Imperial Stars 2-Republic and Empire (25 page)

"Well, what do you think of 'em?"

"Looked like a good bunch to me, sergeant." Elkins turned from his instruments. "When do they come in for their basic training?"

"We've got a flight to Base scheduled in two more nights. These three bring it up to twenty." D'lun stretched. "I'm going to send them back for the full thirty days, of course, then I think that'll be the last class. We've got more than we have to have, really." He looked at the communicator. "Besides," he added, "that last message you got doesn't give us a lot more time anyway. This group may report back after we've left."

"Leaves it up to Baltur to break 'em in?"

"Baltur's a good man," remarked D'lun. "He soaked up instruction like a sponge. He can break these people in and run the operation nicely. 'Course, he'll have help and close support from Base and Sector for the next twenty years, anyway. After that, it'll settle to routine."

"Yes, Kalidar, we have a certain amount of unrest here, There's no open rebellion, though." The district governor frowned. "No question about it, this man Marko is a disturbing influence, but he's never preached revolt or sedition; on the contrary, he speaks of peace."

Philar leaned back, folding his arms. "Although my orders, governor, are not too clear, they do make definite mention of rebellious elements. Mention is also made of offenders. Surely some reports must have reached the Imperial Halls."

The governor nodded. "Of course. We have naturally reported the trend of public thinking. In answer, you are sent. Now, we suppose the Imperial Guard will eliminate the cause of the disturbance. We will take care of other matters as they arise. Immediate action is in your hands, Kalidar."

"I see. You may be assured we will take action. Now, about quarters. I have a hundred thirty-seven men."

The governor arose. "Oh, that is quite simple. The old camp is still in very good condition. The village guard is using only a small part of it, so you may move your men in whenever you see fit. There is an excellent inn across the square where you may easily find accommodation for yourself."

As Philar rejoined his troops, he was doing a lot of thinking. One of those little hunches that had visited him so often during his years of service was gnawing feebly. No question about it, something was wrong here. Something more than a simple case of sedition, but what was it? He took possession of the Casern, absorbed the village guard into his own company, then called in his guardmasters. One by one, they filed in. Their commander greeted each by name, then:

"Gentlemen," he commenced, "we have a little investigation to make here before we can take action. I want your men to mingle with the townspeople much more than is usual."

Five sets of eyebrows raised, but there was a low chorus of acquiescence.

"Of course, any unusual comments heard, or any strange attitudes will be immediately reported." Philar hesitated. "Now, to my part. I want to interview a man, but I'm not about to just pull him in for questioning."

Dielo, previously the guardmaster-in-charge of the village, stepped forward. "Why not, sir," he queried. "We have nearly two hundred men now. Any insurrection could be put down easily."

"Possibly," agreed his superior. "Quite possibly, but why decimate the village unnecessarily?" He raised his hand as the other was about to speak. "No, I think I'll do it my way. Are any of our guardsmen feeling ill, or possibly suffering from the strain of our march?"

The master of the third guard smiled. "There's always Gorlan, sir," he remarked. "I never knew him to miss a chance to make sick quarters."

The commander's answering smile was understanding. "Good. Then let him take to his pallet, and call in the physician Marko. Obviously, this is a case for one with knowledge beyond simple camp surgery." He looked the group over for a moment, then, "You may go now," he added.

As the guardmasters filed out, Dielo muttered to himself, "Cautious old fool! Someone should make up his mind for him."

"Halt!" The command was sharp. "Guardmaster Dielo, I heard that." Philar's hand fell to his sword. "Were you one of my regular men, I'd merely break you and give you a few days without water, but you have been a Guardmaster-in-Charge." He paused, a crooked smile growing on his lips. "By the Emperor's sandals, I wanted a sick man. Now, I'll get one. Draw your sword."

Dielo's sword left its sheath. "Now, here's quick promotion," he exulted. "I'm a real swordsman, not a windy old failure."

The clang of swords echoed down the lanes of the old camp, bringing guardsmen at the run. The two men circled about. Slash, parry; slash, parry, slash. Stroke and counterstroke. Now a retreat, now an advance. No blood drawn yet. It was an exhibition of practiced and formal arms play. No question remained in the minds of the observers. Here were masters at work.

Philar was becoming annoyed. This man's boast had been partially correct. Surely, here was no beginner. In fact, this man was very nearly as good as that old fieldmaster who had taught recruits so many years before. Echoes of long gone lessons ran through Philar's mind.

"You, there, keep that point up. Hell drink your blood." An idea came into his head. He had often wondered about it, he remembered now. Most unconventional, but it should work. What's to lose, besides a head? On guard again, he disobeyed that first of all maxims. Casually, he allowed his point to lower below the permissible area. Instantly, Dielo seized his advantage. With a quick lunge, he beat down at the lowered sword, prepared to make the devastating swing to the head on the rebound. It was an easy stroke, and one which always worked, but this time, something went wrong. The lowered sword moved aside. As Dielo's blade continued its downward path, he felt something sharp slide under his kilt. A quick slash, and his leg became useless. He dropped to the ground with a grunt of surprise. Somehow, that blade which had come from nowhere swung over again, striking his sword hand. He lay weaponless.

The victor stepped back. "So," he thought, "the old, tried swordplay does have its weaknesses." He looked down at the victim of his strategy. The initial shock had passed. Pain was now coursing through the man.

"Please, sir," gasped Dielo. "Please, no sword art." He groaned. "Please make an end."

"No," denied Philar gently, "you are one of my men, and it is my duty to take care of you. You are badly hurt." He looked up. "Quick, Zerjo," he called to a guardmaster, "get the physician Marko. This is a case for his skill alone." He pointed to a couple of guardsmen. "Staunch me this man's wounds quickly, then carry him to a pallet. We will await the physician there."

Marko Dalu sat relaxed. Wine cup in hand, he was engaged in talking to a group of friends. Out in the hills, others were listening on their small communicators.

"Gentlemen," he was saying, "we have completed the first phase. It has become increasingly apparent that the only method of encysting the principles of government, art and science already attained is within a cloak of mysticism. You, therefore, will probably have to become the founders of a new religion. We will arrange a spectacular martyrdom of Marko Dalu, which may be used as you gentlemen see fit.

"Naturally, you and your successors will be visited periodically by members of the Corps, who will give you assistance and advice, but to a large extent, you will be on your own. Again, I have to tell you, gentlemen, that this service you have chosen is a dangerous one. You are powerfully armed and protected, but there are restrictions as to your use of your arms. Some of you may suffer torture. Some may die. I don't believe, however, that I have to point out to you the importance of your work, or the fact that your comrades will do all they can to get you out of any danger.

"I may add one thing. If any of you wish to withdraw, the way is still open." He sipped from his cup, waiting. The communicator was silent. None in the group before him spoke. Finally, one man stood up.

"I don't believe anyone wants to quit," he remarked, "so I would like to ask one question." He paused, looking about the room. "We have been given equipment and knowledge that is far in advance of this world of ours. Are we to retain this and yet keep it secret?"

Marko nodded. "You have the knowledge of your world on the one hand, and the knowledge of other worlds on the other. These must be kept separate for many centuries. Advanced knowledge may be hinted at under certain circumstances, but the hints must be very vague, and the source must never be given. The equipment must be safeguarded at all costs. You all have demolition instructions which must be carried out at any hint of danger or compromise of your equipment. Does that answer the question?"

The man nodded. "Perfectly," he said. "I was sure of the answer, but I wanted it clearly stated." As he sat down, Marko's apprentice ran in, closely followed by a guardmaster of the Empire, in full uniform. The boy was nervous.

"Sir," he started, "a guardsman—"

Zerjo thrust the boy aside. "No need for anxiety," he announced. "It is urgent, though. One of my comrades is seriously hurt. We would have you attend him."

Marko arose, smiling. "You know, of course," he remarked, "I am not regarded with too great favor by the governor."

"No matter," Zerjo was impatient. "Men say you are the best healer in Kleedra. Tonight, we have need of such."

"Very well, then." Marko bowed. "Let us go." He reached to an alcove, securing cloak and bag.

As they approached the camp, a crowd gathered. An angry murmur arose. Marko stopped.

"Easy, my friends," he cautioned. "Here is no cause for disturbance. I merely go to practice my profession."

From the rear of the crowd, a voice called out, "He better come out soon, guardsman." Zerjo looked around angrily, hand going to sword, but Marko placed a hand on his arm, urging him forward.

"Pay no attention," he reasoned. "They mean no harm. It is just that they do not wish to see harm done."

"Yes," growled Zerjo, "or they want to start a rebellion tonight."

Marko urged him on. "There will be no rebellion," he said firmly, "tonight, or ever." They walked into the camp.

As they entered the barrack, Philar looked up. "The man's pretty badly hurt," he informed Marko. "See what you can do for him."

The physician knelt beside the pallet, his fingers exploring the wound in the man's leg. He shook his head. "It'll be hard to make that limb usable again," he said. "How did it happen?"

Philar looked sharply at him. "He talked," he announced, "when he should have listened."

"I shall take care, then, to guard my own tongue," commented the physician. He bent again to his work.

Philar stood watching for a moment, then, "I would have words with you when your work is done." He strode away, thoughtfully. Something was strange about this healer. Surely, somewhere, sometime, he had seen the man before. He cast back into his long and excellent memory. No, it was impossible, he decided. The man was no more than thirty-five years of age. That meant he was barely born when Philar was last in this district. Besides, he was said to be from the countryside, rather than the town or hills. Still, somehow, the man was familiar. He seemed like an old companion.

Finally, Marko stood up. "At least," he remarked, "the pain is eased. The man will sleep now, and perhaps his leg will heal with time." He turned toward Philar. "You wished to speak to me?"

Philar nodded. "Yes. Come in here." He pointed to a small guardroom. "There are many things I want to ask you, and for the present, I'd rather speak in private."

He closed the curtains at the portal, then turned. "Now, then," he began.

Marko held up his hand in a peculiar gesture. "Awaken," he ordered.

"Now, by the sacred robes—" Philar's voice trailed off. "What did you say?"

Marko grinned at him. "I said, 'wake up,' " he repeated. "We've got work to do, pal."

Philar brushed a hand over his forehead. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah. We have, haven't we?" He pulled off his helmet, holding out a hand. "Gimme."

From somewhere in his robes, Marko produced a thin, brilliantly yellow circlet with a single ornamented bulge. Philar put it on his head, cocked it to one side, then slammed the helmet back on.

"C'mon, chum, let's take a walk," he growled.

A guard snapped to attention outside the portal. Absently, his commander returned his salute, and the two men strode out of the camp. As they left, Zerjo stepped up to his guard.

"What did they say?" he queried.

The guard shook his head. "Honest, master, I don't know. They spoke in some foreign language."

"Foreign language?" queried Zerjo. He looked at the guard questioningly. "Was it one of the local dialects?"

The guard shook his head again; emphatically, this time.

"No, sir."

"Wish I'd been here," grumbled the guardmaster.

The morning was clear and hot. Philar stepped gratefully into the shaded door of the temple. Glancing about, he strode rapidly back toward the altar. A priest came toward him, hands outstretched.

"The benediction of our Divine Emperor be upon you, my son," he intoned, "but this part of the temple is only for the priesthood."

Philar looked at the man sternly. "You are the head priest here?" he demanded.

"No, I am but an assistant, but—"

"Take me to the head priest," ordered the guardsman.

The priest turned. "This way," he said.

As they entered his sanctum, the head of Kleedra's priesthood turned angrily. "I told you I was not to be disturbed," he said imperiously.

The company master stepped forward. "I," he announced, "am the Kalidar, Philar dar Burta. I have come here to inquire as to why you have allowed a heretic and traitor to run at large for so long in your district."

The priest glared angrily. "You, a mere soldier, dare to question me in this manner?" he stormed.

Philar met his eyes with a level stare. "I asked," he said firmly, "why you allow freedom to a heretic and traitor?"

The priest faltered. Somehow, the presence of this old soldier put a fog on his normally keen, calculating mind.