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Chapter Six

 

1

"Cubs!" came the challenge. A lone sentry stood in front of the ready line for the unit's service flitters.

"Winning streak," Retief replied.

The youngster with the power rifle relaxed, letting the weapon's muzzle wander away from Retief's chest. "Advance and be recognized."

Retief stepped closer. He couldn't see the soldier's face behind the UV shield, but he sounded terribly young.

"Hey, mister. Ain't you the guy who came down out of the jungle with a starfish in tow about an hour ago?"

"That's me."

"Some of the fellows were talking about you. They say you shipped in here from B'rukley, that you were some sort of government big shot or something."

"I came here from B'rukley, yes. How big a shot I am, I can't really say, though I tend to favor calibers of one millimeter or so."

"Yeah, but you were from the embassy back there, right?"

"Guilty as charged."

"They said you was an ambassador or something."

"That I can honestly say I am not. It seems that I lack the Vision that enables me to see the Big Picture."

The sentry fumbled with his visor lock, then raised the dark screen out of the way. Retief doubted that he was older than twenty. "Yeah, but you must know about the peace negotiations and everything! Mebee you can tell me what's going on!" His voice very nearly broke. "I heard they'd abandoned us here!"

"Where'd you hear that?"

"It was on GNN the other night."

"Well, one of the sad lessons of life is that things aren't necessarily true just because the anchor on the evening news says they are."

"Then . . . then help is coming? Or they're going to pull us out? Which is it?"

"I'm afraid even GNN doesn't know the answer to that one, son." He clapped the soldier on his armored shoulder. "But hang in there. Even bureaucrats and generals get it right once in a while."

He chose one of the flitters parked on the ready line, climbed up the metal rungs set in the side, and squeezed down into the cockpit. This time, at least, the seat was designed for a human, and not Groaci, frame. He settled the flight helmet onto his head, connected the oxygen, and slapped the line of ready switches to the on position.

"Hey, wait a sec, mister!" the sentry called. "You didn't show me your flight authorization!"

"Colonel Surecock has it," Retief replied. He eased the power bar forward, listening to the rising hum of the powerful turbines aft.

"Oh, okay. Uh . . . hey! Wait! He's not even—"

Retief tapped the side of his helmet and shook his head, indicating that he could not hear the sentry's shout. He waved the soldier back, then cycled the canopy shut. The soldier dithered for a moment, then backed away. Retief released the flight locks and pulled back on the joystick. On shrieking fan-jets, the flitter leaped into the sky.

2

The flitter was a UC-190 Pegasus, the airborne equivalent of the ubiquitous jeep of earlier centuries, unarmed, unarmored, and strictly subsonic, but undeniably rugged and built for the long haul. PACMAN HQ was listed in the navicom's memory, so he punched up its coordinates on the destination screen and leaned back, letting the flitter do the piloting.

For the next hour he flew west across unending vistas of jungle interspersed with occasional patches of swampland and great, meandering rivers steaming in the morning haze. The cloud cover on this world, he gathered, never broke; native vegetation had evolved to absorb a fair proportion of the high-energy ultraviolet radiation that was able to penetrate both the ozone layer and the multiple cloud decks. Twice he passed over clearings littered with the crumbled shells of native buildings, burned out and shattered by the waves of war that continued to surge back and forth across the face of the planet. Once he overflew an arm of the sea, gray, opaque, and scum-flecked, before going feet-dry above another stretch of impenetrable jungle.

PACMAN HQ was a mobile base, a structure of towers, spheres, masts, walkways, and platforms that could set down almost anywhere, on any terrain, then use repulsorlift technology to break free of earth or mud or ocean surface and drift slowly to another location. Multiple Hellbore turrets swiveled about to track him in, but the flitter's navicom sent out the appropriate IFF and clearance codes and guided the little flyer safely through the outer defenses and into the gaping maw of the headquarters' main landing facility, burrowed into the side of the largest of the structure's spheres.

A dozen soldiers in light armor trotted up to surround the flyer as it touched down on the white-painted landing grid. Retief popped the canopy, pulled off his helmet, and swung his legs over the side of the cockpit, feeling for the rungs.

An Army lieutenant faced him. "Are you Retief?"

"Yes, I am."

"I hereby place you under arrest, for absenting yourself from legitimate detention by authorized military authorities, willful disobedience to said military authority, willful and aggravated theft of military property, willful violation of airspace under military control, willful conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline, willful—"

"I take it Colonel Surecock got back from his search for the front lines early."

"Mister, you would not believe the hell you have just raised single-handedly on the commo channels. At one point, Colonel Surecock was calling for you to be shot down."

"Well, I'm grateful that you didn't. I'm here to see General Warbutton."

"If he sees you," the lieutenant said with just a touch of arrogance, "it will be in the stockade. Take him away, men!"

They marched Retief through the bowels of the headquarters structure to the detention cell block. He was expertly frisked and the power pistol he'd borrowed from the Groaci was taken away, as were his dopesticks, fingerwatch, and electronically enhanced clothing. He was given Army ODs and ushered into a cell at gunpoint.

"Tell General Warbutton that Jame Retief is here to see him."

"Maybe I will," the lieutenant said with a snigger. "Then again, maybe I won't. We'll see how I feel in a few days. . . ."

The cell door hissed shut, and the magnetic locks snapped home. Retief was left alone in the silence. He folded the sleeping cot out from the wall and sat down to wait.

In fact, he had less than an hour to wait. The locks opened, the door hissed open, and a Bloggie swept into the cell.

Or perhaps "mopped into the cell" was a more accurate description. The native looked identical to Glom-Gloob, save for the absence of any monocles, but he held a large and fluffy pink dust cloth at the tip of each of his six walking arms. He moved with a hexapodous grace, skating along on the cloths, polishing the already shiny linoleoplastic floor as he went.

"Greetings!" the being said as soon as the door hissed shut once more. "I am Glob-jlob the Magnisonant. Might you be the Terry they call Retief the Insouciant?"

"If I am, then news spreads awfully fast around here. How'd you happen to know my name?"

The heavy being gave an airy flip of one tentacled arm, flipping the dust cloth. "Ah, I heard it on the grapevine. Old Glom-gloob is my fifth cousin on my aunt Blib-blob's side, and we stay in touch."

"I'm pleased to meet you."

"Likewise. Glom said you were an okay being, for an offworlder. Listen, I ain't supposed to be in here, me being just the janitor, and all, but Glom wanted me to pass on to you that Colonel Surecock came back and that he seems a bit upset that you left without saying a proper good-bye."

"So I gather."

"He says to watch yourself, 'cause the colonel said something about having you arrested and shot at sunrise."

"That's a good trick. You can't even see the sun on your world, so how do you see it rise?"

"Huh? Sure you can! We Bloggies can, anyway. I heard you Terries can't see fleem-wavelengths, though. Maybe all you see is the floomph-wavelengths scattered through the cloud layer."

"We call fleem-wavelengths 'ultraviolet light,' and, no, we can't."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Must be tough going around half-blind."

"Oh, we manage okay. If you don't mind my saying so, Glob-jlob, you seem extremely well-versed in basic physics."

"For a janitor, you mean? Well, janitoring is just my hobby, you know. I took the test and became a G-4 civilian contract employee just so I could learn more about this civilization stuff you Terries and Gruckies and Krll and GOSHies are always talking about."

"I see. And what have you learned?"

"That civilized folks like their floors brightly polished so's they can eat off of them and see their faces in them . . . whatever 'faces' are. That civilized folks like something they call 'war' and get a real kick out of blowing things up and racking up high numbers in something they call a 'body count.' That wrongdoers should be tortured by locking them up away from the jungle instead of cleanly xanthering their souls. That they like their ashtrays and wastebaskets emptied every night, while they're not around, but don't want their desks touched. That they have some really cool toys and gadgets that they like to play with. That they define civilization by comparisons with other folks rather than by specific accomplishments—like saying 'we're more civilized than they are.' That some of their ideas about what constitutes civilization are really quite weird . . . like living in houses you build instead of grow, or having linoleoplastic on your floors instead of mud, or wearing artificial integuments instead of going au naturel. That the point of civilization is something called 'making money,' though we haven't figured out yet what this money thing is, though it might have to do with something called a 'tab,' or maybe 'credit.' That—"

Retief held up his hand. "I get the picture, Glob-jlob. I've been watching civilization myself for a few years, and, just between you and me, I'd have to say that the stuff isn't as great as some folks make it out to be. You Bloggies stick with what works for you, okay? Don't rush things."

"Sure, Retief. Thanks. Glom-gloob said you'd understand. Say . . . is this your house while you're here? Seems kind of cramped."

"Actually, Colonel Surecock sent word to have me locked up. I'm not sure if he's going to have my soul xanthered or not. I guess the jury's still out on that one."

"What? That's outrageous!" He pulled a small, plastic card from an unseen pouch in his hide. "Here, you want out?"

"Actually, I want to talk to General Warbutton, and I'm not sure the lieutenant who put me here is going to pass the word up that I'm here. Would you be willing to deliver a message for me?"

"Sure thing, Retief! Anything for a friend of my fifth cousin!"

"Just tell him that I'm here, and mention my name. He'll remember who I am."

"Got it."

"I am curious about one thing. A moment ago, you mentioned offworlders . . . Gruckies and GOSHies and Krll."

"Oh, my," Glob-jlob replied. "Did I?"

"I wonder if you could tell me about the GOSHies. Just where do they hang out, and with whom?"

"Well, I'm not supposed to say . . . but since you know about them already, I guess it can't hurt to tell you that they have what they call a trading enclave up on the North Continent, at a place called Glooberville."

"Mm. Burning Sands Peninsula on the Tepid Sea? North of the Sulfur Forest?"

"Yeah!" Glob-jlob said brightly. "You know the place?"

"I've heard it mentioned. It wouldn't be at the Krll military headquarters, would it?"

"Glooberville? Nah. But close. The town's a couple glrbs south down the road from Krll headquarters, as the vlavvervat flies. There's a . . . a whatchamacallit . . . a Krll fortress protecting an offworlder spaceport north of town, and that's their HQ. Some GOSH-awful character they call Mr. Bug runs things out of the spaceport's warehouse district, right next door."

"Mr. Bug works with the Krll?"

"Like arm in hoobie-sleeve."

"Interesting. What about the Gruckies? Do they work with the Krll?"

"Funny thing, that. They used to, but lately they've taken to freelancing on their own. Been taking foo-foo shrubs from fifth-cousin Glom-gloob's fields and putting it on top of the tab, whatever that is."

"So I heard. Where do they hang out?"

"They've got a . . . dang. Don't remember the word. Oh, yeah, an embosserie in downtown Glooberville."

"Excellent. Thanks for the information, Glob-jlob. And for passing on my message."

"Don't mention it! Always happy to help out a fellow civilization-watcher!"

"Just watch out that civilization doesn't run over you while you're watching it."

 

 

3

Fifteen minutes after Glob-jlob left, General Cecil Warbutton stepped into the cell.

"Retief! They told me it was you!"

"Hello, General. It's been a long time since Lumbaga."

"That it has."

"Sorry I can't offer you anything but the bed to sit on. The furnishings here are just a bit on the spartan side."

He waved the apology aside. "I came down as soon as I heard it was you. The janitor told me, of all things!"

"I figured if I'd made as big a splash as that lieutenant said I did, someone would get around to telling you I was here sooner or later. I'm glad it was sooner."

"You are in a heap of trouble, you know," Warbutton told him. "Some of the charges are just plain silly. You're not in the Army, so they can't hang you for disobeying the orders of a superior officer. But you did violate half a dozen regs involving government employees and the command authority in an area under martial law. And you stole a flitter."

"That's a debatable point," Retief said, "since I brought the flitter straight here. To see you, I might add. When I heard you were in command over here, I knew I had to come see you. Congratulations on the promo, by the way."

"Thank you. Somehow, though, I get the feeling you didn't come all the way here, risking arrest, antiaircraft fire, and Colonel Surecock's fury, just to say that."

"Nope. What do you say we reconvene in your office to discuss things?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Retief. Comrades-at-arms, brothers-in-the-trenches, and all of that, you did violate regs. Government employees and civil servants are under military authority in active war zones."

"I know. What does that have to do with me?"

"Damn it, you're a . . . what? Second reserve undergraduate assistant third secretary, or something? You're CDT!"

"Actually," Retief said, examining the shine on his fingernails, "I'm not. You might say I was fired and am now a free agent."

Warbutton looked horrified. "You're . . . you're a civilian?"

"An unemployed civilian. And while I am subject to martial law, I was with the head of the local native government when Surecock met me."

"So? What's your point?"

"So it's still an open question as to whether I was under Surecock's authority or the authority of Glom-Gloob the Effervescent, Mayor and Grand Poobah of the fair Bloggie metropolis of Xixthezonx. I'd say that the question is complex enough that it would take a military tribunal to sort things out, at the very least, and possibly a joint tribunal with the Bloggie authorities."

"But—"

"The legality of my detention was questionable at best," he said, ticking the points off on his fingers. "We can throw out the theft charge. I brought the flitter here on official business, so it was neither willful nor aggravated theft. It was a military vehicle operating under autopilot with valid IFF and clearance codes, so I wasn't violating restricted airspace . . . at least, not technically. If I was, the codes would have been blocked. There is at least reasonable doubt that I was under Surecock's authority at all. So why am I being held?"

"How could you be here on official business if you're here as a civilian?"

"You're an official of the Concordiat Armed Forces. I'm working, among other things, on behalf of Mayor Glom-Gloob, who is a Bloggie official. I wanted to talk to you about official business. So what could be more official than that?"

"My court-martial." Warbutton shook his head. "Retief, did anyone ever tell you that you were a damned space lawyer?"

"I've served as consul for several Terry ambassadorial delegations, so I suppose that makes me a de facto lawyer in space. What's your point?"

"No, I mean . . . never mind. Look, if I sign the order to spring you out of here, will you stay out of trouble and do what you're told?"

"I'll promise to let my conscience be my guide."

"Uh-uh. Not good enough. I watched you work on Lumbaga. I'm not sure you have a conscience, at least where your superiors are concerned. . . ."

"I'll promise to obey all lawful orders that are in my best interests."

Warbutton stared at Retief for a long moment, then laughed. "On your own head be it! You always were a damned maverick son of a gun!" He turned to the door and touched the intercom panel. "Guard! Let us out of here!"

4

In Warbutton's palatial, deep-shag office high atop the headquarters facility's main sphere, they sat down in overstuffed chairs with a couple of glasses of Bacchian black.

"Actually," Retief told the general, "I came to Odiousita V to check up on the drug ring that's operating off of this world."

"Drug ring?"

"Have you heard the name 'Mr. Bug'?"

Warbutton nodded. "We've had intel briefings on him. Some kind of local GOSH honcho, isn't he? Looks like a giant cockroach? No one ever sees him except on a com screen?"

"That's our man . . . or bug, rather." Retief struck a dopestick alight. "The natives here grow joyweed. Mr. Bug is getting supplies of it somewhere and smuggling it back to B'rukley in tramp freighters. They're distributing it to the students at USC and to the kids coming in for the peace rallies under SMERCH sponsorship."

"Okay," Warbutton said, but sounding unsure. "Um . . . but what does this have to do with us? We're here to save this planet from the Krll, not chase local drug lords." He stopped, and his eyes widened. "You're not saying we should stop the natives from growing the stuff, are you? Burn their crops, that sort of thing?"

"Absolutely not. Joyweed is the staple of the natives' diet. It's bad enough we're destroying their cities in the process of saving them from the Krll. If we destroy their number-one menu item as well, we destroy them."

"Mm. I don't know. PISH-TUSH—you know the program? PISH-TUSH is designed to provide the locals with secure hamlets in which to live, get them out of those homegrown villages of theirs out in all of that nasty jungle and stuff. But I wonder how Sector would view things if they knew the natives were growing drugs on their PISH-TUSH mandated-and-tax-guck-paid-for reservations. There could be some serious fallout there, public-relationswise."

"The Bloggies need food, not spin."

"Yeah, but maybe we could provide an ample dietary supplement. I know Sector has been pushing for a month to get an economic development package set up and running on Odiousita V."

"What does that have to do with what they eat?"

"Oh, part of the package would include offworld fast-food franchises. You know—McWendyking's Arbycastleburgers, that sort of thing. The program allows the native culture to shift to a monetary standard and provides entry-level jobs for native children after school and during summers."

Retief arched one eyebrow. "Sector is planning on genocide by fast food?"

"Nah. Nothing like that. They'd tailor the menu to local tastes."

"Joyweedburgers? I don't think Sector would go for that."

"I didn't mean that." His eyes narrowed. "The natives really need to eat joyweed? I mean . . . they'd starve without it?"

"I know some of them are epicureans when it comes to the subtle nuances of the stuff. In any case, General, it might be illegal to transport joyweed on the space lanes governed by Terran law, but joyweed is not illegal on Odiousita V . . . or on B'rukley, for that matter."

"I know. It's not under Army jurisdiction. Stopping the local drug traffic is not in my job description."

"Nor is it your right to change native culture, biology, or eating preferences to suit you, the Army, or anybody else. That is explicit in the Each Being to His/Her/Its Own Poison Act, as determined by the kosher-diet-in-alien-foods decision, Zarxlgrubber versus Jones, Goldstein, and the Terran Government, et al, 2615."

"Like I said. A space lawyer."

"Only in the cause of truth, justice, and the amicus way. Speaking of friends, were you aware that the Krll are into joyweed cultivation as well?"

"No! Where'd you hear that?"

"A reliable source."

"Which means either somebody's cousin," Warbutton said, nodding, "or George, the janitor. And George isn't here."

"Right. It also means that investigating Krll cultivation and export of an interdicted drug falls under Army jurisdiction."

A tone sounded from Warbutton's desk. He pushed a button. "What is it?"

"Sir," a secretary's voice said. "You might want to check GNN. She's at it again."

"Desiree Goodeleigh?" Retief asked as the general swiveled his chair to face the floor-to-ceiling wall screen.

He sighed. "Who else? She's been a damned pain in the asteroids lately. Let's hear what she has to say now. Screen on, GNN!"

The wall screen lit up, revealing the looming face of the GNN reporter, complete with a four-foot-wide and dazzling-white array of perfect teeth.

" . . . in this continuing costly struggle on the world of Odiousita V," the mouth holding those teeth was saying. "The Supreme Warlord of the Assault of the Righteous Fist, Lord General Kreplach, has graciously agreed to talk with me here, at the Supreme Warlord's headquarters encampment on Odiousita V, live on GNN. So tell me, General Kreplach . . ."

"That is Lord General Kreplach, Desiree," a deep basso profundo boomed from the screen. "We must observe the amenities of formal protocol, you know."

"Oh, yes. Forgive me, Lord General."

The camera shifted and pulled back to show the Krll warlord, an imposing, humanoid figure clad entirely in a gleaming black-and-silver metal environmental suit. With Desiree Goodeleigh as a yardstick, he stood perhaps seven feet tall. The massive helmet bore a deeply recessed visor from which a single bloodred light glowed like a baleful eye.

"Thank you, Desiree," the warlord rumbled on. The whish and whoosh of a breathing unit could be heard behind the words as he raised a shiny finger to emphasize his point. "Remember! Without proper protocol, civilization as we know it would crumble! The effects of such a collapse would be catastrophic . . . war! Famine! Disease! Earthquake! Economic uncertainty! Cannibalism in the streets! Suns going nova! Wholesale reruns on the telly! A drop in the Dow Jones! Unthinkable depravity on Saturday morning television! . . ."

"Yes, well . . . Lord General Kreplach, can you tell our viewers, please, just why you have come here to Odiousita V? There are some who claim that your arrival here is an inherently aggressive act, an act of war, in fact."

"Slanderous muckraking heretical lies and damned lies of an evil, viciously degraded and morally bankrupt . . ." The gleaming figure paused, and the single red eye seemed to glance at the camera. "Um . . . that is to say . . . how silly! I mean, it is well known that the peaceful community of beings of the Greater Krll Prosperity Sphere seek only to live in harmony with our neighbors, no matter how lowly, primitive, or militarily insignificant they might be. It was the warmongering troublemakers of the Terran Concordiat that attacked us when first we visited sunny Blmcht . . . that is the Krll name for what you Terries mistakenly call Odiousita V, by the way."

"Of course, Lord General. Tell me, though . . . some anti-Krll voices claim you have no business at all in the Shamballa Cluster. What would you tell your critics?"

"That they are dead! Dead! Dead! That we will hunt them down, singly and collectively, and destroy them utterly! That we will burn their cities, eat their children, enslave their dead, annihilate their planets, foreclose their mortgages—" Again, he paused, stared into the camera, then said, "Excuse me, please." He opened a small panel on the chest of his armor and fiddled with some wires. "I believe my translator program is giving me some trouble. Ah. There we go. Our critics, you were saying? Why, I would merely point out that the worlds we Krll favor are those with environments approximating conditions obtained within the Galactic Core. Out here in the relatively unpopulated stellar wilderness, ambient radiation levels are far lower than those to which we are used. Few indeed are the suns worthy of the name that can provide us with the radiation levels we need! But a few choice stars do exist with sufficient X-ray and ultraviolet in their spectra to enable us to eke out a poor and impoverished existence, energywise. The star around which Blmcht orbits is such a sun . . . a bit on the cool, dim side, but marginally capable of sustaining Krll-type life. We find Blmcht somewhat chilly, but since the world is uninhabited . . ."

"But Lord General," Desiree said. "Odiousita . . . that is, Blimcht is inhabited!"

"'Blmcht,' Desiree, not 'Blimcht.'"

"Ah, yes. Thank you."

"As for native life, our scientists have seen no evidence that this is so," the lord general replied stiffly. "There is no native intelligence on Blmcht."

"There is no native intelligence on Blmcht," the reporter repeated.

"Very good. There are, of course, some quite clever animals living in close symbiosis with the jungle. A fascinating species, really, and one which our scientists will continue to study closely. But the fact remains that we have here a world you Terries cannot use because of your extreme sensitivity to those parts of the electromagnetic spectrum you call ultraviolet. It is uninhabited, save for those aforementioned clever animals, and yet you Terries attempt to block our lawful colonization of a world that is, to us, almost like home! It's not fair! How many millions of innocent Krll must die at the claws of the Terry war machine before Enlightened Galactic Opinion intervenes and ends this wholesale aggression against an innocent species? Remember! The sinister and self-serving Terries are the aggressors in this war!"

"Are you aware, Lord General Kreplach, that the Mauve House insists that this is not a war . . . but a police action?"

"So! The perfidious Terries think of the mighty Krll as mere criminals to be arrested? They are waging war upon innocent Krll females and grubs! But the Greater Krll Prosperity Sphere will not tolerate mindless opposition to our legitimate aspirations within what you call the Shamballa Cluster! We shall crush . . . um, that is, we shall explore every avenue available in our unrelenting quest for a just and lasting piece of the cluster!"

"Uh, don't you mean 'peace in the cluster'?"

"Whatever."

"I see. Lord General, in view of the high casualties the Krll have suffered in this police action, so-called, have you considered pulling out of the Shamballa Cluster entirely and returning to the Core?"

"Casualties? What casualties? The running-glrk imperialist Concordiat warmongers have thrown everything they can at the noble Krll self-protection forces. So far, we have suffered only minor casualties. One of our sub-privates received a slight injury to his glmpf glands, I believe. Concordiat military forces have been totally ineffectual in slowing the mighty Krll juggernaut in its just and righteous path!"

"Even so, Lord General Kreplach, the Groaci have offered their unbiased services as a neutral third party in order to establish peace negotiations between the Prosperity Sphere and the Concordiat. What is your response to this?"

"Those five-fingered sticky-eyes? Unbiased? All they want is . . ." Again, the lord general stopped himself. "It is the sincere desire of the Greater Krll Prosperity Sphere to establish peace and everlasting chumship with all sentient sla—that is, with all of our sentient neighbors and to seek any means by which so to do, so long as our legitimate territorial aspirations are honored. If the . . . uh . . . noble Groaci have offered their services in this regard, we of the Krll Sphere are certainly in favor. And if those sneaky little five-eyed thieves are playing a double game, we shall offer our services in establishing peace on their world."

"But, Lord General. Groac is at peace."

"And we Krll are in favor of peace! Did I mention that? The more peace, the better, right? We should keep in mind the dictum of the great Krll philosopher, Kishke the Belligerent: 'There's no peace like the blissful peace of a radioactive desert.' I assure you, Desiree, we Krll will help anyone who interferes with our plans find perfect peace!"

"Lord General, that almost sounds like a threat. Surely you don't mean—"

"What threat? We Krll do not make threats! We are peace-loving and happy, wishing only the harmony and joy of total chumship!"

"But if your philosopher said—"

"We find radioactive deserts to be most relaxing . . . just like home, in fact! Trust me, Desiree! We want only what is best for all intelligent species! Peace . . ."

The camera cut back to an extreme closeup of Desiree's face. "In related news, GNN has just received word that Concordiat officials at the Hexagon this morning have decided to freeze all further troop deployments to Odiousita V pending a review of the recommendations made by the board regarding the recent white paper issued on the possibility of a meeting of the joint chiefs of staff concerning the Mauve House resolution to curtail future military operations within the Shamballan theater. . . ."

"Interesting," Retief said.

"What . . . the freeze on our reinforcements? We've known that was coming for a week, now."

"No. Her eyes. Notice anything unusual?"

Warbutton examined the five-foot-high face more closely. "No. She's wearing anti-UV drops, so her eyes look a little dark, is all. . . ."

"You can still see her pupils beneath the anti-UV," Retief said. "And they're dilated."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she's been drugged. Or she's under the influence of something like joyweed, which is the same thing. I'd be interested in knowing whether she dosed herself or whether that knight in shining armor beside her had her doped."

"Why would he do that?"

"Joyweed by itself produces a pleasant, euphoric high in humans," Retief explained. "But apparently there are circumstances in which it becomes a potent hypnotic, making the person smoking it extremely suggestible. They'll do what they're told to do, say what they're told to say."

"What circumstances?"

"I don't know yet. Possibly it's the joyweed in combination with some other drug. Or it might have to do with a certain infrasonic harmonic. But I've seen it happen and seen the effects. It's how the Groaci are recruiting college students to work for them on B'rukley. And it might well be what the Krll are using to get themselves some good media exposure."

Warbutton laughed. "Why would the Krll Empire care about a good press?"

"Think about it. They know that GNN is one of our prime intelligence resources. If they can slant the news their way, they could undermine the morale of your troops . . . and just maybe influence political decisions being made further up the line, maybe even all the way up to the Mauve House."

"That's awfully far-fetched, Retief. I think maybe you've been hitting the joyweed a little too hard!"

"I don't inhale."

"Right."

"Have the Groaci talked to you about a peace conference?"

"Nope. Didn't even know they were interested in Odiousita V."

"They've been importing joyweed. They may have started out helping GOSH in that regard, but I'm pretty sure they're thinking of going independent. Free enterprise, you know, and for Groac, the freer, the better."

"Geeze, is everybody in this Sector trying to get this planet's weed?"

"Could be. A monopoly would probably translate into a trillion-guck business, at a conservative estimate. We both know the Groaci would be interested in that. So would the Syndicate."

Warbutton shook his head. "Like I said, if it doesn't involve the Krll, I can't do a thing about it."

On the giant wall screen, Desiree Goodeleigh seemed to be wrapping up her report. "Meanwhile, tragic conflict continues unabated, savaging this unhappy world, called Blmcht by the peace-loving Krll, and Odiousita V by the Terran Concordiat. The Odiousitan Crisis—brutal war . . . or police action? Perhaps the difference is nothing but words, and the propaganda spin placed on it by the Mauve House. I'm Desiree Goodeleigh, live from Odiousita V."

"That woman is about as balanced in her reporting as a mudslide."

"I think she's saying what the Krll want her to say, General. She and her news team may be prisoners. Coming to the aid of civilians in distress is part of your job description, you know. Even if they're media."

"And I don't think you appreciate my position here, Retief." He sighed. "Morale has hit rock bottom around here with the news that we're not getting reinforcements, and with all the peace demonstrations on B'rukley, well, that and Goodeleigh have just about finished things for us. We're going to have to pull back and regroup . . . and maybe look at trying to put together an evacuation."

"Don't give up just yet, General. We may have an ace or two to play yet."

"What ace?"

"Let me tell you what I have in mind. . . ."

5

The X-Star 5000 was a hyperstealth atmospheric transport, sleek and slender, and with a midnight black surface that drank radar, rendering it all but invisible to even the most sophisticated sensors. There were only two of them in Warbutton's on-planet arms inventory, and so they'd been reserved for only the most high-priority of missions behind enemy lines.

Leaflets.

"Leaflets?" Retief asked the two young soldiers seated in the cargo hold of the XStar.

"Yeah," one of the soldiers, a corporal by the name of Philburn, replied with an unpleasant snicker. "Ain't that a crock? They toss fractional kiloton nukes at us, and we zap 'em right back with half a ton of high-yield propaganda!"

"I don't know, Phil," the other soldier, Sergeant Casey, said. "Seems like an even trade to me." He unzipped one of the heavy canvas bags sitting on the deck at their feet, dipped inside with his hand, and pulled out a brightly colored flyer. "You read any of this crap? It's deadly!"

"May I see?" Retief asked.

"Help yourself. Careful, though. Those things can go off if you handle 'em careless, like."

Retief opened the brochure and glanced through it, holding it close to make out the words in the dim red lighting of the X-Star's cargo compartment. It was printed half and half in Standard and in the angular characters of the Krll alphabet and was brightly illustrated throughout with cartoon drawings of humanoid forms in Krll battle armor lounging beside a pool with shapely female battle-armor forms in attendance, sipping at drinks with tiny umbrellas, relaxing in hammocks, eating lobster, playing croquet, golf, and tennis, shopping in a mall, and sitting at a plastic table in a McWendyking Arbycastle's in front of bags upon bags of fast food. The Standard text spoke in lovingly glowing terms of the material advantages of surrender. "Why Be Left Out?" cried the banner headline in forty-two-point bright purple type.

The text went on to say:

"Enemy personnel throughout the Galaxy know the reputation of the Terrific Terries, how they are fearsome opponents but generous to the vanquished! Why, we simply CAN'T WAIT until you guys give up, so we can start shipping you planet-loads of foreign aid, Many Worlds Bank loans, and uninhibited largesse!

"But why wait until that happy day? You can begin enjoying that famous Terry hospitality now! Try checking into one of our five-star POW camps, with indoor-outdoor pools and hot tubs of your choice of liquid heated to give you a pleasantly stress-relieving warm and relaxing soak; mega-shopping malls to handle all of your daily, monthly, and seasonal needs; saunas, health spas, and masseuse parlors to keep you in fighting trim; and out-of-this-world restaurants serving gourmet dishes better than the cardboard food served to our own troops!

"All you need to do is show this brochure to the nearest Terry military personnel, and you'll be ushered into the safety of our rear lines and introduced to your sweet new life of luxury!"

There was quite a bit more, but Retief skipped over most of it, glancing down the page to a final line at the bottom. "This propaganda leaflet brought to you courtesy of the Terran Concordiat government, the Concordiat Armed Forces, and the Corps Diplomatique Terrestrienne, your friends whom you haven't met yet, waiting to serve you!"

"I see what you mean by deadly," Retief said.

"Yeah," Casey said. "I really appreciate that crack about feeding the prisoners better than they feed us! Cardboard food is right!"

"I noticed the drawings show the Krll in battle armor."

"Yeah, 'cause no one knows what the Krlljoys really look like. But the xeno boys' best guess is that the armor is designed like our combat armor, so they're pretty much like us—one head, two legs, two arms. Nothing too scary . . ."

"I dunno, Sarge," Philburn said. "I got a great aunt back on Furtheron what got one head, two legs, and two arms, and you wouldn't want t'meet her in a dark alley at night!"

A yellow light winked on in the dimly lit compartment. "Uh-oh," Casey said. "Five-minute warning. We gotta get these loaded."

Together, the two soldiers dragged a sealed canvas bag to the first in a row of hatch-topped canisters set into the deck, opened the hatch, and lowered the bag inside.

"Aren't you supposed to take the leaflets out of the bag?" Retief asked.

"Nah," Casey said. "Too much trouble. Let them do it." A green light winked on, and he pressed a button on the forward bulkhead of the compartment. There was a loud hiss and thump as the first load of leaflets was fired into the night.

For the next several minutes, Retief watched the two work, loading ejection canisters and firing them. The X-Star was flying at high altitude—nearly 80,000 feet—and it was anybody's guess what happened when those hundred-pound bags hit the ground. Ten bags were launched, one after the other.

And finally, it was Retief's turn.

"You sure you know what you're doin', Mac?" Casey asked him.

"No, but if I find out, I'll be sure to let you know," Retief told him. "Hand me my flight pack, will you?"

Together, they helped Retief suit up. He was already wearing a black commando ensemble, complete with combat vest, pressurized helmet, gloves, and suit heater. He shrugged on the flight pack, let Casey check the connections, straps, and O2 supply, then gave the two a thumbs-up.

Again, the yellow warning came on. Corporal Philburn opened the number-one deck hatch and Retief slid down inside. It was a snug fit, and he had to hunch over to fit his six-foot-plus frame within the tube as the hatch clanged shut above him. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

After a small eternity of waiting, the outer hatch beneath Retief's boots cycled open, and in a short-lived hurricane of escaping atmosphere, he was blasted into the night.

He fell. . . .

6

Retief couldn't see the X-Star. In fact, all there was to see was star-dusted sky above and softly glowing clouds below—the cloud deck illuminated by the pale-shifting radiance of the planet's flaring auroras. After a long, long fall, the clouds rose up and engulfed him, and he continued dropping through a wet haze that rapidly vanished around him into pitch blackness.

He kept his attention on the luminous altitude readout showing on the upper left corner of his helmet's heads-up display. At twenty thousand feet, the helmet's electronics began scanning for anything in the EM spectrum that might suggest high technology—radio or microwave transmissions, visible light, or RF leakage from computers, electric nose-hair groomers, or toaster ovens. A major cluster of such signals emanated from the northwest, eight miles distant. Spreading his arms and arching his back, he aligned himself with the target and triggered the thrusters in his flight pack.

At nine thousand feet, he punched through the bottom of the cloud deck, entering dark, empty sky above a yawning gulf of night that gave no hint as to whether it was land or sea, jungle or desert. Even switching his visor to infrared showed only that the ground was hot . . . but at least it was ground. Missing the Burning Sands Peninsula and landing in the Tepid Sea would be embarrassing, to say the least, not to mention fatal.

At five thousand feet, his helmet electronics picked up some points of light to the northeast—the compact sprawl of a small native town. If his navigational information was correct, that was Glooberville. The Krll fortress would be there . . . the spaceport that smear of light over there . . . and the GOSH-controlled warehouses somewhere about there.

At four thousand feet, he pressed the chute release on his flight pack. The shell encasing his torso filled suddenly with a soft gel, which cocooned him so gently he scarcely felt the jolt and flutter of the drogue chute when it popped an instant later . . . or of the main chute when it deployed in turn. Infrared showed open ground below with a line of trees to the east and no sign of a hostile welcoming committee. He steered for the trees and touched the open ground fifty feet short of them. He released harness and flight pack as the chute spilled onto the ground, then gathered the billowing polysilk up in a bundle so he could bury it.

After taking care of that chore, he used the powerful satellite transceiver in his flight pack to send a single, microburst transmission: Cubs' winning streak continues.

Then he buried the flight pack where he could find it again, if need be, and checked the military-issue Mark XXX power pistol holstered to his thigh.

So far, so good.

A black shadow invisible against the night, Retief made his way toward the cluster of lights he'd identified as Glooberville, less than a mile away. A thickly wooded hill lay between him and the town. He climbed the hill, working his way through a crevice between two house-sized granite boulders among a tangle of granite outcroppings on the crest of the hill. Crawling forward on his stomach, he reached a sheltered vantage point from which he was able to look down into a scene of utmost confusion.

Glooberville was an odd mix of native and offworld structures. The native Bloggie buildings were easy enough to identify as such—organic shapes like mushrooms or low, spreading trees festooned with windows, doors, and balconies.

The Groaci Embassy was also distinctive—a wall and several turreted buildings that looked like a huge sand castle. Evidently, it had been made to order by Groaci engineers when their ambassadorial mission arrived.

That left what must be Krll buildings—featureless gray bricks in neatly ordered rows, each marked with the harshly angular strokes of Krll numerals. To Retief's eye, they looked like fair examples of Early Despotic Architecture, as might have been popular in the realms of Attila, Stalin, or perhaps Gargle Oyle the Maleficent, with uniformity, utilitarianism, and grayness winning out over style. There were a number of those structures in neat blocks just outside the spaceport. Retief guessed they were barracks for a garrison.

And it looked as though the garrison was out now in force. Sirens blared, and searchlights scraped across the clouds overhead. More searchlights from vehicles and from towers around the garrison all were concentrated on one spot on the main drag through Glooberville. There, several hundred hulking individuals in black-and-silver Krll combat armor were gathered around one of their own, a single humanoid figure lying in the middle of the street.

Retief used the telephoto zoom of his helmet visor to get a closer look. Yes . . . a Krll soldier was lying there face down inside a six-foot crater, his armor badly dented. Squarely on his back was what looked like a large, canvas bag that had burst open at the top, strewing half its contents onto the street.

It was one of the leaflet bags released minutes ago by the X-Star stealth transport. It must have plummeted out of the sky like a falling bomb, and the unlucky Krll soldier could not have known what had hit him. A number of his compatriots, however, were picking up the windblown leaflets and were reading them. Shock and horror appeared to be spreading through the mob. He could see them gesticulating with the brochures, waving them, passing them around . . . and growing more and more agitated.

"Well, well," Retief murmured to himself. "Maybe leaflets are effective in combat after all."

The crowd scattered as a forty-foot mechanized horror stalked ponderously onto the street, striding purposefully from the direction of the Krll fortress to the north. The towering machine, Retief noted, was a Zuuba-class warwalker, approximately four hundred tons of heavy armor on two massive legs, armed with multiple missile launchers, twin micro-Hellbore fusion cannon, and a battery of ion-bolt infinite repeaters. Gently, delicately, the humanoid war machine stooped forward, and a clawed pincher grasped the mailbag and lifted it from the Krll body. Other Krll soldiers then scooped up the victim with something that looked like an eight-foot spatula, dragging him out of the crater and off toward a waiting vehicle.

Other Krll soldiers continued to move about in an agitated manner, evidently still discussing the leaflets that had so calamitously dropped out of the sky. The Zuuba warwalker stood unmoving in the street, its turretlike head, a-bristle with sensor antennas, slowly rotating through 360 degrees.

Retief froze, careful not to move, careful even in his breathing. Though he was on a hilltop and nestled in among a tangle of boulders a good fifty yards away from the Glooberville street, the warwalker was tall enough that its head was well above Retief's hiding place. Depending on how good its sensor suite was, all it needed to do was look down, and . . .

It looked down. A warning chirped in Retief's helmet speakers, alerting him to the fact that he was being probed by radar, sonar, and several other active sensory devices. The lone red light aglow inside the warwalker's helmet appeared to be fixed directly on him.

And a signal must have been given, because the Krll soldiers were scattering now, grabbing for their weapons, and beginning to fan out along the base of Retief's hill. Searchlights glared against the night, their beams sweeping the woods and casting up towering, dancing shadows of alien trees. Retief drew his Mark XXX, but there were far too many of them to take in a stand-up fight.

And using a Mark XXX power pistol against that warwalker made about as much sense as attacking a Bolo combat unit with a sharp stick. He began backing away through the crevice between the two large rocks . . . but the warwalker was already moving. A half-dozen steps and it was astride the hill, reaching down with one titanic black-metal hand.

Retief broke clear of the boulders and raced down the back of the hill, but the hand followed, knocking trees aside, lunging . . . and scooping him up. Something—the enormous armored thumb, perhaps—clipped the side of Retief's helmet, hurtling him into the black and unfeeling abyss of unconsciousness.

 

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