Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Five

 

1

At an altitude of twenty miles, the drogue chute popped, slamming Retief with deceleration. Minutes later, the second drogue deployed, followed by the main chute. Silently, the escape pod drifted toward the darkness below.

A tiny porthole gave him a view of sorts, but there was nothing to be seen but starless night. Odiousita V was enveloped by an impenetrable cloud cover, which ought to actually help mask his descent, but it also blocked out the swarming suns of the cluster and the Core and made for some very black nights on the planet's surface.

The biggest problem now, though, was the odds surrounding his landing site. He had no choice in the matter; he would come down completely at the mercy of Odiousita's winds. Roughly half of the planet was covered by ocean—a fuming mix of hot water and sulfides washed down from the mountains, which meant the seas in fact were a dilute solution of sulfuric acid.

If he hit the water, he would drift with the currents until the acid ate away the thin shell of his capsule.

If he did touch down on land, there was the question of whose territory he would find himself in. Roughly a quarter of the land surface was currently under the control of the Krll invaders; roughly another quarter was claimed by the Concordiat Peacekeepers. The rest was no-being's land.

And, from what he'd learned in his research, none of the land surface of Odiousita was particularly appealing from a real-estate perspective.

A proximity alert sounded, a high-pitched warble that gave him time to brace himself in the too-small seat. There was a shock . . . followed by a series of jolts and drops accompanied by loud snaps and cracks from outside. Then there was a final, savage bump, and the capsule heeled over on its side.

At least he'd won the first toss of the dice, he thought to himself. He'd come down on solid ground. He touched the release lever, the escape pod popped open, and Retief was assaulted by the planetary night.

It was hot, at least a hundred degrees, and as humid as a steam bath. He broke a sweat almost immediately, and within thirty seconds his coveralls were drenched. A sulfurous stench hung in the air, which was unpleasantly thick and wet. The blackness was so complete he literally couldn't see his hand in front of his face, but he could hear all around him the sounds of jungle—the movement of the tree canopy overhead, the screeches, hoots, screams, shrieks, gibberings, yowls, mewlings, and barks of a surprisingly varied ecosystem.

Feeling about within the escape pod, he gathered his slender resources for survival. There was a small hand torch, but he decided not to use it just yet; light might attract some of the nastier and more hungry denizens of the Odiousitan jungle. He'd left the rifle onboard the Hanky-Panky, but he did still have the Groaci power pistol he'd taken from the guard. The escape pod was equipped with a standard Groaci survival kit—a first-aid kit that would be of little use to a being equipped with an endoskeleton, rations of food and water that his physiology could use, an emergency radio and directional tracker, a firestarter kit that likely would not work in this wet environment, blankets and cold-weather survival gear, and a set of smooth-rounded kiki stones to invoke tranquility during a crisis.

Taking the blanket, he made a comfortable nest for himself in the escape pod's seat, then settled down with the power pistol in hand to wait out the night. Blundering around in the jungle at night was an excellent way to reduce the chances for his survival, he reasoned.

Daylight came slowly. Odiousita V rotated slowly on its axis and had a day some eighty standard hours long. He'd come down quite close to the planet's dawn terminator, he knew, but three long hours passed by the dial of his luminous fingerwatch before the sky began to lighten and the jungle began to take form around him.

Only . . . it wasn't a jungle, not quite.

There were plenty of trees and a partial forest canopy, but what he'd thought were branches were, in fact, a crisscrossing of slender wooden poles supporting an immense chameleonet a good fifty feet above the ground and extending as far in every direction as he could see. His capsule had punched through several layers of the stuff on its descent, snapping poles and ripping the tough weave of light-sensitive fibers. Around him were oddly shaped structures, like slender mushrooms with broad, thick caps and balconies around the rims.

And all around him was a restless, rustling crowd of natives. Somehow, Retief had beaten all of the odds and come down smack in the center of an Odiousitan town.

 

 

 

 

 

 

2

The Odiousitans were radially symmetrical beings, like dark, six-armed starfish standing on the tips of their arms. They ranged from four feet in height to over six, and some must have massed as much as a small pony. The upper surface of their bodies was thick, tough, and spiny, an almost shell-like integument tough enough to discourage both predators and ultraviolet from the sun. The color of most was a mottled green and brown, though some were lighter in hue. A dark, deeply recessed eye stared out at the world from the base of each arm, giving them a 360-degree range to their vision. The undersurface of their bodies appeared to be covered by pale, highly flexible appendages something like the tube feet of Terran starfish; these grew longer and in bunches at the ends of the arms, manipulatory tentacles that appeared to serve as fingers. At any given moment, an Odiousitan could be standing on four or even three of its legs, while using the other two or three legs as many-fingered hands.

At the moment, some hundreds of the creatures were gathered around Retief and the grounded escape pod. A few had been there when the sky had first begun growing light, and over the next hour, more and more had appeared from the surrounding buildings. Many were waving crudely tentacle-lettered signs or garish, black and red flags, and some were waving both. The lettering on the signs was a harsh, jagged, angular printing that Retief did not recognize. The flags, though, he'd seen before—the red-on-black pattern that looked strangely like a crimson Rorschach blotch, the flag of the Greater Krll Prosperity Sphere.

The cacophony of squeals, barks, and other sounds was coming from the crowd. Retief reached up and switched on the microelectronic translator woven into the fabric of his jumpsuit. A rather ragged translation sounded in his ears, overlaying the racket.

"Yay, Krll! Yay, Krll! Go! Go! Go!"

"Krll, Krll, they're the best! If they can't do it, it's not a fair test!"

"Welcome, mighty Krll! Conquerors of scum! Exterminators of vermin! Takers-on of all comers!"

"Two-four-six-eight! Who do we wish they ate? Ya-a-a-a-ay, Krll!"

A lot of the noise in the background, Retief now realized, was singing. The translator, of course, could give only a rough approximation of the emotional content behind the words.

 


"The Krll are such wonderful fellows!
The Krll really are peachy keen!
We welcome the Krll, who are mellow!
Their like here has never been seen!
Oh, bring back, bring back, oh, bring back the
mighty Krll overlords!
Bring back, bring back, bring back those
victorious Krll hordes!"  

 

The throng exploded then in a cheering, shouting, thunderous roar of celebration. Confetti rained from the balconies that, Retief now saw, were festooned with brightly colored banners, all bearing the same jagged alien letters. Krll flags fluttered everywhere.

A particularly large and spiny native approached Retief, a scroll in one uplifted tentacle. The being had what looked like a monocle fixed over each beady eye, and the rolling gait of an old and portly member of his species.

"O mighty Krll conquerors!" the being said with the inflection that betokened some Serious Speechmaking. The voice rumbled and rambled, in true Important Speaker fashion. It appeared to be coming from an unseen mouth somewhere underneath the creature. "We, the humble population of the fair metropolis of Xixthezonx, do hail and welcome you to this loyal enclave of happy, loyal primitives, who are, of course, not worthy to be scraped from the bottoms of the mighty Krll warboots but who love their Krll lords and masters with a depth of devotion that cannot be expressed in this or any other language!"

"Excuse me," Retief said gently. "I think—"

"On this happy, joyous occasion when the mighty Krll conqueror has deigned to enter the humble metropolis of Xixthezonx, we, the humble population of said metropolis, do take this opportunity to honor and give homage to our blessed Krll masters, who have defended us at such great cost and with such great valor against the Terrible Terries who would enslave us. If there is anything we can do—"

"Excuse me . . ."

" . . . anything at all, to make your stay a brief and pleasant one, please don't hesitate to ask, yea, to command it, and it shall be done! Would you like food? Drink? Kinky alien sex? If there is—"

"Excuse me!" 

"What?"

"I'm afraid you're making a small mistake," Retief told the being. "I'm not Krll."

"Eh? You're not?" Several of the eyes blinked rapidly in confusion, and one of the monocles fell off. Retief caught it in mid-fall and handed it back. "Er, thank you. If you're not Krll, what are you? Not one of those grucky things with sticky fingers, always wanting to dicker for foo-foo shrubs. No, not enough eyes, for one thing . . ."

"Actually," Retief told him, "I'm one of those terrible Terries you were talking about."

"One of . . ." This time, half a dozen monocles fell all at once. "Gentlebeings of Xixthezonx! It . . . is . . . a . . . Terry!"

There was stunned silence in the city for perhaps three seconds. Then the crowd erupted in a new cacophony, as loud and as boisterously joyful as before. As if by magic, the banners and flags hanging from the balconies vanished, to be replaced, moments later, by a fresh set, these in crudely lettered Standard.

 


Welcome, Terries!
Hail, the conquering Terran heroes!
Thank you, noble Terra!
Deutschland uber alles!
I ª Terries!
Terries, don't go home!
The Krll suck! 

 

The black-and-red flags were replaced by the blue-and-white flags of the Concordiat. The crowd was now chanting and singing again, their Krll signs and flags all carefully hidden now. A few of the natives, however, perhaps those of a cautious nature or perhaps just very quick with a brush and a can of paint, had whipped out new signs welcoming the victorious Terry legions and waved them wildly now as the singing struck up once more.

 


"For the Terries are jolly good fellows!
The Terries are jolly good fellows!
The Terries are jolly good fe—ell—ows!
Which no being can deny!"  

 

"Let's hear it for the victorious Terries! Our defenders! Our protectors!"

"Hurray for the terrific Terries!" someone cried out in a booming voice. "Three cheers! Arm-arm . . . hurrah! Arm-arm . . . hurrah! Arm-arm . . . hurrah!"

"O mighty Terran conquerors!" the portly Odiousitan said, his monocles back in place. "We, the humble population of the fair metropolis of Xixthezonx, do hail and welcome you to this loyal enclave of happy, loyal primitives, who are, of course—"

"Actually, I've heard this part already," Retief interrupted. "It had a slightly different spin before, but I appreciated the feeling behind it."

"Huh? Oh, sure." The being edged a little closer, dropping its voice. "Uh, I hope you don't take things wrong with the little misunderstanding behind that first welcome, and all. . . ."

"Certainly not. Am I to understand, though, that your city has changed hands a few times already?"

"Oh, bother!" The creature sagged. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, I had the feeling that when you thought I was a Krll, you were laying it on just a bit thick. Maybe hoping I would go away sooner?"

"Well, of course! Who wouldn't want the vile Krll monsters to go away? Always stomping through the foo-foo patch! Always giving orders! Always depriving innocent, carefree natives of their simple civil liberties! Now, the Terries, on the other hand, we welcome with heartfelt sincerity to our . . ."

Retief held up a hand. "I get the picture. But I doubt that you're much happier to see Terry peace enforcers marching through your foo-foo patch than Krll soldiers. In situations like this, most folks just want to be left alone."

"Brother, you got that right!" the being said with feeling. "Things just haven't been right ever since the Terries and the Krll started arguing over who was king of the swamp!" The being cocked its body slightly to the left in a quizzical bit of spiny body language. "You know, Terry? You're all right! By the by, I'm Glom-gloob the Effervescent, the mayor of this 'burg."

"Retief the Insoucient," he replied. "And I could use your help."

"C'mon into the office, Retief," Glom-gloob said. "Let's see what we can do."

3

Glom-gloob's office was in one of the mushroom-capped structures at the center of town, an interesting blend of the modern and the primitive. The building itself appeared to have been grown to order, right down to the spiral ramp going up the inside of the mushroom's stalk. Furnishings included imported Groaci humping racks, sealed plastic supply canisters marked cafard, and tastefully distressed split logs, all on a wall-to-wall dried-mud carpet. A collection of antique Groaci nose flutes adorned the walls, attractively framed; Retief noted that most were from the Niff Dynasty . . . and must, therefore, be three months old or more.

"Very nice," Retief commented. "Homey."

"Yeah, thanks. Took us weeks to haul fresh mud up that ramp and get it to dry just right." Glom-gloob settled his bulk down on top of the humping rack, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. He reached with one arm into the Hip-U-Matic and pulled out a handful of golf ball–sized spheres. "Zooble nuts?"

"Thanks, no."

The Odiousitan native slipped the nuts underneath his bulk. Retief heard the crunch as they were chewed by a hidden mouth.

"The word's out, you know, that you Terries don't think we're civilized."

"Really?"

"Yup. But I'll have you know that we Bloggies have achieved a very high level of civilization . . . oh, it must be three or four years, now."

"Bloggies?"

"It's what we call ourselves. Means 'Inhabitants of the warm and blessed swamps of Ogg,' or maybe it just means 'The People.' Of course, you Terries call us 'starfish' and 'autochthones' and 'Odiousitans,' and the Krll call us 'zabblefronders' and 'guggagguggawampuses,' but we're really Bloggies."

"I'll keep that in mind," Retief said. "Tell me, have you ever seen a Terry before today?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. Like you pointed out, this territory goes back and forth between the Terries and the Krll on an almost regular basis. In fact . . ." He reached into a drawer of his desk and extracted a Groaci trade-goods copy of a Japanese-made Ronald Reagan watch. "We're about due for another switchover any time now. That's why the boys were a little fast with the Krll flags just now, you know."

"I don't blame them a bit. But do I look that much like a Krll?"

"Retief, I'll tell you the truth. All of you aliens look pretty much alike to me. First it's the Terries, then it's the Krll, then it's the Terries again . . . all of them trampling through the foo-foo patches and putting holes in the house-trees. A fellow can't keep them all straight."

"But you do recognize the Groaci, I take it."

"The Gruckies? Yeah. They come through here pretty regular too. They don't trample the foo-foo. They just take it. At first they paid for what they took . . . really keen glass beads and trinkets, mirrors, plastic combs . . . though we haven't figured out what those are for, yet. They told us that that was money, back where they come from. Sounded good to us simple native-types, because we thought a boost in the old economy would help us enter into the galactic trading milieu, bring in even more glass beads and trinkets.

"Then they told us that the latest thing in the galactic economy was something called credit. That's not so good, though."

"Really?"

"Yeah. The way it works, see, is the Groaci traders come in, take all the foo-foo shrubs they want, and say 'to put it on the tab.' We haven't figured out what the tab is yet, so it feels like we're getting ripped off."

"Frankly, I'd have to say you are being ripped off. This may be the only planet in the galaxy where Groaci credit is any good. Tell me, though. What do you use foo-foo bushes for, anyway?"

"Oh, that's our number-one staple diet around here. Good eating, let me tell you!"

"Do the Groaci eat them?"

"Never seen them do so. In fact, they're real careful about how they handle them, wearing breathing masks and using tongs and plastic baggies, and so on. And they only take the leaves . . . usually, anyway."

"What do you mean by usually?"

"Well, a few weeks ago, this one Grucky showed up with a harvest crew . . . they looked a lot like you, in fact, so I guess they were Terries. Anyway, they dug up a whole bunch of plants—pretty much ripped out the whole south forty, in fact. Put them into little pots full of soil and loaded them onto their spaceship. 'Put it on our tab,' the Grucky said, and there we were looking for the tab thing all over again."

"Too bad," Retief said. "Next time they show up, I suggest you demand cash. In advance."

"Yeah? Who's this cash, anyway?"

"Never mind. We just need to find a way to keep them from taking advantage of you folks. Tell me . . . are the Groaci the only ones interested in foo-foo shrubs?"

"Well, I can't say from personal experience, but I've heard the Krll are into foo-foo cultivation in a pretty big way."

"Really? That's very interesting."

"Yeah, I heard about that from my cousin Zub-zloob. He's the mayor of Glooberville, which is over on the North Continent. The Krll have a big operation up there, and I gather you Terries don't get up there very often. The word from Zub-zloob is, the Krll have been harvesting foo-foo leaves, drying them, and shipping them someplace else for months, now. Of course, they don't put anything on the tab up there. They just moved in, took over a fair-sized foo-foo field, and put up the keep-out signs. Requisitioning, is what they called it, at least according to old Zub."

"I'd like to have a look at some foo-foo plants, if I could," Retief said.

"Not a problem. We could arrange that. But speaking of problems . . . you said you needed our help."

"I do, Mr. Mayor. I find myself stranded here. Someone shot down my spacecraft."

"Ah. I understand. I hate it when that happens."

"You have many spacecraft shot down around here?"

"Happens all the time. You know, the Terries shoot down a Krll fighter. The Krll shoot down a Terry transport." He patted one of the cafard-marked canisters. "Got these off a Terry transport that went down not fifty slotches from here. Figured they made great conversation pieces for the office."

"I was wondering. Concordiat Armed Forces Artillery Resupply Deployment crates aren't usually found in private service, conversationally or otherwise. Have any of you tried to open these things?"

"Well, I heard some folks over in Zoxxtown were going to try, only Zoxxtown isn't there anymore. We figured maybe it was best not to be too curious about magic-packages-from-sky."

"A very wise policy when it comes to military supplies recovered in the field. I suggest you remain incurious about such things unless you want to do some major urban renewal."

"Nah. We like our 'burg the way it is, thanks. So, anyway . . . what do you need from us?"

"I'd like to hook up with my own people, eventually," Retief said. "But there's no immediate rush. Maybe you could draw me a map of the area . . . show me where the Krll are, the Terries . . ."

"Well, we could, if we knew what that 'map' thing was. Remember. We Bloggies are not primitive, but we're, like, innocent in the Ways of the Galaxy."

"I have a feeling you're learning fast, Glom-gloob. Skip the map. If you can give me a guide to the nearest Terry lines, that would be great."

"Can do, Retief."

"First, though, I'd really like to see one of your foo-foo fields."

"Nothing easier. Come on."

4

Foo-foo shrubs were joyweed. There was no doubt about it.

"These're just about ready for harvest," Glom-gloob told him. "Have a taste!"

Retief kneeled beside one of the plants, examining the leaves. They were rich, dark, and glistening, much healthier looking than the sickly specimens he'd seen at Camp Concentration.

He looked up at the brassy overcast. The ambient temperature was probably around a hundred degrees. The overcast blocked out a great deal of the local star's overly enthusiastic light quota, and the ozone layer around this planet was thick enough to handle a lot of the ultraviolet. Still, this field must be sizzling under enough UV to burn an unprotected human in moments. Only the nanotechnic sunblock he was wearing protected him from that torrent of dangerous, invisible radiation.

"Thank you, no," Retief replied after a moment. He examined the leaves closely. They were glossy and black—designed to absorb as much energy as possible, both visible and ultraviolet. They must store a lot of that energy chemically, making them a good source of nutrition for the local grazing population. "I get enough psychoactive chemicals in my bloodstream from the embassy coffee service during Tuesday morning staff meetings."

"Suit yourself." Glom-gloob positioned himself directly over a fair-sized plant, squatted suddenly, and took a chomp with his ventral mouth. He straightened his legs again, chewing reflectively. "Mmm. Piquant . . . sweetly robust . . . a bit smoky . . . but with character . . . and just a hint of after-burn. Needs just a dash of sulfur."

"You're quite the connoisseur when it comes to foo-foo plants," Retief observed.

"Yeah, well, when you're just emerging from savagery and don't have all the advantages of full-fledged civilization yet, you find yourself with a lot of time on your hands, right? Us Bloggies don't go in for war and armies and all of that, so until we have our own museums and theaters and water-slide theme parks and all the other accoutrements of higher culture, some of us make do with what we've got."

"Foo-foo cultivation."

"Right. In fact . . ." Glom-gloob broke off. "Uh-oh. We'd best get ourselves under cover, Retief. There's a storm blowing in."

He gestured with one foot-hand. Perhaps a mile away, rising above the surrounding forest in the south, a solitary gleaming figure of black and red metal advanced with ponderous strides.

"Unless I'm mistaken," Retief said with interest, "that is a Krll Type-70 Deathwalker combat unit."

"It's Krll and it's dangerous, is all we need to know," Glom-gloob told him. "Come on!"

They hid themselves behind an upended boulder at the northern edge of the foo-foo field. The giant walker crashed out of the trees a moment later, towering above the field. The machine stood at least forty feet tall on two massively jointed legs that covered the ground in ten-foot strides. The body of the thing was an armored behemoth studded with gun emplacements and missile launchers. A squat dome of a turret had the look of a long-nosed head on top, pivoting back and forth as though sniffing out its prey. With each step, an immense foot hit the field with a thud that sent shivers through the ground, mashing foo-foo plants and leaving size 120 triple-K footprints among the furrows.

Eighty yards away, the giant stopped, its turret rotating to face the west. Retief heard a shrill, high-pitched whistling sound. "Down!" he snapped, and the two flattened themselves behind the boulder. Explosions ripped across the foo-foo field, great gouts of smoke and flame and earth hurtling into the sky, savage detonations rocking the ground with hammer-blow concussions.

"Hoo-boy, there goes the old foo-foo crop," Glom-gloob said.

The Krll giant returned fire, clouds of rockets leaping from flashing tubes, the fusion weapon in the turret loosing a crackling thunderbolt, smaller laser batteries flashing and flickering as they sought their distant foe.

"Screw the foo-foo," the Bloggie added. "There goes us if they get any closer!"

"This is just a light skirmish," Retief told him. "That's probably a Krll scout . . . and he's just encountered a Terran patrol."

"If this is a skirmish, I don't want to see what a battle is like!"

"Considering that the life expectancy of an unarmored being on the modern battlefield is something like three point one seconds . . . no. We don't. Come on. Let's wiggle back into those woods."

Two more Krll giants appeared on the southern horizon, and moments later, several dozen smaller combat walkers emerged from the trees on the far side of the field—six-foot-tall suits of armor, garishly painted and mounting a variety of rocket launchers and energy guns.

"That must be the Krll combat infantry," Retief observed. "They're escalating."

"I heard about that escalating," Glom-gloob said as he worked his way toward the woods. "That's like these moving stairs inside houses, right? Another example of technologically advanced civilization, no doubt. Only I don't know what stairs are, and I don't think I'd want them moving around inside my house even if I did."

Tri-winged bat-shapes howled low overhead, spilling anti-ground cluster munitions in sparkling, tumbling clouds of destruction, spreading pyrotechnic devastation through the advancing Krll ranks. Squat, tracked crawlers emerged from the forest to the south and east, deadly antiair particle guns deploying as casemate hatches unfolded. Retief and the Bloggie kept crawling, as lightning bolts clawed at the Terran aerospace fighters shrieking overhead.

Once in the woods, the two could stand upright and make a fair pace away from the spreading battle and back toward the town. Explosions continued to boom and rumble behind them, though, close enough to rattle teeth and send clouds of small, black and blue leaves from the tree canopy overhead raining down on the forest floor.

A moment later, a Krll deathwalker crashed through the trees behind them, smashing aside branches, splintering trunks in a flat-out run. Explosions ripped through the armored torso from behind, blowing the turret clean off the top of the machine and sending the rest of it toppling forward with an appalling crash. The Krll combat machine lay still, then, smoke pouring from the craters in its back. A low, deadly rumble from the edge of the forest suggested that whatever had just killed the Krll machine was coming in to make sure of its victim.

Retief and Glom-gloob kept running.

The sounds of battle had dwindled away by the time the two reached the edge of Xixthezonx once more. Retief put a hand out and thumped Glom-gloob's horny hide, though, to get his attention. "Hold up, there, Glom-gloob," he said. "I think we've got troubles."

"Like what? . . . Oh!"

"Yeah. Oh.

"I'm sorry, Glom-gloob," Retief said. "It looks like we've managed to destroy your city. . . ."

5

They stood at the top of a hill looking down into Glom-gloob's city. Smoke curled up from the shattered ruin of Xixthezonx, staining the morning overcast. The chameleonetting that had hidden the place from the air had been shredded to tatters. Many of the delicate mushroom houses had been blasted by heavy weapons and left burning. Others had been brushed aside by the massive, multi-tracked vehicle squatting near the center of the town.

"What in floog is that big, black thing in the middle of my city?" Glom-gloob wanted to know.

"It's called a Bolo," Retief explained. "A Bolo, Mark XVIII Gladius, to be specific."

"Yeah, that's what it's called, but what is it? Looks to me like it took out half of Main Street!"

"It's an intelligent tank," Retief told him. "That model masses ten thousand tons and is as long as a small city block. With a single 60cm Hellbore in a dorsal turret and mounting six 25cm howitzers, a heavy vertical launch system, and twelve ion-bolt infinite repeaters in the hull, the Gladius is top-of-the-line Concordiat military weaponry, the robotic equivalent of an army division in one relatively small, mobile package."

"Hoo, boy! You say that like you mean it, Retief."

"That's what the advertising brochure says. Unfortunately, it looks like that small, mobile package decided to move into the center of your city and, in doing so, took out a big chunk of the infrastructure." Retief could see that Glom-Gloob's office had been toppled and crushed, his wall-to-wall dried-mud carpeting and priceless Groaci nose flute collection destroyed.

Armored ground troops swarmed around the behemoth's massive, twenty-foot-high track assemblies, seeming antlike by comparison. It looked as though they'd cordoned off the grounded escape pod where it had landed.

"Damn, I'm sorry, Glom-gloob," Retief added.

"Ah. It ain't like it hasn't happened before," the big creature said with a philosophic shrug of three of its nonexistent shoulders. "It'll happen again. We'll just grow new houses, is all. Looks to me like all the Bloggies got out. They would have high-tentacled it for the woods as soon as they heard the first shots."

"Yeah, but I have a feeling that I was the cause of this. See how they've surrounded the escape pod? It must have had a homing transmitter onboard. Most of them do, to call for help after they touch down. I'd be willing to bet that the SOS that thing was putting out called in both the CAF and the Krll, brought 'em right smack into your city."

"So how were you to know? You didn't have any control over where you landed, right?"

"No . . ."

"Don't excrete large amounts of temperature-regulating fluids over it, then."

"Glom-gloob . . . don't let anyone tell you you're not civilized. I know diplomats of the peace-at-any-price persuasion who wouldn't take such an even view of things. Come on."

They made their way down the hill and out of the forest, emerging at the edge of the shattered Bloggie town. A half-dozen Terran troopers rushed up immediately, weapons at the ready. "Halt! Hands in the air!"

"That may be a little tough for my friend, here," Retief told them. "He doesn't have hands."

The soldiers were wearing Mark XII battlesuits; the protective visors on their helmets gleamed a mirror-polished black, protecting them from the planet's harsh UV radiation. It meant Retief couldn't see their eyes or facial expressions.

"C'mon, you two," a soldier with sergeant's chevrons on his armor growled. "We're takin' you two to see The Man."

The Man was Colonel Shaun Surecock, commanding officer of the 1294th Infantry, "The Irascibles," standing in the shadow of the titanic Bolo. The combat ribbons and decorations painted on the left breast of his body armor reached from shoulder almost all the way to hip.

"What have we here, Sergeant?" he demanded.

"Caught 'em comin' through the perimeter back there, Colonel. Thought you'd want to interrogate 'em."

"Damned straight!" The colonel unsealed his helmet visor and raised it, revealing a craggy face and eyes turned disturbingly black by anti-UV drops. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath of the smoky, fetid jungle air, and then he reached out and fondly slapped the mud-coated track of the monster war machine beside him. "Ahh . . . I love the hot-metal smell of combat Bolos in the morning!"

"Smells like a burning native city to me, Colonel," Retief observed.

"Nonsense! The autochthones don't have cities . . . only temporary jungle encampments and the occasional quaint native village. They grow 'em made to order. We've burned hundreds of the things while trying to help these poor, benighted creatures, and it never bothers 'em. But enough about the damned starfish." He fixed his hawklike gaze on Retief. "You!" he barked. "What the devil are you doing on this pesthole planet?"

"Trying to make contact with the Peace Enforcer authorities, Colonel," Retief answered. "My ship crashed here a few hours ago."

"A castaway, eh? And what were you doing inside restricted space over a planet under military interdiction in the first place? Overflying a war zone? Criminal trespass? You, my friend, are in a very large world of trouble!" His gaze shifted to Glom-gloob. "And what the devil is that? The horse you rode in on?"

"This is one of the beings you're here to help, Colonel."

"Eh? Where's its head?"

"The Bloggies don't have heads, Colonel. They seem to get along fine without them. Don't you know what the local sapient species looks like?"

"Eh? Local sappy what?" The sergeant whispered something to him. "Oh! The natives! Of course I do. Don't be ridiculous. Didn't recognize the critter with those silly monocles, is all."

"Well, Colonel, may I present to you His Excellency Glom-gloob, the mayor of this city."

"I told you, mister, the natives don't have cities! How can this creature be mayor of something they don't even have? Get the wax out of your ears!"

"Well, whatever you call it, Glom-gloob here was the being-in-charge."

"I called it a temporary encampment or quaint native village, damn it. Don't you listen? And this Gloob fellow's not in charge. I am!"

"Colonel, I think—"

"Damn it, you don't think unless I give you the order to think! Now . . . the problem with these native villages is they're not safe! Too prone to catching fire or falling down! An alien could get hurt that way! That's why PACMAN has instituted the Program for Inviolable Safe Housing in Traditional and Utilitarian Secure Hamlets. As tax-funded social engineering it's absolutely visionary! Nice, solid, poured ferrocrete structures, with actual doors and windows! Genuine plastic furniture and lawn ornaments! Tidy and neat; clean ferrocrete floors instead of dried mud! A choice of tasteful Military Gray or relaxing Institutional Gray paint! A secure, happy adventure in resettlement camp living, where the Odious natives can learn the benefits of culture and civilization . . . and keep the hell out of the military's way!"

Encouraged, perhaps, by the sight of their mayor in conversation with the Terries, more and more natives were emerging from the forest, waving blue Concordiat flags and displaying Terry Don't Go Home signs.

"Welcome, Terries!" someone cried out from the edge of the jungle in a weak voice.

"Hurray?" cried another, sounding somewhat uncertain.

The massive Bolo stirred ever so slightly beside the colonel. High overhead, the barrels of its infinite repeaters swung about to cover the newcomers. "Possible perimeter threat detected," a flat, emotionless voice said from somewhere overhead. "Antipersonnel routine engaged. Targets locked. Awaiting fire order."

"Sergeant! Clear that rabble away!" Surecock snapped. "I want my secure perimeter secure!" He patted the Bolo's track again. "Betsy, here, might get nervous, and we wouldn't want that to happen now, would we?"

"I'd hate to think what GNN would say about it, Colonel," the sergeant said. Turning, he gave orders to his men, who spread out and began muscling the natives back into the woods.

"There, there, that's a good girl," Surecock crooned, stroking the robot war machine's tread. He looked at Retief again. "Are you still here? I thought you were under arrest!"

"Not yet, Colonel. You were telling me about the wonders of PISH-TUSH."

"Ah. Yes. Well, the program is already under way. The 1043rd Division—'The Big, Red One Thousand Forty-Three'—will be coming through later today to round up all of the natives and herd them . . . I mean, escort them to their happy new homes. And that will leave us free to get down to depleted-uranium tacks, as in hunting Krll!"

"A program to warm the cockles of any military heart," Retief said. "We all know how much compassion the military has for the local folks, and it sounds to me, Colonel, as if you're full of it."

"Damned straight! Our first mission imperative is to stop those warmongering Krll, but our second imperative is to protect the autochthones from Krll predation! We're here to make Odiousita V safe for the Odiousitans, and we're going to do it, by Heaven, if we have to raze the jungle and burn down every temporary encampment and quaint native village they have!"

"I see. A visionary program, to be sure."

"Damned straight!"

"Would you excuse me a moment, Colonel?" He walked over to Glom-gloob, who was waiting several feet away. Despite his philosophical outlook, he looked a bit mournful at the destruction. "Mr. Mayor," Retief whispered, "I suggest you go off into the forest and round up all of your people you can find. Take them into the deep woods. Don't let them take you back to their resettlement centers."

"But, Retief!" Glom-gloob protested. "The colonel said these were places where we Bloggies could learn all about modern civilization!"

"I'm afraid you might learn too much in that regard. Trust me on this one, and stay low."

"Okay, Retief." He sounded doubtful. "If you say so."

"I do."

Glom-gloob walked off toward the edge of the jungle.

"Here, now!" Surecock said. "Where is that fellow going?"

"To round up his fellows, Colonel. Makes things easier on all concerned."

"Ah. Have them ready and assembled for the Big, Red One Thousand Forty-Three, eh? Good thinking!" He studied Retief closely. "But enough of pleasantries. What am I to do with you? This is no place for weaseling civilians, no matter how helpful!"

"I might suggest sending me back to headquarters, Colonel. I could arrange for a hop on the next transport back to B'rukley."

"Oh, you're going to headquarters, all right, but not to hitch joyrides on a military transport! G-2 is going to want to grill you about what you're doing in a damned war zone. Trouble is, I can't spare anyone to escort you right now, and I've got to scout forward and see where the front lines've gotten to."

"What's the matter, Colonel? Did you lose them?"

"The civilian mind has no concept of the complexities of modern warfare! This quaint village is now in the far rear of the lines! The lines are fluid and rapidly moving! I need to know where they are if I am to properly assess the situation in order to bring the Krll to heel and destroy them!"

"We'll keep an eye on this fellow until you get back, Colonel," the sergeant said. "We're on break, but we don't mind."

"Break?" Retief asked, one eyebrow rising.

"Good union," the NCO explained. "Soldiers, Sailors, and Aerospace Pilots Amalgamated, Local hup234. They negotiated a great package for the common soldier, including regular coffee and dopestick breaks, regular weekend passes, and liberal looting and pillaging benefits."

"Okay, Sergeant," Surecock said. "But keep your eye on him! I don't like his looks."

"That's just because I haven't had my morning coffee yet, Colonel."

"We will talk later." A light scout helo touched down a few dozen yards away, and Surecock marched, ramrod stiff, across the street and climbed onboard.

"And good riddance!" the sergeant said as the helo rose into the sky and headed east.

6

An hour later, Retief rested in the shade of the Bolo, talking with some of the soldiers of the 1294th. They'd removed helmets and gauntlets and set aside weapons, and now, with the exception of Sergeant Caldwilder, the grizzled NCO, who was their platoon leader, they looked considerably less formidable than they had earlier. The oldest might have been in his mid-twenties. The youngest couldn't have been over nineteen.

"So, Retief," Caldwilder said. "You're over here from B'rukley?"

"That I am, Sarge. You might call it a bit of diplomatic reconnaissance."

"CDT, huh?" He nodded. "Our CO was stationed with them a few years ago."

"Surecock was with the Corps Diplomatique?"

"Nah, not him. His commanding officer is General Warbutton. He was a military liaison with the diplomatic johnnies for a while."

"Cecil Warbutton?" Retief nodded. "I was assigned with him to the peace conference on Lumbaga. He was the military attaché with the Terran delegation."

"Well, well. Small galaxy, ain't it?"

"Got his star at last, eh? He was just a bird-colonel on Lumbaga."

"Yeah. I just wish he pulled a bit more mass with the REMFs."

"REMFs?"

"The Rear-Echelon Mentally Feeble," the sergeant replied. "The ones who make the political decisions that stick guys like us out here on pestholes like this one!"

"Well, sure . . . but how do you really feel, Sarge?"

"If'n you're CDT, sir," one of the kids in battle armor said, "mebee you can tell us what's goin' on!"

"What's the matter, son?" Retief asked. "Don't they fill you in on what's happening?"

"Shoot. I guess we get to watch GNN, just like everyone, leastwise when we're back in the barracks. We see the peace demonstrations and everything. Looks like no one wants this war in the first place!"

"Ah-ah," Caldwilder warned. "Not 'war,' Toby. 'Police action.' We're policemen now, remember?"

"Whatever you call it, the folks back home don't want us here . . . and neither do we, come to think of it!"

"Where are you from?" Retief asked.

"Newbraska. It's an agro colony about fifty lights—"

"I've heard of it. You happen to know a guy, about your age, by the name of Zippie?"

"Huh? Zippie Zeigler? Sure! He's my best friend! We grew up together back home in Dead End! We wuz goin' to Cornfed Veterinary, Horticultural, and Miscellaneous College of Conservative Arts together . . . only I ran out of money and had to drop out. How'd you run into old Zip?"

"Met him at a peace march, over on B'rukley."

"Shoot! What's he doin' mixed up with demonstrators?"

"Wasn't he part of the antiwar movement where you came from?"

"Heck, no! Though he did say there was these people—SMERCH, I think he called 'em—who had some good arguments. I dunno. I never cared much for politics."

"Make love, not war!" a private said. "That's my kind of politics!"

"Huh!" Caldwilder said. "Let's see those demonstrators make love not war with a fifty-foot Glaag-class death commando warwalker!"

"Point is," another of the soldiers, a corporal, said glumly, "is why are we fighting this w—this police action? Hellfire, ain't no one who hates war more than the soldiers who gotta fight in it!"

"Yeah," Caldwilder said, "but it helps to know your own folks are on your side, you know? Rooting for you on the home front, and all that."

"Me," another private said, "I don't trust those SMERCH people. Ever since their delegation got over here, we've been hearing about how great the Krll culture is and how they . . . lessee, how does it go? How 'the Krll culture have legitimate territorial aspirations with the Shamballa Cluster that should be respected and acceded to.'"

"What's SMERCH doing on Odiousita V?" Retief wanted to know.

"Beats me," the corporal said. "Negotiatin' with the Krll, I guess."

"It's just been one big lovefest over there since those SMERCH people arrived," Toby said "That GNN reporter . . . what's her name?"

"Desiree Goodeleigh."

"That's the one! She's been covering the festivities over at Krll headquarters and has nothin' but good things to say about them! Makes a guy feel kind of bad, y'know? Like he's not wanted, or somethin'!"

"Don't let it throw you, Toby," Retief told him. "Look at it this way. If they find a way to make peace with the Krll, you fellows get to go home."

"Shoot, mister, who wants that?" Toby said. "I joined the Army to get away from home in the first place! You have any idea how boring Newbraska is?"

"I think he means that you could leave home and not have ugly aliens trying to burn your tail off," Caldwilder pointed out.

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I could go for that, sure!"

Caldwilder snapped his fingers. "I just got it!"

"Is it catching?"

"No! You're Retief! You were all over the semilocal news a few nights ago! That Goodeleigh woman interviewed you, or somethin'!"

"I'm afraid she did. I believe it's called 'ambush journalism.'"

"I remember," the corporal said. "They caught you roughing up some peace demonstrators!"

"Only because they weren't being peaceful," Retief pointed out.

"Yeah, well, that makes you okay in my book," Caldwilder said. "It's about time someone beat some sense into them."

"Where is this Krll headquarters, anyway?" Retief asked.

"Up on the North Continent," Caldwilder told him. "On the Burning Sands Peninsula, north of the Sulfur Forest, about where it juts out into the Tepid Sea."

"Sounds like prime real estate."

"Well, not so much now after we went through there on the Fourth Summer Offensive last year. We kind of left our mark on the place."

"Yeah, Sarge, but then they kicked our tails all the way back to the Acid Ocean," the corporal pointed out.

"Maybe so, Willikers, but then we got them back at the big Mud Season Push."

"Until they stopped us at Hotfoot."

"You know, I love sitting around listening to war stories," Retief said, "but I think I need to talk to General Warbutton. Suppose you trust me with a flitter and point me at your HQ?"

Caldwilder looked at him askance. "Well, now, Retief, I dunno. We're supposed to keep an eye on you for ol' Half-cocked."

"C'mon, Sarge!" Toby said. "Retief's a good guy! Besides, he knows Zippie!"

"More to the point, he beat up some of Zippie's scatterbrained friends. I like that." He sighed, leaned back against the Bolo, and closed his eyes. "Still, our orders are to keep you here until the colonel gets back. Too bad. That could be a couple of days or more. And by then, HQ'll probably have been moved. Security, you know. Right now, it's three hundred kilometers west of here, in the Shrieking Jungle District. Hell, you wouldn't even be able to get there, lessen you borrowed one of the regimental scout flitters we got parked in the clearing back yonder." He folded his hands across his stomach. "So I guess there's nothin' to do but forget about it and wait for ol' Half-cocked to get back."

"I guess not, Sarge," Retief said. He stood up, dusting off his coveralls, then looked up at the silent Bolo. "How about your big, watchful friend here?"

"Ah, we switched her to inactive standby an hour ago. Otherwise she'd be pestering us every time a mouse wandered into the perimeter."

"I see. Well, I'm going for a stroll, Sarge."

"Have a nice one, Retief." He paused. "Just see nobody gets hurt, okay? Sign and countersign for the day are 'Cubs' and 'Winning Streak.'"

"Got it. Catch you later, guys."

And he walked off down the street, whistling softly.

 

Back | Next
Contents
Framed