Back From the Dead (17 page)

“All of you have heard this before, but not from me. Today we introduce you to the basics of the combat levels. Following the bloodshed of the mid and late 21st century, people thought we needed more rules about warfare, something with more teeth. Then the stars went away, and we were all fighting for our survival system-by-system, and everyone came up with their own rules. After the stars came back, not every planet was on the same tech footing, but some people still managed to piss in everyone’s oatmeal, or have competing interests, even with a hundred other worlds on which to get out of each other’s way. Humans are not the most rational pieces of meat.

“And we still didn’t know anything about the Planet Movers, except they had tech at least as high as our best, and about the only common elements of their carved symbols that we do understand are the sword and spear. So, the surviving planets decided we would only allow fighting between declared combatants at the lowest level of military technology both sides would agree to. More rules.”

He pauses and shrugs eloquently at the skeptical recruits. “If there is significant fighting in an undeclared war, ANYONE can show up to the party for target practice. Some people just love to do that, so most people have learned to keep things at least sort of honest.

“As a potential Plataean soldier, you have to learn all potential weapons, because you might have to use them. If you try to cheat, you open the entire unit to all offensive firepower anyone wants to have fun shooting your sorry ass with. Smuggle a Level Seven pistol to a Level Four sword fight, and you might discover yourself finding out how well your chainmail handles a close-laid barrage of artillery shells some neutral observer and camera crew send your way for shits and grins and film rights because they’re bored.

“You WILL adhere to strict level compliance, or you WILL get killed by the first officer or NCO who sees you doing something illegal. You can always use lower tech, and sometimes it’s all you’ve got. Occasionally it’s even the best choice. It is what the contract says that you must live by. If you can’t become competent at them all, you’re only good as a limited-contract temporary. But you can still find good jobs if you can do any of them particularly well. We’ll give you a basic introduction to each level and see how well your natural instincts match it. You will get more advanced training in the second phase of initial training with a larger group.”

Harbin pauses and looks at the recruits, inviting questions. A slender, freckled young man speaks first:

“So if I get attacked, I can only defend myself by what a contract says I can use?”

“In a declared battle setting, correct. And that’s all we are talking about here, Horkle,” Harbin answers.

The smart-ass of the group pipes up. “So if I’m about to get killed by a spear when I’m standing in a shield wall and I shoot the guy with a pistol–”

“I will cut you down myself, Darch … if I have to. Anyone else seeing such a violation is expected to do the same. With medical attention you might survive a spear thrust from the enemy. You will not survive your unit if you betray their trust and endanger them.”

“That’s messed up,” says a recruit in the back rank.

“That’s how you keep wars small, Sanchez. How you prevent the destruction of another billion people, the laying waste to planets; how you entice leadership onto the battlefield to be properly dealt with. Few politicians are willing to actually fight for their beliefs; shaming them into truly defending their positions forces a lot of them to back down on the really stupid shit and wise up. Not a perfect system, but it’s one way to keep some of the snollygosters honest, or at least sidelined.”

“So why don’t they just … not declare a war … and use whatever they want?” Horkle asks.

“Because assassination and declaration of war is a two-way street, and there are always guys willing to hire out for the right price to settle a dispute, and many freelancers are as good or better than government hires. Especially in governments run by cronyism and nepotism. Some folks forget the lessons of history, and it’s up to people like us to remind them from time to time. A pol who bargains honestly is safe, even if stupid. Not so honest, not so safe.”

“Would you assassinate someone like Darch’s dad?” asks Sanchez.

Harbin looks Sanchez in the eye. “Not really my decision; I don’t usually pick the contracts.” He pauses thoughtfully. “From what I know of Councilor Darch, his policies are ineffective, expensive, counterproductive, self-serving, anti-freedom, and often overturned. But he is technically honest in most of his dealings, even if he abuses the intent of the law while complying with the letter of it, so I would not accept a contract against him personally. At the current time.

“Many laws and rules are stupid. With time you will learn which you can ignore, or bend, or work around, and which are essential. But to have no rules or principles is worse, and you guys are too young to really understand that. Just remember: when I tell you how to do something, IT IS THE WAY TO DO IT! We care about what works. Even if it’s something as simple as how to shit in an outhouse, listen and remember, because there is a reason for it!”

“So how do you shit in an outhouse?” Darch asks sarcastically.

Harbin stares directly at Darch, whose smartass smile fades. “Close the lid. Drop your gear. Open the lid. Shit. Wipe. Close the lid. Get your gear back on.” Darch straightens up and his face goes blank as the other recruits giggle around him.

“So,” Harbin continues, “let’s get started and see how badly you can hurt yourself while trying to hurt your opponent.”

They start the morning dressed in normal camo fatigues, squaring off with quarterstaffs. Some try to show off, but fail miserably, dropping their staffs or sending them flying. Kaushik and Kaminski lead the recruits in basic drills of parry, thrust, strike.

Harbin briefly faces off against one recruit while the others watch. The recruit takes a big overhead swing down at Harbin, who casually deflects it down and to the side, using its force to spin his own staff up. He swings it around blindingly fast and stops, holding it motionless, just before hitting the recruit’s head. The recruit stares at the end of the staff, then at Harbin, recognizing how badly he could have been thumped. Harbin looks at him with a slight grin and motions for him to try again.

It’s a simple obstacle course, but the recruits are wearing high-tech body armor and carrying small packs, lots of gear, rifles, and belts and bandoleers of ammo. They are clearly struggling with the weight, bulk, and restrictions of the gear as they climb over low walls, maneuver through a slalom course of six-inch diameter posts set in the ground, and swing on a rope across a short gap. One tries to run between two posts and gets stuck, hung up on his gear. Kaminski grabs him, pulls him back a bit, unhooks the gear from the post, turns him sideways so he is narrower, and pushes him gently through the gap.

Recruits stand in two ranks wearing Romanesque armor, holding javelins and shields. Facing them, about twenty-five meters away, is a line of mannequins with shields.

Kaminski steps up, hefts his pilum, takes a quick step, and throws it forcefully. The javelin makes a fast, low arc and buries itself in the shield, coming out the far side, just missing the dummy’s shoulder.

Darch, next in line, takes a step forward, tries to throw his pilum. It makes an awkward, flat arc, and lands, sideways and flat against the ground only two-thirds of the way to the target.

Kaushik steps forward, and taking a quick stutter step throws his pilum. The arc is higher than Kaminski’s, not thrown as forcefully, but it thwacks down into the shoulder of the dummy, not the shield. He looks at Kaminski, gives a friendly smile, and executes a small bow. Kaminski nods in acknowledgment.

Sanchez steps up and throws. It sails imperfectly through a high arc, and the tip gouges in at an angle into the side of the dummy’s face. Darch glowers at Sanchez, Kaminski claps him on the shoulder, and Harbin grins.

The morning sun is near zenith. Horkle and Darch, still wearing the Romanesque armor, run to a porta-potty off to the side of the training field. Darch hurriedly hands Horkle his spear and leans his shield against the side. He steps in and closes the door. There is the rattling of shifting gear, then a large splash, then a long silence. “Aaahhh, ssshhhiiiitttt.”

“Lid?” Horkle asks, smiling hugely, nearly doubled over trying to stifle a laugh.

“Oh, go stick it in a diseased donkey!”

Plaque

It’s sunny and bright outside the ship, and Helton and Allonia are just coming back from a walk around the port area. Helton is wearing his pistol belt and his normal functional clothes. Allonia wears a conservative calf-length skirt and blouse in solid colors and embroidery, and her hair is in a thick braid. Their smiles and quiet laughter are easygoing and friendly.

The ship’s stern ramp is down, but the cargo bay doors are closed. Helton hits the OPEN button. While they’re waiting for the doors to open, Allonia casually looks around the area inside the ramp and outside the doors. She notices something up in the corner where the inner door meets the side wall.

“What’s that?”

“What’s what?” Helton asks. He follows her gaze up to the corner above and sees a tarnished brass plaque with many rows and columns of small marks on it. “Huh. Looks like writing.” The plaque is covered with rows and columns of etched names. Most are in Roman characters, but there are also Cyrillic, Japanese, Hindi, Korean, Hebrew, and a scattering of other scripts. Hundreds and hundreds of names are there, some with military ranks.

“I don’t remember seeing that before,” Allonia says. “Who are all those people? Or, who were they?”

“I’d guess former crew and complement. Some ships have a placard to commemorate people who have served on it. Have to look some of them up.”

“That’s a lot of people. This ship must have been around a long time to have that many serve on her.”

“Indeed. You said it came out of the Deep, so I’m sure she has some history to her. I’ll see if Lag can find out anything about it. Maybe those names, too.”

Power Bill

Sergeant Kaushik and three recruits are on guard duty, standing casually at the foot of the cargo bay ramp, wearing light armor and carrying light rifles, when a small vehicle comes down the road from the direction of the spaceport, kicking up dust.

“Port arms, gents, look sharp,” says Kaushik. “McKibben, wipe your chin! Disgusting habit, that.” The recruit discards a wad of chewing tobacco. “Better. Mag and chamber check. All good? Safeties? Okay. Not so close, spread out! Horkle, aren’t you supposed to be by the side door? MOVE IT! Sheesh.”

A spaceport security vehicle pulls up, driven by a uniformed officer, with Seeless in the passenger seat. Kaushik approaches Seeless, holding up his hand to keep him in the vehicle. Seeless hands him an e-reader.

“You have twenty-four hours to pay the bill, or we shut power off again.”

“I’ll make sure the owner gets it,” Kaushik says. “Now get lost.”

Seeless smiles his crooked smile and nods to the officer to drive away. They roar off.

“One thing you’ll learn, guys,” Kaushik says, “There are shitheads like that everywhere. Usually, you can’t just shoot ’em. The next best thing is to launch about five megatons of lawyering or a platoon of accountants at them. Here, Sanchez, double time this up to Helton, and inform Lieutenant Kat.” He shakes his head. “Different port, same stupid games.”

Helton and Kat in the Officers’ Mess.

“117,000?!”

“And change. That’s what it says.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“According to this, the previous bill you paid was just to get the power reconnected, not to pay off the full balance.”

“No wonder it keeps changing hands in card games. I don’t have that much.”

“It’s a hunk, alright. And if I’m reading this right, that’s just the first installment.”

“WHAT!”

“I think … I think that this will take some digging into by a specialist. I might know just the guy.”

“But this says power gets cut tomorrow if we don’t pay up.”

“Yes, I see that. I’ll see what I can do at the legal side.”

“Guess it’s time to see how Stenson is coming along on getting primary power up and online.”

“Primary? I wouldn’t think it possible with stuff this old.”

“When it comes to machines, Stenson is the man. It might be feasible without having to cut everything out and replace it. Good a time as any to find out.”

Helton and Stenson in Engineering. Stenson is leaning halfway into a tube, and his voice echoes out hollowly.

“Pretty good, actually. A couple of days, if all goes well. ‘Course, I’m still trying to figure out where half the power we are drawing is actually going, which should have been done a couple of days ago, but–”

“You can’t account for
half
of the power we're sucking in through the shore wire?”

“Nope. At first I thought it was the bogus port meter trying to screw us, but that wasn’t it. Yet another mystery to solve. Doesn’t seem to be causing any problems that I can detect. But, as I keep telling the new guys: fix one problem at a time that you can fix,
then
worry about the ones you can’t. At least we don’t have to wear helmets to protect ourselves from exploding parts anymore. Ah, there. That’s got it.” He pops back out of the tube, sweaty and dirty. “Power moves to the top of the heap.”

The forward window on the bridge shows the spaceport; the side screens show various readouts. Helton is at the command station, Stenson at pilot, Lag at navigation. Kaushik stands at the left side station, Allonia stands at the right, and Quinn stands in the door, watching it all, wide-eyed.

“Power looks okay. Stable, anyway. All landing struts read green.”

“Ramps and sides clear. No one walking around.”

Helton picks up a mic attached to a spiral cord, pushes the button and speaks.

“All hands hold on. Prepare to rise on landing pads in five.”

Stenson grins like a kid with a new toy.