of better quality. They’ll be well fed. If anyone has access to bathing facilities, it will be them. Look for jewelry, necklaces, chains—that sort of thing. Oh, and their paint. I’m given to understand the people of Imsurmik use paint to protect their skin from the sunlight, rather than layers of cloth like those in the rural areas. They’ve also come to use it to distinguish their place in society.”
“They paint their faces? Like war paint?”
“Like that, yes, except their whole face. The ancient Celts did that, too, sometimes.”
“So how do I read this paint stuff?”
“That’s unknown. It’s one of the things we’re hoping you can discover.”
“That’s not much to go on, sir.”
The colonel paused and thought for a moment. “What was the largest city you visited, back on Earth?”
“New York City.”
“Good. When you strolled down the sidewalk and looked at all the other people, could you tell by looking at them who had money and who didn’t?”
“Now that you mention it, sir, yeah, I guess so.”
Murphy nodded. “And the women’s makeup, could you tell just by looking at them who might be a working girl?”
“Sure, yeah.”
“It’s the same thing here, Lieutenant.”
Leaning back, Cutter studied Murphy for clues as to the actual difficulty of what he was being asked to do. It sounded impossible, yet that was exactly what convinced him to do it. Murphy’s logic finally made him realize that if he, a combat veteran, couldn’t lead men safely through such a FUBAR mission, what chance did an untrained man have?
“Just so I’m straight on the mission, Colonel Murphy, I’m being asked to chase shadows while trying to remain a shadow myself.
In a free fire zone.”
“That’s about the size of it, Lieutenant Cutter.”
“I must have a screw loose…all right, Colonel, I’ll do it.”
“Of course, you will.” Murphy smiled. “I never figured you for cleaning out shitholes. I can’t give you a timeline on the mission yet. Some of it depends on how fast we can train up the rest of the indig force we’ll need in order to have a chance of success with the main attack. You won’t have that many men, but that means each one will need to be trained to a higher standard: an elite standard, if you can manage it. You’ll want to concentrate on small unit tactics; that’s where your experiences in France should help.
“One more thing, Lieutenant…I’ve already said we can’t do this alone, but that includes officers, too. There simply aren’t enough of us, and not every Lost Soldier is officer material, nor should they be. We’ve got some of the best non-coms you could ask for. If you run into Rodriguez, you’ll see what I mean, but there aren’t enough of them, either. That means we need to identify, recruit, and train indigs up to our standards in those roles, as well. The sooner you can identify such men, the sooner you’ll be combat ready.”
“What’s the process, sir? Do I appoint them as lieutenant or sergeant?”
“Provisionally, yes. You’re now an O-2, you can appoint an O-1, a warrant officer if you need one or two, and non-coms. Unless I see a potential problem with your choices, I’ll back up the decisions of the man on the spot: you.”
“That doesn’t sound like the rank structure I’m used to, Colonel.”
“Then it’s lucky you’ve got a few hours to learn it.”
* * * * *
Chapter 3
R’Bak
If waking up in the SpinDogs’ orbiting habitat, or the weeks that followed, hadn’t been disorienting enough, the trip to the surface of the planet left Lieutenant Tyree Denning Cutter doubting his sanity. Sure, he’d read pulp stories about spacemen and rocket ships while on the transport over to England in 1943—the same ragged magazines that circulated through every man’s hands in the 30th Infantry Division—but reading about them out of boredom didn’t prepare Cutter for the real thing.
Once on R’Bak, however, things became more familiar. According to Colonel Murphy’s brief, his first step was simply a matter of passing through Major Moorefield’s command on the way to a village with a name he couldn’t pronounce. There, all he had to do was turn men with whom he had nothing in common and who had no familiarity with Earth weapons, discipline, or command structures, into combat-ready soldiers so they could participate in joint operations with Moorefield’s command.
He’d trained men from the ground up before and knew how to do it well. What he didn’t know was how to keep them alive once they entered combat. And that would be his biggest fight: the mental one with himself. Everyone he spoke to insisted that losing his entire platoon in France wasn’t his fault, but he couldn’t manage to believe it. He couldn’t force himself to believe that some of his men survived and other units had suffered worse casualties than his. But it was too late to worry about the past. Now, he could only immerse himself in training the indigs to the exclusion of all else.
Wagons pulled by R’Bak’s ubiquitous whinaalanis delivered the weapons, ammunition, and other supplies necessary to train and outfit his platoon, escorted by a single armored personnel carrier occupied by Cutter and five guards. Rounding a low hill, Cutter glimpsed a wide river valley on his left as their destination came into sight straight ahead. Built on the crest of a bluff parallel to the river, the stone and wood homes lay in the shape of a long, narrow rectangle. Compared to other parts of the region they’d traversed, the vegetation was thick and reminded Cutter of pictures he’d seen of the Great Plains.
People working in a nearby field spotted them rounding the hill and alerted the village, so that by the time the convoy stopped in the center of the main road, children were running alongside the wagons, laughing and shouting. Adults lined the path, and a well-muscled man in his late twenties or early thirties waved them to a stop in front of the largest home. Beside him stood a woman of similar age with black hair that shimmered in the harsh sunlight. Both had lowered the facial coverings necessary to block R’Bak’s deadly UV radiation so he could see their faces, which Major Moorefield had told him was a show of greeting and friendship.
“I am Tanavuna,” the man said after Cutter stepped out of the APC, stiff and hot. “I am the son of our hetman, Nokina, and this is my wife, Kesteluni, our shevfashli.”
“Shevfashli” was what this village called their healer, a title of great respect. Cutter bowed his head in the appropriate response. “I am Lieutenant Cutter. It is my great honor to train and assist you in your struggle against the satrap.”
“We have heard impressive things about your victories over the J’Stull,” Kesteluni said. There was a languid tone to her voice that Cutter found quite soothing.
Cutter thought about mentioning he’d only just landed on R’Bak, but thought better of it. “I’ve often regretted how much my people know about war, but as long as evil men seek to dominate others, men like me will be necessary.”
“I only ask one thing of you, Lieutenant,” she said, smiling the friendliest smile he’d ever seen. “Bring my husband home alive, if possible, but if he is fated to die, help him to do it well.”
Tanavuna lifted an eyebrow. Before he could speak, she turned the smile on him, and the words died on his lips.
“Let me introduce my father,” Tanavuna said. As they entered the home, the drivers and guards began unloading the wagons.
Drenched in sweat, Cutter immediately noticed how much cooler it was inside the house. Instead of windows to allow breezes to pass through, a gray compound that resembled concrete sealed all the joints and seams. Tanavuna introduced his father, a mirror image of his son, only older. After an exchange of courtesies and refreshments, Cutter asked how the heat could be so much less inside the house when it hurt to breathe the hot air outside.
“Do you see the pipes coming out of the ground?” Nokina asked. “The air in the ground is cooler than above and is brought to our homes through those pipes. We seal our homes to retain it, only coming and going when we must so the cooler air does not escape.”
“That—this is ingenious.”
“Our knowledge of such things comes to us from those who came before,” the hetman said.
“As does our knowledge of the healing arts,” Kesteluni added. Cutter sipped the water she’d given him. It had a faintly sweet flavor unlike anything he’d tasted on Earth. “I sensed that you felt worry at being among us, so your water contains a mixture of urot, palankea, and fel-franzh. The recipe has been handed down from healer to healer for many generations. I hope you take no offense.”
“Not at all. I am grateful you think me worthy of your gifts.”
“Are you sure you’re a man of war, Lieutenant Cutter? Your courteous words do you credit.”
Tanavuna sat beside his wife, beaming as she held court. It surprised Cutter that neither Nokina nor his son objected to her dominating the conversation.
“How do you remember everything about all those plants?” he asked. “I can’t remember my father’s phone number.” Having no R’Bak equivalent, he used the English word phone.
She wrinkled one eyebrow. “Your father’s foes were so numerous?”
“No, a phone number is…well, never mind that. I was just saying I have a poor memory.”
“Part of being a healer is not forgetting the lore entrusted to you. That is very important.”
Preparations for a feast in his honor began in the early afternoon and lasted until the lighting of a bonfire after sunset. Once the sun went down, everyone could relax and remove their robes and face coverings, which, in itself, gave the occasion a festive air. Cutter ate the unfamiliar food with trepidation, but growing up in rural Mississippi during the Great Depression meant he had learned how to enjoy a variety of dishes city folk wou
ldn’t have eaten if they were starving. After a few bites of various meats, he discovered the flavors had a gaminess he liked. Among the vegetables, or what he thought of as vegetables, the stir-fried bulb of a purple flower reminded him of okra.
As the night wore on, the men of his soon-to-be-activated platoon drifted over to say hello and introduce their families. Fatigue from the long day made it impossible to keep all the names and faces straight, except for one older woman who knelt in the dirt and took Cutter’s hands in hers. Beside her stood a lean boy—Cutter had trouble thinking of him as a man—with the embarrassed pout of a teenager.
“I am Issikoffa, and this is my only son, Suukamanu. I give him into your care, Lieutenant Cutter. He is a good boy, but impetuous: brave but unwary. Please bring him back to me.”
Cutter wasn’t sure what to say. On top of the latent guilt he carried from World War Two, how could he assure this mother that her son would come home alive? Combat just didn’t work that way.
“Perhaps he should wait a year or two, to gain maturity?” was all he could think to say.
Issikoffa leaned back as if slapped.
“He is grown now, and he will defend his people as a grown man does,” she said, obviously offended. He tried to apologize, but she hurried off. Her son spread his arms in a helpless gesture and went the other way, leaving Cutter to gape and wonder what had just happened.
“Take no heed of Issikoffa,” said Kesteluni. Sitting on Cutter’s right, she’d heard the whole exchange. “She lives to be offended. Her son looks younger than he is and will make a fine soldier.”
“I knew people like that back on Earth,” he said. But his thoughts were on how the air around her felt alive, like an aura of static electricity surrounded her. It was all he could do to get the words out.
“Earth is your home?”
“It was.”
“And it is up there, among the stars?”
“So they tell me.”
“Can we see it?”
“I don’t think so.”
Shadows Page 2