Starfist Book #02
School of Fire

by David Sherman & Dan Cragg


                                      For

                         Our Mutual Friend, J. B. Post

                             If  it  wasn't  for  him,
                     these books would never have been written


PROLOGUE

The approaching sounds of snapping twigs and wet fronds squelching under rushing
feet came to Commander Hing's ears. He didn't turn to look toward their  source.
If it was some fool of a Feldpolizei trooper coming through the forest, the  man
wouldn't  live long  enough to  reach his  position, except  as a   prisoner-his
fighters  would see  to that.  Most likely,  Hing thought,  it was  one of   his
guerrilla  band's  scouts  returning  with  the  hoped-for  report  of  a  small
Feldpolizei patrol approaching the ambush site.

Hing kept his eyes idly roaming the road that cut between the shallow-sided hill
his position was  on and the  equally low hill  that rose from  the road's other
side,  while  his  mind  ran through  all  the  possibilities.  A commander  who
considered all the things  that might go wrong  could devise plans to  turn each
possible wrongness to his advantage.

The sounds came closer and closer  and finally stopped, punctuated by the  thump
of a knee hitting the ground a meter from where Hing lay concealed in a clump of
grospalms.

"Commander,  it must  be true  what we  have heard,  the Feldpolizei  has a  new
commissioner," a gasping voice said.

At last  Hing turned  his attention  from the  road and  looked at  the speaker.
Fighter  Quetlal, the  scout whose  hasty approach  had snapped  so many  twigs,
squelched so many fronds. The commander raised an eyebrow questioningly.

Quetlal was  grinning broadly.  The heaving  of his  chest quickly subsided; the
members of the guerrilla band were well-accustomed to physical exertion in  this
heat and humidity. He made his report.

"They are  not wearing  camouflage. Commander.  They are  not even wearing plain
green or tan to help them hide among the tees." His grin broadened and his  eyes
glittered. "There are a hundred of them. And they are all wearing orange  tunics
and  sky-blue pantaloons.  You can  tell the  officers by  the plumes  on  their
helmets!"

A hundred, normally too many for his company-but in that formation they might be
easy to  defeat. Commander  Hing instantly  thought of  something that  might be
wrong, even with a new Feldpolizei commissioner as foolish as this one was  said
to be. "How do you know the ones you saw are not a diversion?"

Fighter Quetlal grinned more widely than seemed possible and bobbed his head  in
a quick  nod. "I  thought of  that myself,  Commander. As  soon as  I saw them I
thought they must be a  diversion. But search as I  might, I could find no  one.
Nor could the other scouts with me."

Hing slowly shook his  head one time. The  oligarchs were getting more  and more
foolish in their conduct of this war. Where had they gotten the idea that  sharp
looking parade ground troops made the best fighters? Did they really think fancy
uniforms would frighten fighting men?

"How long?"

"They are marching  briskly in a  column. Commander. Much  faster than we  would
move through the forest. If I had seen us where I saw them, I would say at least
a half an hour.  As they are marching  down the middle of  the road, I must  say
bare minutes."

"How watchful are they?"

"Their eyes are straight ahead, as  though they are passing in review.  They are
even carrying their blasters at right shoulder arms."

"Scouts? Flankers?"

Fighter Quetlal shook his head. "They have two point men twenty meters ahead  of
the column; that is all of their security." He barked a short laugh. "The  point
men must think they are ready, though they march straight ahead-they carry their
blasters at port arms."

"Have you passed an alert?"

"As I came along our line. Commander. I told everybody."

"Then continue along  our line and  tell the rest  of the company."  Hing turned
back  to  the  road;  Quetlal  was  dismissed.  The  scout  hastened  to  do his
commander's bidding.

Commander Hing's fingers absently caressed the stock of his blaster, fondled its
firing lever. His was one of the few modem weapons possessed by the  grandiosely
named Che Loi Brigade of the Peoples  Liberation Army, and the only one in  this
ambush. The rest of the sixty brigade members with him were armed with  obsolete
projectile  rifles, which  was a  major reason  for this  ambush-to take   modem
weapons from  the corpses  of the  oligarchy's Feldpolizei.  Normally, with only
sixty men  he would  let a  hundred Feldpolizei  pass unmolested.  But with them
marching in formation as they were, they  were far too tempting a target to  let
go. Soon,  in bare  minutes, Hing's  fighters would  strike a  mighty blow,  and
strike further fear into the hearts of the oligarchy-and become better armed.


"That imbecile sends us  to our death," Patrolman  Perez muttered to the  man at
his side.

"Only if they lie in ambush," Patrolman Troung replied equally quietly, "and are
not frightened off by our blasters."  He wanted to spit, but Captain  Rickdorf's
discipline was too severe  for him to take  the chance. He rolled  his shoulders
slightly to ease the  way his burden weighed  on them. "I'm more  concerned with
how my armor makes me sweat."

"Quiet in the ranks,"  Shift Sergeant Ruiz called  out softly from his  position
marching alongside the column of twos. Instead of a blaster on his shoulder,  he
carried a sergeant's saber at trail in  his hand. "We don't want any bandits  in
the area to hear us and run away before we can catch them."

Captain Rickdorf, marching erect  at the head of  the column, gave no  sign that
he'd heard the patrolmen  talking. But he had  heard, and he would  remember. He
promised himself that Perez and Troung-he knew their voices-would be disciplined
for talking out of turn, as an example to the others, when they returned to  the
headquarters  of the  407th GSB-  Grafshaftsbezirk-precinct. Then  he put  aside
thoughts of troopers so undisciplined that they talked in the ranks, and thought
of the absolute surprise that would  overcome the bandits when they finally  saw
his magnificent  company, and  the panic  that would  grip them  when his  men's
blasters  rained  fire  and destruction  on  them.  He knew  in  his  heart that
Commissioner  Schickeldorf  was absolutely  right:  a well-drilled,  well-armed,
splendidly  uniformed  force will  always  strike fear  into  the hearts  of  an
undisciplined bandit rabble-the very sight of such a force could spur the bandit
rabble into  flight. Even  if the  bandits attempted  to fight, their projectile
weapons would be useless against the body armor his men wore under their tunics.
He nodded inwardly, confident that  this brief expedition would rid  the Bavaran
Hills Province of its bandit problem forever.

Captain Rickdorf saw  that the road  ahead cut between  two steep-sided, thickly
wooded hills.  Just the  kind of  place where  he knew  the bandits liked to set
their ambushes. He smiled inwardly as he  thought of the shock the sight of  his
troops would induce in the bandits if they were indeed in ambush there. He hoped
they were. This expedition  could well earn him  a decoration directly from  the
hand of Commissioner Schickeldorf-and a much-desired promotion and transfer  out
of this forsaken hills province.


Fighter  Quetlal had  barely left  Commander Hing's  position when  the  brigade
leader heard the slightly ragged tramp-tramp-tramp of marching feet coming along
the road below. He listened for a  voice, but heard no one counting cadence.  So
they know how to march, he thought. We shall see soon how well they know how  to
die. His men knew how to lie in ambush, invisible from the road-none would  fire
his weapon until Hing blew his whistle.

Two troopers, as splendidly popinjayed as Fighter Quetlal had promised, strutted
into sight. Sunlight filtering through  the tops of the towering  hochbaum trees
that grew between the  clumps of grospalms dappled  their tunics to the  flowing
color of old gold. Their marching legs swish-swishing along made their  sky-blue
trousers ripple like fast-flowing water  in a clear, shallow stream.  Hing shook
his head;  they were  indeed marching  erect, eyes  straight ahead,  blasters at
right-shoulder. "Fools,"  he muttered,  dismissing them,  but his  eyes lingered
hungrily on  their weapons.  Soon the  fighters of  his brigade  would put those
modem weapons to far better use than these comic-opera Feldpolizei ever could.

Twenty meters  behind the  point men,  the rest  of the  column snaked along the
road,  marching two  men abreast.  This was  so foolish;  Hing suspected   their
commander would have had them marching  three or four abreast had the  road been
wide enough.

Their commander,  oh yes.  He was  the most  glorious popinjay  of them all. His
tunic was piped with gold cord, gold epaulettes jounced on his shoulders, and  a
fourragere-a braided gold cord-swirled around  and dangled from his shoulder.  A
veritable kaleidoscope of medals adorned his left breast. Broad bands of  silver
ran down his  trouser legs. It  hardly seemed possible,  but the saber  scabbard
that hung from  his tasseled belt  looked to be  of precious metal  as well. The
saber he carried point up against  his shoulder looked like a purely  ceremonial
blade, not a fighting blade at all-as though a sword was a weapon to use against
blasters or even projectile weapons.

As the officer passed below Hing's position, the guerrilla commander turned  his
attention to the column proper. Had  he known that Captain Rickdorf thought  his
guerrillas  would be  surprised, he  would have  agreed with  him. He  was  very
surprised  by  the  sight  of   this  marching  column  of  the   Wander-jahrian
Feldpolizei. They  marched as  if on  a parade  ground, their  blasters for  the
moment uselessly  propped on  their right  shoulders. When  he blew his whistle,
Hing thought, half  would be dead  before any of  them could move  their weapons
into firing position.

Hing counted the ranks of Feldpolizei  as they marched past him. When  his count
reached twenty-two, he put  his whistle to his  lips. At twenty-three he  sucked
his chest full  of air. At  twenty-four, near the  center of the  double line of
Feldpolizei, when all were well within the killing zone of the ambush, he blew.

Thunder rippled all along  the hillside as the  fighters of the Che  Loi Brigade
opened  fire  at  the  marching  column.  Here  an  orange-tunicked  man thudded
screaming  to  the  ground,  clutching his  thigh  where  arterial  blood pulsed
brightly  from  a bullet  hole.  There another  spun  about, his  shattered  arm
spraying red. A brilliant rosette of  bone and brain and blood blossomed  on the
forehead of a third man before  he collapsed. Others staggered from the  bullets
that thudded into their bodies, but  kept their feet as their body  armor spread
and absorbed the kinetic energy of the blows.

"Troop! Face to  the right!" Captain  Rickdorf and his  platoon officers shouted
above the din of gunfire.

"Front rank, kneel!" Rickdorf calmly  snapped his order. The lieutenants  echoed
the  command  as  they briskly  assumed  their  positions at  one  end  of their
platoons. The shift sergeants stood their places with their men, ready to  relay
commands and keep the men in good order.

"Lay your fire in a swath!"  Rickdorf commanded, and the junior officers  echoed
him.

"By ranks. Front rank, fire! Rear rank, fire!" Crackling plasma flashed from the
nozzles  of  the front  ranks'  blasters and  struck  the hillside  in  a random
pattern, followed quickly by an equally random pattern from the blasters of  the
rear rank. There were one or  two screams from guerrillas charred by  bolts, but
the screams were quickly cut off by death or shock. A thin mist instantly spread
raggedly on the hillside as the fire of the plasma bolts vaporized the  moisture
in the wet  leaves and damp  earth. Flames briefly  shot up here  and there, but
quickly went out, as the recent rains had made the forest too wet to burn.

"Line your fire,"  Rickdorf commanded. Neither  he nor his  men could see  their
attackers; they had  to fire together  to make sure  they covered the  hillside.
"Front rank, ten meters up the hillside, fire!" The front rank fired again. This
time its  bolts struck  in an  irregular line  along the  hillside, some  in the
clumps of grospalms  where the guerrillas  hid, others uselessly  in the lightly
carpeted ground between them.

"Rear rank, leapfrog five meters, fire!" The rear rank fired its volley, and its
bolts spattered in a lightning-bolt  jagged line along the hillside  five meters
above the first line.

Here and  there along  the two  lines ofPeldpolizei,  men staggered  or bent  as
bullets spent their energy against their armor, a few screamed in agony from the
pain of bullets that tore into arms or legs. Their screams were not matched from
the hillside. Only a few troopers fell from chance hits in their heads.

"Front rank, leapfrog, fire!"

"Steady, lads," Ruiz said, loud but calm, as he marched casually behind the rear
rank. "They are only an ill-armed rabble. We will easily beat them. Steady. Keep
up your disciplined  fire." Other shift  sergeants said much  the same to  their
men.

Commander Hing  saw how  the troopers  reacted to  the body  blows of  his men's
bullets,  and  understood  almost immediately  why  they  remained standing  and
continued to  fire. Maybe  he should  have let  them pass.  But maybe he and his
guerrillas could still win the fight. "They're wearing body armor," he  shouted.
"Aim for heads, arms, legs."

Elsewhere along the ambush line he heard others cry out the same order, some  so
quickly he knew he wasn't the only  one to see and know. The guerrillas  shifted
their aim  from the  center of  their targets  to the  extremities, and troopers
started falling.

The Feldpolizei stood or knelt in patient ranks for the space of one more volley
before individuals among them began to notice above the crackles of blasters and
bangs of rifles screaming from within  their own ranks and a lessening  of their
plasma cracks.

"I told you!" Perez shrilled at Troung.

"Keep firing," Troung shouted back.

Terror rapidly mounted  in his heart,  and Perez glanced  to the side-if  anyone
broke  ranks, he  would run  with them.  He looked  just in  time to  see  Shift
Sergeant Ruiz's face erupt  and splatter blood and  brain from two bullet  hits.
Perez shrieked in horror and panic at the sight. He dropped his blaster and ran.
By some miracle, he reached the shelter of the trees alive.

Captain  Rickdorf, head  held high,  swept his  gaze across  the hillside.   The
bandits  must be  higher on  the hillside  than he  guessed; their  fire  wasn't
slackening.  "Rear  rank,  leapfrog   ten-"  He  never  finished   the  command.
Simultaneously, one bullet tore through his throat, a second shattered his right
temple, and a  third shot between  his open lips  and ripped out  the joint that
held his skull to his neck bones.

The bullet that hit Rickdorf in the throat continued its deadly flight unimpeded
and spent itself in the shoulder of  the trooper standing next to him. That  man
staggered and fell to his knees. The  force of the blow knocked his blaster  out
of his hands and turned him half about, where he saw the captain's lifeless body
bounce as it hit  the road's surface. He  screamed, more in shock  at seeing his
commander down than  because of pain.  Struggling to his  feet, he tried  to run
away, but felt the mounting pain of  his wound and was too unsteady for  flight.
He blundered into the men next to him.

From the hillside, the guerrillas saw  the troopers falling now and cheered.  On
the road, more and more of the troopers heard and saw the men to their sides  no
longer firing, either down or breaking ranks.

Abruptly, with their captain dead, the surviving Feldpolizei who were able, ran.

"Get them!" Commander Hing screamed. "Kill them before they get away."

The guerrillas rained fire at the  fleeing Feldpolizei, most of whom had  thrown
away their  weapons to  speed their  flight. Many  of them  fell, dead from head
shots or crippled with shattered legs. Some dropped to their knees and faced the
hillside with their arms upraised in surrender.

"Cease fire,  cease fire!"  Hing shouted  as the  few who  managed to  dodge his
fighters' bullets disappeared into the trees on the opposite hillside or  around
a  bend in  the road.  He stood  and bounded  down the  hill. On  all sides  his
fighters came with him.

Commander  Hing  looked  up and  down  along  the road,  between  the  clumps of
grospalms and the scattering  of spikers on the  opposite hill. There were  more
than  seventy,  maybe  more   than  eighty,  troopers  down-dead,   wounded,  or
surrendered. And there were more than ninety blasters scattered about. It was  a
most gratifying sight.

"Lieutenant Pincote,"  he said  as his  second in  command approached. "How many
casualties?"

Lieutenant Sokum Pincote showed  teeth filed to points  when she smiled at  him.
"Only six, Commander."

"Six fighters dead is nothing to smile about. Lieutenant," he snapped at her. "I
don't care how many Feldpolizei we kill,  the life of one fighter is of  greater
value."

Pincote's  lips  snapped  shut.  "Yes, Commander.  I  know  that.  I was  merely
expressing pleasure at our victory. We  can now properly arm nearly half  of the
brigade."

Hing looked back at the corpses and casualties uttering the road and nodded.

Hing didn't bother to even shake his head. "We are not murderers. Leave them. We
don't dare  stay here  long enough  to tend  them. The  unwounded survivors  can
bandage them."

Ten minutes later the fifty-four members of the Che Loi Brigade who survived the
fight  were  carrying their  burden  of ninety-three  blasters  and the  charred
corpses of their six dead comrades under the trees, heading for a narrow,  steep
sided  valley  that  was  hidden  from  the  current  orbits  of  the  planetary
government's surveillance satellites. Soon they would join the other 240 members
of the Che Loi Brigade back at their base camp, where the satellites could never
see them, no matter what their orbits.



CHAPTER ONE

Thorsfinni's World is a water world  studded with islands small and large.  High
in its northern  hemisphere floats Nifl-heim,  an island approximately  the size
and shape of the Scandinavian peninsula on Old Earth. Niflheim is the center  of
Thorsfinni's World's  Viking-based civilization  and home  to better  than three
quarters of its population. In  northern Niflheim the summer temperature  rarely
broaches 25 degrees on the Celsius scale, its winter temperatures often reaching
that degree on the minus side of the scale. Niflheim is a wet place, rainy  when
the temperature is warm enough for  liquid precipitation, snowy the rest of  the
year. And all of Thorsfinni's World smells of fish.

Niflheim. Outpost of Human  Space. Home of the  34th Fleet Initial Strike  Team,
Confederation Marine  Corps. When  the Marines  of 34th  FIST weren't  off on  a
campaign on some other world, they spent most of their time in the field, either
on Niflheim or one of the other islands, training for operations they might  not
ever be called upon  to execute. Even if  they trained for something  they would
never have to do, their commanders  felt the most important thing was  that they
trained.


"So that's what we're going to be doing for the next two or three days,"  Ensign
vanden Hoyt  said at  the conclusion  of his  briefing to  the men  of the third
platoon. Company L, 34th  FIST. A wry smile  crossed his lips and  he added, "Or
what  you'll  be  doing,  I should  say.  Any  questions?  Problems?" He  peered
carefully through the steady rain in the direction of the men-his men, his first
command. All he could make out  were their indistinct faces through what  looked
like undulating sheets  of water. Their  heads seemed to  hover in the  air. Ten
years in the Corps and he was still sometimes startled by the illusions  created
by chameleon field uniforms.

There  were no  questions and  only one  problem, but  it wasn't  voiced.  Lance
Corporal "Hammer" Schultz caught the eye of the platoon sergeant, Charlie  Bass,
and shook his head slightly. Bass replied with an almost imperceptible head bob.
The problem was dealt with.

"All right, then," vanden Hoyt said  when nobody spoke up, "Staff Sergeant  Bass
will make the assignments. Then you  can get back under shelter until  it's time
for you to go back into the rain."  He stepped aside to let Bass take front  and
center.

"First squad," Bass  said without preamble,  wanting to get  out of the  rain as
badly as anyone else in the platoon, maybe more so. Twenty-odd years as a Marine
had taught him when being uncomfortable was good, and when it wasn't. "Chan, I'm
sticking you with MacIlargie and Godenov, so you also get Schultz. Go  someplace
and dry off," he said,  glancing at the low, dark  sky, which showed no sign  of
breaking, and shook his head. "Or at least get out from underwater until you get
your assignment. Van Impe, you have Lonsdorf. You also get Neru and Clarke  from
guns ..."

Chan and his three men didn't hear the rest of the assignments. As soon as their
names were called, Chan gathered his  men and they slogged through churning  mud
for shelter.

"You should be  in charge here,"  Chan said to  Lance Corporal Schultz.  "You're
senior to me, and you've got a lot more experience."

Schultz grunted. He didn't want to be  in charge. He was exactly what he  wanted
to be, a lance corporal, a man not in command in any way. His function in  life,
as he saw it, was to be a fighter, not a leader. The Confederation Marine  Corps
was filled with men well-qualified to be officers and noncommissioned  officers,
more than there were slots to fill. Schultz was an excellent fighter; so far  as
the Corps was concerned, he could  remain a lance corporal until he  retired, if
that's what he wanted.

Shelter was a low tent made from three polymer sheets stretched over a framework
of strong  synthetic rods.  The four  Marines had  to crouch  to get inside, and
almost had to huddle together for all of them to fit. Chan turned on the radiant
heating  unit that  sat in  the center  of the  tent while  Schultz secured  the
entrance. Wind buffeted the tent and the rain drummed on it, making conversation
difficult-but at least they had a  chance to dry out. The four  sat cross-legged
around the  heater and  in minutes  their fronts  were dried.  Then they  turned
around. Their  backs weren't  quite dry  when the  flap opened  and Charlie Bass
crowded  in,  extending  his open  arms  toward  the heater  as  he  moaned with
pleasure.

"There used to be  a disease 'called rheumatoid  arthritis," he said. "Cold  and
wet made your joints swell up and hurt. Ifbio-engineering hadn't eradicated  it,
I'd probably have it and  be aching in every joint  in my body," he twisted  his
back to  ease rain-  and wind-stiffened  muscles, "instead  of just feeling like
I've been turned into a piece of soggy wood." The others chuckled at his joke.

"All right," Bass said, abruptly  all business. "Mike Company's making  a sweep.
Third platoon's going to stop them. Here's your part of it..."


This phase of the two-week exercise was a three-way force-on-force for the three
companies of the FIST'S infantry battalion, with the other units of the FIST  in
support of all three companies. Kilo and Mike Companies were acting as  complete
units in opposition  to each other.  Company L was  playing an irregular  force,
broken down into four-man teams that  would act in opposition to Kilo  and Mike.
Commander Van  Winkle, the  battalion's commanding  officer, wanted  to test the
junior men, so the  officers and NCOs of  Company L were acting  as umpires, and
each four-man team was headed by a lance corporal.

A Dragon, the Marines' ubiquitous  amphibious armored vehicle, dropped off  Chan
and his team twenty-five kilometers northeast of the company's bivouac area.  In
addition to their weapons and  simulators, they carried light packs  with little
more than two days of rations. Due to vagaries of local weather conditions,  the
sun was shining brightly where the Dragon dropped them off and the rocky  ground
underfoot was  dry; it  hadn't even  rained overnight  there. The  team was in a
clearing in the midst  of sparse vegetation that  grew to twice the  height of a
man. The main plants in the area resembled Earth scrub-pine trees.

Chan checked the  time. "We don't  know how long  it'll be before  somebody gets
here," he said, "or if it's going to be a platoon or a whole company or anything
else. We need to  find a position where  we can watch all  approaches from under
cover."  He  scanned  the  area as  he  spoke,  orienting  himself, looking  for
recognizable landmarks, building a mental map of the unfamiliar scene.

Nothing that resembled grass grew on the rocks under the pine tree  look-alikes,
just a  spotty coating  of pale  green, lichen-like  stuff. Spindly plants whose
stems didn't look strong enough to  hold themselves upright grew from cracks  in
the  forest  floor. Flitterers  that  could have  been  butterflylike birds,  or
birdlike butterflies, flew from tree to tree. Smaller buzzers that could  easily
have been mistaken for  Earth insects by anyone  but an entomologist zigged  and
zagged their way among the lower flora of the forest, stopping here and there to
absorb whatever passed for nectar on Thorsfinni's World.

Chan looked to Schultz for help.

Schultz merely shrugged and said, "You're in charge," which was no help at all.

This wasn't realistic, Chan thought.  Irregulars should know the area  they were
in, and  he'd never  been there  before. Maps  didn't tell  you what  was really
there. After a  moment, he said,  "That tor over  there," pointing toward  a low
hill barely visible through  the trees to the  northwest. "That seems to  be the
highest ground around. That's probably our best starting place. If nothing else,
we can  take a  look around  from there."  He looked  at his  men as  he talked.
Schultz was walking slowly-  almost invisibly-about, examining the  terrain with
the  eye  of  an  experienced  infantryman.  Godenov  was  listening   intently.
MacIlargie had a quizzical expression on  his face and didn't seem to  be paying
any attention. He  had the kind  of face that  should have been  framed by long,
tangled hair, and a mustache with  ends that drooped to below his  chin wouldn't
have seemed out of place-but Marine regulations required short hair and  forbade
mustaches that long.

"Are you listening to me, MacUargie?" Chan snapped.

"What's that smell?" MacUargie asked.

Taken aback  by the  unexpected question,  Chan sniffed.  He hadn't  noticed any
aroma  that  might indicate  danger.  "What smell?"  he  asked. "I  don't  smell
anything."

Godenov,  a big  young man,  deceptively soft-looking,  took a  deep breath.  He
didn't smell anything either.

Schultz  seemed to  pay no  attention to  the exchange-he  knew what   MacUargie
noticed and that it was irrelevant.

"That's what I  mean," MacIlargie said.  "Something's missing." His  face lit up
with a broad smile as he realized what  it was. "Okay, now we see how sharp  you
are. What's missing? If you can't tell that, you're not going to be very good on
patrols when we go on operations for real." He grinned at the others.

Godenov got it first. "The air doesn't smell like fish!"

"Izzy,  if I  was in  charge, I'd  make you  my second  in command,"  MacIlargie
exclaimed. "You get out here in the toolies, you gotta be sharp, and you're  the
only one who figured that out."

Chan simply looked at MacIlargie's grinning face, hovering in the middle of  the
clearing like the last glimpse of a Cheshire cat. MacIlargie, like Godenov,  was
on his first assignment after Boot Camp. Both had recently joined the platoon as
replacements for men lost on the FIST'S last operation, peacekeeping on  Eineal.
Chan himself had  been on four  combat operations, including  one with the  34th
FIST. Schultz was more experienced than he was.

MacIlargie staggered, then almost fell, and yelped. Schultz, in his  deceptively
casual, almost  invisible way,  had come  near and  hit him  with an elbow-hard.
Schultz's disembodied voice  mumbled something that  might have been  an apology
but probably wasn't.

MacIlargie recovered his balance and  spun toward where he thought  Schultz was.
For a second it seemed he'd attack Schultz if he could find him. But only for  a
second. He remembered what Schultz looked like when he was visible-Schultz moved
languidly and seldom had much to say, but he exuded a dangerous  self-confidence
mat gave strong men pause.

Chan spoke up: "We're going to that hill. MacIlargie, take point. Godenov, bring
up the rear. Now. Move it out."

Schultz gave Chan a  look that said, I  should have the point.  Chan said again,
"MacIlargie, move out." Then  he added to Schultz,  "This is training. He  needs
the experience."

Schultz  nodded, satisfied  that Chan  understood that  if it  had been  a  real
operation, he was the one who  would take the most dangerous and  important spot
in the patrol column.


The  tor  was closer  than  it had  looked.  It was  a  broad, low  platform  of
limestone, forced upward in  terraces by an up-welling  of magma deep below  the
surface. Scree dotted the ground at the foot of the tor's steep side.

MacIlargie stopped at the  foot of the hill  and looked back at  Chan, uncertain
what to do next.

Schultz brushed past both of them and started climbing the eight-meter cliff  to
the first terrace.

Chan looked back and saw Godenov's face hovering as he stood watching.

"Watch our rear, Godenov,"  Chan said. "That's the  rear point's job: watch  the
rear."

Godenov started. "Oh." He turned around and dropped to one knee to peer into the
thin trees behind them.

Even though he could barely make out where Godenov was, Chan saw that he  wasn't
in position to effectively watch the  rear. He shook his head and  wondered what
they were teaching  recruits in Boot  Camp these days.  Surely he'd been  better
than  that at  field craft  when he  went on  his first  assignment. He  briefly
considered taking the time to show the young man how to pick a better  position,
but instead said to MacIlargie, "Follow the man."                  '

Schultz's climbing noises  indicated he was  already over the  top of the  first
terrace. Chan flipped down his infras so he could watch his men. When MacIlargie
was halfway up the first terrace, Chan sent Godenov after him. He then gave  the
trees near the base of the hill  a quick once-over. When his infras didn't  show
anything man-size in them, he followed.

The higher  terraces and  slopes were  older than  those below.  As the  Marines
climbed, it became easier because the increased erosion made the slopes gentler.
Here and there crevasses and cave mouths dimpled the tor.

Once, when they  were close to  each other, Schultz  said to Chan,  "I know this
place. If we have to, we can hide."

It didn't take long  to approach the top.  "Off the horizon, people,"  Chan said
when he saw two man-size pillars of  rock above. He was crouched below the  top,
as he knew Schultz was.

One of the rock pillars rippled, and MacIlargie's face appeared above it.  "What
do you mean?" he asked. "We're wearing chameleons, nobody can see us."

"Chameleons pick up the nearest colors," Chan said, "not what's behind you.  You
look like a man-made pile of stone up there."

Rocks seemed to shift as MacIlargie  shrugged. "A man-size pile of rock  doesn't
have to be a man, it's just a pile of rocks."

Chan flipped down his infras. "These tell me you're a man, not a pile of  rock,"
he said. "Off the top of the hill."

MacIlargie snorted. "You've got  to be less than  aldlometer away for infras  to
show enough detail."

"Hoppers have infras that can pick out  a man as far as the horizon.  Get down."
Godenov had already dropped down to the military crest of the hill.

MacIlargie's  face disappeared  and his  rock pile  rippled as  he turned  in  a
circle. "I don't see any hoppers out there," he said as his face reappeared.

"You don't know anything about evasive flying, do you?"

MacIlargie yelped and his face dropped  through the space that no longer  looked
like a man-size pile of rocks. Then his shocked, frightened face skittered  down
from the top of the hill and came to rest next to Chan.

Schultz's voice came from MacIlargie's  other side. "That's how you  get someone
too dumb to live to do what you  tell him to. Either that or blast him."  He had
slithered unseen to the top  and knocked MacIlargie's feet from  underneath him,
then dragged him down.

"Hey, don't do that!" MacIlargie shouted,  and swung a fist at Schultz,  but the
other man had already moved away.

"Calm down, MacIlargie," Chan said, putting  a restraining hand on the new  man.
"When Marines don't follow orders, somebody  can get hurt. On a real  operation,
not following orders can get Marines killed."

"No need to knock  me down like that,"  MacIlargie muttered. "You want  me to do
something, all you got to do is say so."

"What do you think I was doing?" he snapped. Chan shook his head, then  switched
his attention back to the mission. "Everybody, four comers. Use your infras, use
your magnifiers, use your bare eyes.  And listen. Mike Company, or part  of Mike
Company, is out there somewhere. We damn well better spot them before they  spot
us.  Schultz, far  side. MacIlargie,  right, Godenov,  left side.  Do it   now."
Through his infras he  watched his men moving  away. He'd give them  a minute or
two to get into position, then go around and check them. Especially the new men,
to make sure they were behind rocks that would reduce their heat signatures.

Everyone  was well-positioned  when Chan  made his  rounds-even MacIlargie,  who
didn't seem to understand how vulnerable even a man in chameleons and a  blaster
shield  could be.  On his  way back  to his  own position,  Chan scouted  routes
between positions to see how they could move about while exposing themselves  as
little as possible. Then he settled down to watch, listen, and wait.


Once  the  Marines settled  down,  tiny things,  gnatlike  flit-terers, gathered
around their still  bodies. Landed on  them, got inside  their clothing, crawled
about, itched and annoyed  them, made them focus  inward, close at hand.  As the
waiting,  watching,  and  listening time  lengthened,  the  Marines found  their
attention diverted from the horizon and surrounding landscape to their very near
airspace and skin.  The new men  were the first  to begin waving  their hands to
dispel the  flitterers, to  pluck them  off their  skin, pull  them out of their
clothing, to  crush them  between fingernails  when all  else failed. After more
than  an hour  of watching  nothing happen  out there,  even Chan  began  paying
attention to the bugs. Eventually, Schultz too was delousing himself. It took  a
lot to get Schultz to shift his attention from the mission to tiny bloodsuckers;
to him they  were simply part  of being in  the field. And  a lot less dangerous
than people.

After  half  a day  of  boredom and  delousing,  Chan noticed  aircraft  humming
somewhere in the distance. The humming quickly grew louder. He looked around but
didn't see anything from his position.

"Heads up," he murmured  into his helmet comm  unit, "aircraft coming. Who  sees
them?"

A couple of  seconds passed before  someone whistled over  the team's comm  net,
then MacIlargie's  voice said,  "I see  ten hoppers.  They're coming straight at
us."

"Nobody move," Chan ordered. Keeping under cover as much as possible, he  rushed
to MacIlargie's position. As  the new man had  said, ten hoppers were  coming at
them. They were flying  just over treetop level,  less than two kilometers  away
and closing fast. He shivered.

"Hold your positions," Chan said into his comm unit. "Maybe they'll pass over us
and keep going." If that happened, he knew he and his men would have a long walk
trying to  follow them.  But if  that many  hoppers landed  anywhere nearby, the
reinforced company they must be carrying would be far too many for his four  men
to deal with.

The formation began orbiting a small  clearing two hundred meters away, and  the
hoppers touched down two at a time to disgorge passengers.

MacIlargie said, "We need to even the  odds a bit." He checked the simulator  on
his blaster,  raised it  to his  shoulder, took  aim at  the nearest hopper, and
fired at it before Chan could stop him.

"Oh, no," Chan groaned. "You just got us killed."

The laser  beam the  simulator transmitted  hit the  hopper, and  sensors on the
aircraft signaled the crew  that their bird was  hit, where, and how  badly. The
pilot radioed his squadron  commander that he'd been  hit and the direction  the
fire had come from, then made a quick landing to off-load the squad and half  of
the infantrymen his hopper carried.  He immediately lifted off again  to treetop
level and  headed back  toward base  at half  speed, which  was as  fast as  the
simulated damage the hopper sustained allowed it to go.

Another hopper, carrying  extra weaponry instead  of passengers, broke  from the
formation and spun toward the tor. It opened fire with its simulators, peppering
the side of the tor with random fire until its infras could pick out and zero in
on the "enemy."

MacIlargie gulped and his  eyes bulged at the  sight of the oncoming  hopper and
the fire it was spraying in their direction.

"I could have told you that was  going to happen," Chan said dryly. "Dumb  guy."
Then he thought frantically about what to do next while MacIlargie fired a  shot
at the hopper as it swooped past them. MacIlargie missed.

"You just gave them our position," Chan told him. "They'll fry us on their  next
pass."

"No they won't," Schultz's voice said. "Maneuver toward me. I know a way out  of
here." MacIlargie ran  upright, fast enough  that Chan's reaching  hand couldn't
grab him and pull him into cover.

Chan made his way using as much  cover as he could. The escort hopper  came back
around  the side  of the  tor and  swept the  area he  and MacIlargie  had  just
vacated. Continuing  the circuit,  its fire  reached the  narrow opening  in the
hillside the four Marines ducked into just as Chan, again bringing up the  rear,
was diving through it. A couple of  hundred meters away the last of the  hoppers
was off-loading its passengers, and the reinforced company was deploying for  an
assault on the tor to mop up any of the "enemy" who weren't killed by the escort
hopper.


MacIlargie and Godenov huddled near the entrance, exclaiming to each other about
their narrow escape from the hopper.

"Now you know why nobody makes the mistake of firing at Marine hoppers more than
once," Chan snarled.

MacIlargie looked at him innocently and shrugged. "It seemed like a good idea at
the time."

Chan shook his head patiently. "Now what do we do? Hope they give us a chance to
surrender, or  do we  go out  in a  blaze of  glory?" he asked sarcastically. He
quickly looked around.  The cave appeared  to extend only  three or four  meters
into the side of the tor.

"Neither," Schultz said. "Follow me." He scuttled to the back of the cave,  past
MacIlargie and Godenov, and seemed to melt into the rock wall on the left.

"Where'd he go?" Godenov exclaimed.

"You coming with me or not?" Schultz's muffled voice echoed from the wall.

Chan brushed past the two men to examine the wall where Schultz had disappeared.
"Well, I'll be. Come on, you two."

Situated where it couldn't be  seen until you were right  on top of it, a  crack
just wide enough for a man to squeeze through opened into the side of the  cave.
Chan pulled and pushed  his way through, and  for a brief moment  thought he was
going to get stuck. MacIlargie, smaller, got through more easily. Godenov,  like
Chan, almost got stuck.

"Hey," MacIlargie exclaimed when  he was in the  crack, "it's dark in  here. How
are we going to see where we're going?"                               -

After a couple of meters the narrow slit opened into a room larger than the cave
mouth. Schultz was patiently waiting for them. They could see his face easily in
the greenish illumination from a sphere in his hand the size of a tennis ball, a
non-issue, civilian glowball. It wasn't a  bright light, but in the darkness  of
the cave it was enough to see by.

"Never go into the  field without your own  personal glow-ball," he said  to the
new men. "If you live long enough, you might leam these things."

"Why wouldn't we live long enough?" MacIlargie asked.

"Because you're stupid. If you don't make a mistake in training and get yourself
killed, someone else  might kill you  to keep you  from getting him  killed." He
turned to a tunnel leading away from  the entrance to the room. "I hope  none of
you are  claustrophobic," he  said over  his shoulder.  "It gets  tight in a few
places back here."

"Wait a minute," Chan said sharply. "Where are we going?"

"This way." Schultz pointed at the tunnel.

"Where does 'this way' go?" Chan asked. He didn't want to admit it, but in  fact
he was claustrophobic.

"To the  other side  of the  tor. This  place is  honeycombed. We  can come  out
anywhere we want."

"Yeah, and if  it's honeycombed, we  can get lost  anywhere too. And  how do you
know it's honeycombed?" Schultz was a hard, cold man. The fact that Chan  wanted
to argue with him was a measure of how afraid he was of being in a cave.

"I've been here  before. There are  markers we can  follow." He walked  toward a
shadow on the  other side of  the room and  toed a small  cairn. "Like this." He
ducked and disappeared into the shadow-the mouth of a passageway.

"You better be right,"  Chan muttered, "because if  I get lost or  stuck in here
and die, I'm coming back to haunt you." Then, louder, he said to MacIlargie  and
Godenov, "Follow him."

The tunnel  was low  enough that  they had  to crouch  to get  through, but they
didn't have to crawl-the crawling  and slithering came later. This  first tunnel
curved gently  to the  left, then  took a  sharp right  and emptied into another
cavern, which had two exits.

Schultz didn't hesitate before picking one and heading for it.

Nervous sweat was beginning to bead  on Chan's forehead. "Are you sure  you know
where you're going?"

"I'm sure."

"I don't see any of those markers you said were there."

"You're not looking," Schultz said as he slid into the exit he'd chosen.

"I see it,"  MacIlargie said as  he hurried after  Schultz. His boot  tapped the
cairn as he passed it and knocked it over.

Godenov gave Chan a glance that was half excited and half scared, then followed.

"Muhammad's beard," Chan muttered.  He shrugged out of  his pack, dug in  it for
his glowball, then paused  momentarily to repile the  cairn. He hoped it  didn't
matter what order  the rocks went  in, because he  couldn't remember how  they'd
been piled before  MacIlargie knocked them  over. "Wait for  me," he said  as he
sidestepped into the  crack in the  wall. It was  another tight squeeze,  and he
resolved that he wasn't  bringing up the rear  again-if he got stuck,  he wanted
someone behind him as well as in front so he could be pushed or pulled in either
direction to get free.

Time seemed to suspend its normal movement, and it felt like they were  spending
the beginning of an eternity making their way through the rock passages. But  it
took less than one hour standard to make their way to the other side of the tor.
They squeezed sideways through  vertical and near-vertical cracks,  slithered on
their bellies through horizontal ones. Here  they had to clamber up, there  they
gingerly climbed down. Most of the  time, though, they duckwalked or crawled  on
all fours; few of the passages were high and wide enough for them to walk erect.
Now and  then they  passed through  chambers so  small only  three of them could
squeeze in, but  one of them  was big enough  to hold a  platoon. Chan never got
permanently stuck, but  there was one  briefly harrowing spot  where he couldn't
move forward  or aft  until he  let all  the air  out of  his lungs and was push
pulled through with his sweat serving  as lubricant. Schultz noticed how wet  he
was and how he stank of fear, but only grunted.

When they  reached yet  another small  room, Schultz  took off  his helmet, then
turned off the glowball  and returned it to  his pack. "Wait a  few minutes," he
whispered to the others. "The exit's right on the other side. We'll let our eyes
adjust until we can see some light, then follow it."

"We're not out  yet," Chan said.  "And there's still  a whole company  out there
looking for us."

Schultz's helmetless head was now visible as a shadow on a shadow, and Chan  saw
him shake it. "They're not still looking for us here. Only a couple other people
know about these caves. Either they're searching every opening on the other side
of the tor or they think we managed to evade all their sensors and get away."

"Uh-huh."

At last, diffused light was visible on the far side of the room.

"Let's go," Schultz said. They followed him through the crack. The crack turned,
dropped, and became a narrow tunnel that emptied directly onto the hillside next
to a mid-size boulder. Schultz dragged himself out, then helped the others  gain
the open air.

"We made  it," Chan  said, immensely  relieved. He  shook himself,  enjoying the
feeling of  nothing pressing  in on  him. "Now  we need  to find  out where Mike
Company went to so we can do a number on them."

"We're right here," came a voice from above and behind them. "Drop your  weapons
or you're dead."

They looked back and up into the faces and blasters of a Marine squad.

"You didn't  really think  you were  the only  ones who  knew about the caves in
there, did you?" the Mike Company squad leader asked.

Suddenly, the air smelled offish again.



CHAPTER TWO

The communications console bleeped insistently beside Kurt Arschmann's elbow. He
frowned, his train of thought  interrupted. Damn. These production accounts  for
his  plantations were  complicated. How  could he  get through  them with  these
interruptions?  He  could  have  given the  accounts  to  his  staff to  review,
especially now that he  was burdened with the  duties of Chairman of  the Ruling
Council,  but for  seventy years  he'd personally  reviewed the  accounts  every
quarter, and he wasn't about to stop now.

"Yes?"  he demanded  impatiently. The  dark complexion  and jet-black  hair  and
mustache of  Kalat Uxmal  appeared instantly  on the  console screen.  People of
Arschmann's  social  stratum  still noticed  such  things,  although, after  two
hundred years  of intermarriages  on Wanderjahr,  mixed lineage-in  Uxmal's case
Pakistani and Mayan-had  become accepted, even  among the elite.  Kalat's narrow
features always reminded Arschmann of a  rat, but he kept the unkind  thought to
himself. Kalat was too  valuable to Arschmann as  his private secretary to  hold
his mixed heritage against him or to mock his unfortunate physical endowments.

"Excellency, a matter of the utmost urgency-"

"What is it, Kalat? Spit it out!" Arschmann fumed. "Excellency, I should  really
tell you about this in person," Kalat answered. Arschmann looked at the image of
his secretary on the screen, glanced again at the overseer's report, and drummed
his fingers on his desktop. "Very well. Come up at once."

As the door to Arschmann's private sanctum hissed shut behind him, Kalat  seemed
to glide across the  richly carpeted floor. That  was another thing about  Kalat
that Arschmann had observed with annoyance  over the years: he seemed always  to
creep about, so deferential  and obsequious, but popping  up at your elbow  when
you least expected it. Real men walked with purpose, unafraid, confident,  spoke
their  piece  clearly  and moved  on.  But  like many  powerful  men  who prized
efficiency and loyalty, Arschmann could not do without Kalat. The man was always
there when needed, and nothing seemed too complicated for him to handle. He  was
really more a chief of staff than a secretary. Arschmann ran a big hand  through
his thick blond hair.

"Excellency, I have the most terrible news to impart." Kalat bowed slightly  but
remained silent. Arschmann sat behind his desk, waiting for Kalat to continue.

When he did not, Arschmann sighed. "What is the news, Kalat?" Arschmann asked in
a tired voice.

"Excellency, in brief, your nephew is dead."

Arschmann just stared at Kalat for a long moment. "Which nephew, precisely?"  he
asked in a small voice.

"Excuse me, Excellency. Captain Rickdorf."

The color drained  immediately from Arschmann's  face. He had  trouble speaking.
Then, in a voice so quiet Kalat had to lean forward to hear it: "How?"

Briskly, Kalat  outlined the  details of  the ambush  conducted by  the Che  Loi
Brigade of the  Peoples Liberation Army  in the Bavaran  Hills Province. As  his
secretary concluded, one  part of Arschmann's  whirling mind realized  Uxmal was
enjoying his role as the bearer of sad tidings.

Both men sat, silent, for a long time. Rickdorf had been a favorite nephew.  The
boy had always been a pompous fool and  a very poor choice as an officer of  the
Feldpolizei, but his  love of the  active life and  his open admiration  for the
"Germanic" virtues of his forebears had endeared the young man to his uncle. Not
smart enough to attend a  first-class university off-world, as was  the practice
among the landowning class on Wanderjahr, young Rickdorf had attended a military
school in the capital, where he  excelled at riding, shooting, and fencing,  but
not at tactics or history. No one had ever thought his appointment as an officer
of Feldpolizei,  the paramilitary  force created  to deal  with the  guerrillas,
would have ended so tragically. In  fact, the young man's father considered  the
Feldpolizei an ideal place to keep his son out of trouble.

And now he and nearly a hundred of his men were dead!

Arschmann rested his head in his hands. "Do we know who conducted the ambush?"

"Excellency, our intelligence sources believe the bandits were under the command
of Femando Hing."

Arschmann's hands flew away from his face and he sat straight up.

"Goddamnit, the son of my cousin has murdered my nephew. And I put that son of a
bitch through school!" Secretly,  though, he was glad  it hadn't been the  other
way around.  Although Hing.  was an  obstacle to  Kurt Arschmann's ambitions, he
admired Hing  for his  efficiency and  dedication-primary virtues  for a man, in
Arschmann's opinion.

Then Arschmann took a  deep breath and gathered  himself. There was work  to do.
This incident  would give  him the  leverage he  needed. "Kalat,  I want  you to
assemble the Council immediately," he said. His resonant baritone carried to the
far comers of the spacious room.

"Excellency,  on  such short  notice  ... I  could  easily arrange  a  satellite
conference in just a few minutes..."

"Goddamnit, Kalat, I want them here, in person, and I said immediately! I  don't
need to spread  the news; if  we know, the  whole world knows  what happened out
there. We  need to  discuss what  to do  about it,  and I  won't do  that over a
satellite hookup where someone  might be listening in.  I want them all  here by
tomorrow morning. Make that very clear. Those who are visiting their plantations
on other continents can fly back this evening. See that it is done."

Back in his own office, Kalat Uxmal smiled. He would make the calls necessary to
convene the Council tomorrow. My God, he thought, that a poor boy like  himself,
from the barrios of  Brosigville, could have risen  to such a position  of power
and influence! But first he had to get a message to a person right there in  the
capital. Kalat chuckled.


"Thank you,  sweet Karl,"  Arschmann whispered  when he  was alone  again, as if
addressing  the man  in the  portrait on  the wall  of his  office. Briefly,  he
considered smoking a pipe of mule, but he had no business celebrating in view of
the news that had just been  delivered. In fact, he had already  forgotten about
the late Captain Rickdorf.

This thing with the  Peoples Liberation Army, or  whatever fancy name they  were
going under, had  taken a very  bad turn. They  should have taken  immediate and
decisive action against the guerrillas years ago, as he had advised at the  time
imprisoned them, shot them, exiled them, whatever it took. But no one believed a
handful of overeducated college radicals could ever pose a serious threat to the
government of Wanderjahr, especially not when the Confederation had just granted
them an unrestricted license to export thule to every world in Human Space.  Not
when unparalleled prosperity was about to catapult Wanderjahr from a third-class
developing world into an economic  competitor with the oldest and  most advanced
members of the Confederation of Worlds.

What do these fools want? Arschmann mused silently. Democracy? That was a system
where fools were allowed  to elect other fools  and cowards to ruin  their lives
for them. Sharing of wealth? That  only guaranteed everyone would be poor.  Land
ownership? Pigshit! What  would the peasants  of Wanderjahr know  about managing
their own property?  Independence? What was  that but pure  economic survival of
the fittest? Unionizing of the plantation workers? Good God, didn't they realize
that a union would only create  power and prosperity for its bosses  and nothing
for the  peasants? No,  what the  bandits wanted  was power  all to  themselves,
Arschmann concluded, and if they got it, they would ruin the economy and  social
order painstakingly established  on Wanderjahr by  his forebears over  two and a
half centuries.  And, more  important, their  seeking power  put the  bandits in
direct competition with him.

Kurt Arschmann glanced  at the hologram  portrait of Karl  Eschmann Wanderjahrer
that occupied an honored place on  one wall. Dressed in the antique  formal garb
of the late twenty-second century, the old explorer seemed to stare through him.
Arschmann was descended from Wanderjahrer  through a female line of  his family.
His own fierce blue eyes matched those of the revered patriarch. Otherwise there
was no physical resemblance. There  was even less between them  philosophically.
Where  Karl  Wanderjahrer  had  been  a  philanthropist  and  a  visionary, Kurt
Arschmann was a businessman.


Karl  Wanderjahrer  was  the  descendant of  a  long  line  of German  Christian
evangelicals belonging  to a  sect calling  itself the  United Brotherhood. They
believed in  hard work,  the glory  of God,  and the  dignity of  man. Viciously
persecuted in  ancient times,  the church  found spiritual  renewal in  America,
where  it  nourished  long  before  the  Second  American  Civil  War.  It   had
reestablished itself in its native Germany long before Karl Wanderjahrer was bom
in Neu Kaiserslautem in 2101.

The Brotherhood did not eschew the fruits of its labor. Quite the contrary. Over
the years many of its families became very wealthy, including the Wanderjahrers.
By the time Karl came into his  inheritance at the age of forty, he  had already
developed plans to fulfill one  of the Brotherhood's most cherished  dreams: the
creation  of  a world  where  their descendants  could  live in  peace  with one
another, free from the persecutions that had plagued the sect since its founding
in the fifteenth century.

With the purchase of the starship Dr. Elly Brosig, Karl's and the  Brotherhood's
dream  became  a  reality.  Chartered  by  the  Confederation  of  Worlds  as an
exploration and survey vessel, the  Brosig actually accomplished much good  work
extending the outer envelope of Human Space during the fifty-year period it took
Wanderjahrer and his  companions to find  the right world  for their settlement.
When the world later  to be known as  Wanderjahr was discovered, it  fit all the
criteria  the   Brotherhood's  vestrymen   had  established   as  necessary  for
settlement: far from the space lanes of the day, habitable by humans without the
necessity  of  terraforming,  and  an  environment  capable  of  supporting   an
agricultural  economy. Initial  surveys reported  a fauna  possibly inimical  to
humans,  reptiloid creatures  vaguely reminiscent  of the  Cretaceous period  of
Earth's geological  past, but  the vestrymen  decided the  beasts of  Wanderjahr
could be controlled, so an immigration company was established.

Karl  compromised  on  a  name  for the  new  world.  Arguing  that  it was  too
egotistical to name  the place obviously  after himself, no  matter how much  he
deserved the honor, he suggested Wanderjahr, a  play on his own name and on  the
German word "Wanderjahre," a journeyman's years of travel. Unlike so many  staid
and serious members of  the Brotherhood, Karl Wanderjahrer  did have a sense  of
humor.

But the Brotherhood, never a very numerous sect even after the persecutions  had
ended, soon realized that it could never recruit enough colonists from among its
own members  to make  the venture  work. Besides,  even among  the most faithful
communicants, there  were many  who just  would not  leave Earth  for life  on a
remote and possibly dangerous new world.

So Karl suggested, and the vestrymen accepted the suggestion readily, that  they
recruit from  among Earth's  underprivileged. They  settled on  peoples of Latin
America and Asia known to be hardworking, energetic, and hardy people who  would
not find the  intensive labor required  to establish a  self-sustaining agrarian
economy on a  virgin planet too  unfamiliar a way  of life. Young  families were
preferred,  but single  men and  women with  valuable skills  such as   doctors,
engineers,  technicians,  and  mechanics  were  also  accepted.  The prospective
colonists  were  screened  carefully  by  a  Board  of  Colonization,  and every
individual accepted had to agree to undergo conversion and faithfully apply  the
religious  doctrines  and  beliefs  of the  Brotherhood.  Happily,  most  of the
immigrants found the Brotherhood's doctrines far less onerous than those of  the
faiths in which they had been raised.

Return  transport was  not part  of the  agreement. Still,  people came  in  the
thousands.

Life on Wanderjahr was not easy at  first, and tragedy struck within only a  few
years of the  first settlement when  the wise and  charismatic Karl Wanderjahrer
was carried off  in the jaws  of a ravening  beast. Then, less  than fifty years
later,  the enormous  cost of  supporting the  colony bankrupted  the Board   of
Colonization, and  the immigrants  suddenly found  themselves on  their own in a
remote  quadrant  of  Human  Space.  Through  determination  and  necessity  the
colonists held on, year after year pushing settlements farther from Brosigville,
their first  town. Crops  imported from  Earth flourished  in Wanderjahr's  lush
climate, and the  local fauna and  flora, when it  wasn't eating the  colonists,
proved edible  itself, so  starvation was  never a  likelihood. Of  necessity in
those  early  years,  the   many  cultural  groups  settled   on  Wanderjahr-the
descendants of  the Incas  and Aztecs  from the  mountains of  South America and
Mexico,  Indians  and Pakistanis  from  that huge  subcontinent,  Vietnamese and
Cambodians from the Mekong Delta region- intermingled.

The original German families kept mostly to themselves, although there was  some
intermarriage with  the other  immigrant communities.  Race was  not the barrier
that separated them. The barrier  most Wanderjahrians found impossible to  cross
was that the Germans were the bosses and everyone else their employees.

Government  on  Wanderjahr  was decentralized.  The  ruling  families ran  their
properties as individual fiefdoms called Staats, administering justice and local
government from  their home  cities with  total autonomy.  A Ruling  Council was
established to deal with  interplanetary trade, political relations,  and common
interests such as tariffs for offworld imports, common security, and intra-Staat
affairs. The Ruling Council consisted of nine representatives, the heads of  the
nine families that owned all the arable land on Wanderjahr. Chairmanship of  the
Council  rotated  among  its  nine  members.  The  Council  members  selected an
ambassador to the Confederation of  Worlds, and all his activities  were subject
to their  supervision and  approval. Four  years earlier,  the Confederation had
delegated  as  its  ambassador  to  Wanderjahr  an  aging  diplomat  ready   for
retirement. The  man was  a joke  among the  oligarchs, but  the Confederation's
ambassador  nonetheless,  and living  proof  that Wanderjahr  had  at last  been
accepted into the community of worlds.

English  was  the  lingua  franca  on  Wanderjahr,  as  it  was  throughout  the
Confederation of Worlds. The Brotherhood  never thought to impose German  on its
colonists, since it believed  a man should talk  to God in whatever  language he
was  most comfortable  with. Along  with the  languages the  original  colonists
brought with  them to  Wanderjahr, they  also perpetuated  the cultures of their
native lands on Earth. English was taught in all the schools on the planet,  and
government business was conducted in English, but so long as the oligarchs could
communicate somehow with their employees,  they didn't care what languages  they
spoke at home.

The lower echelons of  local government often resembled  those of the places  on
Earth from which the majority of  the local inhabitants' ancestors had come.  So
the mayor of a  town where Hispanic people  had established themselves might  be
referred to as its  alcalde, while the chief  official of a town  where Germanic
descendants  prevailed might  be called  its Burgermeister.  These  arrangements
existed, of course, only at the  pleasure of the local oligarch, who  ultimately
held the real power within his Staat.

Nothing changed when thule was  discovered and other Confederation worlds  began
to trade  with Wanderjahr  for the  valuable commodity.  At first the oligarchs'
chief  worry  was  suppressing  the illegal  production  of  the  drug for  home
consumption  and  export.  Local  police  forces,  known  as  Stadt-polizei   or
metropolitan police, were used to deal  with the illicit trade, turning a  blind
eye to those smugglers who could buy them off, while rigorously suppressing  the
ones who could not.  Until the outbreak of  the rebellion, an army  and navy had
been considered unnecessary.

The  Christian  evangelical   spirit  that  drove   early  settlers  like   Karl
Wanderjahrer soon dissipated, to be replaced eventually by a watered-down  state
sanctioned "ministry" preaching that what one gave to Caesar was as important as
what one owed  God; homegrown religious  cults sprang up  among the people.  The
portrait of old Karl Wanderjahrer seemed to glare bale-fully down upon him, Kurt
Arschmann reflected as he brooded in his office.

And now, some 250 years after the old man first set foot on this world, now,  as
the  oligarchs had  virtually within  their grasp  the most  profitable  trading
franchise in all  of Human Space,  those goddamned radicals  had to go  and kill
Captain Rickdorf and nearly a hundred of his men!


"All right, Kurt, we all know what happened, just what the hell can we do  about
it?" Klaus von Hauptmann barked once the Council members had seated  themselves.
Klaus affected the mannerisms of  a nineteenth-century Prussian Junker, even  to
the extent of carrying a riding crop everywhere he went, although the few horses
there once were on Wanderjahr had long since become tasty snacks for the  larger
reptiloids.  He  was known  to  be quick  to  apply the  crop  to the  backs  of
subordinates. He also considered the Wanderjahrian Peldpolizei nothing more than
a convenient hiding place for the leading families' idiot sons, and shared not a
bit  of sympathy  with Arschmann  over the  loss of  his worthless  nephew.  The
Peoples Liberation Army had found Hauptmann's plantations a fruitful source  for
recruits despite the private army he maintained to keep his workers in line. And
the "von" in Hauptmann's name had been added by his grandfather, to bolster  his
own image, not as a legitimate connection to the ancient German royal line.

"I assume  we'll ask  for outside  assistance." Lorelei  Keut-gens smiled.  Kurt
acknowledged the  old matriarch  with a  nod, thinking.  The goddamned  bitch is
right on cue! "Lori" Keut-gens, in contrast with Hauptmann and some of the other
members,' took  care of  her people  and donated  generously to  the appropriate
charities. The  guerrillas had  had the  least success  proselytizing among  her
workers.

"Humph," Max Picker  snorted. "That damned  Feldpolizei is less  than worthless,
always has been. Damned waste of money. Damned comic-opera buffoons." He  turned
quickly to Arschmann, remembering that Captain Rickdorf had been the  Chairman's
nephew. "Sorry, Kurt,  I meant no  insult to your  family." Within the  Council,
Ficker was tolerated because he had inherited his lands. But as a manager he was
worthless, giving control of  his holdings to factors  and spending most of  his
time gambling and scandalizing the countryside with his endless amours.

Arschmann merely nodded, then waited for the others to voice their opinions.

"Jesus  our Savior  protect us,"  Gretel Siebensberg  sighed. "Why  now, of  all
times, just as the  Confederation has granted us  the franchise to export  thule
without restrictions?"  Gretel was  a throwback  to Karl  Wanderjahrer's ancient
faith.  Extremely  otherworldly,  she  had restored  the  faith  of  her fathers
throughout Freidland, her Staat, spending  large sums on churches and  charities
for the benefit of her workers. But she was also a sharp businesswoman.

"Money," Turbat Nguyen-Multan  interjected. "The bandits  smell money, and  with
money  comes  power." Multan  was  an anomaly  among  the ruling  families,  the
descendant  of  entrepreneurial  Pakistani-Vietnamese  ancestors.  He  ruled his
Staat, Porcina, with the iron fist of a warlord. "These people claim ideology is
their religion, but it isn't.  Power is." The Feldpolizei, which  was controlled
by  the  Ruling  Council  and  could  be  deployed  anywhere  it  was  needed on
Wanderjahr, was never invited onto  Turbat's lands. Like Hauptmann, he  believed
in settling scores by himself. He had turned his own Stadtpolizei into a private
mercenary force. But unlike Hauptmann, who was not so draconian in his  methods,
Turbat protected his interests  simply by killing anyone  who even seemed to  be
out of line.

"Speaking on behalf of Herr Mannlicher, the bandits have legitimate grievances,"
Carmago Kampot  Khong, Helmut  Mannlicher's factor,  said. Hauptmann  and Multan
snorted derisively. The others just stared at the Mexican-Cambodian  half-breed.
He was Mannlicher's trusted subordinate and had served Mannlicher faithfully his
entire life, as other members of his family had served the Mannlichers from  the
time of the original settlement. The old man was not able to attend the  meeting
himself because he was only days, perhaps hours, from death. At the age of  140,
Helmut Mannlicher was only one  generation removed from people who  had actually
known Karl Wanderjahrei.  When Mannlicher died,  it was generally  expected that
Khong would share the vast holdings with the old man's own children, and then he
would  be a  power to  reckon with   on his  own. While  not at  all  religious,
Mannlicher had believed all  his life in the  value of labor and  the dignity of
the laborer, and Carmago  Kampot Khong too was  devoted to that philosophy.  The
bandits had found no foothold in their territory either, but Mannlicher believed
the  oligarchy could  survive the  crisis only  by sharing  its power  with  the
people, and he had long advocated a dialogue with the guerrillas.

"Well,  they  are  a  problem,"  Hans  Rauscher  ventured  timidly.  He  glanced
apprehensively at Hauptmann and Multan as he spoke. The guerrillas were  causing
him great problems by destroying his crops and suborning his laborers. They were
successful among his people not  because Rauscher's workers were oppressed,  but
because they were neglected, and Rauscher,  a weak and indecisive man who  could
not fight his own battles, depended entirely upon the Feldpolizei for security.

"Yes,  and I  go along  with Lori.  We should  ask for  outside help,"   Manfred
Kaiserstuhl said. Kaiserstuhl was a compromising old charlatan who could  always
be counted on to take the easiest solution to any problem, preferring to buy his
way  out  when  that  was  possible. This  approach  had  worked  well  with the
guerrillas, who took the  money he gave them  to leave his properties  alone and
used it to  finance their operations  in other Staats  while recruiting actively
among his workers.

"Brothers and Sisters,"  Arschmann said, using  a linguistic formality  that had
originated  with  the United  Brotherhood  almost a  thousand  years before,  "I
propose this: we dispatch an  urgent message to Ambassador Misthaufen  directing
him to approach the Confederation of Worlds requesting military assistance-"

"But their Constitution forbids  direct military intervention in  member worlds'
internal affairs," Lori Keutgens exclaimed.

"Except in the most  extreme cases, and we  are not yet that  bad off," Rauscher
interjected.

"Yes,"  Arschmann  agreed.  "But  we  will  not  ask  for  'intervention,'  only
'assistance' in the form of equipment and training for the Feldpolizei. It would
be a short-term mission at most, and if the bandits mount any assaults while our
men are being trained, the offworlders  will have to act to protect  themselves,
thereby eliminating  our problem  for us.  In any  event, once  they leave,  the
Feldpolizei can carry on the process of rooting out the bandits. Let the bandits
suffer  some casualties,  and their  zeal for  living in  the hinterlands   will
dissipate quickly enough."

"We do not need the Confederation Army here," Multan snorted.

"Send in the Marines?" Hauptmann laughed.

"Precisely," Arschmann  responded. "I  suggest we  recommend asking  for a small
contingent of Confederation  Marines, what they  call a FIST,  or something like
that, to help train  our men. They've done  that before on other  worlds and are
famous for it. The  Marines will obey their  orders, and if they  have to fight,
they will  make the  bandits sorry  they were  ever born.  Are we agreed on this
course?"

"No foreign troops shall ever set foot in Porcina," Munan said.

"But do you agree, my  dear Turbat, that those who  wish for such help have  the
right to ask for it?"

Multan thought for  a moment. "Yes.  But none will  ever come into  Porcina," he
repeated.

"All right, then, we are agreed. Nevertheless, there are some details we need to
work out," he said.

"Rules of engagement and command  authority?" Multan laughed, shaking his  head.
He had been wondering  how long it would  take Arschmann to get  around to these
all-important details.

"Yes," Arschmann said.

"The Confederation will impose strict conditions if they agree to deploy Marines
here," Lori Keutgens said.

"Yes," Arschmann replied. "I suggest we instruct our ambassador to agree to  the
following: the Marines will take over complete command of the Feldpolizei,  lead
it, and train it. They will have the power to demote and promote."

"Who  cares, so  long as  they do  not set  foot in  my domains,"  Multan  said.
Hauptmann nodded his agreement vigorously.

"Then we  are agreed  on this?"  Arschmann polled  the other  members, who  each
nodded approval.

"Finally, the  local police  forces," Arschmann  began. "You  all have  them and
control them as you see fit. I  want mine completely retrained, as we are  doing
for the Feldpolizei.  I will ask  the Confederation for  a team of  professional
police officers to be assigned here, same ground rules as for the Marines. Since
Brosigville is within  Arschland, they will  start here. Any  objections? Anyone
else wish to participate?"

"Never! Never, never, never! Not in Porcina!" Multan raged, banging his fist  on
the table.

"Very well," Arschmann replied softly. "Anyone else wish to comment?"

"I am with Multan." Hauptmann glowered.

"Well, Turbat," Lori smiled  sweetly, "some of us  don't have quite the  stomach
for police work that you and Klaus do."

"None of you have 'stomach'!" Multan growled. Then he glared at Arschmann, who'd
expected his reaction; a real police  force in the capital would put  the screws
to Multan's clandestine business  interests there, and Turbat  Nguyen-Multan was
not one to  take that interference  lightly, even though  the operations were  a
personal  insult  to  Arschmann  since   policing  the  capital  city  was   his
responsibility.

"Very well,  then, to  summarize," Arschmann  sighed. "The  Marines will operate
under  no restrictions.  They will  command and  train the  Feldpolizei, but  no
Peldpolizei or Marines will be allowed  into Porcina. Those of you who  wish may
join me in asking the Confederation to provide professional police training  for
our Stadtpolizei, under the  same rules as apply  to the Marines." He  looked in
turn at each of the Council members  and no one demurred. "Then it is  agreed. I
will draft a communique today and submit  it to each of you for final  review. A
courtesy copy will be furnished to Ambassador Jayben Spears, of course."

Several of  the Council  members laughed  outright when  Arschmann mentioned the
Confederation's ambassador by name.  A stooped, gangly, slightly  bowlegged man.
Ambassador Spears was famous on  Wanderjahr for eating his way  through official
receptions  without apparently  gaining much  weight, and  delivering advice  in
terse and very undiplomatic language. He could consume prodigious quantities  of
wine without showing any ill effects  except that his language then became  even
more  undiplomatic. Twice,  to the  great amusement  of Lori  Keutgens, he   had
brazenly asked her to marry him, once at a formal dinner party and another  time
at  a  funeral.  Lori  liked  Spears, not  because  he  flattered  her  with his
attention, but because he always spoke the truth and never minced his words. And
diplomatic  protocol  required  the  Ruling   Council  to  inform  him  of   any
instructions  passed to  its ambassador  for presentation  to the  Confederation
Council.

"Kurt," Lori Keutgens ventured, "I agree  to all your proposals, but before  all
these others here assembled, I want  to say that inviting these Marines  to come
here will change everything. I don't know if that will be good or bad."

Nobody said anything in response to  her statement, but all knew that  when Lori
Keutgens  spoke,  she usually  knew  what she  was  talking about.  A  bachelor,
Arschmann had  often considered  proposing to  Lori after  her husband  had been
killed. But years passed and he had never made the proposal because he knew  the
strong-willed  woman  would be  difficult  to manage.  He  would deal  with  her
eventually, though. Things were about to  change, all right. He smiled at  Lori.
She smiled back. Arschmann  had the uncomfortable feeling  she knew what he  was
thinking.

"We must do something," Rauscher said lamely. He was delighted with  Arschmann's
suggestions; if the Marines were successful,  he could have the protection of  a
revamped  planetary  Peldpolizei  at  little  cost  to  himself.  He  turned  to
Arschmann: "Draft the communique."

"Very well. Friends,  I need only  remind you that  these deliberations must  be
kept entirely secret until the Marines  deploy and start their work. Please,  no
incautious remarks?"

Arschmann  then summoned  Kalat. Two  minutes after  a smiling  Kalat left   the
Council room, word of  the deliberations was on  its way to his  contacts in the
city. Just as Kurt Arschmann expected it would be.



CHAPTER THREE

Two days after Chan and his patrol were captured, the exercise ended. And Ensign
vanden Hoyt had his first chance to talk  to Chan and the men he'd led into  the
cave. The platoon commander  shook his head sadly.  Staff Sergeant Bass stood  a
pace to his left, arms akimbo, glowering at them.

"Whose bright idea was it to shoot at a hopper formation?" vanden Hoyt asked.

Schultz  turned his  head and  glared at  MacIlargie. Godenov  edged away   from
MacIlargie.

Chan swallowed nervously. He didn't think it mattered whose idea it had been; as
the man in charge the mistake was his responsibility. He opened his mouth to say
so, but MacIlargie spoke first.

"It seemed like a good idea, sir.  Look, sir, there were ten hoppers. I  figured
if we each took out one it would cut the odds against us almost in half." A wild
grin split his  face. "If it  worked, it sure  would have shaken  up the rest of
'em. That had to be all of Mike Company, and the four of us might have been able
to stop the whole company by ourselves."

"Haven't  you  ever  heard  about  escort  hoppers?"  vanden  Hoyt  asked   with
exaggerated patience.

MacIlargie shrugged  uncomfortably. "They  all looked  the same.  I didn't think
they had a gunship with them."

Bass  couldn't  take  it  anymore.  In  two  strides  he  was  nose-to-nose with
MacIlargie. "If one of  them looked like a  gunship, everybody would know  which
one to shoot at. Or were your D.I.s deficient in their training and nobody  told
you that?"

MacIlargie flinched. "I forgot," he said in a small voice.

"YOU WHAT?" Bass bellowed.

"I forgot."

"Louder, I can't hear you," Bass roared.

"I FORGOT!" MacIlargie shouted.

Bass shook  his head  and took  a step  away, muttering,  "He forgot. That young
man's going  to get  people killed."  Then he  spun back  to Chan.  "You were in
charge," he shouted, "why'd you let him do something so stupid?"

"Because I didn't think he was that stupid," Chan snapped back defensively.

Bass blinked. That was a good answer, but he still got in the last word.  "Never
underestimate anybody's capacity for stupidity."  With a quick glance at  vanden
Hoyt, he returned to his previous position and resumed his glower.

Vanden Hoyt silently  studied the four  of them for  a long moment,  then calmly
said, "You had  a frightening experience  when MacIlargie fired  at that hopper.
Now you know why  almost nobody ever fires  on a hopper formation-and  nobody is
ever stupid enough to do it a second time."

He gave them time to dwell  on that before continuing. "Third platoon  failed to
achieve its mission-to stop Mike Company. In part because the first of our teams
to come into contact with  them, the team that could  have done the most to  tie
them up while the rest of the  teams maneuvered to hurt them, got itself  caught
immediately  and  put  Mike  Company  on  full  alert."  He  looked  directly at
MacIlargie and added, "I hope at least some of us learned something."


The  full  company stood  at  ease in  morning  formation behind  its  barracks.
Everyone wore  the dull-green  garrison utilities  that hadn't  changed much  in
appearance from the field uniforms  of the twentieth century. Captain  Conorado,
the company  commander, stood  front and  center, the  company's other  officers
arrayed behind him. Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher was at his post to the left of the
officers. Even  Top Myer,  the company  first sergeant  who was  rarely seen  at
morning formation, was present.

"We have a deployment," Captain  Conorado announced. There were few  murmurs and
fewer  visible reactions  in the  ranks. Most  of the  men had  been on   enough
previous deployments for the announcement  to be almost routine. The  only thing
out of the ordinary was that a new mission had come so soon after the last  one.
"In three days, 34th  FIST will board ship  for transit to Confederation  member
world-"  He  looked at  the  paper in  his  hand to  make  sure of  the  name. "
Wanderjahr." That did cause murmurs-if the skipper had to double-check the  name
of the place they were  going to, it must really  be out of the way.  "All I can
tell you about the mission at this time is Wanderjahr has an insurgency  problem
and has requested Confederation assistance."

Conorado looked  sharply to  his left.  "Company Gunnery  Sergeant," he  barked,
"front and center!"

Gunny  Thatcher snapped  to attention,  took three  brisk steps  to his   front,
pivoted, and marched to the company commander.

"Company Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours," Conorado said sharply.

"Sir, the company  is mine," Thatcher  acknowledged. "Aye aye,  sir." He brought
his hand up in a sharp salute.

Conorado returned the salute equally  sharply, executed a training manual  about
face, and marched toward  the entrance to the  barracks. The other officers  and
the first sergeant fell in behind him.

Thatcher about-faced and barked out, "Comp'ny, a-ten- TION!" He quickly  scanned
the company. There were a few new men who had never deployed before, but most of
them  had already  been in  combat. His  chest swelled;  he knew  they'd  acquit
themselves well once more,  whatever this mission entailed.  "Platoon sergeants,
you have your orders. Comp-NEE, dis-MISSED!"

First and  second platoons  broke ranks  and headed  for the  barracks to  begin
preparations for the deployment.

Before third platoon got away, Bass  snapped out, "As you were, third  platoon."
The men, who had already broken formation, shuffled back into position. None  of
them stood quite at attention, though they were all attentive. Bass waited until
the  rest  of the  company  was far  enough  away that  he  could speak  without
shouting. "Claypoole, Dean, on me." The two men stepped out of ranks and ran  to
stand at attention in front of him. Bass looked to his left, to the first  squad
leader. "Sergeant Hyakowa, the platoon is yours. Get them ready."

"Aye aye," Hyakowa said.  He stepped to the  front of the platoon  and dismissed
the men from  formation. As they  left they all  looked at Bass  and the two men
standing in front of him, wondering what was up.

"The skipper wants to see you," Bass  said when the others were gone. "So  let's
go and see the skipper."

Claypoole and Dean looked at each other. Dean wondered if Claypoole had  screwed
up in some  way and gotten  them both in  trouble. He wished  they were in their
dress scarlets with their medals shiny on their chests, not that they had  many,
only two apiece. But one of those two was a Bronze Star, won for bravery in  the
face of the  enemy. Still, he  thought an officer  wouldn't be as  hard on a man
whose chest showed he was a hero.

Claypoole had no idea why the company commander wanted to see them. But he  knew
neither of them had done anything wrong.

"What's  he want  us for?"  Dean asked   as the  three of  them headed  for  the
barracks.

"He didn't say" was all Bass replied.


Claypoole  and Dean  stood at  attention in  front of  Captain Conorado's  desk,
staring at a  spot on the  wall above and  behind the seated  company commander.
Bass stood casually  behind them. Ensign  vanden Hoyt stood  at one side  of the
desk. Top Myer at the other side  with his arms sternly folded across his  burly
chest.

Conorado looked at the two PFCs expressionlessly and thumped the end of a stylus
on his desktop  a few times.  He didn't look  happy. "At ease,"  he said after a
moment.  He smiled  slightly at  the two  young Marines  who now  looked at  him
nervously. "Relax, you're not in trouble."

Dean was visibly relieved. Claypoole perked up.

"I've got a special job for the two  of you. You know thai FIST HQ got  hit hard
by raiders on Eineal, don't you?"

"Yessir," they said together.

"I heard they got chopped up pretty bad," Claypoole said.

Dean grimaced at Claypoole's forwardness.  Top Myei glowered at Claypoole;  Bass
nudged him in the kidney.

"You heard right," Conorado confirmed. "They  lost sc many men who haven't  been
replaced yet that Brigadier Sturgeon  has ordered each company-size unit  in the
FIST to detacti  two men to  FIST HQ for  our upcoming operation.  After all due
consideration,  and full  consultation with  the company's  officers and  senior
NCOs, I've picked you two."

Dean blanched at being told he was going to leave the company.

"What?" Claypoole exclaimed. "We didn't  do anything wrong, we're good  Marines.
How come you want to get rid of us?"

Conorado held up a hand to forestall reaction from the others in his office. "As
you were, PFC," he said in a commanding voice.

"Aye aye, sir." Claypoole  snapped to attention, followed  half a beat later  by
Dean.

"I said 'at  ease,' so relax.  That's right, Claypoole,  you didn't do  anything
wrong." He leaned back in his chair. "The brigadier was very specific about  the
kind of men  he wants. Sharp,  intelligent, quick learners  who have been  on at
least one operation  and know how  to fight. You  two fit that  description. You
probably know that  headquarters types think  that infantrymen are  pretty dumb.
Well, they think that because we  routinely do things they're afraid to  do. The
fact that each of you has a  Bronze Star should impress them enough for  them to
show you some respect." He sat straight again and said briskly, "I'm giving  you
this assignment because  I know you'll  do a good  job and will  reflect well on
this company. Then, when you rejoin us, you'll be able to do that much better  a
job because you'll have a deeper understanding of what goes on at higher levels.
Do you have any questions?"

"Nossir," Dean said. Claypoole shook his head.

"Good. Then you're  dismissed. Get all  your gear ready  and report back  to the
office  at fourteen  hours. Top  Myer will  arrange for  your transportation  to
FIST."

When they  were out  of the  captain's office.  Dean pulled  Corporal Doyle, the
chief clerk, from  where he was  supervising PFC Palmer  in getting the  company
office ready to mount out. "Did you hear that?" he asked.

Doyle pulled a face. "Yeah, I heard."

"You should be the  one going to FIST,"  Claypoole said, disgruntled. "You  know
all that office stuff."

"You're a quick learner too," Dean said. "You proved that when you were  humping
across the Martac  Waste with us."  Corporal Doyle, the  company's senior clerk,
had been with the two of them. Staff Sergeant Bass, and four other Marines on  a
patrol on  Eineal that  was involved  in some  of the  fiercest fighting in that
campaign. Like the others, he had earned a Bronze Star for heroism.

"Right," PFC Palmer broke  in. "I think he  should have picked you  too." Before
Corporal Doyle  joined the  company, Palmer  had been  the chief  clerk-the only
clerk. He wanted to be top dog again. They ignored him-Palmer was only a  clerk,
not a fighting Marine. Doyle was "only" a clerk too, but he had fought alongside
the blastermen, and they had a respect for him they had for no other clerks.

"Well," Doyle said, "they didn't pick me. But listen, if they need someone else,
put in a good word for me, will you?"

"You know we will."

Claypoole clapped  Doyle on  the shoulder  and the  two left  the office to pack
their gear, grumbling about being picked for office duty.


On the  appointed day,  the 34th  Beet Initial  Strike Team  boarded Essays, the
navy's surface-to-orbit  shuttles, and  lifted off  to mate  with and  board the
medium cruiser CNSS Denver.

"A cruiser?" MacIlargie asked. "What are  we doing on a cruiser? Do  they expect
us to man the crow's nest and repel boarders?"

"Shut  up,  MacIlargie," said  Corporal  Domhofer, his  fire  team leader.  "You
wouldn't  understand  even  if  somebody told  you."  To  himself,  Domhofer was
wondering the same thing. Why were they  going on a medium cruiser instead of  a
troop transport?                                        -

But they had neither time nor energy to worry about the reason. They had to  get
to their quarters, stow their gear, and prepare for the first jump. All of which
was more difficult than it should  have been since they weren't familiar  with a
cruiser's layout and the ship was in null-g orbit.

The Denver was a  confusion of sounds: metallic  pings rang throughout the  ship
from crews working  on its hull  to repair the  ravages of interstellar  flight;
gears  clanged  as great  chain  drives mysteriously  moved  strange objects  to
unknown  destinations; sweaty  chief petty  officers bellowed  orders at  greasy
sailors  to urge  them on  in their  portside preparations;  motors whirred  and
squealed as bulk movers shifted loads from hither to yon.

Not a man among the  thousand Marines of 34th FIST  had a good idea of  what the
bustle around them was all about. All  they could do was allow the navy  ratings
to  snap them  into draglines,  then float  along behind  them through   endless
passageways to wherever they were bound. Some of the passageways went this  way,
others that,  still more  in a  third dimension.  Under powered  flight within a
planetary system, some passageways would go  fore and aft or side to  side while
others went up and down. During time in warp-space some horizontals would become
verticals, and vice versa. The Marines had no way of knowing which was which  at
this  time, and  few of  them cared;  they knew  they wouldn't  spend much  time
wandering the ship.

Eventually they  reached the  holds where  they were  to be  berthed. Holds, not
troop compartments. The Denver  was a combat ship  and had compartments for  its
crew, not  for passengers.  At least  the holds  had berthing,  row upon  row of
narrow cots stacked five high.  Lockers were just small-item containers  stacked
between the cots.  The Marines didn't  voice much in  way of complaint,  most of
them having suffered  worse accommodations at  the hands of  the navy. Even  the
officers and senior NCOs didn't feel  badly used at finding that their  quarters
were  sections of  the holds  incompletely walled  off by  stacks of  small-item
containers.

"Secure your gear," the platoon sergeants bellowed as they propelled  themselves
through the air in their platoon areas.

"If it  can fit  in your  lockers, fit  it in  your lockers,"  the squad leaders
shouted as they flitted from man to man, slowing only to show the newest men how
to do it.  Blasters, truly safetied  because their batteries  wouldn't be issued
until the end  of the journey,  were locked into  place at the  heads of the cot
stacks. Crew-served weapons were secured in the senior NCO quarters.

The Marines were given less than a half hour to settle in before Klaxons  blared
and a well-modulated female voice announced,  "The ship is about to leave  port.
For safety's sake,  everyone secure yourselves  into your launch  couches. I say
again,  the  ship is  about  to leave  port,  secure yourselves  in  your launch
couches."

"Launch couches?" someone shouted. "What launch couches?"

"Belay  the  mickeymouse,  people,"  the  platoon  sergeants  and  squad leaders
ordered. "Everybody, in your cots."  The platoon sergeants added, "These  aren't
automatics, strap yourselves in,"  and the squad leaders  took up the cry.  Fire
team leaders hustled their men into their cots, made sure they were all strapped
in,  then took  care of  themselves. The  squad leaders  checked the  fire  team
leaders' work, then secured  themselves. The last Marines  to strap in were  the
platoon sergeants. In Kilo Company, one platoon sergeant wasn't fast enough  and
the abrupt acceleration of the Denver slammed him to the deck, breaking his arm.

It took two days for  the Denver to reach its  first jump point, where its  crew
and passengers were subjected to the trials of transition into warpspace. A  day
after that, each company was assembled separately in whatever area its commander
could locate for a briefing on the upcoming mission. Company L was lucky  enough
to 'get the ship's gym.

* * *

The  ship's  gym  wasn't the  largest  space  on the  Denver,  and  the exercise
apparatus and fitness-testing equipment that filled it made it seem smaller. But
it was big enough. Squad leaders picked spots and had their men make  themselves
comfortable on  the machines  or the  surrounding floor  space. They were packed
tightly,  but didn't  have to  sit on  each other.  Unobtrusively, the   platoon
sergeants stood  at the  main hatch,  blocking egress  to anyone  who might have
ideas about skipping  the briefing. Gunny  Thatcher blocked entry  to the shower
room by himself. A  small platform was set  up at the secondary  entrance, which
led to officer country, and Top Myer  stood on it, burly arms folded across  his
beefy chest, looking over the men  of Company L. Everyone quickly quieted  under
the first sergeant's scrutiny and looked attentively toward him.

Noises came through the  hatch at Myer's back.  He looked toward it,  then faced
the company again and bellowed, "COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" just as Captain Conorado,
followed by the other  officers, burst through the  hatch. Myer stepped off  the
platform to  give the  captain space.  All present  scrambled to  their feet and
snapped to as close  an approximation of attention  as they could manage  in the
cramped space.

"As you were," Conorado shouted as  he bounded onto the platform. He  stood feet
spread and arms akimbo,  bent forward slightly at  the waist, looking every  bit
the Marine combat  commander as his  men settled themselves  back down. Then  he
took a long moment to look around the compartment, giving the impression that he
looked each man directly in the eye. The other five officers, who stood  against
the bulkhead behind him, looked at their own men.

"We are  on a  nominal training  mission to  the world ofWari-derjahr," Conorado
finally said when  everyone was back  in place. He  didn't shout, but  his voice
carried loud and clear  to every man in  the compartment, undampened by  the 120
bodies that filled it. "There is an internal conflict under way on that  planet.
Officially, the  Confederation classifies  it as  a rebellion,  not a civil war.
Wanderjahr's  ruling oligarchy  calls it  banditry. Wanderjahr  doesn't have  an
army, it has a heavily  armed paramilitary police force called  the Feldpolizei,
which is  German for  'field police.'  The Feldpolizei  are getting  their tails
whipped  by the  opposition forces,  whether they  are bandits  or rebels.   The
oligarchs have  requested that  the Confederation  send in  Marines to train the
Peldpolizei in combat tactics so they can fight more effectively." He shook  his
head. "From what  I've read in  the reports, it  sounds like the  Feldpolizei go
into the hills  and try to  use urban riot  control measures to  fight guerrilla
bands. As you can  imagine, that doesn't work  very well. We are  going to teach
them how to  fight like soldiers."  He had to  pause as his  Marines nudged each
other and whispered what an  easy job they had coming  up if all they had  to do
was teach cops how to fight like soldiers; that they'd probably wrap it up in  a
week or so and then pull some liberty.

"All right, belay the mickeymouse," Conorado ordered after a few seconds. "We're
going  to teach  them how  to be  good soldiers,  the kind  who can  do  serious
fighting.  One thing  that means  is, when  the Feldpolizei  sends out   patrols
against the guerrillas, we will go with them to make sure they do it right."  He
held up  a hand  to forestall  any questions.  "You will  not be  going along as
noncombatant advisers. I won't subject any  of my people to that kind  of danger
and neither will  the brigadier. Any  Marine who goes  into the hills  goes as a
fighter.

"Now, we estimate that  this operation will last  three months. I know,  I know,
three months  isn't anywhere  near as  long as  the training  you had  to become
Marines. But the Feldpolizei is already organized along paramilitary lines,  and
they have probably mastered the basics of garrison soldiery and know how to  use
weapons, so those are things you won't have to train them in. This will be  more
on the lines of an advanced infantry  course. And the newest one of you  knows a
lot more  about being  an infantryman  than almost  any of  them. When  we reach
Wanderjahr there will  be a short  period of orientation  and organization. Then
you will be assigned to the Feldpolizei units you'll be training.

"I saw questions on  some of your faces  when I mentioned the  ruling oligarchy.
It's an  unusual form  of government  that •^sw,  if any  of you, have ever seen
before. I'm going  to let the  first sergeant cover  that when he  gives you his
orientation. First Sergeant, the company is yours."

Myer leaped onto  the platform as  Conorado stepped down  from it and  bellowed,
"COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" The  officers were gone  before the Marines  could get to
their feet. Myer  let them stand  at attention for  a moment while  he glared at
them. He glared not because he was angry, but to sharpen their attention on  him
and what he had to say.

"At ease." He clumped his feet on  the platform-it wasn't big enough for him  to
pace on-as though collecting his thoughts. Then he glowered out at the  company.
"I  was watching  you while  the skipper  was talking,  and I  got the  distinct
impression that most of you think this is some kind of candy-ass operation we're
going on, that  it'll be the  easiest thing anyone  ever did to  earn a campaign
star on his  Marine Expeditionary Medal.  Well, if that's  what you're thinking,
jettison it right now. We could be  walking into a meat grinder. The rebels  win
every  time the  Peldpolizei fights  them. And  the Feldpolizei  is armed   with
blasters  and  other  modem  weapons,  and  the  rebels  are  mostly  armed with
projectile weapons. That's right, men armed with antiques are routinely whipping
men with modem  arms. Think about  it, and think  about why it's  possible. Now,
most of what I'm going to tell you  to help you think about what we might  be up
against  isn't  stuff you'll  find  in any  diplomatic  area study  or  official
intelligence report. It's  what I've learned  or figured out  from my unofficial
sources. Unfortunately I haven't been  there myself to know absolutely  what I'm
going to tell you, but my sources are generally pretty reliable.

"One reason the rebels keep beating the Feldpolizei is many of the oligarchs and
their families see commissions in the  Feldpolizei as a convenient job for  male
offspring who aren't smart enough for  anything else." He paused and raised  his
eyebrows at the sounds of surprise  from the men. "That's right. The  Wanderjahr
Feldpolizei commissions  its officers  directly from  civilian life;  they don't
have to prove themselves by being  enlisted men first like our officers  do. The
troopers, that's the  junior enlisted men,  all come from  the middle and  lower
ranks of  Wanderjahrian society.  They've got  a morale  problem because of this
sharp class distinction.

"The guerrillas, on the other  hand, have intelligent, highly educated  leaders,
most of whom studied offworld, several  of whom studied military history, and  a
few have served in the Confederation forces.

"Now, most  of you  have probably  never heard  of an  oligarchy, so I'll take a
moment or two to describe it for you. It's an odd form of government, one that's
cropped up very few times in human history.

"Most of you are from democracies or republics, places where the citizens have a
voice in  how their  government functions  and what  it does;  places where  any
citizen can enter government and rise to the highest ranks. Some of you are from
monarchies, where  you have  a hereditary  ruler and  aristocrats-and the rulers
have a sense of noblesse oblige, an obligation to take care of their people.

"Well, an oligarchy  isn't like either  of them. I  won't bother describing  the
classical oligarchy, just  this one. On  Wanderjahr a few  people, the heads  of
just nine families, own the whole world  and share power with no one. Each  is a
totally autonomous dictator in his or her own geographic area, and they only get
together for matters  that concern all  of them. There  is very little  vertical
social movement. There is no independent judicial system to which a citizen  can
apply for relief from an unjust oligarch. The citizens have no voice. Before you
start thinking I'm contradicting what I said earlier about the guerrilla leaders
being educated offworld, the oligarchs  send the brightest of their  subjects to
school so  they'll be  better servants.  This brought  about some  unanticipated
consequences, and they don't know how  to deal with them. They're calling  us in
to save them from the error of some  of their ways. This is in some ways  a very
political operation. If they don't like what we're doing, they can send us  away
not that we won't be doing a good job, mind you, but they might see some  things
we'll be doing as  threatening." He shook his  head. "Given the organization  of
the Feldpolizei, I don't see how we can do the job without relieving a good many
of the officers of their commands, and you can be sure that will upset more than
a few of the oligarchs.

"I should  say a  few words  about who  these oligarchs  are, from  whom they're
descended. First off, they're German. Those of you from Earth are probably aware
that Prussia, Bavaria,  and Hanover are  collectively referred to  as 'Germany,'
even though they're separate geopolitical  entities. For those of you  who slept
through your  history classes,  that's because  until the  middle of  the twenty
first century they were one country.

"The  Germans have  always been  a tough  bunch. Way  back in  the time  of  the
Caesars, when they were  just a few barbarian  tribes, the Teutons and  Alemanni
stopped  the Roman  advance into  northern Europe,  stopped them  dead in  their
tracks.

"Once  the  Germans  became  more  or  less  civilized,  they  were  a  bunch of
independent  little  kingdoms, principalities,  and  dukedoms. They  entertained
themselves by doing  a lot of  warring against each  other and their  non-German
neighbors. But none of them were powerful enough to be truly dangerous on a wide
scale. It wasn't until they got unified as one nation in the second half of  the
nineteenth century that they made the rest of the world sit up and take  notice.
That's because they started trying to take over. At some point in their  history
it probably  began back  when they  stopped the  Romans-they started  convincing
themselves that they were better than anybody else, some kind of 'Master  Race.'
They were certainly highly advanced  technologically, they had some of  the best
scientists throughout history, and they knew warfare and were highly  innovative
at it.

"Well, their first successes as a unified nation emboldened the Germans, and  in
the early twentieth century  they tried to take  over all of Europe  and started
what came to be called World War  One. That was the most widespread, most  devas
ting war  the world  had ever  seen. They  invented and  used the  most horrific
weapons mankind had conceived to that  time. Millions upon millions of men  were
killed throughout  Europe. Fortunately  for the  rest of  the world, the Germans
were overconfident and ended  up losing because they  took on too many  enemies.
World War One was  so terrible that the  rest of the advanced  nations swore off
war.  But  not the  Germans.  They rebuilt,  reconstructed,  invented newer  and
deadlier  weapons and  tactics, and  twenty years  after losing  World War   One
started another world war, one far vaster than the first one.

"This time, Germany  was partitioned after  it was finally  beaten. That stopped
them. For a while. Forty-five years after the end of World War Two, Germany  was
reunited. They bided their  time and it was  a half century before  they started
another world war, even bigger than the first two combined." Top Myer shook  his
head. "They just  didn't leam that  they weren't big  enough or tough  enough to
take  on  the whole  world.  Anyway, after  that  war, Germany  was  permanently
partitioned.

"The way this looks to me is, historically, every time a large enough portion of
the world's Germanic  population has been  united under one  government, they've
tried to  take over  the world.  Well, on  Wanderjahr, the  Germans own the damn
whole thing. You can wo.rk out the implications for yourselves.

"I've got to add something here so I'm not misunderstood. When I talk about  the
Germanic peoples, I don't mean  any individuals. Individually, Germans are  like
any other people:  there are saints  and sinners, decent  people and scoundrels.
It's only when you get enough of them together that the Germans become dangerous
to everybody else. Lance Corporal Schultz, for example, is of German descent.  I
like Hammer Schultz.  He's one of  the finest, most  decent human beings  it has
ever been  my privilege  to meet.  He's a  good man,  he's a  good Marine.  I've
enjoyed drinking  with him  a few  times. I  wouldn't object  to him marrying my
daughter-don't you get  any ideas there.  Hammer! But make  an army of  him, and
he'll make me fear for all of Human Space.

"On Wanderjahr, we have  a world the Germans  own. They think they  know it all,
they think they're always right, they believe anyone who doesn't agree with them
is necessarily  wrong. So  bear that  in mind  while we're  trying to turn their
Feldpolizei into a proper fighting force.

"There's one other  thing you have  to be aware  of on Wanderjahr.  The planet's
home to many very big animals. Some of them have very large teeth and eat  meat.
Fortunately, there's not many of those.  Most of these beasts are plant  eaters,
and some of them  look pretty docile. Don't  be fooled. If a  docile, twenty-ton
plant eater accidentally steps on you, it'll kill you just as quickly as a  five
ton meat eater that thinks you're just the right size for an after-dinner mint.

"That is all.  COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" Top  Myer glared out  at the company  for a
moment, wondering  how much  of what  he said  got through  to them.  Enough, he
hoped, to prevent some needless deaths. "Dis-MISSED!"


Company  L's officers  listened to  Top Myer's  briefing over  the intercom   in
Captain Conorado's quarters. Ensign vanden Hoyt looked at his company  commander
wide-eyed at what the first sergeant had to say.

Conorado saw his newest officer's  expression and chuckled. "You think  that was
something?" he said. "You should have heard the briefing he gave before our last
operation.  He  began  that  one  with,  'We're  going  up  against  a  bunch of
bloodthirsty  savages.' The  Top isn't  interested in  giving accurate  historic
lectures, and he might not always  have everything right-and he certainly has  a
unique point of view at times. But that doesn't matter.

"You see, the first  sergeant hates having Marines  wounded or killed. He  feels
every injury or death deeply, personally.  What he does in his briefings  is try
to get  the attention  of the  men, to  focus them  on the upcoming operation so
they'll be as alert as possible. I don't care what he tells them, as long as  it
makes them sharp and keeps them alive."



CHAPTER FOUR

The force of the explosion hurled Dean from his console onto the floor, where he
lay stunned for several seconds, his ears ringing while debris, dust, and papers
swirled all around him. Realizing he was not seriously injured, he jumped to his
feet, looking for Claypoole.

"They missed!" Claypoole  grinned lopsidedly from  where he sat  slumped against
the communications  equipment. Blood  trickled from  a small  cut just above his
right eyebrow, caused by flying glass. Claypoole scrambled to his feet and began
brushing dust and plaster flakes from his utilities.

"Stay away from those windows!" Commander Peters shouted. Fortunately, like  the
other two in the small office, he'd  been facing away from the windows when  the
bomb went  off, and  so sustained  only some  minor cuts  from the flying glass.
"Come on, let's check to see if there are any other casualties!"

Before he  could exit  the small  cubicle that  had been  designated as FIST F-2
section, Brigadier Ted Sturgeon stuck his head in the door. "Okay in here?"  the
FIST commander  asked. His  thin red  hair was  white with  plaster dust. "Don't
anybody go outside the building until I give the all clear," he added, and  then
pounded off down the corridor to check on the other elements of his headquarters
staff.

Dean felt an overwhelming urge to stick his head outside the blasted window,  to
see what was going on in the street three stories below, where the bomb had just
gone off.  Shouts, screams,  and the  roar of  burning fires  filtered up to him
through the smoke and dust. Commander  Peters laid his hand on Dean's  shoulder.
"If these guys know what they're doing, Dean, there'll be another bomb out there
somewhere, set to go  off when the rescue  squads arrive and survivors  start to
pour out of the  buildings onto the street.  There's nothing we can  do about it
now but  lie low.  Later Brigadier  Sturgeon'11 work  with the  alcalde and  the
police,  work  out  the emergency  procedures.  But  we're too  new  here  to do
anything."

"Hell of  a welcome,"  Claypoole said,  grinning as  he brushed  debris off  his
workstation.


Commander Peters couldn't help smiling. At  first, when the two grunts had  been
assigned to him as replacement  "intelligence analysts," he'd been dubious.  But
the FIST commander had given him no choice. Left to him, Peters would have taken
men  from  the  Psychological Operations  section  to  replace the  hospitalized
analysts. But  the brigadier,  who emphasized  that all  Marines were  qualified
infantrymen before they were anything else,  had put the psyops men, along  with
the men from  the gun and  transportation companies and  the composite squadron,
into  the  field  as part  of  the  mobile training  teams  supporting  the line
companies training and leading the Wanderjahrian Feldpolizei units. In fact, for
this mission, to  get as many  men in the  field as he  could, the brigadier had
ordered  Commander  Van  Winkle, of  the  infantry,  to assign  as  much  of his
battalion staff as  possible to duty  with the various  Feldpolizei garrisons as
commanders and shift leaders. He told his now drastically reduced staff,  "It'll
be good for you to be overworked here in Brosigville. Make the time go  quicker.
Keep you out of trouble."

Reluctantly, Commander Peters had  been forced to admit  that with lots of  hard
work and constant  supervision, he could  probably get by  with only two  gifted
amateurs to  help him  with his  duties. Yet  during the  trip from Thorsfinni's
World,  he'd  come  to  appreciate  the  pair's  quick  intelligence  and  their
willingness to leam. He liked Dean's serious attitude toward the unfamiliar work
and his curiosity about intelligence  operations in general. Claypoole, who  was
also a fast  learner, complemented Dean's  seriousness with a  bubbling sense of
humor and an optimistic outlook.

And Dean and Claypoole  had been with Charlie  Bass on Eineal. The  story of how
the platoon sergeant had led his men across the desert and fought it out hand to
hand with the Siad chieftain was  already a Marine legend, and Commander  Peters
was fascinated by the story as the two PFCs told it.

For their part.  Dean and Claypoole  had come to  respect the narrow-shouldered,
hawk-nosed  intelligence  officer  and  to  appreciate  what  he  did  for their
commander and his staff. He was an easy man to work for, thorough in all he did,
had  infinite  patience,  and was  always  ready  to explain.  He  was  a highly
educated,  contemplative man  who often  failed to  pay close  attention to  his
uniform, leaving flaps unfastened and  once coming to work without  any insignia
of rank  on his  collars. When  Claypoole diplomatically  pointed this  out, the
commander blushed and smiled with embarrassment but thanked Claypoole for noting
the discrepancy, hi time they came to think they were "taking care" of their new
boss, a widely traveled officer who could expound learnedly about the  political
and military situation on any of a dozen worlds.

Their bitter disappointment  at being detailed  to the staff  and separated from
their buddies in Company  L's third platoon had  faded somewhat by the  time the
contingent reached Wander-jahr. The two were  soon caught up in the hectic  life
of the staff officers, where everything was done at the double quick.  Brigadier
Sturgeon, normally  seen in  the line  companies only  during inspections  or on
other formal occasions, was a familiar  figure and a dominating presence on  the
staff. Often during the flight to Wanderjahr he would come into the F-2  section
and lean  casually against  a bulkhead,  chatting easily  with the commander. At
briefings. Dean and Claypoole  sat proudly in the  rear of the room,  staring at
the backs of the battalion and company commanders' heads. Once, on his way  out,
Captain Conorado nodded at the pair and flashed them a conspiratorial wink.  For
the two enlisted men, that acknowledgment  was more satisfying than a medal.  It
meant he  was satisfied  they were  proving an  asset to  the staff  since their
conduct there reflected well upon his company.


"Well, I'm getting  a little tired  of people blowing  up my office,"  Commander
Peters said with a grin, referring to  the mortar attack that had wiped out  his
staff when the  FIST was fighting  the tribesmen on  Eineal. "How's that  cut on
your head, Claypoole?"

"No worse than yours. Commander," Claypoole replied. For the first time,  Peters
noticed dried blood on his collar and put  his hand to the side of his neck.  It
came away bloody  from a gash  just below his  left ear. "How're  you, Dean?" he
asked.

"Sir, if I were any better, they'd investigate-"

The second bomb detonated. Since all the loose material inside the building  had
been blown away by the first explosion,  the men were only stunned by the  shock
wave of the second one. Now all three rushed to the window and looked down  into
the chaos in  the street below.  Dean clearly saw  an armless man  stumbling and
screaming in the street, the severed brachial arteries pumping his blood away in
bright spurts. As Dean watched, the man collapsed amid the rubble and lay still.

"Holy God," Claypoole muttered. Commander Peters's face was ashen.

Dozens of  people had  been killed  and mutilated  in the  blast. Just as Peters
predicted, they had emerged from the buildings after the first bomb, only to  be
caught by the  full force of  the second device.  The first rescue  units on the
scene had also been caught in  the blast, and their burning vehicles  added fuel
to the inferno raging in the street. The commander felt no satisfaction over his
prescience, unless it was that they were not among the casualties; he felt  only
a sickening sense of failure that he hadn't been able to warn those people  down
below. Suddenly  Dean lurched  back from  the window  with an involuntary shout.
He'd just  noticed a  man's severed  hand, badly  burned, resting  on the  ledge
inches from his nose.

"We can't stay here anymore," Peters said as he headed for the doorway. Dean and
Claypoole followed him out.

Brigadier Sturgeon was assembling the  staff by the stairs. "We've  offered help
from our  own medical  people, they're  experienced in  handling trauma injuries
like these," he  said, "and all  the fire and  rescue units in  the city are  on
their way here. The hospitals are also standing by. We'll give what help we  can
to the  civilian authorities.  You all  know combat  first aid.  First goddamned
thing tomorrow, I'm moving our headquarters to the port, where we can  establish
our own security. I should have known better than to have moved us in here."  He
led his staff down the stairs and out into the street.

Horror greeted the  Marines when they  stepped out of  the building. Bodies  and
body parts lay everywhere.  Many wounded were in  agony. For a moment  Dean just
stood, gaping stupidly at the carnage  all about him, and quickly lost  sight of
Claypoole and the others as they fanned out to assist the victims nearest  them.
He stumbled forward into  the carnage until he  spotted a policeman trying  with
badly shaking hands to apply his belt as a tourniquet to a woman's severed  leg.
Shaking off his stupor, he rushed forward to help. When they'd stanched the flow
of blood  there, they  tried to  assist a  badly burned  man nearby,  but he was
already  in  shock, and  when  they tried  to  move him  to  a more  comfortable
position. Dean could clearly see the man's spine and his lungs through a  jagged
gash in his back,  just below his left  shoulder. Despite his injuries,  the man
kept insisting  he could  get up  and walk,  and Dean  had to help the policeman
restrain him while the  man fought them weakly  and muttered in a  language Dean
couldn't understand.

"I-I think I know this man," the police officer mumbled almost inaudibly as they
tried to make the victim's last minutes as comfortable as they could.

During the next hour they assisted numerous other victims. Later, Dean  couldn't
recall clearly the  exact sequence of  events during that  time, only disjointed
individual scenes of  horror that coalesced  into a continuous  montage of blood
and mangled bodies. One memory that made him wince long afterward was the  sight
of a  man's body  blown completely  in half,  the jagged  bones of his shattered
pelvis a  brilliant white  against the  burned flesh  of his  legs. Tendrils  of
intestines, the remains of his colon, looking like strings of overcooked  pasta,
stuck up  through the  pelvic bones,  while his  genitals hung  down between his
legs, burned black by the heat of the blast.

As the  medical rescue  units began  arriving in  force, somebody  established a
triage and Dean helped the policeman, whose name was Gonzales, carry the wounded
to the first-aid station established on the bombed-out ground floor of a  nearby
department store. Gradually order began to appear. Dean and Gonzales paused  for
a few  moments to  rest. Dean  stared down  at his  hands, which were caked with
dried blood. The policeman lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. He offered Dean a
drag.

"What is it?" Dean asked, suspicious  at the way the cigarette seemed  instantly
to calm the policeman.

"Thule," he answered, offering him the cigarette again.

"Sorry," Dean replied. "We're not allowed to take that stuff on duty."

The  policeman shrugged.  "Me neither,  but fuck  the regulations,"  he said  in
thickly accented  English. He  took another  deep drag.  He waved  an arm at the
destruction around them, and Dean suddenly wished that he could take a drag.

He  noticed,  then, a  figure  walking slowly,  apparently  aimlessly, amid  the
debris. Occasionally the man would reach  down, pick up a bit of  twisted metal,
study it for a few moments, then toss it away. Gradually he neared where the two
were standing, and Dean recognized him then as Chief Long, the burly, disheveled
civilian policeman who'd been sent along with the 34th FIST to command and train
the Stadtpolizei, the  metropolitan-as distinct from  the field-police force  in
Arschland, Chairman Arschmann's Staat. The chief looked up at them and nodded in
a friendly manner, as if their meeting were nothing more than a chance encounter
on a quiet street.

Long held up a piece  of blackened and twisted metal  in one hand. "We can  find
out what kind  of bomb this  was by analyzing  this fragment," he  announced. He
slipped it into an evidence envelope.  "But the question I must ask,  gentlemen,
is, 'Who did this?' We haven't been here two days. Oh, make no mistake about it,
this bomb was meant for us. But  this mission was top secret from the  start, so
whoever planned this had to know about our coming for a long time, and also  had
to know  we were  going to  be headquartered  over there."  He nodded toward the
ruined facade of the government building. "Well," he sighed, and the right  side
of his face twitched in the rictus that for him passed as a smile, "you boys get
any ideas, give me a  call, eh?" He waved casually  at the two men and  shambled
off. His rotund figure was soon obscured by clouds of smoke still drifting  away
from burning vehicles.

Dean watched  the policeman  disappear down  the street.  It must  have been the
guerrillas who  set off  the bombs,  he thought.  It made  sense. After all, the
Marines were here to deal with them, and the guerrillas just struck first.  He'd
ask Commander Peters about it. But Long had made a good point. How did they know
where the headquarters would be when not even Brigadier Sturgeon knew that until
two days ago? Were they that well organized?

Joe Dean continued to stare after Chief Long. For the first time since the bombs
went off he felt a clutch of fear in his gut.


Several days after the bombing, when the FIST headquarters had just relocated to
its new facility  at the port.  Brigadier Sturgeon stuck  his head into  the F-2
office and said, "Rafe, get your gear and come along with me. I've been summoned
to the palace of the great nabob."

"I take it you mean Chairman Arschmann has asked for a visit?" Commander  Peters
asked.

"Yep. Bring these two  with you." He winked  at Dean and Claypoole.  "Claypoole,
you drive, and Dean can ride shotgun."

"Aye aye, sir!" the  pair shouted and jumped  to their feet, grabbing  equipment
harnesses and weapons. Since the  bombing, every Marine on Wanderjahr,  even the
headquarters staff, went everywhere armed and ready to deliver immediate fire.

"Shake a leg, Marines," the brigadier added. "Ambassador Spears will meet us  at
Arschmann's villa, and nobody wants to  keep him waiting." The joke was  lost on
the two enlisted men,  but Commander Peters grinned.  The brigadier had come  to
like Jayben Spears, the Confederation's ambassador to Wanderjahr. The ambassador
had some very strange  personal mannerisms, but once  the FIST commander got  to
know him, he discovered Spears to be meticulously honest, straightforward in his
speech, and objective to a fault,  unlike any other member of the  Confederation
diplomatic corps Sturgeon had ever met. And of all people. Ambassador Spears was
the last who'd ever complain about being kept waiting, especially if there  were
free food and drink to keep him occupied.

Claypoole threw himself behind the driver's console and punched in his PIN.  The
onboard computer immediately  flashed that it  was ready. For  security, he told
the computer the names and ranks  of his passengers and their destination.  This
information  was  instantly  acknowledged  by  the  headquarters  communications
section,  which  would  be   monitoring  their  progress  and   recording  their
conversations, as would the watch onboard the Denver, in orbit.

A heads-up display appeared on the windshield. Claypoole pressed a button on the
steering yoke and  vehicle status data  were replaced by  a map of  Brosigville.
"Best route.  Chairman Arschmann's  home," he  said. A  bright yellow route line
appeared on the map. A pulsing green dot showed their location. The display  was
constantly updated by the string-of-pearls, the geosynchronous satellites placed
into orbit by the navy upon their arrival.

They covered the eight kilometers from the port to downtown Brosigville in  only
a few minutes. A city of about 250,000, and the oldest settlement on the planet,
Brosigville  was  a beautiful  place.  Settled originally  by  several waves  of
Hispanic immigrants, the  general appearance of  the city's buildings  reflected
the architecture  of Latin  America. The  suburbs Consisted  of high-grade roads
dotted with spacious residential lots on which sat modest but comfortable villas
inhabited by the city's large middle class. The less affluent citizens lived  in
apartment dwellings on the  outskirts of the city.  The city center was  devoted
exclusively to shops, cafes, business establishments, and government facilities.
With a mean annual temperature of 55 degrees Fahrenheit, the weather was  seldom
unpleasant at that latitude.  As it was local  summer, most people were  dressed
casually.

The Marines had found the people easygoing, friendly, and openhanded. The locals
seemed intensely  but politely  curious about  the Marines,  their families, the
worlds they'd come from, their experiences in the Corps. To Dean and  Claypoole,
the young  women they  saw in  the streets  and at  work in  the port  area were
exotically beautiful, always showing white teeth through friendly smiles,  black
eyes glittering like diamonds as they tossed long black hair sassily about their
shoulders.

Kurt Arschmann's palace, where  he lived and from  where he ruled Arschland  and
exercised his authority as Chairman of the Ruling Council, sprawled along a high
ridge six kilometers  on the far  side of Brosigville  from the port.  They were
waved through the main  gates by the security  guards. Noting the light  weapons
the  men  carried and  the  unimpressive defensive  positions  they manned,  the
Marines  concluded the  guards' function  was to  alert the  main house  to  the
presence of intruders, not to stop them.

As the  brigadier's landcar  came to  a halt  at the  top of  a long, tree-lined
circular driveway  in front  of the  main entrance,  the mansion's  white stucco
walls  and carefully  landscaped verdant  lawns were  impressive in  the  bright
sunshine. Three other vehicles  were parked to one  side of the driveway,  their
operators lounging  about beside  them, smoking  and talking  in low voices. The
cars were painted bright colors,  and some sported brilliant pennants  and flags
from  their bumpers.  "Some spread,"  Claypoole muttered  as Brigadier  Sturgeon
hopped out and started up the long staircase to the main door.

"You stay here," Commander Peters told the enlisted men. "Go over there,  mingle
with the drivers, find out what you can about who's here and what's going on. Do
some real intelligence gathering for a change."

A  wiry,  thin-faced  little man  opened  the  main doors  as  the  two officers
approached the top of the stairs. "Kalat Uxmal, at your service, gentlemen,"  he
said, bowing deeply  in greeting. "Please  follow me. His  Excellency is waiting
for you in the Gold Room."

Gold Room? Sturgeon mouthed silently to Peters and shook his head. Four  people,
three men  and a  woman, waited  for them.  Uxmal bowed  the Marines through the
doors into a sumptuously appointed study decorated in shades of gold and yellow.
The sunlight streamed in  through windows overlooking an  intricately landscaped
garden that seemed to extend for a hectare or more behind the house. The windows
were open and a  sweetly scented breeze flowed  in steadily from the  sun-warmed
flower beds outside.

"Brigadier Sturgeon!" A muscular  blond man stood up  and moved from behind  the
desk where he'd been sitting. The woman, a very handsome athletic lady of  about
seventy-five, with long blond  hair, rose from her  chair and smiled at  the two
Marines. The third occupant, a  heavyset, dark-skinned man whose black  hair was
cropped close to his skull, kept his seat and observed the Marines through  half
closed eyes. Finally, there was Ambassador Jayben Spears, who jumped to his feet
as the Marines entered the  room, a warm smile on  his bearded face and a  large
glass of wine in one hand. The ambassador was a vigorous one hundred years  old,
with a slight paunch; his closely cut hair and beard were gray interspersed with
strands of dark  brown. All his  life he had  refused the simple  procedure that
would have  cured his  farsightedness, and  insisted on  wearing spectacles that
gave him a permanently owlish look, when they weren't sliding down his nose  and
making him look like an absentminded professor.

Brigadier Sturgeon had  met with Kurt  Arschmann several times  already. "Sir, I
think  you  met Commander  Peters,  my intelligence  officer,  at the  welcoming
ceremony several  days ago,"  Sturgeon said.  Arschmann shook  hands warmly with
Peters.

"Gentlemen, this lovely lady is  Lorelei Keutgens," Arschmann said. "As  head of
Morgenluft Staat, she is a member of the Ruling Council, and, I am happy to say,
my very good friend." Arschmann bowed toward the stately woman. Lorelei extended
her hand  to Brigadier  Sturgeon, who  took it  gently in  his own. Her skin was
smooth and warm and her grip firm.

"Let me say, gentlemen,  how very happy I  am to have you  here. Brigadier, your
men have already landed in Morgenluft and begun their work with the  Feldpolizei
garrisons there. I am deeply  impressed." To Brigadier Sturgeon's surprise,  she
continued to hold  his hand, squeezing  it firmly at  each word. He  wondered if
that was a greeting peculiar to the people of Wanderjahr, but saw that when  she
took  Peters's hand,  she gave  it a  warm businesslike  shake and  let it   go.
Brigadier Sturgeon, who was not married,  could not help feeling a bit  nattered
at the attention.  Then he smiled  to himself: This  woman knew whom  and how to
flatter.

"And this other gentleman," Arschmann said,  turning to the man lounging in  his
chair, "is Turbat Nguyen-Multan, also a member of the Ruling Council and one  of
our most important  landowners and producers  of mule." Multan  made no move  to
shake hands with the Marines, just  nodded casually at them. "Multan is  here on
other business  today," Arschmann  went on,  "but I  asked him  to stay for this
meeting.  You  may have  noticed  that he  was  unable to  attend  the welcoming
ceremony I arranged for your arrival.

"Ambassador Spears you already know," Arschmann continued.

Spears nodded pleasantly and  waved a free hand  at the Marines. With  the other
hand he popped  a piece of  kiwi into his  mouth. "I never  pass up free  eats,"
Spears commented to no one in particular.

Brigadier Sturgeon was beginning to  understand why Spears had been  shunted off
to a backwater post. At formal  diplomatic functions his conduct must have  been
scandalous. Another reason the brigadier liked the man.

"Please be seated." Arschmann motioned the two officers to chairs drawn up close
to his  desk. A  servant came  in with  another tray  of refreshments.  Sturgeon
indicated he did not want any, and  Peters, who could have used a cool  beverage
himself, followed his commander's lead, shaking his head no. The servant  padded
silently out of the room.

"Brigadier Sturgeon," Arschmann began, "we here on Wanderjahr are direct in  our
business and official relations, so forgive me if what I am to say seems abrupt.
In a word, I wish you to move your headquarters back into the city."

Sturgeon nodded affably. "I understand. Excellency, but the answer is no."

"He is  as direct  as you  are, Kurt!"  Lorelei Keutgens  laughed. The brigadier
noted  that she  had a  delightful laugh.  He smiled  back at  her. Multan  only
snorted. For him that was as close as he ever came to laughing.

"But, Brigadier, our agreement with  the Confederation specified that you  would
make your headquarters in the capital  city, so we could better communicate  and
plan  your activities,"  Arschmann said.  He glanced  at Spears,  attempting  to
solicit the  diplomat's agreement.  Spears merely  shrugged, then  sipped at his
wine.

"Yes, Excellency, but my orders are discretionary," Sturgeon replied. "It is  my
opinion as commander of  this force that the  safety of my Marines  comes first.
Dead Marines are of  no value to you  or to the Corps.  I can better protect  my
headquarters against terrorist attacks like the one a few days ago, and so we'll
have  to  remain  at the  port  until  we have  eliminated  the  people who  are
responsible."

"That's right," Spears confirmed around a mouthful of fruit.

Arschmann was flustered. "But, sir,  surely you understand the, ah,  incident of
the other day, ah,  requires your stabilizing presence  in the city, until  the,
ah, metro and field police forces achieve the state of competency for which-"

"That'll take a while," Lorelei.  said dryly. Arschmann affected a  brief smile,
but the look he gave her would have killed a subordinate.

"Yes, yes, of course, but until then, well, it would make our citizens feel more
secure, Brigadier, if your men were living among them instead of sequestered  at
the port."

"Sir, I am deeply  saddened that any of  your people were hurt  in that bombing.
Sincerely. But the bombs were meant  for us, not them. Your people  are actually
safer with us outside town. Besides, my headquarters staff, even with its  small
security force, could provide no safety for your townfolk."

"Exactly!" Ambassador Spears said.

"Well ..." Arschmann  could see that  the brigadier would  not budge, especially
since the Confederation  stooge. Ambassador Spears,  seemed to be  firmly behind
everything he was saying.  "Well, very well. Brigadier.  Now, I wish to  discuss
with you the measures  you'll take to retrain  our security forces. I  have some
ideas that-"

Sturgeon  held  up a  hand,  silencing Arschmann  in  mid-sentence. "Excellency,
excuse me, but that is not your area of expertise. Certainly I would welcome any
advice you might have as time goes on  and we get a feel for just what  needs to
be  done.  But until  then,  I am  taking  over these  forces.  My officers  and
noncommissioned officers will assess what is needed to transform your men into a
first-class fighting force-and then they will  do just that. Chief Long, who  is
occupied in the city and couldn't come with us today, will do the same for  your
metropolitan police force. We will brief  you on a regular basis. Those  are the
terms of our agreement, and I will stick to them."

"Quite so, quite so," Ambassador Spears said, nodding his head sagely from where
he sat, working on his second glass of wine.

Arschmann pursed his lips and then nodded briefly. "Are you sure you won't  have
some refreshment?" he  asked. He had  concluded that the  only way to  deal with
this Marine brigadier was to treat him as an equal.

"A cool drink, sir? If that would be convenient?" Sturgeon asked. Instantly, the
servant was back with his tray of refreshments.

Multan cleared  his throat  and leaned  forward. "Brigadier,  your men  are very
tough fighters, are  they not?" Sturgeon  looked at Multan  silently for several
seconds, but before he could reply, the oligarch continued, "You have, how many,
one thousand men under your command? Will that be enough? These bandits are more
numerous, I think."

Commander Peters thought: This guy knows a lot about us.

Sturgeon took  a long  sip of  his cold  drink, a  delicious combination  of the
juices of several fruits native to Wanderjahr. "Sir, my men know their jobs." He
looked directly into  Mul-tan's eyes. "We  don't look for  fights, but when  one
comes our way, we fight to win. Now, madame, gentlemen, I must be leaving. There
is much to be done." He rose, bowed slightly to Arschmann, and walked out of the
room. Peters hurried to keep up with him.

Behind them  in the  Gold Room,  Kurt Arschmann  smiled. Things  were proceeding
perfectly.

Before they reached the main hallway,  Lorelei Keutgens caught up with them  and
laid  a restraining  hand on  Brigadier Sturgeon's  arm. "Brigadier,"  she  said
softly  but urgently,  "will you  come to  visit me  soon? I  will send  my  own
suborbital. It is very important."

"Why,  yes, madame,  if you  wish. We  have our  own air  transportation.  We'll
arrange a visit with my operations officer."

"Thank you. But make it soon. And, Brigadier, watch out for Multan."

"We aren't even going into his Staat," Peters volunteered.

"Watch out for Multan," she repeated, then turned and walked down the corridor.

Sitting in a nearby  alcove just off the  main corridor, obscured by  some large
potted flowers, Kalat Uxmal sipped his own cool drink and smiled.

Ambassador Spears caught up to the Marines in the parking lot outside. "I  think
you can trust  the Keutgens woman,  Brigadier," he began  without preamble, "but
don't trust Multan-and for the life of the sainted martyrs of N'ra, don't  trust
Arschmann."

Sturgeon looked hard at the ambassador, wondering if he'd drunk too much wine.

"I've been here four years, Brigadier," Spears said, "and I know you can't trust
these oligarchs ..." He  ticked the names off  his fingers. "And as  far as Kurt
Arschmann is concerned, well, as your  Marines might say, he's dirtier than  the
south end of a northbound kwangduk."

With a wave. Spears  jumped into his own  car and left the  two officers staring
after  him.  It  was not  the  obscenity  of the  metaphor  that  astonished the
Brigadier  as  much  as the  fact  that  a senior  member  of  the Confederation
diplomatic corps could talk like a Marine.


"Whatcha smokin'?" Claypoole  asked as he  sauntered up to  the drivers lounging
around their vehicles. They looked uncomprehending at first and then one  smiled
and said, "English!"  Claypoole nodded. "Thule!"  one man answered,  and offered
the  Marines  a drag  on  the cigarette.  The  smoke from  their  cigarettes was
pleasantly  aromatic, tinged  with a  very faint  sharpness that  reminded  Dean
vaguely of burning grass.

"No  thanks, fellas,  on duty  we aren't  allowed," Dean  said. The  man  looked
bewildered and then smiled and put the butt back into his lips.

"You. Marine. You smoke?" a short, burly man with closely cropped black hair and
several nasty scars on his head barked. He stuck his jaw out aggressively at the
pair, as  if challenging  them. One  hand rested  lightly on  the butt of an old
fashioned handheld blaster, an ugly, inefficient weapon compared to the ones the
Marines carried, but still deadly.  Between his shoulder blades hung  a machete,
its rugged handle sticking up above his left shoulder. To the Marines it  seemed
an awkward,  uncomfortable thing  to be  carrying around,  but evidently the man
took much pride in it.

"Yeah," Claypoole answered, producing a  fresh cigar from a cargo  pocket. "Best
'bacca they grow on 'Finni's. Smoke?" The rough-looking man turned his lips down
and waved the cigar  away. Claypoole generously offered  it to the other  two, .
who politely declined. He shrugged and  lit up, sucking the smoke deep  into his
lungs. The three Wanderjahrians watched  him curiously. "Tobacco kill you,"  the
ugly one muttered darkly. "Thule no hurt."

"You drivers?" Dean asked, pointedly ignoring the unwanted medical advice.

"No, we whores!" one of the men  answered, and began to laugh loudly. The  other
two laughed along with him and slapped him on the back.

Dean  grunted and  made a  wry face.  "Guess that's  one for  him," he  said  to
Claypoole out of the side of his mouth. He tried again: "Whom do you drive for?"

"Mistress Keutgens," one of the men answered. Dean had compiled a dossier on her
for Commander Peters. Seventy-five,  five grandchildren; two girls,  three boys,
eldest a granddaughter, nineteen. Husband  and only child killed five  years ago
in  an  aircraft  accident.  Reportedly the  richest  woman  on  Wanderjahr. Her
holdings were  in the  southern hemisphere  of the  planet, about  an eight-hour
flight by  suborbital from  Brosigville. Good-looking  woman for  her age. Solid
reputation all the way around.

"Me Multan," the ugly one said proudly, thrusting his chin forward again.

Claypoole suppressed an urge to land a fist on that arrogant chin. "Nice  name,"
he said.

"No!" the  man barked.  "Multan my  master!" He  said it  as if Claypoole were a
complete idiot. "I am Garth. I drive much and well for him."

"Nice haircut you got there. Garth. Ever been in the Marines?" Dean said, trying
to lighten the tension. Garth just stared at him in stony silence. "Well,"  Dean
went on, "what brings you guys up here?"'

"Meeting. Much talking," the Keutgens driver replied. He shrugged as if what was
being discussed by his  mistress was too far  beyond his comprehension to  be of
interest.

"You.  Marine.  You  work  for  redhead  guy?"  Garth  asked,  obviously meaning
Brigadier Sturgeon. The guy was observant.

"Yes, our brigadier. Tough man," Claypoole answered.

"You, Marine, you tough too?" Garth  asked. He grinned broadly. The two  Marines
were startled to see that his teeth had all been ground to sharp points.

"Ummm, well, fellas,"  Claypoole began, staring  at Garth's teeth,  "we don't go
around lookin' for fights, but one comes our way, yeah, we kick ass."

The look on Garth's  face indicated he did  not quite understand the  meaning of
the expression.  He motioned  at Clay-poole's  bolstered blaster.  "You show me.
Marine."

Claypoole rested his hand on the holster flap and leaned close to Garth's  face.
"Sorry, shitbird, but regulations say if I draw this weapon, well, I'd just have
to kill you with  it." He pronounced each  word very carefully. Startled,  Garth
stepped backward  and bumped  his rear  hard against  the side  of his  vehicle.
Claypoole smiled fiercely.

"Well, fellas," Dean said with feigned heartiness, "been good talking to you. We
gotta go now!" He grabbed Clay-poole's elbow and pulled him in the direction  of
their own car.

"Jesus X. Muhammad," Claypoole hissed, "Hneal all over again!"

"Well, at least we're not back in the desert."

"Yeah, but  that ugly  bastard back  there belongs  in the  desert, and I bet if
there's one anywhere on this planet, that's where you'll find him hiding out."

Behind them  the man  named Garth  straightened up  slowly and  glared after the
Marines. Then he smiled with real amusement and spit on the ground.

Back at the brigadier's vehicle, Claypoole slid in behind the driver's  console.
"Let's go to Juanita's tonight," he said to Dean.

"Rachman, we've only been here about a week and you already found a place?" Dean
asked. He'd been too  tired the few nights  they'd been off duty  to do anything
but sleep.

"Yep. They have beer there, and the girls ..." He rolled his eyes and laughed.

"Lemme drive," Dean said. "Come on. Rock, don't hog all the fun."

"Nope. Brigadier designated me as the driver and-"

"Move  over.  Marine!"  Brigadier Sturgeon  shouted,  startling  Claypoole. "I'm
driving this thing.  You can't hog  all the fun  for yourself. You  men climb in
back," he said as he punched his PIN number into the computer. "And keep a sharp
lookout. I think some people real close by don't like us very much."

"You got  that right,  sir," Claypoole  muttered as  he climbed  into the  back,
undoing the flap  to his blaster.  He turned and  grinned fiercely at  Dean, who
stuck his middle finger out at him.



CHAPTER FIVE

"Aren't they pretty,"  MacIlargie said under  his breath from  the end of  first
squad's rank.

Dornhofer and Van Impe,  next in line, ignored  him, but from where  he stood in
formation on the other  side of Dom-hofer, Godenov  whispered back with awe,  "I
never thought I'd see uniforms brighter than our officers'."

"Quiet in  the ranks,"  Chan stage-whispered.  If he'd  been standing  closer to
Godenov, he'd have given him an elbow in the ribs.

Ratliff flicked his  eyes left toward  Chan and thought  the lance corporal  was
going to be a  good influence on his  new man. Now if  only Van Impe would  help
Dornhofer the same way.

"Gorgeous," MacIlargie said softly. "And they stand at attention so nicely too."

"Knock it off!" Van Impe said.

Sergeant Hyakowa didn't seem to move a muscle, but his soft voice came clear  to
first squad from where he, as senior squad leader, stood at ease in the  platoon
sergeant's position to  the front of  the platoon. "Don't  make me turn  around,
people." Second  and third  squads, in  their ranks  behind first,  knew Hyakowa
wasn't speaking to them.

MacIlargie thought a few moments  of silent admiration of the  Feldpolizei might
be advisable.

Three companies of Wanderjahrian Feldpolizei faced third platoon from the  other
side  of  the parade  ground  of the  257th  Feldpolizei Grafshaftsbezirk-police
precinct. The  "pretty" that  made MacIlargie  speak up  was the  combination of
orange tunics over sky-blue pantaloons of their uniforms. The leaders of the two
units  met  midway between  the  field police  formation  and the  Marines.  The
uniforms  of  the Peldpolizei  battalion  commander and  his  staff, with  their
flouncing plumes,  glittering fourrageres,  sparkling silver  pantaloon stripes,
and gleaming saber  scabbards, contrasted sharply  with the dull-green  garrison
utility uniforms of Ensign vanden Hoyt and Staff Sergeant Bass.

"Your men make a magnificent spectacle on the parade ground. Commander,"  vanden
Hoyt said, with no trace of irony in his voice.

"The 257th Battalion is the best in the Feldpolizei," Commander Vankler  replied
haughtily. He was shorter than the Marine officer, yet managed to look down  his
nose at  him. He  was deeply  insulted that  the Ruling  Council had saddled his
battalion with this  platoon of offworld  mercenaries-he knew no  better word to
describe soldiers who  meddled in the  military matters of  an independent world
who had no idea of whom his men were fighting, or why. And it galled him to  the
core that a mere ensign, the lowest possible rank for an officer, even less than
a lieutenant, should be placed in training command of his battalion-and that  he
and his ragamuffin platoon would  pass judgment on their fighting  ability! This
Confederation  Marine  probably  knew  nothing  of  the  tactics  developed   by
Commissioner Schickeldorf, to say nothing of the military philosophy behind  it.
The training of his battalion was properly the responsibility of his  operations
officer, Inspector von Holf-mann, who was doing a splendid job.

"Permission to speak, sir,"  Bass said in his  best diplomatic voice. He  didn't
bother  to  wait  for  permission, but  continued,  "As  excellent  as your  men
obviously are  on the  parade ground,  we came  to see  how they  perform in the
field.  We  were  told we  would  be  given a  demonstration  of  their fighting
prowess."

Vankler glared at the impertinent enlisted man. If this, this ... sergeant  were
in his command, he'd have his stripes-  all of them-and the man would spend  the
next ten years cleaning the stockade latrines with a toothbrush. Preferably  the
very toothbrush he used to clean his teeth! But Commander Vankler was absolutely
forbidden to  take any  disciplinary action  against the  Marines, no matter how
insubordinate they might prove-some moron had placed the mercenaries  completely
outside his chain of command even though they were to be given command authority
over his men! With effort, he got his anger under control and gave his reply  to
vanden Hoyt- the man might only be an ensign, but at least he was an officer.

"We have a demonstration  prepared for you. If  you will accompany me."  Vankler
turned abruptly and  marched briskly toward  one end of  the parade ground,  his
staff rushing after him.

Bass and vanden Hoyt exchanged glances, then followed, not quite as rapidly.

"Move your men," Vankler snapped back at them. "They're in the way."

Bass looked  back toward  the platoon  and waved  an arm  at Hyakowa in the hand
signal that told him to move the formation to the end of the parade ground  near
the  reviewing stand.  The Marines  picked up  their light  packs, helmets,  and
blasters and followed to the side of the reviewing stand.

The Feldpolizei battalion's  parade ground was  the size of  four soccer fields.
For this occasion the reviewing stand,  which was normally placed in the  center
of the barracks side of the long axis, was at the far end, near the entrance  to
the battalion's camp.  A small airfield  with pads for  four hoppers was  at the
remaining side.

The long side of the parade ground, where third platoon had stood watching,  was
fronted by  a forest  such as  few men  of third  platoon had  ever seen.  Thick
trunked trees towered one or two hundred meters into the sky. Branches  radiated
out of the massive trunks in tiers, the lowest beginning more than twenty meters
above the ground, the highest spread wide and thick enough to blot out  sections
of the sky.  The smallest saplings  of the giant  trees seemed to  be no shorter
than ten meters. Wherever  these giants stood far  enough apart for sunlight  to
penetrate to ground  level, clumps of  smaller trees grew,  but the tops  of the
tallest of  those didn't  reach the  lowest branches  of the  giants. The  trees
resembled nothing so much as palm trees from old Earth, palms that had grown fat
and lazy from easy living.  A fringe of downward-slanting frondlike  leaves some
two-thirds of  the way  up their  trunks made  them look  like they were wearing
grass  skirts.  The trees  were  what the  Wanderjahrians  called hochbaums  and
grospalms. What little underbrush grew on the mostly bare forest floor was fuzzy
and indistinct in form, vaguely resembled ferns, and varied in height from  shoe
top to taller than a man.

Before  they  reached  the  reviewing  stand,  Vankler  crisply  turned  to  his
operations  officer  and  said,   "Prepare  the  demonstration,  Inspector   von
Holfmann."

"Yessir!" Von Holfmann saluted his commander's back, then turned and marched  to
the front of the battalion formation  and began barking commands at the  company
officers.

From  somewhere  in  the distance  beyond  the  woods came  the  honking  cry of
something very large.  The Marines on  the ground at  the side of  the reviewing
stand  cast  curious looks  in  its direction.  Vanden  Hoyt and  Bass  tried to
classify the sound like old infantrymen: how far away is it, who is it, will  it
have any immediate effect on us?

The Wanderjahrians ignored  it, so the  Marines returned their  attention to the
parade ground in time to see the Feldpolizei formation begin its maneuvers.

The 257th's  company commanders  spun about  to face  their companies and barked
crisp orders. "Form combat ranks!" the commanders of companies A and C shouted.

"Prepare for reserve!" cried the commander of Company B.

Instantly,  the front  rank of  Company A,  on the  left side  of the  battalion
formation, pivoted to its right and  marched until its last man was  just beyond
the other two  ranks. The rear  half of that  rank faced front,  while the front
half executed a roundabout to re-form behind  it. As soon as the first rank  was
out of the way, the company's second and third ranks stepped briskly forward  so
the company was re-formed  into two ranks. On  the right side of  the formation.
Company C mirrored Company A's maneuver. When both companies were re-formed into
two  lines, they  faced each  other and  marched forward  until they  met,  then
pivoted back toward the  front. At the same  time, Company B re-formed  into one
line ten meters behind the first two companies.

"A complicated maneuver," vanden Hoyt whispered to Bass.

Bass  thought  drums  should  be  beating  a  tattoo  in  the  background.  "Too
complicated to do under fire," he agreed.

While the companies were changing  their formation, von Holfmann marched  to his
position,  which  was centered  behind  the two  forward  companies. The  entire
maneuver was completed in less than thirty seconds. Von Holfmann sharply  looked
to his left and to his right, then straight to the front.

"Firing  positions!"  he barked.  The  Company A  and  B commanders  echoed  his
command. The front rank of Feldpolizei troopers dropped to one knee and the  men
raised  blasters  to their  shoulders.  The second  rank  took offhand  shooting
positions. The rear company remained standing at port arms.

"Prepare for advancing volley fire!"  von Holfmann shouted. He looked  along the
lines of the battalion, then shouted, "Fire by ranks. ADVANCE!"

The front rank  fired a volley  from its blasters.  The second rank  immediately
stepped forward so its members were  between the kneeling men and fired  another
volley. Von  Holfmann commanded  again and  the kneeling  men stood  and stepped
forward two paces, dropped to one knee, and fired. The second rank repeated  its
earlier maneuver.  Then both  ranks repeated.  The reserve  company followed  in
trace.

The first volley of plasma bolts struck  a ragged line a hundred meters wide  on
the parade ground surface halfway to the trees. The second volley hit ten meters
beyond the first. Each successive  volley scorched the parade ground  ten meters
beyond the previous one.

When the first volley fired, Vankler said condescendingly to the Marines, "Don't
worry, they're firing  at low power.  I have no  need to melt  the surface of my
parade ground."

Bass and vanden Hoyt nodded  noncommittally; they'd already noted the  low power
of the shots.

Advancing and firing  by alternate ranks,  the battalion reached  and was firing
deep into the forest in less than  a minute. Several small fires started in  the
undergrowth and a clump of the fat palms had its skirts singed off, but  Vankler
seemed totally unconcerned about the damage to the ecosystem.

"Imagine yourself a bandit," Vankler said. "Imagine you see a battalion of  such
splendidly uniformed  men snap  into assault  formation so  briskly and  advance
toward you firing in disciplined volleys. How do you think you would react?"  He
cast a scornful look at vanden Hoyt.

"Well, sir, if I was a simple bandit, poorly trained and ill-equipped, and badly
outnumbered, I'd likely panic and run."

Vankler snorted and looked  proudly at his battalion.  "That is exactly how  the
bandits have been responding when they have met my men in the field."

Vanden Hoyt nodded. "But recently  a Feldpolizei company from the  adjoining GSB
met a large group of guerrillas and was nearly wiped out."

Vankler jerked as  though slapped. He  glared at vanden  Hoyt. "That was  not my
battalion. That was the 407th. The  company involved was led by an  incompetent.
It was an isolated incident."

Bass  said nothing,  but found  it interesting  that Vankler  felt the  need  to
justify  himself.  Instead, Bass  pretended  to be  interested  in the  way  von
Holfmann was reassembling the battalion into its parade formation.

Vanden Hoyt calmly looked at the Wanderiahrian officer and said, "Commander, the
guerrillas  are  growing in  strength.  They are  becoming  better equipped-with
weapons taken from the Feldpolizei. They do not use tactics that lend themselves
to defeat by serried ranks firing in volleys."

"We have defeated them in every instance we have encountered them!"

"You have  faced small,  isolated groups  that couldn't  stand and fight. Still,
according to the reports I've seen, in each instance they have caused casualties
in your ranks. And it appears they  have caused more casualties to you than  you
have to them.  When they mass  in any strength,  which they will,  if you try to
fight them this way they will defeat you."

Vankler sputtered and his  face turned deep red.  This was exactly the  reaction
vanden  Hoyt  counted  on.  "With  your  permission,  sir,  we  have  prepared a
demonstration of  our own.  We have  brought enough  fire- and hit-simulators to
equip your entire battalion. My platoon," he waved an arm at his Marines, "under
the command of the platoon  sergeant-that's a total of twenty-six  Confederation
Marines-will take on your battalion. We may not decisively score a victory,  but
I believe we will severely injure your battalion while taking few casualties  of
our own. Simulated casualties, of course."

Vankler looked as if he were about to have a stroke.

The Wanderjahrian commander was right where vanden Hoyt wanted him to be, and he
made his ultimate appeal  to Vankler's pride and  vanity. "Sir, if we  do not, I
will report to my superiors that this battalion doesn't need our training."

Some of  the red  drained from  Vankler's face.  He glared  down his nose at the
taller Marine officer and snarled  through gritted teeth, "Your platoon  will be
slaughtered. You will see that we have no need of your training."

Still calm, vanden Hoyt  replied, "Yessir, we shall  see." He looked toward  the
forest fronting  the parade  ground. The  small ground  fires he'd  seen earlier
seemed to  have gone  out. He  turned to  Bass. "Platoon  Sergeant, if  you will
prepare the platoon."

Bass came to attention.  "Aye aye, sir." He  saluted, executed an about-face  as
sharp as the best of the Feldpolizei, and marched off the reviewing platform  to
the men of third platoon.

"Let's do this thing," Bass said softly as he reached them. The Marines  grinned
at him, and many  of them made remarks  about the gaudy Feldpolizei,  remarks he
ignored. He  led them  into the  woods, to  where a  clump of palmlike trees was
dense enough  to conceal  them from  the parade  ground. A  few of  the Marines,
remembering the honking of something very large, eyed the woods cautiously.


The simulators third platoon  brought with it were  in one of the  ground-effect
vehicles that  had carried  them to  the 257th  base. Vanden  Hoyt oversaw their
distribution to  the 257th's  company officers,  made sure  the shift  sergeants
understood that the simulators made a crack like the discharge of a blaster when
fired, and  a humanlike  scream when  they registered  a hit  on the  wearer. He
brought  a few  simulators back  to the  reviewing stand  to show  to  Commander
Vankler and his staff,  to explain their workings  to them. Lastly, he  wandered
through  the  ranks of  the  battalion to  make  sure everyone  was  wearing the
detectors right  and had  the shot  simulators properly  fixed into  the battery
wells, from which the firing batteries had been removed, and onto the muzzles of
their  weapons.  It  took half  a  standard  hour to  outfit  everyone  with the
unfamiliar training equipment. Finally they were ready.

By  then Vankler  had regained  his composure  and again  looked every  bit  the
Prussian officer he imagined  himself to be. "Line  your men up," he  snapped at
vanden Hoyt. "This should only take a few seconds."

"Sir, my men are ready, but Marines don't line up and fight in the open any more
than the guerrillas do. They're over there, in the trees."

"It doesn't matter. We'll  make short work of  them." Vankler turned to  an aide
and murmured  something to  him. The  aide raced  to von  Holfmann to  relay the
commander's instructions. Vankler wanted to lead this demonstration himself, but
couldn't if the Marine officer was leaving his command to his number two-and  an
enlisted number two  at that! Almost,  he thought, it  was a waste  to have this
demonstration  under  an  inspector;  he  should  give  it  to  his  most junior
lieutenant. But it  was too late:  von Holfmann was  already barking the  orders
that put the battalion into its assault formation.

As before,  two companies  lined themselves  into two  ranks and  the front rank
dropped to one knee. Von Holfmann barked a command and the front rank's blasters
crackled  with simulated  fire. Just  as the  second rank  stepped between   the
kneeling men  of the  front rank,  the sound  of crackles  came from the forest,
followed  instantly  by  a  dozen  very  loud  and  piercing  screams  from  the
Wanderjahrian  ranks.  Troopers  throughout the  battalion  formation  jumped in
surprise and looked about- mostly those near the men whose simulators screamed.

Von Holfmann  and the  company commanders  had to  bellow their commands several
times before the battalion  was again facing front  and moving forward in  their
disciplined manner. But  it took time,  time the Marines  in the forest  used to
shoot more of them. When the second rank stepped between the kneeling men of the
front rank a second time, an entire platoon from the reserve company had to move
forward  to fill  gaps in  the ranks  caused by  the simulated  casualties.  The
Feldpolizei fire had yet to reach the nearest trees.

Vankler was infuriated. He screamed at von Holfmann and waved an arm, trying  to
instruct him to forgo the advancing fire, to raise it so the shots would go into
the trees where the Marines were. Von Holfmann looked at his commander and  gave
his  head  a bewildered  shake  before he  understood.  Several more  simulators
screamed by the time von Holfmann adjusted his men's fire. More than half of the
reserve company was now in the firing ranks. Yet more simulators screamed as the
battalion continued its methodical advance across the open field.

Vanden Hoyt listened carefully; it sounded as if only a squad was firing at  the
formation. He wondered if Bass had  split the platoon. He wondered what  Charlie
Bass had up his sleeve and restrained a smile.

As their simulated  casualties mounted, the  Feldpolizei moved less  sharply and
their fire  became less  coordinated. From  the angles  the Wanderjahrians  were
holding their blasters, the Marine  officer saw that most of  their increasingly
ragged fire was  either too high  or too low  to reach anyone  in the trees.  He
still didn't smile, but he couldn't hold back a quick shake of his head.

Most of the reserve company was filling gaps in the front ranks by the time  the
battalion had crossed two-thirds of the distance to the trees. That was when all
hell broke loose. Crackles  so close together they  blended into a screech  came
from two points  somewhere in the  vicinity of the  small airfield opposite  the
reviewing. stand, and  were answered by  a cacophony of  screaming simulators in
the battalion's rapidly thinning ranks.

Vanden Hoyt didn't restrain  his smile this time-he  might have known that  Bass
would have the men change into their chameleon uniforms as soon as they were out
of sight-the Feldpolizei were being fired  on by men they couldn't see  to shoot
back at.

"WHAT!" Vankler shrieked. "Where  is that coming from?"  He craned his neck  and
leaned from side to side, trying to spot the guns that were raking his battalion
with enfilade fire. He saw nothing but the hopper landing pads. More and more of
his men dropped as their simulators  shrilled that they were hit. The  troopers,
rattled by the sound of fire from two directions, and dazed and confused by  the
piercing screams  of the  simulators, shouted  screams of  their own  and looked
about madly, unable  to see who  was shooting at  them. After a  few seconds one
man, totally unnerved  by the shrilling  of so many  simulators, threw down  his
blaster and ran, screaming. A  few others, equally confused and  unnerved, broke
and ran with him. Soon the entire battalion was fleeing in rout.

The fire from the airfield stopped for a few seconds when the formation  finally
broke, then  there was  a short  burst and  all the  simulators vanden  Hoyt had
brought to show to Vankler and his staff screamed.

Apoplectic, Vankler spun on  vanden Hoyt. He thrust  an arm out, finger  pointed
between the Marine's eyes. "You, sir,"  he sputtered, "are under arrest. I  will
have your hide at a court-martial!"

"With all due respect," vanden Hoyt said, "you can't do that, sir."

"I am  the battalion  commander here.  This is  my Grafshafts-bezirk.  I can  do
anything I  want!" He  twisted around  and screamed  at a  junior officer, "Tell
Inspector von Holfmann  to issue power  packs and have  the troopers load  their
weapons. All of these offworlders are under arrest!"


In response to a string-of-pearls radio call from Staff Sergeant Bass, Commander
Van Winkle, 34th FIST'S  infantry battalion commander, commandeered  the nearest
hopper and flew directly to  the 257th Feldpolizei Grafshaftsbezirk. He  left in
such a  hurry that  only his  sergeant major  and three  junior enlisted  men as
guards were able to  accompany him. Van Winkle  made three radio calls  while in
transit,  one to  Charlie Bass  for an  update on  what was  happening. When  he
arrived, some twenty minutes after  Commander Vankler placed Ensign vanden  Hoyt
under arrest, he found a stalemate that had to be defused before it broke.

Commander Vankler and his staff, along with me "arrested" Marine officer,  still
stood on the reviewing stand.  One company of Feldpolizei was  nervously arrayed
in front  of it.  The other  two companies  were in  assault formation along the
barracks side of the parade ground. Sensors in the hopper showed Van Winkle that
chameleoned Marines were  spread out inside  the trees and  behind cover in  the
airfield. He knew from Bass's call that the Marines had also stripped off  their
simulators and were fully armed. If a skittery trooper accidentally pressed  the
firing lever on his blaster, a bloodbath would destroy any chance of the Marines
gaining the confidence of  the Feldpolizei. He ordered  the pilot away from  the
airfield and had him land the hopper  in the middle of the parade ground,  which
was almost a mistake; only a sharply shouted command from Commander Vankler kept
his men from opening fire on the descending hopper.

Van Winkle  jumped out  of the  bird while  it was  still several feet above the
ground.  Sergeant  Major Parant  was  on his  heels.  As he  marched  toward the
reviewing stand and  looked at the  men on it,  he was glad  he and the sergeant
major had just returned from a reception. Their dress reds, bloodred tunics with
gold trousers for the commander and navy  blue with a broad red stripe down  the
seam  for the  sergeant major,  would make  a more  positive impression  on  the
gaudily dressed Feldpolizei commander and  his staff than would Marine  field-or
even class A-uniforms. Nervous  troopers shifted to make  a path for the  senior
Marines.

Van Winkle bounded up the stairs to the reviewing stand. Barely glancing in  his
direction, he  said to  vanden Hoyt,  "I'll speak  with you  later. Ensign."  He
stopped at attention directly in front of Vankler.

"Sir, I  am Commander  Van Winkle,  battalion commander  of these  Marines. What
happened?"

Gratified to have an officer of proper rank on whom to vent his spleen,  Vankler
roared in a voice that carried to  fully half of his men, despite the  fact that
the man he was addressing stood less than arm's length in front of him.

"These insubordinate underlings of yours have made a mockery of a combat tactics
demonstration by my  battalion. First they  mocked my battalion  as being parade
ground troops  rather than  fighters, then  they denigrated  their parade ground
sharpness. Then these-these  offworlders had the  effrontery to tell  me, in the
presence and full hearing of my staff, that our tactics, which were developed by
the commissioner of the  Feldpolizei himself, are ineffective  against bandits!"
He had  to pause  briefly because  the roar  of an  approaching V/STOL  aircraft
drowned out his words. "The very bandits against whom my men have won the  field
repeatedly!"  Vankler's  face was  rigid  when he  began,  but grew  florid  and
animated as he spoke; his voice rose in pitch as his animation increased.

"Then as a  final insult, this  ensign of yours  had his men  dress in chameleon
uniforms and arm themselves  with guns, neither of  which the bandits have,  and
assault my battalion from  unexpected directions!" Vankler was  nearly screaming
when he finished, which seemed a fitting accompaniment to the roar of the V/STOL
aircraft that was settling on one of the landing pads in the airfield.

Van Winkle ignored the spittle that sprayed his face and retained his  composure
during the eruption. When the other  concluded his tirade. Van Winkle said  in a
steady voice at, normal speaking volume, "This is a very serious matter  indeed,
Commander. Might we retire to your  office to discuss the situation and  what to
do about it?"

"I will see him court-martialed." Vankler stuck his arm out at vanden Hoyt.

"You  and I,  we will  determine exactly  what steps  we must  take to  reach  a
satisfactory resolution to the humiliation your battalion suffered today."

"We will indeed."  Vankler pivoted and  marched off the  reviewing stand, toward
the administration building, which Was  between the main gate and  the barracks.
He ignored the ground  vehicle that was racing  toward the reviewing stand  from
the airfield.

Van Winkle gave  vanden Hoyt a  hard look, but  said nothing to  him. Instead he
turned his attention  to the man  who got out  of the car  and climbed onto  the
reviewing stand. The Feld-polizei officers snapped to attention and saluted  the
newcomer.

This officer, even more splendidly  decked out than the 257th's  officers, swept
his gaze over the  Wanderjahrians and demanded in  a crisp voice, "Who's  senior
man here?"

"I am, sir,"  one said, and  swallowed. "Inspector Bladhortz.  I'm the executive
officer."

"Well, Inspector, it appears we have a situation on our hands."

Bladhortz swallowed again. "Yes sir, it does."

"And you must be Commander Van Winkle," he said to the Marine.

"I am, sir. And whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Chief Inspector Kleinst. We spoke on the radio."

"Yessir. Thank you for getting here so quickly." Chief Inspector Kleinst was the
commander of all Feldpolizei forces in Arschland.

"We have a matter and a  man which must be dealt with.  I am the man to do  it."
Kleinst  looked  toward  the  administration building  in  time  to  see Vankler
disappear into it. "Let us first defuse matters here." He included Bladhortz  in
what he said next: "Shall we have our men stand down?"

"I think  that would  be the  best, sir,"  Van Winkle  said. "Yessir," Bladhortz
said. "A splendid idea, sir." While Bladhortz left the reviewing stand to see to
the unloading of the  weapons of the Feldpolizei,  Van Winkle turned to  Parant.
"Sergeant Major, will you see to our men, please?"

"Aye aye,  sir." Parant  leaped off  the reviewing  stand and  strode toward the
airfield, which was  where he thought  Bass was most  likely to be.  ' "You stay
here," Van  Winkle said  to vanden  Hoyt. "You  don't move."  He said  it loudly
enough for all of the Feldpolizei officers to hear.

"Aye aye, sir," vanden Hoyt replied.

Van Winkle .and Kleinst marched to the administration building.

Sometime later a runner came with a summons for Ensign vanden Hoyt.


Commander  Van  Winkle leaned  back  in Commander  Vankler's  chair, behind  the
Feldpolizei commander's desk, fixed vanden Hoyt with a steely gaze, and let  the
junior officer stand sweating at attention for a long moment. The chair swiveled
and tilted, had a high back  and armrests, and-most amazing- was upholstered  in
some sort of splotchy green leather. He had been surprised when he first entered
the battalion commander's office. All  the furniture was upholstered in  leather
in colors he'd never seen on a live animal. One visitor chair was an  iridescent
blue, another was yellow with mauve stripes, a settee was speckled orange.  Even
the  desktop  was  covered  with  a red  and  beige  skin.  An  impossibly large
lizardlike head hung high on one wall.

Van Winkle  drummed his  fingers on  the desktop;  the skin  that covered it was
amazingly hard. Abruptly, he leaned forward.  "Whose bright idea was it to  turn
invisible and then hit those amateurs from the flank with guns?"

"Sir," vanden Hoyt barked stiffly, "it's my responsibility."

"Yes," Van  Winkle said  slowly, "you  were the  officer in  charge, it was your
responsibility. But that's not what I asked. Whose idea was it?"

Vanden Hoyt said nothing.

"Ensign, did you issue  the order to change  into chameleons? Did you  issue the
order to make that flanking maneuver?"

"No, sir. But I'm responsible, sir."

Van Winkle shook his head. "We've already settled that. Whose idea was it?"

"Sir, I wasn't privy to that decision."

Van Winkle looked at him expectantly.

"Sir," vanden  Hoyt said  when the  silence stretched  long enough  to make  him
uncomfortable, "I can only assume it  was Staff Sergeant Bass's idea. I  haven't
had communications with him since I sent him to put the men in the trees for our
demonstration."

Van  Winkle nodded.  "Thought so.  It has  all the  markings of  a Charlie  Bass
operation." He added softly,  as though speaking to  himself, "If it wasn't  for
stunts like that, he'd probably be a colonel today." Then briskly he said,  "Sit
down.  Ensign.  You're  not  being  court-martialed.  Vankler  doesn't  have the
authority to arrest you, and you know it."

Vanden Hoyt sat gingerly on the  edge of a chair upholstered in  pebbly-surfaced
gray leather with ochre markings.

"Relax, Ensign. We lucked out." Van Winkle stood. "No, no, sit." He waved vanden
Hoyt back down when the junior officer jumped to his feet. "You're off the hook.
Drink? You probably need one." He  went to a cabinet and examined  its contents.
"Hmmm.  No, we're  going to  stay away  from thule.  Surely he's  got  something
alcoholic in here." He pulled out two glasses and rooted about among the bottles
and cans of various  grades, brands, and flavorings  of thule and its  attendant
paraphernalia. Then, with an exclamation of victory, he pulled out a nearly full
bottle of an amber liquid. He read the lable, then turned with a smile. "Scotch.
Real Earth scotch. Single malt! Is that all right?" He poured.

Vanden Hoyt  nodded in  confusion. What  was going  on? Vankler  wanted to court
martial him. Where  was the Feld-polizei  commander? For that  matter, where was
Chief Inspector Kleinst?

Van Winkle served a glass to vanden  Hoyt, then pulled a visitor chair close  to
him and sat.  "Well now. Without  talking to any  of the Feldpolizei  other than
Vankler, I'd  say your  platoon made  a very  dramatic impression  on the 257th.
Would you agree?"

Vanden Hoyt sipped at his scotch and nodded. "Yessir."

"As the situation turned  out, you made a  strong impression on Chief  Inspector
Kleinst, as well."

"Ah, sir, where is he? For that matter, where is Commander Vankler?"

Van Winkle  grinned. "That's  where we  lucked out.  The chief  inspector is  in
another room, reaming Vankler a new one. You see, Vankler is a close adherent of
Commissioner Schick-ledorf's theories of warfare. Chief Inspector Kleinst thinks
Schickledorf's tactics are more dangerous to their practitioners than to whoever
they're being used against. The way  your platoon devastated the 257th today  is
all the proof Kleinst needed to scrap Schickledorf's doctrine in Arschland.  And
Vankler's outburst is exactly  the excuse Kleinst needed  to fire him. Which  is
what he's going  to do when  he finishes reaming  him out. This  means Company L
will have a free hand in its training of the Feldpolizei in Arschland. I hope  I
have similar luck in the other Staats I'm responsible for." He knocked back  the
rest of his drink, stood, and held his hand out.

Vanden Hoyt hesitantly stood and shook it.

"Give Charlie my  best. And get  on with your  training program." With  that, he
left.



CHAPTER SIX

Brigadier  Sturgeon,  true to  his  word, moved  his  headquarters into  an  old
warehouse complex  at the  Brosigville port  the morning  after the  bombing. By
nightfall his drastically reduced staff had been completely ensconced in its new
quarters. Of the 150-odd men usually assigned to a FIST command staff, Brigadier
Sturgeon  had less  than eighty  in the  new facility,  and of  them. Dean   and
Claypoole, as privates first class, were the lowest ranking.

The building was in a cul-de-sac at  the end of a long, narrow roadway  that was
under  surveillance  around  the clock.  Everyone  entering  the complex  passed
through surveillance devices that  detected explosives and weapons;  nothing was
permitted in the main building unless it had been screened and carried in by the
Marines themselves. All  other vehicular traffic  was diverted to  a parking lot
more than a hundred  meters from the main  entrance, and passengers had  to walk
from there. Not even  a knife could be  taken into the headquarters  undetected.
Surveillance radars  mounted on  the roof  and tied  in to  the string-of-pearls
satellites in orbit around Wanderjahr would give adequate warning if the complex
were to  come under  fire by  projectile weapons,  which could  then be  quickly
neutralized.                              .

Between  working for  Commander Peters  by day  and mandatory  security duty  at
night, the team of  Dean and Claypoole had  hardly any free time  to themselves.
All  the Marines,  officers, NCOs,  and junior  enlisted men  lived inside   the
headquarters; some, such  as the communications  and aviation personnel,  set up
their sleeping units at their workstations so they could be available around the
clock. Dean and Claypoole were allowed to pick' an empty storage room for  their
quarters, an unaccustomed luxury for  Marine infantrymen, who in garrison  lived
in barrack complexes, each fire team in its own room but each complex containing
hundreds of  other men.  There was  always somebody  popping into  the fire team
rooms,  and the  common areas  were constantly  astir with  men playing   cards,
talking, horsing  around. And  back in  garrison, everyone's  life was  strictly
regulated by the training and deployment missions of their units. Here, when off
duty, they were all by themselves. Compared to the hubbub of barracks life,  the
silence in the building was disturbing  at first. The big recreational event  of
the day for  all the Marines  on the staff  was mealtimes. The  mess section had
been left fully staffed because the brigadier believed Marines worked best on  a
full stomach.


"Gentlemen," Commander Peters announced early one morning about a week after the
move to Brosigville, "the brigadier and  I are flying into the hills  today. You
deserve a break. Be back in the  building in time for guard mount tonight."  The
two looked at their new boss for about five seconds before grabbing their covers
and side arms and bolting out the door.

Outside, Claypoole skidded  to a stop  near the entrance  to the motor  pool and
stood looking into it with a bemused expression.

"Hey, get a move on," Dean  shouted when he noticed Claypoole wasn't  still with
him. "The town's this way."

Without looking at him, Claypoole waved at Dean to come back.

"What?" Dean demanded as he closed the gap.

"We're going in style." Claypoole turned his head and grinned at Dean.

"What do you mean?"

"The section landcar."

"We can't use that. It's for Commander Peters's official use."

"Sure we can. We work for him, he sent us on liberty, we're on official business
for him."

"But-"

Claypoole didn' t wait to hear Dean's objection. He darted to the F-2's landcar,
which was only  a few meters  inside the motor  pool, got in,  and drove it out.
"Get in," he said as he stopped next to Dean and opened the passenger-side door.

Dean protested, but climbed in anyway. Once they were on their way he said, "The
commander didn't say we could take his car off the port!"

"He  didn't   say  we   couldn't,"  Claypoole   responded.  "Don't   worry,  the
communications center knows where we'll be every second, and if they need us  or
want to call us back, they can do that. So far as I know, nothing around  here's
off-limits to us- yet."

Dean considered that for a moment and shrugged.

The Brosigville spaceport  occupied thousands of  hectares and was  a small city
unto itself. Just outside its main  gate was the village ofRosario, a  suburb of
Brosigville.  "We're  going  to Juanita's,"  Claypoole  announced  as they  were
perfunctorily waved through the gate.

Claypoole guided the landcar  down a tree-lined boulevard  and turned up a  side
street. It ended abruptly in  a cul-de-sac. "Damn!" Claypoole muttered,  turning
the vehicle around. "Turned too soon.  I've only been out here once  before," he
added, smiling awkwardly. Dean just made a face and kept his silence.

Juanita's was nestled among a row of shops and cafes about a kilometer from  the
gate. Behind  it the  neighboring low  hills, heavily  wooded with grospalms and
spikers, rolled away toward the city. The setting was more rural than urban, and
the small businesses served mostly local residents, nearly all of them employees
at the port. Juanita's was a haven for the men and women from the shuttle  craft
that were constantly coming and going at  the port. Just then, in the middle  of
the morning, the place was nearly deserted.

"Place  jumps after  dark, or  at least  it did  the one  time I  was in  here,"
Claypoole  said  as he  pushed  aside the  beaded  curtains that  hung  over the
doorway. "We'll have a few beers and some breakfast, okay?"

"I don't have much money," Dean said.

"Don't need much." Claypoole pulled out a wad ofWander-jahr marks. Each mark was
worth  about one-third  of a  Confederation credit,  the currency  in which  the
Marines were  paid. "A  mark will  get you  a whole  breakfast," Claypoole said.
"Twenty-five fennies for a beer." There  were a hundred fen-nies to a  mark. The
Wanderjahrian currency system  was based on  the German mark  of Old Earth,  but
over the generations since the original settlement, the German word pfennig  had
become "fenny." Upon  their arrival, the  Marines had been  permitted to convert
fifty credits to marks, not that any of them ever expected to get much chance to
spend the money in Brosigville or anywhere else on the planet.

Inside Juanita's it was cool and quiet. The air was circulated by large  ceiling
fans that rotated lazily.

"Welcome, Marines!" a large brown  woman sitting at a cashier's  station shouted
warmly.

"Juanita!" Claypoole exclaimed. "You remembered me!"

"Yes, Mr. Kaypole. You bring friend?" Claypoole introduced Dean, who shook hands
modestly with the big woman. Hearing the greetings, several young women came  in
from the sunlit patio at the rear of the cafe and gathered around the Marines.

"Employees!" Claypoole winked at Dean. "Breakfast, please, Juanita." As soon  as
the Wanderjahrian breakfast- boiled and  baked meats from animals native  to the
planet, fresh  bread, and  a variety  of luscious  fruits-was served,  the young
women, idle  and bored  during the  daytime, crowded  around the Marines' table,
chattering excitedly among themselves and eagerly urging various dishes upon the
two men. One  of the fruits,  a long skinny  white melon they  referred to as  a
"Canfil watermelon," was especially delicious. Filled with a thick, creamy white
juice, extremely sweet, and rich and seedless, they scooped it out eagerly  with
large silver spoons.

"Buddha's brown balls," Dean whispered, "this is embarrassing!" A very beautiful
girl,  who said  her name  was Mag-dalena,  sat next  to Claypoole  and  laughed
merrily as she tried to feed  him pieces of fruit. Claypoole immediately  dubbed
her "Maggie," and before she could react,  planted a wet kiss full on her  lips.
The other women shrieked with  laughter and the brown-skinned Maggie  blushed so
hard her face turned almost black. She slapped Claypoole on the cheek, hard. The
blow echoed throughout the dining room  and brought tears to his eyes.  Then she
kissed him back very long and very hard and laughed.

Rising suddenly, Maggie took a  musical instrument, something like a  banjo, off
the wall and began to sing a  lively ballad in three-four time. Her voice  was a
surprisingly good soprano and she plucked the instrument's strings expertly. The
other girls laughed and began to keep time by clapping their hands.

"What language is she singing?" Dean asked.

"It is the old language our  ancestors brought here," a girl who  called herself
Jallalla said. "The song is about a  man who comes home and finds that  his wife
has run away with his best friend."

"Oh, how sad!" Dean replied.

"He is singing about how much he misses his friend." Jallalla laughed.

"Oh," Dean said.

Jallalla leaned close to Dean and said, "No, that is not what she is singing  at
all. She sings about your friend and the song is very dirty."

"Oh," Dean replied. "Why doesn't anybody ever sing a song like that about me?"

Jallalla leaned even closer and whispered into his ear, "Come back tonight and I
will sing a song like that about you too, and nobody else will hear me but you."

Done  with  breakfast,  the Marines  ordered  beer.  It proved  to  be  weak and
lukewarm. Brewing was  an art the  original settlers had  not brought with  them
from Germany. "Reindeer  piss!" Dean exclaimed.  He was used  to the full-bodied
brews of Thorsfinni's World.  Claypoole made a face  and pushed his glass  away.
"Guess we'll order water," he said.

"No, no," Maggie, who  had finished singing and  returned her banjo to  its peg,
protested. "Smoke thule with us!"

Claypoole made another face  and shook his head.  The Marines were forbidden  to
use thule on duty and discouraged  from using the drug off duty.  Maggie lighted
up a cigarillo and sucked the  smoke deep into her lungs. Exhaling,  she offered
it to Claypoole.  He looked at  the beer and  he looked at  Maggie, and took the
cigarillo. "Mmm. 'Finni tobacco is better," he said, exhaling a thin blue  cloud
of smoke, "and this doesn't do any... Hey! Dean-o, try this shit!"

Dean took  the cigarillo  and drew  on it.  The smoke  tasted sweet and caused a
pleasant tingling sensation as it passed into his lungs. He blew it out  through
his  nose. The  smell and  taste reminded  him of  flower blossoms  but not   so
cloying. He remembered the faintly acrid  aroma from the day he'd talked  to the
drivers who'd been smoking it at  Arschmann's mansion and noted it seemed  to be
missing now. "Do you have different, uh, grades of thule, I mean very good,  not
so good?" he asked one of the girls.

She smiled and nodded. "But this thule is very good quality," she said.

A feeling of  great peace and  satisfaction settled over  Dean. But at  the same
time his senses remained alert, keen. He took another drag and then another. The
intensity of the feeling did not increase. Jallalla said, "You smoke thule  long
time, feel  very good  while you  smoke, but  go back  to normal when done." She
smiled at Dean and draped a brown  arm about his neck. He could clearly  see the
fine black hairs on the back of her arm. He took her hand in his and thought  he
could feel the blood pulsing through her fingers. "Thule a little different  for
each person," Jallalla told him.

"You bet!" Claypoole answered, feeling an erection beginning.

"But nobody ever fight when using thule," the third girl, Auca, told them.

"It sure doesn't cut down on  hormones!" Claypoole laughed as his hand  caressed
Maggie's considerable frontage. She squeezed his earlobe-hard-in return.

Dean felt himself slipping into a  state of euphoria. While he remained  acutely
conscious of everything about him, even the mundane objects in the room took  on
the appearance of brilliant works of art. He regarded the still-full beer  glass
before him on the  table and marveled at  how wonderfully the bubbles  proceeded
from the bottom to join the thin head  of foam just under the rim. How could  he
have been so insensitive as to think  this was an inferior brew? He sipped  some
of the beer. It still tasted like reindeer piss. But good, very good.

Dean smiled up at Jallalla, who was now sitting very close to him at the  table.
She  leaned  closer  and  nibbled on  his  ear-lobe.  "Come  back tonight?"  she
whispered, and  then slowly  kissed him.  Dean closed  his eyes  and tasted  the
girl's  lips. Her  teeth brushed  lightly against  his and  he felt  a  pleasant
electric shock at the contact.

"Hey," Claypoole shouted, "everybody out back! C'mon, we're gonna spend the  day
on the patio!"

The next  hour was  the most  pleasant Joe  Dean could  ever remember. Juanita's
patio extended for fifty meters behind  the dining room and was surrounded  by a
lush garden. Chairs and tables were  spaced at wide intervals. Half a  kilometer
beyond the  garden the  verdant hills  began. At  that time  of day  the sun was
pleasantly warm, so the  five of them sat  at one table in  the shade of a  vine
covered trellis, drank  cool fruit punch,  smoked thule, laughed,  bantered, and
spoke of  home and  family and  friends. Claypoole  recited the  events of their
recent adventures on Eineal as  the girls listened with wide-eyed  attention. He
promised to introduce them to the magnificent Charlie Bass, and he really  meant
it.

Dean was lolling with one arm about Jallalla and the other around Auca,  puffing
on his second cigarillo, totally at peace with himself and the entire  universe,
regarding with a  deep sense of  well-being the stunning  natural beauty of  the
green  hills beyond  the patio.  The girls,  puffing on  their own  cigaril-los,
sighed contentedly.

Dean remembered his friend, Fred McNeal, who'd been killed on Eineal. He thought
how much Freddie would've enjoyed Wanderjahr and Juanita's. But this time, for a
change, remembering his dead friend did  not fill him with sadness. He  tried to
conjure a  mental image  of McNeal,  but it  kept going  out of  focus, and Dean
realized  Fred's features  were already  beginning to  fade in  his memory.   No
matter, Freddie had died bravely, and when it was his own time to go. Dean knew,
he wouldn't be afraid.

Maggie, meanwhile, had put her mouth close to Claypoole's ear, to tell the lance
corporal the only news short of promotion he ever wanted to hear. She whispered,
"Come with me to my room. Now."

Then Dean saw a  bright flash on the  distant hillside, and he  lurched forward,
pulling the two women with him to the ground. Three more flashes winked from the
hillside in quick succession. The first bullet smacked into the table where Dean
had been sitting, plowing  a furrow through the  wood, then ricocheting off  the
paving stones in a bright flash of sparks and fragments. The second went through
the hole punched  in the wood  by the first  one and spanged  harmlessly off the
paving stones.  But the  third round  hit Maggie  just behind  her right ear and
exited the other side of her head in a spray of blood mixed with bone  fragments
and chunks of brain. The fourth round whizzed harmlessly past Claypoole's  right
ear.

In the next second the  distant pop-pop-pop-pop of the discharges  reached their
ears. And then Claypoole  was on his feet,  holding Maggie in his  arms, her red
wet blood smeared all  over his face, uttering  a scream of rage  and despair so
terrible it made Dean's blood run cold.


Quickly, Dean got the others inside the cafe, and after a few moments  Claypoole
came to his  senses and they  drew their weapons,  prepared for an  assault, but
none  came  and  no more  shots  were  fired at  them.  They  comforted the  two
hysterical girls as best they could  while waiting for the police and  emergency
units. The thule did not help  at all in these circumstances. Juanita  fluttered
about, muttering to herself, "Bad things happen now you Marines come here,  bad,
bad things!" Dean wanted to shut her up, a rising sense of anger and frustration
mounting inside him, but he could think of nothing to say that would silence the
woman who only a little while earlier had welcomed them so warmly.

They had dragged Maggie's body inside with them. Now she lay in a comer,  draped
with a cloth  hastily snatched from  a nearby table,  dark blood slowly  pooling
beneath her head. Her  feet stuck out from  the sheet. One still  wore a sandal;
the other was bare. Dean looked steadily  at the one bare foot for a  long time.
She had manicured her  toenails, he noticed. She  would never do that  again, or
sing a song either, or  laugh, or ... He thought  again of McNeal and shook  his
head sharply. He  was losing it.  He focused his  mind on the  royal ass-chewing
they'd get when Brigadier Sturgeon found out about the day's events.

Claypoole kept his mind  as nearly blank as  he could. He lay  prone just inside
the door to the patio, his weapon leveled at the rear of the patio, watching for
movement from the direction of the nearby hills.

Dean went over to Juanita. "Did you 'call the police?" he asked.

"I call them! I  call them!" she exclaimed,  then broke into sobs.  Dean put his
arm awkwardly around her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

That's how they were  standing when the first  police vehicle roared up  outside
and uniformed officers, weapons drawn, burst in through the door. Dean  wondered
just what they'd been told had happened when two officers rushed up and  grabbed
him by the arms.  A third removed his  blaster from its holster.  Instantly, the
place was  full of  police officers.  Three more  pulled Claypoole  up from  the
floor. Claypoole snatched his right arm free and delivered a roundhouse blow  to
the side of the second officer's head,  but his legs were kicked out from  under
him and he crashed to the floor with two policemen on top. The man he'd hit took
an electric  prod from  his equipment  belt, set  it on  stun, and  was about to
deliver a knockout shock when a powerful voice sounded from the doorway.

"Halt!"  Everyone froze.  Two men  entered, one  short and  trim and  wearing  a
uniform, the other much  larger and dressed in  loose civilian clothes. The  big
man walked to the center of the room and ordered the officers to release the two
Marines. Dean was pleasantly surprised to see it was Chief Long.

"Lads, I want you to meet  Commissioner Alois Landser, chief of the  Brosigville
Stadtpolizei  and  the  man  responsible  for  law  enforcement  through  all of
Arschland," Chief Hugyens Long  said. Landser, a spare,  gray little man with  a
black goatee, clicked his heels loudly and bowed slightly as he was  introduced.
He wore an immaculate uniform, a  sky-blue tunic with black trousers sporting  a
bloodred stripe down the outside -seam of each leg. His black leather Sam Browne
belt shone with polish,  and a silver badge  of office glittered brightly  above
his  left  breast pocket.  A  smart visored  cap,  bill polished  to  mirrorlike
perfection, was  held tightly  under one  arm. The  other policemen  who swarmed
through the  cafe and  out the  back toward  the hills  were dressed  similarly,
except that lieutenants and below wore white tunics.

"I  beg  you to  return  with me  to  headquarters for  the  making of  personal
statements, gentlemen,"  Landser announced.  Long laid  his hand  gently on  the
commissioner's shoulder. "That  won't be necessary  right now, Alois,"  he said.
"We'll just sit here and talk to the lads a bit."

"But, my dear chief-"

"Sit down, Alois. Relax." Long smiled and pulled up a chair. He turned it around
and draped his arms over the back. Compared to Landser, Long looked  disheveled,
wrinkled clothes hanging  loosely about his  large frame. He  sported no visible
gear, just a capacious jacket over civilian trousers, but when he sat down. Dean
clearly saw the large handheld blaster slung under his left armpit.

Landser also took  a chair, but  he sat in  it stiffly, primly,  as if afraid to
wrinkle his trousers. Long's informal way of conducting serious police  business
frustrated the little man.  He was a capable  officer, but subjected himself  to
very restrictive rules  of conduct that  never permitted him  to relax while  on
duty-and seldom when off. But he could obey orders. And he was obeying them now,
because Long was chief of police at Chairman Arschmann's express instructions.

"Remember, Alois," the chairman  had told him the  day Hugyens Long had  arrived
and presented  his credentials,  "this man  is now  in charge.  You will  be his
understudy. You will leam to  do things his way, Alois,  or you are out. Out  at
his discretion. I have given him total independence and the authority to act  as
he sees fit to completely reorganize your force. I want my police to be the best
on the planet, and if you do not  go along with Chief Long, you are finished.  I
don't care that your family  has served mine faithfully for  generations, Alois.
This is a totally pragmatic matter. It is business. You will not mess it up."

At  first  Landser  had been  so  insulted  at his  master's  command  that he'd
considered quitting on the spot.  Only strong self-discipline and the  fact that
his family had served the Arschmanns for generations had enabled him to keep his
silence-and  his job.  Landser's family  was not  a prominent  one, but  it  was
respected,  and his  blood was  completely German.  Landser felt  he was   being
treated like one of the common mixed-bloods. Most galling was the fact that  his
fate had been put into the hands of  an offworider. It had taken him a full  day
to get  control of  himself. He  sensed that  things on  Wanderjahr would change
somehow, with the Marines there, and he intended to be around to take  advantage
of whatever altered circumstances presented themselves in the future.

So now Alois Landser sat dutifully at a small table in Juanita's cafe. He  would
leam something from this offworider. Meanwhile, his resentment against Arschmann
smoldered.

"Tell me what happened," Long asked the two Marines.

Dean looked at Claypoole,  his face white but  his eyes burning with  suppressed
rage, and decided to do the talking for both of them. In a few words he told the
policemen the story. During the telling, various police officers approached  the
chief  and  whispered information  into  his ear.  Long  simply nodded  and  the
officers disappeared.

"How did you know to duck at the flash of the first shot?" Commissioner  Landser
asked.

Dean shrugged. "I've been shot at before by those kinds of weapons, on Eineal. I
guess when I saw that first flash, my instincts took over."

"Claypoole," the chief said, "do you have anything to add?"

"I will kill whoever did this," Claypoole muttered, his voice tense with anger.

Chief Long  nodded. "Let  us do  a little  more work  on this  before you  start
shooting up Brosigville, Marine."

"Fuck," Claypoole muttered.

"Look, lads," Chief Long began, "I'm  here to teach these people how  to conduct
police operations. That's something I know how to do real good. You Marines  are
here to teach the Feldpolizei how to  fight, which you do real good. But  either
of you guys get in my way and you're history. Okay?"

"Sorry. Okay," Claypoole answered.

"These officers who've been whispering in my ear as you were talking located the
sniper's position, about eight hundred meters straight out the back door. He was
shooting  from the  limbs of  a spiker  tree out  there. No  shell casings,  few
footprints, that's it. Evidently he had plenty of time to get into position.  He
probably  used  a  semiautomatic  projectile  rifle  firing  caseless  ammo. The
guerrillas have them. Who knew you were coming here today?"

Claypoole shrugged. "Nobody." Dean nodded.

"Then they were being watched,"  Long said to Commissioner Landser,  who nodded.
"They were watching your  compound, and when they  saw you leave, they  followed
you. Did you see anybody suspicious along the way here?"

"No, sir," both Marines answered.

"Put some agents in the vicinity  of the Marine headquarters, Alois. Perhaps  we
can watch the watchers."

"We have  our informant  network too,  sir," Landser  said. "I  will put out the
word."

Chief  Long  smiled  and  thought  to himself.  Yes,  Alois,  you  do  have your
"network," and if it's the last thing I do, I'm going to find out what's in  it.
He returned  his attention  to the  Marines. "Your  Commander Peters  and I  are
spending a lot of the  Confederation's credit here to establish  an intelligence
network.  Once  it's  up  and  going,  we'll  share  information,  but  for now,
Commissioner Landser's agents are all we have. It's not a bad network either."

Beside him Landser nodded and thought. Good enough to stick a certain  prominent
old bastard where it'll hurt.

"Okay, been a long  day for both of  you. I am really  sorry it had to  end this
way. Whoever did this meant to hit both you and the girls. The first two  rounds
seem to have been meant  for Dean, but the shooter  fired the third one at  Miss
Magdalena. The fourth was meant for  you, Claypoole, but he missed. Sometime  in
the next  few days,  you lads  come by  headquarters and  see me.  We have  some
details to wrap up. Now you better get  back to your own HQ and leave this  mess
to us."

The pair rose. "One thing. Chief..." Claypoole said. Long nodded. "When you find
out who did this and you go to get  him, I want to be there. Will you let  me? I
promise, no trouble. But I want to be in on it."

A long moment of silence passed  before Long replied. He looked steadily  at the
two Marines. Claypoole's utilities were stained dark with Maggie's blood.  Chief
Long could read the character of any man. These were good lads. "All right,"  he
said.


After the two Marines left, Landser turned to Chief Long. "The shooter did  want
to  hit the  girls, didn't  he? He  wasn't shooting  just at  the Marines.  That
impresses me as a very important fact."

Chief Long nodded slowly. "I think  he missed Dean because light travels  faster
than a  bullet and  Dean reacted  quickly when  he saw  the first  muzzle flash.
Christ, what reflexes! That  second shot was insurance,  but yes, the third  one
was right on target. He wanted to kill the girl, maybe even more than either  of
the Marines."

"Bandits? Cause terror and resentment here in the Bro-sigville suburbs?" Landser
asked.

Long grunted. "Have the guerrillas been doing much of that?"

Landser thought for a moment. "No. Propaganda, yes. Sabotage, some. But outright
murder to intimidate? No.  It might be a  new tactic, a desperate  move now that
the Marines are here to help the government."

Chief Long  rose from  the table  and clapped  Landser on  the shoulder. "Alois,
let's go back and think this whole thing over."

Landser sat at the table a moment before following Chief Long outside. Who could
it have been but  the bandits? he wondered.  He did not know  Chief Hugyens Long
very well yet, but he sensed the chief's instincts were very good.


With the resiliency of youth reinforced by very hard combat experience that  had
taught them people close to you get  killed, the two young Marines were able  to
put the bombing  and Maggie's shooting  in the background  and go on  with their
duties. Still, Claypoole knew he wouldn't rest easy until her death was avenged.
It wasn't that  he'd gotten to  know Maggie at  all well, or  that their budding
relationship, as superficial as it was, had been cut short. What made him  angry
was the fact that an innocent life  had been destroyed by some dumb shit  with a
rifle who couldn't even hit two  man-size targets at eight hundred meters.  He'd
never had a projectile weapon in his  hands in his life, although he'd seen  the
Siad warriors on Eineal use them to good effect. But he knew if he did ever  use
one, he'd be sure he could hit something with it.

After  a long  and very  one-sided talk  with FIST  Sergeant Major  Shiro  about
unauthorized trips in official vehicles, the two returned to duty very  subdued.
All Commander Peters said to them was, "You did well under the circumstances."


Two days  later. Commander  Peters allowed  them to  visit police  headquarters.
After  they went  over the  events for  the investigative  team Chief  Long  had
assigned to the case, the big  policeman escorted them to his newly  established
foren-sics lab.

"How much do you know about  the police organization on Wanderjahr?" Long  asked
as they walked from his office to the lab.

Claypoole shrugged. "There are field police and city police."

"We advise the field police and you advise the city police," Dean added.

"Close enough," Long said. "Originally  there were no 'field' police.  They only
came into  being when  the insurgency  started. With  no army  to speak  of, the
oligarchs had to  create some kind  of armed body  that could cope  with it. The
metropolitan police forces were neither equipped nor trained to do that. All the
cops on this planet go to the same police academy. Each Staat has its own  force
and runs its own training program, but essentially the curriculums are about the
same. That's  something I'm  working on.  But basically  the metropolitan police
forces  here are  pretty good.  They know  the basic  patrol and   investigative
techniques  about   as  well   as  any   police  force   anywhere  else  in  the
Confederation."

"I hear the field police are a bunch of comedians," Clay-poole said.

"They're being led  by fools," Long  replied. "After basic  police training, the
men selected for  assignment to field  battalions go to  an infantry-type school
that's run by the Ruling Council.  The field police are commanded by  an officer
appointed by the Council, and it operates independently of the oligarchs'  Staat
governments. That's a good concept. Where  it's screwed up is, the field  police
are commanded by idiots. I think  your Brigadier Sturgeon will 'ook into  that,"
he added dryly.

They were  at the  lab. Chief  Long paused  just outside  the door. "This is the
Brosigville  Stadtpolizei  forensics  lab. Do  you  know  anything about  police
forensics?"

"That's how you figure out who committed the crime?" Claypoole ventured.

Chief  Long  nodded. "That's  about  it. But  it's  a science  unto  itself that
includes a lot of things besides taking fingerprints and looking at  footprints.
A forensics expert can look at the details of a crime scene and tell you volumes
about what  happened there.  For instance,  the pattern  of blood  spots at  the
murder  scene can  tell him  how the  crime was  committed, even  how tall   the
murderer was."

He led  them over  to a  workbench and  picked up  a twisted metal fragment. "My
forensics  people did  a chemical  analysis on  this fragment,"  he told   them,
holding up the piece of metal. "I brought a good team along with me to teach the
Wander-jahrians how  to set  up their  own lab-and  imagine my  surprise when  I
discovered they already  had some very  well-qualified people here."  The portly
policeman chuckled as he sat down at the workbench. "At least one of Arschmann's
nephews has brains. He got the old man to fund a pretty sophisticated  forensics
program for this police department.  Technologically, these guys are way  behind
most other Confederation worlds' police  force forensics teams, but they've  got
the basic techniques down pat."

"Lean closer."  The two  Marines peered  over the  chiefs shoulders.  "There was
enough chemical residue on  this fragment that we  were able to figure  out what
kind of  bomb it  was," Long  said proudly,  turning the  fragment slowly in his
gloved fingers.

"Why the gloves?" Claypoole asked.

"The stuff stinks, and when you get it  on you, it's hard to get off. Smell  it.
Besides, it's been a rule for hundreds  of years that you don't handle any  kind
of evidence with your bare paws."

Claypoole sniffed gingerly  and drew back  quickly. Chief Long  laughed and held
the  fragment out  to Dean.  "Won't hurt  you, lads!"  The odor  coming off  the
scorched bit of metal was tantalizingly  familiar to Dean. He knew he'd  smelled
it before, but couldn' t remember where.

"Constantine!" Long  shouted. A  short, gray-haired  man in  a smock turned from
where he was explaining  to a group of  police recruits the mysteries  of latent
fingerprints. "Yes,  Chief?" He  excused himself  from his  students and  limped
over.

"This is Lieutenant Pete Constantine, gentlemen.  Lost his right leg in a  shoot
out with terrorists on Chilban last  year. He's my explosives expert, best  damn
man in that field you'll find anywhere in the Confederation."

"What happened to the terrorists?" Claypoole asked.

"Killed  'em all,"  Constantine answered.  "Got 'em  with a  grenade of  my  own
invention," he said proudly. " 'Course, I was a bit too close when it went off."
He  shrugged, patting  his right  leg. "But  I got  the job  done. Nerve  grafts
haven't quite healed up yet, but I'll be back on full duty anytime now. Look  at
this arm." He tapped his right forearm.  "Lost that in a lab accident about  ten
years ago. Good  as the real  one now. And  this eye," he  tapped his left  eye,
"took a fragment when a device I was defusing went off prematurely. Can see with
it better than I could with the old one. How can I help. Chief?"

"Give our Marine friends here a rundown on the bomb that was used against  their
headquarters, will you?"

"PETN w/M,"  Constantine answered.  "Pentaerythritol tetranitrate  with Monroite
mixed to military specifications. Until about a hundred and fifty years ago PETN
was  a  standard  explosive  compound  used  in  military  munitions.  Then they
developed Monroite, and that gave  the PETN more stability while  increasing its
power. Don't see it much anymore  in modem military munitions, not since  plasma
weapons came into use, but it's still plenty available.

"I estimate these bombs generated a shock wave traveling at about eight thousand
meters  a second  at a  temperature of  somewhere around  five thousand  degrees
Centigrade. It was  that blast wave  that got everyone.  Pretty respectable, but
you'll notice the explosions did little structural damage to the buildings.  Not
intended to.  They were  set off  to get  people in  the open.  The blast  waves
dissipated rather quickly. Oh, they destroyed  things in the street and blew  in
the frontage on the lower floors of the buildings, but you don't bring buildings
down by setting off bombs in the streets outside. The first one we think was  in
some kind of handcart, one of  those fruit-vending carts you see in  the streets
around here  all the  time. The  second, larger  bomb was  in a  landcar about a
hundred meters up  the street from  the first, where  it was protected  from the
first blast.  Both were  detonated remotely;  we found  enough of  the detonator
components to establish that fact."

"How will you catch the guy who did it?" Dean asked.

Chief Long sighed. "That, my lad, is the question. They use PETN w/M explosives.
The whole thing has the earmarks of  a rebel terrorist attack. But I don't  know
... Whoever did  this knew precisely  where you'd be  moving, and had  plenty of
time to set things up.  Same with whoever shot at  you guys the other day.  I've
discussed this with Commander Peters. We  know the guerrillas have cells in  the
city here, but  I'm not sure  they have the  logistics to pull  off a thing like
this even with advance notice. You lads figure that out for me and I'll buy  you
both as much cold beer as you can drink."

Claypoole picked  up the  bomb fragment  again and  sniffed at  it. "Smells like
burning  rags," he  said. "Urn,  no, not  rags, more  like burning  grass.  Yes.
Funny."

"That's the Monroite residue. Leaves a strong, almost indelible odor. Get it  on
you,  you just  wear it  for weeks  after-ward. You  spend even  a little   time
handling that stuff and it gets all over you."

"I've smelled it  before!" Dean exclaimed.  The three men  stared at him.  "Yes!
Here, since we've been on Wanderjahr. Damn. Where?" He turned to Claypoole,  who
just shrugged.

"Take your time, Mr. Dean," Chief Long said. "Make sure. You remember where  you
smelled this odor, and we might have our bomber."

And then it  came to him:  Chairman Arschmann's parking  lot, the three  drivers
standing there smoking mule. "Garth!" he blurted out.



CHAPTER SEVEN

Staff Sergeant Charlie Bass didn't have  any problems with the orders that  came
down from FIST headquarters; he thought they were exactly the orders that  would
allow the Marines to accomplish their mission. But others had problems with  the
orders, and that created problems for him. As soon as the platoon was  dismissed
after Ensign  vanden Hoyt  read the  orders, Sergeant  Hyakowa, the senior squad
leader, and all  three of his  fire team leaders  approached Bass. A  very angry
Lance Corporal Dave Schultz reached him first.

"No! I won't do  it!" Schultz shouted. "I'm  not an NCO! I  don't want to be  an
NCO. I'm exactly what I want to be, and that's a lance corporal. I won't do  it.
You can court-martial me if you want to, but I won't do it!"

"Now, now, Schultz, calm down." Bass patted his hands on the air in a  placating
gesture. "Nobody's asking you to fill the role of a noncommissioned officer." He
didn't bother looking to first squad's NCOs for help; he knew they wouldn't give
him any. Why  should they? He  knew he wouldn't  offer any help  if he'd been in
their position.

Schultz glared. "That's sure what it sounds like to me."

"Hammer, you  are the  kind of  lance corporal  every junior  Marine strives  to
become. Before you were a lance corporal, you were one of the best PPCs who ever
served in the Corps.  When you were a  private, you were so  good your superiors
couldn't wait to promote you to PPC. You  are the best at what you are, at  what
you do. That's what you want to be, what you want to do. Nobody has any argument
with that, nobody wants to try to make you be something you don't want to be."

"Well, what do you think making me a squad leader is?" Bass shook his head. "Not
a squad leader, the Feldpolizei doesn't  have squad leaders. You're going to  be
an acting shift chief."

"That sounds like a squad leader to me."

"It's not a squad leader. Nobody's making you a squad leader."

"That's  right,  and  nobody's  going to  either.  Tma  lance  cor-poral, not  a
sergeant."

"Listen to me, Schultz," Bass said more calmly than he felt. "I said you're  the
best. And I meant  it. Do you agree  with me that these  Feldpolizei aren't very
good as fighters?"

Schultz snorted. Not very good wasn't the way he'd put it.

"Do you agree they need to be trained?"

Schultz  looked  toward the  empty  parade ground  where  the 257th  Feldpolizei
Battalion  had made  its abortive  assault on  one platoon  of Marines.   "Wrong
question. Can they be trained, that's the question."

"They can be  trained. They may  never be as  good as Marines,  but they can  be
trained."

Schultz grunted; he'd believe it when he saw it.

"Think back. Who were your drill instructors in Boot Camp? They were some of the
best Marines you've ever served under or with, right?"

Schultz nodded grudgingly.

"It's the same here, maybe even more so. We need the best people to train  them.
And you're the best."

Schultz challengingly looked Bass in the eye. "So put me in a classroom."

Bass  shook his  head. "A  classroom won't  do it.  The FPs  are involved  in  a
counterinsurgency war." Bass had tired of constantly using the cumbersome German
name for the  Wander-jahrian field police  and gave it  an English abbreviation.
Thus, in time-honored military tradition, was born a shorter name for the  local
paramilitary force. "They can't  be taken out of  the field for classroom  work.
Besides, what  you know  can't be  taught in  school. What  you know has to, can
only, be taught in the field. On patrols. I am going to give you a shift of  PPs
to teach."

"As squad leader."

"Not as squad leader." Bass silently  thanked the stars for the subtle  semantic
difference between squad and shift.  "They don't have squads, they  have shifts.
And you'll be a teacher."

"If  all I'm  doing is  teaching them,  how come  I'm getting  an FP  sergeant's
warrant?"

That was really  what Lance Corporal  Dave Schultz was  unhappy about. He  was a
career lance corporal; he  didn't want to be  a corporal, much less  a sergeant.
But in order for the relatively few Marines  of 34th FIST to do a proper job  of
training the many thousands of men in the Feldpolizei, they had to be integrated
into the FP units. One platoon of Marines was assigned to each battalion, and at
that, there  weren't enough  Marine platoons  to go  around. The  Marine platoon
commander and sergeant worked with the FP battalion commander and his staff. One
squad was assigned to each company in the battalion, one three-man fire team  to
each  platoon. The  Marine-sergeant squad  leader had  to teach  the FP  captain
company commander,  and the  corporal fire  team leaders  the lieutenant platoon
leaders. That left the lance corporals, PFCs, and privates the responsibility of
training the  shifts and  their leaders.  But it  wouldn't do  to have an ensign
teaching a commander, a sergeant teaching a captain, a corporal a lieutenant, or
a private a sergeant. So  Brigadier Sturgeon, with the agreement  and assistance
of  the  Confederation  ambassador to  Wanderjahr,  Jayben  Spears, secured  the
appropriate commissions and warrants in the Feldpolizei for all of his  Marines.
And that made  Lance Corporal Schultz  extremely unhappy. The  way Ensign vanden
Hoyt  had  worded  it  when  he told  his  men  about  the  arrangement, Schultz
interpreted it  to mean  he was  being promoted  to sergeant.  It wasn't  vanden
Hoyt's word  choice that  made Schultz  think that,  though. Schultz  would have
reached that conclusion no matter how the order was worded.

"That's right, FP sergeant's stripes. You're  not going to be a sergeant  in the
Marines," Bass  reiterated. "You'll  still be  a Marine  lance corporal. But you
need the FP stripes to make sure  the men you're teaching obey... ah, make  sure
they listen when you tell them something."

"The Eagle, Globe, and  Starstream on my collar  brass should be enough  to tell
them to listen up when I speak," Schultz said.

Bass nodded. "Right, you know that and I know that," he said with the  arrogance
common to those who  served in elite forces.  "But not everybody knows  it. Some
people need  to see  the rank  insignia to  be impressed.  So you're going to be
wearing  sergeant's stripes."  He held  up a  hand to  stop whatever   objection
Schultz was  about to  make. "They're  not real  sergeant's stripes,  not Marine
sergeant. They're FP  sergeant's stripes. Look  at it this  way. An FP  sergeant
knows  about half  as much  about fighting  as a  Marine recruit  who's made  it
halfway through Boot Camp. Don't think of it as an unwanted promotion, think  of
it as a bust."

Schultz knew that wasn't  true, but having just  said in effect that  any Marine
outranked an PP sergeant, he couldn't very well argue the point. He gave  in-but
not graciously.


Schultz wasn't the only problem Bass had to deal with regarding the  Feldpolizei
promotions. As  soon as  Schultz stomped  away. Corporals  Ratliff and  Domhofer
jumped in.

"No!" Startled  at simultaneously  speaking so  vehemently, they  looked at each
other. Domhofer dipped his head, deferring to Ratliff as the senior of them.

"Godenov isn't good enough  to lead a one-man  kitchen police detail, much  less
run a  fifteen-man police  shift," Ratliff  declared. "The  man's a  natural-bom
follower." He looked at Domhofer as though to say "your turn."

"Make MacIlargie a  shift sergeant, and  you'll have the  most screwed up,  most
troublemaking shift in the entire FP," Domhofer stated.

In a  less heated,  less demanding,  more conciliatory  tone, Ratliff continued,
"Besides, it's really not fair to our men to expect an inexperienced junior  man
to train  and lead  a fifteen-man  shift." He  wasn't for  an instant  fooled by
Bass's claim to Schultz that the Marines weren't acting in leadership positions.

"Right." Domhofer saw what Ratliff  was thinking. "Make us a  headquarters group
and we'll supervise the FP shift sergeants along with teaching the lieutenant."

Bass shook  his head.  "We need  to have  Marines actually  be in the leadership
positions, otherwise we'll just be  advisers, and history shows us  that doesn't
always work very well. Besides, Brigadier Sturgeon wants it that way, and when a
man with a  nova on his  collar says he  wants something done  a certain way,  I
don't argue the point."

All four junior NCOs stared at him dumbfounded. They knew very well that Charlie
Bass did things  the way he  thought they should  be done, no  matter who wanted
them done a different way.

Ratliff was the first to recover. "Right," he said. "You don't argue the  point,
you just go ahead and do it your own way."

Hyakowa, silent to  that point, gaped  at Ratliff. He'd  been thinking the  same
thing, but hadn't thought it was a good idea to voice.

"You just be glad I didn't hear  that," Bass snarled. He felt a blush  spreading
on his face.

Leach,  who'd been  quiet to  this point,  said, "Staff  Sergeant Bass,  they're
right. This isn't going to work. You and Ensign vanden Hoyt are going to be  too
busy  teaching the  new battalion  commander and  his staff  how to  run  combat
operations to supervise the platoon. Sergeant Hyakowa is going to have his hands
full running the company headquarters. The three of us will be so busy with  the
lieutenants,"  a  smile  nickered  across his  face  as  he  thought of  himself
supervising an officer, "we aren't going to have much time to help our men."

Hyakowa jumped in  for the first  time. "As much  as I hate  to say it,  they're
right. This arrangement  puts too much  of a burden  on the junior  men. There's
simply not enough of us to go around."

"But there are," Bass said. "We're getting reinforced."

The junior NCOs glanced at each other. What reinforcements was he talking about?

"Doyle and Stevenson are being assigned to us..."

"The company clerk and the driver?" Leach and Ratliff squawked.

Domhofer nudged Ratliff.

"Oh, right," Ratliff  mumbled. "Doyle, he's  okay." Ratliff ruefully  remembered
that Doyle had a Bronze Star and he didn't.

"I'm giving Stevenson to  second squad to replace  Clay-poole. You get Doyle  to
fill in for Dean because you've got two men who've seen him in action and  trust
him." The two he was talking about were Domhofer and Chan, each of whom had also
won a Bronze Star in the action where Doyle had gotten his. "DuPont," Bass said,
naming the  platoon communications  man, "will  help Wang  with the  lieutenant,
which will free him to help you so you can properly supervise your men. So,  you
see, there's  no problem.  You've got  enough men."  Bass turned  to leave,  but
didn't complete his turn before Ratliff and Domhofer were objecting again.

"Doyle's okay,  DuPont's okay,"  Ratliff wasn't  so sure  about Stevenson,  "but
Godenov's still not good enough."

"That goes triple for MacIlargie," Domhofer said.

Bass turned  back, planted  his fists  firmly on  his hips,  and leaned  forward
aggressively. His  eyes stopped  briefly on  Hyakowa and  each of  his fire team
leaders to make sure they knew he  was addressing all of them. "We are  Marines.
From  the beginning,  way back  when Marines  carried muzzle-loading  projectile
weapons and sailed oceans  on wooden ships. Marines  have always done more  with
less  than anyone  else. Marines  have always  faced problems  others said  were
insolvable. Schultz has  a problem with  our assignment. That  means," he looked
Leach in the eye,  "that you have a  problem. Godenov is a  problem," staring at
Ratliff, "your  problem. MacIlargie  is a  problem," to  Dornhofer, "you  have a
problem." Then to Hyakowa: "Your fire team leaders have problems, that means you
have problems." Back to all  of them: "You are Marine  noncommissioned officers.
You have centuries of history behind  you, centuries of Marine NCOs solving  the
unsolvable. So solve your damn problems!"

Bass spun  about and  marched toward  the administration  building, where he and
vanden Hoyt had set up their headquarters.

He knew that sometimes the best way to deal with problems was to kick them  back
to the subordinates who brought them to you.


Not everybody  in first  squad had  a problem  with the  orders. Chan-not only a
lance corporal, but  a junior lance  corporal- was startled  by the orders  that
incorporated the Marines into the Feldpolizei as its officers and NCOs. Then  he
started thinking about it. He quickly  got beyond the elite arrogance of  "We're
Marines, of course we should be in charge" and got to the implications. This was
going to be a difficult job, he knew that almost instinctively. It was going  to
put to the test everything he knew about being a fighter, everything he  thought
he knew about leadership, and it was going to force him to learn a lot in a very
short time. It didn't take long for  him to stop thinking and start smiling.  He
hadn't realized  it before,  but it  was exactly  the kind  of challenge  he had
joined the Marines for. He was going to enjoy his assignment. And somehow,  some
way, he was going to succeed at being a squad leader tasked with turning a bunch
of glittery amateurs into professional soldiers.


The real  problems began  as soon  as the  Marines started  trying to  train the
Feldpolizei.

"But if we  dress in green,  like you do,  how will the  bandits see us coming?"
Acting Assistant Shift  Sergeant Alauren asked  Acting Shift Sergeant  Chan, the
Marine who'd supplanted him.

"That's the idea," Chan said patiently. "If they don't see you coming, you'll be
able to catch them."

"But how will we find them if we don't march in formation?"

"When you march in formation like you've been doing, that means they get to pick
the times and places to fight. When they do that, they hurt you."

"But they always run away when we fight them."

"Not until after they cause casualties," Chan said, still with patience.

"But we win, even when we have  men wounded or killed. If that wasn't  the case,
why would they run away?"

"Because they aren't trying to beat you, they're trying to hurt you and wear you
down."

"But we are winning. If we weren't winning, the bandits would fight to beat us."

"They will beat you if you keep using the same tactics you've been using,"  Chan
said. His patience was wearing thin.

Alauren blinked and looked at Chan blandly. It was obvious he didn't believe the
Marine.

"A couple of days ago, your entire battalion faced one platoon of Marines," Chan
said coldly. "We let you have the first shot. If we'd been using live ammunition
instead of simulators, most of you would  be dead now. And you didn't manage  to
hit any of us."

The muscles at  Alauren'sjaws bunched and  his eyes turned  hard. He hadn't  yet
forgiven the Marines for that embarrassment. He might never forgive them.

Chan realized he was off to a bad start.


"You,"  Schultz  snarled, glaring  at  a randomly  selected  trooper. "Hit  that
target." He pointed at  a man-size ferrocrete block  standing in front of  a ten
meter-high berm a hundred meters away on the firing range.

The chosen trooper paled. He swallowed and  his knees shook as he stared at  the
ferocious Marine, hoping that  he wasn't really the  one picked. But he  was. He
fumbled a battery into the well of his blaster and raised it to his shoulder.

"NO, you  idiot!" Schultz  roared. He  took the  few steps  between him  and the
trooper and ripped  the weapon from  his hands. "Don't  you know anything  about
range safety?"  he growled  in a  hardly milder  voice. "Never  load your weapon
until you're in position on the firing line. Keep your muzzle pointed  downrange
at all times." He grabbed the trooper by the front of his tunic and dragged  him
to the firing position,  where he slammed the  blaster back into his  hands. The
blaster bounced off the  man's chest and would  have clattered to the  ground if
Schultz hadn't caught it.

Schultz closed his  eyes and breathed  slowly while he  counted to te".  When he
opened his eyes, he held the blaster out for the quaking Wanderjahrian to  take.
"Now, mister," he said,  the strain of not  yelling evident in his  voice, "load
your weapon, aim at  your target, and kill  it." He stepped back  and watched as
the trooper fumbled  a battery into  the well, put  his weapon to  his shoulder,
pointed it downrange, and pressed the firing lever. He then looked to see  where
the plasma  bolt hit.  Steam rising  a good  four meters  from the target showed
where it hit.

"You missed," Schultz began softly. "You  weren't even close enough to make  him
keep his head down." As he spoke his voice rose. "If that was a man and he  knew
how to shoot, you'd be dead now!" His voice was at full scream before he reached
the last word.

He jerked the blaster from  the unfortunate trainee's hands, popped  the battery
out of the  well, and thrust  the weapon back  at him with  a snarled "Don't you
dare drop it." He shoved him back toward his position in the shift formation and
pointed wildly at another. "You! On the firing line!"

The second shooter missed by nearly six meters. Schultz howled. The third victim
called to the firing line was shaking so badly his shot went completely over the
backdrop berm.

Schultz's complexion was normally a dull copper. It was becoming maroon.

"Sir," Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant  Kharim said, his voice cracking  because
it took every bit  of courage he could  muster to address Acting  Shift Sergeant
Schultz, "that is not the way we have been trained to shoot."

Schultz spun on the man whose place in the organization he'd taken. In two  long
strides his  nose was  mere inches  away from  the Wanderjahrian's. "You've been
trained?"  Schultz  shouted,  spraying  the  Feldpolizei  sergeant's  face  with
spittle. "Not that I can see."

Kharim swallowed. "Sir, if I might demonstrate."

Sehultz's  eyes  bored  into  the  man's.  Emotions,  mostly  anger,  fury,  and
frustration, roiled his face. Abruptly he took  a step back and swung an arm  at
the firing line. "Show me," he snapped.

Kharim  swallowed  again,  then  stepped to  the  front  of  the shift.  "Shift,
attention!" The members of the shift  snapped to. "Advance on the firing  line!"
They briskly stepped forward. Kharim was  now standing a pace behind the  center
of  the  line of  his  shift. "Load!"  Fourteen  pairs of  hands  sharply loaded
fourteen blasters. "Shoulder arms!" They brought their weapons sharply to  their
shoulders, muzzles pointed down-range. "Ready!" Kharim looked to his left and to
his right. "FIRE!" Fourteen blasters crackled as one.

Schultz watched their scattered hits, groaned, and closed his eyes. "Two  hits,"
he mumbled. "The whole damn shift fired  at one target and only two of  them hit
it." He opened his eyes and saw Kharim standing at attention in front of him.

"Did you see, sir? We hit the target."

"I want to see it again."

This time Schultz stood off to one  side, where he could watch down the  line of
shooters. Kharim went through the routine of volley firing again. Again the hits
spattered on a ragged  line across the target.  Again two of the  fourteen bolts
hit the target.

Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim turned and faced Schultz, head held  high
in triumph. "Sir, that is how we have been trained to shoot."

Without a word, Schultz stepped toward the line of FPs and snatched the  blaster
from the nearest man. He waved an arm to move the men back from the firing line,
then  twisted to  point his  left side  downrange, threw  the blaster  into  his
shoulder, aimed, and pressed the firing lever. CRACK! He hit the target  square.
He dropped onto  one knee without  moving the blaster  from his shoulder,  fired
again, scored a  second hit. He  fell back into  a sitting position,  took quick
aim, and  blasted the  target a  third time.  He threw  himself forward onto his
belly and hit it again. He popped the battery from the well, hopped back to  his
feet, and tossed the  blaster in the direction  of the man from  whom he'd taken
it.

"That is how I have been trained  to shoot," he snarled. "That is what  you will
learn to do." He paced the shift  line, glaring at each man in turn.  "I watched
you," he said as he paced. "I saw  what you did. Every one of you had  both eyes
open! You can't aim with both eyes open!" He grabbed a blaster and stepped  back
where everyone  could see  him. "Do  you see  this?" He  jabbed a  finger at the
blaster's front  sight. "To  aim, you  look at  this through  this." He  poked a
finger at the optics tube that was the rear sight. "When you are looking at  the
front sight through the rear sight, and  your target is lined up with them,  you
will hit the target every time. You're lucky  any of you hit it at all, the  way
you were shooting.

"You fired two volleys. Fourteen shots each time. Each time you got two hits. Do
you know  what that  means? That  means you  missed six  times out of seven! You
missed," he shrieked, "a man-size target,  standing in the open, at one  hundred
meters! I'd expect a bunch of civilians who'd never handled a blaster before  to
do that well!

"Give me a half-hidden man at one  thousand meters and I won't take seven  shots
at him. Do you know why?" he screamed. "Because before I get to my seventh  shot
there won't be enough of him left to shoot at!"

He stomped along  the line again,  this time checking  to make sure  all weapons
were unloaded. Satisfied  there wouldn't be  any accidental shootings,  he began
the training again.

"Put your weapons on your shoulders. Close your off eye. Look at the front sight
through the rear sight."


Acting Shift Sergeant MacIlargie tried to keep his face blank as he scanned  the
shift he was assigned to, but he couldn't keep the tip of his tongue from poking
out of  the comer  of his  mouth when  he looked  at the  former shift sergeant.
Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Nafciel. Ordering around a bunch ofFPs,  telling
them to do things their regular shift sergeant would never tell them to do,  was
going to be more fun than he ever thought he'd have as a Marine. And giving  the
former shift sergeant the  same orders, and making  him do the same  things, was
going to be  even better. Him,  ordering a sergeant  around! Oh yes.  MacIlargie
could hardly keep from bouncing with glee.

"All right," MacIlargie began. He had  to clear his throat to keep  the laughter
out of his voice.  "The first thing we're  going to work on  is movement through
wooded terrain." He looked at their uniforms and shook his head. "Of course,  it
doesn't matter how you move; dressed like that, a blind man could see you in the
middle of the  night. One good  thing, it'll make  it easier for  me to see what
you're  doing so  I can  correct your  mistakes. Not  that I  need your   bright
uniforms to be able to see you, you understand."

This time he couldn't  help himself; he laughed  and shook his head  at how much
fun this was going to be.

"Okay, listen up. Imagine there's a squad of guerrillas moving through the woods
there." He pointed to the nearby  trees. "They don't know you're here.  You need
to sneak up  on them and  catch them and  set an ambush  for them to  walk into.
Understand?" He nodded yes  for them. "Okay, let  me see you do  it." He stepped
off to the side to watch the shift snoop and poop through the woods.

The PPs  looked at  each other,  then aligned  themselves and  started into  the
woods. MacIlargie's jaw dropped. They  were marching erect, their blasters  held
at port arms.

They can't keep this up, he thought. Just give them until they reach the  trees,
then they'll break formation and start sneaking.

The FPs ran into  trouble as soon as  they reached the trees.  The woods weren't
thick enough to keep  them from carrying their  weapons at port arms,  but there
was enough undergrowth  that they couldn't  maintain their straight-line  dress.
They spent more time looking to their sides, trying to maintain their  positions
on line, than they did watching  where they were going. Their feet  kept getting
caught by  vines and  low-lying branches.  After the  third one fell, MacIlargie
called them back.

The troopers couldn't help but  look embarrassed when they reassembled  in front
of the Marine. None of them met  his eyes, which was just as well,  because this
time he didn't even try to keep amusement off his face.

"Okay, that's the way you used  to do it," MacDargie finally said.  "But there's
other things you know how  to do that will be  useful in this training. It  just
depends  on why  you're doing  something. Look  at it  this way:  you're not  in
formation, going against the  enemy. It's Seventh Day  night and you want  to go
into town, but  your shift sergeant  is pissed off  at you and  said you have to
stay in the barracks and clean your bright-work. Go back into the woods and show
me how you'd keep from being spotted by your shift sergeant."

The FPs looked at each  other, shocked by MacIlargie's instructions.  The former
shift sergeant stared at him with mixed hatred and horror.

Then one of the troopers said, "This is the way we'd do that."

MacIlargie grinned.


"Adel yer lep, yer ri', yer lep!" Godenov's voice rang across the parade ground.
"Lep, ri', lep! Column left, HARCHFThe Marine marched in place while the  double
column of  the second  platoon's second  shift smartly  executed his command and
turned in front of him. As the last  two men began their pivots to march in  the
new direction, Godenov pivoted himself and stepped out to maintain his  position
to the left of the marching FPs. "Adel yer lep, yer ri', yer lep!" They made  an
incongruous sight, the Marine in  his dull-green garrison utilities putting  the
orange-and-blue-clad Feldpolizei shift through parade ground close order  drill.
"Right flank, HARCH!" The FPs pivoted as a unit and marched on-line rather  than
in-line.

Godenov marveled. He'd never  seen a unit that  size march so sharply.  And more
marvelously, they were  doing it to  his command! His  eyes shined and  his face
glowed with joy and pride.

Fifty meters away.  Sergeant Wang Hyakowa's  eyes didn't shine,  neither did his
face  glow. Hyakowa's  eyes were  slitted and  his face  hard-set. Rather   than
showing joy and pride at how one  of his most junior men was so  sharply putting
the Wanderjahrians through their paces, his face projected anger and danger.  He
waited until Godenov's maneuvers had the PFC facing him, then made a hand signal
that said, "Come here."

"Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant  Lahrmann," Godenov commanded, "break  rank and
take command."

The temporarily displaced shift sergeant stepped sharply out of his position  at
the head of the  column and marched at  its side. "Loup, rahp,  loup," he picked
up, calling the cadence.

Spine erect, shoulders back, head high, Godenov marched to Hyakowa. The joy  and
pride  in  his  eyes  blocked  the  image  of  his  squad  leader's  anger   and
dangerousness from his vision.

"What are  you doing?"  Hyakowa asked  in an  ominously soft  voice when Godenov
reached him.

"Drilling my shift. Sergeant Hyakowa." Godenov positively beamed.

Hyakowa closed his  eyes for a  second. When he  reopened them. he  tried again.
"Specifically, in what are you drilling them?"

"Close order drill." Hyakowa's expression still didn't register on Godenov,  who
wondered what the point of the question was.

"Parade ground close order drill."

"That's right."

"Something they already know how to do."

Godenov nodded eagerly.

"Why are you teaching them something they already know how to do?"

Godenov blinked rapidly several times. The question was unexpected, and for  the
first time he  realized that his  squad leader might  not exactly be  happy with
what  he was  doing. He  thought quickly.  "I'm having  them do  something  they
already know how to  do," he explained, "in  order to teach them  something they
don't know."

It was Hyakowa's turn to be surprised. "And what is that?"

"I'm training them to take orders from me."

Hyakowa blinked. His expression eased as he thought about Godenov's  explanation
for drilling the shift in something  they were already expert at. It  made sense
of a sort. Certainly  it was a better  explanation than what he  'd thought-he'd
thought that Godenov was putting the shift through close order drill because  he
had  no idea  how to  teach them  fieldcraft or  marksmanship. He  nodded  once,
briskly. "Carry on,  Godenov," he said.  "Just make sure  they leam that  lesson
fast. We'll be taking them  on patrols in a few  days, and then they'll have  to
know a lot more than how to march in formation."

"Aye aye. Sergeant." Godenov about-faced, located his shift, and began  marching
in its direction to resume the close  order drill. When he got a few  paces away
he breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment there, he'd been afraid that  Hyakowa
was going to guess  the truth-he was marching  his shift because he  had no idea
how to teach them anything they didn't already know.



CHAPTER EIGHT

The suborbital  flight to  Oligarch Keutgens's  Morgenluft took  about an  hour.
Brigadier  Sturgeon  announced  without  warning  that  Commander  Peters  would
accompany him on the trip. "And bring your two assistants," he said, nodding  at
Dean and Claypoole, who were busy creating a database on a computer terminal.

"But, sir, they're working up  a very important informant database  Chief Long's
sharing with us. The sooner we get that information-"

Brigadier  Sturgeon shook  his head  and held  up a  hand. Although  he had  the
highest respect  for Commander  Peters as  an officer  on his  staff, he had the
infantryman's profound disdain for military intelligence types. Over the  years,
military intelligence had never given him much help in tactical matters, and  he
hadn't  forgotten  that  in  the  recent  scrape  on  Eineal,  the  entire fleet
intelligence apparatus failed to discover that the Siad war chief, Mas  Shabeli,
had gotten his hands on Raptor attack aircraft.

"The database'll keep," Brigadier Sturgeon said. "I ain't going anywhere on this
planet without some fire support, and right now your two are the only men I  can
spare from headquarters duty to go  along with me. This'11 be an  ovemighter, so
bring some  personal gear  and your  dress uniforms,  we'll be  expected to look
pretty at dinner down there. And extra energy packs for your weapons. Saddle up.
Marines, we leave in twenty minutes."

Dean grinned at Claypoole and they both jumped eagerly to their feet.

"'It'll  keep,'"  Commander  Peters mimicked  Brigadier  Sturgeon  after he  had
departed. "Nobody appreciates the work I do around here," he muttered.

"Cheer up, sir," Claypoole said from  the doorway. "Maybe you'll find true  love
on this trip. Commander."  He darted into the  hallway before the officer  could
respond.


Morgenluft lay in the tropical  zone, but Schmahldorf, Keutgens's capital  city,
was situated in the higher elevations of her northernmost lands in the foothills
of  the Gaiser  Mountains, so  it did  not suffer  from the  high humidity  that
plagued die lowlands.

Schmahldorf, named after Karl Schmahl,  a missionary martyred in the  witchcraft
hysteria that  swept the  region two  centuries before-the  one episode of civil
unrest to mar  the planet's history  before the rebel  movement took root-was  a
beautiful city of about 100,000 inhabitants. Since Keutgens's people made  their
living mainly  from agriculture-thule  was their  major cash  crop-Schmahldorf's
only industries  were small  and light,  the kind  that support  an agricultural
economy. The  pace of  life in  Schmahldorf was  very slow  compared to  that of
Wanderjahr's other Staats. While the  city had long since outgrown  the physical
and social dimensions of the farming  village it had once been, Lorelei  and her
forebears had insisted  on calling the  place Schmahl's Village,  dorf'm German.
This not only  kept alive the  memory of the  courageous missionary, but  helped
preserve the bucolic outlook of the capital's residents.

The people's  appreciation of  the arts  and their  love of  education reflected
Lorelei Keutgens's own interests, and  the intellectual life of the  citizens of
Schmahldorf  was the  most vigorous  on the  planet. So  was their  interest  in
politics. Morgenluft was the only Staat on Wanderjahr where the citizens  freely
elected  the  local  governments.  The guerrillas  had  the  least  influence in
Morgenluft, and the prosperous and independent lifestyle of Lorelei's people was
a source  of annoyance  to some  of the  other oligarchs,  who feared what would
happen in their own Staats if her ideas on political and economic democracy ever
took root there.

Lorelei and her family were present to  meet the Marine commander as he and  his
small party emerged from the landing port.

"Brigadier  Sturgeon!"  she exclaimed  warmly.  "How very  pleasant  to see  you
again!" She extended her  hand, which the brigadier  took and lifted briefly  to
his lips.

"You know Commander Peters, madame," the brigadier said, "and these two stalwart
Marines are Privates First Class Dean and Claypoole." Dean and Claypoole came to
attention.

"My,  Brigadier, they  are heavily  armed! Do  you expect  trouble during   your
visit?" Her eyes flashed laughingly.

"No, ma'am, of course not. But if  there is trouble, they can handle it.  You're
fighting a war on this planet, and if I'm to be a target, I plan to shoot back."

Lorelei Keutgens nodded  briefly. "Well, we've  had no trouble  from the bandits
here. Brigadier, and I  don't expect any-from them,  anyway. May I introduce  my
family?  Here is  my oldest  granddaughter, Hway."  She gestured  toward a  very
pretty,  dark-haired woman  of about  twenty, who  smiled and  curtsied at   the
Marines. The remaining three children, two boys, one nine and the other  twelve,
and a girl  of fifteen, smiled  self-consciously at their  grandmother's guests.
All seemed to have inherited Lorelei's finely chiseled facial features, but  not
her light complexion or blond hair.

"My villa is about twenty kilometers  outside the city," Lorelei said after  the
introductions were made. "I have arranged transportation for us-you didn't bring
one of  your Dragons  with you  too, did  you. Brigadier?"  She laughed. All the
Marines laughed too. "How long can you stay?"

"We've got to be back  in Brosigville tomorrow, I'm afraid,"  Brigadier Sturgeon
replied.

"What a shame! And by the  way, gentlemen," she announced, shaking a  forefinger
at all four of the Marines, "the next man to call me 'ma'am' or 'madame' goes to
bed without any supper tonight! From now on I am 'Lori.' "

Brigadier Sturgeon was not a man who put much store in rank and titles. While he
would never tolerate a  subordinate's calling him by  his first name, he  judged
everyone, especially  his men,  by what  they could  do, not  by the devices and
badges of their rank.  Lorelei Keutgens was the  equivalent of a head  of state,
and as a matter of diplomatic protocol, far outranked even the commandant of the
Confederation Marine Corps, much less a brigadier of Marines, even one with  the
special powers  Brigadier Sturgeon  had been  given for  this mission.  Besides,
Lorelei Keutgens  was probably  the most  intelligent and  capable leader on the
planet, at least in the brigadier's estimation.

"Well, Lori," Brigadier  Sturgeon bowed politely,  "my first name  is Theodosius
and  you may  call me  Ted." With  that, she  wrapped her  arm around  Brigadier
Sturgeon's and  led the  party to  meet her  cabinet ministers  and the  waiting
transportation.


A  rotund,  red-faced  man with  longish  red  hair, a  functionary  for  one of
Keutgens's ministers, stood in  the rear of the  small party of dignitaries  she
had summoned to greet Brigadier Sturgeon. "Zitze's guests have arrived," the fat
man said into a handheld communicator.

"Are they who we  were told they would  be?" the disembodied voice  on the other
end of the transmission asked.

"Hen" Ludendorf,"  the caller  responded. "Herr  Ludendorf" was  a code name for
Brigadier Sturgeon. "Zitze" was a code name for Lorelei Keutgens.

"Damn!" the man on  the other end exclaimed.  There was a slight  pause. "Hmm. A
slight complication. Very well. Proceed with your welcoming party. The more  the
merrier." The instrument went dead.

Far above  Wanderjahr on  board the  Denver, every  electronic transmission from
anywhere on the planet was being monitored by an intercept officer. Her computer
was programmed to identify key words, phrases, and names, and alert her to them.
If the name of  any Marine appeared in  a transmission, for instance,  a warning
would flash  on her  screens and  that message  would be  read and analyzed. Any
transmission  mentioning  weapons,   explosives,  even  military   tactics,  was
instantly flagged for  analysis, and all  suspicious circumstances were  quickly
reported to  the Feldpolizei  or the  Stadt-polizei for  investigation. Programs
were available  to translate  messages in  any human  language, and the computer
constantly  searched for  words and  strings of  text in  all of  them, in  case
someone  was  using  a  little-known  dialect  to  pass  coded  instructions  to
recipients; there was  no cryptographic system  known to the  Confederation that
the Denver's computers couldn't break.

The intercept officer and her assistants normally reviewed hundreds of  messages
every  day.  The  names  Ludendorf and  Zitze  meant  nothing  to the  analyst's
computer, and no  one on board  the Denver was  at all interested  in parties on
Wanderjahr.


Unlike Chairman Arschmann's estate outside Brosigville, Lori's home was  modest.
Nevertheless, it was still a palace  compared to anything Dean had ever  seen on
Earth. After the  men were shown  their rooms, everyone  gathered on a  spacious
patio behind the main building for refreshments.

"Hway, would you take  the children and show  our guests," she gestured  at Dean
and Claypoole,  "about the  house and  gardens, while  the Brigadier  and I  get
better acquainted? Dinner," she included everyone, "is at sundown."

"Take your weapons with you," Brigadier Sturgeon said, "and check with me  every
ten minutes  when you're  outside the  house." Lori  made as  if to protest, but
Brigadier Sturgeon held up a hand. "We're  Marines, Lori, and as long as we  are
on this planet we're all under arms."

After Lorelei's  grandchildren had  escorted Dean  and Claypoole  back into  the
house,  the oligarch  turned to  Commander Peters.  "Your brigadier  is just  as
stubborn as my late  husband." She smiled. Peters,  who could neither agree  nor
disagree, cleared his throat nervously and sipped his wine.

"How long has  he been gone?"  Commander Peters asked,  realizing too late  that
he'd brought up what could be an unpleasant topic.

"Oh, five years. My dear Tran died in an aircraft crash that also killed my son,
who was my only  child, and his wife.  Thank God the grandchildren  were with me
that day or I'd have lost everyone in this world who is dear to me."

"Tran? Your husband was ..."

"Vietnamese, Ralph."

"Yes, hmmm." Peters rubbed his chin. That was unusual on Wanderjahr, a woman  of
one of the ruling German clans marrying outside her own ethnic group.

"Yes, Tran's father  was one of  my father's most  trusted overseers. The  Trans
virtually grew up  in my house.  Young Tran and  I spent a  lot of time together
when we were  children. That was  permitted. When we  married, I kept  my maiden
name,  of  course.  To have  taken  my  husband's name  would've  been  taboo in
Wanderjahrian society, me being from a  German family, and he-was not. I  was an
only child.  My mother  died when  I was  eight. My  father would've opposed our
marriage had he lived,  but he died-of cancer,  something unknown in your  world
anymore, gentlemen-when  I was  nineteen, and  left me  his estates.  Tran and I
managed them as we  managed our marriage, with  love and attention and  infinite
patience." She laughed. "But what of you, gentlemen? Tell me about yourselves."

Sturgeon shrugged.  "We are  what you  see. Two  broken-down old  Marines. We go
where our orders send us and we carry them out when we get there."

Lori regarded the Marines  frankly for a long  moment. She was wearing  a silken
one-piece dress that hung in folds from  her neck to her feet. Its sleeves  fell
back from  her elbows,  revealing strong  tanned forearms  slightly dappled with
tiny golden hairs. "Have you never wanted  to marry, raise a family, Ted? A  man
is not complete until he has a family."

"I always  thought a  man wasn't  complete until  he got  a battalion  command,"
Sturgeon answered  facetiously. When  Lori failed  to pick  up on  the joke,  he
continued quickly, "Well,  maybe someday. I  just haven't had  time to cultivate
relationships. And in many ways, Lori, my command is my family."

Lori smiled. "I know,"  she said, "that is  the kind of man  I see you as,  Ted.
Your Marines are  lucky." She sipped  her wine and  winked at Commander  Peters.
"Well, maybe now you will  have an opportunity to 'cultivate  relationships,' as
you put it?"

Before Sturgeon could  formulate a reply  both witty and  polite, Peters cleared
his throat. "Lori, something's been bothering me lately. When we met at Chairman
Arschmann's villa, you  warned us not  to trust Multan.  But recently Ambassador
Spears warned us not to trust Arschmann. Just whom can we trust?"

"Ah! Business!"  Lori exclaimed,  amused at  the expression  of relief that came
over Sturgeon's  face. "Trust  no one,"  she said.  "Well, you  can trust me, of
course. And the bandits."

At this, both Marines shot their eyebrows up. "Excuse me?" Peters's surprise was
evident.

"Yes, the bandits.  Oh, I don't  mean trust them  not to shoot  you down if they
can,  but  when  it comes  time  to  talk, they'll  talk.  But  with Multan  and
Hauptmann, and even  Kurt Arschmann, the  time to be  wary of them  is when they
talk."

"I haven't had  a chance to  follow up on  what Ambassador Spears  said, but why
should we be wary of Kurt Arschmann? It was he who convinced your Council to ask
for our help."

Lori was silent for a moment, slowly turning her wineglass in one hand. "I  have
known  Kurt  Arschmann  all  my  life," she  said  at  last.  She  spoke slowly,
pronouncing each word carefully.  "I admire Kurt very  much. But he is  the most
dangerous man on this world. Your  Ambassador Spears is a very perceptive  man."
She smiled briefly, remembering how he had boldly asked her to marry him. "He is
dangerous because he is intelligent and  very ambitious and he will let  nothing
stand in his way to get what he wants."

"And what is that?" Commander Peters asked.

Lori  was  about  to  answer  when  Dean's  voice  crackled  excitedly  over the
brigadier's communicator.


Once inside the house, the boys took charge of Claypoole, in whom they sensed  a
playmate,  and  left  Dean  alone  with  Hway.  Hway's  sister,  Gudia, remained
disconsolately stuck with the boys. A  smaller but even prettier version of  her
older sister, Gudia felt cheated  when Hway appropriated Dean. Reluctantly,  she
followed Claypoole and her brothers, leaving  Dean and Hway alone in the  living
room.

The pair stood  for a moment  in the high-ceilinged  living room, and  then Hway
suggested they tour the formal gardens. "Grandmother is famous on Wanderjahr for
her interest in horticulture," Hway said.

As they turned to go outside she asked, "What is your given name?"

"Private First Class," Dean answered without thinking. "Uh, just a joke,  miss,"
he mumbled when he  saw the bewilderment on  Hway's face. "That's an  old Marine
Corps joke. My name is Joe and I'd appreciate it if you'd call me that."

"Joe," she said  reflectively, and nodded.  "Please call me  Hway. 'Miss' sounds
dreadfully formal."

"Joseph Finucane Dean," Dean said, "that's Finucane with a terminal e."

"With a terminal e." Hway nodded. "Well, Joe with the 'terminal e,' let's go see
my grandmother's gardens."

The gardens stretched for several hectares around Lori's home and displayed both
native  and Terran  species. The  Terran trees  and shrubs  were all   carefully
labeled with their Latin names,  and the Wanderjahrian species were  tagged with
the names the early colonists had given them. Groves of trees and larger  shrubs
had  been artfully  placed between  luxuriant flower  beds. Teams  of  gardeners
labored at intervals among the flowers, waving cheerfully as the pair passed  on
the flagstone walkways.

In a beautiful grove of Wanderjahrian flora stood the life-size statue of a man.
They paused before it. On the pedestal was a name. "Tran Van Hue," Dean read.

"My grandfather," Hway announced.

"Oh." Dean had wondered where Hway  had gotten her high cheekbones and  slightly
olive complexion.  He looked  at the  features on  the statue,  then'back at the
girl. - "I remember my grandfather.  I was fifteen when he died.  My grandmother
misses him very much."

"I don't know much  at all about my  grandparents. My father's been  dead a long
time too," Dean volunteered. "My mother  died recently, when I was on  a mission
on a planet called EIneal."

"I'm so sorry, Joe. Do you have any siblings?"

"Naw. Just me. I'm the last of the Deans."

"You have no family, Joe," Hway said sadly.

"I guess not, unless you figure the guys in my squad and my platoon. There's old
Claypoole, we're  pretty tight.  And there's  Staff Sergeant  Bass. Best platoon
sergeant in the Corps. Top Myer,  he's our first sergeant^he's tough, but  fair.
And our Old Man, Captain Conorado. Boy, Hway, they don't come better than  those
Marines! And since  we've been with  the headquarters, I've  developed a lot  of
respect for Commander Peters and  Brigadier Sturgeon too. Why, you  couldn't ask
to serve under a better officer and ..."

Dean's face had begun  to glow with pride  as he talked about  his Marines. Hway
regarded him with a quizzical smile  as he rattled on. Suddenly aware  that he'd
started babbling, or that Hway would  think he had. Dean stopped in  midsentence
and blushed. She probably thinks I'm a damned schoolboy on his first date.  Dean
thought, embarrassed.

"Well, I miss my mom and my dad too, Hway," he said, "but life has to go on, you
know. And right now the  Corps manages to take up  most of my time, so  I seldom
think about my family anymore."

Hway took  Dean's hand  in hers.  "I am  named after  my grandfather's ancestral
home, the  city of  Hway in  what used  to be  Vietnam back  on Old  Earth. Many
centuries ago American  Marines fought a  big battle there  to free my  father's
ancestors. Perhaps  you know  about that  war? It  ended badly  for my  father's
people, but things have a way of working out through time."

Dean was stunned. He certainly had heard  of the Battle of Hue, fought in  1968,
nearly five  hundred years  ago. He  wondered if  somehow he  and this beautiful
young woman  standing in  this grove  on a  world infinitely  remote in time and
space from  her father's  ancestral home  might represent  a confluence of human
history, the closing of  some kind of vast,  cosmic cycle. He shivered  with the
thought, which was both delicious and a bit scary.

"Let's go  watch the  sun set!"  Hway abruptly  said. "About  a kilometer on the
other side  of the  woods that  border this  garden, cliffs  overlook the  Fotzi
River! We'll  have a  beautiful view  of the  Gaiser peaks  and the setting sun.
We'll be back at  the house in plenty  of time for supper!"  With that, dragging
Dean by the hand, Hway started off for the woods.

The rays of the setting sun  cast brilliant fingers of light between  the trunks
of the  ancient hardwood  forest as  the pair  emerged on  the cliffs  above the
river. The view from there was absolutely breathtaking. The snowcapped peaks  of
the Gaisers, their  tops a fiery  orange in the  dying sunlight, jutted  skyward
thirty kilometers to the north.

"Oh, this is  beautiful," Dean whispered.  He thought, Man,  if any of  the guys
ever heard me talking  like that, they'd think  me a limpdick for  sure! But the
truth was, Joe Dean would've said anything to please the young lady beside  him.
He wondered how impressed Hway would've been had he said something like a "real"
Marine, the way they  talked back in the  barracks: "Yeah, hot shit,  honey. Now
let's  swap  some  spit!"  Instantly  he  was  reminded  ofJuanita's,  back   in
Brosigville, and Maggie, lying on the stones, blood and brains oozing out of the
bullet hole in her head. He forced  the horrible image out of his mind.  To give
himself time to  calm his nerves,  he got a  cigar out of  a pocket and  went to
light it.

"No, Joe,"  Hway said,  putting a  hand on  his arm.  "Don't make  fire here. We
haven't had rain in months, everything's dry, you could start a forest fire."

He put the  cigar away unlighted,  sighed, and tried  simply to enjoy  the view.
Yes,  the  scene really  was  beautiful. Its  wild  beauty reminded  him  of the
northern regions on Arsenault, the Confederation training world where he'd  gone
through Boot Camp. A cold wind blew up from the river valley below, and  without
thinking. Dean held Hway close to  his weak side, his blaster gripped  firmly at
sling arms over his right shoulder.

They stood like that  for ten minutes. Meanwhile  Dean became very conscious  of
the slim figure by his side, her arm now firmly around his waist.

"Don't you think we should be going home now?" he asked at last. "I'm getting  a
bit hungry. How about you?"

Hway sighed. "A  few minutes more,  Joe. I've always  loved this place,  and I'm
leaving Wanderjahr soon for school. I don't know how long before I can come home
again."

Their reverie was  broken by a  metallic clatter from  somewhere to the  rear of
where they were standing.  Dean remembered a long  sloping meadow off that  way,
sweeping down  to the  river several  hundred meters  below. He  stiffened as he
heard a man's voice carried to them on the wind.

"What is it?" Hway asked,  startled. Dean unslung his blaster  and automatically
set the charging level at full power. "Get 'behind me," he ordered the girl.  He
released the weapon's safety. "Stay close," he said as he walked carefully  back
into the woods.  Fortunately, the light  was fading quickly,  and it was  almost
dark under the  towering trees. The  large meadow, however,  was aglow with  the
final rays  of the  setting sun.  Up from  the river  marched a steady column of
black figures carrying weapons.

Dean fell to  one knee and  spoke into the  communicator strapped to  his wrist.
"FIST Six Actual, this is ... this is  ..." Dean did not know what call sign  to
use. "PFC Dean. Sir. Over."

"FIST Six Actual. Go, Dean," Brigadier Sturgeon responded.

"Six Actual,  be advised,  sir, approximately  forty armed  men approaching your
position from about one klick to your northeast. Are they supposed to be  there?
Over."

Sturgeon looked at Lori  for an answer. She  gave him a confused  look and shook
her head. "I don't have any armed people on my grounds."

"That's a negative," Sturgeon said into his comm unit. "Give me details. Over."

"Six Actual, they're in  some kind of uniform  I don't recognize. They're  armed
with projectile weapons. I have good cover. Will take them under fire. This  is,
uh. Dean, out. Sir."

Dean did not wait  for the Brigadier's reply.  "Run for the house,  Hway, run as
fast as you've ever run in your life!"

Dean crawled to the edge  of the trees, where he  could get a clear view  of the
approaching column from cover. He angled  his body behind a massive trunk,  took
aim at the man  leading the column, and  fired. The bolt slammed  into the man's
chest and left a  gaping hole all the  way through. The remaining  men instantly
returned a surprisingly heavy volume of  very accurate fire at him. Dean  had to
drop behind cover so fast he barely noticed the smoke that began to rise from  a
tree as the plasma  bolt that cut through  the man he'd killed  smoldered in its
drought-dried side. Bits  and pieces of  tree trunks showered  down upon him  as
bullets exploded close above where he lay.

Dean scuttled backward,  turned, and low-crawled  to the trail  he and Hway  had
walked up. The trees between him and the approaching men were absorbing most  of
the bullets. Then the nearly missed memory  of the tree that began to burn  from
his first shot clicked on him-Hway had told him the forest was dry and could bum
easily. He fired a rapid series of bolts at a tree with upturned, spiky  leaves.
The tree began  to smolder and  broke into flame.  He then shot  more bolts into
clumps of undergrowth and set them  afire. He smiled. That'll keep the  bastards
awhile! he thought. Doubled  over to present as  small a target as  possible, he
ran back toward the house.


Brigadier Sturgeon leaped to his feet. "Dean! Dean!" he said into his comm unit.
"Get out of there! Do you hear  me? Come back here! Dean?" The brigadier  cursed
and switched his comm unit to the frequency he was assigned to communicate  with
the Denver. "Bridge! This is FIST Six Actual. What do you see?"

"Bridge," a laconic voice answered  from the orbiting Denver. "FIST  Six Actual,
we see several dozen men one point five kilometers to your northeast. Appear  to
be a work party but have dispatched  a drone to confirm. Wait... Seems you  have
the beginnings of a  forest fire between your  position and theirs. Do  you need
assistance, FIST Six Actual?"

Lori was  on her  feet now  too. Her  face had  gone white  at the  sound of the
shooting, but  she could  also see  flames and  smoke from  the burning  forest.
"They've set  my forest  on fire!"  she screamed.  "God's goddamned balls, those
trees are hundreds of years old! Brigadier-"

"Lori," he said quietly, "that fire's  going to save our lives." He  changed the
channel on his comm unit. "Claypoole!" he shouted into it.

"This is Claypoole, sir!"

"Where the hell are you?"

"Downstairs with the  kids ..." Claypoole  had been watching  an ancient flatvid
starring John Wayne, The Horse Soldiers.

"Get out here. Now. How many kids with you?"

"Three, sir. Dean and Hway are outside somewhere."

"Out here. Now,  Marine! Bridge!" he  snapped. He switched  back to the  command
circuit, "Do you see any other activity?" he asked the Denver. "How about  along
the road to Schmahldorf?"

"Negative, FIST Six Actual. Drone confirms forty-three men armed with projectile
weapons. Shall we take them out for you?"

"Negative, negative, negative!" the brigadier shouted into his communicator.  He
made a  mental note  to ask  the Denver's  captain why  the watch  had not acted
sooner to confirm the nature of the approaching "work" party. "I have people out
there. Stand by." He turned to Lori. "Do you have guns here, and do you have any
servants who know how to use them?"

"No, Ted, I don't."

"Where's the nearest Stadtpolizei station?"

"Schmahldorf," she answered. "But the Stadtpolizei in my jurisdiction have  only
side arms."

"Great. Well, we'll change that  as soon as I get  us out of this mess.  Bridge,
can you contact the Stadtpolizei in Schmahldorf and alert them to our  situation
here?"

"Negative, FIST Six Actual. We have no channel to them. We can ask Chief Long to
relay a message through Stadtpolizei channels. Over." Brigadier Sturgeon bit his
tongue. Somebody should have anticipated this problem.

"I can call them from here," Lori offered.

"No. They'd be cut to pieces. Bridge, alert them but have Chief Long  emphasize,
I say again, emphasize they are not to come down the road to Keutgens's  estate.
Is that clear?"

"Roger, FIST Six  Actual. They are  not to proceed  down the road  to Keutgens's
estate. Further orders?"

"Yes.  I want  a landing  party to  block the  road fifteen  kilometers  outside
Schmahldorf and to wait there for further  orders." If he did have to call  in a
laser strike on the area, the extra five kilometers would give the landing party
a good margin of safety.

"Roger, FIST Six  Actual. Landing party  on the way  to block your  road fifteen
kilometers outside the capital."

"What's your plan, sir?" Commander Peters asked.

"I don't have  one. Commander. We'll  plan as we  go. But it'll  be nice to have
that landing party nearby." They would be down in under a half hour.

Claypoole came running up, followed by Gudia and the boys. Faces white and  eyes
staring, the children ran  to their grandmother and  looked up anxiously at  the
three  Marines. A  group of  about a  dozen servants  and workers  had  gathered
nervously  in  one  corner of  the  patio,  and now  an  elderly,  dignified man
approached the trio.

"Mistress," he addressed Lori. "What is happening? How may we help?"

Lori looked to Sturgeon. "This is Hector, my major-domo," she said.

"Hector, can you find transportation -for all these people?" Sturgeon asked.

"Yes, sir. We have a lorry that we often use to transport-"

"Get them in it and  drive to the city. We'll  meet you there. Go. Now."  Hector
hesitated, looking to Lorelei Keutgens.

Lori nodded. "Go,  Hector, now. Don't  take anything with  you. Just get  out of
here."

"Claypoole,  take  Mrs.  Keutgens  and her  grandchildren,  load  them  into our
landcar, and drive like hell until you get to Schmahldorf. Here, I'll trade  you
my side arm for your blaster."

"Sir! Dean's out there somewhere." Claypoole gestured toward the rising glow  to
the  northeast, more  prominent now  that the  sun was  almost completely  down.
"Can't I go after him?"

"No. Our responsibility now is to  these civilians." The brigadier paused as  he
began to  unstrap his  equipment belt.  The frustration  in Claypoole's eyes was
evident. "Marine, your friend has bought  us time, we won't waste his  sacrifice
by wasting  that time.  You take  the civilians  back to  Schmahldorf. Commander
Peters and I will find Dean."

It had  been a  long time  since the  brigadier had  used a  shoulder weapon  in
combat, but  already he  was thinking  like a  squad leader:  he was  interested
neither in  who the  men were  nor their  objective, only  in stopping them. His
instincts told  him they  were after  Lori and  her family,  and it was only bad
luck-for the attackers-that he and his three Marines just happened to be  there.
The fact that  he was the  FIST commander and  should protect himself  from harm
never occurred to him. His executive  officer could take over the mission  if he
was killed. His only thought now was to join up with Dean and conduct a fighting
withdrawal until reinforced by the landing party.

"Ted," Lori said  in a very  small voice, "is  my granddaughter with  your young
Dean?"

"Yes, Lori, I'm afraid-"

"Grandmother!" Hway  shouted as  she jumped  the hedges  bordering the patio and
stumbled  up to  the adults.  "Joe is  back there.  Forty men  with guns.   He's
fighting with them now! You have to  help!" Her words came in great sobs  as she
tried to catch her breath.

Joe? Claypoole silently mouthed Dean's first name. That sly bastard, he thought,
and smiled despite himself. "Sir? Let me go after Dean. Please?"

"Ted, I'm .not  leaving this place  until you get  that boy out  of there," Lori
said, her tone of  voice clearly implying she  meant it. "Besides, you  can't go
running around out  there like a  private! Hway can  lead Clayton back  to where
Dean is."

"Claypoole, ma'am," Claypoole interjected respectfully.

Brigadier  Sturgeon hesitated.  Plan as  you go?  "Hway, can  you-would you   be
willing-to  take  Claypoole back  to  Dean?" Hway  was  insulted that  Brigadier
Sturgeon would even doubt her willingness  to go, but then, he didn't  know her.
She nodded yes. The brigadier turned to Claypoole and exchanged weapons with him
again. "Go." He  nodded toward the  fire. Claypoole and  Hway ran off  the patio
into the garden.

Sturgeon  turned  to  Commander  Peters.  "Ralph,  take  Mrs.  Keutgens  and the
children, get in that landcar, and take them to safety."

"But, sir-"

"Godfuckingdamnit, Commander!" Brigadier Sturgeon shouted. "Get your asses  into
that car and get the fuck out of here and do it right the fuck now!" Shocked  by
his  commander's language,  but energized  by it.  Commander Peters  scooped  up
Lorelei Keutgens  and the  remaining children  and without  another word ushered
them into the house.

"FIST Six Actual," the bridge watch officer drawled, "do you need fire  support?
Over."

"No, goddamnit. Bridge! Shut up until  I ask you!" Those goddamned space  squids
are enjoying  the hell  out of  all this,  I bet.  Sturgeon thought.  He laughed
abruptly and ran to the hedges, where he crouched and drew his side arm.


In the light of the forest  fire behind him, Dean recognized Hway  and Claypoole
coming up the trail. "Rachman!" he shouted, his joy evident. He grabbed Hway and
kissed her full on the mouth before  he realized what he was doing. She  did not
protest.

"My, you work fast." Claypoole grinned.

"Joe!" Hway whispered. "Brigadier Sturgeon is waiting for us back at the  house.
Hurry! We don't have any time to waste!"

Dean looked at Claypoole, who grinned and patted his blaster. "How come you  get
all the fun,  boot?" he asked.  The forest fire  was growing behind  them now as
flames leaped from tree to tree and  shrubs ignited from the heat. The wind  had
picked up too and was fanning the flames straight toward them.

"They'll have to get around that,"  Dean said, meaning the fire, "and  right now
we're in  more danger  from the  fire than  from those  men. I  got one  of 'em,
though."

They ran down the  trail as the fire  roared and howled behind  them. The flames
had now turned the darkness into the light of day, and they could feel the  heat
on their backs as they ran. Hway  tripped and fell and Dean swooped her  up with
one hand and propelled her onward before him.

Brigadier Sturgeon saw the trio outlined against the flames as they ran  through
the gardens. "Come on, come on!" he  shouted as they jumped the hedge. They  ran
through the house and out into the driveway. Sturgeon took the driver's seat  in
a landcar parked there. A civilian vehicle, it didn't need a code to be started.
"Claypoole," the brigadier  shouted, "ride shotgun!  Dean, cover us  through the
back window!" Then he  turned to Dean and  said: "Marine, you do  good work." He
put the vehicle into forward, and they roared off down the road to  Schmahldorf,
headlights cutting through the blackness.

Smoke from the forest fire rolled  overhead, obscuring them from the sensors  on
board the Denver.

"Stop!" Hway  shouted before  they'd gone  more than  three kilometers. Sturgeon
mashed the braking lever  and the car slewed  to a halt. "My  grandmother's car!
Back there, off the road!"

Sturgeon shifted into reverse and backed slowly down the road.

"There it is!" Claypoole shouted, coughing from the smoke.

Several  dark objects  lay beside  the road.  Sturgeon's heart  skipped a  beat.
"Cover me," he told Claypoole, and  grabbing a glowball from a cargo  pocket, he
approached the  car. It  was empty.  Four bodies  lay crumpled  on the shoulder.
Three of them were burned  beyond recognition. The fourth belonged  to Commander
Peters. Sturgeon kneeled beside his intelligence officer. The commander's  right
arm and leg  were missing. "Ralph,"  he whispered, reaching  for the commander's
throat to feel for a pulse.

"I fucked up," Commander Peters whispered. "They got the woman and the kids." He
spoke with difficulty. "I tried to ... to..." His voice trailed off.

"Ralph,  did  you  see  which  way they  went?  Ralph?"  Sturgeon  felt  for the
commander's pulse again. It was there, throbbing weakly, but he'd passed out.

Dean  and Claypoole  crouched on  opposite sides  of the  road, weapons   facing
outward, searching  the darkness  for movement.  The brigadier  motioned them to
him. "Search  along the  sides of  the road.  They've got  Mrs. Keutgens and the
children. We'll have to go after them."

"What about Commander Peters?" Dean asked.

The brigadier motioned toward the body  behind him. "He got three of  them. He's
hurt bad, but there's  nothing we can do  about that now. Our  first priority is
Mrs. Keutgens and the children."

Hway came up. "Do they have my grandmother and my brothers and sister too?"  she
asked.

"We're going after them," Brigadier  Sturgeon said. "Bridge," he spoke  into his
communicator.

"Bridge aye, FIST Six Actual."

"Take out the  villa. Alert the  landing party. Tell  them to get  up here quick
once the fireworks are over. I have a badly wounded officer who needs  immediate
medical attention."

"Roger that,  FIST Six  Actual." Dean  and Claypoole  threw themselves  flat and
Sturgeon pulled Hway down into the roadbed and covered her body with his own.

A  brilliant,  incandescent  swath  of light  arced  down  from  the heavens  as
everything behind them disintegrated in a flash- Dean counted "one thousand one,
one thousand two, one thousand three"-and a roar. The ground shook so  violently
the four were bounced into the air. An extremely hot shock wave howled over them
and  then it  was dark  again, except  for the  fires that  burned at  intervals
throughout the rubble of what had once been Lorelei Keutgens's estate. Even  the
raging forest fire had been consumed in the blast.

"FIST Six Actual, this is Bridge. Ready for next fire mission."

"Stand by," Brigadier Sturgeon said. Hway got shakily to her feet.

"Our home .. ."She gasped as  she saw what had happened. "Everything  ... gone!"
She looked up at Brigadier Sturgeon with tearstained eyes.

"I'm sorry, Hway. I had to even the odds," the brigadier said.

"But my grandmother... ?"

"I had to take  a chance, Hway. I'm  betting the kidnappers didn't  have time to
get them back to the house. I'm pretty sure that's where they were going to meet
up with the main body."

"Brigadier!" Claypoole shouted. "Sir, a trail. Bush all trampled down. It  heads
back toward the villa."

"Dean, stay with the girl. Give what aid you can to Commander Peters. Don't  get
shot by the landing party."

"I know what to do, sir."


Five bodies lay sprawled  grotesquely in the bushes  about half a kilometer  off
the  road.  Lying  nearby,  trussed  and  gagged,  were  Lori  Keutgens  and her
grandchildren.

"Thank God!" Lori choked  when Brigadier Sturgeon had  cut her bonds and  pulled
the gag out of her mouth.

"What happened here?" he asked, but he already knew. He also knew he'd taken  an
awful gamble and won.

"I couldn't see what happened, but  when that great light flashed, they  dropped
us. Then this roar and  a terrible heat wave, like  an oven, passed over us  and
the men just fell down dead.  There was this awful smell afterward."  Lori spoke
between coughs, wiping tears out of her eyes.

Brigadier Sturgeon smiled, confident she couldn't see it in the dark. "You  were
close enough to the ground that it missed you and fried their brains. That smell
is burnt human flesh and hair."

"Wh-What was that explosion, Ted?" Lori asked.

"I had to prevent those ambushers from joining the main body, Lori. I called  in
a laser strike on your villa."

Lori gasped.

"I had to, Lori," Sturgeon said quietly. Gently, he laid a hand on her shoulder.
When she began to cry, he held her close to his chest. Claypoole  diplomatically
gathered up the children  and led them back  toward the road, where  the landing
party had already arrived.  What the brigadier did  not mention was that  he had
taken  a big  gamble that  the ambushers  who captured  the Keutgenses  had  not
already  joined the  main body  when the  plasma strike  came down.   Otherwise,
Lorelei Keut-gens and her grandchildren would now be drifting in the wind  along
with the molecules of the attackers.

"Oh, liebchen ... I-I mean Ted," Lori sobbed. "That was our home ...  everything
..." She shrugged helplessly, "gpne ..." She was crying so hard he could  hardly
understand her. "All my family's history  since it came here was in  that house!
Goddamn those men.  Goddamn them. Goddamn  them!" She pounded  her fists against
the brigadier's chest. Then an expression of intense hatred contorted her  face.
"Goddamn him, I'll fry his ..." Just as suddenly, she laid her head against  the
brigadier's chest.

"Lori, my men, the Denver, did what  they had to do. Don't blame them  for this.
Blame me, if you  must." Lori clenched her  fists and bit her  tongue. It wasn't
the Marines she meant. "Lori, you can rebuild, but most important, you and  your
grandchildren are safe."

"Goddamned right we are!"  She stiffened in his  arms. "And we're going  to stay
that way!" She relaxed against the brigadier's chest. "Yes, we can rebuild." She
sighed. "I guess this changes the  rules of war here on Wanderjahr,  doesn't it,
Ted?"

"It sure does," Sturgeon responded, "now they've pissed me off!"


Brigadier Sturgeon summoned Dean to where  he'd set up a temporary command  post
beside one  of the  landing party's  Dragons. "Son,  what you  did out there was
really stupid, do you  know what I mean?"  he said without preamble.  Dean stood
dumbfounded.

"Sir, I-I-"

"You should  have kept  the ambushers  under surveillance  and withdrawn  to the
house, where we could've organized a defensive position or an ambush of our  own
and maybe held them off until reinforcements arrived."

A long silence ensued. "Yessir," Dean answered after he'd had a chance to  think
the brigadier's words over. "But, sir, I just did what first came into my  head.
I was there and they were coming on. And I did delay them, sir."

The brigadier  smiled. "You  sure did.  Marine. What  you did  required a lot of
guts, I give  you that. You  deserve a medal,  but I can't  submit a citation to
Fleet based on what was really an incredibly brave but very dumb act, can I?" He
pretended to think for a moment. "Go get Claypoole."

When the pair returned, he said,  "PFC Claypoole, since when do you  give orders
to a brigadier of Marines?"

"Sir, I-I-"

"And since when  does a Marine  who has a  perfectly good head  on his shoulders
throw it all  away to compound  a stupid mistake  made by one  of his buddies? I
mean talking me into letting you go charging off after Dean here."

"But sir, I-I-"

Brigadier Sturgeon waved  Claypoole into silence.  "Very well. I  can't decorate
you two, because it'd make me look stupid. So I'm promoting both of you to lance
corporal." The two gaped at the brigadier in astonishment. "I know, you're  both
thinking, 'How  can he  promote two  stupid Marines  like us?'  How indeed." The
brigadier feigned a sigh of exasperation. "I have faith in you. I think you both
have potential.  You may  even make  good corporals  someday. Now  go and  clean
yourselves up."


The next two days were a  flurry of activity as Brigadier Sturgeon,  Chief Long,
Lorelei  Keutgens,  and  Chairman  Arschmann  conferred  by  video  hookup about
strengthening security.  Within minutes  of the  landing party's  arrival at the
ambush  scene.  Brigadier Sturgeon  had  the Bridge  patch  him through  to  his
executive officer in Brosigville, to whom he fired off a string of orders to  be
passed  on to  every Feldpolizei  training team.  He asked  for and  immediately
received permission from the Denver's captain to keep the landing party, about a
hundred sailors and Marines, indefinitely. They would beef up physical  security
at key installations where his force would be too busy training the  Feldpolizei
to worry about it.

The attack had outraged everyone.  Since none of the perpetrators  had survived,
it  was  generally  assumed  the  bandits  were  responsible.  The  citizens  of
Morgenluft  loudly  demanded  retribution. Chairman  Arschmann  was  calling for
Brigadier Sturgeon to organize a flying column to attack immediately.

The  morning after  the attack.  Brigadier Sturgeon  sat in  a suite  in one  of
Schmahldorf's best hotels with Ambassador Spears and Chief Long, discussing  the
options.

"Hold off," the  ambassador urged. "This  is too pat.  We don't know  it was the
guerrillas. Arschmann protests too much, I think."

"He's right, Ted," the big policeman said.

"I never intended to do anything  else," Sturgeon said. "My orders are  to train
the Feldpolizei, and that's what I'm going to do. We'll deal with the guerrillas
when the time comes, but through the Feldpolizei, not on our own.

"Another topic: Hugh, I don't have an intelligence officer anymore. Peters was a
fine officer, but he's  out of the picture  for the duration of  this operation,
and I won't get a replacement for  him from HQMC until probably long after  this
mission is over.  Will you handle  that for me  from now on?  I'll give you  his
files, his office, and his two helpers."

"Dean and Claypoole? Sure, I'll take  them." Chief Long laughed, a big  rumbling
noise deep within his chest. "I'll make detectives out of those lads yet!"


"Joe?" Hway  sat opposite  Dean at  a table  in a  modest restaurant in downtown
Schmahldorf. Dean was  leaving in the  morning and he  was depressed because  it
seemed he wouldn't see Hway again for quite a while, if ever. For the first time
in his life the thought of military duty annoyed him.

A  very  solicitous maitre  d'  hovered over  their  table, anxious  to  please.
Everyone in Schmahldorf had been trying to make the Keutgens family feel at ease
among them.  But the  maitre d's  attentions were  beginning to  annoy the young
couple. Hway waved him away, and reluctantly he retreated to his kiosk.

"Joe," she  began again,  leaning across  the table  and whispering loudly, "I'm
going with you to Brosigville tomorrow."

Dean shot straight up in his chair.

"Yes!" Hway laughed, seeing how the news had so quickly brought Dean out of  his
funk.  "My  grandmother is  sending  me to  live  with my  granduncle  there. He
operates a huge truck farm just outside the city, very near the port... uh, very
near where your headquarters is located, I think."

Dean grinned  foolishly, entirely  consumed by  this delightful  news. "What's a
truck farm?" he asked, because he didn't know what else to say.

"Vegetables," Hway answered impatiently.

Dean's  grin  increased.   "Wonderful,"  he  almost   shouted.  "What  kind   of
vegetables?".

"Tomatoes and things! Joe! Don't you realize what this means?"

"Yeah," Dean  said, and  reached for  Hway's hand  across the  table. "What  are
tomatoes?"


Lieutenant Constantine sat next to  Commander Peters's bed in the  Denver's sick
bay.

"I'd shake hands with you. Lieutenant, except I am-was right-handed,"  Commander
Peters joked.

"I know the feeling. Chief Long asked me to pay you this visit. Commander.  Dean
and Claypoole say hello."

"I think I know why,"  Peters said. "You're gonna tell  me to hang in there  and
one day I'll be as 'good as new.' "

"Yep. Well, since you know what I  was going to tell you, might as  well leave."
They both laughed.

Then Peters became serious. "What's it going to be like, Pete?"

The anguish  on Peters's  face brought  back painful  memories to the policeman.
"The  worst  part is  the  psychological readjustment.  The  medics'll give  you
wonderful biotech pros-theses to replace your lost limbs, but it's going to take
some effort on your part to accept  them because they won't be you. But  believe
me. Commander, you can be restored to full duty, if that's what you want."

"Who's taking over my duties as F-2?" Peters asked abruptly.

"Chief Long, with Dean and Claypoole to help him. And me."

"Good. Lieutenant? You tell  those two grunts if  they fuck up, when  I get back
I'll kick their asses good!" Commander Peters pretended to think about that  for
a moment and then added, "Belay that. Lieutenant. I guess I wouldn't have a  leg
to stand on after all." They laughed.

Constantine knew that Peters would be just fine.



CHAPTER NINE

Acting  Shift Sergeant  Schultz felt  naked. He  wasn't naked,  of course,   not
festooned the way he was with extra battery packs for the blaster hanging on his
pack straps. The pack itself was filled  with two days' rations and a change  of
socks, along with odds and ends of equipment, official and unofficial. A bayonet
and a knife-and another  hidden inside a boot-an  emergency medical kit and  two
quarts of potable water were suspended from his belt. A hundred feet of  rightly
coiled rope hung off one shoulder, and  a map kit filled with a GPS  locator, an
old-fashioned  lensatic compass,  a civilian-manufacture  sat-comm radio-not  to
mention actual maps-were clamped under the opposite arm. His accoutrements  were
topped off with a  squad leader's helmet that  contained not only the  infrared,
magnifying,  and light-collecting  face shields  and squad-level  communications
that he was used to, but also company-level communications and heads-up displays
that allowed platoon and company command elements to transmit situation  visuals
to him.

No, he wasn't naked.  Schultz just felt that  way because he was  going into the
hills after guerrillas wearing his dull-green garrison utilities instead of  the
field chameleons that would have made him effectively invisible.

The Marines of  first squad were  on the military  crest of a  hill, the highest
place  they  could stand  without  being silhouetted  against  the sky,  half  a
kilometer southeast of the 257th  Feldpolizei's base. They were gathered  around
Sergeant Hyakowa for their final briefing  before taking Company A of the  257th
Feldpolizei on a  two-day training and  combat patrol. None  of the Marines  was
looking at Hyakowa; they were all  looking at the FPs, who waited  uncomfortably
at the foot of the hill.

"They're  looking better  than they  did a  week ago,"  Acting Company   Captain
Hyakowa  said  of the  green-clad  FPs. He  swallowed  nervously; he  wasn't  as
confident as he sounded.

"Anything would be an improvement over  how they were a week ago,"  Acting First
Platoon Leader Leach said.

"They still can't shoot," Schultz grumbled, and spat off to the side.

"Let's hope they've learned something more than just how to wear new  uniforms,"
Acting Second Platoon Leader Ratliff said.

"They have," Acting Third Platoon Leader Domhofer said.

Corporal Doyle, who found  himself in the very  odd and even more  uncomfortable
position of acting shift sergeant, declined to say anything.

"They'll know a lot more at the end of these two days," Chan said.

"If any of them live through it," Schultz grumbled.

MacIlargie was quiet-at least he didn't  say anything. But his eyes glowed,  the
tip of  his tongue  stuck out  of the  comer of  his mouth,  and he  jittered in
anticipation of the patrol.

Godenov shivered. He was going to  be leading fifteen men in a  potential combat
situation and didn't look forward to it. Damn, even if they weren't very good at
it, every one of  these troopers had seen  more action than he  had-which wasn't
hard, because he'd never been in a real firefight.

None of the other men in the squad had any comment to make.

"All right," Hyakowa said. "You all know what we're going to be doing. If  there
are no  other questions,  join your  units. We'll  run a  comm check  as soon as
you're in place." He looked at each of  his men. Only one or two looked back  at
him. Mostly, they looked at the Wanderjahrians they were about to take into  the
hills. Each of the six shifts would  be taking a different route, but they'd  be
close enough  to support  each other  if any  of them  ran into a situation they
couldn't handle alone. If they could keep  up with each other, that was. If  the
Marines could  handle them  properly and  keep the  FPs from  getting hopelessly
lost. Hyakowa shuddered at the thought  of the many things that could  go wrong.
He knew the Wanderjahrians were also unhappy with what they were doing. Most  of
them found the very idea of  patrolling the woods without being in  their normal
formation frightening almost to the point of terror.

Domhofer was the first to move. "Let's do this thing," he said, and stepped  off
toward the first platoon's command element.

Almost as though  that were a  parade ground command,  everyone began descending
the hill toward their platoons  and shifts. Hyakowa stood calmly  watching them.
Doyle  was the  last to  leave the  hill, so  he was  there when  Hyakowa got  a
transmission.

"Random One-six, this is Random Six-five. Over."

"One-six.  Go,  Six-five," Hyakowa  said,  using field-expedient  communications
rather than textbook procedure. He was clearly excited as he listened to  Acting
Battalion Executive Officer Charlie Bass, call sign Random Six-five. He whistled
softly at the end of Bass's message, then said, "Roger, Six-five, I'll pass  it.
Over." He nibbled on his lower lip and looked pensively out into nowhere as Bass
signed off.

Doyle had no idea  what the message was,  but if the normally  impassive Hyakowa
reacted to it that way, it had to be bad news for the men of third platoon.  Bad
news? It had  to be terrible  news. Hey, he.  Corporal Doyle, was  the company's
senior clerk. He had no business going  into a situation where he'd be facing  a
large force of guerrillas-especially not with a company of partly trained  rural
policemen who barely knew which end of their blasters was the hot one. So it had
to be bad. The string-of-pearls had detected an overwhelming force of guerrillas
closing on  them while  they stood  here waiting.  No, that  couldn't be  it. If
guerrillas were approaching, Hyakowa  would be giving orders,  getting everybody
ready to fight right now. So what was it? He quaked as he imagined what could be
worse yet:  The guerrillas  had attacked  the spaceport  outside Brosigville and
wiped out the  FIST headquarters! They  were left with  no way off-planet!  They
were stuck here, a  few Marines on some  backwater world that even  Captain Cono
rado hadn't ever heard of! How long would it be before anybody noticed that  the
FIST wasn't  making its  reports? It  was how  far, three  weeks, to the nearest
civilized planet?  That was  the fastest  a message  could travel  from here  to
there.  Then it  would be  more weeks  or months  until Fleet  headquarters  was
informed that 34th FIST missed a report. And Fleet wouldn't do anything over one
missed message, they'd wait  for two or three  reports to go missing.  How often
were messages sent to Fleet headquarters,  once a week? Less often? Then  weeks,
maybe months-probably  months-after Fleet  realized something  must be  wrong, a
rescue mission  would finally  be mounted.  Jesus Muhammad,  it would  be a year
longer than  that, more  than a  year, a  year and  a half-before anybody got to
Wanderjahr to pull the survivors out! If there were any survivors! Doyle's knees
shook so badly he felt like he was about to collapse.

"You know where Morgenluft is?" Hyakowa asked into the absolute silence that had
descended around Doyle.

Morgenluft? What did that  have to do with  the spaceport getting taken  out and
them being stranded here? Doyle's throat  was too constricted for him to  speak.
He simply nodded.

"Brigadier  Sturgeon  was  visiting  Oligarch  Keutgens's  home  earlier today,"
Hyakowa said slowly.

Doyle looked  at him  oddly. This  didn't seem  to have  anything to do with the
predicament he imagined they were in.

"Guerrillas pulled a raid on it."  He looked at Doyle. "Dean and  Claypoole were
with the brigadier." He  shook his head slowly.  "Somehow, they managed to  beat
off the guerrillas."

All the tension flowed out of Doyle. Well, that wasn't so bad. A raid on a whole
different continent. Hey,  that didn't affect  him, it didn't  put him into  any
danger at all! Everything was all right  here. The sun was shining, there was  a
nice breeze wafting  by, and third  platoon was about  to go for  a walk in  the
woods  with  a few  hundred  local guys.  God  was in  his  heaven, Muhammad  in
Paradise, and Odin was probably getting drunk again in Valhalla. No problem.

Doyle was so euphoric at his unexpected reprieve from catastrophe that he didn't
think of any of the implications of a guerrilla raid on a continent that  didn't
have  a guerrilla  problem. Nor  was he  at all  concerned that  the raid   just
happened to take place at the very time the FIST commander was on the scene.  It
didn't even register on him that Dean and Claypoole were in the fight.

"Oh, yeah, well..." Doyle couldn't think of a thing to say.

"The brigadier  got out,  all right,"  Hyakowa continued,  looking back down the
hill toward the  Marines and FPs  who were waiting  for him to  tell them to  do
something. "No word on Dean and Claypoole, but there were casualties."

That got  through. "Dean,  Claypoole? Casualties?"  he squeaked.  He knew  those
guys. Dean and Claypoole were  good Marines-no, great Marines. They  were almost
friends of his. He'd been to hell and back with them! And they were  casualties?
No! They couldn't be!

Hyakowa almost decided this was a bad time  to pass the word to the rest of  his
men. Then he glanced at Doyle and realized they'd find out from him anyway,  and
most likely  get a  garbled version  of the  story. He  flicked on the all-hands
channel on his radio and used  Bass's message for his comm check.  Everybody got
the straight scoop. Except Doyle, who convinced himself that Dean and  Claypoole
were dead.

Hyakowa gave the order and Company A, 257th Feld-polizei, headed into the  hills
for its combat/training patrol.


"Commander," the scout, Fighter  Quetlal, gasped as soon  as he was admitted  to
the half-finished chamber  that served as  Commander Hing's office.  Quetlal was
out of breath from running the last fifteen-kilometer leg of the  communications
route between the  257th precinct headquarters  and the headquarters  of the Che
Loi Brigade.

Hing waved a hand to tell the scout to sit on one of the stools that squatted on
the  duckboard  flooring of  his  office. "Relax,  Fighter  Quetlal, catch  your
breath," he said more calmly than he felt. It was frustrating to have to rely on
runners for most  of his information,  but the Confederation's  string-of-pearls
surveillance  satellites  prevented  using  radios  for  communication  with the
scouts. "You have run far, refresh  yourself." He gestured at his clerk  to give
Quetlal a  bottle of  beer. "When  you can  speak without  wheezing, give me the
message."

"Yes, Commander,"  Quetlal gasped.  Gratefully, he  accepted the  bottle of cold
brew and gulped  half of it  down immediately. That  was one of  the benefits of
delivering a message to the commander from a great distance-Hing always gave the
messenger a bottle  of beer. If  the message was  long enough, or  could be made
long enough, he often got a second bottle.

Hing waited  with patience  he didn't  feel. Quetlal  brought news  of what  was
happening with the 257th Feldpolizei,  information that he badly wanted.  But he
knew that the 257th  GSB was far enough  away that the information  could wait a
moment or two while his messenger composed himself. Besides, the kind  treatment
only served to enhance his reputation among the men.                           .
.

Hing was seated at a small field desk, though the chamber was large enough for a
full-size desk. He thought it was better for a guerrilla commander to present an
image  of  austerity.  A counter  and  shelves  along one  wall  of  the chamber
contained  banks  of  communications equipment,  mostly  unmanned  now that  the
guerrillas had to restrict their radio use. A small, low bed lay on the opposite
side of the chamber; Hing slept where  he worked, to be available at all  times.
Mounting both  3-D and  flatvid viewers,  a low  table stood  out from  the wall
behind and  to the  side ofHing's  desk. The  largest piece  of furniture in the
chamber was a conference table that took up most of its middle. Several officers
were seated around it. The chamber was illuminated by rows of glowballs anchored
to the unfinished rock ceiling.

Lieutenant Sokum Pincote had sprung to her feet the instant Quetlal was admitted
to the  chamber, and  now stood  tensely, almost  vibrating like  a bowed violin
string. Her lips were drawn sharply back, exposing her pointed teeth. Hing  knew
she wouldn't have given Quetlal time to catch his breath, she would already have
his message and be pressing him for additional details. And, Hing knew, that was
why  she would  never be  the commander  of any  unit larger  than a   sixty-man
company; she didn't  know how to  treat the fighters  so they respected  her and
willingly obeyed her orders. The fighters under her command obeyed out of  fear,
and  soldiers  frightened  of  their  own  commanders  weren't  always  the best
fighters.

Confederation Marines had arrived a week  earlier at the 257th GSB to  train the
Feldpolizei, that much Hing already knew. That, and that the Marines had assumed
command positions within the battalion.  What kind of success they  were having,
what the Marines were  training the Feldpolizei to  do, and what their  training
schedule was,  those things  he did  not know.  He hoped  that Quetlal's message
would tell him some of those things.

Quetlal took  another gulp  of beer,  wiped a  dirty arm  across his  mouth, and
began.

"Commander, the Marines at the 257th are teaching the Feldpolizei real  tactics.
I have a vid of their training." He reached into a pouch on his belt and  handed
over a capsule.

Hing kept his face expressionless; the man should have given this to him to look
at while  he caught  his breath.  There would  be no  second bottle  of beer for
Quetlal, no matter how long this debriefing took. Hing tossed the capsule to his
clerk, who immediately put it in  the viewer. An image formed almost  instantly.
Despite its  three dimensions,  the image  was fuzzy  and slightly  blurred; its
colors were off, and there were areas  of glare in which the eye could  make out
no detail. Obviously, the  recording had been done  into bright light from  deep
shadow, and a telescopic lens had been used because of the distance.

The few Marines  in the vid  were difficult to  see because of  their dull-green
uniforms, but the Feldpolizei stood out clearly in their orange and blue.  There
were two training sessions on the  vid. Hing chuckled as he watched  the Marines
attempting to teach the  lackeys of the Feldpolizei  how to use aimed  fire with
their blasters. He laughed aloud at how confused the troopers were on the parade
ground when they were being instructed on how to move without being in  straight
lines, and then  stumbled in the  forest when they  tried to move  through it in
other than a column on a road.  If this, which was nothing, was all  the Marines
had managed to accomplish in a week, perhaps the Liberation could be won  before
the Feldpolizei became a force that had to be reckoned with.

Then he noticed the date stamped into a corner of the vid- it had been made  six
days earlier. He grimaced. It was  almost worthless, it gave him no  information
on what they  could do today.  Well, he thought,  one week isn't  long enough to
uproot bad  habits formed  over many  years. And  it did  give him  one piece of
usable information-the Marines would be as hard to see in the forest as his  own
fighters.

"Do  you have  any newer  information?" Hing  asfced when  the vid  had run  its
course.

"Yes, Commander. The  Marines and two  companies of the  257th have gone  out on
patrols in the vicinity of the GSB headquarters."

"Two companies? How many Marines are with them?"

"It looked to be two squads."

"Two squads,"  Hing repeated  pensively. The  Marines used  ten-man squads. That
meant twenty Confederation Marines were  in the field with the  Feldpolizei. The
Marines had a reputation as ferocious  fighters, but could twenty of them  stand
up to his entire brigade? No matter. Even if they could, they would be too  busy
trying to lead the incompetents of the Peld-polizei to do any fighting of  their
own.

Quetlal bobbed his  head. "It was  difficult to tell  for certain how  many were
Marines, Commander.  The Feldpolizei  were wearing  the same  green uniforms  as
they. Even their own officers were dressed in green."

Hing stared at Quetlal for a long moment. This could cause a serious problem, if
his fighters couldn't distinguish between the Marines and the Feldpolizei.  "How
were they moving? Were they in columns like usual?"

"No, Commander.  They were  in route  march formation."  Route march  formation.
Spread out and staggered, rather than in a neatly aligned, tight column. Weapons
ready rather than right-shouldered. Eyes watching their surroundings rather than
straight ahead. The Marines had taught the Feldpolizei a great deal in only  one
week.

"How far are the patrols going?"

"I was told they are on two-day patrols."

Hing  glanced around  the room.  His entire  staff was  present. "Fighter,   you
brought important information. You may rest now."

Fighter Quetlal understood  that he was  being dismissed, and  he scampered from
the chamber.

"Two days," Hing mused as soon as the scout had left. "We can do nothing to them
this time, it would take too long for our fighters to get into position. But now
that we know what the Marines  are teaching the Feldpolizei, we can  prepare for
the next time they go out. Here is what I want you to start planning ..."


Route march,  that's how  the scouts  told Commander  Hing the  Feldpolizei were
moving. Well, there was route march, and then there was route march.

As practiced by good soldiers, such as  the fighters of the Che Loi Brigade,  it
was a spread-out formation in which one burst from a gun could not hit more than
a few men,  one small chemical-reaction  explosive couldn't take  down more than
one or two. More than that, it meant to be alert and perhaps to move  stealthily
or silently, ready to  shift at ah instant's  notice into a fighting  formation,
whether offensive or defensive.                          -

As done by  true professionals, such  as the Confederation  Marines, route march
was spread out, but it accomplished more. When the Marines were on route  march,
they  were  almost  completely silent  and  nearly  invisible-even when  wearing
garrison utilities rather  than chameleons. For  the Marines, route  march was a
fighting formation from which they could attack or defend in any direction  with
virtually no notice.

When  attempted by  amateurs, which  the 257th  Battalion of  the  Wanderjahrian
Feldpolizei  certainly  qualified  as,  well  ...  Did  "gaggle  of  geese" mean
anything?

*   *   *

The tip ofMadlargie's tongue peeked out  from between his lips. He could  hardly
believe what his widened  eyes were showing him.  Quickly, he shifted his  focus
from near to far and turned in  a circle to see if anyone was  watching-or close
enough to see if he  looked. The area he and  his shift were moving through  was
barely thick  enough to  be called  forest. It  was studded  with the giants the
Wanderjahrians called hoch-baums, bunched with  the fat, skirted palms known  as
gros-palms, and  had randomly  placed spikers,  trees a  little taller  than the
grospalms, which had spiky leaves that stuck straight up out of their horizontal
branches. On the ground in between were scattered bushes that vaguely  resembled
ferns. But the forest was thick enough that MacIlargie couldn't see more than  a
hundred meters in any direction. Even using his infras, he couldn't spot  anyone
other than the men of his own shift. But there were others nearby; he could hear
them. Somewhere to  the north he  heard Schultz bellow  his displeasure at  some
hapless trooper who wasn't moving to his satisfaction. Nearer, but still out  of
sight to the south, he heard  bodies crashing through underbrush, and a  muffled
thud and yelp as someone tripped andfell.

MacIlargie returned his attention to his own shift. His fifteen men were slowly,
inexorably, scattering.  Every one  of them  was watching  where he was stepping
none kept an eye on anyone else  in the formation, so they were drifting  slowly
apart  from  each  other. Not  a  one  ever seemed  to  spare  a glance  at  the
surrounding flora or terrain to look  for any enemy who might be  approaching-or
lying in ambush.

"I've seen little children  move better than this  on a picnic outing,"  he told
himself.

Silently, feeling his way  with feet accustomed to  seeking for trips and  traps
and finding their  own way, he  moved away from  his shift. At  thirty meters he
turned and  walked parallel  to them-as  parallel as  he could  to men  who were
drifting away from each other in  all directions. He wondered how long  it would
take for  any of  them to  notice that  he wasn't  in the  formation anymore. He
wondered how  long it  would take  before any  of them  could spot him once they
realized he wasn't there anymore. He wondered what kind of joke he would pull on
them when they couldn't find him.


Godenov was dismayed. Not to mention scared.  His shift was on one flank of  the
spread-out  company  formation,  one  of  the  positions  most  likely  to first
encounter guerrillas. Unlike MacIlargie's shift, the members of Godenov's  shift
were looking outward. They were also bunched up so tightly they were  constantly
blocking each other's view and bumping  into each other. If they walked  into an
ambush, one burst from a  gun would kill most of  them. And then where would  he
be? Godenov wondered. Dead, that's where. He had to get them to spread out,  had
to get them  to be aware  of where they  were relative to  each other. And still
keep close watch on their surroundings. Was that possible? Godenov shivered.


Chan helped another trooper  who had tripped over  some unseen obstacle back  to
his feet. While Chan's expression was placid to a casual glance, worry was there
to see for anyone who knew what to look for. The men of his shift were  properly
spaced and staggered; he'd managed to teach them that much in the few days  he'd
had to train them. And each divided his attention between the man he was behind,
to maintain contact and distance, and  the flanks-he hoped when they looked  off
to the sides, they were actually looking for people who shouldn't be there,  and
not just seeing trees and bushes. The problem they were having was, they  didn't
seem to be able  to look around without  ignoring where their feet  went. So far
only two  had fallen,  but whether  he looked  ahead from  his position near the
middle of the  ragged line or  to the rear,  he always saw  at least one trooper
tripping or stumbling over some obstruction he hadn't noticed.

He  had to  do something  about the  situation before  something seriously   bad
happened. While he was alert for any sign of an enemy, and ready to take instant
action if they came across any, he didn't expect this patrol to encounter any of
the guerrillas. His main concern was that  one of his men might break an  arm or
leg in  a fall-or  worse, impale  himself on  a branch  upthrust from one of the
fallen trees that lay about. He was concerned not only because he'd have trouble
forgiving himself if one of his charges was injured, but also because he knew if
one  of them  suffered a  serious injury,  that would  make the  FPs even   more
reluctant to leam what he was trying to teach them.

He whistled softly, just loudly enough for everyone to hear. When his men looked
at him, he gave the assemble-here hand  signal. In a moment the whole shift  was
standing at attention in two ranks in front of him.

Chan shook his head sadly. These men had had entirely too much bad training.

"Never stand at attention  in a parade ground  formation in the field,"  he said
quietly. "That makes  you entirely too  easy a target.  I don't want  to have to
explain to Ser-ah. Acting  Company Captain Hyakowa-how I  got some of my  people
killed."

Some of the troopers glanced uneasily  at each other. A few shuffled  their feet
nervously. None broke formation.

"Spread out, get low," Chan instructed. He demonstrated getting low by  kneeling
on one  knee. "Some  of you  watch the  rear, some  watch the flanks, some watch
behind me. Don't look at me, just listen. I'll tell you what we're going to  do.
Then I'll show you."

"Acting Shift Sergeant," one of the  troopers asked, "are we allowed to  look at
you when you show us what it is you will show us?"

Chan briefly  closed his  eyes and  counseled himself  in patience. "When I-show
you, you'll have to look," he said when he reopened his eyes.


Lance  Corporal Schultz  was in  as vile  a mood  as he'd  ever been  in.  These
numskull Wanderjahrian FPs  couldn't do a  damn thing right,  not unless it  was
looking parade ground sharp and marching in straight lines. He'd spent almost  a
whole week trying to teach them how to shoot and how to move, and it looked like
they hadn't learned  a damn thing.  They couldn't maintain  proper distance from
each other, they kept wandering off, every other step they tripped over things a
blind man could see in the middle of the night- And they made so much noise  the
guerrillas could hear them two hard days' march off! He couldn't understand  why
this war hadn't already been lost. By  God, Schultz thought, if the 257th is  an
example of the Feldpolizei, give me a  FIST and I'll take the whole damn  planet
in a week. Week and a half, tops!

As distracted as he  was by his vile  mood, Schultz still had  the discipline to
watch and listen for danger-he had better;  he suspected he was the only one  in
the shift who was!

All morning long, and now well into the afternoon, he'd been hearing the  sounds
of things, big things, blundering through the woods. At first he wanted to  take
the shift on  a flanking maneuver  to deal with  whatever this potential  danger
was, or at least  send scouts out to  determine exactly what it  was. But Acting
Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim assured  him, insisted actually, that there  was
no danger, that what he heard was merely grazing cows. Kharim showed none of the
fear Schultz had seen in the  local forces he'd worked with on  other operations
when they tried  to convince him  that the bad  guys who were  out there weren't
there, because the local forces were afraid to face them. Maybe Kharim was right
about the cows.

That  didn't mollify  Schultz very  much. He  didn't trust  cattle. Cattle  were
things you  ate, and  then you  used their  hides to  make boots.  No matter how
placid something was, if it was facing the prospect of being eaten, it could get
brave in a hurry and attack.  Besides, he remembered entirely too well  the time
three  years earlier  when a  regular army  unit on  Eritreafra had  used  Earth
evolved humpbacked cattle as cover for  an approach to the Marine position,  and
then as a shield when they attacked the 28th FIST. That was an operation Schultz
had been on. No, he didn't trust cattle at all. But he saw that Acting Assistant
Shift Sergeant  Kharim was  almost laughing  at him  for his  concern about  the
cattle-"cows"  was the  word Kharim  used-and if  he laughed,  that would   have
created a  discipline problem  Schultz didn't  want to  have to  deal with  on a
patrol. So  he dropped  the matter,  and kept  an ear  cocked to  the blundering
sounds.

A mild breeze was wafting through the woods, ruffling the leaves and swaying the
fronds of the grospalms.  So what with the  constant small movement wherever  he
looked, the  distraction about  the "cows,"  and his  near constant grumbling to
himself about  the inadequacy  of the  Wanderjahrian FPs,  Schultz didn't notice
that a patch of foliage some fifty or sixty meters to the flank was much  denser
than anything else he'd  seen this day until  it ambled about ten  meters to one
side.

"Alert right!" Schultz screamed as he spun toward the moving foliage and dove to
the ground into a firing position. What he saw through his blaster's sights made
his eyes bug and his mouth gape.

He lowered his blaster and lay there looking at the moving wall of foliage for a
long moment. It wasn't really foliage,  it was fauna. No, make that  faunum, one
fauna. It stood on  four legs the same  thickness and tan color  as the grospalm
trunks, and as tall as the middle-sized spikers. Where the legs met the  massive
body, the coloring  changed to mottled  green with flecks  of red and  blue. The
massive, tapering  tail that  stuck straight  out from  one end  was buff on the
bottom, mottled green on  the top. At the  other end, a sinuous  neck snaked its
way to a smallish  head that seemed to  be mostly mouth. The  mouth was placidly
chomping on the succulent leaves of hochbaums.

Schultz had  been to  Old Earth  and seen  an African  elephant in  a zoo.  He'd
thought it  was huge,  with its  four-meter height.  He went  on an operation to
Xanadu  and saw  the roc,  a six-meter-tall  biped that  vaguely resembled   the
flightless  birds of  Earth. On  Hell, he'd  seen the  beelzebub, a   five-meter
monstrosity  that  looked like  it  was designed  by  the makers  of  an ancient
Japanese flatvid he once saw.

This creature made them look puny. It was at least eight meters high at the  top
of its arched back,  and twice that from  the tip of its  tail to its chest.  He
tried to tell himself it wasn't that big, it couldn't be that big, it had to  be
closer than it looked, that a trick of the light made it seem farther away.  But
he knew that wasn't true, this thing really was that big.

A tittering behind  him finally broke  through, and Schultz  twisted around. The
entire  shift stood  there. Most  of the  men were  calmly looking  at the  huge
animal. A couple of them were looking at him. Three or four were watching  their
surroundings-a small part of Schultz's mind registered that those three or  four
were doing something he'd  been trying to teach  them. All of them  had straight
faces; he couldn't tell who had laughed.

"It's only a cow. Acting Shift Sergeant," Kharim said calmly. "Nothing for us to
be concerned about."     ^ . .

Schultz looked  at Kharim  for several  long seconds  before saying, "All right,
that's a cow. Let's get moving again, we still have a patrol to run."

Kharim  nodded and  began giving  the orders  that got  (he troopers  back  into
formation and moving.

Schultz got to his feet. Before moving  out with his shift, he gave the  "cow" a
long look. He remembered Top Myer's  briefing aboard the Denver, when the  first
sergeant mentioned the large animals  that lived on Wanderjahr. He'd  thought he
was ready, but seeing something that  huge for the first time was  far different
than hearing about them. Then he looked at his blaster and thought about  firing
it at the behemoth. He concluded that  all the puny weapon would do was  piss it
off-if it even noticed it was being shot.

A few minutes later it occurred to him that on every world he'd ever been on  or
heard of,  the grazing  animals that  were the  equivalent of  cattle were  food
animals. Food animals  were preyed on  by carnivores. He  wondered what kind  of
animal preyed  on something  like the  cow he'd  just seen.  For the first time,
Schultz was frightened.



CHAPTER TEN

Dean's mind was not on his work.

Claypoole didn't notice his friend's lack of attention until several days  after
their return from Morgenluft. When  the FIST sergeant major announced  they were
going to work for Chief Long henceforth, Claypoole at least had been thrown into
a tailspin.

"Sergeant Major," Claypoole protested, "we're Marines, not policemen!"

Sergeant Major Shiro, a man with huge shoulders and a prominent stomach, shifted
his tobacco wad  to the opposite  side of his  mouth and glared  at him. "I know
what and who you are, Claypoole." He expectorated into a container he kept handy
at his desk. All Marines loved tobacco products. "The brigadier says yer  goin',
'n' yer goin', it's that plain goddamned simple, Marine. Lookit it this way, you
get your own vehicle and ye'll be workin' fer a civilian.

"Okay.  Clean  out Commander  Peters's-may  God help  that  poor man's  recovery
office. Yer gonna have to  do all this 'cause he's  in no condition to give  you
and Dean advice from the Denver.  Download all his computer files and  gather up
any paperwork he had in there  'n' take everything up to police  headquarters in
town. You need any  of the hardware, take  it with you on  hand receipts. You'll
work outta police headquarters until further orders. Ye'll be billeted here  and
I'll expect you to take  yer turn on all the  duty rosters. You may be  spending
yer days in town,  but you'll be responsible  for knowing what's in  the Plan of
the Day, just like any other Marine. Ya need to be excused from any  duty"-spoot
tang!  A brown  glob of  spittle arced  neatly into  the sergeant  major's  tiny
spittoon-"have Chief Long or Lieutenant  Constantine call me and I'll  square it
away. Now move out."

After the pair had departed, FIST Sergeant Major Frederico Shiro wiped a droplet
of tobacco-stained saliva from one end of his mustache. His mustache pushed  the
limit  of  what Marine  Corps  regulations would  allow,  but nobody,  not  even
Brigadier Sturgeon, would ever point that out to him. He shook his head. Charlie
Bass had called him three times already. Captain Conorado twice, asking if  they
could have the  pair back. After  that fracas at  the lady oligarch's  place, he
understood  why  the brigadier  had  said no.  Privately  he'd have  recommended
against the brigadier waiving time in grade requirements and battalion quotas to
promote the two  privates, but he  admired their spunk.  The idea of  one Marine
taking on forty  men appealed to  his sense of  pride in the  Corps. He had done
something just like that when he was a young PFC.

"Fred,"  Brigadier Sturgeon  had told  him when  he'd asked  him to  handle  the
temporary reassignment of  Dean and Claypoole,  "officers are the  brains of the
Corps, but you give me a junior enlisted man who can think for himself and  I'll
trade him for  any three ensigns,  and that includes  me when I  was one!" After
that  the sergeant  major knew  the pair  weren't going  back to  their  company
anytime soon.

Claypoole  had thought  it strange  Dean didn't  jump into  it with  him in  the
sergeant  major's office,  but he  forgot about  it as  they launched  into  the
details  of shifting  their workstations  to police  headquarters. Just  as  the
sergeant major had said, though,  they were assigned Commander Peters's  landcar
as  their  own transportation,  and  as they  drove  it uptown  that  first day,
Claypoole rattled on and on  that it was a great  break for them since he  fully
expected,  working  for  civilians,  they'd get  what  no  other  Marine on  the
deployment would see until they got back to Thorsfinni's World-time off.

"Man, we'll see the sights!" Claypoole  nudged Dean beside him as he  guided the
car through the late-moming traffic. Dean grunted noncommittally. "Hey, are  you
sure you ain't picked  up a fever or  something?" Claypoole asked. He  turned to
look at Dean, who just sat there staring ahead. "Nope. No," Dean answered.  "I'm
okay."

"Well, we'll  see the  sights," Claypoole  continued. "You  know, Dean-o,  these
little brown girls here  are, well, I don't  know, more friendly than  those big
breasted blondes back on Thorsfinni's World. We are gonna get laid, partner!"

"Wouldn't you rather be back with the platoon?" Dean asked listlessly.

"Yeah!" Claypoole answered quickly. "Sure. But hell, Dean-o, we're here, my man,
and we ain't going anywhere but here, so we may as well settle down and make the
most of it. Besides, so far on this deployment, we've seen more action, you  and
me, than any other Marine. We don't have to back up to the pay table!"


Matters came to a head  the next day. Dean had  taken the landcar to fetch  more
computer equipment from the office at  the port while Claypoole worked in  their
new office,  setting things  up. A  trip that  should have  taken him forty-five
minutes took him three hours. When he finally returned, Claypoole accosted him.

"Where the hell you been?" he shouted.

"Huh? Rachman, I just stopped off for a little while. Calm down, will you?"

Claypoole looked closely at his friend.  His uniform was rumpled and dirty,  and
he had an expression about his face, an  air about him as of a man who  had just
done something- secretive.

"You  been  seein' that  girl,"  Claypoole shouted,  slapping  his forehead.  "I
shoulda known. She's  the reason you've  been wool-gathering since  we came back
from Morgenluft."

"Her name is Hway, Rachman," Dean said, his face coloring.

Claypoole began to feel  his temper slipping too.  "Dean-o, snap out of  it. I'm
depending on you. We not only  work together, we gotta cover each  other's asses
too. I don't want to depend on some gigolo with his mind on pussy when he should
be thinking about watching my back. What would've happened to us at Juanita's if
your mind had been on pussy when the sniper fired at you? What would've happened
to the brigadier  and the rest  of us if  you'd been swapping  spit out there on
that ridge  the other  night? Jesu,  Dean, and  you ain't  even fucked that girl
yet!"

Dean's face went  white. "Goddamn you,  Claypoole!" he shouted.  "You ever, ever
say anything about  my girl like  that again, and  I'll ... I'll  ..." He turned
away quickly and smacked a fist into his palm.

Claypoole stepped over to where Dean was standing, grabbed him by the  shoulder,
and spun him around.  "Now, you listen to  me, you goddamned boot.  No, shut the
fuck up and listen! You're a Marine, you're on a combat deployment, and you  got
your duty to do, and you will do  it. Dean. Besides, what are you going to  do?"
Claypoole's  voice  dripped with  sarcasm.  "Marry the  bitch?  You can't!  It's
against regulations. Quit the Corps? Fine. You just gotta get her to wait  seven
more fucking years and she'll be all yours."

Dean stood rigidly, staring at Claypoole, his own eyes bulging.

"You snap out of this. Dean, or I ain't workin' with you no more. I mean it!" He
paused to catch  his breath. "You  poor, dumb shit,"  he continued, calmer  now.
"All you can do is just fuck that cunt and forget it."

Dean's fist landed squarely in the middle of Claypoole's mouth and the two  went
down in a thrashing tangle of arms and legs and rolled on the floor.  Lieutenant
Constantine, who'd been sitting in his cubicle nearby and had heard  everything,
stepped through  the door,  a bored  expression on  his face.  When he separated
them, he needed to use a stun stick to get their attention.


Claypoole had been wrong about the intimacy between Dean and Hway.

Dean followed  Hway's directions  to her  granduncle's farm  carefully. That the
place was  almost on  the way  to the  port facility  made it  easier for him to
justify the digression to himself. The side trip would only take a few  minutes,
it wasn't like  going AWOL, and  nobody would know  because he'd programmed  the
detour as "official police business." Chief Long had told him and Claypoole that
they'd be  doing a  lot of  traveling around  the city  and its  environs as his
intelligence aides, and Dean thought of this little visit as a "test run."  That
he'd filed a false report, a court-martial offense, bothered him, but in his own
mind the prize was  worth the risk. He  comforted himself with the  thought that
since Brigadier Sturgeon liked him, if he was found out, the punishment wouldn't
be that severe.

Hway's granduncle's  farm proved  in fact  to be  fifteen kilometers  beyond the
port, and the road was tricky to drive. And Dean got lost twice. He did not dare
call  for  help  using  the onboard  communications  system  since  he knew  the
transmission  would be  monitored. When  he finally  saw the  long,  tree-lined,
winding drive leading  up to the  cluster of one-story  stucco buildings on  the
crest of a ridge that Hway had described, he knew he'd found the place at  last.
His pulse beat quicker at the thought of seeing her again.

Hway's granduncle was a sturdy man of about seventy, with a firm handshake and a
friendly smile. "Welcome to  my home, Mr. Dean,"  he said. "After what  you have
done for  Hway, consider  this place  your home  too for  as long  as you are on
Wanderjahr."

Emil Keutgens,  Hway's grandmother's  younger brother,  wanted to  hear all  the
details of Dean's recent adventure, so  the young Marine was forced to  sit with
him, his wife  Helga, and Hway  as he tried  to retell the  story as quickly  as
possible in order to get some time alone with Hway. Emil's wife, a pudgy  blonde
with  a  perpetual  smile,  who kept  nodding  while  Dean  talked, occasionally
interrupted the  narrative by  asking if  he would  like something  to eat. Each
time.  Dean politely  refused, until  he realized  he was  hurting the   woman's
feelings, after which he relented and a huge snack was immediately produced. Not
at all hungry.  Dean forced himself  to eat a  sampling of cakes  and sandwiches
which under  any other  circumstances he'd  have found  delicious. But  now they
filled his mouth like old newspapers.

"Uncle," Hway said at last, "maybe I could show Joe your tomato crop?"

"Ah," the old man responded with  a deprecating wave of his hand,  "what warrior
would be interested in tomatoes, eh, Lance Corporal Dean?"

"Oh, no, sir," Dean replied at once, swallowing a half-chewed mouthful of  cake,
"I've never seen tomatoes before, sir. Sure, I'd be interested." Dean smiled  so
widely the old farmer thought at  first his young guest might not  be completely
right in the head. But his wife had seen the furtive glances between the  Marine
and her niece, and she knew the young couple wanted to be alone.

"Emil," she said, "let them walk a  bit." It was an order. Emil shrugged,  as if
to say. In the house you are the boss.

"I don't have much time, Hway," Dean  said once they were outside. "I've got  to
go to the port and pick up some office equipment and then take it downtown,  but
I just couldn't come this close without dropping by to see you."

Hway frowned. "Joe, is it all right for you to be here?"

"Sure," Dean answered quickly, and Hway knew it was not all right.

"Joe," she took  his hand in  hers, "I don't  want you to  get into trouble over
me."

"I won't, I won't," he assured her quickly, "Let's see those tomatoes."

The tomato fields, which were near ripening, stretched for nearly a kilometer in
all directions around the farmhouse. Supported on frames, the plants stood  more
than a meter high, and the red fruits hung down from the stems like balls bigger
than a man's fist. Each plant seemed  to support a dozen or more of  them. After
walking a  few meters  down one  of the  rows, they  lost sight of the farmhouse
completely.

Dean pulled Hway close to him  and they embraced; they kissed; they  melted into
each other. The  next thing Dean  knew, they were  kneeling between the  rows of
plants, his equipment belt hanging from a nearby tomato frame. Dean had not  had
sex with a woman since before the deployment to Eineal, and that was with one of
Big  Barb's girls  back in  Bronnys, on  Thorsfinni's World,  nothing like   the
passion that gripped him now. When Hway reached out to guide him in, he lost  it
instantly.  "Sorry, sorry!"  he gasped.  He sat  down, his  legs entwined   with
Hway's, and tried to catch his breath. Hway's chest heaved too and her face  was
flushed. "My great big Joe," she whispered. After a while they did it the  right
way.

They lay in the dust between the rows of tomatoes, chests heaving.

"First time?" Dean asked. He'd never had a virgin before, so he had no idea what
sex would be like with one.

"No," Hway answered nonchalantly, brushing a strand of hair away from her  face.
Joe was instantly disappointed to know he was not the first man in her life.  He
almost wanted  to demand  to know  who the  man was,  but as quickly realized he
couldn't ask a question like that. "How about you?" she asked.

"Uh, no, no." Dean realized then how foolish he was to be disappointed that Hway
had been with someone before him.

As if she sensed  what was going through  his mind, Hway laughed.  "Who was it?"
she asked bluntly.

Astonished that she would ask. Dean faltered. "Um, a couple of girls I knew back
home. Nothing  serious." He  was not  about to  tell her  of the  whore back  on
Thorsfinni's World. "And you?"

"Oh, just  a local  boy. A  very pleasant  boy, Joe,  but nothing like you." She
patted Joe's extended leg. "He's dead now," she added matter-of-factly, and Dean
felt relief, then was ashamed of himself  for it. After a few moments she  said,
"Joe, we'd better be getting back. Won't they miss you at your office?"

Dean was putting  his equipment back  on. "Huh? Oh,  yeah, let me  help you up."
Awkwardly,  they got  to their  feet and  rearranged their  clothes. They  stood
facing each other, she with a wayward strand of black hair hanging down in front
of her face,  a small rivulet  of perspiration working  its way slowly  down one
side of her jaw. Impulsively, Dean  grabbed her again and pressed his  body hard
against hers.  He could  feel his  pulse beating  rapidly again.  He covered her
mouth with his own. She moaned and returned the kiss but then pushed him away.

"Joe, I don't want you getting into trouble over me."

"Don't  worry  about it,"  he  told her,  brushing  dust off  his  utilities and
straightening his belt. He glanced at his watch. He should have been back at the
Stadtpolizei headquarters an hour ago.

"Joe, before  you leave,  have one  of these."  Hway offered  him a  medium-size
tomato she'd plucked from a plant. "Maybe it'll cool you down." She laughed.  It
was warm from the sun and felt heavy in Joe's hand.

"How do you eat these things?"  Dean asked, turning the tomato curiously  in his
hands.

"Bite into it through the skin. Be careful! They're juicy!"

Dean bit into the  red orb. Instantly, his  mouth was filled with  the rich pulp
and its  tangy juice.  He took  another bite  and then  another. It was the most
wonderful natural  vegetable he'd  ever eaten.  Hway laughed  as she watched him
consume the whole tomato in only four bites. He leaned awkwardly forward, so the
juice wouldn't get on his uniform. '

"They're grown using a method  developed by the famous agronomist  Dawid Canfil.
He could take ordinary fruits and vegetables, Joe, and turn them into  miracles.
Take some back for your friend, Clayton," Hway said, and she picked three  more.
"One thing, Joe, they're very rich and  they can go right through you until  you
get used to them." Dean had no idea  what she meant but didn't want to show  his
ignorance  by asking.  They walked  back to  the farmhouse,  Hway carrying   the
tomatoes in her dress and Dean trying to look unruffled, as if they'd just spent
the  last few  minutes talking  casually about  the crops.  Self-consciously  he
worked at brushing the dust off his uniform.

Uncle Emil  did not  seem to  notice the  smudges and  dust spots on his niece's
clothing. Helga noted the  signs but said .  nothing, only nodded at  her niece.
Dean  took his  leave of  the old  people politely,  promising to  return  soon.
Carrying the freshly picked tomatoes in a sack, he climbed reluctantly into  his
landcar and, waving to Hway, who stood demurely between her grandaunt and uncle,
he drove back down to the main highway.

All  the  way back  to  Stadtpolizei headquarters  Dean  whistled and  sang.  He
couldn't wait to tell Claypoole about his afternoon and share the tomatoes  with
him. But Clay-poole threw cold water over everything.


After he'd  determined that  it was  Dean who'd  started the  fight, Chief  Long
dismissed Claypoole and told Dean to sit down. He asked for an explanation,  and
Dean told him everything.

Chief Long scratched behind his ear and  let out his breath. "You screw up  like
this one more time, laddie, and I'm sending you back to Brigadier Sturgeon.  You
know what that would mean? It would mean you'd spend the rest of your enlistment
at the depot on Thorsfinni's World, kicking boxes and counting energy packs."

Dean squirmed in his seat. He knew what the chief was telling him was true.  Oh,
Brigadier  Sturgeon liked  him, had  even promoted  him, but  AWOL was  a  court
martial offense, and  so was misuse  of Confederation property,  which he'd also
done when  he used  the landcar  for personal  business without permission. What
he'd  done  that afternoon  was  a lot  more  serious than  the  joyride he  and
Claypoole had taken the time they went to Juanita's, and Dean knew it. "I  know,
sir," Dean answered.

Chief Long regarded the young Marine for a moment. "Maybe you think working  for
me is a snap, lad? Maybe you think  because I'm a policeman I'm a lot easier  to
tolerate than your FIST sergeant major?"

"No, sir!" Dean answered quickly. "It's just that I had the chance to go see her
and ..." He paused and  thought for a moment. "Yes,  I thought I could get  away
with it, sir. I didn't think you'd find out, and you wouldn't have if  Claypoole
and I hadn't gotten into it out there. But, sir, I never thought working for you
would be any kind of picnic."

"I knew where you  were all the time,  lad." Chief Long sighed.  "All our police
vehicles are tracked  whenever they're on  the road. Commissioner  Landser knows
Emil Keutgens well. He practically lives at the tomato farm."

Dean's mouth fell open at the news. "Sir, then why didn't you-"

"I was going to talk to you about  it at some point, but then you and  Claypoole
started flinging snot at each  other out there. I was  going to wait and see  if
you'd make the same mistake twice. Will you?"

"No, sir! But,  sir, I don't  know what to  do! I love  Hway! 1 know  I do! I've
never felt like this about any girl before. What do you-"

Chief Long held up his hand. "Stop. I will not give you any advice, lad.  You've
got to work this out for yourself. I'm sorry. That's another part of growing up.
You've proved you're a brave young  man. Now prove you can control  yourself, or
you'll never make a good cop or a good Marine. What did Hway tell you to do,  by
the way?"

"She said she didn't want me to get into trouble overner."

"Then she's a lot  smarter than you are,  laddie. All right, Dean,  I'm going to
tell you two things, and you listen  very carefully. One: we have a lot  of work
to do and  little time to  do it in.  I need your  promise you'll give  all your
waking hours and some  of your sleeping ones  to Lieutenant Constantine and  me.
You don't, you're out. What do you say?"

"I give you my promise."

Chief Long nodded. "Two: we may have a lull from time to time. When we do,  I'll
let you take a police car and you can visit your girl. Now go, and sin no  more.
And make up with Claypoole."

Dean stood up and gave Chief Long a smart hand salute.

But making up with Claypoole was not that easy.


By the time Dean returned to their work space, the swelling above his right  eye
was both very noticeable and  painful, and Claypoole's lip was  swollen. Several
times Dean was about to strike  up a conversation with Claypoole but  hesitated.
Problem was. Dean realized  Claypoole had been right,  and he felt stupid  about
starting the fight, but it was hard for him to admit it. So they spent the  rest
of the day  working at their  stations, communicating only  in monosyllables and
avoiding each other's eyes.

Since neither was scheduled for duty  at FIST HQ that night, they  went straight
to their quarters before curious  Marines could ask them where  they'd collected
their recent wounds. They were still  not speaking when it came time  for lights
out. Dean lay in his rack for a long time, staring up at the darkness. He tossed
first to one side, then the other.

"Rachman," he said at last. "Are you asleep?"

"Not now," Claypoole replied sarcastically.

"Well, youumwere um, rightumboutallthat."

"What?"

"I'm sorry! You were right to chew my ass out! I was wrong to swing at you.  I'm
a fucking idiot. Jeez, Rachman, I am sorry,

I really am."

"Light!" Claypoole said. His reading light  came on. He swung his feet  over the
side of his rack. "Well, I shouldn't  have talked about your girl that way.  I'm
sorry too." He got up, opened the cooler, and took out two one-liter bottles  of
Reindeer beer, passing one to Dean. He then retrieved two of his precious cigars
and gave one to Dean. They sucked on the

beers and lit up. "What am 1 going to do, Rachman?" Dean asked. Anguish

was clear in his voice and on his face.

"You've got to do your duty, Dean-o. As long as you wear that uniform, you're  a
Marine, and that's it. Listen, I've seen plenty of other guys take the big  fall
because of a girl." Actually, he  hadn't, but he'd heard about such  things from
older Marines. "And I don't want to see that happen to you."

"I wish we'd never been sent up here by the Old Man."

"Yeah. But we're here just the  same. Besides, Commander Peters was one  hell of
an officer, and this old cop ain' t half bad, is he? And on top of all that, you
got  us promoted."  He gestured  at the  new lance  corporal's chevrons  on  the
utilities hanging on the  wall. "It was you  got us promoted, Dean-o,  all I did
was follow along to cover your ass."

Dean laughed. He was already feeling better.  It wasn't all due to the beer  and
the tobacco either. "Ah! 1 got something here for you!" he said, remembering the
tomatoes he'd brought back from the farm. He handed one to Claypoole.

"I heard of these," Claypoole said, examining the fruit. "They're supposed to be
good. Never ate one."

"Careful, they're full of juice," Dean warned.

"Gawdamn!" Claypoole exclaimed as he bit into the tomato. The juice ran down his
chin and dripped onto the floor.  He ate the entire tomato, including  the stem,
in several huge bites.  Finished, he wiped his  mouth with his undershirt.  Dean
ate one, then Claypoole finished off the third and belched contentedly.

Dean stepped across the  narrow space that separated  their bunks and stuck  his
hand out. "We watch each other's back from now on, Rachman."

Claypoole stood up. "Right!  Like we've always done.  Like Marines do it!"  They
shook.

Later,  just before  drifting off  to sleep.  Dean was  snapped back  into  full
consciousness by a roar from Claypoole's bunk.

"Ah, ah! Damn! Damn!" Claypoole shouted. "That fuckin' tomato!" he screamed.

"Whaa ... ? Omigod, what's that smell!" Dean sat bolt upright in his rack.

"I went  to fart  and, and-lookit  my rack!  Oh, gawdamn  sumbitch!" Cursing and
dragging his bedsheets along behind him, Claypoole stumbled into the head.

Dean laughed so hard  the tears streamed down  his face. It wasn't  so much that
what had happened to  Claypoole was so funny-it  was-as that everything was  now
back to normal  between them, and  the relief Dean  felt was enormous.  He would
work  their situation  out with  Hway somehow.  "Omigod!" Dean  gasped after   a
moment, then rushed after Claypoole into the head. Alas, he was too late.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Commander!" Lieutenant Pincote burst  into Hing's temporary command  post. Less
than ten kilometers from the 257th Feldpolizei GSB, the side tunnel was part  of
an abandoned mine  complex where two  raiding companies of  the Che Loi  Brigade
were in hiding.

Hing looked up from the computer.  He'd been feeding variables to the  situation
map, testing the  plans his staff  had developed for  a raid on  the Feldpolizei
headquarters while the Marines were taking the bulk of the force out on patrols.
He signed for her to speak.

Pincote  grinned and  light glinted  off the  sharp points  of her  teeth.  "The
oligarch's  lackeys  have gone  on  patrols," she  announced  breathlessly. "Two
companies of them, the same as  before." She stood erect and swelled  her chest.
"They have gone without their Confederation Marines."

A small part of Hing's mind  idly considered how impressive Pincote's chest  was
when she stood that way.  But only a small part.  Most of his mind was  occupied
with the implications of what she  said. "How good is your information?"  If the
Feldpolizei  were patrolling  without the  Marines, he  could quickly  have  the
brigade in position to do them serious injury.

Pincote looked like she wanted to  laugh, but she didn't. "I didn't  believe the
information, so I  went to see  for myself. It's  true. Arschmann's lackeys  are
patrolling in platoon  strength. I saw  no Marines with  them." By the  time she
finished saying this, she was no longer standing with the impressive chest,  she
had leaned forward with her fists planted on Hing's desk. A manic light shone in
her eyes. "If we move soon enough,  we can ambush one platoon before it  settles
in for the night, then strike at  another one when it leaves its bivouac  in the
morning." She threw her head back and stared into that never-never where  people
look when imagining  great possibilities. "We  can easily kill  two platoons and
take their weapons.  Then every fighter  with us can  have a blaster,  and there
will be more  to take back  to our base."  She lowered her  head and focused  on
Hing's eyes. "The lackeys are moving in the formations the offworlders have been
teaching them. Think what it will do to their morale, and to their confidence in
the Marines, when two of their platoons are wiped out while doing what they have
been taught!"

The  sequence of  ambushes, the  capturing of  weapons, and  the effect  on  the
Feldpolizei were exactly what Hing had been thinking. Still...

"How certain are you the Marines aren't with them?"

"I watched for a long time. I followed one platoon for two kilometers. I saw  no
sign of the Marines. Then I went to the headquarters to see for myself that they
have no aircraft, none of the hoppers the Marines use, or the so-called Raptors.
The only aircraft there were the  base commander's hopper and a small,  civilian
cargo carrier."

Hing thought for no more than  three seconds, then jumped to his  feet, shouting
orders as he went.


Lance Corporal Hammer Schultz didn't feel naked the second time he went out on a
patrol with the  FPs, yet he  was even less  comfortable and confident  than the
first time. He didn't have to feel  naked this time, because he was wearing  his
chameleons,  the proper  Marine uniform  for combat.  He shoulc  have felt  more
confident,  because  this  time  the FPs  weren'i  bumping  into  each other  or
wandering off or tripping ovei things a blind man could see in the middle of the
night-the) actually looked as if they had  a fair idea of how to patrol  quietl;
and alertly. And he should have felt more confident because this time he  wasn't
the only Marine on  the patrol. They weren'i  patrolling by shifts either,  they
were in platoons. Corporal; Leach and  Doyle were with him. Hell, three  Marines
should be able to deal with anything that came up. Especially if the  guerrillas
had thirty FPs they could see to shoot at instead of spending their fire  trying
to  hit  Marines they  couldn't  see. Even  if  the use  of  chameleons was  not
restricted to  Confederation Marines,  the Marines  didn't have  enough to issue
them  to the  Feldpolizei. This  patrol was  set up  as a  double trap  for  the
guerrillas. Not only were the Marines in their chameleons, they weren't directly
running the patrol. When a Marine had to give an order, he gave it to the  shift
leader-platoon commander, in Leach's case-who then gave it to the men. The  real
object of  the patrol  was to  see if  the junior  officers and  noncommissioned
officers of the 257th were learning anything.

Schultz didn't care about that. As far  as he was concerned, the FPs were  still
too incompetent to  live. But it  bothered him that  he couldn't quit  wondering
what kind of animal  would prey on that  cow he saw the  last time out. When  he
dwelled on the question  too long, his bowels  began to feel loose,  so he tried
not to think about it. But he couldn't help himself.

It was an unusual way for Schultz  to feel. He'd been on many operations  during
his nine years in the Corps, and in more firefights than he could remember.  His
life had been in serious jeopardy  many times-he'd seen so many friends  killed,
he no longer made friends. There had been several incidents when he believed  he
was quite literally about to die. Yet he'd never been terrified, and hardly ever
more  frightened than  could be  described as  mildly apprehensive.  Now he  was
afraid. Actively  afraid with  the kind  of fear  that slows  a man's  reflexes,
blunts his  senses, prevents  him from  thinking clearly  and acting decisively.
That bothered him.

Lance Corporal Schultz needed a good firefight, one that would snap him back  to
reality, that would let him put his focus back on the human enemies he  expected
to face, distract him from the predator he'd probably never encounter. At  least
he hoped he'd never encounter it.                         -

Normally Schultz liked to use his own eyes and ears to observe his surroundings,
but the last time out he was  so distracted that he didn't see that  huge animal
until after it moved, even though it had been standing among trees that  weren't
dense enough to hide  it. This time he  wasn't taking any chances  on not seeing
something  so  big  and  obvious  just  because  its  colors  blended  into  the
background. This time  he wore his  infras in place-if  there was anything  warm
blooded out there, he'd  see it right away.  So what if the  infras didn't allow
him to  enjoy the  beauty of  the landscape  he moved  through? He  never wasted
attention on beauty anyway. Anytime a man in a hostile situation paused to smell
the roses, he risked  getting himself killed. Schultz  wasn't about to die  over
aesthetic considerations.

Despite his infras,  Schultz was still  distracted enough looking  for large red
spots in his field of vision that he wasn't the first to see the man-size spots.

"Look alert." Leach's  voice came over  the platoon command  circuit. "We've got
company up ahead on the right."

Schultz got his  attention under control.  Sure enough, a  stippled line of  red
began seventy-five  meters ahead.  He knew  that the  stippled red  line was men
lying in ambush in a  defilade position. He didn't do  it now, but he knew  that
later he would severely castigate himself for not spotting the ambush first- his
shift  was in  the lead  of the  platoon; Leach  was behind  him and  still  saw
something ahead of them before he did.

"Platoon, stop," Leach said.

"Hold them up," Schultz softly told Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim,  who
was walking a  few meters away.  The FP leaders  didn't have any  of the command
frequencies on their radios; the Marines reserved those for communications among
themselves.

"Shift, halt," Kharim ordered in a low voice.

The  troopers  stopped  where  they  were  and  lowered  themselves  into firing
positions.

"Hammer, stay with them," Leach ordered. "Doyle, come with me."

Schultz's  jaw  locked.  Doyle, come  with  me!  Leach was  going  to  scout the
guerrilla positions. That was a job Schultz could have done by himself, and done
very well-he was  the best man  in the company  at that sort  of work. And Leach
knew it!  Leach should  have sent  him to  scout the  ambush. Instead  he did it
himself.  And  took  Doyle,  the  damn  company  clerk,  with  him!  Schultz was
mortified.

Mortified, but  professional enough  not to  let it  distract him  from what  he
needed to do now,  which was check the  platoon to make sure  everyone knew what
was going on and what he had to do. Probably none of the guerrillas had  infras,
so Schultz figured he  could walk upright without  being seen. But maybe  one or
more of them did. Even if none of them did, if they decided to open fire on  the
platoon, even though it had ,. halted outside the ambush's killing zone, a stray
round could hit an invisible man as easily as a visible one. So Schultz  crawled
to Kharim  to tell  him what  was happening,  then began  crawling to the second
shift leader to tell him. Leach should  have told the FP officer, but might  not
have, Schultz thought, so he told him as well.

Leach  got back  just as  Schultz finished  briefing the  platoon's leaders  and
called for them to join him and Doyle.

"There's a guerrilla company up ahead waiting for us," Leach told them. "They've
got us outnumbered two to one. I got close enough to hear some of them wondering
why we stopped. We don't have much time. Here's what we're going to do..."


Lieutenant  Sokum Pincote's  company lay  in concealed  positions in  a  shallow
depression  that marked  an ancient  waterway. She  knew they  were  well-hidden
because she'd gone out herself  to see how close she  had to get to them  before
she could see  the ambush. It  was a matter  of meters. The  first time, she was
almost within knife range  before she saw the  closest fighter. Then she  did it
again from a  different direction, and  deliberately stepped on  the fighter she
approached to show him how close she had to be to see him. Three more times  she
walked toward her company's position  from different directions. No matter  that
she knew where the company was, each  time she had to get very close  before she
could spot  any of  her fighters.  Satisfied, she  took her  own position in the
line.

Their intelligence was good: they didn't have to wait long before a  Feldpolizei
platoon came  toward them.  Pincote wanted  to laugh  out loud  at the ludicrous
sight. The  Feldpolizei were  wearing camouflage  uniforms in  a forest pattern;
mottled bands of  green, ochre, and  black. They tried  to make themselves  look
like miniature sections  of forest! But  it didn't work,  it couldn't make  them
look like the  woods. Certainly not  the stiff way  they moved. True,  they were
keeping good intervals and were less awkward than on their first patrols. It was
also true that they kept watching the woods around them instead of keeping their
eyes to the front as they had formerly done. But they did it all so gracelessly.
It  was  obvious  they  were  unaccustomed  to  that  manner  of  movement,  and
uncomfortable with it. Wiping them out was going to be easy.

Suddenly,  with  the  lead  shift only  seventy-five  meters  away,  the lackeys
stopped, with  no apparent  reason for  doing so.  No one  she saw had given any
danger  signal  to  indicate  they'd spotted  her  ambush.  The  lackeys lowered
themselves into defensive positions very casually, as though they were taking  a
rest. Why did they have to pick that particular place and time to rest? Or  were
they resting? None that she could see laid down his head to nap, none broke  out
field rations. As casual as they were about it, all of them seemed to be alert.

What was that? She thought she saw a nicker of movement out of the comer of  her
eye, but when she  looked, she saw nothing  but what she expected  to see-trees,
scattered under-brush, and alert, resting men.

She shook her head to clear it.  Maybe she was too tense, too excited  about the
rich prize that had stopped just short of her ambush's killing zone. She took  a
deep breath, held  it for a  few seconds, and  let it out  slowly. Did it again.
After the  third breath  she felt  calm, almost  the way  she felt  when she was
lapping  the blood  her pointed  teeth drew  from the  shoulder of  one of   her
infrequent lovers. She showed those pointed teeth in a tight grin as she thought
of how so few men were unafraid to be her lover.

She  shook her  head to  clear it.   It wasn't  the time  to think  about  men's
cowardice  when faced  with a  strong woman;  there were  Feldpolizei to   kill,
blasters to take.

There was another flicker  of movement at the  periphery of her vision,  but she
saw nothing when  she looked that  way. What was  happening to her?  She'd never
experienced this before, not even on  any of the occasions when she'd  been more
excited or tense than she thought she was now. She shook her head. What could be
wrong? Then she  stopped thinking about  the wrongness she  felt within her  and
paid attention to something concrete she saw that seemed wrong.

Three of the lackeys rose to their feet and moved back, almost out of her  view.
They hadn't moved to any signal she saw or heard. They assembled and knelt in  a
semicircle, looked the way her own officers did when they knelt in front of  her
to receive new instructions on a patrol or operation and watched her draw a  map
in the  dirt. But  no one  was at  the center  of the semicircle. Something very
strange was going on, but she couldn't image what it was.

Then the three Feldpolizei returned to their positions and spoke to the  waiting
lackeys. Then they all rose into  crouches and began returning the way  they had
come. Why were they going away? They were supposed to continue the way they  had
been going, they were supposed to walk into her ambush!


"Chan, Godenov, up," Corporal Ratliff said  into his radio. Even though none  of
the FPs had the  command frequency on his  radio, Ratliff wanted to  talk to his
Marines  face-to-face and  not take  the chance  that anyone  unknown might   be
listening in somewhere.

Chan and Godenov used their infras to find the fire-team leader and joined him.

"Chief's platoon almost walked into a company-size ambush about two klicks south
of here," Ratliff said in a low  voice as soon as they reached him.  "Wang wants
to catch the guerrillas. He thinks we don't have time to get our pretty boys  in
place to do the job.  We're going to force-march them  to half a klick from  the
guerrillas and put them  in position as a  blocking force, then we'll  meet Wang
and the rest of the  squad." He paused to think  of how to pass the  word to the
FPs. He knew they wouldn't like it if they knew what the Marines were  thinking.
"Tell your shift  sergeants first platoon's  chasing some bad  guys and we're  a
blocking force to catch them. When we  put them in place, tell them we're  going
ahead to scout the  situation. They don't need  to know what we're  going to do.
Understand?"

"Understood," Chan said.

Godenov didn't reply immediately; he didn't quite get it Why would they put  the
platoon in a blocking position and tell them they were a blocking force if  they
weren't a blocking force?

"If the guerrillas run their way,"  Ratliff explained, "the platoon can do  some
damage to them. But if  we do this right, the  guerrillas won't get away. If  we
take the platoon with us, well, they just aren't good enough to get in close and
catch  the guerrillas  by surprise.  We don't  want to  hurt their  feelings  by
telling them that. Now do you understand?"

Godenov flinched when Ratliff said the FPs weren't "good enough." He'd heard the
play on  his name  directed at  himself too  many times.  But he  understood. He
wondered if the FPs weren't  "good enough" because Godenov wasn't  "good enough"
to train them right. -

"Let's go. We've  got to move  fast or the  guerrillas will leave  before we get
there." All three sped back to their counterparts in the platoon to tell them as
much  as they  needed to  know about   what they  were going  to do.  Some  four
kilometers to the south of them. Corporal Domhofer was giving similar orders  to
Van Impe and MacIlargie.

Haste was essential to catch the guerrillas, and the Marines wanted to run.  But
if one  group of  guerrillas was  in ambush  in the  area, there  might well  be
another group. They went as fast as  they could while using infras to help  spot
danger. The fire  team leaders also  used their heads-up  displays, which showed
where they  were and  where Leach  and his  fire team  waited. It took more than
fifteen minutes for the entire squad to assemble.                -


"Here's the  situation," Sergeant  Wang Hyakowa  said as  soon as  they were all
present.  He  transmitted the  situation  map display  he  had constructed  from
Leach's report, and the little bit the string-of-pearls surveillance  satellites
were able to tell him, to his  fire team leaders. "Chief put three FPs  in place
to keep an eye on the guerrillas. They haven't reported movement, so I think  we
can assume the ambush is still there."

Schultz snorted softly at the mention of the FPs being trusted to keep an eye on
the ambush.  MacIlargie rolled  his eyes  and grinned.  No one  else showed  any
reaction.

"My best guess,"  Hyakowa continued, ignoring  Schultz and MacIlargie,  "is they
don't have infras, so they don't have  any idea we're here. Where did you  place
your platoons?"

Ratliff  and  Domhofer gave  him  the coordinates,  which  he plugged  into  his
situation map. The four NCOs studied the updated map for a moment, then  Hyakowa
began talking again.

"First platoon's in the best position for a blocking force," he said, "and  we'd
be most effective if we rolled  up their flank, which would chase  the survivors
their way. But we'd have to go all the way around the ambush to do that. We  may
not have the time to go all the  way around." He knew that if he was  in command
of that ambush, he'd probably have moved it already. "I think our best bet is to
get on line and hit them from their rear. Comments?"

None of the fire team leaders had a better suggestion.

"Let's do it."

The ten Marines silently sped to get on a line fifty meters behind the guerrilla
ambush site.


The more Lieutenant Pincote thought about the way the oligarch's lackeys stopped
just outside  her ambush  and then  pulled back,  the more  it bothered her. She
wondered if their scouts had spotted the ambush. But that didn't seem  possible;
the clumsy Feldpolizei just couldn't move well enough that none of her  fighters
could see them.  She didn't believe  that' even the  Confederation Marines could
move that well in  the forest; there simply  wasn't enough foliage to  conceal a
walking man that well-and no one could crawl well enough or long enough to be  a
scout for a patrol.  A vagrant thought tickled  the back of her  mind; somewhere
she'd heard that the Confederation Marines could turn themselves invisible.  No,
she hadn't believed it when she first  heard it, she wasn't going to believe  it
now.

She looked all around and saw no  people but her own fighters, the very  few she
could spot from her position. No  one was standing or walking. Maybe  she should
send  out scouts  of her  own to  see where  the lackeys  went to?  The  lackeys
couldn't possibly  be alert  enough to  spot her  scouts before  they were  seen
themselves. No, no scouts. Something  felt very wrong; she wouldn't  risk scouts
following the Feldpolizei.

What was that? She  was facing to her  rear, searching for movement,  when again
something seemed  to move  at the  periphery of  her vision.  Again, nothing was
there. She shook her head sharply.  That was the third time she'd  thought she'd
seen something that wasn't there. Something was very, very wrong. Perturbed, she
carefully studied the area again.


Chan froze when one of the guerrillas  looked directly at him. If he moved,  the
shift of  patterns created  by his  uniform would  probably give  him away. Even
someone who didn't know what to look  for could spot a fully chameleoned man  by
accident, if they were looking in the right place when the concealed man  moved.
And this guerrilla was looking very intently in his direction. Had he seen  him?
Chan didn't think so,  but the guerrilla had  seen something that made  him look
closer.

Nervous sweat  beaded on  Chan's brow  and trickled  down his  ribs as  he stood
motionless, watching as the guerrilla peered toward him, eyes probing all around
his position. He  didn't want to  take his eyes  off the man,  he wanted to know
immediately when the guerrilla looked away, or instantly if he aimed his blaster
toward  him. But  he had  to have  an awareness  of the  whole situation  so  he
wouldn't be caught by surprise by one of the others. He forced himself to  flick
his eyes toward the other guerrillas he  could see. A few meters to the  side of
the one watching him, a bearded guerrilla was staring intently in the  direction
the PP's first platoon had gone.  Beyond him another guerrilla, not bearded  but
unshaven, was also looking  in that direction. Chan  was shifting his vision  to
the other side  when an anomaly  struck him and  he looked back  at the one  who
seemed to be seeking him. That guerrilla was totally beardless.

It was odd for a guerrilla to shave  in the field. He looked to the next  one to
the right and saw a heavy mustache-and a five o'clock shadow. Every guerrilla he
could see was bearded or unshaven-except for the one who was looking toward him.
He lowered his gaze to the chest of that guerrilla. It had a distinct bulge, but
it wasn't in the  right place for powerful  chest muscles. His gaze  went lower.
The curve of the hips was wrong, and  the crotch of the pants was too tight  for
an active man.

Buddha's blue balls! It was a woman!

In four operations, Chan had never faced a woman in combat. He'd heard of  women
fighting  to protect  their children  or homes,  and he'd  even heard  of  women
fighting as  members of  guerrilla bands.  But he'd  never encountered it. Women
were to be protected and cared for, this he knew and felt deeply. Now he was  in
a situation where he would have to fight a woman, and to kill her-or risk  being
killed by her?

His  knees  weakened.  This  was wrong.  He  swallowed  to  loosen his  suddenly
constricted throat.

Lieutenant Pincote shook  her head, about  to give up  her search. She'd  almost
decided  she needed  to see  a doctor  about her  eyes when  she distinctly  saw
something. Startled, she almost gaped  at it, but caught herself  quickly enough
to keep her gaze roaming.                        '

Centuries ago  some philosopher,  she couldn't  remember who,  said that  if you
eliminate everything impossible,  whatever was left,  no matter how  improbable,
had to be the truth. As improbable as it seemed, if she had spotted an invisible
man, then an invisible man  was there, and she didn't  want to stare at him  and
let him know he'd been spotted. While  her head moved and her eyes shifted,  she
kept examining  what she  saw out  of the  comer of  her eye.  Yes, what she saw
remained  there. There  was a  tree forty  meters away.  Part of  its trunk  was
missing-an irregular line along one side  of it was mottled with the  browns and
greens of the ground and undergrowth as  though it was occluded by a man  partly
blocking  it-a man  concealed with  the pattern  of the  surrounding ground  and
underbrush. It was impossible to her that the Feldpolizei could turn  themselves
invisible. Improbable as it was, the only thing possible-given that an invisible
man stood  before her-was  that Confederation  Marines did  have a  way to  make
themselves invisible. And the Marines were approaching her ambush from the rear!


Chan watched  the woman  with growing  horror. He  was certain  she knew  he was
there. He didn't want to kill a woman;  if he had to fight a woman, he'd  rather
take her prisoner.  Boys don't hit  girls was something  he'd been taught  since
earliest  childhood. If  he shot  the woman,  he'd be  hitting her  the  hardest
possible way. But  she was directly  in his path,  she was armed  with a blaster
herself, and he thought she knew exactly  where he was. If he didn't shoot  her,
she'd shoot  him. He'd  been more  frightened at  times in  the couple  of dozen
firefights he'd been in on his four previous campaigns, but never more horrified
at the prospect of a fight than he was now-he was almost paralyzed by it.

So nearly paralyzed that  he almost didn't react  when the woman twisted  to the
side and  into a  prone position  with her  blaster pointed  straight at him. He
almost didn't hear her  cry out a warning  to the other guerrillas.  Almost, but
almost wasn't enough to kill him. He flung himself to the side in time to  avoid
anything more than a singeing. His blaster was at his shoulder when he landed on
his belly, and he rapidly depressed the firing lever twice. His combat  reflexes
took over-she was no  longer a woman, she  was the enemy. Chan's  first bolt hit
the ground two meters in front of her. He couldn't tell whether the second was a
grazing hit or part of the fireball created when the bolt that struck the ground
next to her  was deflected onto  her. The woman  was out of  the fight, but Chan
didn't have time to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned his attention to another
guerrilla and incinerated the man.


While  Chan  was frozen,  trying  to avoid  giving  himself away  to  Lieutenant
Pincote, the rest of the squad continued to creep forward.

When they were twenty-five  meters from the ambush  line, Hyakowa said one  soft
word into the command  circuit of his comm  unit: "Positions." His infra  shield
was down so  he could see  his men. He  quickly glanced to  his sides to  assure
himself his Marines were lowering themselves to the ground. All but one, who was
nearly ten  meters behind  the line.  From the  position of  the red  pillar, he
guessed it was Chan. He could think  of only one reason a man as  experienced as
Chan would have frozen instead of moving forward with the rest of the squad.  He
looked toward  the ambush  and, yes!  One of  the guerrillas  was looking to the
rear. If Chan had been spotted, there was no time to waste.

"Pick your targets,"  Hyakowa murmured into  his mike. He  paused for a  beat to
give his men time to take aim, then said, "Fire!" just as the guerrilla  looking
toward Chan twisted around  and shot at him  while screaming out a  surprisingly
high-pitched warning.

The peaceful stillness of the afternoon was shattered by the ozone cracks of the
Marines' blasters and  the screams of  the injured and  dying. The Marines  were
spread out more than the ambushers, and covered two-thirds of the length of  the
ambush. Not only were their targets more concentrated than the guerrillas',  the
guerrillas couldn't see who they were  shooting at-or who was shooting at  them.
In five seconds more than half of the ambushers were out of action, dead or  too
severely wounded to fight. In the time it took the survivors of the first  round
of fire to realize they  were doomed if they didn't  run, nearly all of them  in
front of the line  of Marines had holes  blasted through their bodies  by plasma
bolts. The lucky  ones had the  bolts pass all  the way through  and keep going.
Others  were more  severely mutilated  when the  bolts struck  the ground  after
passing through and reflected back,  to set their uniforms ablaze  and superheat
their bodies so they cooked in their own body fluids.

Nearly  twenty  guerrillas  tried  to run,  some  carrying  or  dragging wounded
comrades. Half a dozen of them were shot down before they got ten meters away.

"Cease  fire,  cease fire!"  Hyakowa  shouted. "Fire  team  leaders report,"  he
ordered as  he rose  to his  feet. He  raised his  infras so  he could watch the
flight of the few survivors.

The entire firefight,  from the time  he gave the  order to open  up to when  he
called cease fire, was barely ten seconds.

"First team, all right," Leach replied a second or so later.

"Second fire team, we're okay," Ratliff reported.

"Third team, fine," Domhofer said.

Hyakowa ignored Schultz's outraged demands that they pursue the survivors,  that
they could easily wipe them all out, until after the fire team leaders  finished
their reports.  Then he  said over  his comm  unit so  everybody could  hear his
response, "Yes, we could easily get all of them. But we'll let them go. Think of
how it's going to affect the morale of the rest of the guerrillas when these few
get back and  tell how we  surprised them, how  we killed most  of them so fast.
They're going to think  real hard about it  before they go into  an area Marines
are in again."

He looked around at  the carnage in the  abortive ambush site. "Let's  police up
those bodies and see if there's anyone alive who we can maybe keep that way."

As hard as he looked, Chan couldn't find a female-body among the dead.



CHAPTER TWELVE

"Chief Long says before you start your duties in his intelligence unit he  wants
you to do some patrolling with the Stadt-polizei, get a feel for routine  police
work and how  the Stadtpolizei function,"  Lieutenant Constantine told  Dean and
Claypoole one morning. "He wants you to ride all three shifts, and you'll  start
today with the  evening, or Charlie,  shift. Roll call  is at 1400.  You're each
being assigned to different  stations in the city  for the next few  days. Let's
see. Claypoole,  you're going  to the  Hidalgo Hills  Station in  District Four.
Dean, you go to, um, Kwangtun  Heights Station, in District Three. Use  your own
vehicle to  get there.  One of  you'll have  to pick  the other  up after you're
finished. Report to  the station commander  when you arrive  and he'll introduce
you to the shift leader. Think you can handle it?"

"Yessir!" they responded.

"Oh, yeah, go  light on the  'sir' business, okay?  Call me LT  or Pete. I  blow
things up, remember?"

"What's the uniform, LT?" Claypoole asked.

"Utilities. Carry shoulder and side arms. Charlie shift runs from 1500 to  0100.
You'll eat  somewhere in  town. The  cops all  know the  good places.  The shift
leader will assign you to an  officer. Remember this: you have no  police powers
in this town. You  are strictly observers. You'll  do whatever the officers  you
ride with  tell you  to do.  If they  need your  assistance, they'll ask for it.
Otherwise, keep your eyes and ears  open and ask questions. It'll make  the time
pass quicker."

The roll call room at the Hidalgo Hills Station was a mess from the Middle Ages,
chairs  turned every  which way  and computer  workstations covered  with  dust,
graffiti, and  coffee stains.  Notices, including  advertisements for apartments
and  houses for  rent, were  pasted and  stuck haphazardly  to the   partitions.
Claypoole was very much aware that  he had entered a strange world.  One garish,
hand-lettered sign boldly announced an Adam shift party that weekend. A graffito
Claypoole  couldn't  help  noticing  was  a  pencil  drawing  on  a  panel  by a
workstation of  a woman  with a  huge, gap-toothed  leer on  her face and hugely
exaggerated hips and breasts underneath which someone had scrawled "Shift Leader
Gomez's wife" and a telephone number.

Shift Leader Emesto Lyies was doing his best to make the Marine feel at home.  A
big, broad-shouldered man with a prominent stomach and flaring mustaches,  Lyies
spoke with a wad of tobacco stuffed into one comer of his mouth. Occasionally he
went spitooie, and a  thin stream of tobacco  juice flew with unerring  accuracy
into a tiny cup sitting on the floor  to one side of his desk. The Marines  were
soon to discover that the men of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei were much addicted
to tobacco products, which pleased Claypoole, an ardent cigar smoker.

"We have fifty  officers assigned to  this station," Lyies  was saying. "We  run
three shifts,  Adam, Baker,  and Charlie.  You'll note  that we  use a  phonetic
alphabet  somewhat   different  from   the  one   standardized  throughout   the
Confederation's military  forces. Officers  are assigned  to their  shifts on  a
permanent basis,  so there  is no  rotation. There  are twelve  officers on each
shift. The remaining  fourteen officers are  shift leaders, detectives,  and the
station commander  and his  lieutenant." Claypoole  listened attentively. "There
are  six stations  here in  Brosigville, each  one with  a complement  of  fifty
officers. With another fifty at headquarters, the Brosigville force consists  of
approximately  four hundred  sworn officers  to serve  a population  of  100,000
citizens. That's about one patrol officer for each 250 people in the city, not a
bad ratio.  Our patrol  area is  approximately four  hundred square  kilometers,
which includes the  center city as  well as the  suburbs of Brosigville  and the
port area. The citizens of  Brosigville are generally pretty well-behaved.  Most
of  the crimes  we investigate  are against  property, and  the crimes   against
persons are usually assaults, and most  of them are domestic in nature.  We have
few murders or rapes, compared to the"-spitooie-"figures I've seen on comparable
cities on other worlds in the Confederation."

"What about the other towns and cities in Arschland?"

"Commissioner Landser  is-was-also responsible  for the  Stadtpolizei operations
elsewhere throughout the country, but he has a special staff of about a  hundred
here at  headquarters through  which he  does that.  He has  subcommissioners in
those other municipalities  who report directly  to him. Of  course, we exchange
information with those other forces and  assist them whenever we can. And  since
we all  train at  the same  academy and  are commanded  by the  same individual,
theoretically  a  police  officer anywhere  in  Arschland  could be  transferred
between jurisdictions. In  practice, if you're  assigned to Brosigville  or some
other town, that's where you stay for your whole career.

"You  know  how  the  Feldpolizei  is  organized?  We  exchange  information and
cooperate with them, but their organization is totally separate from ours."

"Do you ever operate at cross-purposes with them?"

"Hah!" Lyies snorted.  "Hah! Uniforms of  orange and blue?  Buzzard guts hanging
over their shoulders? Marching around  like windup toy soldiers? Lance  Corporal
Claypoole, the  Feldpolizei takes  good cops  and turns  'em into  idiots. Their
whole organization is  at 'cross-purposes' with  ours." He shook  his head. "You
Marines have your work cut out for you with them."

Lyies appeared to be in his early  forties. He was dressed in the standard  work
uniform of the  Brosigville Stadtpolizei, gray  shirt with black  trousers and a
blue  stripe along  the outside  seam. Since  he was  a supervisor,  he was  not
wearing the standard police equipment belt, but carried a large side arm  tucked
above his right hip in a black  leather holster. His badges of rank, three  blue
chevrons, open side up, were prominently displayed on each neatly creased sleeve
of his tunic. A  sterling silver badge glittered  above his left breast  pocket.
His hair was short, like a Marine's.

"How are you armed?" Claypoole asked.

"Ah, figured  you'd get  around to  that." Lyies  rubbed his  hands together and
began an  animated and  enthusiastic firearms  lecture. "We  have shoulder-fired
projectile weapons  in our  armory, but  they're issued  only on  an as-required
basis, and since I've  been on the force,  more than ten years,  we've never had
occasion to issue  them. The standard  police side arm  is a select-fire  pistol
that fires caseless ammunition. We issue Remchester 4.7mm, 52.5-grain  frangible
bullets  to reduce  overpenetration while  producing maximum  damage inside  the
target. Other  ammunition is  available, of  course, but  on routine  patrol our
patrolmen use only the frangible type. The issue pistol, the Sig-Smock M-229, is
manufactured here on  Wan-derjahr under license  from the parent  company. The M
229 uses an 'iron' sight system, as you may be aware, and a thirty-round  barrel
mounted magazine. Each patrolman is issued three thirty-round magazines for  his
piece."

"Never heard of 'iron sights,' Shift Leader," Claypoole said. In fact he  didn't
know much about  caseless ammo and  projectile weapons, since  the Confederation
military forces had abandoned that technology long before he had been bom.

"Well," Lyies continued, warming to  his subject, "those are just  old-fashioned
three-dot, low-light-illuminated sights. You line  'em up, and poof! the  target
goes  down. These  are fixed  sights mounted  on the  weapon and  they can't  be
jostled or knocked out of alignment, and unlike the laser range-finder  devices,
the  target never  knows it's  being aimed  at. The  thing about   caseless-ammo
weapons is  they provide  a very  stable shooting  platform since  there are few
moving parts.  A long  time ago,  when they  used cartridge  cases in projectile
weapons, you had  to eject the  spent casings. Since  the primer and  powder for
each round in a caseless gun are consumed in firing, the only ejection  required
is a small  slot for rounds  that malfunction. I  might add that  the propellant
Remchester uses leaves hardly any residue.

"I'd like to take my own weapon out and show you all these features, but only  a
fool diddles  with firearms  indoors. Anyway,  the Remchester  ammo has a muzzle
velocity of  about a  kilometer a  second. On  full auto  the Sig  229 can  fire
thirty-seven rounds per second, but to conserve ammo, each piece is fitted  with
a rate limiter that permits only three-round bursts. So your first three  rounds
are almost always guaranteed to be on target, if you know how to sight properly.
I mean, these babies are so  smooth there's virtually no felt recoil  and barrel
climb has been totally eliminated.  Vehicles are equipped with ten  extra thirty
round magazines, but officers generally don't carry them on their persons unless
they expect very serious trouble."

Lyies stopped briefly to  expectorate and wipe a  droplet of tobacco juice  from
his  mustache. "Are  you familiar  with the  Brady .70  caliber automatic   shot
rifle?"

"No, sir," Claypoole answered, trying to  keep a tone of resignation out  of his
voice.  He appreciated  firearms, but  this civilian  stuff was  just not   very
important to  him. He  believed that  in a  pinch he  could outshoot  the entire
Stadtpolizei organization on Wanderjahr-and he was right-but common courtesy and
duty forced him to remain alert and to pretend interest. Besides, he had to know
this stuff if he was going to work with these people.

"Each  patrol vehicle  is equipped  with the  Brady .70  caliber automatic  shot
rifle. It's potent," Lyies continued.  As the shift leader droned  on, Claypoole
reflected that as a Marine with one combat deployment behind him, he'd seen more
action and  been shot  at more  times than  probably anybody  on the Brosigville
police force.  "It has  five magazine  tubes, each  with six  rounds," Lyies was
saying. "Each round is  composed of a casing  and an explosive primer  that when
struck ignites  the powder  charge. Very  old technology  but very effective and
reliable. We decided to use these weapons instead of rifles firing caseless ammo
'cause caseless ammo is seldom used here  and the extra weight of the casing  is
not a problem, and besides, an officer can always defend himself with the  Brady
using it as a club. Each tube is loaded with a different kind of projectile, one
for shot,  one for  smoke, another  for explosive  shells, and  so on. The tubes
rotate around the barrel. You have to be careful which tube the gun is set  for.
On  the  range and  sometimes  on the  streets,  rookies will  select  the wrong
magazine tube and  fire smoke when  they want to  fire shot. It's  a complicated
weapon, somewhat similar to  the antique shotgun they  used to have a  long time
ago, but it's the most versatile  and powerful one available to patrol  officers
without special  issues from  our armory.  Would you  like to  fire our  weapons
someday?"

"You bet!" Claypoole answered. "Do you use body armor?"

"Yes." Lyies tapped his own tunic,  under which he wore a lightweight  ballistic
vest. "These are rated  to stop even slugs  from a Brady shot  rifle. They're no
protection from one of those,"  he indicated Claypoole's blaster, "but  we don't
encounter anybody  armed with  plasma weapons  on the  streets of  Brosigville."
Claypoole did not have to wonder what would happen if they ever did.

"Do I get one of those vests tonight?"

"You won't need it. Lance Corporal. See, you gotta understand this. We are not a
military organization here. A policeman is trained in the use of restraint,  not
ftrepower. You  military men  encounter the  enemy and  you put  fire on his ass
until he  goes away.  A cop,  on the  other hand,  is trained  to reduce threats
without the use of deadly force. When  he draws his weapon, it's an act  of last
resort and only to protect his life  or the life of someone else. That's  why we
don't use  plasma weapons,  although under  Confederation law,  as a  legitimate
police agency, we could probably get them. But firepower is not what we do best.
Another thing, you're more experienced in how to survive a firefight than any of
our officers. Hell, most of them  have never even fired their weapons  in anger;
you've not only been  shot at, you've killed  men with your blaster.  But on the
other  hand, every  police officer  is on  constant patrol  when he's  on  duty,
walking point his  entire shift, but  he sometimes has  to exercise unbelievable
self-control when confronted  with trouble. You  can understand the  stress this
places on the average cop."

Claypoole thought about that for a moment. He thought about "walking point"  for
ten hours a day, day after day. Yes, he could understand how that could stress a
man out. "What kind of crime do you encounter in your district?"

"All kinds,"  Lyies answered,  "everything from  murder to  drunk in public. But
most of the stuff we handle is misdemeanor stuff, where an offender might get up
to a year in the city detention facility. There is organized crime in this city,
but we have a unit at headquarters that handles that stuff. You'll no doubt  get
into some of that when  you go back up there  to help out with the  intelligence
work."

"What about the guerrillas? You know, the bombs downtown and whoever it was  who
tried to pot my partner and me out by the port?"

Lyies hesitated before he answered  that question. "Chief Long is  handling that
investigation." He seemed reluctant to continue, so Claypoole did not press him.
He made a mental note to discuss the investigation with Chief Long. All the rage
he'd felt over Maggie's murder suddenly rushed back. He had not  forgotten-would
not forget-Chief Long's promise to let him be in on the capture of the shooter.

"You okay?" Lyies asked, noticing the expression that had come over Claypoole.

"Yes," he answered, getting control of himself with an effort.

"Any other questions?"

"No, sir, not right now."

"You'll be riding with Officer Femandez this evening, Lance Corporal  Claypoole.
He has patrol  area 490C, which  is also his  call sign. Come  over to the map."
They walked over to a large wall map of Brosigville. It had been divided up into
sectors with  dark black  lines, each  representing a  station district,  six of
them, in different colors.  Hidalgo Hills was District  Four, so all the  patrol
designators began with the number 4.  The patrol areas within each station  area
were marked by green lines. The patrol area designations, 490, 520, 621, and  so
on, were labeled in bright blue. "When I say you're riding in patrol area  490C,
that means you're with  Charlie shift in this  sector here." Lyies ran  his hand
across a part of the map bordered on the west by the Teufelfluss River.

"Is that a good area to patrol?"

Lyies smiled. "It's one of our  quieter areas. This is a weekday,  early evening
to around midnight,  nothing much will  be happening. If  you stay with  us long
enough we'll get you into some of the rougher neighborhoods. Tonight you may  go
on some domestic complaints, maybe a traffic accident, possibly investigate some
silent alarms."

Lyies  hesitated before  continuing, thinking  over what  he was  about to  say.
"Corporal Claypoole, I know something  about your background. More important,  I
know what you've done  since you've been on  Wanderjahr. You're a brave  man and
you got the papers to prove it. I don't exaggerate when I say I'd like to have a
man like you on my shift."

Claypoole was nattered  and just a  bit ashamed that  only minutes earlier  he'd
been making invidious comparisons between his experience and that of these cops.

Soon the officers of Charlie shift began  to drift into the roll call area  from
the locker rooms. They all  carried heavy briefcases and laptop  computers. They
plopped into the chairs and commenced to banter among themselves: "Sanchez,  you
look like you just came out of a whorehouse!"

"Hector," the policeman named Sanchez hollered back, "you smell like you live in
one!"

"Hell, Hector was born in one!" another officer said, laughing.

They all spoke standard Confederation English very well, but with slight accents
that sounded Hispanic  to Claypoole. Physically,  the officers were  all shorter
and much darker than he.

"All right, quiet down,  quiet down! This is  a police department, not  a comedy
show."

"'Police department'? Is that what it's called?" one officer hollered.

When the room had quieted down. Shift Leader Lyies introduced Claypoole.

"The Marines have landed!" someone  called out, and all the  officers applauded.
"Lance  Corporal  Claypoole,"  Lyies  accentuated  Corporal,  "will  ride   with
Patrolman Femandez."

Someone yelled out, "You lucky bastard. Lance Corporal!"

Claypoole smiled.  He was  already beginning  to feel  at home; the Stadtpolizei
reminded him of the barracks back on Thorsfinni's World.

"Lance Corporal Claypoole was  a target at the  shooting at Juanita's some  days
ago," Lyies announced, "and three nights ago he and another Marine took on  more
than  forty  bandits down  in  Morgenluft." There  was  a low  murmur  among the
assembled policemen, who had  all heard the story  on the media and  from police
reports. Claypoole breathed a sigh of  relief. Juanita's was not in the  Hidalgo
Hills jurisdiction, so the officer he'd clobbered wouldn't be with these men.

"He also busted Chico's nose!" the man they called Hector shouted gleefully, and
two others sitting nearby got up to pat Claypoole on the back.

"Chico, as you may be able to surmise," Shift Leader Lyies told Claypoole, "is a
well-known asshole in this department."

Claypoole was definitely at home.

Shift Leader Lyies covered some announcements-lookouts for criminals and  stolen
landcars-then dismissed Charlie shift to its patrol areas.

Patrolman  Femandez  was  about  Claypoole's age,  slim,  and  in  good physical
condition. They shook hands warmly.

"I'm at your disposal. Officer," Claypoole told the young policeman. -

"Call me Hwang, please! And you are ... ?"

"Rachman."

The men  of Charlie  shift filed  out of  the roll  call room  into the  vehicle
compound behind  the station,  where they  entered their  assigned landcars. The
Brosigville  police cruisers  were light  and dark  blue with  white  reflective
lettering. The roofs bristled with antennas and signal lights.

"You seldom get the same car  each shift," Femandez said, "so sometimes  you get
to clean out all the trash the  shift before you left behind. We're supposed  to
clean up after ourselves, but most of us don't do a very good job of it.  You'll
see why if we have a busy shift  today. By 0100 you'll just want to get  cleared
out of the  station and back  home." Femandez began  going through a  checklist,
inspecting the exterior of his  vehicle and then the interior,  the computerized
communications  system, and  the Brady  shot rifle.  He carefully  unloaded  the
rifle, checked all five  magazines to be sure  they were fully loaded,  each mag
with the proper  ammunition, then gently  replaced it in  its rack. "Press  this
button here, and the gun pops out. Charge it with this lever here, then  release
the safety here, point and fire."

"Okay with you, Hwang, I'll just rely on my hand blaster." Claypoole patted  his
own side arm. "Can I just stow my shoulder weapon in the storage compartment for
tonight? Don't think we'll need it, do you?"

"Probably not; go ahead, throw it in back there. Hey." He motioned for Claypoole
to watch  something. He  bent quickly  and snatched  a small  black object  from
inside his left leg, down by his ankle. "Know what this is?"

Claypoole shook his head. It was a pistol of some kind.

"This," Hwang announced proudly, "is a POS .25 caliber handgun. POS means 'piece
of shit,'  'cause these  guns are  worthless firearms  except at extremely close
range. But we  all carry them.  To have a  POS is a  mark of distinction,  means
you're one of the team. They're  manufactured here on Wan-derjahr and are  exact
replicas of a pistol that was once quite famous back on Old Earth. It's fed by a
magazine that holds six rounds. We carry  'em with one round in the chamber,  so
that  gives  us  seven  shots.  It's   for  use  in  only  the  most   desperate
circumstances, like when your  service pistol is out  of ammo and you're  out of
hope." He pulled  up his trouser  leg. "I carry  mine in this  ankle holster. It
only weighs about  430 grams; hardly  even know it's  down there after  a while.
Never had to use it and hope I never will."

Claypoole shook his head in wonder.

Inside the cab,  the floor was  sticky from coffee  or some other  kind of fluid
someone  had  spilled there,  and  the storage  compartments  were stuffed  with
napkins, plastic spoons, and soiled  blank forms that apparently were  used only
to sop up spills. Compartments in the door panels contained extra magazines  for
the Brady rifle and Femandez's Sig pistol.

Femandez plugged in his laptop. "We do as much report writing from inside  these
vehicles as we can.  When you get it  all done from here,  you can go home  when
your  shift is  over. But  there are  times we  have to  finish up  back at  the
station, and that's what the terminals in the roll call room are for. The  shift
leader reviews all  his officers' reports  from his console  and then authorizes
them for  the central-records  database. The  station commander  reviews all the
reports on a daily basis. Lyies is pretty sharp, so hardly any mistakes ever get
by him. Otherwise we'd be getting ass-chewings all the time. You'd be  surprised
how difficult it can be to write a lucid report with all the stuff that goes  on
out here in  the streets on  any given night.  And when you  don't have time  to
write up each incident, you just have to take notes with a pencil and paper  and
do all your reports after your shift. Some nights I've had to stay on duty until
dawn just catching up with the reports."

Claypoole doubted Femandez  had much trouble  writing lucid reports.  He'd known
the officer only a  few minutes and already  he respected the man's  intelligent
professionalism.

"Question?"

"Sure," Femandez replied.

"Well ... it's just that I've met Commissioner Landser several times, one or two
times too often, if you get my drift. And I just wonder... well, given the  kind
of officer he is, how do you guys get away with, uh, I mean, manage to be so ...
so..." Claypoole made a helpless gesture.

"So fucked up?" Femandez finished the sentence for him,

laughing.

"No! I mean, so 'casual'  about everything, especially the state  of cleanliness
back inside the station.  You'd think with a  guy like Landser in  charge, you'd
have white-glove inspections every shift."

Femandez  was  silent before  replying.  "You gotta  understand  something about
Landser, Old Allie, as we call him. He's a dandy, that's for sure, struts around
like  he's  a character  out  of an  old-fashioned  opera or  something.  But he
understands leadership. He lets his district commanders run their own shows.  He
knows we  have enough  to do  keeping the  streets safe  without inspections and
formations and all  that crap. So  long as we're  presentable to the  public and
conduct ourselves professionally. Old Allie concentrates on polishing his  shoes
and leaves the street cops alone to  do their jobs. And you know, when  Chairman
Arschmann put Chief  Long in charge  with the authority  to fire Landser-we  all
know that-well, it cut him bad, real bad. Frankly, I don't think he deserved  to
be treated that way." Femandez paused. "Not that I think Chief Long and his boys
are bad for  this department, and  there's no doubt  we really need  you Marines
here too. I've met the chief. He came to all the stations and talked to us. He's
a good man. But you just don't take an officer like Old Allie and kick him  like
Arschmann did. And then right after  Old Allie's kid brother got himself  killed
in that bombing."

"I didn't know  about that," Claypoole  said softly. At  last finished with  the
checklist, Femandez turned to Claypoole  and said, "Strap yourself in,  Rachman,
and let's go out and kick some ass!"


Dean was riding with a burly patrolman named Valdez. Valdez did not welcome  the
Marine's presence in his car, and it  was obvious the shift leader had made  the
assignment as a way to prove a  point with the big man. And Valdez  resented it.
So did Dean, but he decided to keep quiet about things for the present.

"Your patrol area is 310C, down by the river, right?" Dean asked.

Valdez maneuvered his landcruiser into  the late-aftemoon traffic on the  street
outside the station. "Yeah," he answered finally.

"What kind of an area is it to work in?"

"Wet, if you go into the river," Valdez responded.

Dean bit his tongue. He'd go along for a while longer. Maybe the ice would melt.

Each landcruiser was  connected to a  central dispatch facility  via its onboard
computer system. The policemen logged on  to the system each evening and  logged
out at the end of their shift. Meanwhile, orders and messages flowed across  the
computer  screen all  evening long.  When something  for a  specific patrol  was
transmitted,  the  console would  beep  loudly. When  an  emergency message  was
transmitted, the dispatcher used  the voice channel and  requested confirmation,
to be sure the instructions were received and understood.

Before they'd left the station, Valdez had given Dean a small wrist communicator
set to the same  frequency as the cruiser's,  so when they left  the vehicle for
any reason, they'd still  be in contact with  the dispatcher. "That's so  if you
get into trouble when you're outside the car, all you do is press this button or
shout for help and the dispatcher'11 know  where to send it. We always tell  the
dispatcher our  exact location  when we  stop, and  we let  them know what we're
doing. Even when we stop to eat or take a piss."

Inside the cruiser Valdez pointed out  some things on the console. "That  button
there releases the shot rifle. That  yellow button there, never touch it  unless
we need assistance. That transmits what we call a Signal Thirteen, officer down.
Mash that fucker by mistake and I'll be the laughingstock of the entire force."

And that was the  extent of their conversation  for the next five  hours. Valdez
made several traffic stops, but he  never explained to Dean why. He  was ordered
to stay in  the cruiser while  the policeman talked  to the drivers  he'd pulled
over. Dean didn't know if the  drivers had committed traffic violations or  were
just friends of  the policeman. Valdez  also seemed immune  to hunger, since  he
made no mention of supper, and Dean had grown so exasperated at his treatment he
wouldn't break down and ask. At shortly past 19 hours. Dean was ready to go back
to the station and ask the shift leader to assign him to another officer for the
rest of the evening.


Meanwhile, Claypoole and Femandez were getting along like old buddies.  Femandez
carefully explained everything he was doing, and when he made traffic stops,  he
let Claypoole come along. "Just stand clear of my weapon side, Rachman, in  case
the situation goes bad. Traffic stops are the most dangerous activity for police
officers in Brosigville. If  the driver you stop  doesn't attack you, you  might
still get hit by the oncoming traffic."

The neighborhoods in area 490 consisted  of rows of small shops along  the major
thoroughfares and neat residential enclaves  on the side streets. Claypoole  was
impressed  at the  friendliness of  the people  they encountered,  most of  whom
addressed Femandez as Hwang. "I've worked  this area for three years," he  said.
It was hard for  Claypoole to imagine the  man ever drawing his  weapon to shoot
someone.

At supper in a local  restaurant-"Cops get half price here,"  Femandez explained
the two exchanged personal details about themselves. Femandez was married,  with
two children, a boy and  a girl. He'd been a  policeman for six years, all  as a
patrol officer in the Hidalgo Hills District.

At precisely 19  hours the dispatcher  raised them on  the voice channel.  "Pour
ninety  Charlie,  proceed  to  the Anwar  Shipping  Company  warehouse  at 4990D
Teufelfluss Promenade. Back  up Unit 910C  on an Eighty-nine  Adam. Priority One
event, but do not use lights or sound. All other units standby."

"Ten-four, dispatcher.  Will proceed  to 4990D  Teufelfluss as  backup for 910C.
Priority  One,  no lights  or  sound." Several  other  patrol units  who'd  been
monitoring the transmission chimed in, volunteering to go in place of 490C,  but
the dispatcher put them all on hold.

"An Eighty-nine  Adam is  a burglary  in progress,"  Fer-nandez said. "We're the
closest unit to the  scene right now. Looks  like the culprits are  still inside
the warehouse. That's why the call's a Priority One and they want us to  proceed
as quietly as possible."

"What if the bad guys are listening on their own radios?"

Femandez shrugged. "Then there'll be a hot reception, Rachman."

"Who's unit 910C?"

"Ricardo Lanning.  When we  get there,  you stick  around the  car, monitor  the
communications  system."  Femandez had  shown  Claypoole how  to  use the  voice
system. "I doubt we'll need any Marine fire support, but keep your eyes open."

They pulled up silently  behind Lanning's car. Lanning  was a heavyset man  with
very closely cropped  hair and tattoos  peeking out from  under his short-sleeve
shirt. He came  over to Femandez.  "Hwang, good to  see you." They  shook hands.
Fer-nandez  introduced Claypoole.  "Marine?" Lanning  asked. "You  armed?  Good.
Stand by. We might need some  more fire-power. I've called for more  backup. The
building's too big for only two of us to check."

"What's  inside?" Claypoole  asked. "Thule,"  Lanning answered.  He grinned.  "I
think we've caught ourselves some big-time bad boys here tonight."

Two more cars  drove silently up.  Since the call  was in Lanning's  area and no
supervisor was yet on the scene,  he gave the orders. "Hwang, you  and Claypoole
cover the front of the place. The rest of us will go in through the back, if  we
can. Everyone stay in radio contact with Hwang."

Claypoole was about to leave the patrol  car when a sharp ka-pow! came from  the
warehouse and Lanning's car erupted in a ball of flame. The four officers  who'd
been standing in a huddle were all  knocked to the ground by the explosion.  Fer
nandez mashed the Signal Thirteen button, released the Brady rifle, grabbed some
Sig  mags, and  rolled into  the street,  where Claypoole  was already  crouched
behind the car.  There were several  more shots. This  time Claypoole could  see
bright flashes  come from  the darkened  warehouse, and  all four vehicles burst
into flames. One  of the officers  rolled in the  street to put  out his burning
clothes, and all five men hugged the pavement, temporarily out of sight from the
warehouse  behind the  flames of  their burning  vehicles. "They're  using  shot
rifles!"  someone yelled.  "That's a  class-four felony,"  one of  the  officers
muttered as he tried to squeeze himself between the cracks in the sidewalk.

Then the most frightening  noise of all, the  flat hiss-crack as several  plasma
bolts lanced  out from  the warehouse  simultaneously and  slagged the street in
front of the burning police vehicles.

"Dispatcher!" Claypoole  yelled into  his wrist  communicator. "Plasma  weapons!
They've  got  plasma weapons.  Get  Dean over  here  right now!  He's  riding in
Kwangtun Heights."

"Jesu,  it's  hot!"  someone  screamed.  The  burning  vehicles  were generating
terrible heat. They could not stay where they were any longer.

Dean unholstered his  hand blaster, set  it on full  power, stood up,  and began
firing rapidly  at the  warehouse facade,  splattering it  with bolts.  The four
policemen did not have to  be told what to do-they  jumped up and darted out  of
the street into a nearby building. Claypoole ran after them.

The five men crouched panting inside  a storefront whose front windows had  been
blown out in the explosions. The burned officer's clothing was still smoldering,
but he gritted his teeth and kept saying he was all right, despite the bums he'd
sustained along the left side of his body.

"They have us outgunned," Lanning rasped.  He cursed and spoke rapidly into  his
communicator. "It'll take a few minutes  to get a reaction force down  here. Did
anyone manage  to grab  a Brady  rifle?" Claypoole  said nothing.  He'd left the
rifle and the extra magazine in the street when he'd dashed for cover.

"I have four bolts  left in this thing,"  Claypoole said, checking the  gauge on
his energy pack. He did not have a replacement for it. An infantryman, he relied
on his shoulder weapon, which was now bubbling goo in the back of Hwang's patrol
car.

"Then you're the man," Lanning said.

A plasma bolt hissed  through the window and  exploded in the back  of the shop,
spreading fire everywhere.

"We gotta get out of here now!" Lanning shouted.

Claypoole fired three bolts back at  the warehouse. They ran through the  rising
flames into the rear of the  store, which consisted of offices and  a storeroom.
Another bolt  exploded in  front of  the building.  Billowing smoke  and roaring
flames rapidly filled the front  of the store. Breathing was  becoming difficult
with all the smoke in that confined space. Someone slammed the outer door to the
storeroom shut, to give them  some temporary protection from the  conflagration.
They  stood  panting  and  coughing  in  the  smoky  darkness,  only   partially
illuminated by their glowballs as they sought a way out. Seconds later the  five
desperate men were  confronted by a  locked and bolted  door at the  rear of the
storeroom. 'This goddamned  door is against  the fire codes,"  someone muttered.
The frangible bullets in their Sigs would be no use against the door's

case-hardened steel panels.

"Oh, Jesus Lord, we're going to fry," someone whispered, his voice quavering  on
the edge of panic.

"Not if I can help it," Claypoole rasped.


"Unit 310 Charlie, you have a Marine on board?" the dispatcher asked.

Startled, Valdez answered in the  affirmative and glanced at Dean.  "Be advised,
310 Charlie, units in  patrol area Four are  under fire from plasma  weapons and
need immediate assistance at-4990D Teufelfluss Promenade. Proceed there at  once
and render whatever assistance is needed. Do you copy?"

"Three ten  Charlie. Copy!  On the  way!" Valdez  came to  life immediately  and
grinned ferociously at Dean. "We got action, Marine! Get your gun!"

Dean, who had been carrying his blaster with'him in the cab, checked the safety,
glanced at the  energy pack indicator  light-it was at  full charge-and put  the
weapon on full  power. He was  forced back into  his seat as  Valdez shifted the
vehicle  into drive  and mashed  the accelerator  lever all  the way  down.  The
landcruiser leaped forward and within seconds was careening down a broad  avenue
at  nearly  150 kilometers  an  hour, lights  flashing  and Klaxons  screeching.
"Whoooeeee!" Valdez hollered. "This is real  police work!" Dean held on for  his
life.

Two blocks away from the warehouse, they saw the glow in the sky. Valdez  slowed
down until they were within sight of the place. Three separate fires raged:  the
warehouse facade was in flames along with a building directly across the street,
and a third fire raged  in the middle of the  street, directly in their way.  As
Valdez pulled  to a  stop, a  plasma bolt  flashed from  the warehouse  into the
burning building opposite.

"What the hell was that?" he asked.

"Hellfire," Dean answered. "You better take the Brady rifle, I don't think  your
pop guns can handle this." Valdez turned the landcruiser sidewise, blocking  the
street. They got out and took cover behind it.

"Four  ninety  Charlie,  where  are   you?"  Valdez  screamed  into  his   wrist
communicator.  A multichannel  device like  the ones  the Marines  carried,  the
police communicators were also programmed to respond to voice commands, and 490C
should have been  receiving Valdez clearly  at this distance,  but there was  no
response.

"I think they're in the building that's burning over there, Officer," Dean said.
Valdez glanced at him, a sickish expression on his face that turned instantly to
rage. He slapped  the explosive-shell magazine  into place on  his Brady. "Let's
go, Marine!"

As they stood to walk around the  cruiser, two huge trucks came roaring at  them
out of  the flames  in the  street. Without  hesitating. Dean  fired at the lead
truck.  His bolt  struck the  front of   it and  bored a  hole into  the  engine
compartment.  A  second later  the  engine block  let  out a  loud  crack as  it
shattered from overheating. His second bolt  hit it squarely on the side  of the
cab as it slewed off the  road and crashed. Valdez fired three  explosive rounds
at the second vehicle,  which impacted in the  cab and in the  engine block. The
truck lurched to a stop. Several men jumped out of the back and began firing  at
them with plasma weapons. Their bolts went wild, but Dean, target-range calm  in
the offhand firing  position, coolly squeezed  the firing lever  six times. Each
bolt struck its man. Shoulder-to-shoulder, Valdez and Dean marched forward  into
the maelstrom.


Claypoole fired his last bolt at the door. The blast was so close it singed  his
eyebrows  and the  hair on  his head,   but it  was far  less intense  than  the
conflagration raging right behind the  five men. Without waiting for  the molten
metal to cool, Lan-ning pried the door open with his collapsible nightstick  and
held it  open for  the others  as they  rushed through  into the  cool night air
outside. They stumbled in the darkness, breathing in the fresh air gratefully.

"Thank God for the Marines," one officer said, embracing Claypoole.

"You guys can make love later,"  Lanrring rasped. "This alley runs about  half a
block behind these buildings  to a side street.  We can follow that  back to the
main road and  see what's happening  at the warehouse."  He lumbered off  in the
direction of the  side street, the  others clomping along  behind him. From  the
main street came the unmistakable  firing of several plasma weapons  and several
explosions.

"It's Dean! It's Dean!"  Claypoole shouted. "That wonderful  motherfucker's come
through again!"

They were at the side street. Lanning turned to his left, and when they  rounded
the end of  a building, they  were standing at  the opposite end  of Teufelfluss
Promenade, facing back  toward the warehouse.  The street was  as bright as  day
from the fires. Two more vehicles, trucks by their size, burned fiercely in  the
street, and beyond the flames,  barely visible through rolling clouds  of dense,
greasy black  smoke, they  could just  see the  outline of  an apparently intact
Stadtpolizei cruiser blocking the road.

Eight men broke suddenly from the cover of the bum-ing warehouse and ran  toward
the small group of police officers. They fired as they came. Projectile weapons.
Standing two-handed in a boxer stance, weapons on semi-auto, the policemen  took
aim as the men came on. Bullets whizzed and smacked everywhere around them.  The
four  Sigs  went  "crack-crack-crack"  again and  again,  but  only  two of  the
attackers dropped. It had come down  to this: the policemen could not  let these
men pass, but they could not take cover either.

The attackers stopped advancing about  twenty-five meters from the thin  line of
policemen blocking their way,  and paused to take  better aim at their  targets.
Claypoole was unarmed now. Femandez tossed him his backup pistol.

Survival instinct, honed  by training, took  over as Claypoole  flopped into the
prone position. The policemen flopped  down beside him. Aiming carefully,  using
their sights, they began  squeezing their rounds off.  It took less than  thirty
seconds for the bandits to crumple under the fusillade.

The  five men  lay in  the street  for a  full ten  seconds before  any of  them
realized the fight  was over. After  the noise of  the firefight, it  was almost
quiet now, despite the crackling of the flames ahead of them.

Two figures walked slowly out of the roiling smoke between the burning vehicles.
The muzzles of all five guns zeroed in on them as one. "Halt!" Lanning croaked.

"Ricardo!" one of them  called out. "It's Valdez!  Look at all this  mess you've
made here!"  Valdez spoke  into his  communicator, and  instantly it  seemed the
street was crowded with emergency crews and more police officers; firemen  began
dousing the flames and medics  rushed in with their life-support  systems. Chief
Long came up with Commissioner Landser close behind. The dapper little commander
was highly animated, shaking hands  with his officers and loudly  congratulating
everyone. Lanning and his little group bolstered their weapons.

"Well," Dean said, sauntering  up to Claypoole, his  blaster at sling arms  over
one shoulder, "you sure manage to draw fire just about everywhere you go."

"Me? " Claypoole exclaimed.

"Where's your blaster?" Dean asked.

Claypoole returned  Femandez's backup  gun. "When  on Wanderjahr  ..." Claypoole
began and shrugged. "We did it the hard way," he said.

"One of these guys is still  alive!" a medic shouted. Everyone crowded  around a
prone figure.

Claypoole, looking over a medic's shoulder, stiffened. "I know this bastard!" he
shouted. "Dean, it's Garth! It's that bastard Garth!"

Garth had  been hit  by two  bullets. One  had destroyed  his left shoulder, and
fragments had penetrated his carotid artery on that side of his neck. He'd  lost
a lot of blood, but it was the  wound to his head that was fatal. A  large chunk
of his skull had been  blown away along with pieces  of his brain. He was  still
conscious,  however,  and he  looked  up at  the  faces standing  above  him and
recognized the two Marines.

"My name is not Garth," he said weakly.

"You  are Garth,  you bastard!"  Dean shouted.  "I remember  you. You  work  for
Multan!"

Garth licked his lips.  "My name is ...  my name is Sublieutenant  Tang. Peoples
Liberation Army ..." His  voice trailed off. Claypoole  knelt at the man's  side
and shook him violently.

"What? What did you say?" The dying  man opened his eyes with effort. They  were
beginning to glaze over. "You set off those bombs!" Claypoole shouted. "You shot
at us!"

"Easy, easy,"  a medic  cautioned, laying  a restraining  hand on  his shoulder.
Claypoole shook the hand off.

The dying man who called himself Tang  tried to speak again. "I... did ...  not.
Spying on  Multan ..."  He closed  his eyes  and lay  still. The medic shook his
head.

"Don't die, you fuck! You owe us some answers!" Claypoole shouted, oblivious  of
the crowd that stood silently watching. "If you didn't, who did?" he demanded.

Tang opened his eyes and looked  straight at Claypoole. He smiled. "You  fools,"
he said in a normal tone of voice. "You don't understand anything. I never  hurt
you or anybody."

"Then who did?" Claypoole raged.

Tang stared up at his interrogator, his  lips moving but no sound coming out  of
his mouth. "Titties," he said at last, and lay back on the bloody pavement.

"Okay, that's it," a medic said, and several policemen pulled Claypoole away.

"What did he  say, what did  he say?" Claypoole  asked of the  men in the crowd.
Dean just shook his head.

"'Tildes' is what I heard," Chief Long said. He took both Dean and Claypoole  by
the arms and led them out of  the crowd. "Are either of you injured?"  he asked.
When  they  shook their  heads,  he said,  "You've  had enough  police  work for
tonight,  lads.  Come  back  to  headquarters  with  me  and  we'll  talk  about
'Titties.'"



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Back  in your  bed. Lieutenant,"  Commander Hing  snapped as  he stepped   into
Pincote's small  chamber off  the main  mine shaft.  The medics  had turned  the
chamber into a  makeshift hospital room.  "Your bums aren't  bad enough to  kill
you, but if they get infected, the infection will."

Pincote looked up from pulling  her uniform pants on to  look up at him. In  the
dim light of the dying glowball, Hing saw that she was glaring. He also saw that
she'd somehow managed to pull on her brassiere without dislodging the  synthskin
that swathed her  left arm, shoulder,  and side, and  was attempting to  put her
left leg into her  trousers without troubling the  synthskin that ran along  the
outside of her left leg. That was  as far as her dressing had gone.  Nearby, the
IV tubes she'd pulled from her arms dangled uselessly.

"I can move, I can give orders, and I can kill," she snarled. "If I am  careful,
nothing will go  wrong." She grimaced  as the waistband  of her trousers  caught
against a patch  of synthskin above  her ankle, jerking  the connections it  was
growing into the underlying tissue. Just one leg on the ground, she teetered.

In an instant, carefully avoiding her  left shoulder, Hing was on her,  his left
hand firmly gripping her right arm, his right between her shoulder blades.  More
gently than he wanted to in his anger at her foolishness, he pushed her back and
down while keeping her  from falling backward. She  tried to resist, but  in her
weakened condition he was  much stronger, and she  bent with his push  until she
was  back on  her narrow  bed. Hing  released the  hold he  had on  Pincote  and
squatted in front of her with one hand clamped on her right thigh to prevent her
standing again.  Almost immediately  he regretted  his position;  his eyes  were
level with her  chest, which was  much more impressive  covered only by  the bra
than it had seemed  before her disastrous ambush  patrol. Only a foot  below her
chest he could  make out the  dark triangle of  her uncovered pubis.  It was too
long since the last time  he'd been with a woman.  But this was the wrong  place
and the wrong time. And even if she wasn't injured, Sokum Pincote was definitely
the wrong woman. He yanked his eyes toward hers.

"We are not sending out another combat patrol. Not yet. Not until we  understand
what happened to your ambush."

"The  Confederation  Marines  can  make  themselves  invisible,  and  we weren't
prepared for  that, that's  what happened.  Now that  we know  this, we can take
steps." She flexed her leg  muscles, but her left leg  hurt too much for her  to
resist the  downward pressure  he maintained  on her  good leg.  A small  muscle
twitched in his jaw,  and she remembered the  way his eyes had  flicked over her
nearly naked body.

Hing rose to his feet and stood over her, his hand on her good shoulder  holding
her down.  From that  vantage, looking  down into  her eyes,  her body  was less
visible. Not much, but enough that it was less of a distraction.

"Yes, now that we  know the Marines can  make themselves invisible, we  can take
steps. But we don't have the equipment for  it here. We have to get it. And  you
aren't taking steps of any kind until that synthskin has properly grafted itself
to you." He  looked over his  shoulder to the  chamber entrance and  called out,
"Cildair!" • A moment later one of the medics rushed in.

"Sedating her  for pain  isn't enough,"  Hing said.  "She's not  good enough  at
obeying orders to stay in bed and heal. Put her completely out."

Pincote glared up at  Hing while Cildair prepared  the sedative and pressed  the
inductor against her  good thigh. Then  her eyes slowly  closed, and she  didn't
feel  the gentleness  with which  the two  men removed  her bra  and pulled  her
trousers away from her  ankle, then laid her  back and covered her  with a sheet
after Cildair reattached the fluid drips.

*   *   *

Acting Shift Sergeant  Schultz was feeling  good. His self-confidence  was back.
Fear was as much a stranger to him as it had ever been. He no longer gave a damn
what kind of animal could kill and eat a Wanderjahrian cow. The one-sided  fight
against the guerrilla ambush had fully restored his equilibrium. Thinking of the
FPs, he had to admit that during  the several days since the firefight they  had
begun to  look more  like soldiers.  Nowhere near  like Marines,  of course, but
maybe as good as Confederation Army recruits halfway through basic training.

Yes, Schultz was feeling good-good enough that he wanted to take his shift  back
out and find some guerrillas, see how his troops would perform. He was feeing so
good he didn't even notice that he was beginning to think of it as his shift, as
though  he  actually was  the  commander, a  proper  NCO. Nossir.  Acting  Shift
Sergeant Schultz  wasn't some  kind of  NCO, he  was a  Confederate Marine Corps
lance  corporal, just  what he  wanted to   be. Not  a man  in charge,  not  the
responsible one. And his men were finally listening to him, doing what he wanted
them to. His men were turning into, by-damn! soldiers.


Acting Shift Sergeant Chan had his doubts, but then Chan always had doubts.  Was
he doing everything he could to turn his shift of FPs into proper soldiers? Were
they progressing fast enough? They  were improving every day, that  was evident.
When he looked around at the other platoons and shifts in the 257th Feldpolizei,
he saw that his shift was improving as much as any. During occasional moments of
objective honesty, he even saw that his shift was improving faster than many  of
the others. Already he trusted his men to follow his orders in the field.  Soon,
he thought, they would be able to go on short patrols without Marine supervision
and acquit themselves well-maybe they could  do that already. He needed to  talk
to Sergeant Hyakowa, see if something could be arranged.

* * *

Acting Shift Sergeant MacIlargie was  experiencing the frustration and pride  of
mixed emotions. It was almost half  an hour since he'd sent his  shift-under the
leadership of their  normal commander. Acting  Assistant Shift Sergeant  Nafciel
into the woods  south of the  257th's headquarters. The  instructions he'd given
them were simple: patrol the area, don't be seen. He gave them ten minutes,  and
then, invisible in his chameleons, went  into the woods after them. This  should
be easy, he'd thought. It shouldn't take more than five minutes for him to  find
them. He'd chuckled  quietly in anticipation  of how started  they'd be when  he
began moving along their column, whispering in their ears, tapping them on their
shoulders.

Now, after almost twenty minutes of fruitless searching, he was feeling pride in
how  effective his  training in  field movement  had been.  After almost  twenty
minutes  of  searching,  he  hadn't found  them.  That  fruitless  searching was
likewise the source of the frustration  he was feeling. He was a  highly trained
and skilled Confederation Marine. Something had to be wrong if he couldn't  find
fifteen half-trained, not very  skilled local yokels in  a patch of nearly  open
woodland that was hardly more than two kilometers along its greatest axis.

Then it dawned on him what they must be doing and he got angry. He'd taught them
too well about how to avoid their sergeants and officers; they'd probably  snuck
out of the woods and gone someplace else  to goof off, as he would have in  that
kind of training situation. Well, they weren't going to get away with it. He was
going to find them,  and when he did,  he'd have a piece  of every one of  their
hides. And a bigger piece of Naf-ciel's hide! Nobody was going to get away  with
pulling this kind of drek on PFC MacIlargie. Nossir! He knew how to do something
they didn't know he could do. He hadn't hunted bunniwolfs when he was growing up
back home on Saint Brendan's for nothing. He knew how to track, and he was going
to track them down. And then there was going to be hell to pay!

MacIlargie raced back to where the shift had entered the woods and examined  the
ground. There were the signs, plain as day. A curved line in the semisoft ground
showed where someone  had planted a  foot. A U  marked the heel  print c someone
else. A few meters  into the woods he  saw a broken stemmed  treelet someone had
carelessly stepped on.  A litti farther,  a snapped twig.  There, a fragment  of
another U-shapei heel print.  Every five or ten  meters one of those  clumsy FPs
lei some  kind of  sign. He  was probably  following them  faster tha  they were
moving when  they left  these signs,  he thought.  1 wasn't  possible that  such
clumsy men could evade his view He'd catch up with them in no time at all.

It didn't  occur to  him that  if fifteen  men left  one sign  ever five  or ten
meters, that meant  they were leaving  an average c  one sign per  man every one
hundred-plus meters. If it  had, would have realized  the men of his  shift were
moving ver) very well indeed.

After fifteen minutes of tracking, MacIlargie found himsel deep in the middle of
the woods. He stopped examining th ground, stood erect, and stared unseeing into
the trees whil he thought about it. His shift had to have been right here aj ter
he entered the woods looking for them. So if they wen in the middle of the woods
after he began looking for them they  probably hadn't left them to find a  place
to goof  off. Tha  meant that  instead of  patrolling, they'd  set up  an ambush
either that or they found a place to hide and relax while hi wasted his time and
energy trying to spot moving men.

Well, they weren't going to get away with that either! They were supposed to  be
patrolling, not sitting  in an ambush-an<  certainly not relaxing  in some hidey
hole. He was definitely going to have some hides!

Moments later, MacIlargie  found several signs  clusterec in one  small area. He
hadn't  seen most  of them  before shallow  cups depressed  in the   ground-knee
prints; a fev flattened  areas where men had  gone prone. The shift  hac stopped
here. Why?

It wasn't long before a suspicion began  to grow in hi" mind. Fifty meters  from
where the shift  had stopped, theil  signs led to  the place where  he'd stopped
looking for them and backtracked to  where they'd entered the woods. From  there
the signs followed the  route he'd taken. Why,  why ...  those ...  They didn't!
They couldn't  possibly! He  was in  his chameleons.  They couldn't  see him. It
wasn't possible that they  were following him! As  impossible as it seemed,  the
signs continued to follow his route.

Again MacIlargie stopped and thought. Abruptly, he spun around and examined  the
woods to  his rear.  Nobody. He  shook his  head. This  is weird, he thought. He
resumed tracking. The tracks continued to follow his route almost to where  he'd
begun tracking  them. Fifty  meters from  the edge  of the  woods he again found
signs of the shift stopping. From there the signs cut across and began following
the route he'd taken tracking them.

Again  he  stopped.  "This is  absurd,"  he  said aloud.  He  turned  around and
carefully examined the woods  behind him. He couldn't  see any sign of  anything
animate. What was going  on here? He lifted  his hand to his  helmet and lowered
his infras.

Instantly, he saw red splotches. Man-size red splotches.

He focused on one of the red splotches and lifted the infra visor. His focus was
on the base of  a grospalm about sixty  meters away. He dropped  the infras back
into place and focused on another red splotch. When he lifted the visor, he  was
looking at  a meter-high  femlike bush.  He did  it a  third time  with the same
result. Shaking his head, he began  walking toward the red splotches his  infras
told him must be his shift. He was less than twenty meters away from the nearest
red splotch before he could make out the man with his naked eyes.

No. His men weren't goofing off, they were patrolling. But someone was pulling a
joke on him. The FP was wearing a Marine-issue helmet with the infra visor down.
Under the lower lip of the visor, MacIlargie could see the man's grinning mouth.

MacIlargie continued into the middle of the shift. He stood tall and looked  all
around. Even here he couldn't see all  of them without his infras. Every one  he
could see was wearing a Marine-issue helmet with its infra visor down.

"Very good, people,"  he said loudly.  "This exercise is  concluded. Fall in  on
me." Pride returned. His shift had done well. They had learned well. He'd taught
well. He wasn't over his anger, he  was still going to have someone's hide.  But
it wasn't going  to be his  men's. It was  going to be  the hide of  whoever had
given them the Marine-issue helmets without telling him. He only hoped it wasn't
Staff  Sergeant Bass.  Or Sergeant  Hyakowa. Or  Corporal Domhofer,  or ...   He
started getting frustrated again. Damn! Unless  it was Godenov who gave his  men
the helmets, he wasn't going to have anybody's hide.


Acting Shift Sergeant  Godenov was doing  a lot of  grumbling since first  squad
killed  the guerrilla  ambush. Whenever  the Marines  weren't actively  training
their FPs, they  engaged in discussion,  sometimes heated, about  whether or not
the FPs were good enough. Godenov flinched every time he heard a Marine say  the
FPs weren't "good enough" yet-or worse, that they might never be good enough. He
particularly hated it  whenever someone said  his shift wasn't  good enough yet.
Even though  intellectually he  knew nobody  was saying  he wasn't  good enough,
emotionally he  reacted as  though they  were. He  couldn't help  it, he'd  been
hearing "good enough" and  "not good enough" directed  at him all his  life. Why
hadn't his ancestors changed the  family name when they began  speaking English?
The name could be a terrible burden to bear.

Truthfully,  the FPs  weren't good  enough yet.  Not by  Marine standards   they
weren't. Of course, by Marine standards nobody who didn't wear the Eagle, Globe,
and Starstream was good enough.

Well, PFC  Isidore Godenov  was tired  of hearing  "good enough"  and "not  good
enough." His shift was going to be good enough. More than that. He was going  to
do  his  best  to make  his  shift  the best  in  the  entire 257th  Feldpolizei
Battalion. He'd show them all he was "good enough"-and then some.

To that end, he had  his shift out in the  first range of hills west  of the GSB
headquarters practicing immediate  action drills. The  Wanderjahrian guerrillas,
the self-styled "Peoples Liberation Army," favored the same tactic used by  most
guerrilla forces for thousands of years-the hit-and-run ambush.

There are three things an infantry unit can do when it walks into an ambush. One
is for everyone  to run away-in  which event many  of them will  get shot in the
back. This isn't considered a viable option, though it's the option of choice of
untrained or demoralized troops. The second is for everyone to remain in  place,
get  organized, and  fight back.  But as  the ambush  in the  Bavaran Hills  had
demonstrated, that can also lead to disaster. The third choice is an  "immediate
action drill"; that is, everybody immediately reacts aggressively to the  ambush
nobody runs away, nobody waits for orders.

Ambushers always start  with the upper  hand. They know  where you are  and have
fire superiority  before you  even know  they're there.  You're exposed to their
sight and fire  while they're hidden  from yours. Immediate  action drills teach
troops to get  out of an  ambusher's lines of  sight and fire,  quickly build up
return fire to match  or better that of  the ambushers, and to  locate them. Not
necessarily in that order.

Of course, the best way to react to an ambush is to discover it before you  walk
into it-as when Corporal Leach spotted the ambush a few days earlier. But that's
usually not possible. So good  commanders in counterguerrilla conflicts spend  a
lot of time and energy training their men in immediate reaction drills. The  FPs
were in their camouflauge field uniforms; Godenov wore his chameleons. He wasn't
leading the patrol; he'd placed the men back under the command of their  regular
shift sergeant, Lahrmann.  Instead he walked  along watching them.  Sometimes he
was on one side, sometimes the other. He also followed, or went ahead to observe
from the front. All  in all, he was  pretty satisfied with their  movement. They
weren't silent, but they were far  from noisy. They weren't taking advantage  of
all the concealment they could, but neither were they walking upright and out in
the open. It was a tremendous improvement in a relatively short time.

After giving  basic instruction  in how  to react  to an  ambush, Godenov  began
looking for good ambush sites. Whenever  he found one before his men  passed it,
he'd take  a position  in it  and shout  "BANG-BANG!" when  his men  were in the
killing zone, and watch how they reacted. After each drill he debriefed the men.

The first  time Godenov  shouted "BANG-BANG!"  his men  must have been suffering
from opening-night jitters.  They jumped, startled,  at the sound  of his voice,
and most of them stood around for several seconds before they did anything.  The
second time, they  dropped in place  and started firing  in all directions.  The
only ones who took advantage of any  cover were those who happened to have  some
kind of  cover right  where they  dropped. And  they weren't  shooting live,  of
course, they shouted "BANG-BANG!"  and felt silly doing  it. They did have  live
batteries for their  blasters, as they  had to because  of the possibility  that
guerrillas were in the area, but  Godenov made sure their weapons were  unloaded
he didn't want to risk getting accidentally fried by one of his own men.

The third time he indicated an ambush by shouting "BANG-BANG!" most of them dove
for the nearest cover and BANG-BANGed  in his direction. No question, they  were
improving with practice. Some of them  even put some enthusiasm into their  BANG
BANGs the third time.

He also showed them how to assault through an ambush if one was spotted in time.

After another three  mock ambushes, and  a couple where  his ambush was  spotted
before it was tripped, Godenov decided his men were good enough that they needed
a  force-on-force  drill  to  improve  further.  Force-on-force  was   provided;
unwittingly, but it came when it was needed.

The woodland Godenov was patrolling his shift through was little different  from
the woods that bordered the precinct. parade ground. It had the  near-ubiquitous
family  groupings of  grospalms, but  the rolling  land wasn't  level enough  to
support as  high a  concentration of  hochbaums, so  there were  fewer of  them.
Instead spikers, which seemed to prefer climbing ground, were fairly common. The
scattered undergrowth was woodier than the fuzzy and formless femlike growth  on
the flatland. This was a grazing area for the huge herbivores the Wanderjahrians
called cows and sheep, so the ground was fairly bare.

Godenov was a  hundred meters ahead  of his shift  and a little  to the right of
their line  of march,  wondering whether  there was  any point  in putting  them
through another  drill today,  when he  thought he  heard someone  say something
somewhere in front of  him. So far as  he knew, he and  his shift were the  only
Marines or FPs in this area. He froze in place and slowly raised a hand to lower
his infras. He peered toward the  grospalms where he thought the voice  had come
from, but didn't  see any telltale  red. Slowly, silently,  fully alert, Godenov
drifted toward his right  front. He listened carefully  as he moved, but  didn't
hear the voice. After he'd gone more than twenty meters, he stopped and listened
again. Still nothing. Slowly, he went straight ahead, listening and looking. And
then he saw a well-concealed man  sitting in a shallow depression from  which he
could easily watch the animal  trail the FPs were paralleling.  Quickly, Godenov
looked deeper  into the  grospalm clump.  He saw  three more  men. He  wanted to
continue checking to see if there were more than four, but they suddenly changed
their  attitudes and  focused sharply  in the  direction from  which he'd  come.
Godenov looked back His men were coming into view from behind a row of  man-high
bushes. This was an ambush for real.

Still careful not to make any noise,  Godenov moved as fast as he could  back to
his men, easily dodging the few bushes  in his way. He was pleased that  none of
the FPs  flinched when  his invisible-man's  voice said,  "Look alive!  Lock and
load. This is no drill. There's real guerrillas just ahead of us to the right."

The FPs were shifting from left to right as they walked, watching both sides  of
their path. Godenov was  pleased that they all  tried to conceal the  motions of
loading their weapons from the people watching from their right front.

"I know where they're at," he told  his men. "I'll give the signal right  before
we enter their killing zone. When I do,

attack to your right front."

By the time  he finished giving  his instructions, the  front of the  patrol had
already passed the first guerrilla position.

"NOW!" Godenov  shouted. Before  the word  was completely  out of  his mouth, he
pointed his blaster  at where he  knew the first  guerrilla was and  pressed the
firing lever.  The acrid  stink of  charred, bubbling  flesh almost  immediately
assailed his nose-he got his kill.

His men  were doing  exactly what  he'd taught  them. They  were rushing  in the
direction he  told them  to, yelling  fiercely and  burning everything  in their
paths. Two of the guerrillas were able to get off one wild shot each before they
were killed.  The third  was like  the one  Godenov shot-fried  before he  had a
chance to  fire. There  were no  others. It  hadn't been  an ambush,  it was  an
observation post.

"Cease fire! Cease fire!"  Godenov shouted as soon  as he realized they  weren't
getting any return fire.

"Secure the  perimeter," Acting  Assistant Shift  Sergeant Lahrmann  immediately
called out. He bustled  about, making sure the  men were in defensive  positions
around the observation post, then  joined Godenov, who, stomach churning  at the
grisly task, was inspecting the corpses.

"Not enough of them left to tell us anything," Lahrmann said, shaking his  head.
Despite his  words, he  couldn't help  grinning. This  was the  first shift-size
action he'd ever  been on that  was such a  clear-cut victory for  his side. His
eyes shined as  he looked at  Godenov. "Your tactics  really work. Acting  Shift
Sergeant. You teach us  good. We will kill  many guerrillas with what  you teach
us."

Churning stomach or no, Godenov beamed.


"Commander ..."  Fighter Juarez  burst into  the chamber  Hing was  using as his
field HQ. "A runner just brought an eyes-only message."

Hing made sure the confidential papers he  was packing for the move back to  the
Che Loi Brigade's base were covered before he turned to face Juarez and held out
a hand to accept the message. But Juarez had nothing to give him.

"Where is it?"

Juarez looked apologetic and almost stammered as he said, "Commander, the runner
refuses to hand it to anybody but you."

That  was  strange. What  could  be going  on?  Hing's voice  didn't  betray his
thoughts when he said, "Bring the runner to me."

"Yessir. Immediately, Commander." Juarez spun about and

ran off. Juarez was back in less than a minute. The runner he brought

with him wasn't someone Hing knew. As  if in confirmation that the man wasn't  a
member of the Che Loi Brigade, he wore the green and blue tab on his collar that
identified him as being  from PLA Staat Command.  Hing raised an eyebrow.  For a
runner from PLA Staat Command to  hand-deliver a message to a brigade  commander
personally was most unusual. And the runner looked surprisingly fresh for having
come all the way from wherever Staat HQ was currently located.

The headquarters runner looked at Hing, then  glanced at a 2-D image he held  in
his hand. Satisfied that he was indeed facing the man to whom he was to  deliver
the message, he snapped  to attention and announced,  "Commander Hing, I have  a
message from PLA Staat Command. It is for your eyes only." From somewhere in his
uniform he produced a sealed envelope and ceremoniously held it out.

Hing's expression  showed nothing  of what  he was  feeling as  he accepted  the
envelope and casually examined it. It was closed, with a self-destruct seal that
would open only to the thumbprint of the addressee. Hing remained facing the man
as  he pressed  his thumb  against the  seal and  the envelope  popped open.  He
extracted the single sheet of paper  it contained. The paper was printed  on one
side only, and  he continued to  face Juarez and  the HQ runner  as he read  it,
leaving only the blank side for  them to see. Juarez understood the  protocol of
confidentiality and looked at the floor. The runner boldly kept his eyes on  the
commander though he didn't look at the paper.

It took only a few seconds for Hing to read the two sentences. It explained  why
the runner looked so fresh. Hing looked up at the man and asked, "What more  can
you tell me?"

"Nothing, Commander. I was told simply to deliver the message to your hands only
and await your  instructions." His words  were plain, but  his manner of  speech
told  Hing he  probably knew  more. But  Hing had  no time  to try  to get  more
information  out of  him, not  if he  was to  obey the  instructions he'd   just
received. He looked at Juarez.

"Assemble the staff. Instantly."

"Yes, Commander. Instantly." Juarez ran off and began calling out names.

They were assembled in moments. All  looked curiously at the runner, but  no one
commented or questioned.

"I have been summoned to Staat headquarters," Hing said without preamble as soon
as everyone was present. He held up the message the runner had brought and  read
it. "  'You will  accompany the  bearer of  this message  to Staat  headquarters
without delay. He  has transportation.' "  Looking back at  his staff, he  said,
"Lieutenant  Harbottle  is   in  command  of   the  movement  back   to  brigade
headquarters. Subcommander  Sukamohon will  be in  command until  I return."  He
looked  at  Cildair,  the  senior  medic.  "Lieutenant  Pincote  is  to   remain
sufficiently sedated that she can't pull another stunt like she did today  until
the synthskin  grafts. Is  everything understood?"  Startled by  the news,  some
members of the staff simply stared at Hing, others nodding understanding.  "Then
carry on," Hing said. He picked up his backpack, which was already packed. "Take
me to our transportation," he told the headquarters runner.

Not long after,  as impatience about  late-returning observation posts  began to
grow, a runner raced in with a  report of a four-man OP that couldn't  be found.
But there were clear signs of fighting at the OP site.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A dozen heavily armed men dressed  in black burst suddenly through the  doors of
the small  chapel. The  crash of  their entry  stopped Reverend Walther Handschu
right in the middle of his sermon, which was from Chapter 5 of Paul's Epistle to
the Romans: "Therefore, being justified by faith, we have peace with God through
our Lord Jesus Christ."

"Who are you?" Gretel Siebensberg asked, standing and facing the intruders.  The
bright morning  sunlight shining  through the  broken doors  outlined the men as
huge black  hulks crowding  into the  aisle. Motes  of dust  swirled about their
heads in the golden sunlight streaming from behind them, but their

faces were in total darkness.

One man  detached himself  from the  group and  strode heavily  down the  aisle,
weapons swinging and clattering, to stand directly over the diminutive woman. As
he passed by the other worshipers, they gasped when they saw the leering grin on
his  face-his teeth  had been  filed to  sharp points.  Reverend Handschu  stood
transfixed  in his  pulpit, his  mouth gaping  open, the  worn copy  of the  New
Testament from which he was taking  the morning's sermon held open in  one hand,
the other  raised as  if in  benediction. Mother  Siebensberg, as  she was known
among her people, the oligarch ofFriedland, the leader and protector of her  six
million citizens, and the chief religious figure for the Christian congregations
in her domains, faced the apparition indignant but without fear.

"Bitch," the man growled, "I am your judgment."

* * *

Gretel Siebensberg  was a  devout Christian  who practiced  the simple religious
rites of her forebears.  She did not demand  that her people accept  that faith,
but all were encouraged to, and church attendance among the people of  Priedland
was the highest of the Staats on Wanderjahr.

In her household,  everyone attended chapel  twice a day,  at dawn and  at dusk.
Services were  conducted by  Reverend Walther  Handschu, Siebensberg's  personal
chaplain, and she attended  them whenever she was  in her capital city  of Kreuz
stadt. For  Sunday services  she attended  the United  Brotherhood church in the
city or  the smaller  church in  the nearby  village of  Siebensdorf, where  the
people who maintained her local estates and farms lived.

The religious tradition of the United Brotherhood was one of utter simplicity. A
pacifist sect from its earliest days, the Brotherhood rejected the violence  and
implicit Jewish nationalism of the Old Testament for the peace and salvation  of
the New. Each  copy of the  New Testament used  in Friedland was  printed in Old
High German and English. Old High German was taught in the schools, and services
were often conducted in that language. The United Brotherhood rejected a  church
calendar,  and traditional  holy days  such as  Christmas and  Easter were   not
observed by the  congregations in Priedland.  The only music  permitted in their
churches were the hymns  the congregations sang from  a common hymnal. And  each
congregation was independent of any church hierarchy because there wasn't one in
Friedland. Pastors were  "called" from the  congregations themselves. A  body of
scriptural  exegesis  was  available, compiled  over  the  centuries by  various
scholars, and learning those  texts was the only  education any minister of  the
United Brotherhood was ever required to have.

Life was good for  the people of Friedland.  Austere in her personal  habits and
incorruptible in her  public life, Mother  Siebensberg nevertheless believed  in
hard work  and enjoying  the fruits  of honest  labor. With  the recent  rise in
income from the production  of thule on her  farms, she had invested  heavily in
benefits  for  her  people.  There was  no  need  for  Peldpolizei garrisons  in
Friedland, and the Stadtpolizei organization in Kreuzstadt was a law enforcement
agency in name only.  There was little banditry  or crime in Friedland.  Now, on
this beautiful early-spring morning, all this was about to change.


"Leave at once!"  Mother Siebensberg ordered  the grinning hulk  standing before
her. Imperiously, she pointed toward the chapel door. The other men had taken up
positions along the walls  and now stood with  their weapons leveled at  the two
dozen worshipers.

The man hit her, so  hard that blood spurted from  the side of her head.  Mother
Siebensberg fell heavily between the pews and lay there insensate. A  collective
gasp of horror went up from the  other worshipers, who were kept in their  seats
only by  the muzzles  of the  guns being  pointed at  them. The  man who had hit
Mother, apparently the leader, drew a machete from a scabbard at his side.  With
one long step he crossed the space between the front row of pews and the  pulpit
and, swinging  the machete,  severed Reverend  Handschu's head  cleanly from his
neck. Eyes wide, mouth open, the head flew a bloody trajectory to the wall, then
bounced to the floor, rolling  under the pew where twelve-year-old  Michelle Ngu
yen  sat  with her  mother,  Gretel Siebensberg's  chief  housekeeper. Michelle,
staring in  wide-eyed horror  at the  minister's head,  instinctively raised her
feet to  keep the  blood off  her shoes.  The reverend's  body stood erect for a
moment, blood  pumping out  of the  carotids in  bright red  streams, before  it
crumpled with a thud to the floor. In the total silence that followed the  sound
of the body hitting the boards, his Bible fluttered noisily down after him.

The man  casually wiped  the blood  off his  machete on  the shirt of Praxiteles
Romero, Mother's chief steward, who collapsed with a heart attack and died right
in the front pew.

"Where is your Jesus  now?" the man roared,  holding his machete high  above his
head. Michelle Nguyen began to scream, a high-pitched wail that penetrated every
comer of the  small chapel. As  if it was  the signal for  pandemonium, everyone
began to scream and sob and beg for mercy.

"Outside!" the leader bellowed, and his men began to push and shove the panicked
worshipers out  through the  broken doors.  The brilliant  morning sunlight  and
breezes redolent  with the  perfume of  spring flowers  contrasted incongruously
with the terror of the congregation. The  men herded them into a small group  in
the  courtyard  outside  the chapel.  Mothers  comforted  children, and  fathers
comforted mothers and children, and all  stared fearfully at the armed men.  The
leader emerged from the chapel, dragging Mother by her hair. He swung her  frail
body by one powerful  arm and flung her  hard upon the stones,  where she landed
with a thud and the sickening crunch of breaking bone. She moaned and lay still.

"My name is Lieutenant Xuyen Phong, and this area is now under the protection of
the Peoples Liberation Army," he bellowed.  "Those of you who have committed  no
crimes against the workers of Priedland will be spared. The rest will suffer the
punishments prescribed by the party." He snapped his fingers and one of his  men
stepped forward  with a  list of  names. The  man who  called himself Lieutenant
Phong  glanced briefly  at the  list. "Gretel  Siebensberg," he  announced,  and
paused. "Death by burning." The crowd gasped. Two of Phong's men stepped forward
and lifted Mother  from the stones.  Quickly they bound  her with wire  and then
hoisted her semiconscious form into the air and left her hanging from the branch
of a nearby tree.  Her clothes were quickly  saturated with a flammable  liquid.
Phong stood nearby with a lighted taper.

The drenching had partially revived Mother. She understood she was about to die,
but had not heard  Phong's pronouncement and so  couldn't guess the reason  why.
"Good-bye, my friends," she whispered to her quaking servants. "God will forgive
these men. I am going to see Jesus."

"Witness the death  of this traitor  to the people!"  Phong shouted. He  stepped
close to Mother and looked into her eyes. "I ask again, where is your Jesus now,
bitch?" he demanded, and  set her on fire.  He stepped back quickly  as Mother's
clothing burst into  flames. In seconds  she was a  twisting ball of  agony. The
horrified onlookers watched as her clothes were consumed and then her hair.  Her
prayers quickly turned to screams, the screams to inarticulate wailing that died
away gradually as the  flames singed her lungs  and her flesh swelled  and burst
and then began to turn black.

Turning away from Mother's smoking corpse swinging obscenely from the tree limb,
which by now  was also on  fire, Phong announced,  "When I call  your name, step
over here." He pointed to a spot in a comer of the yard by the chapel wall and a
thick  row of  cedars. When  he finished  reading the  list, only  the  youngest
children were left from the original group. They continued staring blank-eyed at
Mother's blackened corpse.

"Death by machete!" Phong shouted, drawing his own. To the cowering children, he
announced, "Witness the death of these traitors to the people!" With that he and
seven of his men set upon the adults,  and in moments had hacked all of them  to
death.

Michelle Nguyen tore her eyes away from Mother in time to witness her own mother
fall under the razor-sharp blades.  Blood flew everywhere, and soon  the killers
were drenched in  it. The victims  screamed piteously and  begged for mercy  but
were shown none at  all. The machetes rose  and fell again and  again. When they
struck  the cobblestones,  sparks flew.  Too overcome  with terror  to cry   out
anymore,  little Michelle  watched dumbly  as the  men went  methodically  about
killing the adults.  She remembered afterward  the vivid red  footprints the men
left upon the  stones as they  walked away from  the dismembered remains  of her
family and their friends.

"They had  to die,  little ones,"  Phong said  gently to  the shivering children
pathetically clutching one another  in a small group.  "That is what happens  to
traitors. Tell that  to those who  will come to  investigate. As a  token of its
sincerity, the party wishes  each of you to  have one of these.  Rejoice, little
ones. This is the dawning of a  new age for the people of Friedland."  With that
he  handed each  of the  seven survivors  a little  book brightly  bound in  red
leather. The children accepted the books wordlessly and clutched them tightly in
their tiny hands. That is how they were found hours later by a rescue party sent
out from the city.

*   *   *

"Ted," Chief Long began without preamble when he'd raised Brigadier Sturgeon  on
his vid hookup, "I have terrible news." Briefly the chief told him what he  knew
of the massacre in Friedland. "The subcommissioner of Priedland's  Stadt-polizei
force has asked me to investigate."

"Guerrillas?"

"Looks like it. Ted, I need  fast transportation and firepower. Can you  spare a
couple of Dragons and some men for me? Whoever did this may still be around."

"I'll   send  twenty-five   men  from   the  landing   party  security   detail.
Transportation will be ready for you at the port in, oh, twenty minutes.  You'll
be in Friedland in less than two hours. Keep me informed." The brigadier's image
disappeared from the screen.

"Pete, Alois! To me!" Chief Long shouted.

Commissioner Landser's face turned ashen white  when he heard the news. "I  knew
Gretel Siebensberg," he muttered. "Who in God's name would want to hurt her?"

"That is what we will  try to find out, my  dear Alois. Get me six  of your best
detectives. Pete, grab  your lads and  some personal things.  You are all  going
with me to Friedland. Alois, you come too. Turn over the operation here to  your
deputy. We'll be gone several days."


The bodies of the victims  had not yet begun to  stiffen by the time Chief  Long
and  his party  arrived on  the scene.  The sub-commissioner  of the  Kreuzstadt
Stadtpolizei, a nervous little man way  out of his depth, had done  three things
correctly:  cordoned  off  the  crime  scene  to  prevent  contamination  of the
evidence;  isolated  the  witnesses  immediately;  and  called  Chief  Long  for
assistance. Still badly shaken by what  had happened, his voice was unsteady  as
he tried to answer questions.

"It-It w-was  the smoke  from the  f-fires of  Siebensdorf burning  that f-first
attracted our attention," he told Chief Long. "The f-fire department was f-first
on  the  scene. When  I  got here..."  His  voice trailed  off  and he  gestured
helplessly at the mutilated bodies lying about the small courtyard just  outside
the  chapel. Someone  had cut  Mother's charred  corpse down,  and it  now  lay,
contorted, under a  blanket. The remains  of the butchered  worshipers lay where
they had fallen, crawling with swarms of buzzers attracted by the blood.

Finished  at  the chapel,  the  raiders had  then  marched into  the  village of
Siebensdorf and slaughtered everyone there,  over three hundred men, women,  and
children. After torching the place, they had disappeared toward the mountains in
the northeast, little Michelle reported.

Brigadier Sturgeon's twenty-five-man  security detail immediately  established a
defensive perimeter around the chapel. Now the small group of policemen and  the
two Marines, Dean and Claypoole,  stood in the courtyard, surveying  the horror.
Claypoole, face white, stared at Dean and shook his head. Chief Long pulled  the
blanket away  from Mother's  contorted corpse  and someone  gasped. Its arms and
legs flexed into the  fetal position, it was  impossible to tell who  the corpse
had been, even whether it was that of a man or a woman. Chief Long hastily threw
the blanket back over the cadaver. He turned to the men standing around him.  He
said  nothing  for a  few  moments, just  stared  off in  the  direction of  the
mountains. Then he began issuing rapid-fire orders.

"Lieutenant," he said, addressing the officer in command of the security detail.
"I want  you to  contact the  Denver at  once. We  need drone surveillance here,
every inch of the continent.  If the men who did  this are still here and  still
operating in a group, we must find them.

"Dean, Claypoole. Contact the intelligence officer on the Denver. I want you  to
review every centimeter of tape  the satellite surveillance system has  taken of
aircraft and seagoing vessels arriving and departing from the port  ofKreuzstadt
back ten days  from today. I  also want you  to review all  electronic and voice
intercepts the Denver has  made from this region  during that same period.  I'll
have  one  of  Commissioner  Landser's detectives  assist  you."  Anxious  to be
excused, the  Marines hurried  off to  set up  the necessary  communications and
data-processing networks.

Chief Long then ordered the  assembled detectives to collect and  sort evidence,
including getting detailed statements from the survivors.

"Pete," he turned to Lieutenant Constantine, "take all of these little red books
back to the forensic lab at Brosigville with you immediately. Have everyone here
who's touched them fingerprinted.  You know the drill.  Do what you can  to lift
and ID  latent prints  that don't  match the  kids' or  the cops'.  I want every
detail of these books compared with a genuine article, one of the books we  know
was taken  from the  guerrillas." He  pointed to  the bloody  bootprints on  the
courtyard cobblestones. "Alois, we need to compare those prints with every known
type of shoe  and boot manufactured  on this planet.  Start with those  that may
have been captured  from the guerrillas.  You men," he  addressed the detectives
who'd come with him from Brosigville,  "scour this entire area. You know  how to
do it.  The murderers  must have  left more  behind them  than these  little red
books."

But they had not.


The  survey  of arriving  and  departing vessels  and  a review  of  intercepted
communications proved fruitless,  as Chief Long  half expected it  would, but it
was  something that  had to  be done.  Given the  disposition of  the people  of
Friedland, he'd been pretty  sure all along that  the raiders had not  come from
among them, but had  been infiltrated into the  country in very small  groups as
visitors or legitimate businessmen. With virtually no police force available  in
the country, it  proved impossible to  conduct a canvass  of the population,  to
identify  suspicious persons  or strangers  who might  have been  seen  anywhere
around  the capital  city before  the massacre.  The news  media throughout  the
country  was  cooperative, but  after  five days  no  promising leads  had  been
obtained.

Feldpolizei files were scoured for any mention of a man named Xuyen Phong  among
the guerrillas, but none was found, as Chief Long had also expected.

The security  element tracked  the murderers  into the  foothills of  the nearby
mountains, where they  disappeared completely. To  the Marines, this  meant they
had been  airlifted out  of the  area, but  satellite surveillance  had shown no
aircraft in the vicinity. They had left nothing behind but the little red  books
and some footprints.

Leaving his detectives  to follow up  on the investigation,  Long and his  party
returned to Brosigville.


Feeling awkward  in civilian  garb, Alois  Landser sat  uncomfortably in a small
cafe  off an  obscure side  street in  downtown Brosigville.  He had  only  just
returned from Friedland, and  the horror of what  had happened there still  hung
about him like  a pall. He  was not only  depressed but angry,  so angry in fact
that he had  called for this  unusual face-to-face meeting  with a valuable  and
very confidential source.

Landser regarded his wineglass darkly. It contained Wein-bauer Katzenwasser '36,
a rare Wanderjahrian vintage that often graced the table at Oligarch Arschmann's
villa, and one Landser, a connoisseur, normally relished. But that afternoon the
glass sat untouched. Nervously he brushed at some lint on his trousers and  then
looked again into the street outside.

Since  his  appointment as  commissioner  of the  Arschland  Stadtpolizei, Alois
Landser had been collecting information on people. His files were extensive  and
very confidential.  Much of  the information,  along with  the identities of his
informants, he  was sharing  with Chief  Long and  the Marines,  as he  had been
ordered to do. But  he had kept some  of it deliberately to  himself, files he'd
compiled  on  Wanderjahr's  most  prominent  people,  including  the   oligarchs
themselves.

That afternoon, one of his most highly placed and trusted informants was to meet
with him. Normally Landser did not meet with informants personally, not even the
most trustworthy ones. Communication usually took place through drops and  blind
signals Landser had worked out with  them over time. Initial contact always  had
to do with official police business of some sort, but afterward, information was
passed on through  Landser's secret communications  system, which he  controlled
personally when dealing with the most highly placed contacts. The man who  would
be coming through the door anytime now had agreed to inform because, some  years
before, his brother had been charged  with a very serious crime and  Landser had
gotten the charges dismissed. He was  now paying the commissioner back for  that
favor.

Landser never used real names when dealing with his informants. This man's  code
name was Schlange, and  the man he was  reporting on, one of  the oligarchs, was
Verrater, "Snake" and "Traitor" respectively.  To Landser the name Schlange  fit
the man too well; he was also supplying information to the bandits. Verrater? If
the suspicions Landser was forming about him proved correct, he would derive the
utmost pleasure from making the arrest.

Schlange came through the door. Squinting his eyes in the semidarkness after the
bright sunshine outside,  he bowed slightly  at Landser before  sliding into the
chair opposite his.

"Good  afternoon,  most  gracious commissioner,"  he  said,  smiling unctuously.
Landser grimaced  as he  signed for  the waiter  to bring  another glass. "Thank
you," the man said as he was  served. Schlange regarded the dark red wine  for a
moment and gulped half his glass down. "Ahhh," he sighed. Landser was  offended.
He sipped gently at  his own wine, but  he was so upset  at being in the  boor's
presence that he could not even savor the bouquet.

"Herr Schlange," Landser began, "if you help me now you are off the hook. I will
not trouble you anymore."

The  man  he  called  Snake  nodded.  "This  is  most  generous  of  you,   Herr
Commissioner."

"I am not a generous man, Herr Schlange, you know that," Landser replied coldly.
"I want revenge, and if you help me get that, you are a free man."

"At your service, Herr Commissioner."

Landser leaned across the table. "Answer some questions." Schlange nodded.  "Did
Verrater set off the bomb that killed my brother?"

"No."

"You're sure of this?" Landser was disappointed at the answer.

"Absolutely."

"Do you know who pulled off the Morgenluft raid?"

"Verrater." Landser's heart jumped. The raiders nearly killed Commander  Peters,
an officer  of the  Confederation Marines.  He had  the bastard!  Maybe Verrater
didn't kill his brother,  as Schlange believed, but  he had him anyway.  Landser
was a policeman,  and he could  not suppress a  surge of joy  at the prospect of
breaking a case and bringing a criminal to justice, even if it did not bring the
personal satisfaction he wanted.

"He wanted to get rid of  his closest rival." Schlange shrugged. "He  also wants
the Marines to act more quickly against  the bandits. Two for one." He passed  a
microcassette across the  table. "I recorded  the conversation between  Verrater
and his agent in Morgenluft. There is other interesting information on there  as
well." He smiled. Landser pocketed the cassette.

"Oligarch Siebensberg? Do you know who murdered her?"

Schlange  shrugged again.  "Not the  bandits either,  that's for  sure. But  not
Verrater  either. That  narrows the  list, doesn't  it? I  have my   suspicions,
though."

"Don't play games with me." Landser's voice had turned icy. "Who?"

"Zitze." This was the code name for another oligarch.

Landser sat back in his chair as if slapped in the face. "Impossible!"

Schlange sipped at his wine. "Only a suspicion."

"I cannot believe this,"  he said after a  moment. "I need confirmation  of this
... this speculation."

Schlange nodded. "There is someone, an employee of Zitze's." He gulped the  rest
of the wine noisily and regarded  the empty glass with satisfaction. "Nice,  but
not sweet enough,  don't you think?"  Fury silently mounting,  Landser glared at
the man. "You know, everyone involved wants to eliminate his rivals-"

"The man's name, Herr Schlange!"

"-on the Ruling Council," Schlange continued unperturbed, "and have the  Marines
step in and eliminate the bandits. The Marines and the bandits are the only ones
whose motives  are honest  in any  of this  business. That  is why I support the
bandits, Herr Commissioner. I know you don't care about any of this because  you
are  not political,  but I  have principles."  Schlange grinned  and flicked   a
forefinger against his wineglass, which produced a melodious ping.

The sun glinting off the windshield of  a landcar passing very slowly by in  the
street suddenly drew Landser's attention. "Down!" he shouted, and dived for  the
floor.

Schlange was not so fast. The  first bullets from an automatic weapon  shattered
the windows, and the next slammed into the informant. The first entered his  jaw
on the left side  at the gum line  and exited the right  side of his mouth  in a
spray of blood and tooth fragments. Another struck him just behind his left  eye
and angled up  to exit through  the right side  of his head,  taking much of the
right frontal  lobe of  his brain  with it.  A third  projectile struck his left
external  carotid  artery before  plunging  down to  bury  itself in  the  first
cervical vertebra.

Landser drew  his own  pistol and,  as the  shooter attempted  to reload,  fired
through the shattered windows at the  passenger side of the landcar. The  figure
sitting there jerked several times before the car sped down the street.  Running
out into the bright sunshine, Landser took a shooting position in the middle  of
the street and fired the rest of his magazine at the swiftly departing  vehicle.
He could  clearly see  his bullets  striking, but  they failed  to stop the car.
Landser stood still for a moment, catching his breath, his still-smoking  pistol
dangling from one hand. Then he dashed back into the cafe.

The owner and the waiter stood helplessly over Schlange, who was still alive.  A
diminishing stream of  blood pumped from  the side of  his neck into  a widening
pool on the floor. Fragments of gray matter protruded from the exit wound on top
of his skull, mixing with the blood  beneath him. His one good eye stared  up at
Landser while  his lungs  worked spasmodically  to expel  the blood flowing into
them from his destroyed  mouth. He gurgled and  wheezed as frothy bubbles  burst
between his bloody lips.

As he calmly reloaded his pistol  and slammed it back into his  holster, Landser
stood  over  Schlange.  Miraculously,  the table  where  they  had  been sitting
remained  upright,  and Landser's  hardly  touched glass  sat  there invitingly.
Landser shrugged, picked it up, and took a slow mouthful of the wine. He  rolled
it around on  his tongue before  swallowing it. "Ah!  An excellent vintage!"  he
told the  owner, who  stared at  him in  horror. "Schlange!  Schlange," he said,
bending over the dying informant, "the employee's name? His name, please?"

A huge blood bubble burst forth  from between Schlange's lips with a  sound that
could have been  someone's name: "Rajinderpal."  Landser remained bent  over the
dying  man for  a few  more moments,  but satisfied  he would  say no  more,  he
straightened up. "Schlange," he said, "you are a mess. Try to clean yourself  up
before the funeral.

"Gentlemen," Landser  bowed toward  the owner  and his  waiter, "you  run a most
excellent establishment. I shall recommend it to my friends." Landser  carefully
replaced his glass on the table and strode jauntily out of the cafe. Neither man
thought to ask him who would pay the tab.


"I wish I was  back with the platoon,  where at least we  could shoot back at  a
real enemy,"  Claypoole said  one night  after their  return from Friedland. The
massacre of  Mother Siebens-berg  and her  followers had  been the  single worst
event of its kind  in the history of  Wanderjahr. Not nearly as  many people had
lost their lives in the witchcraft  frenzy two centuries earlier. That had  been
due  to hysteria;  the massacre  in Friedland  was cold-blooded  and  calculated
murder.

"The goddamned guerrillas,"  Dean responded angrily,  "we should hunt  them down
and kill the lot!"

They were sitting  at their workstations  at police headquarters,  reviewing the
satellite reconnaissance tapes from the Denver's databases for the second  time.
The search had now been extended  to include any information picked up  prior to
the attack at Morgenluft, with the same results: nothing.

Chief Long  came in  and asked  the pair  what they  were doing. "Nothing, sir,"
Claypoole said.

"Come with  me, then,  lads, we  do have  something." He  led them to the police
communications  center,  where  a young  lieutenant  in  the Brosigville  police
intelligence unit by the name of Bashwa was also reviewing Denver intercepts.

"You see," Bashwa explained, "the chief here thought it might be a good idea for
a Stadtpolizei officer to review those intercepts since we are familiar with the
political and social conditions  on Wanderjahr. I went  back to just before  the
raid on Oligarch Keutgens's villa at Morgenluft and discovered this." He  played
back a recording  of two men  talking about visitors.  "What alerted me  was the
name 'Ludendorf.' He was  a famous German general  a long time ago.  I concluded
that possibly Ludendorf is  a code name for  Brigadier Sturgeon. I also  assumed
that whoever made the call was in the party waiting for the brigadier's arrival.
I then took that man's voice print and compared it with others on file,  and..."
He punched  a key  on his  console. The  picture of  a balding,  middle-aged man
appeared on the screen, with two voice prints beneath it. "The upper one is  the
recording from the Denver's computer. The lower one is from a speech he made  at
an international conference on trade last fall. He is Lorelei Keutgens's  deputy
minister for commerce."

"Wow!" Claypoole exclaimed. "Question the bastard!"

"We are." Chief Long smiled.

"Who owns the other voice?" Dean asked.

"That we do not yet know," Bashwa said. "He was using a voice masker on his end.
But we do know the transmission came from right here in Brosigville."

"Damned fine work. Lieutenant," Chief Long said, patting Bashwa on the shoulder.
The lieutenant's dark  face broke into  a wide smile.  "And now, my  lads, we're
having another small conference."


Commissioner Landser and Lieutenant Constantine  were waiting for them in  Chief
Long's office.  Landser had  gotten used  to the  presence of  the two  enlisted
Marines at  the conferences,  but he  still had  not accepted  their presence at
high-level meetings  that should  have been  for officers  only, and  he did not
understand why Chief Long persisted  in dragging them about everywhere.  But the
chief had made it very clear to the commissioner and every officer on his  staff
that the  two Marines  were Brigadier  Sturgeon's intelligence  staff and  hence
deserved  all  the respect  and  assistance any  police  or Marine  commissioned
officer would expect.

"Gentlemen,"  Long   began,  "Lieutenant   Constantine  has   done  a  technical
intelligence sweep of this office, to ensure this conversation remains  private.
Let's start with what we know about the murders in Friedland. Pete?"

"The little red books were printed here on Wanderjahr," Constantine said. "We've
traced the paper to a company right here in Brosigville. We're checking now with
everyone who  purchased that  kind of  paper in  any quantity.  We're getting no
cooperation from some of the oligarchs in other Staats, but that should come  as
no surprise.  The books  contain the  usual Peoples  Liberation Army propaganda,
mostly junk based on the ravings of an obscure twentieth-century Chinese  rabble
rouser.

"The  bootprints  match  the  patterns of  several  popular  brands  of footwear
manufactured on Wanderjahr that are worn by farmhands."

"What troubles me most about these attacks," Landser interjected, "is the  level
of their violence. The  PLA has always preached  that the people are  their best
friends and encouraged  their forces not  to harm them.  What acts of  terrorism
they  have  committed  up  to  now  have  been  against  prominent  individuals,
plantation overseers, local officials in the areas where they are strongest. But
since they came here," he nodded  at the two Marines, "things have  turned nasty
all of a sudden."

Claypoole resented the implication that  somehow the presence of the  Marines on
Wanderjahr was contributing to these terrible crimes, but he held his tongue.

"There may be some connection," Chief Long said. Both Claypoole and Dean  stared
at the chief in shock. He merely winked at the two Marines.

"All of this is just too  pat," Constantine said. "First the bombing  here, then
someone tries to kill Dean and Claypoole, then the attack against Keutgens,  and
now this. Particularly this last act, as if we haven't gotten the point yet that
the guerrillas are supposed  to be behind all  these events. Where does  the PLA
find the men, material, and time  to mount all these terrorist attacks  when the
Feldpolizei, being led by Marines now, is putting salt on their tails out in the
boonies?"

"Yes, and  do not  forget," Landser  chimed in,  "that the  most severe of these
attacks have  occurred in  Staats where  the PLA  is weakest.  For them  to have
mounted them there would require a logistical and political organization of more
sophistication than  they seem  to possess,  at least  outside Arschland and the
other two or three Staats where they are strongest."

"Lads?" Chief Long said to the Marines. Dean looked at Claypoole, who shrugged.

"Sir,"  Claypoole  responded,  "we're  going  through  the  satellite  tapes and
intercepts for the second time. The detectives here and at Friedland have helped
us identify every registered flight and ship entering the territory for the  ten
days preceding the  attack. Nothing. The  same with departures  up to five  days
after the attack. We have identified  no transport either coming into the  place
or leaving it that wasn't there on legitimate business. It is our guess-and  the
detectives back us  up on this-  that the raiders  came into Friedland  in small
groups, smuggling their  weapons and equipment  in their luggage.  They may have
dispersed by air, but so far we can't prove it."

Dean  marveled at  how smooth  the speech  was. Was  Rachman really  becoming  a
regular staff weenie?

"Sir," Claypoole continued, "the LT and the commissioner have good points too. I
thought it  was Garth  who set  off the  bomb and  shot at  us, until  he denied
everything, and he  had no reason  to lie about  it before he  died. By the way,
sir, has anybody figured out what Garth meant when he said 'Titties' set off the
bomb?"

Chief Long looked at Commissioner Landser. When Landser did not offer  anything,
he told Claypoole, "Not yet," but he was pretty sure Landser knew,

"And then you confirmed he was  spying on Multan for the guerrillas  all along,"
Dean said. "In fact, it was he  who turned in the raiders at the  warehouse that
night," he added.

"It's as if someone was deliberately trying to put the blame on the PLA so  we'd
go after  them," Claypoole  said, thinking  out loud.  Immediately he  smiled to
himself. So that's what the chief meant!

Chief Long smiled. "That's about what it comes down to."

"Yeah, but who?" Constantine asked.

"Who indeed?" Landser asked.

"Ah, yes, Alois, any new  information on who assassinated Kalat  Uxmal? Oligarch
Arschmann is very anxious that you pursue that case. Why, you were with Uxmal at
the time." It was a statement that begged an explanation.

"We go back a long way together." Landser smiled tightly, thinking of  Schlange,
the Snake, whom he had known for so many years. He exchanged glances with  Chief
Long. Long  knew he  was hiding  something, but  he chose  not to pursue it just
then. "We found the assassins' vehicle a few hours ago. The passenger's seat was
covered in blood, and there were a total of a dozen bullet holes in the rear."

"Good shooting. Commissioner," Lieutenant Constantine

said. Landser smiled again.

"Any motive  for the  shooting?" Chief  Long asked.  "Uxmal was  spying for  the
guerrillas. Chief. They may

think I turned him."

Chief Long had to  be careful how he  responded to that nonanswer.  Landser was,
after all, the commissioner of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei, a good officer too.
Calling him out now, in front of the others, would serve no useful purpose.

"Let's recap what we have, then," Long went on, deciding to change the  subject.
"One: Multan's men  were behind the  raid at the  warehouse. I've got  Multan on
violation of  Confederation law  against the  unauthorized possession  of plasma
weapons. As the Confederation's chief  law enforcement officer on Wanderjahr,  I
am going to arrest him, with some help from Brigadier Sturgeon and you, Alois. I
do not need the  approval for this from  your local magistrates either.  This is
Confederation business and I have the muscle to do what I have to. We'll let the
diplomats sort the legalities out-after I have Multan safely in prison  offwodd.
He is history."

"There will be a fight," Landser cautioned.

"So there will be," Chief Long responded. The men sitting around his desk sat up
straighter in their chairs.

Landser grinned. "I could never do anything about him because as a member of the
Ruling Council he is immune to  prosecution while here on Council business,  and
he  is not  stupid enough  to come  here as  a tourist.  I closed  some of   his
enterprises down  and arrested  some of  his men,  but that  never stopped  him.
Chairman Arschmann never seemed  to be very upset  about it because, frankly,  I
think he was in on it, although I can't prove it, and as Chairman of the  Ruling
Council he is always immune to arrest. Until you came here." He nodded at  Chief
Long. "Now ..." He smacked a fist into his palm.

Long continued: "Two: the raid on Keutgens was ordered by someone in Brosigville
using her deputy minister of commerce  as a spotter. The minister is  already in
custody, and in  time we'll know  who his contact  is here in  Brosigville. That
person is mine. He  is responsible for the  attempted murder of a  Confederation
military  officer,  and  for  that  he  will  be  extradited  and  tried  by the
Confederation.

"Three:  we don't  know who  slaughtered Siebensberg  and her  people, but   the
guerrillas are not our first choice for that deed.

"Four: we're not sure who bombed Marine headquarters or shot at my lads here. Of
all the incidents,  those two are  most likely the  work of the  guerrillas. But
maybe not.

"Finally, gentlemen,  we have  a very  complicated situation  before us. My guts
tell me we're right in the middle of a colossal power struggle on Wanderjahr, of
which the war with the guerrillas is only a very small part. Gentlemen, I'll let
you know when we're ready to  move against Multan. Meanwhile, word of  this must
stay among  us." He  looked at  each man.  "I will  need your  best men for this
operation, Alois, but they shall know nothing of our destination until we are en
route. Thank you for  your time this afternoon.  Alois, please stay behind  when
the others leave, won't you?"

Alone, Chief Long regarded the commissioner carefully before he spoke. "You  are
not telling me everything, are you, Alois?"

"No, I am not."

"May I ask why? Your orders were to do so."

"Yes. I disobeyed." Landser swallowed and shifted his weight in his seat. "It is
no secret. Chief, that I resent the  way Chairman Arschmann forced you on me.  I
hate him  for that,  and I  only hope  my personal  feelings have not clouded my
judgment in this case."

Chief Long nodded but said nothing.

"But I have come to respect  you." Landser's face reddened. Compliments did  not
come easily to this  man. "I will show  you that I am  a good officer," he  said
with feeling. "I am just not sure yet  about my evidence, but when I am, I  will
ask for your help."

"I could have you dismissed for this, Alois," Chief Long reminded him.

"Yes, I know." Landser smiled. "But you won't."

"No, I won't" Chief Long  sighed. "From now on, Alois,  trust me. I am the  only
one you can trust, you know that. The oligarchs are all at each other's throats.
Watch your back, my friend."

"If  anything  happens to  me.  Chief, my  files'will  survive." He  held  out a
microdiskette. "Everything is on here. Will you trust me for another few days?"

Chief Long took the diskette. "Yes, Alois, I will do that," he replied.

"Oh, and one more request." Long nodded. "I must leave town for a few days."

"May I inquire where you'll be going, Alois?"

"I'd rather not say. Chief."

"I can always find out, Alois."

"Yes."

Chief Long pretended to consider the request for a moment. "Be careful. Oh,  and
that was very, very good shooting."  Landser was smiling like a schoolboy  as he
walked out of the office.

After Landser had departed. Chief Long took out one of the cigars Claypoole  had
given him and lighted it. He puffed contentedly for a time, feet propped on  his
workstation.  Who  is  doing  what to  whom?  he  asked  himself. Alois  Landser
certainly held the key,  but Chief Long had  already figured most of  it out for
himself.


Over  the  next  few  days,  certain  individuals  in  Arschland  and  Morgemuft
mysteriously disappeared from their normal haunts, and wound up incommunicado in
a safe house  known only to  Commissioner Landser and  a few of  his most highly
trusted  subordinates. Only  then did  Landser take  Chief Long  folly into  his
confidence. Together, they decided it was time to approach Ambassador Spears and
Brigadier Sturgeon. Swift and very decisive action was required, and soon.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The headquarters  runner, whose  name Hing  never did  learn, led  the way to an
Arschmann Plantation  utility ground  car parked  a couple  of kilometers  away,
where they got  into the cargo  compartment. The driver,  who wore an  Arschmann
Plantation foreman's uniform, scowled at them and merely grunted when the runner
said,  "Take us  away." By  the time  the two  guerrillas had  changed into  the
civilian clothes  that were  waiting for  them, the  utility car  was on a paved
road,  speeding toward  a settlement  fifty kilometers  north of  the 257th  GSB
headquarters.

Hing didn't bother asking about the  driver's identity; he didn't need to  know,
and understood that  he wouldn't be  told. Which was  all right. He  had his own
group of informants who were  Arschmann employees. For the guerrillas,  that was
one of the benefits of working in Arschland. The oligarch was so uniformly hated
that many people willingly  helped the guerrillas, and  most of them refused  to
provide any  information or  assistance to  the Feldpolizei.  Arschland was  one
place where a guerrilla could move as a fish in a school of fish.

The driver stopped the car at  a monorail station. Hing wasn't certain,  because
the settlement was  outside his normal  operations area, but  he thought it  was
Ulbrichtsburg. For all the cleanliness of its streets, the town certainly was as
drab as its name  suggested. The few people  he saw walked fast  with their eyes
cast down, as  though in a  hurry to get  off the street  and not wanting  to be
seen. Their clothing seemed gray or brown,  as drab as the town itself. The  few
ground cars he saw were Arschmann Plantation vehicles.

The  runner paid  their fare  at the  station's gate  and they  mounted to   the
northbound platform to  wait. Only one  other person waited  with them, a  stout
grandmother type in a rumpled brown dress, with a gray sweater and a head  scarf
that had once been a bright blue. A large bag sat at her feet.

The wait was blessedly short; the ride wasn't.

Hing had plenty of time to wonder about the meaning of the peremptory summons to
Staat HQ.  He'd never  even heard  of a  brigade commander  getting a peremptory
summons. On  the rare  occasions that  a summons  was issued,  it was  done more
politely. Some lead time was always allowed, and generally some explanation  was
given.

Not this time, though. Hing racked his  brain, trying to think of whom he  might
have offended,  what he  might have  done wrong.  He could  think of  no one and
nothing. With the possible exception of Lieutenant Pincote's disastrous ambush a
few  days earlier.  And word  of that  could not  have reached  headquarters  so
quickly.

After a half hour  of futile mental exercise,  he gave up thinking  and tried to
enjoy the passing  scenery. But it  was hard to  appreciate its beauty  when the
scenery  passed at  150 kilometers  an hour.  Even the  occasional village   the
monorail  stopped in  was drab.  There were  no quaint  villages in   Arschland.
Oligarch  Arschmann  thought  quaintness  was  a  waste  of  valuable  resources
resources that could be put to better use increasing his wealth and power.

They got off the train in Mannerheim, a sparkling clean, middle-size city in the
style of an earlier era. In  the downtown area, where the monorail  station was,
most of the buildings were at least  five stories high, none more than ten.  The
architectural team that designed it favored plate glass and bronzed aluminum for
facings. The architects eschewed ornamentation. The overall effect was what  one
visiting critic described  as "the boxes  other buildings came  in." Needless to
say, that critic's visitor's visa was  not renewed and he was soon  ushered away
from Wanderjahr.

Hing and his guide left the station through a side exit to a street so narrow it
could have been an alley. The runner led the way along ill-traveled side streets
for three blocks until a  disreputable-looking utility car with faded  Arschmann
Plantation markings  slowed almost  to a  stop just  ahead of  them. The  runner
quickly opened the cargo door and almost bodily set Hing inside the cabin. A dim
light cast by a small dome light revealed a bench along each side of the  cabin.
Hing sat on one, and the runner took his place across from him. A crate  against
the front wall seemed to be the only cargo. The vehicle sped up.

"Now I  have to  blindfold you,  Commander," the  runner said  without a hint of
apology.

Hing lowered his head to make the runner's job easier.

Several turns  and many  stops and  speed-ups followed.  Eventually the  vehicle
stopped.

"This is where I leave you. Commander," the runner said.

The cargo  door opened  and there  were sounds  of one  man exiting  and another
boarding. The doors closed. The car started.

"I'll take you the rest of the way. Commander," a new voice said.

"Yes," Hing replied. There were  more turns, slows, stops, and  speed-ups before
the utility  car reached  what must  have been  a highway  leading away from the
city. Hing doubted there were any roadways in the city where a utility car could
go that fast without having to slow or stop.

Blindfolded as  he was,  and with  no conversation  with the  guide-whom he  now
thought of as a guard-to pass the time, Hing had no way of knowing how much time
passed before the utility car slowed to  a complete stop and the driver cut  the
power to  let it  whoosh down  on its  skirts. It  was at  least a half an hour,
possibly much longer.

"You  must  remain  blindfolded  until  after  we  get  inside,  Commander," the
guide/guard said.

The cargo door opened and hands helped Hing to get out. Wherever they were, Hing
felt bright sunlight on his face. The strong hands of the guides/guards  gripped
his upper arms to lead him  briskly across a slightly spongy surface.  Grass, he
thought. This was a place with a lawn of imported Earth grass. Part of his  mind
wondered what would happen if the grass was allowed to go to seed. Was it strong
enough  to germinate  on its  own? What  would be  the impact  on the  planetary
ecology if it spread? The more active  part of his mind wondered if the  summons
was a  trap, if  the oligarchs  had somehow  managed to  infiltrate the  Peoples
Liberation Army at the highest levels and the summons was a ruse to arrest  him.
There were few places on Wanderjahr where grass grew-and all of them were  fully
under the control of the oligarchs.

"Step   up,"   a   voice   on   his   right   said.   "There   are   five  steps
here.".Simultaneously, both hands  on his upper  arms lifted up,  almost pulling
him off his feet. He managed to fully recover his balance by the third step.

Hing was marched across a broad veranda  and through what must have been a  wide
doorway, since it didn't feel like either of his guides had to make room to  fit
through it. Then  the echoes of  their footsteps told  him they were  in a large
room with a polished wooden floor. A  few paces into the room the guides  turned
him to the right and guided him a few more paces before they stopped.

"When we let go of you. Commander," the voice on his right said, "go forward two
paces. When you hear the door close behind you, remove the blindfold."

The hands let go and he heard his guides step backward. Had they then drawn hand
weapons to bum him down if he made a wrong move? Hing stepped forward two  paces
as  they'd told  him to.  The door  closed behind  him with  a solid  chunk.  He
listened for a second but didn't hear  a lock being thrown, then reached up  and
removed the blindfold.

After so long without light, his  eyes watered. He blinked several times  at the
sudden brightness of the room. Almost immediately he squinted to see.

He was in a spacious formal dining room with a south-facing wall that was almost
completely windowed to allow  light to flood in.  Draperies could be closed  for
privacy on dim days or at night. As large as the room was, it was dominated by a
table that could easily seat more than twenty people and leave them elbow  room.
Most of the chairs around it were already occupied by men in civilian  clothing.
Hing recognized several of the seated men, most of them brigade commanders  like
he was. One,  rising from his  place at the  head of the  table, was a  somewhat
shorter than average, slender man.  Generalissimo Zot, overall commander of  the
PLA  in  Arschland. Hing  snapped  to attention  facing  him. The  Generalissimo
extended his hand as he briskly approached Hing.

"Commander Hing," Zot said as  he took Hing's hand. "So  good of you to come  on
such short notice. I'm sure you  will forgive me the cloak-and-dagger method  of
your travel, but you  understand the necessity of  keeping the location of  this
meeting place absolutely secret" With  the hand that wasn't gripping  Hing's, he
guided him toward an empty chair at the table. "Please, be seated. We should get
started very soon. There are only a  few more coming, and they will all  be here
momentarily."

Thoroughly  confused, Hing  mumbled his  greetings and  thanks as  he took   the
offered seat.  No one  other than  the Generalissimo  spoke. Unless  many of his
peers and his superior had changed sides and this was the most elaborate charade
he could imagine, he wasn't under arrest by the oligarchs. From the position  of
his seat, slightly more than halfway down one side of the table, neither did  it
appear that it was a court-martial with him in the docket.

Hing exchanged curt  nods with the  men he knew,  none of whom  even opened then
lips to say hello, then examined the table. There were twenty-two chairs at  it,
four of which were unoccupied. Each place was set with a coffee cup and  saucer,
a dessert plate,  a fork, a  spoon, and a  napkin. Unless he  was mistaken, they
were fine china, real silver, and  imported linen. Each place at the  table also
had a  small computer  console, stylus,  and keyboard.  Coffeepots and plates of
cakes were lined down the middle of  the table within easy reach of each  place.
The table itself was dark, deeply polished, and real wood-probably imported from
Earth. Hing marveled at the expense of the table and its settings.

"Please, Commander," Zot said, "help yourself to coffee and cake. The coffee  is
special, it's imported  from America Sud."  The Generalissimo grinned.  "America
Sud on Earth. The province of Colombia, I believe."

Hing nodded at Zot. "Thank you, sir.  That would be a very special treat."  Real
Colombian coffee? He'd heard of it, but  the only coffee he'd ever had was  from
locally grown beans, which he was  told was vastly inferior to Earth  coffee. He
glanced about.  Everyone seemed  to have  filled his  coffee cup.  None of  them
looked happy or even comfortable, but they all seemed to like the coffee.

Before he could reach for a pot,  the door opened behind him. He glanced  out of
the comer of his eye to see what the others on his side of the table were doing.
When they turned, he did the same.

A blindfolded man in tattered and filthy civilian clothing was stepping  through
the door. The door closed and  the man removed his blindfold. Generalissimo  Zot
was already on  his way to  greet the newcomer,  whom he addressed  as Commander
Tslotse. Zot guided the man to an empty seat. Tslotse looked as confused as Hing
felt.

No sooner had Hing poured himself a cup of coffee than the door opened again and
another confused and blindfolded field commander entered the room. Within  three
minutes all the chairs were occupied  by the Staat commander and his  twenty-one
brigade commanders. There were no  guards, no orderlies, and no  staff officers.
Hing thought this was very peculiar,  but it seemed to bode well-at  least there
were no trappings of  court-martial. Everyone sipped at  the coffee. It was  the
best Hing had ever had. Too bad his state of mind didn't allow him to enjoy  it,
he thought.

Generalissimo Zot looked benignly at each of his brigade commanders, then  said,
"In  case  you  haven't  yet  surmised,  gentlemen,  this  is  one  of  Oligarch
Arschmann's estates." He looked contentedly around the room and continued slowly
and softly, "When this meeting  is over, I think I  will take a VR recording  of
myself  sitting  here  and walking  around  the  room." He  looked  back  at his
officers. "And have that VR sent to Arschmann. He'll have a stroke when he  sees
me sitting in his  place in his own  dining room." He laughed.  Then he abruptly
turned serious, and angry.

"Four days ago  someone raided the  household of Oligarch  Gretel Siebensberg in
Friedland. The commander of the  raiding party identified himself as  Lieutenant
Xuyen Phong  of the  PLA. My  headquarters has  no record  of a Lieutenant Xuyen
Phong-or a person of any other rank  going by that name." Zot pounded a  fist on
the table. "I want to  know who he is!" He  took a deep breath to  calm himself,
then said, "Do any of you have anyone in your commands who goes by that name  or
has ever used it? Have you ever  even heard that name?" He looked intently  from
man to man.

The Che  Loi Brigade,  like most  such units  of the  PLA, had  fewer than three
hundred officers, staff,  and fighters. Hing  knew them all.  He looked at  Zot,
mouthed "Xuyen Phong,"  and shook his  head; it was  a strange name  to him. The
other commanders he could see were doing the same.

"Look at your consoles, gentlemen," Zot said in a calm but firm voice. "See  for
yourselves what  this 'Lieutenant  Xuyen Phong'  did." He  tapped a  key on  his
keyboard.

Hing  looked  at the  console.  A moving  flatvid  image appeared.  The  vid was
recorded by a walking man who angled his camera downward. Occasionally the angle
shot upward for a few seconds, but mostly it was down. The image was of bloodied
bodies hacked to pieces. The upward shots showed the scene was in a courtyard. A
burned corpse dangled from a scorched tree. The cameraman went through a doorway
and panned the room beyond, a  chapel. Blood stained the front pews.  A headless
corpse lay in a pool of blood  before the altar. Another body with blood  on his
shirt, but no evident wounds, was sprawled across a front pew. The image  bunked
out.

"That is what this  Lieutenant Xuyen Phong and  his men did," Generalissimo  Zot
said. "The husk in the tree? That was identified by witnesses to the atrocity as
Gretel Siebensberg. You don't need to know how we got that vid. Nor do you  need
to know how I came into possession of this." He nipped a small, red-covered book
to the brigade commander  on his right. The  brigade commander picked the  small
book  up and  quickly nipped  through its  pages. He  gave Generalissimo  Zot  a
puzzled look, and passed the book on when Zot indicated he should.

It took a couple of minutes for the book to reach Hing. He bunked at the crudely
printed title: The Beliefs of the People's Liberation Army; as taught by  Marks,
Limn, Mao, and Guevera. He opened the book at random to three pages and  quickly
read brief quotes from it He passed it on.

"According to Xuyen Phong,"  Zot said when the  book was returned to  him, "this
book is our bible." He raised his eyebrows at the book. "How curious they didn't
bother to spell the names in the title properly. And where would anyone get  the
idea we're  reincarnated Communists?"  He looked  back to  the assembled brigade
commanders. "I need to know what any of you know about the book or the  atrocity
committed on Friedland." He tapped another  key on his keyboard and watched  his
console as the brigade commanders all protested innocence and ignorance. After a
moment he cut them off and stood.

"Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "you have my apologies for the way you have  been
treated today. The coffee was treated with ... Never mind precisely what it  was
treated with.  An inhibitor  that made  it difficult  for you  to lie. There are
sensors throughout the room. The sensors agree that you are telling the  truth."
He sighed and sat back down.

"This thing  that happened,"  he waved  his hand  weakly at  the console,  "is a
severe blow to us. Many people throughout Wanderjahr believe we are  responsible
for that.  They don't  stop to  think that  we have  no reason  to murder Gretel
Siebensberg. Or that we have no activity in Friedland.

"As you probably know, this is the second incident of an attack on an oligarch's
household since  the Confederation  Marines arrived.  Two weeks  ago Morgenluft,
Oligarch Keut-gens's  home, was  attacked. That  time some  Marines were  on the
scene and defeated the attackers. Our sources in Stadt-polizei HQ in Brosigville
tell us the  investigators are not  convinced we were  behind it. Interestingly,
Morgenluft is also a Staat where we have no activity. Neither of these raids was
authorized by  PLA high  command. So  every Staat  generalissimo was  ordered to
assemble his brigade commanders  to find out if  any of them has  been operating
beyond  his  jurisdiction."  He  smiled  wanly.  "Before  we  were  charged with
investigating our brigade  commanders, PLA command  subjected us to  exactly the
same interrogation you have just been through."

Zot rose again. "Gentlemen,  enjoy your coffee and  cake." He held up  a hand to
forestall any protest.  "I will have  fresh coffee brought  in that hasn't  been
treated."  He  smiled.  "Later, in  the  same  order you  arrived,  you  will be
blindfolded  and  escorted away.  While  you know  this  is one  of  Arschmann's
estates, you do not  need to know which  one." He bowed slightly,  then left the
room.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The planning for the raid on Multan's fortress home proceeded under the cloak of
absolute secrecy. The only Wander-jahrian officer included in the  deliberations
was Commissioner Landser  himself. Besides Chief  Long, the only  other civilian
participant was Ambassador Spears. Landser  would issue the necessary orders  to
the Stadtpolizei officers selected to participate, and only after the contingent
was on board the Denver in orbit  would they be informed where they were  going;
the twenty-five policemen  required for the  assault would not  even be notified
they had been picked for the mission until an hour before departure. Aside  from
the brigadier's  immediate planning  staff, only  the commander  of the security
party  was  privy  to the  attack  plan.  Of course,  as  Chief  Long's military
assistants, Dean and Claypoole were included.

For security, training for the assault would take place on the Denver.  Although
he hadn't been able  to track them down,  Commissioner Landser was certain  that
Multan  had  agents  on  his  force. Spies  and  informants  at  every  level of
government in Arschland  were essential to  a man like  Multan, who depended  on
intelligence of all sorts to carry out his vast criminal enterprises.

Multan's headquarters was located in the small Staat of Porcina in  Wanderjahr's
temperate zone, about ten thousand kilometers east of Arschland, on the opposite
shores of the Adier Ocean. The installation from which he ruled his  domains-the
Eagle's Nest-was situated in rugged mountains fifty kilometers from Thigpen, his
capital city, population 75,000.  Multan was known to  have a security force  of
two thousand well-equipped men who kept order among the inhabitants in Porcina.

Due to the remoteness of their country from the other Staats, and Multan's  iron
handed but  very effective  rule, there  had never  been any  disorder among his
people. His security  force did not  hesitate to exercise  brutal authority over
the citizens of  Porcina. In one  infamous incident, they  cleared traffic on  a
narrow bridge simply by pitching the stalled vehicle into the river below.  They
would have shot the driver and pitched him over too, except he was connected  to
one of Multan's  enterprises. The man's  sister, niece, and  brother-in-law rode
the stalled vehicle into the river. No protest of any kind was ever registered.

Multan's personal bodyguard consisted of over a hundred handpicked  mercenaries,
and the Marines knew they were armed  with at least a few plasma weapons.  Since
the raid  on his  smuggling operation  in Brosigville,  he had  refused to leave
Porcina even for Council meetings,  temporarily putting himself out of  reach of
any authority. Or so he thought.


"Gentlemen," Brigadier  Sturgeon began  the initial  planning meeting, "bringing
Multan in is our number one priority just now. We know he has plasma weapons  in
contravention of Confederation laws, and for that reason alone he must be  dealt
with. But we have  intelligence," he nodded at  Chief Long, "that he  is selling
arms and equipment  to the guerrillas.  We don't know  just yet if  any of these
sales have  included the  latest weapons  available on  the black  market, but I
cannot wait to find out. I cannot allow the lives of my men to be jeopardized by
Multan. He must be taken out. Quickly.  We are going to mount a surprise  attack
on his  headquarters and  capture him  or kill  him. I  don't particularly  care
which."

Brigadier  Sturgeon paused.  "Finally, I  have no  choice. I  have been  ordered
directly  by  the  Confederation  Council  to  arrest  Multan.  As  the   senior
Confederation official in this  sector, I must enforce  its laws. The order  was
endorsed by  Fleet and  confirmed to  Ambassador Spears  by a communique through
diplomatic channels."

"How are we  going to be  sure Multan's there  when we bust  in on him?" Colonel
Ramadan, the FIST'S executive officer, asked.

"Very simple," Ambassador Spears said.  "Brigadier Sturgeon and I will  be there
in a meeting with  the man himself." A  low murmur of surprise  circulated among
the men in the briefing room.

"That will be very unwise, Mr. Ambassador," Commissioner Landser said.

"Sir," Colonel Ramadan protested to  Brigadier Sturgeon, "he's right. You  can't
afford to  put yourself  and the  ambassador in  such a  dangerous position. The
bastard'il take you hostage if he doesn't kill you outright."

"Relax, Colonel," the brigadier replied, straightening up and leaning forward on
the table. "I'll have my two favorite lance corporals with me for security."  He
grinned at Dean and Clay-poole, sitting quietly along the wall of the conference
room. Dean's stomach plunged crazily down  to his toes at the announcement,  and
Claypoole's face went white, but neither said anything. "I'm taking you two with
me," he  addressed the  pair, "because  Multan will  expect it.  This must  look
entirely like a nonthreatening  visit to an oligarch's  domains. As a result  of
your  accompanying  me   to  Morgenluft,  Friedland,   and  other  places,   the
Wanderjahrians see you  as my bodyguard.  And since you're  both seen constantly
traveling between here and police headquarters, people here think you two are  a
lot more than mere lance corporals on the staff.

"Oh, by the way, report to the FIST surgeon right after this meeting. I want  to
be sure  you two  are in  tip-top shape  for this  visit." The  brigadier smiled
cryptically.

Colonel Ramadan, who had not recovered from the announcement that the  brigadier
was offering  himself as  a decoy,  spluttered, searching  for words. Chief Long
drummed his fingers nervously  on the tabletop while  the other officers in  the
room glanced apprehensively  at each other.  There was an  uncomfortable silence
that seemed to last a long time.

"Well, we've got to be sure he's there," Ambassador Spears said, gesturing  with
open hands. Nobody responded.

"I decided," the brigadier said, laughing,  "to lure him with the most  reliable
and at the  same time the  most expendable members  of my command."  There was a
slight pause before the other  officers responded with nervous chuckles.  "There
is no other way," he continued. "If we don't bag the bastard first time out,  we
won't get him at all. He'll retreat into the mountains over there and then we'll
have to give up. We don't have the time or the resources to track him in his own
land. I have my hands full with training the Peldpolizei, and if we fail in this
and the Confederation still orders me  to divert men and resources to  capturing
this guy,  the guerrillas  will kick  our asses.  This is  definitely a one-time
shot, gentlemen."

"We can't get him  to Brosigville," Ambassador Spears  added. "He thinks he  can
sit us out in  Porcina, and he's probably  right. But he feels  safe there right
now, so secure he's agreed to meet with the brigadier and me. I have led him  to
believe we can work out a deal  on the weapons charge. That deal will  be, 'Come
along quietly or we'll fry you.' " Ambassador Spears grinned. It was evident  he
considered the upcoming raid an  exciting diversion. Colonel Ramadan just  shook
his head.

"Gentlemen, we meet  with Multan day  after tomorrow," the  brigadier concluded.
"Let's  get  with it.  We'll  meet here  again  tomorrow and  approve  the final
details. Dean, Claypoole, report to the FIST surgeon after we break up here."


After the  staff bustled  out, leaving  the two  enlisted men  sitting forlornly
against one wall, Claypoole turned to Dean. "Whew!" he exclaimed. "We're in  the
shit now, Dean-o!" Dean gave a lopsided grin.

"Why the hell does  the brigadier want us  to report to the  surgeon?" Claypoole
asked.

"Testosterone shots?"

"Yeah, like you  really need a  dose," Claypoole replied.  He was pensive  for a
moment, staring at the wall. "Dean-o," he said at last, "this Multan guy, if  he
does get  us, you  know what's  gonna happen,  don't you?"  Claypoole could  not
forget what the Siad had done to McNeal on their last deployment. Neither  could
Dean.

"Yeah, the ugly bastard's gonna have a real fight on his hands."


The attack  plan was  very simple.  Fifty men  would compose  the assault  team,
twenty-five Marines-Team One-from the  security force provided by  the Denver's,
captain,  and  an  equal  number  of  policemen-Team  Two-from  the  Brosigville
Stadtpolizei.  The police  officers would  back up  the Marines  by securing   a
perimeter around  Multan's fortress  while Team  One fought  and blasted its way
inside. While the  odds would be  two-to-one at best,  more like four-to-one  in
reality, the assault party would  have the advantage of surprise  and firepower.
They would  also have  the laser  batteries of  the Denver  if needed,  and four
Dragons on the  ground. Everyone would  have preferred a  battalion-size landing
force,  but  an  under-strength  Marine provisional  platoon  was  all  that was
available. The  assault teams  would be  launched from  orbit upon  receipt of a
signal from Brigadier Sturgeon.

Since Multan's living quarters were  underground, one minute before the  assault
force was  scheduled to  land, the  Denver's, batteries  would sweep the surface
clear around the  entrance shafts, eliminate  any resistance, and  even the odds
for the landing force. Once on the ground, while the Marines breached the shafts
and entered  Multan's quarters  ten meters  below the  surface, the police would
secure the  area. The  quarters were  reached by  stairwells and  elevators. One
element of Team One, specially trained  in the use of explosives and  rap-peling
techniques, would  enter through  the elevator  shafts. The  rest of the assault
force would use the  stairwells, fighting its way  down if necessary. These  men
would  use  special  stun  weapons,  to  reduce  the  threat  of  reflected heat
radiation, although all carried plasma weapons, to use if needed.

As an added  precaution, the brigadier.  Ambassador Spears, Dean,  and Claypoole
would each have a microtransmitter  surgically implanted just under the  skin of
each man's right buttock, so the assault force could locate them once they  were
inside Multan's fortress-which the latter  two discovered when they reported  to
the surgeon.

It took some  convincing, but ultimately  Commissioner Landser was  permitted to
accompany his men on the assault.  Landser understood that he and his  men would
be subordinate to the orders of the Marine officer in charge of the operation, a
captain  named d'C  Merrit Thomas,  III. As  he sat  in field  uniform with  his
officers  during the  briefings and  rehearsals on  board the  Denver, the  once
resplendent commissioner of Brosigville's police force looked like nothing  more
than a diminutive  policeman wearing a  uniform a bit  too big for  him. But his
eyes glittered with excitement. He even deigned to chat with his subordinates.

Since the  policemen had  never been  on an  orbital assault  in an  Essay, this
procedure was covered thoroughly, but the  coxswain in charge of the craft  they
would occupy was prepared for quite a mess. "It'll be the longest twenty minutes
in your  lives," he  warned the  policemen. He  smiled. Marines  were no  fun on
landings since  they were  used to  assaults from  orbit, but  the coxswain  was
counting on quite a few laughs from this group.

Satellite and RPV reconnaissance  plus agent reports- Commissioner  Landser, not
to be outdone by a  mere criminal, had had a  man in Multan's security for  some
time-gave  Captain Thomas  a very  complete picture  of their  target. When  the
signal  from  Brigadier  Sturgeon  was  received,  the  assault  party  would be
launched.  The party  would be  combat loaded,  in Dragons,  already aboard  the
Essays one hour before the brigadier landed at Thigpen.


"I was in  a situation like  this once before,"  Brigadier Sturgeon was  saying.
"Forty years ago. I was an ensign with the 4th Fleet Marine Landing Force during
one of the Silvasian wars, I forget  just which one now." They were lounging  in
the passenger compartment of a hopper as it prepared for subor-bital descent  to
Thigpen. The tension  was very high  among the four  men, and the  brigadier was
trying to relax them  by telling stories. This  one ended with the  young ensign
commanding a platoon surrounded by a  vastly superior enemy force, out of  touch
with his company, and completely on  his own. "They demanded our surrender,"  he
said at last.

"What did you do?" Ambassador Spears asked.

The brigadier shrugged. "We surrendered."

There was a moment of silence. That  did not sound like anything a Marine,  even
an ensign, would do. "And then what, sir?" Dean asked.

"They killed us."

Claypoole laughed so hard he  choked. Dean started laughing too,  and Ambassador
Spears cracked a smile. The brigadier leaned back and stretched his legs.

"Well," Ambassador Spears said, getting back  to the matter at hand, "this  is a
lot like attacking under a white flag. It is not what diplomatic protocol  would
require." He shrugged. "Fuck protocol."

"Sir," Dean asked the ambassador, "were you ever a Marine?"

"No, Lance Corporal Dean, I never had that honor. But I learned how to shine  my
shoes in the  army, many, many  years ago. I  was a clerk  in the 347th Engineer
Battalion during  that same  campaign where  the brigadier  was killed.  We were
attached to the 3rd Infantry Division in the assault on Mansara during the Third
Silvasian War. The 3rd went up  the Mansara-Cremonea Road, and the Marines  went
up the Mansara-Ilyong Road. The Marines  beat us into Mansara by a  full fifteen
minutes. We never got over it."

"We kicked some ass," the brigadier said.

"Yes, we did, Ted, we certainly did."

Listening to the  old veterans reminisce,  Claypoole began to  feel much better.
Their nonchalance about  what was going  to happen was  infectious. He knew  the
brigadier would bring this thing off. Brigadier Sturgeon winked  surreptitiously
at Ambassador Spears, who, despite his outward air of confidence, was nauseous.

"Strap yourselves in, gentlemen," the pilot announced over the intercom, "we are
about to land."

"You men leave all the talking to the ambassador and me," the brigadier said. "I
want you  two to  remain alert.  Let me  remind you  again, the  signal for  the
landing is X-ray, and whoever transmits it will launch the assault party. Any of
you can do it. If anything  happens, shoot first." Dean and Claypoole  wore side
arms, but no one else in the party was armed. The brigadier did not add that  if
they had-to shoot, it would be all  over for them in a few seconds.  The success
of the operation  depended on overwhelming  surprise, not two  enlisted men with
side arms.

A grim  and heavily  armed escort  met the  party at  the port.  The officer  in
charge, a  burly, unshaven  man festooned  with weapons,  grunted, "I am Captain
Ramses," as he showed them to a waiting landcar.

The ride into the hills, surrounded by Multan's men, all of whom smelled heavily
of thule and old sweat, took  twenty minutes. Multan's fortress home could  only
be approached by  one narrow, winding  road blasted out  of the sheer  face of a
mountainside soaring three  hundred meters above  the plain that  stretched from
Thigpen to the foothills. Guard posts  were situated at intervals all along  the
road. The men at these posts were alert and well-armed.

Multan's home had been sunk into the living rock on the plateau above the plain.
The buildings on  the surface housed  his security forces  in bunkers with  very
thick, reinforced walls.  Surveillance devices and  roving foot patrols  covered
every  square  meter  within  a kilometer  of  the  entrance  shaft to  Multan's
quarters. Multan  had not  clawed his  way to  a seat  on the  Ruling Council by
taking chances, but now  that he was a  wanted man, his obsession  with personal
security had intensified.  That he had  permitted the visit  indicated, however,
that he felt secure in his fortress.                                .

The four visitors stood  silently as the elevator  slowly sank into the  ground.
Captain Ramses  stood with  his back  to them  so he  would be  the first  to go
through the  doors when  they opened.  Dean marveled  at the  back of  the man's
closely shaved  head, which  was crisscrossed  by a  network of  tiny scars  and
indentations that looked like old fragment wounds. His right ear was missing its
lobe; the lobe in the other sported a huge diamond that sparkled as he moved his
head.

The  elevator stopped  and the  doors hissed  open. Ramses  wheeled about   with
lightning speed  and buried  a fist  in Clay-poole's  solar plexus. As Claypoole
doubled over, Ramses  slammed his elbow  into the side  of Dean's head.  A dozen
armed men rushed in and seized the  party. It happened so quickly, all four  men
were taken completely by surprise. Dean and Claypoole were immediately  disarmed
and the four were deprived of their wrist communicators. Under heavy guard, they
were marched down  a corridor and  shoved into a  large paneled room.  The doors
were slammed shut behind them and locked.

"Violation of diplomatic protocol for sure," Ambassador Spears gasped, trying to
get his breath back. Brigadier Sturgeon put a finger to his lips. "Goddamnit,  I
shall protest this treatment most strongly," Ambassador Spears said in a  louder
voice.

"You do that," the brigadier said. "You okay?" he asked Claypoole, who was still
trying to catch his breath.

Dean wiped at  a thin stream  of blood dripping  down the side  of his head. His
vision had cleared by now. "Was I out there for a while, sir?"

The brigadier  nodded. "Multan's  boys bad  to drag  you down  the hallway."  He
looked around the room, obviously used for conferences or receptions.

A door  opened at  one end  of the  room and  Multan stepped through followed by
Captain Ramses. "Gentlemen," Multan said, "you thought you could fool me."

"Sir, I must protest this-this most unlawful treatment," Ambassador Spears said.

Multan made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "You thought you could trap  me,
didn't you?" It was a statement more than a question.

"Yes," Brigadier Sturgeon answered. "My two Marines and I came here to take  you
prisoner and escort  you to the  Denver to hold  you there for  trial. So let me
inform you now, sir, that in accordance  with the authority vested in me by  the
Confederation of Worlds, you are under arrest and my prisoner."

Multan's mouth dropped open in  surprise and then he laughed  derisively. "Well,
do it, then!" He laughed again and held out his wrists for the handcuffs.

Captain  Ramses  stepped forward,  drawing  a long-bladed  knife.  "X-ray!" Dean
shouted, hoping the microtransmitter embedded beneath his skin would pick up the
command.

"Kill them!" Multan shouted.

Claypoole snatched a small black object from a holster strapped to the inside of
his left  leg and  pointed it  at Ramses,  who stopped  in midstride and grinned
before leaping forward. There  was a sharp crack.  A small hole appeared  in the
middle of Ramses's forehead. With a look of surprise, he crumpled to the  floor.
A tiny  wisp of  smoke rose  above the  barrel of  Claypoole's small .32 caliber
automatic. A  tiny brass  cartridge spun  brightly on  the floor.  "Teach you to
sucker-punch me, motherfucker."

"Hands over  your head  and on  your knees!"  Dean shouted  at Multan. A .32 was
almost hidden in his hand. Multan sank to his knees. "You are insane. Brigadier,
to think this ... this kidnapping will work."

Dean stepped behind  Multan and pointed  his gun at  the back of  the oligarch's
head. "Now lay  flat and spread  your legs. Come  on, come on!"  Multan complied
reluctantly. "Spread your arms out, palms  up! Turn your head to the  left! Stay
perfectly still or I'll kill you!" He frisked Multan, removing two pistols  from
him. He tossed them to the brigadier and Ambassador Spears. The door behind  him
opened and a  man stepped through.  Claypoole shot him  twice m the  head and he
fell back into the corridor outside.

"What the hell?" Brigadier Sturgeon exclaimed, staring at Claypoole.

The room shook violently as the Denver's bombardment commenced. It lasted thirty
seconds. Men shouted and ran through the corridors outside the room.

"How  do  you work  this  thing?" Ambassador  Spears  asked, rumbling  with  the
unfamiliar mechanism  of the  pistol Dean  had taken  from Multan. It discharged
suddenly with a bright flash and a deafening concussion. The slug plowed a  deep
furrow in the large conference table at the opposite end of the room.

"That's how," the  brigadier answered dryly.  "Where did you  get those weapons,
Claypoole?"

"Officer Lanning of the Brosigville Stadtpolizei  gave 'em to us, sir," he  said
without taking his eyes off  the doorway behind Dean. "They're  reproductions of
antique projectile weapons. The  Brosigville cops call them  a POS and they  all
carry them. Chief Long had the cops  teach us how to take down suspects  and all
that stuff, sir. Good idea, huh?"

"What's POS stand for?" Ambassador Spears asked.

Claypoole  hesitated briefly  before replying.  " 'Positive,'  sir. They're  .32
caliber Positives."

A door behind burst  open and several men  charged through. The room  erupted in
gunfire.


Thirty seconds into the assault, as his stomach matched the terrific rate of the
Essay's descent, the policeman  next to Commissioner Landser  vomited profusely.
The  undulating  mess  hung  weightlessly  in the  air  in  front  of  his face.
Commissioner  Landser  hardly noticed  what  had happened,  as  his own  stomach
emptied itself. Men  screamed in terror  as the Essay  plunged into Wanderjahr's
upper atmosphere. They had been warned what to expect, but the actual experience
was overpowering.

"Gentlemen," the coxswain announced calmly, "thirty seconds to landing."

"Listen up," the commander of the  Dragon they were strapped into said  over the
net, "we'll hit with a bang. I'll drive us outside. When the ramp goes down, you
perform a combat dismount just as you  did in the mock-up. You know what  to do.
We'll give you cover. Good luck."

As the Essay descended deeper into Wanderjahr's field of gravity, the vomit that
had  been  suspended in  the  air showered  down  on men  fastened  into assault
modules. Those who had not thrown up  in the initial seconds of the descent  did
now.

Landser  gasped for  breath. "Listen  to me!"  he croaked  into his  mouthpiece.
"Check your equipment!" That was all he  could manage to say. It was all  he had
to say.

The  Essay  slammed to  earth.  The Dragon  roared  out onto  the  plateau, then
screeched to a halt. Its ramp slammed  down and a thick cloud of dust  enveloped
the policemen as they rushed out  in four six-man groups. They had  been divided
into four parties-Adam, Baker, Charlie, Donald-linked to each other by radio and
hooked into the Denver's communications  system so the commander of  the assault
team could maintain contact with Landser. Each party was to establish and hold a
segment of the perimeter around Multan's fortress until the operation was clear.

Fires burned everywhere and smoke and ash filled the air outside the Dragon. The
remains of the outbuildings and vehicles were smoldering heaps of slag and  ash.
The entire area above Multan's underground headquarters looked as if it had just
been scoured by a huge blowtorch.

Landser was the first out of the Dragon. "Two Actual. Deploying." Landser  spoke
into the mouthpiece of his helmet as he ran into the swirling cloud of smoke.

"Roger, Team Two is deploying,"  the communications officer on the  Denver said,
acknowledging  the  transmission. Team  One,  the assault  element,  had already
blasted its way into the elevator shaft and the stairwells.

Landser felt panic as  he looked around. He  couldn't see anything! He  couldn't
tell which direction was which from where  he was standing. So he sent his  four
team leaders  in what  he guessed  were the  four comers  of a  compass as  they
dismounted,  hoping  once  they were  clear  of  the fires,  they  could  see to
establish their sectors  of the perimeter.  He moved forward  as best he  could,
talking all the while to his shift leaders. That calmed him down. Abruptly,  the
visibility cleared. His teams had emerged from the smoke intact and were setting
up defensive positions. The commanders of  the two Dragons that had landed  with
the assault party checked into Landser's net. Now he had four of the monsters if
he needed fire support.

"Team Two Actual,  all secure," Landser  reported. He was  actually beginning to
like this military stuff, he admitted to himself.

The radio inside his helmet crackled.  "Heads up!" one of the Dragon  commanders
shouted. "We have bandits, I say again, we have bandits!"

From his vantage  point ten feet  above the ground,  now that a  rising wind had
blown the smoke away, Landser could  see a large cloud of dust  approaching from
the northwest.

"Team Two, they are too close  for us to engage," the communications  officer on
the Denver announced. "Team One, how are you doing?"

"Team One Actual," Captain Thomas  replied, his breath coming in  labored gasps.
"Meeting heavy resistance. Inside not secure! I say again, not secure. Hold them
off."

"Team Two, did you copy that transmission?"

"Yes," Landser  replied, forgetting  proper communications  procedure. "We  will
engage them and hold them."

The Dragon commander  who had spotted  the approaching relief  party focused his
opticals more clearly.  Several dozen vehicles  were roaring toward  him at high
speed. Each was crowded with armed men. "Gunner, engage at one thousand meters,"
he said into his mouthpiece.

"Roger that. How about the ones coming up from the southeast?"


Ambassador Spears spun about at the noise behind him and pointed the  unfamiliar
weapon at the men coming through the door. The first man took the bullet in  his
chest and staggered back into the second man. Spears, reverting to his  long-ago
firearms  training as  an army  recruit, took  a boxer  stance, leaned  slightly
forward, and, holding the unfamiliar  pistol with both hands, extended  at arm's
length before him, commenced firing into the men in the doorway. Wood,  masonry,
and pieces of  human flesh sprayed  about the entrance  as the ambassador  fired
again and again. When no more men  tried to push their way through the  doorway,
he stopped  shooting. Footsteps  could be  heard pounding  off down the corridor
outside as survivors fled.

The brigadier looked at Ambassador Spears with new respect. "I never had to fire
a shot!" he exclaimed.

Spears stood rooted to the spot,  his pistol still pointing at the  doorway, now
blocked by three bodies. Slowly, he lowered  it. "Now I need someone to show  me
how you reload this goddamned thing," he said.

Shooting and screaming could be heard from every direction as the assault  teams
fought their way into the complex.

"Well?" the brigadier said to Multan, who was still spread-eagled on the  floor.
Dean's pistol leveled at the back of his head. "Do you believe me now?  Normally
I'd give you  time to pack  a bag, but  we're in a  hurry to get  you to a  safe
place. All this shooting going on down here, somebody could get hurt."

"Brigadier! Captain Thomas here. Don't shoot. We're coming in." The commander of
the assault force and several Marines stepped cautiously through the door behind
Dean. He lowered his pistol. The captain glanced at Multan and gestured for  the
Marines to secure their prisoner. "We took some casualties getting in here, sir,
and there's a rescue attempt being mounted topside from at least two  directions
by Multan's men. Let's secure this bastard, get topside, and get extracted."

"You're in  charge. Captain,"  the brigadier  said. They  followed him  into the
corridor.


At a  thousand meters  the Dragons  engaged the  approaching rescue  forces with
their main guns. Landser ordered his men  to take cover and open fire only  when
they were sure of good targets. They carried only their side arms and Brady shot
rifles. The rifles had an effective range of about three hundred meters, so  the
approaching men were  way out of  range. But the  Dragons' main guns  hissed and
cracked and sent streams of plasma bolts plunging into the approaching vehicles.
Many slagged and instantly  went out of control,  but others took sharp  evasive
action and came on.

"Adam Two," the leader  of the party in  the southeast quadrant reported,  "they
are splitting up into multiple targets. We are engaging."

"Donald Two, same here. I estimate forty vehicles now within range."

"This is Landser," he told his officers, "hold your positions! You must hold on.
Baker, Charlie, support Adam and Donald. Dragons, can you give us fire?"

"Roger that," all four Dragon commanders replied.

"Team One," Landser shouted. "We are under heavy attack up here. Are you  secure
down there yet?"

"Team One Actual. All secure. On the way up."

Landser breathed a  sigh of relief  that was cut  short by a  gasp as the  first
incoming rounds  from the  attackers began  to impact  within the perimeter. All
around him the Dragons'  main guns hissed and  cracked while the weapons  of his
own men banged  away. The attackers  had gone to  ground in natural  depressions
about two  hundred meters  out and  were now  taking the  perimeter under  heavy
small-arms fire,  despite accurate  marksmanship from  the Dragons. Fortunately,
Multan's men did not have  armor-piercing weapons, and Landser's men  were using
explosive  shot  shells  to  good  effect,  lobbing  them  accurately  into  the
attackers' positions.

"Essays," Landser said  into his mouthpiece,  "prepare for extraction."  Without
realizing it, Landser had taken charge of operations on the surface.

Hunched over  and running  quickly. Team  One came  running out  of the  shafts,
carrying its casualties. They began to load into the waiting Dragons.

Captain Thomas ran to where Landser crouched beside the slag heap from where  he
controlled the perimeter. "We got  the bastard!" he shouted into  Landser's ear.
"Do you need help here?"

"No," Landser shouted back. "We are  holding them. When you are secure,  we will
begin extraction." Thomas nodded and ran to the nearest Dragon, which raised its
ramp and roared  into a waiting  Essay. On board  the Denver they  had practiced
extraction under fire. All Landser could remember of the procedure now was  that
he was to go aboard last. One of the Essays took off with an earsplitting roar.

"Team Two, we are  ready to commence loading,"  the coxswain of Landser's  Essay
announced over the net. Landser's Dragon began laying down heavy continuous fire
on the enemy positions, despite the welcome fact that the incoming had slackened
considerably.

Landser ran for the Dragon and stood on its ramp. "Adam, Donald, withdraw to the
Essays. Baker, Charlie, cover them."  The first two parties clambered  aboard as
Landser counted them. "Baker, Charlie, go!" He counted another twelve men,  some
of  them wounded.  "Shift leaders,  are all  your men  accounted for?"   Several
seconds elapsed before they responded in the affirmative. Only then did  Landser
strap himself in and tell the  Dragon commander all was clear for  take-off. The
Dragon lurched into  the Essay's loading  bay. On an  adrenaline high, he  never
noticed the g forces tugging at him as the Essay roared into orbit.


As the Essays shut down in the Denver's docking bays and discharged the  assault
teams,  crewmen swarmed  everywhere, helping  the wounded  to the  sick bay  and
welcoming the men back. Five men had been killed and eight wounded in Team  One;
seven of Landser's policemen  had been wounded. Best  of all, Multan was  in the
Denver's brig.

Landser  found himself  standing together  with Brigadier  Sturgeon,  Ambassador
Spears, the  Denver's captain,  and Dean  and Claypoole.  Landser's uniform  was
ripped in  several places  and his  face and  hands were  covered with  dirt and
scratches. Through  the dirt,  little streams  of perspiration  coursed down the
policeman's cheeks. "Commissioner, you look like a combat Marine just now,"  the
brigadier said.

Landser came to  attention, clicked his  heels, and bowed.  "Brigadier, I accept
that compliment with gratitude," he said.

The brigadier  laughed and  clapped Landser  on the  shoulder. "Damn fine combat
leadership-for a cop," he said.

Landser turned to Dean. "Lance Corporal, when your headquarters was bombed,  you
went into the street to help people. Do you recall assisting one of my  officers
with a gravely' wounded victim?"

"Yes, sir," Dean  answered. This was  the first time  Landser had ever  spoken a
word directly to him.

"Well, that man was my brother, and I have never thanked you for trying to  help
him." Dean was so  surprised he could not  answer. Landser turned to  Claypoole.
"Lance  Corporal, you  are indeed  a brave  man." Landser  bowed in  Claypoole's
direction. "Should either of you men ever quit the Marines, I will gladly  offer
you commissions on my force."

The small group was silent for a moment, surprised and pleased by this  outburst
of honest compliments from a man like Landser.

"Well," the brigadier said, finally breaking  the silence, "we fried a big  fish
today, a very big fish."

"Yes, Brigadier," Landser responded. "But  now we return to Arschland,  and when
we get there, I trust that you will all assist Chief Long and me in frying  some
more of these 'big' fishes, some very, very big fishes."


Years later,  visitors to  Landser's office  were curious  to see  a certificate
framed  and  hanging conspicuously  on  a wall.  It  was the  warrant  Brigadier
Sturgeon had given him  after the attack on  Multan, appointing him an  honorary
lance corporal, in the Confederation Marine Corps.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Life  had been  hectic in  the FIST   F-2 section  from the  very day  Dean  and
Claypoole arrived as Commander Peters's  assistants, but things got even  busier
once Chief  Long agreed  to take  over the  intelligence functions for Brigadier
Sturgeon.

First there were the constant staff meetings at FIST HQ. Usually, Chief Long  or
Lieutenant Constantine conducted the  intelligence briefings, but both  Dean and
Claypoole were required to be present,  sometimes after staying up all night  to
prepare the computer graphics needed for the next day.

Then Claypoole was assigned to establish a computer link between the Denver, the
Brosigville city police, the Feldpolizei headquarters, and the FIST F-3 section,
so  information  could be  readily  exchanged. This  required  many face-to-face
meetings with his counterparts in all three places.

Dean, meanwhile, was kept  fully occupied screening agent  reports, after-action
reports, and spot  reports from Marines  in the field  for information on  enemy
battle tactics  and other  activities. He  also checked  newspaper and  magazine
articles and television  reports, gleaning what  information could be  had about
guerrilla  activities  in  the  Staats  where  they  were  active.  All  of this
information  went into  the Enemy  Order of  Battle database  that tracked   the
movements, strengths,  weapons capabilities,  and, hopefully,  intentions of the
guerrilla units. This was made especially difficult because the PLA high command
occasionally  changed  unit  designations  and  the  individual  brigades   were
constantly on the move from one operational area to another.

Dean also spent much effort compiling detailed dossiers on the known PLA leaders
and sympathizers, which included  not only biographical details  but information
on their personal habits, friends, associates, anything that would be useful  to
understanding how  the minds  of the  PLA command  worked. The  most secret work
involved  organizing an  agent database.  Both the  field and  city police  were
reluctant to share that kind of information outside their own organizations, and
Chief Long suspected what they did share did not reflect all the people on their
informant payrolls. But what Long was able to glean, had it become known to  the
PLA,  would  have  spelled  death for  dozens  of  Wanderjahrian  informants and
seriously damaged his intelligence-gathering capability.

"From now on,"  Chief Long warned  both Marines, "be  very careful where  you go
when  off duty,  because if  you ever  fall into  PLA hands,  they'll pry   this
information out of you, and you'd better count on it that they know what  you're
doing up here."  Dean resolved that  on the rare  occasions when he  was able to
visit Hway, he'd be very careful.

Daily and weekly  intelligence summaries had  to be prepared  for circulation to
the field and among the three headquarters groups, and Chief Long delegated  the
job to his two Marines. hi addition. Brigadier Sturgeon and Chief Long regularly
briefed the oligarchs when they were in session. Dean and Claypoole  accompanied
them to  Chairman Arschmann's  villa on  those trips,  although they  were never
invited inside to participate in the actual briefings.

And in addition to  all these tasks. Chief  Long was responsible for  monitoring
and  improving police  intelligence operations  within the  Staat of  Arschland,
ferreting out criminal activities of all sorts.

There were trips to the field also, to visit with the Marine training cadre  and
Feldpolizei commanders, to exchange information, but neither Dean nor  Claypoole
had yet been fortunate enough to go on any of them.

Claypoole had taken the sign that once hung over Commander Peters's  workstation
with  him to  police headquarters.  It summarized  in one  brief statement  what
military intelligence was all about:

Who Knows What Evil Lurks in the Hearts of Men?

The Two Do.

The intelligence  briefing, given  that morning  by Lieutenant  Constantine, had
gone very  well. The  most titillating  bit of  news was  a supposed  high-level
meeting of PLA brigade commanders that had been held recently in Arschland,  but
as yet  nobody had  been able  to figure  out where  or what  the subject of the
meeting was.

By the  time the  P-4, logistics,  briefing was  over, Dean  had almost  gone to
sleep,  leaning  back in  his  chair in  a  far comer  of  the conference  room.
Claypoole nudged him in  the ribs when he  noticed the FIST adjutant  glaring at
him from across the conference table.

"Gentlemen," Brigadier Sturgeon announced at last, "thank you very much. Now,  I
know you are  all anxious to  get back to  your duties, but  I want everyone  to
remain seated  for a  few minutes."  He nodded  to the  Marine from the Denver's
shore party who was guarding the door, and the Marine opened it with a flourish.

In walked Captain Conorado followed by Staff Sergeant Bass.

"Gentlemen, I promoted Lance Corporals Claypoole and Dean on the spot that night
in Morgenluft, when Commander Peters was almost killed. They earned the stripes.
Their service on my staff has confirmed  the high opinion I've had all along  of
the men in  Company L. Adjutant?"  The brigadier turned  to the slim  ensign who
only moments before had been giving Dean the gimlet eye.

"Attention  to orders,"  the adjutant  announced, and  then read  the  promotion
orders. Sergeant Major Shiro and  Staff Sergeant Bass stepped forward  after the
reading and pinned the chevrons on, sealing the rite with a stiff punch to  each
man's shoulder. "Go easy on them," the brigadier said dryly, "I might need  them
again someday."

"You've done well up here," the sergeant major remarked.

"Keep it up."

"Don't turn  into worthless  staff pogues."  Bass shook  his finger  at the two.
"Sir," he turned to Brigadier Sturgeon,  "you aren't going to keep these  two on
your staff permanently, are you?"

"Staff  Sergeant  Bass,  why,  I'd rather  face  the  most  notorious bandit  on
Wanderjahr all by myself than cross you," the brigadier said, and laughed.

Sergeant Major  Shiro curled  his mustaches  and grumbled  quietly, "Charlie, we
need an ops chief in the Three  shop. These birds of yours commandeer any  of my
vehicles again, I'll pull you outta the field to help with map overlays."  Bass,
who knew  better than  to ask  for details,  recoiled in  mock horror  while the
sergeant major stuffed another wad of chewing tobacco into his cheek. He offered
Bass a chew, but Bass declined.

"How's it going with third platoon?" Claypoole asked.

"Not easy, but we're making progress. Ever try to teach guys with two left  feet
how to march? How about up here? I hear you've been into some very bad shit."

"Fine, Staff Sergeant Bass, we're, uh, making progress too, I guess."

"I just bet you are, Marine," Bass answered. He was thinking about the  incident
at Juanita's, which for a while had been the gossip of the company. He also knew
all  about  the  attack  at  Morgenluft  and  the  fight  at  the  warehouse  in
Brosigville. "You guys lucked out with this duty," he continued, meaning so  far
they'd gotten more than their share of the action. He looked at the two. "Listen
up. We're proud of what you've done up here. I wish you were back with us again.
Sorry about Commander Peters."

Captain Conorado, who had been talking to the FIST executive officer, came over.

"Sir," Claypoole  whispered, "I  really don't  feel I've  earned this promotion.
Can't you get us back with the company, Skipper?"

Dean nodded in  agreement and said,  "It isn't that  we don't like  it here, but
we're Marines,  sir, not  headquarters men."  As he  was uttering  the words, he
regretted them. Returning  to the company  would eliminate any  chance he'd ever
have of seeing Hway again. But he had to stick with Claypoole.

"Marine, when a FIST brigadier says you earned a promotion, then you earned  it,
so no more of that from either of you two." The conference room had now  emptied
out, leaving the four Marines there by themselves. "Look," Conorado motioned for
Bass to come close, "a Marine follows orders. I sent you two here because I knew
you'd do a good job. You haven't disappointed me. We all know what happened when
you were with the city police that  night, down by the river. I'd have  promoted
you both for what you did then. But your job for the duration of this deployment
is right here. And  if the brigadier decides  he's got other plans  for you once
we're done here, you'll follow your orders. Remember, you don't 'belong' to  me,
you belong to the Corps." He clapped  a hand on each man's shoulder. "Well,"  he
said, "time to  go." He and  Bass shook hands  with them one  last time and then
they were gone.

Alone in the briefing  room, the two lance  corporals stared wordlessly at  each
other for a long  moment. They'd been wearing  their new rank insignia  for some
weeks by  this time,  but it  somehow hadn't  been real.  Now that their company
commander and platoon sergeant had witnessed the formal promotion, it was  real.
Only a year in the Corps and they were both lance corporals, a rank it  normally
took an infantryman three years to attain.

Claypoole was the first to break the  silence. "We gotta find a way to  get back
to the platoon, where we belong."

"Got that right," Dean agreed. "So you dislike us that much, huh?" The two  spun
toward the  voice at  the doorway.  It was  the FIST  sergeant major.  Claypoole
swallowed  but  couldn't  speak.  Dean  tried  not  to  look  guilty  and failed
miserably.

"I think you're  growing soft here,"  Shiro said. "Maybe  you should spend  some
time with real Marines."  He glanced at his  watch. "As of eight  hours tomorrow
morning, you're on temporary  additional duty. A forty-eight-hour  assignment to
the 257th Feldpolizei. Now, get out of my headquarters."

Their eyes popped. "The 257th," Dean said. "That's ... that's..."

"Where our platoon  is," Claypoole finished.  "Thank you. Sergeant  Major," they
both said. Shiro glowered at them. "What are you doing still taking up space  in
my headquarters? Has the soft life  working with the police made you  forget how
to obey orders? Get out of here!" They ran from the briefing room.


The regularly scheduled supply hopper brought something more than the  requested
food, replacement  blaster batteries,  and mail.  Two Marines  in clean garrison
utilities got off  the hopper, slung  blasters over their  shoulders, and looked
around.  An  FP  pointed  out  the  administration  building  when  they   asked
directions,  and they  headed toward  it. They  were halfway  across the  parade
ground  when  Staff Sergeant  Charlie  . Bass  came  out of  the  administration
building. Bass spotted  them almost immediately  and headed in  to intercept the
two. He broke out his communicator and spoke into it briefly as he walked.

Lance Corporal Claypoole began with a grin. "Hi, Staff Sergeant Bass."

Lance  Corporal Dean  was also  grinning, but  Bass spoke  before he  could  say
anything, and the grin fell off his face and his jaw dropped.

"Claypoole, I always  knew you were  a troublemaker," Bass  snarled. "But what's
your excuse. Dean? Are you spending too much time in the rear with the beer, you
think you're too good?"

"What?" Dean squawked. "I didn't, I'm not, I-"

"What'd I do?" Claypoole demanded.

Bass folded his arms across his chest  and glared at them. "First you leave  the
platoon shorthanded by running off to FISTP-2-"

Dean  and Claypoole  gaped at  each other.  They had  been ordered  to join  the
intelligence section over their protests.

"-and then you have to go and screw up the entire platoon table of  organization
by playing  hero so  you could  get yourselves  promoted. How  am I  supposed to
reorganize the  platoon when  you screw  up and  get sent  back? I've got enough
lance corporals to go around.  You just made me short  two PFCs. Do you think  I
can stick lance corporals in PFC billets?" In fact Bass knew very well he  could
do  exactly that,  it was  common for  meritoriously promoted  men to  serve  in
positions below their rank until a position opened to promote them into.

"What?"  Claypoole couldn't  say anything  more; he  was too  shocked by  Bass's
reaction.  Bass  hadn't  said  anything  like  that  the  day  before  at   FIST
headquarters. Dean couldn't say anything at all.

Bass let the stunned moment  stretch as six other Marines  converged double-time
on the three.  Then he dropped  his stem posture  and a grin  split his face. He
grabbed first Claypoole's hand and then Dean's. "Congratulations again. Marines.
Everybody's heard all about what you did on Morgenluft and Porcina. Outstanding.
Everyone in the platoon's proud of you."

"Nobody more than me," Sergeant Hyakowa said behind them, panting from his run.

"I'm prouder," Eagle's Cry said as he brushed past Hyakowa to face Claypoole. He
wrapped an arm around Claypoole's shoulders and squeezed, then extended his free
hand to Dean to shake.

Corporals Leach and Keto, then" fire  team leaders, were the next to  arrive and
add their congratulations.

Lance  Corporal  Linsman,  the  other   man  in  Claypoole's  fire  team,   said
threateningly, "Just don't think you're going to replace me, or move above me. I
knew you  when you  were New  Guy." Claypoole  grimaced, then  grinned anew when
Linsman pumped his hand.

Schultz was the  last to join  the group. He  hadn't had the  farthest to go, he
simply ran  slower than  the others.  Schultz knew  what the  call from Bass was
about, and he wanted to have the last word. He planted himself squarely in front
of Dean and said slowly, "It's nice  to see you've been paying attention to  me.
Keep it  up. Maybe  one of  these days  you'll turn  into a  Marine." He'd  said
enough, and he made it clear he was talking to both by turning his head to  look
at Claypoole  as he  finished speaking.  Then, without  warning, his  right fist
flashed out twice and hit each of them on the shoulder.

"Ow!" Dean yelped. He jumped back, rubbing his suddenly sore shoulder. Claypoole
yelped and jumped back as well, but he'd seen the blow coming and didn't get hit
as hard.

Leach's eyes glowed. "Pin on the stripes!" he shouted, and pulled his fist  back
to hit Dean's shoulder.

Bass stepped between them and held up his hands. "Belay that," he ordered. "They
got promoted too long ago. It's too late now."

Nobody knew for certain how long after a promotion "pinning on the stripes" with
a punch to the shoulder was allowed, but normally the window was the day of  the
promotion  and the  day after;  rarely did  it extend  beyond that.  The  ritual
allowed every enlisted man of equal or greater rank to hit a man on the shoulder
once for each stripe of  his new insignia to "pin  them on." Bass and Shiro  had
been out of line the day before when they "pinned them on."

Schultz knew he was out of line hitting the two so long after the promotion, but
he wasn't about to let them get away without someone from the platoon  observing
the ancient ritual.

"So, what brings  you two out  here?" Hyakowa asked  before anything else  could
happen.

"We got tired of being with headquarters types all the time," Dean said.

"We needed to spend some time with real Marines again," Claypoole added.

"Well, what are we  doing standing around here  for?" Eagle's Cry said.  His arm
still around  Claypoole's shoulders,  he started  walking toward  the area where
second squad was  conducting the training  of its company.  "You gotta see  what
we're doing. Hey, did you hear about the way we ambushed a company-size ambush?"

Hyakowa took his leave of Bass and herded Dean toward first squad. "Did you hear
what Godenov did the other day?" he asked. "Maybe he's good enough after all."

*   *   *

The two visitors from Stadtpolizei weren't as impressed by how well the FPs were
responding to their training  as the other members  of the platoon thought  they
should be, but then, Clay-poole and  Dean hadn't seen them before third  platoon
began the training.

"The way this battalion had been  trained and ran its operations," Hyakowa  told
them in an attempt to make them understand, "any one of these shifts today could
have taken on the whole battalion and beaten it."

"They used to stand in straight lines, in their dress uniforms, and make targets
of themselves," Eagle's Cry added.

Dean looked wide-eyed at the squad leaders, gnawed on his lip, and did his  best
not to let his disbelief show.

Claypoole was less diplomatic. He didn't say anything- that would be calling the
squad leaders liars, and no lance corporal in his right mind would call a Marine
sergeant a liar to his face. But his expression and posture said it for nun.

Their  reactions  were  understandable.  The  experience  they'd  had  with  the
Stadtpolizei had  taught them  how professional  the city  police were  in their
patrol duties. They didn't see how it was possible that the Feldpolizei could be
so opposite,  no matter  what the  policemen they  worked with  in the city said
about the field police.


"There's this police  investigator from offworid,  Chief Long," Dean  said after
evening chow, when the other men of the platoon were pumping the two of them for
details about easy  headquarters duty in  the big city.  "Chief Long was  put in
charge of all the city police in Arschland Staat."

Claypoole barked out a laugh. "You should have seen Commissioner Landser. He was
the  police commissioner  until Long  showed up.  Man, he  was pissed  about  an
offworider being put over him. It was like a slap in the face to him."

"But they're working real good together now," Dean concluded.

"And with Marines too," Claypoole said.

"Have they caught the guerrillas who set off those bombs the day we landed yet?"
Hyakowa asked. That would  be the acid test  of how good the  city police really
were. Dean and Claypoole looked at each other gleefully.

"No. But there's been a lot of other things going on," Dean said.

"Like the  guerrilla raid  on Morgenluft  that almost  killed Commander Peters,"
Claypoole said.

"Only it wasn't the guerrillas who did it."

"And you'll never guess who we busted for that."

Claypoole and Dean were trying to tell the story of the raid on Multan's Eagle's
Nest simultaneously, and the telling was getting garbled.

"How about one at a time!" Eagle's Cry said, breaking in.

Embarrassed, Dean  and Claypoole  looked at  each other,  and tried to determine
without speaking which of them would go first. They nodded as though they'd come
to agreement, and both began talking at the same time again.

"As you were!" Schultz barked. He stood directly in front of the two and  glared
at them until they looked  like they wanted to get  down on all fours and  slink
away. "You!" Schultz pointed a finger at Dean. "Talk."

Dean looked at Schultz and swallowed. No matter how experienced he was becoming,
the older man always made him feel uncertain. Then he began to tell of the  raid
on Eagle's Nest. After a moment, Claypoole couldn't restrain himself anymore and
began interrupting. He kept interrupting until a growl from Schultz shut him up.

"So maybe it wasn't the guerrillas who bombed out headquarters that first  day?"
Bass asked when the telling was told.

Dean shrugged. "There's a lot of things the brass think the guerrillas might not
have done. That's one thing they think maybe they did do."

"And they think it's possible the guerrillas didn't do it," Claypoole amended as
soon as he was sure Dean was finished.

Bass leaned back, lost  in thought. The other  members of the platoon  looked at
each other, considering  the implications of  one oligarch committing  terrorist
acts in  such a  way that  the guerrillas  were blamed  for them.  The next day,
Claypoole and Dean caught the supply hopper back to Brosigville.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Over several weeks. Surface Radar Analyst  Third Class Hummfree had taken a  lot
of ribbing  from the  other junior  petty officers  in the  CNS Denver's Surface
Intelligence Analysis section  for working on  his free time  instead of playing
computer games or studying for the second class test, the way they were. SRA  3d
Hummfree ignored them; as far as he was concerned, what he was doing on his  own
time at his  analysis console was  a more demanding  and exciting game  than the
ones they were playing on their personal consoles- and was far better study  for
promotion than just cracking the books.

Now, after three and a half  weeks of puzzling over the surface-movement  traces
picked up by the Denver's string-of-pearls, and trying to make good intelligence
sense of  them, he  leaned back  in his  chair and  studied the screen he'd just
brought up. After a few seconds, he gave a low whistle and leaned forward to tap
another series of commands into the computer. His hands hovered over the command
nodules while he waited for the computer to bring up his request. He didn't take
as much  time studying  the second  screen as  he had  the first,  and he didn't
whistle. Instead he immediately tapped  in another series of commands.  When the
third screen appeared, he nodded to himself and hit save-to-transportable,  then
popped the crystal for  his three most recent  screens. He could have  saved the
data to the ship's computer, but it  wasn't official work and he would have  had
to go  through the  rigmarole of  getting authorization  from the  duty officer.
Saving to the crystal was faster.

Hummfree  got up  from his  console and  went looking  for Chief  Petty  Officer
Peeair, his section  chief. As his  section was off  duty, that meant  he had to
brave the unknown hazards of chief petty officers' country, a daunting  prospect
for a third class even when official duty required it-and this didn't come under
the heading of official  duty. During his nearly  four years as a  member of the
Denver's crew,  Hummfree had  never been  in CPO  country. He swallowed, steeled
himself, and  took the  pastel passageway  into the  unknown. The  data was  too
important to wait for his shift to start.

"What do you want, sonny?" a voice boomed as Hummfree stepped through the  hatch
into CPO country. "You lost or somethin'?"

Hummfree's  head  jerked  toward  the  voice.  A  huge  man,  someone  he didn't
recognize, was glowering at  him around the stub  of a cigar. Water  dripped off
the end of the cigar and dribbled down his torso to soak into the towel  wrapped
around his middle. Water dribbling down his legs puddled on the deck around  his
feet. Wet footprints led behind him to the shower. The many-starred anchor of  a
master chief petty officer was tattooed on the big man's left deltoid.

Hummfree snapped  to attention;  master chief  petty officers  scared him.  They
scared everyone; a double ration of bile seemed to come with the rate.  "Nossir,
Master Chief,"  he managed  to say  without stammering.  "I'm looking  for Chief
Peeair."

"Well, I happen to know Chief Peeair's off duty. What say you wait until he goes
back on duty?" The master chief jutted his jaw aggressively.

"I have some important  data the chief needs  to see immediately, Master  Chief,
sir."

"Yer never gonna make second class bothering chiefs when they're off duty,  boy.
I suggest you get back to your own area and wait until Chief Peeair's on  duty."
His  "suggestion"  sounded  like  an  order,  but  Hummfree  stood  fast, albeit
trembling,  instead  of scampering  away.  He cocked  his  head. "Unless  you're
carrying orders. You got  some orders for Chief  Peeair, boy? I'll give  them to
him." He held out a hand to take the orders if there were any.

"No-Nossir,  I don't  have orders,"  Hummfree croaked.  "I'm in  Chief  Peeair's
section, and I just  finished analyzing some data  that he's gonna want  to see.
It's important, sir."

The master chief shook his head slowly. "He's off duty, that means yer off duty.
What do you mean you just finished analyzing it?"

"Sir, this is  something I've been  working on on  my own time.  The chief knows
about  it, sir.  He said  if I  came up  with something,  he wanted  to see   it
immediately. I came up with something, sir."

The master chief stared at Hummfree hard and rolled the cigar stub to the  Other
side of his mouth. Abruptly he barked, "A-ten-HUT!"

Hummfree, already at attention, stood even more rigid.

"A-bout-PACE!"

Hummfree spun about, facing the entry hatch to CPO country.

"Now stand there," the master chief growled, "just like that until either me  or
Chief Peeair says  you can move."  Hummfree heard the  squelching of the  master
chief's feet beginning to walk off. "And don't look around!"

Hummfree stood  sweating, hoping  some other  chief petty  officer wouldn't come
along and give him an order that contravened the master chief s.

It felt  like hours,  but probably  wasn't more  than fifteen  minutes, before a
gruff voice behind him said, "At ease, Hummfree. What's so important you've  got
to bother me off duty?"

Hummfree released his tension with a whoosh and turned around. "Chief, you  know
that project I've been working on on my time?" he said eagerly. "Well, I think I
got something."

Chief Peeair, his face  otherwise neutral, cocked an  eyebrow. "Oh? What do  you
think you have?"

Hummfree pulled the data crystal out of his pocket. "You gotta see this. Chief."
.

The chief took the chip and bounced it in his hand. "That good, huh?"

"Better than that.  Chief. This might  be the piece  of the puzzle  they need to
wrap things up planetside."

Peeair lofted both eyebrows.  "Let's take a look."  He turned to head  back into
the depths of CPO country. After three steps he called back, "You gonna come and
tell me what I'm looking at, or am I supposed to figure it all out by myself?"

"I'm coming. Chief," Hummfree said, and scampered to catch up.


"Well, gentlemen," Brigadier  Sturgeon said to  his staff and  the commanders of
his  operational  units, who  were  sitting around  a  conference table  in  the
briefing room in the  Marine headquarters at the  spaceport, "it looks like  the
navy came through  for a change."  He held up  a data chip  for everyone to see.
"One of their  analysts, a petty  officer third, came  up with this.  On his own
initiative and time,  no less. If  it's right, maybe  the Corps should  hire him
away from the navy;  he's too good for  them." Sturgeon popped the  crystal into
the console on  the lectern while  the other officers  chuckled at his  joke. He
glanced at them. "I'm serious."

A map display lit up on  the wall behind Sturgeon. "Lieutenant Constantine,"  he
said  to Chief  Long's assistant,  "if you  will explain  the meaning  of  this,
please." The FIST  commander sat down  as Constantine limped  to the lectern  to
take over the briefing.

Constantine cleared his throat, then used  a laser pointer to indicate the  map.
"This is a map of the area of the 483rd Feld-polizei GSB. These black lines," he
pointed out  several curved  and jagged  lines that  seemed to  begin and end in
random spots  and didn't  have any  immediately apparent  meaning, "are movement
traces of small groups of people. The Denver picked them up on its fourth day in
orbit. Some  of them  have been  positively identified.  These, for example," he
touched a key on  the lectem, "are work  parties from the farms."  Several lines
changed from black  to yellow. "This  one is a  group of people  heading back to
their village  after attending  church." Another  line turned  blue. "These  are
combined Marine-Peldpolizei  patrols." Three  lines turned  green. "These,"  the
remaining  lines,  about  a third  of  the  total, turned  red,  "have  not been
positively identified." He  looked from the  map to the  assembled officers. "We
suspect some of them are guerrilla bands. This one we know was." Lightning bolts
flashed around  one of  the red  lines. "That  was an  ambush that  killed three
Feldpolizei.

"Unfortunately, most of the population  of Wanderjahr is rural. Small  groups of
people are wandering all over the surface of the planet. What makes figuring out
who they are even more difficult is the guerrillas also move in small groups and
don't assemble until they are ready to act. That makes accurate tracking  almost
impossible. Especially since the string-of-pearls isn't able to cover the entire
planetary surface constantly. And  if it did, the  volume of data would  make it
almost impossible to digest and analyze in anything approaching a timely manner.

"There's another problem the Denver  ran into." Constantine glanced at  Sturgeon
to make sure it was all right for him to continue with background. The brigadier
nodded. "It's doing all its tracking by GSB-rural police precinct," he added for
the benefit  of anyone  who might  have forgotten  what the  initials stood for.
"What that means in practice is, once  a tracked group of people moves from  one
GSB to another, it's lost unless  the string-of-pearls also happens to have  the
adjacent GSB under observation.

Commander Van Winkle raised a hand.

"Yes, sir?" he said.

"It's not necessarily germane  to this briefing," Van  Winkle said, "but why  is
the Denver observing by GSB?"

"I asked them exactly that, sir. It appears that when the GSBs were established,
they  were  overlaid  on existing  geopolitical  divisions.  The Ruling  Council
insisted that people seldom move beyond  the bounds of the kreiss, or  counties,
they  live  and work  in.  Those counties  correspond  to the  Graf-shaftsbezirk
boundaries." He shrugged.  "Actual observation tells  us the Ruling  Council was
wrong."

While Constantine talked, the map  display behind him continued to  change. Each
change showed a different precinct on  a specific date. While any given  map was
displayed, black lines of movement turned yellow, blue, green, or red. A few  of
the red lines had lightning bolts around them.

"A few weeks ago," Constantine said when it was evident that nobody else had any
immediate  questions,  "a  junior  petty  officer  in  the  Surface Intelligence
Analysis section got  the idea that  if he sequentially  overlaid maps of  given
GSBs, the maps might  show patterns of movement  that didn't match anything  the
civilians or combat forces would use- even more if he showed two adjacent  GSBs.
This was the first composite he assembled." He pushed another button and stepped
aside so he wouldn't obstruct anyone's view of the map.

The display showed a map of the adjoining 114th and 129th GSBs. Like the others,
it had black lines that changed color.  As soon as all the lines changed  color,
all but the red ones blinked out. The map nickered and displayed a different set
of red lines,  representing movement the  next time the  Denver sw-veilled those
precincts. After a second, it  flickered again, and again after  another second.
In all, there were seventeen different sequential sets of red lines. Constantine
looked at the officers. A few looked bemused.

"That almost looks  like it should  mean something," murmured  Commander lankee,
the FIST'S composite air squadron commander.

"Look at it this way, sir," Constantine said as he leaned toward the lectern  to
push another button. Once  more the red lines  flickered on the display,  but at
much shorter intervals- this time the display took three seconds.

Van Winkle drummed his fingertips on the conference table.

"That does look  like it means  something," Captain Halsted,  the Dragon company
commander, said. "But what?"

"Then  the  petty officer  extrapolated,"  Constantine said  softly,  and pushed
another button. "He assumed that some lines were continuations of earlier  lines
and  where  some  lines  might  have gone  had  they  continued  on  their known
trajectories."

The red lines appeared afresh on the map. But they didn't jerk about this  time,
instead  they flowed.  Some flowed  briefly and  vanished before  the  seventeen
displays completed, others started after the beginning, a few ran from beginning
to end. Some of them crossed the line that divided the two GSBs.

"Did you see  that?" Constantine asked  when the display  went blank. "Watch  it
again." The lines flowed. "And then like this."

This time the lines that ended early stayed on the display. When the seventeenth
display was  reached, all  of the  terminal lines  remained on  the screen. Some
terminated at places marked  as towns or other  kinds of settlements. But  there
were others that  seemed to vanish  into an irregularly  shaped no-man's-land of
about eighteen square kilometers.

"What's significant  about this,  gentlemen," Constantine  said as  he used  the
laser pointer to draw  a circle around the  group of lines that  led to nowhere,
"is that there is no city,  no town, settlement, farm barracks, or  other reason
for a large number of people  to congregate in this area. But  detailed analysis
indicates that  more than  two hundred  people went  into there,  and fewer than
twenty came  out." He  paused dramatically,  then said,  "Somewhere in there, we
believe, is the headquarters of the Montezuma Brigade of the PLA.

"Providing, of course, that the petty officer's extrapolations are anywhere near
accurate. If they're  wrong, this means  nothing. At any  rate, we have  similar
displays for the possible headquarters of as many as ten other brigades."

Brigadier Sturgeon stood  up. "Thank you.  Lieutenant Constantine." Then  to the
rest, "We have a  job to do on  Wander-jahr. We're about to  do it. The XO  will
give you copies of my Commander's Intent. F-2 will provide those of you for whom
we have intelligence with the data you need to make your operational plans.  The
F-3 has  basics of  the FIST  operation plan,  which will  tell you what kind of
support you can expect in your plans. See F-4 for your logistical  requirements.
If you have any personnel problems-and not having enough people isn't a  problem
we're Marines, we never have enough people-see the F-l. Gentlemen, I give you to
the XO and my staff. Let's get cracking and do this thing."

The officers rose to their feet  and stood at attention as their  commander left
the briefing room. Then  a babble broke out  as the operational unit  commanders
asked questions of each other and the FIST staff.


Once  Commander Van  Winkle had  everything he  needed from  the FIST   staff-or
everything he could get, which wasn't necessarily the same thing-he returned  to
his headquarters and called the company and platoon commanders in from the field
for a briefing. He deliberately left the Feldpolizei battalion commanders out of
the loop.

The  infantry  battalion  commander  didn't  indulge  in  any  of  the theatrics
Lieutenant Constantine had, he simply gave the facts-or speculation, as he  also
labeled  SRA 3d  Hummfree's maps.  He had  stripped the  battalion  headquarters
company of men enough to field two platoons, each of which was assigned to GSBs,
as were each of the three infantry platoons of each of the three line  companies
in the battalion. That gave the  infantry battalion eleven GSBs to cover.  Eight
of  the eleven  had suspected  PLA headquarters  within their  boundaries or  in
adjacent ones. All eight  had to be hit  simultaneously to avoid warnings  being
given to any that weren't hit. What's  more, all eight had to be found.  All Van
Winkle  had was  an area  for each  one-the smallest  area was  a dozen   square
kilometers, the largest nearly twice that size.

The other three suspected HQs were also covered. Brigadier Sturgeon had stripped
enough Marines from his headquarters company to field platoons in two more GSBs.
The Dragon company had  detached enough men for  three platoons, and the  Raptor
section of  the air  squadron another  two, so  the entire  FIST covered sixteen
GSBs.

The biggest problem the Marines faced  was transportation. They needed a lot  of
it. The FIST had only enough  organic transportation to move nine platoons.  But
two of the Dragon platoons had suspected  HQs to deal with, so they couldn't  be
used. Which meant the  entire FIST only had  enough transport available to  move
five platoons of Marines, unless the  Dragon GSB that didn't have suspected  PLA
headquarters pulled out, in which case they could move seven platoons. But  even
if the Marines  had all of  their organic transportation  available, there still
wouldn't be enough to  simultaneously move the Marines  to all of the  suspected
headquarters.

And  that didn't  even begin  to count  the transportation  needed to  move  the
Feldpolizei.

Nor did  it account  for PLA  spies' finding  out about  the sudden  movement of
Marine and Feldpolizei  forces and giving  warning to the  guerrillas, which was
one reason he had left the Feldpolizei commanders out of the loop. The other was
a conviction  that it  was probable  the PLA  had spies  within the field police
organization.

So Commander Van Winkle had to figure out how to move eight Marine platoons  and
as  many  FP  battalions  into  position  to  search  eight  areas  of suspected
concentration  and  destroy  or  capture  whatever  units  they  found there-the
eleventh suspected PLA headquarters was covered by one of the platoons from FIST
HQ. And he had to move them secretly. There was no way it could be done  without
organic transportation, which simply wasn't available.

After  briefly telling  the company  and platoon  commanders about  how the   HQ
locations were discovered, and distributing map chips, he told them of the  need
for simultaneity and secrecy.

"What do your battalions have in the way of working transportation?" he  finally
asked,  then  held up  a  hand to  forestall  quick answers.  "I  know how  much
transportation the  battalions have,  I need  to know  how much  you've got that
works. Do you have enough that you could move your entire battalions tomorrow if
you had to?"

None of them had enough vehicles to transport their entire battalions. Seven  of
the  eleven, including  six of  the eight  platoons that  were going   guerrilla
hunting, had too many red-lined vehicles.

"When this briefing is  over, tell logistics what  you need to get  the vehicles
you do have up and running by the day after tomorrow."

Six ensigns and their platoon sergeants exchanged pained glances.

"Now," Van Winkle looked  at his watch, "it's  almost 1100 hours. You  have your
map chips.  We will  reassemble here  at 1500  hours to  review your operational
plans."

The officers and NCOs  rose to attention as  Van Winkle left the  briefing room.
There was no babble when the  battalion commander left. The company and  platoon
commanders stared at each other, appalled by  the amount of work they had to  do
in only four hours.


They  reassembled  at  1500  hours. The  company  commanders  and  three platoon
commanders who didn't have plans to draw  up had helped the eight who did.  None
of the plans was complete. Everybody with an operation to run was going to  have
to walk part of their commands into their assigned areas. For some, it was going
to be a four-day walk.

"It's just as well that nobody will see an entire Feldpolizei battalion mount up
and head for the field at once," was how Van Winkle brushed aside the objections
about not having enough transportation.

The battalion commander  quickly reviewed the  plans, then told  his commanders,
"The people who have the farthest to walk move out the day after tomorrow.  Lean
on your FP commanders to get the rest of their vehicles running ASAP. But  don't
tell them why. Don't tell any of your Wanderjahrians about this operation  ahead
of time." He paused and looked off  into nowhere for a moment, then said,  "Tell
them you're under  orders to step  up patrolling and  that's why you're  sending
more people  out now.  I'll call  the FP  commanders in  for a  briefing the day
before your main forces head out. The fewer people who know what's going on, the
better.

"I'll coordinate your activities," he said in wrapping up, "not only among  you,
but with the rest of the FIST. I'll also work on getting additional air  support
from the Denver.

"By the way," he said sternly. "The  three of you who didn't have operations  of
your own to plan-instead of helping the others with theirs, you should have been
making plans for functioning as reaction forces or reinforcements.

"But," he glanced at  the console monitor on  which he'd reviewed the  operation
plans, "I have to say that  under the circumstances, you did an  outstanding job
in the time you had.  Now get back to your  commands and get ready to  kick some
serious ass.  To as  great an  extent as  possible, include  your Marines in the
planning process. They're the  ones who'll be leading  the FPs in what  could be
the biggest fight they've ever been in."

The day's briefing was over.



CHAPTER NINETEEN

The 257th  Feldpolizei Battalion  had only  enough surface  and air  vehicles to
transport half its men, so  Company A and part of  Company C had to walk  to the
craggy and crevassed area intelligence had tentatively identified as home to the
headquarters of the Che Loi Brigade of the Peoples Liberation Army. When the FPs
moved out,  all they  knew was  that they  were going  on an  extended patrol by
platoons.

Vanden Hoyt and  Bass had been  clear in giving  the Marines the  final briefing
before their departure:  the day before  you reach the  area of operations,  you
will  tell  your  people  we  just  got  information  about  a  concentration of
guerrillas in the area. They are not to know ahead of time.

What nobody  said but  everybody understood  was that  the guerrillas  had spies
somewhere in the Feldpolizei, even if not in the 257th. Charlie Bass accompanied
the Company A command group; Lieutenant vanden Hoyt would follow later with  the
rest of the battalion.  The platoon routes of  march and initial objective  were
tangential to  the objective,  so no  one would  know that  was where  they were
headed.

Someone got cute  when it came  time to assign  call radio signs.  Commander Van
Winkle's  battalion  headquarters  unit  was  "Farmer."  The  257th  Feldpolizei
Battalion  HQ unit  was "Henhouse."  The 257th's  three company  HQ units   were
"Hens," Hen A, Hen  B, and Hen C.  The platoons were "Chicks,"  and the sections
were "Peeps."

The members of the 257th FP had a confidence in themselves that would have  been
unimaginable two short months earlier, and, despite some good-natured grumbling,
most were looking forward to the operation. Many of them even hoped to encounter
bandits. Some of  them resented the  way they had  been used as  ersatz blocking
forces when Company A's first platoon found the ambush and the Marines wiped  it
out without any assistance  from them, and they  wanted to prove to  the Marines
that they  were competent.  And ever  since Company  A's second platoon's second
shift  had  taken  out  that four-man  observation  post  without  suffering any
injuries itself, the entire battalion had become almost eager for combat.

The Marines knew where  they were going and  what their objective was  when they
got there. Their reaction to walking was mixed.

Chan was glad they were going on ahead of the others because that gave him three
more days to train his shift under actual field conditions.

MacIlargie grumbled.  He'd been  taken in  by the  recruiting slogan,  "Join the
Marines and see the universe." He complained about false advertising-the  slogan
hadn't said anything about seeing the universe one step at a time.

Godenov didn't particularly like having to walk either. But, despite the success
he'd had with  his shift in  wiping out that  observation post, he  wasn't fully
confident that his men would always do  what he said, and, like Chan, liked  the
fact that he had the extra time to train his men in obeying orders in the field.

Being  glad  or complaining  never  occurred to  Schultz.  He was  a  Marine. To
Schultz, there were only three proper ways for a Marine to move into combat-over
the beach in a Dragon, on a combat assault in a hopper, or on foot. There was no
beachhead to take, no  immediate assault to launch.  So they walked. It  was the
natural order of things.

Corporal Doyle didn't voice any complaints. That didn't mean he didn't have any,
merely that he didn't  say them out loud.  After all, he was  the senior company
clerk.  What was  he doing  out there,  walking for  three days  toward an  area
thought to be  crawling with guerrillas?  And then snooping  and pooping through
that area trying  to find those  guerrillas? He should  be back in  a nice, snug
headquarters somewhere, he thought, noodling  with a computer, instead of  being
out where there was a high probability someone would shoot at him.

Two  days out  from the  257th's headquarters  the land  gradually changed  from
gently rolling flatlands to low hills, though the flora and fauna mostly  seemed
to be the  same. Hochbaums still  climbed toward the  clouds, and the  grospalms
still grew in family  groups, but more common  among them now were  the spikers,
trees taller than the grospalms but with narrower boles, from which grew  nearly
horizontal spiral branches. The undergrowth  was a bit thicker by  then, patches
of low-lying succulents.

The large grazers called sheep chomped contentedly on the tops of the grospalms,
and  the bigger  ones, the  cows, stretched  up to  the juiciest  leaves of  the
giants, but  both species  avoided the  spikers. Smaller  quadrupeds the Marines
hadn't  seen before-beasts  a little  smaller than  Earth elephants-with  beaked
mouths and knobbly red, green, and gray mottled hides, ripped and nibbled at the
spiky foliage and gobbled up  the low-lying succulents. The Wanderjahrians  said
these  were  called goats.  They  also told  the  Marines to  keep  a respectful
distance from them because, like their namesakes, the beaked animals were  short
tempered.

Schultz didn't concern himself with the goats any more than he did with the cows
or sheep. He'd come to accept that the huge animals were just dumb food animals.
So he didn't pay  much attention when he  saw two bipeds slowly  mincing through
the underbrush in the direction of  an isolated cow. The animals had  huge heads
with disproportionately large  mouths and long,  pointed teeth, and  he saw that
their forelimbs  were so  small as  to be  virtually useless.  Their hides  were
coarsely striped grayish  green and tan,  a good match  for the pattern  of tree
trunks against a green background.

Maybe it was just a  psychological defensive reaction on Schultz's  part-animals
such as he saw on Wanderjahr were too big to understand, so he ignored them.  He
kept walking and looking all around for danger until he noticed that he was  the
only member of first platoon's first shift who was on his feet.

Schultz spotted Acting Assistant Shift Sergeant Kharim nearby and dropped to one
knee next to  him. "Why did  everybody stop?" he  whispered, peering beyond  the
animals for any sign of people.

Wordlessly, Kharim pointed at the two bipeds.

"So? They're a couple of pigs, or whatever you call them. What's the problem?"

Kharim twisted around  to look up  at Schultz's face,  which seemed to  hover in
midair above him.  His eyes were  wide and his  mouth a tight  rictus smile. His
face was covered  with a sheen  of nervous sweat.  "Shift Sergeant Schultz,"  he
gasped, "those are not pigs. They are tigers."

"Tigers?" Schultz looked back  toward the bipeds. They  were much closer to  the
cow now. Both had  hunkered down, holding their  heads so low their  jaws almost
brushed  the tops  of the  low bushes.  Their massive  legs made  abrupt,  jerky
movements, like a bull pawing the ground getting ready to charge. Claws as  long
as fighting knives on the tigers' feet  raked deep gouges in the hard dirt.  For
the first time, Schultz noticed that the bipeds' eyes faced front rather than to
the sides,  like the  other animals  he'd seen-and  those front-facing eyes were
fixed intently on the huge cow. On every world Schultz had been on, he  suddenly
remembered,  only arboreal  animals and  predators had  front-facing eyes.  With
massive  heads  and shriveled  forelimbs,  he knew  the  animals were  not  tree
dwellers.

Schultz lowered himself to his belly and hoped the tigers had no sense of smell.

Suddenly, the tiger nearer the cow screamed and charged toward its front end.

The prey animal snapped its head around at the noise. Then, with an agility  and
speed astonishing in so bulky an animal, it spun about so it faced away from the
charging hunter  and swung  its tail  at it  like a  whip. The  tiger veered off
before it  got in  range of  the swing  of the  heavy tail,  and the blow, which
looked powerful enough to crush the tiger, missed.

The second predator  raced in as  soon as the  cow began to  turn away from  the
first hunter. The only sound it made was the thunderous pounding of its feet  as
it charged. The cow's long neck was  twisted around so it could watch the  first
tiger over its  shoulder. It saw  the second one  coming fast, and  even faster,
spun to swing its tail at it.  But that maneuver exposed its flank to  the first
one, which darted in and tore a hunk of flesh from its side.

The cow honked out  in pain, arched its  back, bringing its front  and rear feet
closer together, and stomped those  massive feet on the ground,  turning rapidly
in a tight circle, with its  tail slashing from side to side  with bone-crushing
force.

The two predators weaved around their prey in opposite directions, confusing the
huge beast and keeping out of reach  of its tail. The cow's head swung  about in
counterpoint to its tail, its neck jinking  up and down as well as side  to side
in  an attempt  to keep  out of  reach of  the slashing,  snapping jaws  of  its
tormentors.

Trees shook violently from the pounding of the feet of the three huge animals in
their dance of death.

Every time one of the tigers saw  an opening, it leaped in to gouge  out another
piece of flesh. The cow's stomping, twirling, and lashing became more frantic as
its honks of pain and fear became louder and higher. Blood flowed and flew  from
the wounds in  its sides and  belly, and ran  from the comers  of the predators'
mouths as they gobbled the hunks of meat they ripped from its sides.

When the first  tiger screamed to  begin the attack,  all the Other  grazers had
turned to look. The cows and  sheep saw they weren't under immediate  attack and
loped away. The half-dozen  goats in the area  gathered together and stood  in a
circle facing outward. They flexed their shoulders and rippled their backs,  and
long, thick  spikes that  had lain  flat and  unnoticed against  their shoulders
swung forward to protrude past their lowered heads.

The spinning of the cow under attack slowed, and its head swung more slowly side
to side-it couldn't  keep up the  manic movement. The  tigers also slowed  their
weaving and  darting and  began more  methodically looking  for openings  in the
bigger animal's  defensive maneuverings.  Suddenly, just  as one  of the  tigers
moved in  front of  it, the  cow reared  up onto  its tripod  and crashed  down,
lunging at the tiger with its forelegs.

The tiger jumped back, but not fast  enough, and a glancing blow from the  cow's
foot sent it tumbling  and screaming in surprise  and pain. The cow  bolted past
its downed tormentor. But before it could get more than a few steps, the  second
tiger dashed under the base of its tail and locked its jaws onto the back of its
thigh. The cow honked  louder than before at  the new agony. It  again reared up
into its tripod and tried to sit on the tiger latched onto its hindquarters, but
that tiger jerked its head to the  side, pulled back on its powerful hind  legs,
and staggered backward with a huge hunk  of meat in its mouth, which it  chomped
on once and swallowed.

Off balance, the cow sat heavily and tumbled onto its side.

As soon as the  cow began its roll  to the side, the  first tiger darted in  and
tore a man-size strip of flesh from the cow's belly. A loop of intestine bubbled
out of  the wound,  and the  sight sent  the tigers  into a  frenzy. One of them
jumped onto the cow and  raked deep gouges in its  side with its claws. The  cow
struggled to roll over onto  its legs so it could  stand, but the weight of  the
tiger on top of it prevented that. The first tiger bolted toward the cow's front
end with its mouth wide open and bit down powerfully on its neck. As far away as
he was, Schultz could hear the shattering of bones.

The cow spasmed, throwing both attackers  off. Free of the tigers, it  struggled
to regain its footing but couldn't. Its  head and half its neck lay limp  on the
ground. Its honks were low and feeble.

The tigers stood watching from a short distance away, their chests heaving  from
the effort of bringing down the huge prey animal. Then they slowly moved  toward
its back. When the cow's struggles began to slow, the tigers closed in on it  to
eat the still-living beast.

Kharim nudged Schultz. "Let's go before the wolves come," he whispered harshly.

"Wolves? " Schultz croaked. He got to his feet. ^'Lead the way," he said.

* * *

Staff Sergeant Bass brought the Marines together for a final briefing when  they
reached the  tumoff for  the possible  guerrilla headquarters  area. He had very
little to  say that  they didn't  already know.  They were  to tell their shifts
about the  suspected headquarters.  The rest  of the  257th Feldpolizei had been
transported to the other side of the target area and was about to enter it  from
there, so  the two  forces might  be able  to catch  the guerrillas  in a pincer
movement. They were  to break into  shifts to search  the area. Unusual  sunspot
activity was building on  the local star, so  they were told to  be prepared for
scrambled communications  and to  be ready  to receive  on the  string-of-pearls
frequency if they couldn't hear  messages any other way. Unfortunately,  if they
had  to  rely on  the  string-of-pearls, communications  would  be one-way-their
helmet radios weren't powerful enough to transmit to the string-of-pearls.

Deep ravines cut through  the area, and jagged  crags of igneous rock  thrust up
through the thin  topsoil. The flatland  giants didn't grow  there; there wasn't
enough level  ground to  support them.  Lacking enough  space to  propagate, the
grospalms lived in smaller families. The spikers were more common. Two new types
of trees dominated. One was an  odd-looking growth with a trunk almost  as thick
as it was high.  Between two and four  meters above the ground  the trunks split
into several massive limbs which quickly split again into less massive  branches
that twisted and wound about in a Medusa's coif. Gnarly roots splayed widely  in
the surface dirt to anchor them. The other kind of tree had a slender trunk that
seldom rose ten meters. The  trees' shaggy branches sprouted along  their entire
lengths, and they  resembled unkempt conifers.  The femlike plants  that spotted
the ground between the trees grew only a half meter in height; smaller ones grew
from cracks in the jutting rocks where trees couldn't gain purchase.

"How are we supposed to find  anybody in here?" Godenov complained when  Company
A's first  platoon assembled  at the  end of  the first  day's search.  The lead
elements of the battalion's two forces had met in the middle of the search area,
and there had been no contact with or sign of the guerrillas.

Schultz gave him a hard look. "We look for them," he said. Godenov swallowed and
stopped complaining.


Vanden Hoyt and Bass joined their  command units and set up a  battalion command
post in a defensible  high spot near the  middle of the search  area. From there
they would be able to communicate  with all of the platoons and  shifts wherever
they were in this gouged and tangled wilderness.

"I wonder why the guerrillas aren't  using this as an observation post,"  vanden
Hoyt remarked when he first saw the hollowed crown of the basalt mound that  was
the highest spot in the area. He saw no debris left over from human occupation.

Bass didn't see any sign of occupation either, but drew a different  conclusion.
"I think  they aren't  using it  now because  the observers  ran when we got too
close."

Vanden Hoyt gave him a speculative look.

Bass nodded toward a narrow crevasse in the side of the hollow. A crack led from
the top of the  rim down to the  bottom of the bowl.  Near its bottom the  crack
enlarged into a hole nearly half a meter wide and more than a meter high.

"A small man could slip through there very easily," Bass said.

"You think the guerrillas are hiding in caves and that's the entrance to one?"

Bass  looked  away from  the  crack, out  over  the rim  of  the hollow  at  the
surrounding, tortured  landscape. Instead  of replying,  he made  a gesture. The
gesture said, "Everybody out of here."

Vanden  Hoyt looked  at the  experienced NCO  for a  moment and  glanced at  the
mysterious satchel  Bass had  brought along.  He decided  that Charlie Bass must
have a very good reason for wanting everybody to leave quietly. He also gestured
the few  members of  the battalion  staff who  were in  the hollow  to leave. He
followed his own instruction and left as well.

When Bass was alone, he squatted next to the cleft, his blaster ready in case he
needed  it. Directing  his voice  into the  crack, he  said very  clearly, in  a
conversational volume,  "If anybody's  in there,  I suggest  you move  back, far
back. For  your sake,  I hope  you've got  another way  out." Then  he took  the
satchel he'd been carrying and exposed its control panel. He made an  adjustment
on the panel, recovered it, and  tossed the satchel into the crack.  He remained
squatting and listened carefully. He heard a faint sound, perhaps someone moving
deep inside the cave. Satisfied that there wasn't someone nearby who would throw
the satchel back  out, he rose  to his feet  and left the  hollow. Just outside,
standing far enough down the side of the peak so only his head showed above  the
rim, he looked back at the crevasse.  Nothing had changed or moved. He pulled  a
remote control out of a pocket while keeping his eyes on the crack. "Fire in the
hole," he said softly, then ducked down and pressed a button.

A loud  explosion, magnified  by the  walls of  the cleft  and the  sides of the
hollow, blasted out over  the land. The force  of the concussion almost  knocked
Bass from  his perch,  even though  he had  a several-foot-thick  slab of basalt
between himself and the explosion. He regained his balance and listened. All  he
heard was the sound of falling rocks  and gravel. He gave the worst of  the dust
kicked up by the  explosion a moment to  begin to settle, then  stood and looked
back into the bowl. Its uneven floor was covered with rock fragments. Across the
hollow, the explosion had  opened a second fissure  in the rock, and  a wedge of
basalt had dropped down to fill it in.

"So that's why you wanted us to bring chemical explosives," vanden Hoyt said  as
he rejoined Bass.

"Satchel charge,"  Bass replied.  "A long  time ago  Marines called them 'bunker
busters.' I knew this area  was riddled with caves and  that we'd need a way  to
close them. Sometimes old methods are still very useful."

"You do think they're in caves, don't you?"

Bass nodded. "The string-of-pearls  saw a lot more  people enter this area  than
left it. Our people haven't seen any sign of people on the surface. They must be
underground." He cocked his  head at the lieutenant.  "I pulled tunnel rat  duty
once on Minh. It's a really nasty job.  If we go down after them, we have  to be
prepared to lose a lot of field police. If we were all Marines, we could do  it.
Even though we outnumber the rebels by more than two to one and our Marines  are
in  chameleons, most  of our  people are  FPs. We  could very  easily lose  this
fight."

"Well, we better get our people started finding cave entrances."

Bass nodded. He knew he was going to hate this.


"C-C-Commander," the panting runner reported, "the Confederation Marines and the
oligarchs' troops have sealed the entrance to San Juan."

Hing kept  his face  bland. This  was bad  news; he'd  lost his best observation
spot. It also might mean the enemy knew his brigade was in the caves. "How  deep
did they seal it?"

"To a depth of at least three meters. Commander. They used explosives. A slab of
roof fell into the tunnel."

Hing knew explosives were  used; he'd felt the  tremor. But a slab  of rock that
big... If the Marines or the Feldpolizei occupied San Juan, he wouldn't be  able
to eavesdrop on them through that thickness of rock.

"Have they occupied any of the other observation posts?"

The runner shook his head. "Commander, all I know about is San Juan is blocked."

Hing ordered the runner to return to his post, then leaned back in his chair  to
think for a moment. Abruptly, he sat erect and started giving commands.

"We must assume  they know we  are in caves,"  he began. "Since  they sealed San
Juan instead  of entering  it, either  they are  going to  try to  seal all  the
entrances to this complex and hope we  die that* way, or they want to  seal some
so they can enter through the remainder and try to kill us directly. Unseal  the
escape tunnels. We'll seal them back up on  our way out. If they get in, we  can
be waiting for them  when they come back  out. And we have  our little surprises
..."

Lieutenant Pincote smiled, revealing her pointed teeth. She was delighted at the
prospect of loosing  the wolves on  the unsuspecting lackeys  and their Marines.
She still wasn't moving with full freedom, but the synthskin was grafting  well.
Medic Cildair had agreed she was ready to return, if not to full field duty.

Hing almost glared at her. "You will  not release the wolves until I direct  you
to," he snapped. "When you do,  you will report directly back to  me immediately
afterward."

Pincote's grin  slipped only  a little  before she  nodded acknowledgment of the
order.


The next morning, Bass was struggling with the radio to coordinate the movements
of all the platoons  and sections as they  moved into position to  blow the cave
entrances they weren't going to enter. But a massive solar flare was messing  up
the  ionosphere.  The Marine  squad-leader  company commanders  had  radios that
relayed signals through the string-of-pearls, but the only communication he  had
with the  other Marines  was line-of-sight-and  the terrain  prevented him  from
having line-of-sight communications with more than a few of them. He had to have
the string-of-pearls relay  his signals back  to the platoon  and shift leaders,
but those Marines couldn't  signal back to him  the same way; they  had to relay
through their company HQ units. Coordination was difficult.

Vanden Hoyt was poring over the small  bits of data he'd been able to  locate on
the subsurface  structure of  that patch  of badlands,  leaching out  any bit of
information he could pass on that would help the Marines and their men when they
went underground. A call came in over the high-command net.

"Well, I'll be," Bass muttered as he  listened to the gist of the message.  Then
into the radio he said, "Wait one  for the Six Actual." He turned toward  vanden
Hoyt. "Ensign, you gotta hear this."

The two Marines and their FP  counterparts listened to the new orders  that came
over the scrambled circuit, then looked  at each other in stunned silence  for a
long moment.

Finally, vanden Hoyt took the  radio handset. "We're patched through  the string
of-pearls?" he asked.  Bass nodded, and  vanden Hoyt said  into the radio,  "All
Hen, Chick, and Peep Actuals, this is Henhouse Actual. All Hen, Chick, and  Peep
Actuals up. I say again, all  Marines report to the Henhouse. Leave  your Chicks
and Peeps in place. They are to  take no offensive action in your absence;  they
may take defensive action only. Chick  and Peep Actuals acknowledge to your  Hen
Actuals. Hen Actuals acknowledge to me  once your Chicks and Peeps are  on their
way." He gave  the handset back  to the radioman.  "Well, what do  you know," he
said softly.

Bass simply  shook his  head. Then  they settled  back to  wait. It would take a
couple of hours or more for all the Marines to arrive.



CHAPTER TWENTY

Brigadier Sturgeon's  landcar wound  its way  slowly up  the long  road to  Kurt
Arschmann's villa. The drive reminded Claypoole  of the first visit he had  made
there with the  Brigadier shortly after  their arrival on  Wanderjahr. Commander
Peters  had  been with  them  then. How  long  ago that  seemed  now. This  time
Ambassador Spears sat next  to the brigadier. And  this time the entire  Council
would be gathered at Arschmann's villa to hear the ambassador and the  brigadier
give their final report on the 34th FIST'S mission to Wanderjahr.

Claypoole's mind drifted back to Maggie again. He never mentioned her to  anyone
anymore, not even  to Dean, but  he was always  thinking of her,  wondering what
would have happened if she hadn't been killed. What was her real name?  Goddamn,
he couldn't  even remember  it! His  face turned  red with  suppressed rage  and
frustration. They'd  never found  her killer.  To young  Lance Corporal  Rachman
Claypoole, that was  probably the one  piece of unfinished  business the Marines
would leave on Wanderjahr.

Dean sat in the rearmost seat, gazing back down the road. It was a beautiful day
on Wanderjahr. The windows of the  taller buildings in the heart of  Brosigville
glinted in the early-moming sunlight. He'd  come to like the place, despite  the
tragedy that had plagued it in  recent months, because it was where  Hway lived,
and though he'd be leaving very soon  and would most likely never see the  young
woman again, the thought of her warmed him.                       .

Ambassador Jay Benjamin Spears pulled  contemplatively at his beard, not  paying
much attention to the  passing countryside. His beard  was full of gray  and the
once-dark mat  of hair  on his  head was  very thin  and streaked with gray. The
Confederation Council had  already approved his  request for retirement,  and he
was thinking ahead to settling down and enjoying his remaining years. He was not
thinking of  the unpleasant  business that  would present  itself in  only a few
minutes. He knew what had to be done, and he would do it. He patted the document
folded in  a breast  pocket and  then turned  his thoughts  back to  a future of
hunting rare books and maps in exotic cities.

Commissioner Alois Landser  sat beside Chief  Long. He was  dressed in his  most
splendid uniform that morning,  as befit a momentous  occasion. He knew now  who
had been  responsible for  his brother's  death, and  he was  going to  see that
justice was done to  that person. A tiny  rivulet of perspiration trickled  down
the left side of his face.

Chief  Hugh  Long lounged  in  his seat.  He'd  met some  truly  fine people  on
Wanderjahr and taken care of some very nasty ones. That was his job. The morning
would be a superb finish to a  very difficult mission. Some eggs would still  be
broken, but-he shrugged mentally-they were bad eggs anyway.

Brigadier Ted Sturgeon sat stiffly in his seat, staring ahead at the road as  it
unwound. By then Arschmann's villa was clearly visible. The rays of the  morning
sun illuminated its walls brilliantly. He  thought back to the morning he'd  met
Lorelei Keutgens here,  and of the  sunlit garden behind-Arschmann's  conference
room that wafted such a beautiful aroma through the open windows. They had  come
a long way since then, he reflected bitterly. But now it was over, and he  would
do his duty this morning as he had done it every morning all his adult life.

The parking lot was full of  landcars when the brigadier's party drove  up. They
dismounted  and entered  the villa.  "Keep your  weapons ready,"  the  brigadier
whispered to Dean and Claypoole. Commissioner Landser smiled.

* * *

The composition of  the Wanderjahrian Ruling  Council had changed  significantly
since  Kurt  Arschmann  had  convinced  it  to  ask  for  assistance  from   the
Confederation  of  Worlds.  Turbat   Nguyen-Multan  was  now  light-years   from
Wanderjahr,  facing the  rest of  his life  in prison.  Gretel Siebensberg   was
represented by her chief minister, until her estate could be settled and  passed
on to some successor. Death, by natural causes, had come to Oligarch Mannlicher,
so Carmago Kampot Khong, as heir apparent, had succeeded to his position on  the
Council.

The oligarchs sat  expectantly about the  Council table, waiting  for Ambassador
Spears to make the  special statement that had  brought them together that  fine
morning. With  the great  successes the  Feldpolizei had  been enjoying recently
over the bandits, there was no doubt in any of their minds that he was going  to
formally announce that  the Marines' mission  had been a  total success. Already
the  Marines  were  beginning  to  turn  the  Peldpolizei  GSBs  back  to  their
commanders, and the Marines responsible  for training them were about  to return
to Brosigville's port, preparatory to their departure.

The table had been arranged so that Chairman Arschmann sat with his back to  the
window that looked out over his  formal gardens. The window was open.  The other
oligarchs sat on either side of their chairman. Brigadier Sturgeon and his party
were escorted into the  chamber by the secretary  who had recently replaced  the
dead Kalat Uxmal.

The party bowed respectfully toward the oligarchs, and while Brigadier  Sturgeon
and Ambassador  Spears remained  standing, the  others took  seats opposite  the
conference table.

"Chairman Arschmann,  Mrs. Keutgens,  gentlemen," Ambassador  Spears began.  "On
behalf of the Confederation  of Worlds, I wish  to announce that our  mission to
secure the safety and peace of  the people of Wanderjahr is formally  ended." He
was interrupted by applause from the  oligarchs. "We have a few details  to work
out before we can withdraw our forces, but essentially the Feldpolizei is now  a
fully  trained,  fully  equipped  combat  force  capable  of  ensuring  that the
rebellion that has plagued your world does not break out again." More  applause.
"Next week representatives of the Peoples Liberation Army will appear before you
to negotiate a settlement."

This statement was followed by amazed silence. They had not been informed  about
that in the periodic situation briefings Brigadier Sturgeon had given them  over
the  past  months. Chairman  Arschmann  broke the  silence.  "But you  said  the
rebellion has been crushed. Why do we need to negotiate with anybody?"

"Because you will," Ambassador  Spears answered. "The guerrilla  commanders have
agreed to lay down their arms providing you grant them certain concessions."  He
pulled the folded  piece of paper  out of his  pocket and handed  it to Chairman
Arschmann, who  read it  quickly and,  a look  of profound  disgust on his face,
passed it to Lorelei Keutgens as if it were a poisonous reptile. "This is a most
irregular demand, Mr. Ambassador," he  almost shouted, turning red in  the face.
"Most irregular-and illegal!"

Ambassador Spears smiled  and nodded. "Yes,  it is irregular,  Mr. Chairman. And
considering the finer points of interplanetary law, it may also be, as you  say,
'illegal.' But I  don't give a  good goddamn. Your  granting these demands  will
save many  lives and  restore peace  to this  world. That's  why you're going to
grant them. But did you seriously think you could use the Confederation  Marines
to  shore  up  this  medieval fiefdom  you've  created  for  yourselves here  on
Wanderjahr?" He fixed an icy stare  upon the Council members, his face  suddenly
flushed with righteous anger. "You are a collection of greedy throwbacks to  the
days of the Hanseatic League. Your ancestors exploited the homeless and poor  of
Old Earth's most unfortunate populations  to settle this world, and  ever since,
you have held  these people in  virtual thrall to  your own economic  interests.
That is now over."

Carmago Khong stood up. "And it  is about time!" he said loudly.  "These bandits
are our own children, some of them. I've said all along, Kurt, Lori, all of you,
that  we  should   have  negotiated  with   them  instead  of   calling  in  the
Confederation! Well, now we  will, and I say  it's a good thing  for Wanderjahr.
Thank you, Mr. Ambassador." He sat down.

"You cannot enforce this outrageous demand!" Arschmann shouted.

"We can and we will," Brigadier Sturgeon announced. A shadow cast itself  across
the conference table as a man appeared in the window just behind Arschmann. With
the bright sunlight streaming in from behind the figure, it was a solid black to
the seated oligarchs, but there was no doubt the man was a combat-loaded Marine,
blaster at port arms. He leaped lightly  to the floor and stood just behind  and
slightly to the left of Chairman Arschmann.

Captain Thomas, commander  of the landing  party, was followed  by forty of  his
men. Silently they  took up positions  behind the seated  oligarchs. Just before
first light they had  landed by hopper a  few kilometers from Arschmann's  villa
and marched unseen into the woods on the other side of the garden, where  they'd
remained silently in hiding until a signal from the Denver had alerted them that
the brigadier was approaching the main entrance to the palace.

"With the redeployment of my men from the field, I now have the combat  strength
to ensure that these negotiations proceed successfully," the brigadier said.  "I
warn all of you that any resistance to the peace process will be met with force.
And one more thing. By  next week those of you  who do not now have  Peldpolizei
garrisons  in  your Staats  will  have them,  and  you will  cooperate  with the
garrison commanders to ensure the peace is kept." This was directed  principally
at Klaus  von Hauptmann  and Turbat  Nguyen-Multan's factor,  a hulking, totally
bald man named Bu Lon, who was representing Multan's interests until a successor
could be found to replace him.

There was a roar from outside the  conference room as two hoppers landed on  the
lawns in front of the main entrance to the building. Voices sounded, shouting in
alarm, and people could be heard running through the corridors of the  building.
The proceedings in  the Council chamber  halted for a  few seconds and  then the
doors burst open and in  marched Lieutenant Constantine with Shift  Leader Lyies
and a group  of Brosigville city  police, escorting three  tightly manacled men.
Chief Long and Commissioner Landser stood  up. They moved forward to the  center
of  the room  while Brigadier  Sturgeon and  Ambassador Spears  took the  chairs
they'd just vacated. The four had choreographed the move carefully to achieve  a
no-fooling, parade ground effect.

Claypoole turned to Dean and sighed.  They both relaxed. With the appearance  of
the police and Marines, there would now  be no need for the side arms  they were
carrying. Claypoole decided to get himself transferred back to the company ASAP;
he was getting mighty tired of being Brigadier Sturgeon's point man.

"I absolutely refuse to be  surprised by anything anymore today,"  Oligarch Hans
Rauscher said, and sighed wearily.

"Kurt  Arschmann,"  Chief  Long  said formally,  "as  the  chief  police officer
representing the attorney general of the Confederation of Worlds in this  sector
of Human Space, I hereby place you under arrest." A gasp rose from the oligarchs
at  this announcement.  "You are  being charged  with the  attempted murder   of
Commander Ralph Peters,  a citizen of  the Confederation and  an officer of  the
Confederation Marine Corps who was on  official duty in the Staat of  Morgenluft
on Samstag, the fourth day of the month of..."

Two Marines  grabbed Arschmann  and hauled  him to  his feet.  They dragged  him
around the conference table and shoved  him into the arms of the  waiting police
officers. He screamed and cursed and  struggled all the way. Calmly, Chief  Long
finished his statement of charges.

"Kurt, you bastard! I knew it was you all along!" Lorelei Keutgens screamed.

"I simply refuse to be further surprised anymore today," Hans Rauscher muttered.

"Madame." Chief Long bowed toward  the matriarch. "His chief accomplice  was one
of your very own ministers. He is here now," he nodded toward the three men  the
police officers had brought in with them, "and we have his full confession."

"Madame."  Commissioner Landser  made a  sweeping bow  before Lorelei  Keutgens,
nearly touching  the floor  with his  right arm.  "As the  chief law enforcement
officer  of Arschland,  I wish  to announce,  most respectfully,  that I  hereby
arrest you for the bombing of  the Marine headquarters that was responsible  for
the deaths of thirty-seven of our citizens." The remaining oligarchs gasped, and
the blood drained from Lorelei Keutgens's  face. "And also I arrest you  for the
murder of Gretel  Siebensberg and her  people." The blood  now rushed back  into
Lorelei's face and her eyes blazed  in fierce anger. Watching her from  where he
sat. Brigadier Sturgeon thought he'd never seen a woman so alive and beautiful.

"You have  no proof  and you  have no  jurisdiction over  me," Lorelei answered,
keeping her voice under control with difficulty.

"Madame, do you recognize that man, the short one in the gray tunic? You should.
He is in your employ. He set the bomb and we have his full confession. You  were
visiting Arschland the day the bomb was planted. In fact, you met with Brigadier
Sturgeon and Ambassador  Spears in this  very room that  day. That man  was your
driver on  the occasion.  Through him  we identified  the men  in the party that
murdered Mother Siebensberg, and  they are also in  custody. We brought the  man
along this morning so he could tell your colleagues about his part in the plot."

Landser smiled. "We were able to identify the man because Lance Corporal  Dean,"
he nodded  toward the  Marine, "smelled  explosives residue  on him  the morning
Ambassador Spears and Brigadier Sturgeon met with you and Chairman Arschmann  in
this very room."

"Brigadier!" Lorelei shouted. "Ted, this-this  popinjay is out of his  mind! You
won't let him arrest me, will you?"

Brigadier Sturgeon  did not  answer. Instead  he nodded  to Captain  Thomas, who
gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

"You have no jurisdiction!" she shouted.

"I don't need any,  ma'am," the captain replied  quietly. He put one  hand under
her arm and gently levered  the woman to her feet.  A Marine took her other  arm
and together they escorted her into the arms of the waiting police officers.

Hans  Rauscher,  who  was delighted  at  the  morning's surprising  developments
because they meant now  he could relax and  enjoy life so long  as he cooperated
with the  new regime,  turned to  Manfred Kaiserstuhl,  sitting beside  him, and
whispered, "Manny, wake me when me current rash of surprises is over, will you?"

"Gentlemen." Klaus von Hauptmann  spoke for the first  time. "We require a  full
explanation of these  charges. You can't  just barge in  here, make allegations,
and haul off the members of this Council like-like common criminals." Privately,
von Hauptmann was very thankful he hadn't been charged with anything, since he'd
cooperated with Turban Nguyen-Multan on several smuggling enterprises.  Oligarch
Max  Picker, sitting  just to  von Hauptmann's  right, smiled  to himself.  He'd
always left business to his factor,  and the other oligarchs, he knew,  despised
him as  a mere  playboy. Well,  let them  fume and  fuss over  all this mess, he
thought. First thing next week he would depart on a long vacation, far away from
Wanderjahr, some world where there  were plenty of sun-warmed beaches,  casinos,
and unattached women.

"Sir," Chief Long answered, "our entire investigation will be made available  to
you,  and every  stage of  the legal  proceedings will  be open  to full  public
scrutiny. And, sir, I've arrested 'common criminals' all my life, and these  two
make most of them look like decent. God-fearing citizens."

Commissioner Landser stepped over to where the policemen were putting the  cuffs
on  Lorelei  Keutgens.  "Madame,"  he  said to  her  quietly,  "I  have  all the
'jurisdiction' I need to arrest you for crimes committed here in Arschland,  and
when we are finished with you, I will turn you over to the authorities in  Fried
land. I understand why  you bombed the Marine  headquarters, but may I  ask, why
did you feel it necessary to murder poor old Gretel Siebensberg?"

"I murdered no one!" Lorelei shouted defiantly, wincing as the arresting officer
double-locked the cuffs on her wrists.  "But I'll tell you what, you  ridiculous
little fop.  That Bible-thumping  bitch was  a colossal  bore all  her life. And
you," she whirled on Kurt Arschmann, "I only regret I was unable to pay you back
for trying to kill  me and my family,  you bastard! What happened  to Gretel was
child's play compared to what I had in store for you."

Arschmann made a lopsided smile.  "Lori, we should've gotten married  after that
worthless husband of yours  died. We'd have made  a perfect team. As  it is," he
sighed in mock sorrow,  "maybe we can convince  Commissioner Landser to give  us
adjoining cells. We could scratch each other to death through the bars."

"No chance. You go offworld," Chief Long rumbled. "She stays here." He nodded to
the policemen to escort the prisoners back to Brosigville.

"Wait! One moment, please," Lorelei said. She twisted around and fixed her  gaze
on Brigadier  Sturgeon. "Ted,  may I  say something  to you  in private?  Just a
moment, please?" The  brigadier hesitated, and  then walked over  to Lorelei and
lowered his head to  hear her. "Ted," she  whispered in his ear,  "I never meant
you or your men any harm. What I  did I did for the good of Morgenluft,  not for
myself. Will you see that Hway and the children are looked after?"

He straightened up  and stared at  her for a  moment, contemplating briefly  the
possibilities the woman had presented to him. He shook his head. She belonged in
jail. "The  Council will  take care  of your  family," he  replied coldly before
making a tired gesture toward the police officers, who led her away. Wearily, he
took his seat. "Finish it off, will you. Jay?" he said to Ambassador Spears.

"Gentlemen," Spears announced, "there is one more piece of unfinished  business.
With  Chairman  Arschmann, uh,  out  of circulation,  the  Council needs  a  new
chairman. We will spare you the difficulty of picking someone. Your new chairman
is the  Honorable Carmago  Kampot Khong.  He has  our full  backing and you will
cooperate with him in every way. The guerrilla delegation is due here  tomorrow.
I suggest you consider seriously how best to meet their terms.

"These proceedings are now ended."

* * *

"So?" Chairman Khong  asked. He was  sharing a nightcap  with Brigadier Sturgeon
and Chief Long in his hotel suite. "Did you pull a fast one on us?"

The brigadier smiled. "Tell him." He nodded at Chief Long.

"No, sir, we did not," the chief  responded. "It just took us a while  to figure
it all out. I must say, it was Alois who broke the case for us. He has his spies
and informants everywhere, and it was through them we put the finger on the  men
who acted on behalf of the oligarchs."

Chairman Khong raised an eyebrow. "Well, I surely hope he doesn't employ any  of
those people in my service."

"He probably does," Chief Long answered, and they all laughed. "You know,  Alois
and Lorelei Keutgens both  had me fooled. At  first I thought Alois  couldn't do
anything but strut. And  with Lori, well, I  really thought we could  trust that
woman. She was so ... so ..."

"Charming," Brigadier  Sturgeon said.  "Yes, 'charming';  she charmed  me all to
hell." He grimaced. "And Ambassador Spears." They were all reminded of the story
about the ambassador's marriage proposal and laughed again.

"And me too, gentlemen," Khong added, "and I've known her a lot longer than  any
of you." He shook his head.

"She and Arschmann were in deadly  competition for power on this planet,"  Chief
Long said. "Arschmann conceived the idea of getting us to intervene, to clear up
the problem with  the guerrillas while  he eliminated his  competitors among you
oligarchs. He was the first one to realize it was Lori who tried to wipe out the
Marines' headquarters. She too wanted us to take a swipe at the guerrillas,  get
them out of the way while she worked on her real competition. And then Arschmann
tried to get rid of her."

"And  Lori had  Gretel murdered?  It's hard  to believe  her capable  of such  a
crime," Khong mused, sipping from his wineglass.

"Well, she knew all along it was Arschmann who'd attacked her, but Gretel was  a
vulnerable target. Lori set  the massacre up so  we'd pin it on  the guerrillas.
She knew we'd see  through the ruse eventually,  but she thought we'd  blame the
massacre on Arschmann  since it didn't  take us long  to conclude he'd  attacked
Morgenluft. It did look at first as if he was methodically eliminating the other
members of the Council. But the evidence hanging that deed on the guerrillas was
so transparent once we began to look into it that I think she planned all  along
that we'd pin it  on Arschmann. Who'd ever  suspect her? Clever woman.  We never
suspected her until Kalat Uxmal spilled  the beans to Alois, just before  he was
murdered. Kurt  knew he  was spying  for the  guerrillas all  along, but when he
discovered the man was also Landser's  informant, he had him silenced. We  don't
know who the triggermen were,  but we know Arschmann ordered  the assassination.
Proving that will be difficult, but we already have all we need to put him  away
on other charges."

Chairman Khong shook his head and looked into his wineglass.

"And do you know  something?" Chief Long said.  "Lori's code name was  Zitze, an
Old German word meaning  'teat.' Before he was  killed, Uxmal told Alois  it was
'Zitze' who'd pulled off the bombing.  And that guerrilla spy who was  killed in
the warehouse  fight, Garth,  he knew  too and  tipped us  when he  said it  was
'Tildes'  who'd  done  the  bombing.  We  just  didn't  catch  on  for  a while.
Incredible, isn't it?"

"They never liked each other, Lori and Gretel, you know?" Khong said. "Then  who
was it who shot at the two Marines in the bar that morning?"

"That was a guerrilla sniper-assassination team," Sturgeon answered. "We haven't
told either of the two Marines involved.  I think it's better they just put  the
experience behind them, especially now that they're going to have to respect the
guerrilla peace commissioners.  The PLAjust wanted  to poison relations  between
the local people and my men. It's an old terrorist strategy."

"I have a cousin with them," Khong  admitted. "As you know, I rose from  dirt to
be Mannlicher's factor and then a member  of the Council. Multan and I were  the
only  non-German Wanderjahrians  ever to  have been  admitted that  high in  the
government here. Multan made it by ruthlessly carving out an empire in  Porcina,
an out-of-the-way Staat nobody gave a  damn about until mule came along.  I made
it  because  old  Mannlicher, he  was  not  like the  other  German  families on
Wanderjahr. He  believed men  should be  given a  chance to  prove themselves by
running their own lives. That's what the PLA say they want. Tomorrow we'll  find
out how sincere they are about it."

Then Carmago  Khong snapped  his fingers,  remembering something.  "That Council
meeting, when we voted to ask the  Confederation to send you here to help  us-do
you know  what Lori  said then?  She said  that inviting  you to come here would
change everything for us, and she didn't know if that was a good thing or a  bad
thing. Evidently she thought it would be good for her. But damn, she was right!

"Gentlemen, let us make a toast, shall we?" He raised his glass. "To change!" he
shouted. The word seemed to echo in the room for a long time after the toast was
drunk.


Later that  night, before  saying his  good-byes. Brigadier  Sturgeon turned  to
Chairman Khong. "I have one question for you, Mr. Chairman. Who's going to  take
over Lori's government? Just curious."

"Ah, under  our laws  the firstborn  of the  same parents automatically inherits
their estates when both  predecease. But since Lori's  only son is dead,  it all
devolves on his firstborn offspring. That would be young Hway. The actual  reins
of  government will  remain in  the hands  of a  regent until  she attains   her
majority at age twenty-five. Until then  she'll be carefully coached in the  art
of statecraft and  the business of  managing the Staat  of Morgenluft. Then  she
will sit  with us  on the  Council. She  is a  beautiful and  accomplished young
woman, Brigadier."

"Yes, Mr. Chairman, so  I've heard, so I've  heard." Goddamn, he thought.  Lance
Corporal Dean has seduced an oligarch!



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It took two and a half hours for all the Marines to assemble in the hollow peak.
They took off their helmets as they sat so they could be more easily seen.  Bass
and vanden  Hoyt refused  even to  hint to  the early  arrivals why  they'd been
called away from preparations to find the guerrillas. So some of them had to sit
and stew until  Bladon, Goudanis, and  Lonsdorf showed up.  They hadn't had  the
farthest to travel,  but three deep  ravines had slowed  them down considerably.
They were drenched with  sweat when they finally  clambered over the lip  of the
hollow.

Corporal Bladon saw  immediately that they  were the last  ones in. "What's  up,
boss?" he asked brightly despite his weariness.

Bass and vanden Hoyt looked at each other. They hadn't discussed who should give
the news to the men. Bass made  a gesture deferring to the officer. Vanden  Hoyt
nodded and looked briefly at each of the Marines of the third platoon before  he
spoke.

"I want you all  to know," he began  slowly, "that I think,  Staff Sergeant Bass
and I think, that you've done an outstanding job with the 257th Feldpolizei."

There were  a few  murmurs and  the Marines  glanced at  each other. This didn't
sound like a briefing for the operation they were about to launch. Most of  them
thought there was something ominous about what vanden Hoyt was saying. It was as
though he was disagreeing with someone else's opinion of their performance. They
steeled themselves for the bad news coming.

"Two months ago," vanden Hoyt continued, "you began working with a  paramilitary
unit  that  suffered  from  low  morale,  defective  tactics,  and,"  he glanced
apologetically at the Wanderjahrian  officers present, "poor leadership.  During
these  two months  you gave  the 257th  strong leadership,  taught them  winning
tactics,  and  raised their  morale.  You have  turned  them into  an  effective
fighting force. I salute  you. Marines." He put  his words to action-he  came to
attention and saluted the  men of third platoon.  He studied them for  a moment,
those thirty Confederation Marines. He and Charlie Bass were the only ones above
the  rank  of  three-stripe  sergeant.  Most of  the  men  were  PFCs  and lance
corporals, junior enlisted men. But they had served in positions far above  they
pay grades, and they had performed magnificently. He felt honored that his first
command as a Marine officer was of a unit so good. It didn't cross his mind that
during the  same two  months, he  and his  platoon sergeant  had functioned as a
battalion commander  and executive  officer, several  positions above  their own
ranks.

"Our operation is concluded. Hostilities were declared ended at 0930 hours  this
morning."

Pandemonium  broke  out  as  the Marines  jumped  to  their  feet. Some  shouted
questions, others hooted in glee, more shook each other's hands and pounded each
other's backs. Most of  them were glad the  operation was over before  they went
into  the  caves;  they  knew  how deadly  that  would  have  been.  A few  were
disappointed; they'd wanted  to see how  well their FPs  would function in  this
harrowing type of operation.

Bass  bellowed  and silence  thumped  down on  the  hollow. "Some  of  you asked
questions in that melee," Bass said.  "Well, if you'll shut up and  listen, I've
got some answers." He glowered at them, but the glower was a facade,  disguising
how proud he was of his men's performance. "Third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST,
is one of the best outfits I've served with in my twenty-plus years as a Marine.
But," he shook his head, "it wasn't  us who won this campaign." He paused  for a
moment to allow the men to express their disbelief. "You're not going to want to
believe this," he  held up a  hand to get  their attention again,  "but it was a
bunch of headquarters pukes who won it."

There were shouts and howls from the  men, but Bass raised his voice and  talked
over them. "FIST HQ,  in cooperation with the  civilian police experts who  came
with us,  conducted a  comprehensive investigation.  They also  managed to  make
contact and open discussions with the highest levels of the PLA leadership.  The
guerrillas weren't responsible for all the troubles that were going on. At  0930
hours this morning,  Brigadier Sturgeon and  Chief Long arrested  Ruling Council
Chairman Arschmann and Oligarch  Keutgens for various crimes,  including treason
and the attempted murder of Confederation citizens. The brigadier and the  chief
laid  down new  rules, which  the remaining  oligarchs agreed  to. Peace   talks
between the Ruling Council and the PLA are scheduled to begin. We're through."

Bass stood arms akimbo, looking at his  men. Aside from a few grimaces, the  men
didn't express any of the disgust or chagrin he was afraid they might about  the
"headquarters pukes" winning the campaign.

"You did an outstanding  job. Marines. And you  gave the proper authorities  the
opportunity they needed to do what they had to to win this thing.

"Now, I want you to  go back to your units  and pull them back from  the assault
positions. Bring them to the designated rally point north of these badlands. Oh,
and you may as well turn command back to the regular shift sergeants and platoon
and  company  officers.  We  no  longer  have  commissions  in  the   Wanderjahr
Feldpolizei. They  were canceled  when peace  was declared.  Squad leaders, stay
behind for a moment."


"Commander,"  the  Che Loi  Brigade's  intelligence officer  said.  "All of  our
observation and listening posts have reported in. I know where nearly all of the
Feldpolizei are, though where the Confederation Marines are isn't fully  clear."
He pressed a button on the console to bring up the situation map. The  entrances
to the underground were  marked on the map.  Not all of the  entrances went into
the  part of  the cave  complex the  guerrillas used.  The intelligence  officer
pushed another button and a red X  appeared on more than half of the  entrances.
"We believe they are about to block those entrances with explosives." He  pushed
another  button.  Red  circles  appeared  outside  other  entrances.  "Those are
Feldpolizei sections. All  indications are that  they will enter  the complex at
those locations."

Hing studied the map  briefly and nodded. About  half of the marked  cave mouths
led into short tunnels or single  chambers rather than into the complex  itself.
Fully half of the entrances to  the complex proper weren't marked at  all. "They
are going to have  a very difficult time,"  he said. "Especially when  they meet
the weapon they don't know we  have." He looked at Lieutenant Pincote.  "Release
the wolves," he said. "And report back to me immediately."

Pincote bared her pointed teeth in  a tight grin. "Yes, Commander." And  she was
gone.

Hing turned  his attention  to the  communications officer.  "Do we have contact
with anybody yet?"

"No, Commander. The ionosphere is still too disrupted for signals to bounce, and
we haven't been  able to break  the ciphers that  would allow us  to utilize the
Confederation's string-of-pearls."

Hing grimaced. He would  have liked to be  able to communicate with  the outside
world, but it  wasn't that important.  Outside communications wouldn't  make any
difference in the coming fight. His nearly three hundred freedom fighters  would
be  enough  to defeat  the  three hundred  Feldpolizei  and their  Confederation
Marines. His three hundred fighters and the wolf pack.


First squad, minus Sergeant Hyakowa, headed southwest toward where they had left
their FPs.  Four kilometers  from the  hollowed peak  the guerrillas  called San
Juan, they  reached Van  Impe's section  and dropped  him off  in its thicket of
unsightly conifers. The position overlooked  a cave entrance into a  long ridge.
The cave  mouth couldn't  be seen  from the  position because  of the trees, but
patches of the ridge wall were  visible through breaks in the forest.  The three
fire team leaders  split off there  as well to  continue on to  their platoon HQ
groups.

A few hundred meters  farther Schultz said, "Let's  look for more cave  mouths,"
and angled closer to the ridge they-were paralleling.

"Why?" MacIlargie objected. "Why  do we need to  look for more, we  found all of
them. Besides,  the operation's  off." Schultz  continued looking  at the  ridge
face. "Because this is a big area," Chan said patiently. "There's not many of us
and we didn't have much time. We're  bound to have missed some." He didn't  want
to look for more cave mouths any more than MacIlargie did, but if the guerrillas
hadn't gotten the word about cessation  of hostilities, some of them might  come
out looking for the Marines or the FPs. As long as the Marines were in the area,
they  had to  know all  the directions  danger might  come from.  And all  those
coniferlike things along  the face of  the ridge could  hide a lot  of openings.
Godenov and Doyle followed Schultz, but  MacIlargie looked as if he might  angle
away until Chan jabbed a thumb toward his own collar. Then he stuck his arm  out
to point the way. Chan was simply reminding the junior man that he had rank  and
MacIlargie had  to obey  his orders.  MacIlargie grumbled  but he followed. Chan
brought up the rear.

An almost clear  strip from four  to ten meters  wide ran along  the base of the
ridge where  running water  and rocks  falling from  above had  kept trees  from
taking root.

"Here's one," Schultz said when the others caught up with him. "Whose section is
this in?" The cave mouth had been obscured by a small line of grospalm  saplings
and a  rock overhang,  but it  was big  enough for  three men  to enter  abreast
without ducking. Schultz pulled a paper map from a shirt pocket and made a  mark
on  it. He  gave MacIlargie  an I-told-you-so  look. MacIlargie  looked  blandly
innocent.

Schultz moved out and the others trailed along.

Seventy-five meters farther, in a place  where the clear strip was eight  meters
wide, Schultz found another  cave mouth nobody had  seen. This one was  smaller,
only one man could walk through it at a time, but no trees blocked it at all. He
spat to the side in disgust. "I wonder how many more we didn't find."

Chan was horrified; it looked as if they hadn't found very many at all.

"What was that?" Doyle asked.

Chan didn't ask what, he simply listened and looked around. He saw the faces  of
a couple  of the  others hovering  in midair  above their  chameleons; they were
looking and listening. But the mass of coniferlike trees in front of him was  so
dense that he couldn't see more than a few meters into them.

The sound  came again.  A clipped  growl or  a short  bark. Maybe a low-register
chirp. Another basso profundo chirp answered it.

"What is that?" Doyle rasped.

Schultz hissed at him to be quiet.

A twig snapped, but not where the chirps were coming from.

"At least three," Chan said softly.

"Four," Schultz replied. Strain showed in his voice. He lifted his left hand  to
his helmet and lowered the chameleon screen. Of all the shields the Marines  had
in their  helmets, the  chameleon was  the one  they used  the least. All of the
others gave them information or aided their vision, but left their faces exposed
to view. The  chameleon screen hid  the face the  same as the  body, but it also
obscured  vision. Schultz  used his  less often  than most.  None of  the  other
Marines immediately thought of their chameleon screens.

There was a rustling of ground  cover that sounded closer than the  chirps. Chan
peered intently into the trees in the direction of the sound. After a moment  he
thought he saw  a shadow that  didn't look like  it belonged to  a tree, but  he
wasn't sure.

Doyle started to edge back toward  the cave mouth. Godenov noticed the  movement
and began backing up as well.

More rustling came from very close by and an egg-shaped head poked from  between
two conifers, about two-thirds of a meter long and hanging two meters above  the
ground. Its open mouth exposed rows of  sharp teeth. Its eyes were on the  front
of its face, like those of a tree-dweller-or a predator.

The animal stood  motionless for a  moment, apparently looking  for something to
its front. Then  it turned its  head to the  side and peered  for another moment
before turning  to the  other side  to look  again. It  moved its  head in sharp
jerks.  It stepped  forward once,  pushing its  way between  the trees.  It  was
similar to the tigers but stood  more erect, and its forelegs were  much bigger.
Each foreleg  ended in  a three-fingered  hand tipped  with sharply  pointed, in
curved  talons. Its  powerful hind  legs had  four-toed feet  with even   bigger
talons. A tapering tail more than two meters long jutted straight behind it.  It
began to walk forward, bobbing as it moved.

"Oh, shit," MacIlargie said softly.

The  wolf  froze  and  turned  its head  toward  the  sound.  It  seemed to  see
MacIlargie's face suspended in midair  two meters away, almost close  enough for
it to stretch out its neck  and snatch from the air. Nictitating  membranes slid
over  its eyes  and back,  as though   it was  trying to  clear its  vision.  It
stretched its  head forward  on a  neck thicker  than a  man's thigh. MacIlargie
blinked at the hot breath that swept over his face. This was a mysterious  thing
the wolf saw, a chunk  of meat hanging in the  air without moving like a  flier.
Its throat rippled and a deep chirp came out of its mouth.

Chan watched the animal and realized  it probably didn't have a sense  of smell.
It relied  totally on  sight and  sound. He  remembered then  the helmet-mounted
chameleon screens and carefully raised a hand to lower his. "Drop your chameleon
screens," he said as soon as his was on the way down.

The wolf flicked its head toward the new sound. It cocked its head at an  angle,
puzzled about not seeing anything where  the sound had come from. Then  movement
made it flick its head back toward the piece of meat hanging in the air. Another
piece of meat approached the first piece and made a downward movement. The first
piece of meat vanished. Then the second piece of meat dropped, disappearing long
before it reached the ground. The wolf stood erect, a full three meters high. It
blinked its nictitating membranes again.

"Slowly," Chan said quietly, "back toward the cave."

The wolf flicked  its head toward  the sound of  his voice and  lowered its body
back to its search posture. It opened its mouth wide and let out a bass caw.

The caw  was answered  by a  chorus of  chirps and  the thrashing of many bodies
rushing through  the coniferous  brush. A  half-dozen more  wolves thrust  their
heads and shoulders out of the trees.

The first  wolf's head  bobbed and  weaved, and  its throat  rippled and  rolled
rapidly as  it emitted  a series  of chirps  and caws.  Then it  lunged its head
forward and snapped at the air where it had seen MacIlargie's face disappear.

But MacIlargie had moved by then.

Doyle and Godenov were already inside the cave when Chan reached the cave mouth.
Chan dropped his infra shield into place under the chameleon screen so he  could
see the other Marines. One red blotch was within reach; it was MacIlargie.  Chan
grabbed his arm and  shoved him through the  cave mouth. Off balance  from being
manhandled, MacIlargie stumbled, his blaster clattered against the rock face  of
the ridge, and he grunted.

The wolves snapped their  heads toward the sound.  They all opened their  mouths
and cawed-they heard the sound of food.

"Inside," Schultz said to  Chan. "I'll cover." The  wolves scared him more  than
the tigers had. He had to defeat his fear ofWanderjahr's predators.

Hearing Schultz's  voice, one  wolf, perhaps  hungrier than  the others,  darted
toward it.

Schultz pressed the firing lever of his blaster and a bolt of plasma shot at the
charging beast.

The wolf screamed several octaves higher than its chirps and caws as the  plasma
bolt blasted into its shoulder. It tried to skitter to a stop, but the  momentum
of its three hundred kilos was too great and it slammed into the ridge.  Schultz
barely managed to dive out of the way of the charge. The wolf staggered from the
impact, then stood erect and shook itself. Smoke rose from its charred chest and
its right foreleg was  missing. The hide of  its neck and the  uncharred part of
its chest bubbled with  growing blisters, but it  didn't bleed from its  missing
shoulder; the  plasma had  cauterized the  wound. It  cawed loudly,  but the caw
sounded uncertain. Then it  took a wobbly step  and lunged toward where  Schultz
had hit the ground when he dove out of its way. Schultz rolled.

Chan had stopped  just inside the  cave mouth to  cover Schultz. He  hadn't been
able to fire when the wolf charged  because Schultz was in his line of  fire. He
hadn't shot  the animal  when Schultz  dove out  of the  way because  he thought
Schultz's hit would kill it. Then  he was frozen with disbelief when  the animal
stood up  and shook  off its  massive injuries.  When the  wolf made  its second
attack, Chan's first shot hit  it in the belly and  burned away the side of  its
abdominal wall. A loop of bowel dropped  to the ground and tripped the wolf.  It
raised its head as it began to  fall forward. Chan's second shot took it  in the
head, and momentarily the great beast was haloed in fire. It lifted its head  to
let out a cry of agony, but no sound came out of its seared lungs. Chan  clearly
heard bones  in its  skull pop  from the  heat of  the flames that enveloped its
head. The wolf crashed to the ground.

Schultz screamed. He'd rolled out of the way, but not far enough or fast enough.
The wolf s chin  smashed down onto his  legs and one stiletto  tooth pierced his
thigh. He struggled to free himself, but the animal's head was too heavy for him
to lift.

"Hang on, Hammer!" Chan shouted. "I'm coming." With two bounds he was  alongside
Schultz. He slung  his blaster on  his shoulder to  free both hands  to lift the
massive head. "Ow!" He jerked his hands off the blistering hot skull. "Hold  on,
buddy." Chan unslung his blaster and slipped it under the wolf's chin.  Grabbing
the blaster on either side of the head, he yanked upward.

Schultz grunted  in pain  as the  tooth pulled  free and  he scrambled  out from
underneath.

At first the other  wolves had watched with  passive interest while chirping  at
each other. But  when the first  wolf fell, they  began dancing toward  it. Then
Chan's voice got their attention and they advanced faster, cawing at each other,
their heads bobbing, flicking from side to side as they looked for the source of
the interesting sounds. Two of them tore  great gouts of flesh from the body  of
their  fallen  companion  and  swallowed  them  whole.  Another  snapped  at the
creature's feebly rising head, just missing Chan's hand.

Inside the  cave, Doyle  peered over  MacIlargie and  Godenov's shoulders as the
other wolves closed on  Chan and Schultz. Then  one of the wolves  moved between
the two Marines and the cave.

"We've got to help them," Doyle squeaked. He examined the situation. Two of  the
wolves were  eating the  dead one.  Two others  were bobbing  and flicking their
heads beyond it. One was edging around its far side.

"We kill this one,"  MacIlargie said. "Then they  can't get past it  and come in
here."

Doyle shook his  head even though  the other two  couldn't see the  gesture. "No
good. The Others'11 come  to eat it, and  then there'll be more  of them between
Chan and  Schultz and  here. We  have to  make this  one move."  The wolf edging
around the far end  of the dying wolf  was standing where Schultz  had lain, but
Doyle couldn't see the two Marines.

"That one," Doyle said. He pulled his sleeve down his arm so the other two could
see which wolf  he was pointing  at. It was  ten meters away.  "If we shoot him,
maybe that'll draw this one away."

"Okay."

"Right."

"Don't shoot until I say so. Maybe if we all hit it at the same time, we'll kill
it right away."

The nearest wolf,  the one blocking  the way for  Chan and Schultz,  was sidling
toward the cave mouth, trying to locate the source of the sounds coming from it.

Doyle  carefully sighted  on the  wolf, but  the sight  picture shook  from  his
trembling. He wondered if  it was possible to  miss a target that  big from this
short range.  He suspected  it was.,The  near wolf  was about  to stick its head
inside the cave; there was no more time.

"Now!" Doyle shouted. Three  bolts enveloped the wolf  in flame. A huge  hole in
its abdominal cavity, the wolf stood for a few seconds, then collapsed  straight
down.

The snout  of the  nearest wolf  was scorched  by a  bolt as  it shot  past. The
creature reared back and  screamed as the one  closing on Chan and  Schultz from
the other side jerked its head toward its newly dead companion and took  several
tentative steps in  its direction. The  two wolves nearest  the second dead  one
tore into its carcass.

But the wolf closest to the cave  stuck its head and shoulders inside to  locate
the source of the  unfamiliar sounds and the  heat. MacIlargie wound up  and hit
the wolf squarely on the snout with the muzzle of his blaster. The wolf screamed
and hopped backward, then lowered  its shoulders and stretched its  neck forward
in a fighting posture. It cawed.

"Kill it!"  Schultz shouted  as he  fired at  the wolf.  The other  Marines also
fired, and, totally engulfed in flames, it toppled over.

Chan dashed into the cave, half supporting Schultz. The five

Marines scurried five meters deeper inside.

"Now what?" Godenov asked, his voice shaking.

"Now we wait," Doyle said. "There are  three dead ones. The other four will  eat
their fill and go away. I hope."

"How's your leg?" Chan asked Schultz. He  pulled a glow-ball out of his pack  to
give him light to examine the injury.

"I'm all right,"  Schultz said. He  made motions to  push Chan away,  but didn't
push very hard.

Chan used his combat knife to cut away a flap of fabric on Schultz's trouser leg
so he could examine the bite. He whistled. Blood slowly oozed out of a four-inch
slit. Around it the  flesh of Schultz's leg  had blistered from the  heat of the
wolf's head. "If  we don't get  you to a  corpsman in a  hurry, that's going  to
infect," Chan said.

"We aren't going anywhere in a hurry," Schultz said.

"What do you mean?"

"Out there." Schultz nodded toward the cave entrance.

Chan looked. Outside, several wolves  were dashing about. He realized  then that
he'd been  hearing a  lot more  chirping than  before. "Damn!"  He stared at the
narrow bit of  the outside he  could see, then  said, "Wait here."  He stood and
took a couple  of steps toward  the opening. The  area in front  of the cave was
filled with wolves feeding on the  three they had killed. He backed  up, careful
not to make any noise.

"Schultz is right," he said.

Godenov looked at Doyle. "Now what do we do?"

"What do you mean asking me what we're going to do next?" Doyle squealed.

"You're a  corporal," MacIlargie  said. "You're  the only  NCO here.  That means
you're in charge."

Momentarily  panic-stricken, Doyle  looked at  the others.  Schultz was  clearly
disgusted, Chan seemed pained. MacIlargie and Godenov merely looked back at  him
waiting for  his orders-all  they knew  was that  Doyle was  the ranking man. He
might be a clerk instead of infantry, but he did have a Bronze Star.

Chan shook his head.  If nobody had mentioned  that, he, Chan, would  have taken
command. But now it was out in the open. "You've got the rank," he said. "You're
in command, Doyle."

Doyle swallowed. This  situation wasn't like  being in charge  of another clerk.
This was combat, or  it could be if  somebody-he-made a mistake. People's  lives
depended on the decisions of the man in charge in a combat situation. "Oh,  shit
. .." They weren't going to let him off, he could see that. He, Corporal  Doyle,
had to make the decisions.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"The wolves are out. Commander."  Pincote grinned around her pointed  teeth. Her
eyes glowed manically.

Hing  glanced  at  her. Satisfied  that  she  had obeyed  his  orders  to return
immediately, he almost dismissed her from his mind. "The rest of the brigade has
taken its combat positions and laid out its routes of withdrawal," he said. "You
will bring your company with me when  I retire to the southwest. I think  that's
where their major effort will come."

Pincote swelled her chest. It was only right, of course, that Commander Hing use
the company of his best officer to  take on the enemy's main thrust. She  didn't
swell her chest  from pride; gratitude  was unnecessary. No.  From the way  Hing
looked at her from time to time, she  knew he enjoyed the sight of her body.  So
she puffed out her chest to reward him for doing the right thing.

Hing didn't  notice Pincote's  chest, as  he was  focusing his  attention on the
reports he'd been receiving all  morning. The Feldpolizei hadn't launched  their
attack yet, and the sun was already nearing the zenith. Some of his  observation
posts  reported  that the  oligarchs'  men had  withdrawn  from their  positions
outside  the  cave entrances  through  which he  expected  them to  assault.  He
wondered why they hadn't yet destroyed  the many cave mouths they were  known to
have mined. He wished he had  communications with the outside. He wished  he was
able to intercept Peldpolizei communications. Well, wish in one hand and...

That was an unproductive train of thought. He stood "Assemble your company. Move
them out. I will meet you there."

"Yessir." Pincote swelled her chest again and raced from the command post to get
her fighters.


"There's really a lot of wolves out there?" Doyle asked.

Chan nodded glumly.

Doyle looked at the size of the tunnel they were in and remembered the wolf that
had started in after them. "They'll come in after us, won't they?"

Schultz spat to the side.

"Then we're going to have to find another way out of here."

Schultz spat again.

"That means we have to go deeper into this cave." Doyle gave the darkness behind
them a worried look.

Schultz had no more saliva to waste.

Chan looked apprehensively deeper into the cave. "I hate caves," he muttered.

"Anybody know  anything about  spekung-ah, spelunk-  uh, going  in caves?" Doyle
asked.

"We've all been in caves," Schultz said.

"Oh," Doyle  said brightly.  "Then we're  going to  be okay.  Since everybody is
experienced, do you  want to draw  straws or something  to decide who  leads the
way?"

MacIlargie and Godenov exchanged a look-they were beginning to get the idea that
not all corporals are created equal.

Favoring his injured leg, Schultz stood. "The leader's supposed to tell  someone
to take the point,"  he growled. He headed  into the tunnel, feeling  his way as
the darkness increased. He  wouldn't get out a  glowball to light the  way until
the tunnel made a turn, or until they squeezed through a spot too narrow for the
wolves to get through.

The others followed.


Time doesn't move at the same speed at night as it does during the day-just  ask
anybody who's ever spent a night  on a defensive line, knowing there  were enemy
forces out there somewhere, waiting for  the beginning of an attack he  wouldn't
be able to see coming.  Neither does it move at  the same speed in a  cave. Dark
time is slow-time no matter what way you cut it. So the ten minutes it took  the
five of them to get  from the tunnel just inside  the cave mouth, through a  man
made baffle that allowed people to  pass but kept out man-size animals,  past an
unoccupied checkpoint  to a  chamber with  a rock-littered  floor, seemed  a lot
longer, especially since they were also  on the alert for booby traps.  That ten
minutes was  long enough  for Chan  to start  feeling very  claustrophobic. Long
enough  for Godenov  and MacIlargie  to begin  to fear  that they  would  wander
underground forever.  Long enough  for Doyle  to get  the idea  that maybe  they
should have stayed where they were and hoped the wolves wouldn't try to come  in
after them. But then, Doyle had never been in a cave before, so time moved a lot
more slowly for him than it did for the others.

They had just entered a small cavern strewn with rocks when Schultz sensed light
ahead.  He  didn't see  the  light directly-another  tunnel  curved out  of  the
opposite side of the cavern-he saw light reflected off the wall of that  tunnel.
He stopped, flicked off  his glowball, tucked it  into his pack, dropped  to one
knee behind a boulder, and, readying his blaster in both hands, prepared himself
to fight. Close behind him, Doyle stumbled and almost tripped over Schultz  when
the glowball disappeared. Then he saw the reflected glow ahead of them.

"We made  it!" Doyle  gasped. "We're  saved! All  we have  to do  is follow  the
lights.  They'll  lead us  out  of here.  Let's  go." When  Schultz  didn't move
immediately, Doyle patted him on the shoulder and stepped around him.

Schultz calmly reached out and yanked him back. "We don't know what's there," he
whispered.

"There's light; there's a way out," Doyle replied.

"Quiet!" Schultz snapped. "We don't know who's there."

"The fighting's over," Doyle said somewhat less loudly. "It doesn't matter who's
there." • "We don't know they got the word."

"Sure they did. Everybody got the word."

Chan joined them  during this exchange.  He grabbed Doyle's  shoulder and pulled
him  close.  "We don't  know  that," he  said  softly into  the  corporal's ear.
"Communications are screwed up, remember? Solar flare, remember? Remember how we
can only receive line-of-sight or from the string-of-pearls? They can't use  the
string-of-pearis.  Unless  they've got  hardwire  communications, they  probably
don't know about the cease-fire."

"You think so?" Doyle's voice betrayed his doubt.

From up ahead they  heard sounds, and the  glow from the tunnel  dimmed. Someone
was approaching. A voice said something. Another voice replied indistinctly.

Doyle's head snapped toward the voices. Whoever was in command had to make quick
decisions, had to be very decisive. A cease-fire was in effect. If those  people
didn't know about it,  someone had to tell  them. Even though he  didn't want to
be, he was in command. So it was  up to him to make the tough decisions.  Around
him, he felt the other Marines getting ready for a fight. It was wrong to  fight
when there was a cease-fire. But he thought that if his companions knew what  he
had in mind,  they'd stop him.  He waited until  he saw a  moving shadow on  the
tunnel wall, put his blaster down, and jumped to his feet.

"You in there," he shouted rapidly as he stumbled across the rocky floor of  the
cavern. "Hold your  fire. This is  Corporal Doyle of  the Confederation Marines.
There's a cease-fire-"

There was a wild shot-the bolt close enough to blister Doyle's left arm and  set
the sleeve of his shirt on fire. Doyle stopped talking and started screaming.

The other Marines returned a quick volley and one guerrilla was immediately  set
aflame. He jumped up and twirled like a fiery dervish until someone shot him  in
the chest. Another guerrilla, who was  missing a leg, began to whimper.  A third
had either been killed outright or was  doing his best to hide. The last  of the
guerrillas who'd made it into the cavern was scrabbling across the rocks, trying
to reach the safety of the tunnel.

"Cease fire,"  Chan shouted  when he  saw the  guerrillas weren't shooting back.
With Doyle down, he was taking  over. The Marines stopped shooting. "Doyle,  how
bad are you hit?" Chan shouted. "I'm alive," Doyle called back. "I'm alive!" His
voice

cracked.

"Hold your fire,"  Chan shouted at  the guerrillas. "A  ceasefire is in  effect.
Let's not shoot each other."

"You lie," a female voice replied.

Chan blinked and swore. He'd been right, the guerrillas did have women in  their
ranks. "No, I'm not. It's true. Do you have radio communications with anyone?"

The female voice laughed harshly. "If there's a cease-fire, why are you  hunting
us in the caves?"

"We aren't hunting you. Some animals chased  us in. We came in to get  away from
them."

The woman laughed again.

"Listen..." Chan thought desperately; the way that woman sounded, she wanted  to
keep fighting.  "We both  have wounded  out in  the open.  Let's make a truce to
retrieve them."

"If there's a cease-fire, we don't need a truce. Go ahead, try to retrieve  your
wounded. Our wounded will willingly suffer for the cause."

"She wants to fight," Schultz growled. He  took aim at the tunnel mouth. "I  can
take the fight out of her."

Chan pushed  the barrel  of Schultz's  blaster down,  then shook  his hand.  The
barrel was still hot.

Then a  man's voice  penetrated the  cavern, his  words clear.  "What's going on
here?" The  woman answered  him excitedly.  The man  lowered his  voice and they
talked. Chan had trouble understanding the  rest of the exchange, but he  caught
the words "cease-fire" and "lies" from the woman. Then the man spoke up.

"How can we believe you?" he asked. "What proof do you have?"

"Check with your higher headquarters, they'll tell you."

The man laughed. "You know we can't use our radios now."

Chan swore. He'd hoped the guerrillas had some kind of hardwire  communications.
Evidently they didn't.

"Let's do this, then,"  Chan said. "There's some  animals outside this cave.  We
came in to get away from them. Tell us how to get out of here. We're all pulling
away. Give us  a half hour  from the time  we leave the  cave, then come  out. I
think  I  can  get  my commanding  officer  to  leave  a string-of-pearls  radio
someplace where you can find it. You can use it to call your headquarters."

"How can we trust you? Suppose it  looks like you've gone away but you  haven't,
and when we come out, you ambush us?" There was a pause, then the man continued.
"The animals you're hiding from, what do they look like?"

What did that have  to do with a  cease-fire? Chan wondered. "They're  about two
meters tall, striped, and a lot of teeth. They run in a pack."

"Wolves. Very dangerous. How many of you did they kill?"

"None. We killed three of them. The  rest of them were eating the dead  ones. We
came  deeper  into the  cave  so they  couldn't  come after  us  when they  were
through."

"I apologize. I knew there were wolves out there. I just wanted to make sure you
were telling the truth about them. All right, you asked for a truce to move  the
wounded. Let's do that and then continue talking. I am Commander Hing, commander
of the Che Loi Brigade. I'll come out for my side. Who am I talking to?"

"Lance  Corporal Chan,  Confederation Marine  Corps. I'm  also an  acting  shift
sergeant in the Wanderjahr Feldpolizei."  Chan swore at himself. He'd  added the
FP shift sergeant because he knew lance corporal didn't sound like much. As soon
as he said it, he realized FP shift sergeant sounded like even less.

Hing chuckled softly.  "A Marine lance  corporal, a Feldpolizei  shift sergeant.
You don't have a lot of men with you, do you?"

Chan didn't answer.

There was a quick, angry exchange  in the tunnel that ended with  Hing shouting,
"That's an  order!" Then  he said,  "All right,  I'm putting  my weapon down and
coming out unarmed." There was a  scraping sound, then a handgun slid  into view
in the tunnel mouth. "I'm unarmed. Don't shoot." A shadow moved on the wall  and
a man sidled into view.  He held his hands open  and out to his sides.  "See, no
weapons. I'm going to get one of my wounded. Who's acting for you?"

"I am." Chan put his  blaster down and stood up  with his hands open and  to the
sides, the same as Hing's.

"Where are you?" Hing asked. "I'm in the open, but you're still hidden."

"I'm here. Look for  my face and hands."  Chan held his hands  at shoulder level
and shook his arms to slide his sleeves down to his elbows.

Hing saw the movement, then focused  on Chan's visible forearms. He looked,  and
above the hands saw  Chan's face. "Mein Gott,"  he said softly. "It's  true, you
really can make yourselves invisible. How do you do that?"

Chan grinned wickedly. "That's a Marine secret."

Hing chuckled again, with an edge of nervousness this time. "Keep your  secrets.
But I'd like you to tell me sometime. Let's get our wounded."

"Yes." Chan lowered his  sleeves and slipped his  infra screen down so  he could
see Doyle. But before he could take a step the woman in the tunnel shouted, "No,
it's a trap!" and ran into the chamber with her blaster leveled to fire.

"Don't shoot!" Hing cried as he snatched the weapon from her hands. He threw the
blaster back into the tunnel. There was  a surprised gasp and a slap as  someone
caught it. He grabbed the woman by the arm and shook her. "Lieutenant Pincote, I
declared a truce to retrieve the wounded." He pushed her back toward the  tunnel
and looked around for his nearest wounded fighter.

Lieutenant  Pincote  staggered when  Hing  shoved her,  but  quickly caught  her
balance. She stood, trembling with  anger, and glared briefly at  her commander,
then quickly scanned the chamber. She saw Doyle's face in the rocks where he lay
more than halfway across the cavern  from the Marines' position. With a  howl of
triumph, she dashed toward him, pulling a combat knife from her belt as she ran.
She leaped.

"NO!" Chan and Hing shouted simultaneously. Both of them raced toward the  woman
and her intended victim.

Schultz got there first. Throwing a body block into Pincote while she was  still
in midair, he knocked her sprawling, away from Doyle. He grunted at the pain  in
his injured leg when he landed. Schultz glanced toward Doyle as Chan reached  to
pull him  to safety,  then turned  back to  face the  woman's attack. But Hing's
doubled-up free hand  connected with her  jaw. The crack  reverberated loudly in
the chamber and the woman went limp.

Schultz and Hing  stared at each  other for a  moment. Hing's chest  heaved. His
bent arm held the unconscious Pincote upright.

"Truce," the guerrilla leader finally said, while looking at a face that hovered
before him.

Schultz nodded, then said, "Truce."

The two turned and went back  about collecting their wounded-a much easier  task
for the Marines, as they had only one casualty.

Doyle's wound was fairly  minor, first- and second-degree  bums on his left  arm
and side where the uniform had  burned away. Chan quickly applied a  dressing to
numb the pain and protect the burned flesh.

"We'll get  you to  the battalion  surgeon," Chan  said as  he finished the job,
"he'll fix you  up. In another  week you won't  even have any  scars. All you'll
have to show for this is a wound stripe on your dress reds."

"I'm really going to get a wound stripe?" Doyle asked eagerly.

"Injured as a direct result of enemy action? You better believe it."

"Wow," Doyle whispered, awed. "A wound stripe to go along with my Bronze  Star."
He didn't know any clerk who had  a medal for bravery and a wound  stripe. Maybe
he'd get a promotion to sergeant and a transfer to battalion headquarters, where
he'd never again have to risk being in battle.

Schultz hawked off to the side. What was his Marine Corps coming to when a clerk
could see so much action?

"Lance Corporal Chan," Hing called a  few minutes later when he'd retrieved  all
of his wounded. He was out of sight in the tunnel. "We have an impasse here that
requires a resolution. Do you agree?"

"If you  really don't  have communications,  I guess  that's true,"  Chan called
back. "Unless I can convince you there's really a cease-fire on." .

Hing laughed softly. "I don't know how you can." After a pause he asked, "Why is
there a cease-fire? Why is today different from yesterday?"

"This  morning  Confederation  authorities  arrested  Ruling  Council   Chairman
Arschmann and Oligarch Keutgens. The  remaining oligarchs and your high  command
agreed to talk. That's what's different."

Hing  barked  out a  laugh.  "The tyrant  and  the bitch-queen  arrested?  Now I
understand why Lieutenant Pincote called you aliar."

"It's true."

"Let me think on this."

The Marines waited with nervous patience while Hing thought.

"All right.  Marine," the  guerrilla commander  finally said.  "I don't know how
many of you there are. I think you are few enough that if I send my fighters  in
they could kill all of  you quickly. But they can't  see you, so you might  kill
too many of them even though they kill all of you. I don't want to lose many  of
my fighters-especially if the fighting is truly over."

Pincote screamed her disagreement. The Marines heard the sharp report of a  slap
on human flesh.

"Lieutenant, I am the commander!" Hing shouted. "I make the decisions, not  you.
Everyone will do as I say. Is  that understood?" There was a pause during  which
soft whimpering was audible, then Hing resumed talking to them again.

"On the other hand.  Lance Corporal, that's an  outrageous story you tell  about
the arrests. But it doesn't sound like something a lance corporal would make up,
which means there is a chance you are telling the truth. So. I will tell you  of
another way out of  here. It leads to  the top of the  ridge. You won't have  to
worry about the  wolves up there,  they never go  to the ridge  top because they
can't climb well." He laughed softly.  "You might have to worry about  them when
you descend the ridge, though."

"If we can get to someplace where there aren't any wolves, we can deal with them
if we run into them again."

Hing chuckled. "Such confidence. You  Confederation Marines must be very  fierce
fighters."

"We think so. And so does everybody we've ever fought."

Hing laughed again. "Here's where you go..."

Chan and his men  didn't encounter the wolves  again when they climbed  down the
ridge side. Before they descended^ Chan managed to make contact with the 257th's
headquarters unit via line-of-sight communications. Bass told them their  shifts
had been located and withdrawn and where they should go to rejoin the battalion.
It was midaftemoon by the time they reported in and gave a more detailed account
of the action in the caves.

When the debriefing was over, vanden Hoyt said, "Well done. Marines. Now  rejoin
your shifts, we're going back to GSB headquarters."

Bass gave them a grin and a thumbs-up.


It  was  several  more days  before  the  solar flare  ended  its  storm in  the
ionosphere and the guerrillas were able  to confirm the cease-fire. But by  then
Hing  had  a different  problem  that was  occupying  entirely too  much  of his
attention.

Lieutenant Pincote was looking at him with altogether new eyes. At last, she had
found a man  who didn't grovel  when she bared  her pointed teeth  at him, a man
willing to stand up to her. She  wondered what his blood would taste like  after
she punctured his shoulder with the sharp points of her teeth.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"I'll be back in  a while," Dean told  Claypoole some days after  the oligarchs'
arrest. They were scheduled to return to the company the following morning,  and
so  were  at police  headquarters  to clean  up  their workstations.  Commission
Landser had scheduled  a formal going-away  party for later  that afternoon, and
both were looking forward to that almost as much as they were to their return to
the Corps. But Dean had private business to attend to first.

After Dean departed, Claypoole asked Lieutenant Constan-tine for the loan of his
landcar. The lieutenant gave him  permission without question. That's one  thing
Claypoole had come to like about the police: once they trusted you, nobody  ever
asked you any questions when you went somewhere. If it'd been the FIST  sergeant
major, he'd be on foot-with full field gear-for asking for the loan of a vehicle
without full justification, and especially for personal business.

With Claypoole's contacts in the  police department, he had no  trouble learning
where Maggie  had been  buried. He  stopped at  a florist's  on the  way to  the
cemetery  and  bought  a  beautiful  bouquet  ofpinekiss  flowers. Hoffnungsberg
Cemetery lay on  a high bluff  just across the  river. It was  the oldest burial
site in Brosigville, with graves going back more than three hundred years. Since
most Wanderjahrians  were Christians,  the graves  had stone  monuments, each of
which bore at least  the name and dates  of the deceased. Many  had Bible verses
and something about the lives of the individuals that lay beneath them.

The original cemetery  had been carefully  laid out by  the first settlers,  but
over the centuries it  had expanded as Brosigville  grew from a village  of huts
and mud streets to a modem city. Long ago the caretakers had given up  assigning
graves and  let the  families of  the deceased  pick burial  spots wherever they
wanted. The bluffs held thousands  of graves, most arranged with  little thought
for the  original grid,  but each  burial was  accurately recorded  in the chief
caretaker's office.

The boards in the  floor squeaked under his  feet as Claypoole walked  up to the
caretaker's desk.  A shriveled  old man  with wild  wisps of  gray hair floating
about  his  head  like an  overgrown  halo  looked up  and  smiled  as Claypoole
approached.

"You are a Confederation  Marine!" he exclaimed, and  stood to extend his  hand.
"Thank you for what you have done for us, young man." He bowed slightly.

Somewhat embarrassed, Claypoole stood awkwardly, the flowers grasped tightly  in
one hand. "Sir, I would like to visit someone," he said at last.        .

"And who might that  be, young man? Oh,  yes, I think I  know! A young woman.  A
recent burial. Most unfortunate case. You  knew her." It was a statement,  not a
question. Claypoole nodded. Maggie's full  name had just slipped completely  out
of his mind. The caretaker took down a huge folio volume from a shelf. They  had
always recorded the graves at  Hoffnungsberg by hand, painstakingly making  each
entry in huge leather-bound ledgers using only black ink in a big, old-fashioned
hand.

"Here," the old man said at last, and turned the ledger so Claypoole could  see.
"That's  Section Six,  Line Thirty-nine,  Grave number  193906." He  jotted  the
figures down on a slip of paper.  "It is very nice back there. Quiet.  I'll give
you directions."

Claypoole  drove  slowly through  the  vast cemetery.  Hundreds  of hectares  in
extent, it was  crisscrossed by roads  and pathways interspersed  with parks and
ponds and flower beds, altogether  a very pleasant and restful  place. Hochbaums
everywhere provided  deep shade  from the  bright sunlight.  He marveled  at the
variety of monuments.  A big metal  marker with an  Arabic numeral 6  on it soon
appeared.

He parked and got out of the landcar. He realized that, judging from the  simple
stone markers, the people buried here were not very well-to-do. He found Line 39
with no trouble, then walked down it, searching for Maggie's grave. Most of  the
stones carried  only the  briefest entries,  just the  name of  the deceased and
their  dates  of  birth  and death.  Here  and  there,  however, more  elaborate
monuments poked up from the closely cut  grass. One bore the carving of a  child
embracing some kind of small animal.  The child, buried fifty years before,  had
been only eight  years old when  he died. As  he walked farther  down Line 39 he
passed into the shade of a beautiful hochbaum. The dates of death were closer to
the present. Maggie  was at the  far end of  the line, clearly  one of the  most
recent interments in that section.

Claypoole stared down at the simple stone. He was surprised to discover that she
had been several years older than he. The grave was still fresh, the earth still
slightly mounded.  He closed  his eyes.  In his  mind he  heard her singing that
exciting, lascivious song.  He knelt down  and put the  pinekiss flowers into  a
metal vase fitted into the front of her stone. The bouquet was so big that  when
he stood up  he couldn't see  the stone behind  it. Then he  removed all but one
flower, a gorgeous thing of deep red  on a long green stem, and stuck  them onto
the grave next to Maggie's. "Here you go," he said, carefully placing the single
remaining beautiful red flower  into her cup. It  looked nice. He stood  a while
longer and then walked to the car and drove back to the caretaker's office.

"How much would it cost  to have a new stone  made for Miss... Miss, uh,  excuse
me, sir, for Miss, er..." Again his memory had failed him. "For Maggie's grave?"


Dean knocked lightly  on the door.  A servant girl  opened it. "I'm  here to see
Miss Hway Keutgens."

"Who is it?"  Hway's granduncle asked  from inside the  house. The servant  girl
opened the  door wider  and the  old man  came to  stand in  the doorway. "Lance
Corporal Dean, you are no longer welcome in this house."

"I-I've come to see Hway," Dean replied.

"After what you have done to my sister, young man, you are not wanted here."  He
began to close the door in Dean's face.

Dean grabbed the door and  held it. "I did nothing  to your sister, sir! You  go
ask Gretel Siebensberg's family about what  she did to them. Hway is  here, sir,
and I want to see her. Please?"

"No!" the old man shouted, and leaned harder against the door.

"Goddamn you!" Dean swore. "Get out of my way or I swear, I'll blow this fucking
door all to hell on you!" The old man was strong, but Dean was angrier than he'd
ever been in his life, and he began to win the shoving contest.

"Uncle! Let him in," Hway shouted  from behind the slowly opening door.        ;
"No!" her uncle shouted back.

"Uncle, I am the oligarch of Morgenluft now,  and as such I am also the head  of
this family. Let Joe in."

The door swung open.  Dean and Hway's granduncle  glared at one another  as they
panted.

"Come, Joe, let's walk in  the field again." She took  Dean by the hand and  led
him outside and around the house. The door slammed behind them.

"I know  you had  nothing to  do with  grandmother's arrest,"  Hway said as they
walked hand in hand. "But I just  can't believe she did those things, Joe!  Gram
is not the murderer they are saying!" She began to cry.

"Aw," Joe said, "I don't  know, Hway." He held her  in his arms. "There'll be  a
trial  and all  that. Maybe  all this  will work  out." Of  course, he  knew  it
wouldn't.

They  walked along  the rows  of tomato  plants. "They  will begin  the  harvest
tomorrow or the next day," Hway said.

"Yeah. Hway, I'm going back to the company tomorrow, and the day after we'll  go
back to Thorsfinni's World. I-I- goddamn, I'll start crying next! I came to  say
good-bye-" His voice broke on the last syllable. He took her and held her close.
She put  her arms  around him  and hugged  him tightly.  "Honey, can  we stay in
touch? Can we write?  Let's not lose contact."  Joe was finding it  difficult to
get his breath.

Gently, she  pushed him  away. "Joe,  no; it's  over between  us. If  I were  an
ordinary citizen, I'd take the next  ship for Thorsfinni's World and live  there
outside your  camp and  wait for  you to  come to  me. But  I am not an ordinary
citizen. I  am no  longer a  free agent.  I'm going  to succeed  Grandmother. My
responsibility now is  to the people  of Morgenluft. You're  going back to  your
Marines, Joe. That's where you belong." She was crying again. He reached out  to
touch her, but she shook her head.  "Joe, my life is here. Yours is-out  there."
She gestured toward the sky. She  leaned forward slightly and kissed him  gently
on the lips. "My brave Marine," she whispered, and stroked his hair lightly.  "I
am going back to the house now, Joe. We shall never see each other again."

Dean stood helplessly  watching the only  woman he'd ever  loved walk away  from
him. He remained between the plants  for a long time after Hway  had disappeared
into the house. Then he began to pick  some tomatoes to take to the guys in  the
barracks.


Hway  Keutgens, soon  to be  oligarch of  Morgenluft and  ruler of  millions  of
people, watched stoically as Joe Dean drove away from her granduncle's home. She
ran her hand thoughtfully over her  still-flat, hard belly. No, she would  never
forget Lance Corporal Joseph Finucane Dean. She had just missed her period.