Dirigent Mercenary Corp #05
Lieutenant Colonel

By Rick Shelley



Prologue

The year is A.D. 2823. The interstellar diaspora from Earth has been in progress
for seven centuries. The numbers are uncertain, but at least five hundred worlds
have been settled, and perhaps well over a thousand. The total human  population
of the galaxy could be in excess  of a trillion. On Earth, the Confederation  of
Human Worlds still theoretically controls all of those colonies, but the reality
is that it can count on its orders being obeyed only as far as the most  distant
permanent outpost within Earth's system, on Titan. Beyond Saturn, there are  two
primary  interstellar political  groupings, the  Confederation of  Human  Worlds
(broken away from the organization on Earth with the same name, with its capital
on  the  world  known  as  Union)  and  the  Second  Commonwealth,  centered  on
Buckingham. Neither of those political unions is as large or as powerful as they
will be in another eighteen decades, when their diametrically opposed  interests
finally  bring them  to the  point of  war. In  the meantime,  humans who   need
military assistance, and do not  want the domination of either  Confederation or
Commonwealth, have only a  handful of options. Those  who can afford it  turn to
mercenaries. And the largest source of those is on the world of Dirigent....



1

Major Lon Nolan allowed himself to accept the deception that he was standing  in
front of  a ten-foot-square  window looking  out at  the one  world he had spent
nearly twenty years telling  himself he would never  see again. But he  had seen
that world, spent nearly five months on  it. Now he was leaving again, and  this
time there was absolutely no doubt in his mind. He would never return to  Earth.
He could not imagine ever wanting to return again. I finally broke the  strings,
he told himself.

From Over-Galapagos,  the space  city in  geosynchronous orbit  roughly over the
islands that gave it its name, the world looked as Lon recalled it. Two  decades
could not bring changes  large enough to alter  the view. But the  months he had
spent on the surface had convinced  him that Earth had changed-far more  than he
would have deemed possible in the years since he had left to go to the mercenary
world of Dirigent to fulfill his childhood ambition of a career as a soldier.

Now, Lon's principal thoughts were of home-and Dirigent was home now, not Earth.
He had  spent a  month traveling  to Earth,  five months  there, and it would be
another month before  he could get  home. He had  traveled in civilian  clothes,
under an assumed name.  Prior to his departure  from Dirigent, he had  undergone
genetic-level na-nosurgery  to make  absolutely certain  that his  true identity
could not be  discovered from fingerprints,  retinal pattern, or  DNA testing of
his blood or skin.

There won't be anything to tie me to  Earth in a few months, he thought. He  had
hesitated to accept the  mission to Earth, but  once he had, Lon  had decided to
make the best use  of the unexpected opportunity.  After finishing his work  for
the Corps-and only after finishing that work- he had contacted his parents, then
gone home to visit them at his  childhood home on the eastern side of  the Great
Smoky Mountains, near the city of  Asheville. Even then, Lon had been  forced to
stay incognito. Had his true identity been discovered by the authorities, it was
a virtual certainty that he would  have been arrested, that he never  would have
seen his wife and two children again.

The purpose of Lon's trip to Earth had been espionage.

He had needed nearly the entire month  he had with his parents to convince  them
to  emigrate.  Although  both  his  mother  and  father  wanted  to  see   their
grandchildren,  the ties  to Earth  were strong.  They needed  time to  convince
themselves.

"I've  got my  work at  the university,"  his father  had said  when Lon   first
proposed the move. "And your mother has her garden, her friends."

"Dirigent has a university, and students  who are there, are there because  they
want to leam, because they hope to  make a difference to mankind. What have  you
got? You've told me  yourself that most of  your students are just  hoping for a
miracle that will help  them climb out  of the circuses  into something-anything
better. You don't even go to  the university but-what?-once each term? And  then
you need an  armed guard. You  can't go into  town safely. This  pleasant little
country compound you both treasure, even it's an illusion, with electric fences,
guard dogs, and armed  patrols to keep the  real world out. Once  you get beyond
the fences,  casual violence  is almost  impossible to  escape for long." Casual
violence, happenstance, had worried Lon more during his months on Earth than the
possibility that his mission might be discovered by the authorities.

"This is where our life has always been," his mother had added, in a voice  that
sounded more fearful than nostalgic.  "Except for you and your  family, everyone
we know is here."

"All locked away safely in guarded compounds like this one," Lon replied.

It still took a lot of talk to  get his parents to change their minds. When  the
decision  was finally  reached, they  couldn't all  travel together.  Lon had  a
schedule to  keep. He  had to  get off-planet  and out  of the  reach of Earth's
police  and what  remained of  Earth's Confederation  of Human  Worlds, the  old
Colonial  Office whose  authority no  longer ran  beyond the  solar system.  His
parents would wait  a few weeks,  sell what they  could, then book  passage by a
circuitous route to Dirigent. By the time they arrived, Lon would have a cottage
lined up for them.

Night was beginning to  move across eastern North  America. Lon stared until  he
saw the terminator line move across  the mountains, past his parents' home,  out
of what had once been North Carolina  into what had once been Tennessee. He  saw
lights in the cities and along the major connector routes. The cities were urban
jungles, with the majority of people crowded into areas known as circuses, slums
where the common denominators were poverty and lack of hope.

Lon turned away from the videoscreen  that masqueraded as a window and  left the
observation compartment to return to his transient quarters two decks below.  He
would  not  be  able  to  board  the ship  that  would  take  him  on  the first
interstellar leg of his trip back  to Dirigent until the next afternoon.  Twenty
hours from now, he would be on his way out of Earth's solar system.

If his false identity remained safe another day.

                                    *  *  *

Seven months earlier, Lon might have thought that the DMC had no surprises  left
to spring on him, that he had seen the full repertory. He had been an officer in
the Corps for nineteen  years, gone out on  more contracts than he  could easily
recall, seen every variety of  life in garrison, including the  political byplay
that suffused the higher officer ranks. He had not even considered that anything
out of the ordinary might be in the offing when Major Cava-naugh Zim, number two
man in the DMC's Office of  Strategic Intelligence (OSI), had asked him  to stop
by his office at Lon's "earliest convenience." The two men had known each  other
for some  years, and  occasionally paired  up in  bridge tournaments in Dirigent
City.

"I remember when you used to work for me in the audit department, back when  you
were  a lieutenant  still learning  the ropes,"  Zim had  said after  the  usual
opening pleasantries.

"Seems ages ago, Cav," Lon had said, nodding. Lieutenants in the Corps spent one
day a week, while  they were in garrison,  away from their troops,  helping out,
learning a little bit about other parts of the Corps than their own assignments.

"And  then  some,"  Zim had  agreed,  returning  Lon's nods.  "When  I  filed my
performance report on you, at the end of your tour here, I added an  observation
that you might, in time, be uniquely qualified for a special mission."

That had been enough to make  Lon sit up straight-the first indication  that the
invitation had not just been for a stroll down nostalgia drive. Lon had  cleared
his throat. "A special mission?"

"You know our mandate in  OSI-to obtain, catalog, and analyze  information about
as many of the settled worlds as possible. We're always years behind. New worlds
are settled, and it might be decades before we even hear about them.  Conditions
change, often dramatically, on worlds we do know about. The Corps would like  to
have up-to-date  intelligence on  every settled  world, at  least every world we
might possibly be called upon to serve, or oppose." Zim had shrugged. "Not  that
that rules out any world.  And we can never  count on being anywhere  near up-to
date on any world but Dirigent."

"I don't need the lecture, Cav. Just what are you working up to?"

"We want you to do a job of work for us, Lon."

"Tell me something a cadet couldn't have figured out by now."

"Think about it, Lon.  What sort of intelligence  mission would you be  uniquely
qualified for?"

Lon had blinked twice, slowly, as it hit him. "You want me to go to Earth?"

"The boss  and I  talked about  it at  length. Then  I chatted  with Matt." Matt
Orlis, now a lieutenant colonel, commanded 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment. Lon  was
his second-in-command. "Matt agreed that you would be perfect for the job, so we
put the  proposal before  the Council  of Regiments.  The General remembers your
work here. He mentioned  your analysis of the  Aldrin contract." There was  only
one  General  at  any  given  time in  the  Dirigent  Mercenary  Corps,  head of
government for Dirigent as well as commander-in-chief of the Corps, elected each
year by the colonels who made up the Council of Regiments. The current incumbent
was Jorge Ruiz, who  had commanded the  Contracts Section at  Corps headquarters
which included OSI-when Lon was a lieutenant doing one day a week in  Contracts.
"The General  okayed the  mission, providing  you were  willing to volunteer. It
will mean being gone for six months,  more or less, but you've been away  nearly
that long on contract before."

"My son is fifteen. My daughter is nine," Lon had said. "I've missed a third  of
their  lives  already,  being  away  from  Dirigent.  I  know-it  goes  with the
territory. I need time to think about this, Cav. And I need to talk it over with
my wife."

"Of course.  I didn't  expect an  answer right  now. This  isn't like a contract
where you take the luck of the draw and go out when it's your turn. The  General
was adamant. Accepting this mission has to be voluntary. Entirely."


"The first  rule any  recruit leams  is 'Never  volunteer for  anything,' "  Lon
mumbled as he settled himself for sleep that night in Over-Galapagos. He had not
agreed to the mission lightly,  or quickly. Just thinking about  the possibility
of returning to Earth had brought him  new nightmares. Part of him wanted to  go
back,  almost  desperately,  but  another part  of  him  was  frightened by  the
prospect. It had been two days before he even mentioned it to his wife, Sara.

"Of course you'll go," she had said at once, and she proceeded on the assumption
that he would.

Lon had needed a lot longer to  convince himself. The chance to see his  parents
for the first time in twenty years  was what settled the question. "Maybe I  can
get them  to move  here," Lon  had told  his wife.  "I've been suggesting it for
years. Maybe, face-to-face, I can convince them."

Sara had giggled. "Or just kidnap them and sneak them off-planet."

He had spent two  weeks learning his cover  identity and undergoing the  genetic
manipulation that would ensure that he could not be identified as Lon Nolan when
he reached Earth and Earth-controlled  space. He went as a  trade representative
from Calypso,  a world  he had  some personal  knowledge of.  If necessary,  the
government there would vouch for his identity ... but if that became  necessary,
it would mean that something had gone wrong, that he had made some mistake along
the way.

Real-life espionage had  nothing in common  with the vid-adventure  variety. Lon
had carried neither weapons nor ultra-high-tech snooping devices. He had done no
furtive sneaking about,  no suborning of  government officials. His  information
was collected through far more prosaic methods. He had talked to people. He  had
kept his eyes open, looking around,  questioning what he saw, what he  heard. He
had  copied  libraries  of  data-books,  newspapers,  and magazines-transferring
everything to scores  of high-density data  chips. Fourteen ounces  of chips had
been enough to record everything published on Earth in the past quarter century.
It would give the analysts and auditors in OSI plenty to do for the next  couple
of years.

There  hadn't  even been  much  real danger  when  he had  contacted  Dirigent's
resident agents and factors on Earth. Their covers were also impeccable. As long
as his  cover story  and identity  passed casual  scrutiny, no  one in authority
would give him a second thought. It  wasn't until he returned to areas where  he
had been known as Lon Nolan  that there was any serious reason  for nervousness,
for  insecurity.  Someone might  recognize  him, even  after  twenty years,  and
wonder.

But nothing untoward had happened. His few encounters with authorities had  been
the result  of what  had appeared-  to them-to  be the  casual violence they saw
every day, and there had been no reason to look too deeply into Lon's cover. Lon
had his reunion, spent time with  his parents. even spent time hiking  around in
the mountains, just as he had done  when he was young. Those few weeks  had made
the entire mission worthwhile.


Waiting to board the  ship that would carry  him from Over-Galapagos to  Calypso
was, in some ways,  the most difficult part  of the entire mission  for Lon. His
mind kept conjuring up ironic climaxes-the sudden appearance of uniformed police
officers, weapons  raised, shouting  for him  to raise  his hands and surrender;
being carted back to  Earth and a lifetime  lease on a six-by-eight-foot  prison
cell. Or worse.

His baggage, including the data chips,  was loaded aboard ship two hours  before
the four passengers were allowed to board. Lon spent most of those two hours  in
the observation deck, watching Earth below, saying a private, final farewell  to
the planet  of his  birth... for  the second  time in  his life. This breaks the
strings,  he  told  himself-several  times.  The  image  remained  strong: Earth
strings-they reached out to every world humans had settled.

Once the ship started accelerating outbound,  Lon started to relax a little.  He
would not feel really  safe until the ship  made its first jump  through quantum
space, five days out from Over-Galapagos-the first of three jumps it would  make
to reach Calypso. By the  time of the first jump,  it would be too late  for the
authorities from Earth to recall the ship or to intercept it. He would be out of
their reach. Forever.

Five days, five nights.  Lon slept lightly, when  he slept at all.  Dreams came,
the same fanciful worries  he had felt in  Over-Galapagos, failing to get  away,
being intercepted at the last possible minute and carried back to Earth to stand
trial... or simply being "made" to disappear without trial.

Five  days of  constant acceleration,  farther and  farther from  Earth and  its
dependent colonies within the Solar System. When the first warning came over the
ship's communication system-"Q-space insertion  in thirty minutes"- Lon  had bit
his lip. So close. Could escape possibly be snatched from me now?

On a  civilian ship,  there were  frequent warnings  leading up  to the  Q-space
transit. While the ship was in the  void of quantum space, all the power  of its
three Nilssen generators-which provided  artificial gravity aboard ship  as well
as propelling the vessel through Q-space-would be diverted to force the transit.
Passengers were required to be in their bunks, strapped in, during the period of
zero  gravity-for  their  own safety  .  .  . and  to  keep  them from  being  a
distraction to  the crew,  or worse,  without weight  to hold  them in  place. A
crewman went to each  passenger's cabin to make  sure everyone was strapped  in,
then hurried  to his  own duty  station to  strap himself  in for  the duration.
"Thirty seconds until Q-space insertion."

The final ten seconds were marked by  a countdown. Lon held his breath until  he
felt the slight shudder of the ship as its Nilssens ratcheted to full power  and
drew a bubble of Q-space-in effect,  a pocket universe just slightly greater  in
diameter than  the longest  dimension of  the ship  and theoretically tangent to
every point in the "real" universe-around it.

"Safe." Lon was not  concerned that he  had spoken the  word aloud. He  was in Q
space, outbound from Earth. Safe. It  was not important, at the moment,  that he
was still  more than  three weeks  from home,  from Dirigent. Every interstellar
passage took fourteen days, or slightly more:

five days  out before  the first  jump, three  days before  the second and third
jumps, and from three to five days from the final jump into the destination. And
Lon had to go to Calypso before  he could transfer to another ship, a  DMC ship,
to get to Dirigent. And his family.



2

Lon was surprised to leam that there were two staff floaters waiting for him  at
the civilian spaceport in Dirigent  City. The explanation came quickly,  though.
Cavanaugh Zim had come in one from  Corps headquarters to take the case of  data
chips off Lon's hands.

"We'll do a  full debriefing next  Monday morning," Major  Zim told Lon.  "And I
have a message for you from Matt Orlis. He doesn't want to see hide nor hair  of
you until after that."

"A full week off?" Lon asked. "Somebody gone soft?"

"We'll talk about it a week from today.  Now, I've got to get back to work,  and
you've got better things to do."

It was at that moment that one  door of the other floater-ground effect  vehicle
flew open and  Angie No-lan jumped  out and ran  toward her father.  Three weeks
from her tenth birthday, Angie was still happy being "Daddy's little girl."  She
squealed with  delight as  she jumped  up to  let him  catch her  and whirl  her
through a full circle. Angie was tall for her age but slightly below average  in
weight, blue-eyed and blond-her hair was nearly as light yet as it had been when
she was a baby. She  threw her arms around his  neck and kissed his cheek,  then
pressed her cheek against his.

"How's my favorite  girl?" Lon asked,  easing her to  the ground and  prying her
grip loose-with difficulty.

"I'm first in my class again," she announced.

By that time. Major Zim's car had pulled away and the other two passengers  from
the second vehicle were close- Sara and Lon, Junior. Junior was sixteen now; his
birthday had come  not long after  his father had  left for Earth.  He hung back
just a little. He  did not want to  seem too ... effusive.  Lon tousled Junior's
hair, then took Sara in his arms for a serious hug and a couple of long  kisses.
Junior looked away.

"How was Earth?" Sara asked when the first rush of greetings was over.

Lon shrugged, turning  her toward the  car. Angie took  her father's free  hand.
Junior trailed along behind.

"Dirtier than I  remembered, and more  crowded," Lon said.  "Half a dozen  small
wars going on. Some people think the planetary government is losing all control.
Maybe they're right. My  parents will be coming  here to live. They're  probably
already on the way."

"Gramma and Grampa?" Angie asked,  excitement boiling out of her  words. "Coming
to stay?"

"Coming to stay," Lon agreed. Nothing had been said to the children before about
Lon trying to get them to move,  because he had been far from confident  that he
would succeed.

"I was afraid you  wouldn't be able to  convince them," Sara said.  "The letters
we've  had from  them over  the years.  Your father  always seemed  so dead  set
against leaving Earth."

"It  wasn't  easy talking  him  into moving,"  Lon  said. A  porter  had already
transferred Lon's bags  to the rear  compartment of the  floater. The driver,  a
sergeant from the  regimental motor pool,  got out to  hold the rear  right door
open for Lon and Sara. She got in  first. "I think it was news about the  battle
in Panama City that turned the trick."

"Where?" Sara asked.

"Panama City," Junior said from the front seat. Angie had gotten in back on  the
left, next to her mother. "On the isthmus between North and South America, where
the canal between the two oceans used to be."

"He's  right," Lon  said. "Militia  forces of  the Colombian  district of  South
America and the Mexican  department of the North  American Union fought a  major
battle, more than ten thousand killed in four days of fighting. Both sides  were
hurt so badly that neither could honestly claim a victory, though both tried."

"Ten thousand?" Sara said.

"The death toll was little more than a footnote in the news stories," Lon  said.
"Earth's population has gone back above  six billion. If a hundred thousand  had
died, it might have  rated a few cheers  at least, but ten?  That's neither here
nor there, as far as most people are concerned."

"That's awful," Sara said.

"You won't get  an argument from  me," Lon replied.  "Or from Dad.  Ten thousand
killed and they  don't mention  it until  the last  line of  the story?' he said
shouted-when the news came in. I couldn't recall ever seeing him that angry."

The driver had not waited for  instructions. As soon as all his  passengers were
in the floater, he had started driving, exiting the spaceport and taking Freedom
Boulevard, the direct route from the  spaceport across town to the main  camp of
the Dirigent  Mercenary Corps.  It was  a ride  Lon had  made many  times in his
career. He felt no need  to look out the windows.  It was much more pleasant  to
sit with his  arm around his  wife, holding her  close, reassuring himself  that
they were really back together again.

"How long do we have to get things ready for your parents?" Sara asked, her mind
going to practical matters.

"Probably at least a couple of weeks. They  were going to need a bit of time  to
wrap up things before they left. They might have left in the last day or two, or
maybe not. But they'll have to make two trips, just like I did. There aren't any
direct nights between Earth and Dirigent."

"Find them a small house here in the city? Or an apartment?"

"A house. Mom wants to garden. She's always grown flowers and a few  vegetables.
She was quite definite about that."

"A good neighborhood, fairly  close," Sara said. "And,  as soon as we  can after
they get here, we'll have to take them to Bascombe East to meet my folks."

Lon started chuckling. "We  don't have to start  making plans this very  minute.
Give me at least a few hours to relax. What's been happening here?" Not only had
Lon been away for six months, he also had been completely out of touch for  that
time. There had been no chance to exchange message chips while he was undercover
on Earth. It would have been far too deep a breach of security practices.

Sara hesitated, trying to think back over what might interest Lon the most. Then
she knew what she had to tell him. Bad news. "Matt Orlis's older boy was  killed
on contract, not a month after you left. It was his first time out."

Lon closed his eyes for an instant. "Mark was just- what-nineteen?"

"Nineteen," Sara confirmed. "Matt and Linda still aren't over it. I've done what
I could, but..." She shrugged to show how helpless she had felt.

"There's  not  much anybody  can  do," Lon  said.  Glancing at  his  son was  an
involuntary reflex, and  so was the  almost invisible shudder.  Junior was doing
everything but counting the days until he would be old enough to join the Corps.
"I'll go over to his place this evening."

"No, you won't," Sara said firmly.  "Didn't Cav tell you that Matt  doesn't want
to see you until you report back for duty next week?"

"Sure, but that was business. This is ... different."

"No. It's this, too," Sara insisted. "Matt didn't even want me to tell you about
Mark until then."

Lon declined to continue that  conversation just then. He couldn't  speak freely
with the children close enough to hear. This was not the first time Lon had felt
haunted by his own past. As a child on Earth, all Lon had ever wanted to be  was
a soldier. It had  taken him to The  Springs, the military academy  of the North
American Union. Then, when the government decided to draft the top students from
Lon's graduating class into the federal police-duty that would have centered  on
preventing  and putting  down riots  in the  urban circuses,  slums too  densely
populated by people who had lived on government largess for generations-Lon  had
conspired with the commandant of the military academy to escape that duty and go
off-world, eventually to Dirigent, where he  could fulfill his dream of being  a
soldier. All I ever wanted to be  was a soldier: Lon couldn't begin to  estimate
how many  times he  had uttered  that sentence,  or thought  it. Now Junior kept
saying virtually  the same  thing. All  he wanted  to be  when he  grew up was a
soldier.

It was the last thing his father wanted for him. I've seen too many friends die,
Lon thought. I'd do anything I could to protect Junior.

Short  of  shipping  the boy  off-world,  to  some colony  where  there  were no
soldiers, there was little Lon could do, except try to persuade his son to  look
elsewhere for a  career, but as  long as the  father remained in  the Corps, his
arguments all fell short.  And Lon knew it.  Junior was sixteen now,  and on his
eighteenth birthday, he would be eligible to enlist in the Corps, whether or not
his parents approved ... and he had  often announced his intention to do so,  on
that very day.


"Why is it that whenever I get a  few days off, I always seem to be  busier than
when I'm supposed  to be working?"  Lon asked Sara  halfway through the  week of
furlough. They were waiting for the  call to board the shuttle to  Bascombe East
with Junior  and Angie.  Right now,  the children  were busy.  Angie was  in the
arcade, playing video games. Junior was  sitting off by himself, reading on  his
portable complink, intent on whatever had caught his interest.

Lon felt as if this were the first  chance he'd had to sit and do nothing  since
getting home. The past three days had been busy, spent catching up on gossip and
making arrangements for the arrival of  his parents. Taking a couple of  days to
visit Sara's  parents was  a natural  part of  the furlough.  Lon enjoyed  being
around his in-laws, and the children always liked to visit the only grandparents
they had ever known-except through recordings that came in letter chips a couple
of times a year.

Sara tried hard to suppress a  laugh but failed. "Just balance, I  suppose," she
said. "So you don't forget what real work is like."

"Very funny." Lon let out  a long breath, noisily. "At  least it looks as if  it
might be quite a while before the battalion goes out on contract. We're not  too
near the top  of the battalion  or regimental rotas  for assignment. Could  have
several months  to help  Mom and  Dad get  settled in  and leam their way around
Dirigent."

"You know,  I was  thinking last  night, after  you went  to sleep,"  Sara said,
turning on the  bench to look  directly at her  husband. "If you  decided it was
time to retire from the Corps and take  over the pub, we could get your folks  a
place in Bascombe East, too, and we'd all be together." Geoff and Mildred  Pine,
Sara's parents, ran the village's only pub, the Winking Eye. And Geoff had  been
making noises  about retiring  and turning  the pub  over to  Lon and Sara since
their marriage seventeen years before.

Lon did not reply immediately. First he looked around to see where the  children
were. Then, almost in a whisper, he said, "If I thought that would be enough  to
get Junior's mind  away from joining  the Corps, I'd  do it in  a second, but  I
don't think it would work."

"No, probably not,"  Sara said. Unlike  Lon, Sara had  long since accepted  that
there was little chance of diverting their son from the Corps. "Every boy  wants
to be like his father, and you've set high standards. Besides, this is Diligent.
The Corps is what we are, in a lot of ways. Without it, we wouldn't have much of
anything." The Corps, and a thriving munitions industry that exported as much as
it  sold  domestically,  generated  virtually all  of  the  world's  income. The
importance of the Corps  found reflection in the  fact that the head  of the DMC
was also the head of state for the planet.

"With his  intelligence, he  could work  in R&D,  probably do  more good for the
Corps than he could do slogging through mud and getting shot at," Lon said.

"He figures he'll have time to do both," Sara replied. "Spend enough time in the
Corps to leam just  what ideas might be  useful, then go off  to a lab and  turn
ideas into practical gear."

That conversation  lapsed because  their flight  was called.  Sara gathered  the
children while Lon  checked with the  porter to make  certain their baggage  got
aboard the shuttle.


Lon polished pint beer glasses with a  bar rag. He enjoyed giving his  father-in
law a  hand around  the pub  on visits.  It helped  Lon relax.  In any case, the
Winking Eye could not  close just because family  came to visit. The  Nolans had
been in Bascombe East a little over six hours. The pub was closed for the night.
Junior  was sweeping  the floor.  He wasn't  happy with  the chore,  but he  had
limited his complaints to a single  groan of protest. Lon helped Geoff  clean up
behind the bar. Sara and Angie  were in the pub's kitchen helping  Mildred clean
up and get ready for  the next day. The food  served in the Winking Eye  was all
prepared fresh, not assembled from raw molecules in a food replicator. That  was
part of the allure of the Winking Eye.

"Enough," Geoff Pine said. He filled two glasses with his best beer and slid one
of them in front of his son-in-law. "Take a swig of that, then we'll go over 

and take a load off while the women finish in the kitchen."

Lon didn't  protest, and  neither did  Junior when  his grandfather  told him he
could quit rearranging the dust.

"I'm going outside for a few minutes," Junior announced. Lon just nodded.  There
was little danger or trouble the boy could get into in Bascombe East.

"So you've been  on Earth all  these months," Geoff  said when the  two men were
seated at a table near the front door. "Sara wouldn't tell us where you'd  gone,
said it was all hush-hush."

"Officially,  even  she  wasn't  supposed  to  know  where  I  was,"  Lon  said.
"Undercover stuff. But,  yes, I was  on Earth most  of the time,  except for the
transit time, of course, a month each way."

Geoff shook his head. then took a  long drink. "Earth belongs to the past.  It's
not the future, hardly  even the present. They  don't give a damn  about us, and
there's nothing we need from them."

"Earth could give us a  lot of trouble," Lon said.  "Maybe it's just that I  was
looking at  things with  older eyes  this time,  or had  a different perspective
after twenty  years away,  but there's  a feeling  of desperation  to just about
everything and everyone on Earth these days. Too many people, too little hope. A
constant race against disaster."

"The final  collapse they've  been talking  about for  centuries?" Geoff  asked,
arching a skeptical eyebrow.

Lon shrugged.  "Let's just  say it  wouldn't shock  me if  civilization on Earth
melted down."

"If it wasn't  for all the  suffering people would  do, I'd say  good riddance,"
Geoff said. "Find some way to lock Earth up in a Q-space bubble and let the rest
of the galaxy get on with its business."

"I see your point,  but it's awfully hard  for me to feel  that way, even as  an
intellectual exercise."

"No, of course you couldn't see it the way I do, lad. I'd be shocked if you did,
coming from there and all. But the only thing Earth really has to offer the rest
of us is trouble.  They could start shipping  off thousands of people  to colony
worlds, try to shovel their troubles off any way they could."

Lon managed  a smile.  "Part of  the trouble  is that  they can't  possibly ship
people out fast  enough to make  up for the  population increase. If  they had a
thousand ships,  each carrying  a thousand  people out-system  every month, they
could hardly make a dent in the situation, and there's no way they can find  the
money or materials to do that."

"Used to  be. Mother  Nature took  care of  overpopulation," Geoffsaid,  leaning
back. "War, pestilence, and  famine. And science has  pretty much taken care  of
two of those."

"Not entirely.  There are  people starving  to death  on Earth,  even with  food
replicator  technology being  hundreds of  years old.  You still  need the   raw
materials to feed into the system."

"And people still know how to kill  each other off," Geoff said. He drained  the
last of his  beer and stood.  "That's the shame  of it, but  if they didn't, the
problem would be even worse. I'm just glad it's Earth and not Dirigent."



3

Lon slept well Sunday night, after getting back to the family's home on base  in
Dirigent City. Bascombe East and  the Winking Eye always brought  welcome relief
to Lon. Someday  he would take  Geoff at his  word and retire  from the Corps to
take over the  pub. But not  soon-at the moment,  the pub was  a good change  of
pace, an escape from the usual. That would change if it occupied his every day.

Monday morning, Lon woke before his alarm could sound at six o'clock. He shaved,
showered, and  dressed while  Sara fixed  breakfast-first for  him and  then for
herself and the children.

"I'll try to  get home early  this afternoon," Lon  told Sara. "The  realtor has
three places for me to look at for Mom and Dad. Maybe we can get to all of  them
today."

"If we don't, we can take the rest of the week," Sara said. She understood Lon's
excitement, and their children's. To a certain extent she shared it.

"The sooner we pick a place and  finalize the contract, the sooner we can  start
getting it ready," Lon said. "I want to have everything finished before they get
here, and we don't know when that will be." A message from the ship when it came
out of its final Q-space transit would give them just three days' warning.

"Yes, dear," Sara said with mock resignation.

                                    *  *  *

Lon took the shuttle bus that  served the married officers' section of  the base
to Corps headquarters instead of getting off  at the stop it made near the  edge
of 7th  Regiment's area.  He would  have preferred  to visit  his office  in 2nd
Battalion first, talk to others on  the staff, but his instructions were  clear:
Get the debriefing out of the way first.

Cavanaugh Zim was waiting for him.

"We've started the  preliminary assessment of  your recorded reports,  Lon," Zim
said as they got settled in his  office. "And the cataloging has started on  the
publications  you  picked up.  I  imagine we'll  be  picking your  brain  pretty
regularly for years to come, trying to get every detail we can out of you.  This
morning I  just want  to get  some sense  of your  impressions. I've  got a  few
questions here."

A few dozen questions. Zim asked his questions, then sat back and let Lon  talk,
sometimes asking follow-ups,  or prompting Lon  for greater detail.  The session
was being recorded, sound  and video. That did  not bother Lon. Often  he closed
his eyes while he talked, using that to help him focus his thoughts, his  words.
At intervals Zim called for a break.  They would take five or ten minutes,  have
coffee  brought  in, or  leave  the office  to  stretch their  legs  and breathe
different air.

It was very close  to noon when Zim  said, "I think we'd  better call it a  day,
Lon. Let's go over to the officers' club and I'll buy lunch."

Lon got to his feet and stretched. "Thanks for the offer, Cav, but I think  I'll
pass. I want  to get over  to battalion and  find out how  badly they've screwed
everything up the seven months I've been gone. Probably take me a month or  more
to get things back the way I like them."

"After lunch will do just fine for that, Lon. I really have to insist."

"Why is everyone going to so much trouble to keep me away from 2nd Battalion?  I
heard  about  Matt's  boy  getting killed,  but  that  can't  explain all  this.
Something must be up."

"Keep your shirt on, Lon. Indulge us, please." Zim guided Lon through the  door.
"It'll only be another hour. Then Matt can explain everything. Trust me."


Lunch did not go  down easily for Lon.  He felt annoyed and  concerned. He could
not imagine what all the secrecy was about, why his return to his unit was being
stalled so thoroughly.  Zim had to  do most of  the talking. Lon's  replies were
generally monosyllabic. It was  a reversal of how  the conversation had been  in
Zim's office through the morning.

"Come on, Lon, don't go working  yourself into a lather," Zim urged.  "It's just
that Matt wants this to go just right."

"Wants what to go just right?" Lon shot back.

Zim shook his head slowly. "There's a time and a place for everything. Just  let
it drift. One more drink and it'll be about time."

Lon rushed through his final drink. Zim dallied, stalling as long as he  thought
he could without getting  Lon too upset to  think straight. Then Zim  got up. "I
guess it'll be time by the time we walk over to your battalion headquarters," he
said.

The central  area of  the DMC's  main base  had been  laid out  in a regular and
orderly way.  The largest  building on  base was  Corps Headquarters, which also
served as Government House for the world. A broad parade field extended from the
west facade of Corps  Headquarters all the way  to the main gates.  The fourteen
line regiments  were arranged  along the  long sides  of the  parade ground, 1st
through 7th on the north, 8th through 15th (there no longer was a 9th  Regiment;
it had been  virtually destroyed on  a contract that-in  retrospect-should never
have been accepted, and the 9th had never been reconstituted) on the south. Each
regiment  had  its headquarters  at  the far  end  of its  section,  marking the
"bottom" of a long, narrow  horseshoe, battalions on the flanks,  with battalion
headquarters  in  the center  of  the company  barracks.  Ancillary units-armor,
artillery, and support  services, for example-  were quartered farther  from the
central parade ground.

Since the main officers'  club, where Lon and  Zim had eaten, was  south of Corp
headquarters, they had only a moderate walk to the offices of 2nd Battalion, 7th
Regiment, across the  parade ground and  down Seventh Street,  which ran between
the battalion areas. Only a few  soldiers were visible in 2nd Battalion's  area,
policing the ground- a regular fatigue detail.

"You could at least give me a hint what to expect," Lon said as they neared  the
entrance to 2nd Battalion's headquarters.

"No way," Zim said. "This  is Matt's show. I'm not  going to give you a  peek at
the script."

Zim stayed at Lon's  elbow, herding him directly  toward Matt Orlis's office  on
the ground floor. Zim knocked, but scarcely waited for the muted "Come in"  from
the other side of the door. Zim pushed Lon in first, then closed the door behind
the two of them.

"Glad to see you back, Lon," Matt Orlis said as he got up from the chair  behind
his desk. There was  no gladness in the  voice, though, and Lon  was immediately
struck by the drawn-almost haggard-look on Matt's face.

Lon met Matt  halfway across the  office and they  shook hands. "I  was sorry to
hear about Mark," Lon said. "Nobody would let me come see you until today."

Matt Orlis's shrug was minuscule, as if any more effusive gesture was beyond his
physical capacity. "It's a risk we all take," he said. "As for the delay ..." He
did not complete that sentence. "Have a  seat. You, too, Cav. You might as  well
stick around for the rest of this."

Lon hesitated. Matt had simply turned his back and retreated to his position  in
the rear corner of the office, behind his desk. Cavanaugh Zim went to a chair at
the side of the room, out of the way. Finally, Lon took the seat near the corner
of Matt's desk.

"What the hell is going on. Matt?" Lon asked.

Orlis leaned back in his chair but met Lon's stare. "This time tomorrow, I'll be
a  civilian.  I'm retiring.  You  take over  2nd  Battalion. Your  promotion  to
lieutenant colonel  is effective  at midnight  tonight. Vel  Osterman from Delta
Company will be your  executive officer. His promotion  to major will be  on the
same general order as your promotion."

"Matt..." Lon started, but Orlis cut him  off before he could get more than  the
name out.

"Save it, Lon.  It's a done  deal. I made  my decision ten  weeks ago and  there
hasn't been a single  second thought. I've put  more than thirty years  into the
Corps. It's  time to  get out.  Linda and  I need  to spend  more time with each
other, and with our children, our remaining children." Lon could almost feel the
pain in Matt's voice. "I would have left sooner, but I wanted to wait until  you
got back."

"You could have been the next  regimental commander, Matt," Lon said. He  leaned
forward. "A seat  on the Council  of Regiments. Maybe  a term as  General before
long."

Matt shook his head. "No. I don't want it. I don't want any of it."

Once more, Lon hesitated  before he spoke. "I'm  sure you know your  mind. Matt,
but I still think it's a shame. You're a damned good officer, and you've  always
been a terrific friend."

"You'll be needing a  new battalion lead sergeant,"  too," Matt said. "I  talked
Weil into sticking around  through the end of  the week to help  you get settled
in, but he's also retiring.  Hell, he's got more time  in the Corps than I  do."
Weil Jorgen had been  a platoon sergeant in  the battalion's A Company  when Lon
first arrived as an officer-cadet, and had moved up the line through the years.

Is anyone staying? Lon wondered. "I'll want Phip Stee-sen as my lead  sergeant,"
he said. "If he's not retiring, too."

Matt ignored  the sarcasm  in Lon's  voice. "I  told Colonel  Black it  would be
Steesen. Regiment  will cut  the order  promoting him  effective Friday, when he
takes over from Weil officially. I'll tell  Weil to have Alpha send him over  so
you can tell him yourself."

"I've got to get back to the shop," Zim announced, getting up from his chair. He
went to Lon and offered his hand. "Congratulations on the promotion, Lon."  They
shook hands, then Zim turned to Matt. "I'm sorry to see you go myself.  Colonel,
but I do understand why."

As they  shook hands.  Matt shook  his head  and said,  "Not entirely,  Cav, not
entirely," very softly.

After Zim  had left,  Orlis used  the intercom  to tell  Weil Jorgen to get Phip
Steesen in as quickly as he could be located. Then he turned to Lon again.

"It hasn't  been easy,  these last  months," Man  said. "You'd  think that after
thirty years  of losing  friends and  comrades, seeing  some of  them die, a man
would get used to death. Especially in the Corps." He shook his head. "It  ain't
so, Lon. It just ain't so. There are still nights when I wake up crying, feeling
a knot in my stomach the size of a soccer ball."

"Some things you can't get used to. Matt. There are nights I lie awake  worrying
about Junior. He wants to be a soldier as much as I did when I was a kid. And  I
can't think of any way to keep him  from joining the Corps, as soon as he's  old
enough."

"My father was  in the Corps,  and both his  brothers. Both my  grandfathers. It
goes back nearly two hundred years in the Orlis family," Matt said.  "Soldiering
is what we do on Dirigent. It makes the world turn. But, dear God, this  hurts."
Matt's voice broke. He seemed to be  near breaking into tears. It took him  more
than a minute to get his emotions under control. Lon sat quietly, not moving  at
all,  trying  to keep  his  own worries  about  Junior from  getting  to him  in
response.

"Sorry, Lon,"  Matt said  when he  could speak  without showing  anguish in  his
voice. "I shouldn't have laid that on you."

"Don't worry about it. Matt."

Orlis took a deep breath, held it a moment, then let it out. "Weil can give  you
a better  briefing on  what's going  on in  the battalion  than I can. Delta and
Bravo have new  officer-cadets since you  left. Wallis Ames  moved to regimental
staff  six weeks  ago. He's  handling communications  and transportation."  Matt
shrugged.  "After  twenty-three years  as  a captain  commanding  Bravo Company,
something  finally turned  up that  let him  become a  major." Ames  had been  a
competent but unimaginative line officer;  never any strong black marks  against
his record but also without any special flair for the business of combat.

"Charlie Company is  number two on  the rota for  company-sized contracts," Matt
said. "The rest are farther  down, and we've got a  way to go to get  to the top
for battalion- or regimental-sized contracts."

"I  know. I  checked the  rotas last   week, just  after I  got in,"  Lon  said.
Contracts came in all sizes, depending on the needs and resources of the client.
The Corps maintained separate listings to make sure that every unit got its fair
share of contracts. Contract pay was higher than garrison pay, and-especially on
a combat contract-there was always the chance of a completion bonus.

"If we had been closer to the top, I think I would have retired sooner, Lon. The
way I've  been, it  wouldn't have  been fair  to the  men for  me to command the
battalion in combat."

"You'd have done  it up right.  Matt, the way  you always have.  That would have
been better than sending the battalion off without either of us."

"I'm just relieved the situation didn't come up."

Lon's office, across the  hall from Matt's, was  much as Lon had  left it before
leaving for Earth. There were a few recent papers on the desk, and the  complink
screen showed a list of files that he needed to check out. No sooner had Lon sat
at his desk when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in."

Lon looked up  to see Lead  Sergeant Weil Jorgen  enter. "Good to  see you back,
sir," Weil said.

"It's good  to be  back, sort  of," Lon  said. "Sit  down, Weil.  I hear  you're
running out on me, too."

Before he sat, Weil glanced at the  door, almost as if he could see  through two
doors, to where  Matt Orlis was.  "It's time for  me to hang  it up, sir,"  Weil
said. "Getting awful hard to stay in good enough shape. I'd rather choose when I
go out than  just turn up  deficient on a  physical training test.  Last one was
awful close. Too close."

"What about the colonel?" Lon asked, very softly.

Weil shook his head. "It's been rough  for him, losing his oldest boy that  way.
Like the life just drained out of him. At first, we all thought it'd pass,  that
he'd get back to something like normal. Maybe not all the way, but... well,  you
know, sir. But, if anything, it's just dragged on him harder. Sometimes I  could
see him cringe  at the sight  of battledress uniforms.  Like to broke  my heart,
seeing him like  that. We've been  on a lot  of contracts together,  all the way
back to when he  was a raw lieutenant  and I was a  squad leader. Ages and  then
some."

Lon nodded. "He's changed, that's for sure. I'm bringing in Phip Steesen to hold
down your desk when you go. I'm  glad you're sticking around a few days  to help
us all get up to speed. Phip, me, and the new exec."

"Well, sir. Major  Osterman's been hanging  around several weeks  now, acting as
executive officer, so he pretty well knows what's going on already. Steesen, now
..." Weil  grinned. "Well,  I'll lay  you ten  to one  he spends  thirty minutes
hitching about you ruinin' his life again."

Lon matched the sergeant's grin. "No bet, Weil. Phip's bitched every time we put
another stripe  on his  sleeve. Keeps  saying he  wishes he  was still a private
taking orders, not stuck in the middle taking and giving."

"He can carry on, but he'll do the  job right as anyone. You get under the  crab
hide, he's a damn fine soldier- but don't you dare tell him I said that, sir."

"Your secret's safe  with me, Weil.  Any idea how  long it'll be  before he gets
here?"

"Shouldn't be long."

"Send him straight back as soon as he comes in."


Lon recognized the pattern of the knock on his office door. "Come on in,  Phip,"
he said. He leaned back and grinned  as Phip opened the door and seemed  to peek
around it before coming all of the way into the office. "Have a seat. Relax."

Phip Steesen had  been one of  the first friends  Lon had made  when he came  to
Dirigent and joined the Corps as an officer-cadet. Phip, Janno Belzer, and  Dean
Ericks had been in the fire team Lon had been assigned to. The three of them had
taken him  under their  collective wing,  as it  were, and  the four of them had
quickly become close friends, spending  much of their off-duty time  together as
well. Janno had gotten married and left the Corps little more than a year later.
Dean Ericks had been killed on contract, nine years back, on Bancroft.

"I see you made it back in one piece,"  Phip said as he sat in the chair at  the
side of Lon's desk.  "Get all the cobwebs  swept out?" The relationship  the two
men maintained was delicate.  They were close friends,  but on duty, Lon  was an
officer and Phip a noncom,  and Lon had been above  Phip in the line of  command
from the day he received his lieutenant's pips.

"I think  I finally  cut the  strings," Lon  said. "Earth  could hardly  be more
alien. My folks are moving here. Should arrive some time in the next few weeks."

"Hey, that's good news!"

Lon smiled. "It  is. Now, I've  got more news  for you, and  I'm not sure you'll
think it's quite as good."

"Oh-oh. When you start out  like that, it's odds on  that I'm not going to  like
the finish."

"You've got until  ten o'clock tomorrow  morning to turn  Alpha Company over  to
your successor as  company lead sergeant.  Matt Orlis is  retiring tomorrow, and
Weil checks out Friday. You're  Weil's replacement. He's finishing out  the week
to help us both get settled in."

"Oh, Lon. Why'd you  have to go and  do that to me?"  Phip said, and Lon  wasn't
certain if the remark was serious or in jest. Or somewhere in between.

"You know  the reasons  as well  as I  do," Lon  said, struggling  to keep  from
laughing. "If nothing else, you know how I like things better than anyone else I
might pick, and-most of the time-I know what to expect from you."

"Don't polish my brass. We've known each other too long."

This time Lon couldn't hold back the  laugh. "Exactly. That's why I need you  in
the front office when I move across the hall. Besides, I'm sure Jenny will  find
use for the extra money you'll draw as battalion lead sergeant."

Phip groaned. "Jenny could find use for the extra money if I was General."  When
Phip had finally "broken down" and married, four years before, it had been  news
almost of the magnitude of "Man Bites Dog."

"Does Captain Girana know you're shanghaiing me?"

Lon shook his  head as he  reached for a  key on his  desk complink. "Weil,  get
Captain Girana on the line," Lon said when Jorgen answered the intercom call. It
took no more than thirty seconds before Tebba Girana appeared on the screen.

"Tebba, you need a new lead sergeant," Lon told him. "I'm taking Steesen."

"You mean it's official now?" Tebba asked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I've been figuring  you'd steal Phip since  I heard you were  getting the
battalion. Wil Nace will be the replacement."

"Good choice," Lon said. "I'll have the order published. The effective date will
be Friday, but I'm pulling Phip over here tomorrow, as of the  change-of-command
ceremony."

"You can have him now, if you  can find him," Tebba said, chuckling. "Just  send
him back to clean out his desk."

"No respect. I don't get no respect at all," Phip said, loud enough for Tebba to
hear.

"He's here with me now," Lon said.

"I know, Lon," Tebba said. "At least, I knew he had been called over to see you.
I'll tell Nace he's  finally moving up. He's  been due the promotion  for years.
Thought I'd end up losing him to another company so he could get it."

"He coulda had my job any time he wanted it," Phip said.


Once Phip left, Lon called Sara to tell her the news about his promotion.  "This
is one you  didn't pick up  on the backyard  net," he said  then. "The grapevine
must have broken." Over the years, there had been times when the officers' wives
appeared to know when everything happened before their husbands did.

"I thought Matt would change his mind," Sara said. "I just couldn't believe he'd
go through with retiring."

"You and the kids coming to watch the ceremony tomorrow?"

"Of course," Sara said quickly. "I was just trying to decide just what-all  I've
got to get done."

"I'll probably be home late this evening, tomorrow evening, too," Lon said. "All
the time I've been gone, I'm going to  have a lot of work slipping into the  new
job."

"You  don't have  to do  everything the  first twenty-four  hours," Sara   said.
"You'll have months to get it all  to your satisfaction. I know how far  down on
the rotas you are."

"New CO, new exec, new lead  sergeant-Weil is retiring Friday, and I'm  bringing
Phip  over to  take the  job. Bravo  has a  new company  commander. Several  new
platoon sergeants  and a  new company  lead sergeant.  Two officer-cadets in the
battalion. This and  that. We've got  to get in  a lot of  training before we're
back at the level where we need to be."


There was plenty  of work that  needed doing, but  after Lon closed  the link to
Sara, he just sat  and stared at the  blank complink monitor, not  even blinking
for more than  a minute. In  that time, Lon's  mind was nearly  as empty as  the
screen. Finally he shook his head, as  if that might help clear away the  sudden
cobwebs. The day was far from over, and there had already been so much in it.

Everything at once, he  thought. All of the  day's events were fighting  for his
attention again. There was the agony he had seen in Matt Orlis, but that touched
a raw nerve;

Lon fought against thinking about  that. Lieutenant colonel. Lon shook  his head
again. I thought it would be years before I made it.

That put him  back in command  of troops, not  merely a staff  officer. Puts the
load back  on my  shoulders, he  thought, for  a lot  more men than ever before.
Being second-in-command behind Matt Orlis had  been soft duty most of the  time.
Now the decisions would be Lon's, as well as the responsibility. More than eight
hundred men. If I  screw up on a  contract, a lot of  good people could pay  the
price. There was always that burden.

"At least I've got  the best batch of  officers and sergeants anyone  could hope
for," he said  softly. He got  up and walked  over to the  window. He opened the
blinds and looked out. Barracks and sky. "And I had a good teacher."

That brought his  thoughts back to  Matt Orlis, but  not the years  that Lon had
served under him as both climbed the  ladder in the Corps. All he could  see was
the anguish on Matt's face, thinking about the death of his son.

That could be me someday, he thought, and he felt suddenly cold all over.  Would
I react any differently if Junior were killed on contract? It was a question  he
couldn't- didn't want to-answer.


A  change-of-command  ceremony,  in garrison,  was  a  spectacle-with the  scale
increasing almost exponentially the higher  the level of the change.  The annual
ceremony during which the newly elected General replaced his predecessor was  as
elaborate and ornate as any coronation of a hereditary monarch had ever been  on
Earth.

The uniform of the day for  the ceremony transferring command of 2nd  Battalion,
7th Regiment was  full-dress. Since  it was  autumn, that  meant iridescent blue
green tunics over dark green  trousers with ceremonial swords for  the officers,
solid dark green tunics and trousers for enlisted men.

Colonel Hiram Black, commanding officer of 7th Regiment, was present to formally
hand 2nd Battalion over to the Corps' newest lieutenant colonel, Lon Nolan.  The
DMC band was present, brilliant in scarlet and black uniforms, to play  properly
martial music for  the ceremony. The  men of 2nd  Battalion stood at  attention,
ordered by platoons  and companies, in  ranks and files  so straight they  could
have been  used to  lay out  the foundation  of a  building. Families of married
officers and sergeants had seats in temporary bleachers set up for the occasion.
The families  of the  few married  privates, lance  corporals, and corporals had
folding chairs, just a little farther than the other families from the  platform
where the handover would take place.

To the strains of a stirring march, an honor guard arrived carrying the flags of
Dirigent, the Corps, 7th Regiment, and that regiment's 2nd Battalion. The  flags
were placed in  stands at the  rear of the  platform. The officers  of the honor
guard-from other battalions in  7th Regiment- took up  places at either side  of
the platform. The regimental chaplain offered an opening prayer, then introduced
Colonel Black.

Colonel Black spent  ten minutes extolling  the martial virtues  of the retiring
battalion commander, noting Matt Orlis's length of service and the most  notable
of the combat contracts  he had been part  of. He mentioned the  death of Matt's
son, the  "great personal  sacrifice" that  all members  of the  Corps had to be
prepared for. Then Colonel Black spent  an equal time touting the new  battalion
commander, mentioning-almost with his first  words-that Lon had come from  Earth
to join the Corps, going on to talk about his achievements, rapid promotion, and
so forth, right to veiled comments  about his most recent mission, though  Earth
was never actually mentioned.

Next, Colonel Black read the text  of the general order transferring command  of
2nd Battalion from Orlis to No-lan. The captain who had carried the  battalion's
flag reclaimed it from its stand as the band went into another snappy tune,  and
marched crisply up  to Matt Orlis,  who touched the  standard briefly with  both
hands. The captain then carried the flag three steps, to Lon Nolan, who  touched
the standard the same way. Then the  flag was returned to its place at  the rear
of the platform.

Both lieutenant colonels saluted the colonel, who returned the salutes. The band
segued  into a  different march  while the  three men  exchanged handshakes  and
private words. The  honor guard picked  up the flags  and started carrying  them
away, off to the left, to turn a comer-out of sight of the men of the  battalion
and their families- before dispersing.

Lieutenant Colonel Lon Nolan was now  commander of" the battalion he had  served
in since joining the  Dirigent Mercenary Corps-responsible  for the lives,  well
being, and performance of more than eight hundred men.



4

By Friday afternoon, three days after he had taken command of 2nd Battalion, Lon
was telling himself that it had  been the most difficult week of  his life-worse
than recruit training on Dirigent or Hell Week at The Springs on Earth. From six
every morning until  as late as  eight or nine  in the evening,  it seemed to be
hurry, hurry, hurry, one thing right after the other, never enough time,  always
a half dozen more items on the schedule.

On Tuesday afternoon he had held an officers' call for all of the officers under
his command.  There had  been several  meetings with  staff officers and company
commanders, meetings with the officers and noncoms of each company. He  attended
briefings  at  regiment. He  read  incoming reports,  read  and signed  outgoing
reports, dealt  with planning  the battalion's  training schedule  for the  next
three months ... and on and on.

Each morning he  had taken  calisthenics with  the battalion,  including the two
mile run that always concluded the exercise session. When he could, he  squeezed
in an  hour's workout  in the  regimental gymnasium  late in  the afternoon.  An
officer in the Corps, no matter how high his rank, had to meet the same physical
conditioning standards that a  private-perhaps twenty years younger-had  to. Lon
worried that he had let  himself get too far out  of shape in the months  he had
been gone. On the ships he had  traveled aboard and on Earth it had  rarely been
possible to get as extensive a workout  as he would have liked. Now that  he was
back, he was  anxious to correct  the situation as  quickly as possible.  He had
started his program the mom-ing after returning, and kept it up even during  the
two and a half days in Bascombe East. Back on duty, he increased his demands  on
himself.

As if he didn't already  have more than enough to  do, twice during the week  he
took time away from base to look at cottages his parents might be interested in,
properties Sara had already  inspected and decided were  good enough for him  to
consider.

"I'm  going to  take off  a couple  of hours  early today,  Vel," Lon  told  his
executive officer shortly after lunch Friday. "We're closing the deal on a place
for my parents."

"Why not take off now?" Osterman  suggested. They were sitting in Lon's  office,
drinking coffee. "No use bum-ing yourself out at the start. You've been  driving
hard all week.  I can handle  things until quitting  time." The major  was three
years older than Lon and had been in the Corps since the week of his  eighteenth
birthday.  He  had  made  captain  shortly  after  Lon  was  commissioned  as  a
lieutenant, and had  only one promotion  since, against the  three Lon had  won.
Osterman's progress in the Corps was far more nearly typical.

Lon glanced at the timeline on his complink screen. "I told Sara I'd meet her at
the realtor's office at three. It's not one-thirty yet."

"So stop at  the officers' club  for a kiss-the-week-good-bye  drink first," Vel
suggested. "Get out of here, away from  the office. I'm serious. It'll do you  a
world of good."

"We're having company for dinner this  evening, so I can't start drinking  now,"
Lon said with a smile. He stretched, then stood. "But I guess I can get in fifty
minutes at the gym."

                                    *  *  *

Lon did not try to deceive himself. Although he was still in excellent  physical
condition, he  was not  the athlete  he had  been as  a teenager.  No matter how
conscientious  he was  about his  training, every  year saw  an erosion  in  his
numbers-as much as a half second off  his best times for the mile, for  example.
It  had been  three years  since he  had broken  the four-minute  mile. At   The
Springs, when he was  nineteen, he had come  within three-tenths of a  second of
the world record for the distance. He had accepted that all he could hope to  do
was minimize the inescapable erosion that age brought to performance.

He pushed himself hard for forty-five minutes, using several exercise  machines,
then running  laps, attempting  to match  his last  time for  the mile. While he
walked a final lap of the indoor track, cooling down, he thought about that. I'm
not trying to beat my best, just trying to meet what I've done lately. He  shook
his head. Age. It catches up with all of us.

"Comes a time  to face it  and move on,"  he muttered. The  average life span on
Dirigent-ignoring the downward bias caused by military casualties-was 115 years,
near  life expectancy  on most  developed colony  worlds. Most  people  remained
healthy, active, even vigorous  until very nearly the  end. There simply came  a
time  when na-nomedical  implants could  not repair  and regenerate  tissue  and
organs as fast as  they wore out, and  the nanosystems started generating  their
own errors.

Exercise, a shower, and  vigorous toweling always served  to help Lon relax  and
put aside his current worries. Even his preoccupation with the effects of  aging
on his physical  capabilities did not  survive the routine.  By the time  he was
dressed, ready to leave, he had almost fully put aside his workday thoughts  and
was looking forward to meeting Sara and  concluding the deal for a home for  his
parents.

One of  the perks  of being  battalion commander  was that  Lon was authorized a
staff car and driver from the  regimental motor pool. Both were waiting  when he
emerged from the gymnasium attached  to regimental headquarters. Lon relaxed  in
the backseat. The driver knew where to take him. The realtor's office was in the
city, along Freedom  Boulevard-the route mercenary  units took to  the spaceport
when they were going out on contract.

Sara was just  getting out of  a taxi when  Lon's driver pulled  up to the  curb
behind it. "Good timing. Corporal," Lon  said before his driver got out  to open
the rear door.

"Yes, sir," the corporal said as he held open Lon's door. "Just takes the  right
knack and a lot of luck."

"We shouldn't be too long. This is all supposed to be ready for signatures."

"I've got nowhere else to go. Colonel," the driver said.


When Lon got home shortly after four  o'clock, he changed into civilian  clothes
loose shirt and trousers, and soft moccasins he had purchased on Earth. The  tag
had said "genuine Cherokee handcrafted," but Lon was not convinced of the  truth
of that claim. It didn't matter. They were comfortable, and as far from boots or
dress shoes as he could get without going barefoot.

Sara  went into  her busy  mode, making  final preparations  for the   evening's
dinner, drafting both Junior and Angie to help. That the guests would not arrive
for two hours didn't slow Sara at all, though there was little enough she needed
to do. Lon made a perfunctory offer of help, which, predictably, was refused.

Lon allowed himself a single mixed drink and nursed it while he watched the news
feed on the entertainment console in the living room. After his long absence, he
still needed to click over to background  material to make sense of some of  the
ongoing stories. Almost a third  of the DMC was off-world  fulfilling contracts,
most of which were training missions. Only one contract was for a full regiment,
the 8th. They were en route to a world  Lon had never heard of before . . .  not
an unusual occurrence.

There was a  paucity of other  off-world news, and  much of that  was labeled as
unconfirmed rumor. News traveled slowly through interstellar space, leaping from
world to world  with whatever ships  happened to be  leaving port, each  transit
aging the story by  two weeks. One report  that did have official  confirmation,
three months old, said that a son had been bom to the Windsor king of the Second
Commonwealth and his wife,  on Buckingham. That carried  the usual links to  the
history of the Second Commonwealth and the royal genealogy.

"I'm going to get changed," Sara announced a half hour before their guests  were
supposed to arrive. "Is that what you're going to wear?"

Lon glanced down at  his clothing. "I planned  to," he said. "What's  wrong with
it?"

Sara  hesitated before  she said,  "Oh, I  guess it'll  do. It's  just not  very
appropriate for a battalion commander."

The laugh jumped  out before Lon  could stop it.  "We're not hosting  the spring
ball, dear," he said. "Just an informal evening with friends."

Sara opened her mouth, then closed  it-trying not to smile. She shook  her head,
then left.

"What's  wrong with  the way  I'm dressed?"  Lon asked  softly, with  no one  to
answer.


Twenty minutes later, Sara  was back, looking as  fresh as if she  had spent the
entire day primping  for the evening.  She was not  wearing anything fancy,  but
still  managed  to look  elegant-more  so by  comparison  with the  way  Lon was
dressed.

"That's why you thought I should be more formal," Lon said as she pirouetted  to
give him the full  effect. "You've got time  to change, if you  hurry." "I don't
think so. My neck still chafes  from wearing that high-necked dress uniform  the
other day. Look  at it like  this: The seedier  I look, the  better you look  by
comparison."

When the entertainment console beeped to signal someone at the door, Lon went to
answer. Phip and his  wife, Jenny, were there  with their year-old daughter  and
Jenny's brother, Kaiko Green.

"You'd better water Phip's drinks tonight," Jenny said as soon as the  greetings
were out of the way. "He's already had to stick on one killjoy patch to sober up
after the retirement party for Weil Jorgen."

"That's sacrilege, love,"  Phip said. "We  never water our  liquor. Goes against
everything the  Corps stands  for. Besides,  you've probably  got enough killjoy
patches in your purse to sober up the entire battalion."

They moved  into the  living room.  Junior took  "the sleeping  baby from  Jenny
Steesen and  set her  in the  crib Sara  had borrowed  from a  neighbor for  the
evening. Junior  and Angie  had volunteered-after  only minimal  coaxing-to tend
little Mary Steesen while the adults had dinner; they had eaten earlier.

Sara came out of the kitchen, and the greetings started over. Phip had known Lon
years longer than  he had known  Sara, but Sara  claimed credit for  introducing
Phip to his wife.

It all went back  to the court-martial. Nine  years before, Kaiko Green,  then a
private in the DMC,  had been convicted of  manslaughter for killing a  sergeant
who had been abusing him and  threatening his young sister. Jenny. Lon  had been
one of the members of the court-martial. After-ward. Kaiko had become  something
of a cause celebre  because of the court-martial  testimony of his sister.  Many
people saw Kaiko as more  of a victim than the  dead man- as a hero,  even. Sara
and a number of other officers' wives (calling themselves the Committee for True
Justice) had  petitioned the  General for  clemency for  Kaiko, taking  the case
public and enlisting growing support-including  four of the five members  of the
court-martial. It had  taken nearly three  years, but the  case finally found  a
sympathetic  ear, and  the current  General had  commuted Kalko's  fourteen-year
sentence to time served. The committee was still working, attempting to obtain a
full pardon for Kaiko, to restore the civil rights his conviction had cost  him.
He could not vote or hold any government position. It was during that continuing
effort  that Sara  had introduced  Phip and  Jenny. Two  years later,  they  had
married.

Kaiko was now a factory shift supervisor. The title sounded more impressive than
it  was. Each  shift consisted  of six  workers to  tend the  machinery and  the
computers that ran them.


"I heard a rumor this afternoon you might be interested in, Lon," Phip said near
the  end of  dinner. "At  the party  for Weil  I got  to talking  with the  lead
sergeant from Contracts at Corps HQ. There's a ship inbound, just came out of  Q
space this afternoon. One of the passengers is the governor of Bancroft."

"Bancroft?" Lon's  eyebrows raised.  Phip nodded  and repeated  the name  of the
world.

"Something special  about that  place?" Kaiko  asked. "We  were there some years
back," Lon said.  "Nine years," Sara  said. "Right after  the court-martial." "A
good  friend died  there," Lon  said very  softly. The  memory of  Dean's  death
brought a  quick pang.  Lon shook  his head  and looked  toward Phip again. "Was
there anything more to the rumor you heard?"

"Just the name.  Sosa is still  running Bancroft. The  ship won't reach  parking
orbit until Monday. They must be looking  for help again, and it must be  really
serious if the governor came himself."

"Somebody trying to  raid them for  their mineral wealth  again, no doubt,"  Lon
said. "Probably the same cartel as  before. Oh, well, Bancroft will be  somebody
else's problem  this time.  We're too  far down  the rota  unless they ask for a
couple of full regiments."

"Not likely,"  Phip said.  "They pinched  pennies to  hire one  company to train
their militia last time." He turned  toward Jenny and Kaiko. "Lon's the  guy who
actually talked them  into offering a  piece of the  action when we  amended the
contract to go out and actually have a shot at the bad guys, a percentage of the
gold, and other stuff we recovered."

Lon lowered his head, looking at his plate, remembering Dean Ericks. "We know  a
little more about the Colonial Mining  Cartel now," Lon said, almost talking  to
himself. "I looked up everything I could  find about them while I was on  Earth.
They've pretty well strip-mined everything  in Earth's Solar System that  didn't
have people sitting right on top, and they've been working their way out through
extrasolar colony systems as quickly as they could, local residents be damned."

"Earth's that desperate for those things?" Jenny asked.

"That desperate  and more,"  Lon said,  looking at  her. She  was scarcely  half
Phip's  age,  but  that  didn't  seem  to  detract  from  the  quality  of their
relationship. "They have to bring in gold, platinum, and even more common metals
like nickel and copper as fast as they can just to keep Earth functioning."


The evening had progressed to dessert  and wine before the complink signaled  an
incoming message. Lon excused himself and went to the living room to answer  the
call there. When he pressed the accept key and the call was connected, Lon's jaw
dropped. He was looking at his mother.

"I've been trying  to call for  six hours," she  said. "We couldn't  get an open
channel until now. All tied up with official business, they told us. We're going
to arrive  Monday afternoon,  they tell  us, about  two o'clock  your time. Your
father and I."



5

It was a hectic weekend for Lon and Sara. They had assumed that they would  have
at least another week to prepare for the arrival of Lon's parents. The house had
been  bought, but  it had  no furniture-or  anything. Saturday  started with   a
frantic furniture shopping  tour, and a  certain amount of  pleading to get  the
basic necessities delivered before noon Monday. Some things they took with them,
to drop off at the house that day.

On Sunday they hung curtains, bought towels and washcloths, sheets,  silverware,
and everything else they had been able  to think of. By that evening, both  were
tired.

"I wish I could take off tomorrow morning to help get the furniture set up," Lon
told his wife while they were getting ready for bed Sunday night-an hour earlier
than normal. "But we've got the  colonel's weekly meeting at eight, and  I can't
miss  my  first  one  as  battalion  commander."  The  Monday  conference  was a
tradition-the regimental commander  and his staff  heads met with  the battalion
commanders to rehash the  previous week's events and  plan for the new  week and
beyond.

"Don't worry about it," Sara said. "I'll be there, and the delivery men will put
everything where I want it and carry off the containers. As long as they show up
when Mr. Hastings said they would, everything will be set before your folks  get
on the shuttle to land."

"Still, I should be there." "Go to sleep."


The commander's conference Monday morning  was uncomfortable for Lon. It  wasn't
simply because he was distracted by the impending arrival of his parents or  the
work that Sara  had to do  without him to  make sure the  cottage was ready. The
meeting  started  with  Colonel  Black formally  introducing  Lon  to  the other
battalion commanders and his staff-although Lon had known all of them for years.
Lon was younger than the  other battalion commanders-in one  case, half the  age
and  the others  all had  at least  ten years  more service  than Lon.  He  felt
embarrassed, as if the others were staring at him throughout the meeting.

There was  little substance  in the  conference-routine reports,  measuring last
week's  activities  against  the  program  set  out  at  the  previous  meeting,
establishing criteria for the current  week, discussion about the current  state
of affairs  for the  Corps-specifically, how  long it  might be before contracts
came up for 7th Regiment or its constituent units.

The conference dragged on for two  hours, and by the time Colonel  Black finally
dismissed the meeting, Lon was about ready  to run for the door and keep  going.
He realized that it was irrational. He  had attended a few of these meetings  in
the past, standing  in for Matt  Orlis or because  he had something  specific to
contribute, but this was  definite. Now, he was-in  the jargon of the  Corps-2nd
Battalion, not a temporary substitute.

"Lon, stick  around for  a minute,  if you  would," Colonel  Black said when the
meeting was over.

Lon sat back down  and waited for the  rest of the officers  to file out of  the
conference room.

"How are  things going  for you  in 2nd?"  Hiram Black  asked when  the two were
alone. "You getting settled in right?"

"No  complaints," Lon  said. "Being  away from  the battalion  for seven  months
complicates things a little, but I've got good people. They're getting me up  to
speed in a hurry."

"Good, good. I know you'll  do your usual bang-up job.  Ah, by the way, I  had a
call from the General this mom-ing."

"About me?"

"In part. The governor of Bancroft is arriving today, and the General  suggested
that you should  be part of  the official reception  committee." Lon started  to
interrupt, but  Black waved  him quiet.  "I know.  I told  the General that your
parents are arriving on the same ship,  that you need to meet them and  get them
settled. The General agreed, rather  reluctantly, but said that since  you'll be
at the spaceport  anyway, you ought  to be able  to take a  few minutes to greet
Governor Sosa."

"Yes, sir. Of  course," Lon said.  "I'd have tried  to do that  even without the
General's ... invitation."

Black smiled. "I was sure you would. I told the General you'd be eager to  renew
your acquaintance with the governor."


The way it worked out, Lon's floater was nearly part of the official  procession
from the base  to the spaceport.  That was accidental.  Sara was at  the cottage
they had purchased for Lon's parents,  and after picking her up, the  driver had
turned onto the boulevard a couple  of cars behind the convoy that  included the
General and two regimental commanders as well as a number of other functionaries
and aides. The  band was already  at the spaceport,  warming up-or getting  in a
last rehearsal.

There was a certain amount of confusion when the official welcoming party  piled
out of  the staff  cars and  limousines. Lon's  driver managed  to get  into the
reserved area where the other vehicles  were parking, closer to the place  where
the shuttle would discharge its passengers than the public lot was.

The General, Jorge Ruiz, spotted Lon and had one of his aides bring Lon and  his
wife over.

"Good to see you again. Nolan," Ruiz said. "I hate to impose on you when  you've
got family coming in, but Governor Sosa asked after you by name."

"I look forward to meeting him again. General," Lon said.

"A few words now, a  promise you'll be available to  talk with him later on  his
visit, and we'll let you get on with your reunion," Ruiz said. "Seems the people
of Bancroft are having the same sort of trouble you helped them with some  years
back."

"I guessed that. General, when I heard that the governor was aboard the incoming
ship. Seems it might be worse this time if the governor himself came."

"We'll find out soon enough. The  thing is, they were impressed enough  with the
Corps to come to  us again, perhaps with  a larger contract in  the offing. That
says a lot for the job you and your lads did for them before."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. How long will it be before the shuttle lands?"

The General glanced  at his watch  before he answered.  'Twelve minutes, if  the
information I was given is correct."

If  it isn't,  somebody's butt  will be  hot, Lon  thought. You  don't give  the
General had data.

The General turned his attention to someone  else, and Lon and Sara moved a  few
steps away.  Unlike the  official welcoming  party-all decked  out in full-dress
uniforms- Lon was wearing off-dress blues, the standard uniform in the  offices.
He stuck out like a banana in a bowl of grapes.

Off to the side, the band had gone quiet. They were done rehearsing, or  warming
up,  and  the director  was  dressing the  lines,  making certain  the  military
formation was perfect.

A red carpet was rolled out from  the stand where the General and his  entourage
would wait. They were just starting to move up onto the platform.

"You think the pilot will  be able to stop with  the door right over that  rug?"
Sara whispered to her husband.

"Not one of our shuttle pilots, so who can tell?" he replied out of the side  of
his mouth.  "Any of  ours could,  and would  do it  without being  told. With an
outsider ... I wonder if the General's staff has made bets on how far off  it'll
be."

Sara giggled. Lon glanced at her and almost missed the gesture by the  General's
aide, calling for Lon to join the rest on the platform. The aide had to make the
gesture a second time before Lon saw it and nodded.

"Come along, dear,"  he said, taking  Sara's elbow. "Give  you a chance  to feel
what it's like."

'They don't want me," she protested.

"Maybe not, but I do."


The shuttle arrived  precisely on schedule,  as Lon had  assumed it would.  Lon,
along with  most of  the people  who had  come to  greet the visiting dignitary,
watched the shuttle come in from the  west, gliding in for an easy landing-  not
at all like the combat landings a military shuttle practiced to get troops  down
and out of "the box" as quickly as possible when hostile forces might be in  the
area. A  small dot  in the  sky, ten  degrees above  the horizon,  was the first
indication of the incoming craft. It "grew larger" and came gently lower.

From where Lon stood, the landing appeared to be as near perfect as possible.  A
hundred yards from the welcoming  stand, the shuttle lowered flaps  and reversed
thrust on its engines, braking noisily as it went on past the waiting  officers.
The delay was short, though.  As soon as the shuttle  came to a stop, the  pilot
got it turned around and taxied back to where it was supposed to land.

Lon was almost disappointed that  the passenger compartment's hatch only  missed
aligning perfectly with the red carpet by inches. A ramp was rolled into  place,
and the door was  opened. The question in  Lon's mind was whether  Governor Sosa
would come out before any other passengers or wait until the rest were off.

He came off first, accompanied only by  two aides. Lon thought that one of  them
looked familiar, but after nine years and a lot of intervening faces, he was far
from certain.

The band had started  playing again while the  shuttle taxied toward the  stand,
getting through one  song and launching  into the next  as the door  opened. The
General and part  of his entourage  came down off  of the platform  to greet the
governor at  the bottom  of the  ramp. Lon  was moved  forward to  accompany the
General. He brought Sara with him, holding her arm so she couldn't slip away.

It was obvious the  moment that Governor Sosa  spotted Lon. The governor's  face
broke into something approaching  a smile. He lifted  a hand and waved,  and his
pace picked up a little.

"Welcome to Dirigent, Governor  Sosa," the General said  as soon as the  visitor
stepped off the ramp. They shook hands, and the General started introducing  the
functionaries  with him.  Then, "You  might remember  Lieutenant Colonel  Nolan,
Excellency."

"Of course I do," Sosa said, his tone not as completely diplomatic as it  should
have been.

"Lieutenant  Colonel,"  Sosa  said, turning  his  attention  completely to  Lon.
"Another promotion, I see."

"Just recently.  Governor," Lon  said. "This  is my  wife, Sara.  Sara, Governor
Roger Sosa of Bancroft."

"Pleased to meet you," Sosa said, bowing to her before he spoke to Lon again. "I
understand there are a couple of other people aboard the shuttle you're  waiting
for. Colonel.  I shared  several delightful  meals with  your parents during the
journey."

"Yes, sir," Lon said. "I'm sure  we'll have other occasions to talk  during your
visit, but... with your permission?"

"Of course. Colonel. I'm counting on having a long talk with you later."

Lon glanced at the General for  permission to leave the group, and  Ruiz nodded,
just enough for Lon to be certain.

Lon and Sara went on up the ramp into the shuttle.


Maddie Nolan embraced her son as enthusiastically as she had on Earth after  not
seeing him for two decades. His  father, Lawrence, hung back a step,  giving his
son a wan smile-as if to apologize for Maddie's exuberance. Father and son shook
hands, both looking almost embarrassed at that show of affection.

Lon introduced Sara to  his parents then, and  his mother went through  the same
sort of emotional embrace. "The children are in school," Lon said. "They  should
be home in an hour or so. I hear you've been hobnobbing with the big shots."

"Governor Sosa?" Lawrence said. "A remarkable man, I think. You worked for him?"

Lon nodded. "A contract, nine years back. Bancroft had trouble with the Colonial
Mining Cartel raiding for pre-�cious metals and rare minerals."

"Yes. The governor pumped me for anything  I could tell him about CMC. I  hope I
wasn't  wrong-helping the  little I  could. He  said they're  back, worse   than
before."

"You couldn't be violating any security regulations, Dad," Lon said. "And, well,
I  rather guessed  they might  be having  the same  trouble when  I learned  the
governor was coming."

"The governor had a lot of nice things to say about you," Maddie said. "Like you
were the hero of some adventure vid."

They all laughed at that.

One of  the shuttle  pilots came  back from  the cockpit.  "Okay, folks, you can
disembark now.  The bigwigs  are leaving.  Sorry for  the inconvenience,  but we
weren't given much choice."


There wasn't much baggage. Maddie and Lawrence had each left Earth with only two
suitcases-clothes, data chips with family holographs and home videos, and a  few
small mementos. The cost of  transporting more would have been  prohibitive. Lon
had his driver take them first to the house he had picked out for his parents. A
quick tour, words of satisfaction from  both parents, and a ritual handing  over
of the keycodes for the doors and communications system.

"It's a shame  we can't be  closer to you  all," Maddie said,  "but I understand
that we can't get a  place on base. I'm certainly  not about to let your  father
enlist in your Corps just for that." It  was good for a polite laugh. At  eighty
five, Lawrence Nolan was fifty years past the maximum age for new recruits, even
though he was in good physical condition.

"You know.  Dad," Lon  said as  they headed  toward base  and his quarters, "the
Corps does use civilian intelligence analysts. If you get bored with  retirement
or  teaching  part-time, you  might  think about  it.  With your  background  in
education and the fact that you come from Earth, you'd be a cinch."

"I don't bore easily," Lawrence said with a chuckle, "but I'll keep it in mind."
The question of whether he would continue to work or simply retire had been left
unsettled when Lon left them on Earth.

Junior and Angie had arrived home from school just minutes before their  parents
and  grandparents  got  out  of  the  staff  car.  Thanks  primarily  to Angle's
exuberance, the meeting quickly became chaotic.



6

The reunion continued well  past midnight. Once Junior  and Angie had been  seen
off to bed, Lon  and Sara accompanied Lon's  parents back to their  new home and
spent  time helping  them settle  in. The  elder Nolans  kept saying  that  they
weren't tired, that they hadn't adjusted to  the new time zone yet. By the  time
that Lon and Sara got home and into bed, it was nearly two o'clock.

Lon got up at his usual  time Tuesday morning, but chose to  forego calisthenics
with his troops. He did not get  to his office until just before work  formation
at eight o'clock.

"You're wanted  at Corps  Headquarters at  oh-eight-thirty," Phip  informed him.
"Office of the General."

Lon blinked. "Must be to talk with Governor Sosa," he said after drawing a blank
for a couple of seconds.

"Maybe they want you to negotiate the contract," Phip suggested. "After all, you
got Sosa to agree to a percentage when we were there."

"Probably just want to  pick my brain. We've  been there, know the  terrain, and
might know what the  traffic can bear. I'd  be surprised if they  didn't want my
input. Contracts would want that on any repeat business. Besides, Sosa was clear
about wanting to talk with me when I saw him at the port yesterday."

"If they'd waited a few months, they  could have had us again," Phip said.  "Now
somebody else will have the pleasure of spanking their bandits."

"We've got our hands  full here," Lon said.  "We need those months  to make sure
the battalion is up to snuff with all the changes-new command structure here and
in Bravo and Delta Companies, two officer-cadets, one raw lieutenant who  hasn't
seen  combat since  he earned  his pips.  We've got  a lot  of work."  That  was
something Lon had trouble putting out of  mind for more than a few seconds  at a
time. Responsibility. It came with the  job, and there were no good  excuses for
less than excellent results.

"Yes, sir,  and the  work starts  now. Time  for morning  formation," Phip said,
gesturing at the clock.


Major Cavanaugh Zim was waiting for Lon  on the broad stairs along the front  of
Corps headquarters-pacing.

"I was worried you wouldn't get the message in time," Zim said as Lon got out of
his car. "They're waiting upstairs."

"What's so urgent?" Lon asked. Zim was already guiding him up the steps.

"The governor of Bancroft wants you to be part of the contract discussions  from
the outset," Zim said. "Says you know what he's up against, what he has to  work
with. I guess you really impressed him when you were there."

"I'm nine years out of date on Bancroft, Cav. I figured Contracts would want  to
pick my brain, but Sosa?"

"I'm just the messenger,  Lon. The General said  to get you over  on the double.
This could be a big contract."

They took  a lift  tube to  the third  floor and  a room  known as  the informal
lounge-forty feet square. The General,  Governor Sosa, and three other  men were
sitting around a low octagonal table near  the French doors on the east side  of
the room. All of them stood when  Lon and Zim entered. The other three  men were
all colonels, regimental  commanders-Nicholas Demetrios of  4th, Hiram Black  of
7th, andJohan Ellis of 12th.

"Gentlemen," the General said after the formal introductions and greetings  were
completed and everyone, including Major Zim, was seated, "Colonel Nolan is  here
at the request of  both Governor Sosa and  myself. It was No-lan's  company that
helped the  Bancrofters nine  years ago,  set up  a training  program for  their
constabulary militia, and took part in a successful action against raiders  from
off-world. In  addition, Colonel  Nolan has  recently returned  from an extended
visit to Earth,  which may offer  additional insights into  the problem Governor
Sosa has come to us with. Governor, I'll let you take over from there."

Sosa  nodded, then  cleared his  throat. "Nine  years ago,  we were  faced  with
raiders striking our mining camps  and communities, stealing refined metals  and
minerals, and killing many of our citizens. The problem was too large for us  to
handle without help at the time. We came to Dirigent to hire a company to  train
our fledgling constabulary militia and  to set up a continuing  training program
we could maintain. During the course  of that contract, the raids increased  and
we negotiated an amended contract to  have the company of Dirigenters assist  us
in a punitive mission against the  raiders. That was successful, if more  costly
in casualties than we all would have hoped.

"After your people  left, our militia  had to do  some minor tidying  up, taking
care of a  couple of dozen  raiders who had  not been accounted  for earlier. To
give  us some  additional hope  for the  future, we  continued our  constabulary
militia, raising it in time to two thousand men and instituting a broader scheme
to put all young men through  basic training to constitute a reserve  that could
be  called  on  if  needed.  We also  took  what  diplomatic  actions  we could,
protesting officially  to the  government of  Earth, since  the Colonial  Mining
Cartel, which had financed and supported the raiders, operates under the  direct
auspices of  Earth's Confederation  of Human  Worlds. We  also made certain that
other worlds  knew what  had happened  to us,  including the  government of  the
Second Commonwealth on Buckingham and  the other Confederation of Human  Worlds,
on Union.  Those alliances  each wield  considerably more  power than  any other
grouping of  worlds, and  are in  position to  perhaps cause  some restraint  on
Earth." Sosa shrugged. "That was our reasoning at the time.

"It seemed to work," he added after a pause. "The Colonial Mining Cartel left us
alone, and  we received  no reports  of similar  attacks on  other worlds.  That
changed about eight months ago." Sosa took a couple of sips of coffee, then  set
his cup back on the table before he resumed his narrative.

"We still do not have an adequate warning system, not enough satellites in orbit
to give us continuous coverage of our near space, and we don't have the  weapons
or delivery systems to prevent unauthorized landings. I believe we were lucky to
spot one ship that came and shuttled  people in. We have reason to believe  that
there were at least  two other ships that  we did not spot.  The raiding started
again within  days. Although  we had  militia garrisons  in place  at all  major
targets, it wasn't enough.  Over the past nine  years we have managed  to expand
our  mining operations,  nearly doubling  the number  of active  sites. We  have
managed to inflict casualties  on the raiders, but  they have hurt us  worse. We
need help, which is why I came here."

"How many of  these raiders do  you estimate there  are on your  world?" Colonel
Demetrios asked.

"At least four  hundred," Sosa said  without hesitation, "though  it is possible
that there  are twice  that number,  or even  more. And  they have at least five
armed shuttles, of the variety that Colonel Nolan's people encountered before."

"Against your two thousand militiamen?" Demetrios said.

"When I left, we had twenty-three hundred men in uniform-seven hundred of those,
reservists called back  to active duty.  They are undergoing  refresher training
now, and should be  ready to go into  action before I return.  After eight years
without trouble, the number  of active militia had  fallen, and there have  been
casualties, keeping us from reaching the numbers we hoped to achieve."

"Colonel Nolan," the General said, "I had OSI extract everything in the data you
collected  on  Earth  concerning  this Colonial  Mining  Cartel  and  do several
analyses of the  material. According to  the summary they  gave me, there  is no
mention of  the CMC  maintaining any  military or  paramilitary force,  or doing
raiding of the sort that Bancroft has experienced."

"No, sir, I'm sure there wasn't. That sort of material could not be published or
archived anywhere  I had  access to.  Reports of  government activities are very
tightly controlled  on Earth.  I heard  rumors, clearly  labeled as  such in  my
reports. Among other things, several dozen army officers have apparently retired
to work for  CMC. That, in  itself, proves nothing.  CMC has always  been on the
lookout for military types to run off-world operations, as have dozens of  other
companies.  There's nothing  implicitly sinister  about that.  Retired  military
officers make good management material, or so I've been told."

That garnered a few chuckles around the table.

"On the other hand,"  Lon continued, "we know  CMC was behind the  raids against
Bancroft nine years ago, and I have no reason to doubt that CMC is likely behind
these new  incursions. It  also stands  to reason  that they  would commit  more
assets this time than they did before, to try to avoid the same result."

"Colonel Nolan, can you estimate the capabilities of CMC?" Colonel Ellis  asked.
"How large a force could they sustain in operations against Bancroft?"

Lon hesitated. "In  theory they could  sustain a force  large enough to  conquer
Bancroft-or  just  about  any  other  colony  world  they  decided  to.  CMC is,
officially, a  private concern,  three corporations  functioning together  under
government  charter.  The corporations  have  long since  lost  their individual
identities, and  much of  their initial  zones of  operation, since  most of the
Solar System was stripped bare of useful materials long ago. Recycling has never
been one hundred percent, so they have to keep looking for new sources. The  CMC
has become wholly dominated  by the old Confederation  of Human Worlds based  on
Earth, so it has-in theory-all the resources of the government to draw on."

"You  keep  saying 'in  theory,'  " Ellis  pointed  out. "Yes,  sir.  Theory and
practice. With six billion people on Earth, and another half billion on  Earth's
moon. Mars, and around the Solar System, Earth doesn't have anything approaching
unlimited resources. In  practice any extraso-lar  ... adventure has  to pay for
itself in fairly  short order, and  Earth has to  avoid anything so-I  guess the
word I  want is  'brazen'-that it  would cut  off the  commercial sources of raw
materials they can still tap. Those are drying up quickly enough as it is, since
Earth can't afford to pay the prices that, for example, Buckingham or Union can.
So the question of how large a  force they can sustain on Bancroft, and  for how
long. depends on how much they believe they can extract from the world. That's a
calculation I  can't make.  Perhaps OSI  can provide  a reasonable estimate." "A
rough  guess.  Colonel?" the  General  prompted. "Unless  Earth  is prepared  to
conquer Bancroft  completely and  bring in  additional labor  resources, I would
guess  that  they  wouldn't hazard  more  than  the equivalent  of  a  couple of
battalions,  but  please remember.  General,  that is  just  the wildest  guess,
without any hard data to back it up."

"General?"  Major Zim  waited for  a nod  before he  continued. "OSI's   initial
appraisal  is that  Earth would  not dare  an open  invasion. It  would  totally
alienate those colonial governments that  still trade with Earth, either  freely
or under moderate intimidation. This might simply be another raiding mission, on
a somewhat larger  scale, or it  may be leading  up to something  more. If Earth
could put in enough troops to unseat the current government of Bancroft  through
extended guerrilla operations,  they might be  able to portray  it as a  popular
coup carried out by dissatisfied citizens  of the world, then bring in  whatever
additional manpower they might need."

"Governor, have any of  the attacks so far  seemed directed more at  your forces
than at raiding?" General Ruiz asked.

"Not clearly," Sosa  said. "The raids  have always been  against mining targets,
and where the raiders have carried the day, they have looted. Of course, if they
continue to be  successful at raiding,  it would eventually  have the effect  of
destabilizing the government. If we  cannot protect our people, we  aren't doing
our job."

The General nodded.  "Governor, before we  end this session,  just what sort  of
help are you looking for from us?"

"Our resources are not unlimited, unfortunately," Sosa said. "We hope to hire at
least one battalion of  troops, and preferably two,  for long enough to  help us
eliminate the current threat from these  raiders. In addition, we would like  to
hire  a  squadron   of  aerospace  fighters   and  their  carrier,   to  prevent
reinforcements or resupply  from reaching the  raiders and to  prevent them from
getting the metals and minerals they have looted off Bancroft."

"Thank you.  Governor. That  gives us  a good  starting point.  We'll start  the
feasibility studies immediately. Our people in OSI would appreciate a few  hours
of  your time,  Governor, to  help us   get all  the details  we can  about  the
situation.  We  can  resume  our talks  tomorrow  morning,  if  that meets  your
approval?"


Within minutes  after the  meeting broke  up, Lon  was called  to the  General's
private office.

"I have two questions for you. Colonel," Ruiz said. "I'm going to impose on  you
for quick answers, but  I'll want you to  consider the matter over  the next few
days and give me whatever else you can then."

"Yes, sir," Lon said.

"I've only had  time to go  through the summary  of the initial  analysis of the
material you  brought back  from Earth.  We're going  to be  looking at that for
months. I have  some concerns about  this whole matter  of Bancroft. We  stymied
Earth there  once. Now,  if a  contract can  be reached,  we'll be going back to
attempt it again. The Council of Regiments has to consider the possibility  that
Earth might turn  its attention directly  to us if  we oppose them  in force. My
questions are these: How much chance do you think there is of Earth deciding  to
attack Dirigent? And can they mount an attack in enough force to succeed?"

"The answer to  the second question  is easy enough,  General. Do they  have the
ability to attack Dirigent in enough force to succeed? Yes. For every soldier we
have, they have hundreds.  For every ship we  could hold in orbit  to defend us,
they  could  attack  with  twenty.  The  various  military  academies  on  Earth
commission twelve hundred new officers every  year compared to the two or  three
dozen new lieutenants we commission."

"You don't sound very encouraging," the General said.

"No, sir. One  of the first  lessons I learned  was that a  commander has to  be
prepared for what a potential enemy  is capable of doing, not what  one believes
the enemy might care  to do. But there  are reasons to think  that the practical
situation is not quite that dire. There are enough jealousies among the  various
political  divisions  on  Earth  that getting  agreement  to  conduct  any major
offensive push at  a distance would  be difficult. And,  just as in  the case of
Bancroft, Earth can hardly afford to  mount an operation when they can't  expect
to pay for its own  costs in fairly short order.  They can't go too far  without
totally alienating those extrasolar worlds  that still trade with them  or offer
at least  lip service  to the  remaining pan  of Earth's  Confederation of Human
Worlds."

"But,  short  of all-out  invasion,  they might  launch  some sort  of  punitive
strike?"

"That is  possible. General.  They might  hope to  scare us  off with  a show of
force, but  I'm not  certain they  would dare  to take  the risk  that we  might
retaliate in kind. Any attack on Earth might destabilize conditions so much that
the  planetary government  would fall  apart and  the regional  federations  and
unions go  to fighting  each other.  Again. The  political situation  back there
seems to be quite ... delicate."

The General leaned back, steepled his fingers together, and stared at them.

"Off the top of my head. General." Lon reminded him.

Ruiz nodded absently. "It's something the Council of Regiments will have to take
into consideration before we decide whether to accept a contract with Bancroft."

"It's worlds like  Bancroft that provide  us with our  livelihood, General," Lon
said. "If we start turning our back on customers, how long will it be before  we
don't have  enough customers  to stay  in business?  And if  that happens,  what
happens to Dirigent?"



7

The Office of Strategic Intelligence provided estimates and analyses of manpower
and  support  requirements,  tactical  and  strategic  possibilities,   casualty
potentials. The accountants provided  costing and overhead for  various contract
scenarios. The primary negotiating sessions  took place each morning and  lasted
up to two hours; Lon  was present at each of  those. It wasn't until the  fourth
meeting,  on Friday  morning, that  Governor Sosa  delivered the  bomb Lon   had
feared.

"We would, of course, want Colonel Nolan  to command the force we hire, with  as
many of the people who helped us  before as possible. We know they are  familiar
with our circumstances, and we have confidence in them."

The General explained that units of  the DMC were chosen to give  everyone equal
opportunity for combat contracts and that  Lon's battalion was not due for  such
an assignment.

"Nevertheless, I must insist," Sosa said. "We would waste time learning to trust
a  new  commander, and  we  can't help  but  believe that  it  would lessen  the
effectiveness of the partnership between  our militia and your people.  Since we
will be paying for the arrangement, it seems there should be no question."

"I'll have to refer this to  the whole Council of Regiments," the  General said,
but Lon was under no illusions. If the customer wanted a specific battalion,  it
would get it. Later, in private, Lon would raise the question of 2nd Battalion's
readiness for a combat contract, the need for another month or two of  training,
but he knew it would not be enough,


Lon wasted no time once  he got back to his  office. He called a meeting  of his
company commanders and staff officers, and included Phip Steesen.

"This isn't  final, so  I don't  want any  word to  leak out  of this room," Lon
started  once  everyone  was seated  in  the  conference room.  "No  one  in the
battalion is going to  be drawing fatigue details  near term, and we  won't have
junior officers tripping off one  day a week for whatever  secondary assignments
they've  been  doing.  We  redouble  our  training,  and  that  includes working
evenings. There  is a  chance-unfortunately, a  very good  chance-that we'll  be
going out on contract  soon, out of turn.  Bancroft wants us, specifically,  and
even though the contract committee may drag its feet, in the end they'll  almost
certainly give in."

Lon paused, waiting  for objections, but  there were none,  not immediately. Vel
Osterman, the executive officer, stared straight ahead, no emotion on his  face;
Lon had  briefed him  before the  meeting. Captain  Torry Berger,  the adjutant,
closed his  eyes, as  if starting  to make  plans. The  company commanders-Tebba
Girana of Alpha, Brock Carlin of Bravo, Sefer Kai of Charlie, and Ron  Magnusson
of Delta-looked around among themselves. Even Phip Steesen kept his mouth  shut,
though Lon noted that his lead  sergeant had his lips pressed tightly  together,
forcing himself to remain silent.

"I don't know what time frame we're talking about," Lon continued, "how long  it
will take to finalize the contract, and how long after that it will be before we
ship out, but I want us working every possible minute, and that includes putting
in a half day tomorrow-and yes, I know tomorrow is Saturday. Small-unit tactics.
Alpha versus Charlie and Bravo versus Delta. Monday we practice combat landings.
The intent is  to get in  three before the  day's out. If  we're here next week,
we'll work half of Saturday again, unless we're on notice to ship out.

"Concentrate on your  officer-cadets, new lieutenants,  new noncoms, new  men in
the ranks. People who aren't used to working together. That includes us here  in
battalion. We'll be in this as much as possible as well. Brock, Ron, I know this
puts an extra burden on the two of you, since you're both new to your  commands.
And  I'm new  in my  job, and  so is  Major Osterman.  Ditto for  Lead  Sergeant
Steesen. It's going to be  a bitch for all of  us, but better to oil  the wheels
here than on contract, when we might have bad guys shooting at us."


"You're going to  have one hell  of a lot  of angry men  when they hear  they're
gonna be  working Saturdays,"  Phip told  Lon after  the meeting.  "You'd better
carry a fire extinguisher, 'cause your ears are gonna be burning."

"I know, Phip, but we can't say anything about why we're doing it until  there's
something signed and sealed."

"Even if people start bitchin' about what a hard-assed new CO we've got?"

"Even then, Phip.  I'm not happy  with the situation  either, not with  my folks
just getting here. I figured to have several months helping them get settled and
meet people before I'd have to think about a contract." And make up for a lot of
years we've been apart, he thought.

Phip turned and  started to leave  the office. He  stopped with his  hand on the
doorknob, then turned his head back toward Lon. "Bancroft. That's where we  lost
Dean. Dean Bricks."

Lon nodded. "I haven't stopped thinking about that since Governor Sosa landed."

                                    *  *  *

"What about  the units  ahead of  yours in  the rota?"  Sara asked that evening.
"Won't they raise a fit?"

"There's an old saying,  "The customer is always  right, even when he  isn't,' "
Lon said. "Sure, some of the battalions ahead of us might protest, but it  won't
wash. We'll take this one, and be pushed that much farther down the list for the
next one. We lose  out on time at  home now and make  up for it later.  Besides,
this might turn out to be a fairly  short contract. We're talking about a  three
month engagement,  and it  could be  shorter than  that if  we can  close it out
faster."

"But you just got home after being away more than six months," Sara protested.

"That was something entirely different, not part of the routine," Lon said.  "We
knew that before I left."

"But..." Sara gave up. She knew she could not change the answer.


Lon had no difficulty arranging  access to training areas for  Saturday morning.
In general, Saturday training was remedial, for individuals or units that failed
to meet the standards of the Corps during the normal work week.

Trucks carried the battalion's companies  to prearranged points in the  forested
training area east of  the main base. The  men had been briefed  in the scenario
they would act.  out. Observers drawn  from other units  would travel with  each
company,  to  referee   the  small-unit  encounters   and  to  report   on  unit
effectiveness afterward. Lon  split the headquarters  detachment. He would  take
half to monitor the bout between  Bravo and Delta Companies. Vel Osterman  would
take the rest to monitor Alpha and Charlie.

The DMC went to great  lengths to make training  as realistic as possible.  Slug
throwing rifles  and pistols  were loaded  with soft  chalk bullets propelled by
minimal powder charges-enough  to be felt,  not enough to  cause serious injury.
Beamers, coherent energy weapons, were restricted in power-a hit by one of those
would leave the equivalent of a minor sunburn on skin.

"Working on Saturday's gonna make for some mean fighting." Phip told Lon as they
drove toward the center  of the area that  Bravo and Delta would  be contesting.
"You tellin' 'em  they'd do it  again this afternoon  if they screwed  up didn't
help."

"We'll work it out  of them here," Lon  said. "If we're going  out in a week  or
two, we can't baby anyone. I want to see all the weak spots now."

The two  men were  in full  combat gear,  except for  weapons. They spoke over a
private radio channel.  DMC battle helmets  offered a variety  of communications
channels- more for command personnel, officers, and noncoms. Lon planned to scan
channels to eavesdrop on operations. At every level.

"Bravo and Delta both  have new COs," Phip  said, as if the  boss might possibly
have forgotten such a basic fact. "I expect they'll do most of the screwing up."

"We'll know where to  put the effort then,  won't we," Lon said.  "I'm trying to
set up a full battalion exercise against another unit for Thursday or Friday. It
means juggling some schedules, but the General okayed it. Just need to pull  the
wrinkles out of the rope."

"By the time  we get through  that, some of  the men will  be wishing they  were
still  pulling  fatigue  detail,  even  whitewashing  the  rocks  in  front   of
headquarters."


It was three in  the afternoon before Lon  released the men, after  relaying the
deficiencies the referees had noted. When  Lon got home, he found that  Sara and
the children had  gone to visit  with Lon's parents.  Lon called, talked  to his
mother for a  few minutes, but  decided against driving  over. "I'm too  beat to
walk out to the curb," he said. "We've got tomorrow free. We'll all do something
together then." When  Sara and the  children got home  two hours later,  Lon was
asleep in the living room, sprawled out  on the sofa. Sara left him there  until
supper was ready.

"Your mother and I  have it all worked  out," Sara said while  they were eating.
"If you're on contract, we'll go to Bascombe East over the Christmas break.  The
five of us. I've already introduced your parents to mine over the net. We  spent
thirty minutes chatting, letting them get to know each other."

"That's good," Lon said. "If this contract works out the way I expect, we  might
not be back till the end of February."

"Are you going to miss my birthday again. Daddy?" Angie asked.

"I'm not sure, princess," Lon said. "It's  going to be close, I'm afraid. If  it
looks like I will, we'll move your birthday up a few days, okay?"


"The whole time I was on Earth, and especially on the way back, I thought a  lot
about  what we  could do  when I  got home.  I figured  I could  take a  month's
furlough after my parents arrived so we could do some sight-seeing, spend a  lot
of time together. Maybe  travel to Deradine Falls,"  Lon said after he  and Sara
went to bed.  Deradine Falls, named  after the pilot  who first saw  it, was the
natural wonder of Dirigent-as broad as Niagara Falls on Earth, but dropping half
a mile in one clear fall down the escarpment of a rift valley two thousand miles
from Dirigent City.

"Hasn't any of it  worked out," Lon said.  "The new command, then  this Bancroft
thing. I can't even be sure that when we get back from Bancroft I'll be able  to
take that much time, not right away. It depends on how the contract goes." There
was no  need to  define that  qualification- how  many casualties  the battalion
took, how much rebuilding was necessary when it got home.

"So we'll  work it  in when  we can,"  Sara said.  "We're getting  to be good at
that."

"I know, but-"

"Just go to sleep."

Sleep. Although he was tired, Lon had difficulty finding the void. At first,  it
was thoughts of what he  needed to do, what the  battalion needed to do, to  get
ready for Bancroft: training, drills, lectures, planning. He recalled the  rough
terrain on Bancroft, the forested valleys  and  hills where most of  the  mining
settlements and  camps were, the difficulty  of moving men on  the ground.  That
led to memories of   Dean Ericks, the friend  who had  died there.  In his mind,
Lon saw Dean lying  on  the ground dying;   dead. He  could almost   hear Dean's
voice.  He  remembered happier  times,  pub crawls  in  Camo Town,  the  area of
Dirigent City that  existed to  serve  off-duty soldiers... at   almost anything
they  might want.  The  Three Musketeers  and D'Artagnan they  had  been at  the
beginning.  Phip, Janno, and Dean  had been the musketeers. Lon had been the new
man, D'Artagnan. Janno got married and left the Corps. Dean got killed ...

Sleep, when it came, did not  end the memories. They continued in  Lon's dreams.
So many friends and comrades had died over the years, or left the Corps-for  one
reason or another. It was not a restful night.


A day  of rest  that was  not restful,  away from  the Corps  in body but not in
thought. Then, Monday, Lon  was back to the  grind, along with every  man in the
battalion. Vel Os-terman substituted for  Lon at Colonel Black's regular  Monday
conference. Lon was at Corps headquarters, sitting in on yet another session  in
the negotiations  with Governor  Sosa. Those  had reached  the technical  stage,
money and assets, details. By the  time the meeting recessed, Lon was  convinced
that agreement could not be far away,  perhaps no more than a day or  two. After
that,  departure  would likely  come  quickly-within seventy-two  hours.  It was
traditional, when  possible, to  give men  going out  on contract  two days  off
before departure,  time for  a last  fling in  Camo Town  or a  last visit  with
relatives.

"I don't think  we'll have to  worry about working  the men this  Saturday," Lon
told his executive officer as they  ate lunch together in the officers'  club on
Monday. "I suspect we'll either already be aboard ship or on notice to leave."

"That close?" Vel asked softly.

Lon nodded. "It wouldn't surprise me if the final draft of the contract is drawn
up tomorrow,  signed tomorrow  afternoon or  Wednesday morning.  After that, I'm
sure Governor Sosa is going to be in a hurry to get us moving toward Bancroft."

"We are in pretty good shape, Lon," Vel said. "A little rough around the  edges,
but it's not as if  we had twenty percent new  people. We've had a long  time to
get most of the rookies integrated into the companies."

"I know, but I hate going in not being confident that we're one hundred percent.
Basically, this will be coun-terguerilla warfare, and that can be more difficult
than squaring off against another army in an open fight."

"It's what we do, like beer and chips," Vel said. He shrugged. "I understand how
you feel. We wouldn't be worth much  as leaders if we didn't want our  people at
their best. It gives everyone a better chance to get home safe."

Lon nodded, then finished his drink  and signaled for another scotch and  water.
The waiter had just arrived with the new drink when Lon had a call from  Colonel
Black.

"Governor Sosa just okayed the deal, Lon. They sign the contract this afternoon.
You leave Friday morning."



8

There was the usual  caravan of buses, led  by two limousines and  several staff
cars, across Dirigent City from the  DMC base to the spaceport-the usual  parade
leading up to the departure of  soldiers on contract. Governor Sosa, his  aides,
and the General were  the reasons for the  limousines. The Bancrofters would  be
going home aboard the Dirigenter ship.

Second Battalion  formed up  next to  the runway  at the  spaceport, dressed the
formation,  and  stood  at  attention in  their  battledress  uniforms  with the
faceplates up on their helmets and their rifles on their shoulders. There was  a
short ceremony, with the governor of Bancroft and the General each saying a  few
polite  words.  The  band  played. Nine  shuttles  stood  waiting  to carry  the
battalion and the Bancrofters up to  Long Snake, the transport that would  carry
them  to  Bancroft. Baggage  and  supplies had  been  carried up  to  Long Snake
earlier.

After  the ceremony  ended, the  order was  given to  board shuttles-a  maneuver
carried out  with well-practiced  precision by  the mercenaries.  Lon's shuttle,
which carried his staff, headquarters  detachment, and the Bancrofters, was  the
first off  the field.  With outsiders  aboard, the  pilot made  a more  decorous
takeoff  than  he might  have  otherwise. Forty-five  seconds  later, the  other
shuttles started taking off, two at a time, thirty seconds between pairs.

Here we go again, Lon thought  as his shuttle quit accelerating to  coast toward
its rendezvous with Long Snake. He no longer kept track of the numbers, how many
combat contracts, how  many training contracts,  the interstellar passages,  the
jumps through Q-space. He no longer wanted to remember.

There were formalities when the shuttle docked and was brought into one of  Long
Snake's hangars. The ship's captain, Eldon Roim, was on hand to welcome Governor
Sosa and Lon. Lon went to  the launch and recovery center, which  protruded from
the side of the ship, offering a view of the hangars. Captain Roim escorted  the
Bancrofters to their cabins forward, in the crew section of Long Snake.

The  last  pair  of shuttles  were  just  being hoisted  inboard  by  the ship's
grapples. The launchmaster. Long Snake's number three officer, was in control of
docking operations. Lon stood out of  the way and waited until the  last hatches
had been  closed and  the hangars  pressurized. The  launch-master turned to Lon
then, saluted, and said, "All shuttles aboard, sir. No problems."

Lon returned the salute and thanked  him. "How long before we head  out-system?"
Lon asked.

"We'll be under  way within minutes,  Colonel," the launchmaster  said. "Toronto
and Tyre will follow us out." Taranto was a fighting ship; it carried a squadron
of sixteen Shrike fighters  as well as beam  and projectile weapons of  its own.
Tyre was a transport being used  to carry additional munitions and supplies  for
the battalion. "Captain Roim is task force commander."

The command structure included a little fine balancing. The naval arm of the DMC
was considered  an auxiliary  service. Once  the task  force reached  a contract
world,  the  senior  army  officer-in  this  case,  Lon-was  in  command  of the
operation, even though  one or more  naval officers might  theoretically outrank
him.  The skippers  of both  Long Snake  and Taranto  were captains,  the  naval
equivalent of a full  colonel in the Corps.  Tyre was captained by  a commander,
theoretically equal  in rank  to Lon.  Interactions between  Lon and  the ships'
commanders would be  conducted with extreme  diplomacy, built up  from protocols
that were centuries old.

Once Long Snake secured from recovery stations, the launchmaster escorted Lon to
his quarters near the front of the battalion's section of the ship. Vel Osterman
and Phip Steesen were waiting.

"Everyone  is aboard  and accounted  for," Major  Osterman said.  "The men   are
getting squared away in their quarters now."

Lon nodded. "We're under  way, heading toward our  first jump point." With  Long
Snake's Nilssen generators providing  artificial gravity inside the  ship, there
was no  sensation of  movement. "Phip,  get the  meal arrangements confirmed and
start working on  training schedules for  the trip." Facilities  aboard the ship
were limited, even  though Long Snake  was five miles  long. The soldiers  would
eat, exercise, and train in shifts. Dirigent's Dragon-class transports, such  as
Long Snake, were being phased out-one every four years. Their replacements,  the
Raptor-class transports, were 10 percent larger, more modern, and better  armed.
In five years, the last Dragon would be retired.

. "I'll  get right  to it.  Colonel," Phip  said. There  could be no informality
between them on duty with anyone else present. The forms had to be observed.

"I'll speak with the men at lunch today," Lon said. The officers and noncoms had
gone through an intensive mission  briefing-and everyone knew the basics  of the
contract. Lon would give more than a pep talk to the lower ranks, though. It was
Corps policy  to keep  everyone as  fully informed  as practical.  No matter how
badly the command structure  might be shattered on  contract, the Corps will  be
prepared to  continue at  whatever level  of command  might remain,  even if the
senior soldier is a private, was how it was phrased in the contract manual.

Lon's luggage had been delivered to his cabin. The duffel bag stood next to  the
bed; the suitcase lay on it. That was one of the perks of command, allowance for
more than  just one  duffel bag.  Another perk  was that  the cabin was slightly
larger than those the  battalion's other officers were  assigned, and Lon had  a
small  office attached  to his  cabin and  a private  bathroom-"head," in  naval
parlance.

A few minutes alone. Lon shoved the suitcase to the end of the bed and sat  next
to the suitcase. He leaned back until his head and shoulders rested against  the
metal bulkhead of the  cabin. He closed his  eyes and took a  long, slow breath.
Lon was not at all surprised to find that he had the beginning of a headache. He
knew it was psychological. The nanosystems that kept him healthy would prevent a
physical headache, or  cure it almost  before he could  notice a pain,  but this
kind ...

It was  always the  same, heading  out on  a contract  with the  lives of others
depending on  his decisions,  his abilities-his  mistakes. A  prayer that he not
fail his men, that no  one die because he wasn't  up to his job. Each  time out,
the prayer was more intense, more deeply felt.

Maybe it would have been  better if I hadn 't  tried to be an officer,  if I had
stayed in the ranks, let others  make the big decisions, he thought.  Maybe Phip
has the right of it, hitching every time he gets promoted. That brought the edge
of a smile. / wanted to be a soldier, just a soldier, and being an officer  gets
in the way, more with every promotion.

Lon was surprised by a knock on his cabin door-surprised because he had actually
dozed off. He hadn't slept well the  last two nights at home. Each night  he had
lain awake, worrying, wishing that he  didn't have to leave his family  again so
soon.

"Come in." Lon sat up straight as the door opened and Phip entered.

"I've got the eating arrangements set up with the mess officer," Phip said. "The
first shift eats in thirty minutes."

"I'll eat with Alpha, this meal," Lon said. He made no apology for the fact that
he had  a soft  spot for  A Company.  He had  spent most  of his  career in that
company, until promotion to major had sent him to battalion. "Make my talk after
I get  some food  down. I'll  have to  have supper  with the  ship's captain and
Governor Sosa." The military commander eating that first supper with the  ship's
commander was hidebound tradition in the Corps.

"Alpha's the first shift for lunch  today," Phip said. Phip had spent  even more
years in that company than Lon had.  The order in which the companies ate  would
rotate each meal so the same men didn't get to eat first all the time.

"You ever ask  yourself if it's  all worth it,  Phip?" Lon asked.  He closed his
eyes for an instant.

"All the time, Lon," Phip replied very  softly. "What usually gets me out of  it
is  thinking if  it wasn't  me doing  the job,  it'd probably  be someone   less
qualified than I am. The same goes for you. You wouldn't have made it so far  so
fast if you weren't one of the best to come along in a lot of Q-space jumps."

There was no mirth in Lon's taut laugh.

"I mean it," Phip  insisted. "I've got no  reason to grease your  boots. Another
ten years and you'll be General."

Lon shook his head. "Don't put money on it, Phip. It'll never happen. I'm  first
generation Corps, first-generation Dirigenter. Even  if, by some wild chance,  I
do make  it to  the Council  of Regiments  someday, they'll  never vote me in as
General. I couldn't  count on even  one vote because  I'm not sure  I'd vote for
myself. You've got a better shot at getting elected General than I do."

"They don't make sergeants General."

Lon got to his feet. "Nothing says you'll always be a sergeant, Phip." There was
almost  humor in  his laugh  this time.  "You might  wake up  a lieutenant  some
morning. After that, it would just be a matter of time."

"That's a hell of a  thing to say to a  friend," Phip said, a look  of something
approaching terror  on his  face. "What'd  I ever  do to  deserve a  threat like
that?"

He's right  about one  thing, Lon  thought as  they left  the room.  We take the
promotions because deep inside we figure  we can do the job better  than someone
else might. It's the pat on the shoulder we always need.


Nearly half  the men  in A  Company were  veterans of  the previous  contract on
Bancroft. Most of the rest had  heard stories about that contract-if only  since
the unit had been  alerted for this job.  That made the initial  briefing easier
for Lon. Most  of his listeners  had points of  reference. It got  a little more
involved with the other companies.

"The people of Bancroft have good memories of the Corps," he told each group  as
he concluded his  talk. "We did  a job for  them, and we  behaved. I don't  want
anyone spoiling the image the Bancrofters have  of us, either for the way we  do
our job or for the way we behave if-if-- we get a chance to socialize  off-duty.
Best behavior. That  means no 'drunk  and disorderly,' no  attempts to undermine
the virtue of the local lasses. Anyone  gets out of line, he'll think a  shuttle
landed on his head before I get through with him."

The pep talks did as  much good for Lon as  they did for his men;  perhaps more.
After repeating the same general spiel several times, he stopped thinking of his
own doubts, started concentrating on what the battalion would need to do when it
reached Bancroft.

This early, the talk  could only be in  general terms. Until Long  Snake and the
other ships  reached Bancroft's  Solar System  after their  final transit  of  Q
space, detailed planning would be  impossible. By that time Governor  Sosa would
have been out  of contact with  his world for  more than six  weeks. The current
tactical situation might have changed  drastically. There would be updates  once
the  Dirigenter  ships emerged  in  normal space  three  or four  days  out from
Bancroft, and then  Lon, his staff,  and the governor  could begin to  make firm
plans for the battalion.

"Right  now  we can  hardly  rule anything  in  or out,"  Lon  told his  company
commanders. "There is a slight chance that Bancroft's constabulary militia  will
have managed to get the upper hand on the raiders since Sosa left. There is also
a chance that the raiders will have been so successful that the militia is  more
or less  bottled up  in Lincoln  and the  other towns,  that they will have been
forced to abandon the smaller mining camps and villages. Or the situation  could
be anywhere between those extremes."

"Can't go too far wrong assuming the situation will be closer to worst-case than
best," Captain Kai of C Company said. "That way, any surprises are liable to  be
pleasant."

"If the miners all just pulled back to the cities and quit working, pretty  soon
the raiders wouldn't have any decent targets. They'd either have to do the  hard
work themselves  or leave,"  Captain Carlin  of Bravo  said. "If  what you  said
before about those raiding operations having to pay for themselves is right."

"Wouldn't make the government of Bancroft  look very good to just pull  back and
hide," Lon  said. "They'd  probably be  voted out  of office  as being  unfit to
govern if they couldn't  do anything to protect  the miners and keep  production
going. Not to mention how fast they might go broke."

"Same result if the miners go on strike on their own say," Tebba Girana of Alpha
said. "It's the miners who are on the  front line, in the line of fire when  the
raiders come around."

"The point is, make  sure everyone knows why  we don't have any  initial plan of
operations, and why  we won't have  one until we  come out of  our final Q-space
jump and have time to get updated information from the ground," Lon said.  "Work
the men hard  on the Bancroft  database, especially physical  conditions, flora,
and  fauna-the things  that can't  change all  that much  in a  few years.   The
shuttles the raiders used last  time-armed shuttles like ours, but  smaller. The
tactics the raiders used, on the ground and in the air. Those may have  changed,
but we need a starting point."

It was always a  difficult job, finding practical  use for the time  in transit.
Meals, sleep, and exercise could use only so many hours each day. There could be
no field exercises in a troop transport. There were no furloughs, passes, booze,
or women. Officers and  noncoms tried to keep  gambling to a minimum.  But there
were always empty hours, and  giving men too many of  them to lie in a  bunk and
think about what might be coming was no good either.

That included the commanding officer.

Lon tried not to be too intrusive,  tried to be careful to avoid giving  his men
any reason to think that he might  be nervous about the contract. Put on  an act
if you have to, his first commanding officer had advised. You might try  amateur
theatricals if you need help.

It was easier  now. Lon had  a lot of  practice at projecting  confidence. There
were only a few  men he allowed to  see past the mask.  Phip and Tebba were  old
friends as well as subordinates. Lon  was learning to trust Vel Osterman  enough
to let him see behind the facade. In any case, if nerves did intrude, Lon  could
retreat  to  his office,  the  aloof commander  pondering  Bigger Questions.  In
private, he sometimes simply went  through the personnel files on  his complink,
studying ID holographs  as much as  anything, wanting to  be able to  put a name
with each face under his command, hoping to know a little about each of his men.
He had been  executive officer of  2nd Battalion long  enough that it  wasn't an
overwhelming problem. He knew most of the  men, at least enough to call them  by
name.

Five days  out: one  transit through  Q-space, out  from Dirigent  to one of the
major navigational routes. Eight days  out: the big jump along  the well-charted
travel lane. Eleven days out: the jump in toward Bancroft.


Immediately following the final jump through quantum space, Lon went to the main
communications center just aft of Long Snake's bridge to meet Governor Sosa  and
Captain Roim.

"We're waiting for  my deputy governor  to get to  his office," Sosa  said. "I'm
sure  you'll  remember him,  Dan  Henks. former  commander  of our  constabulary
militia. Government  House knows  we're in-system.  As soon  as I  give Dan  the
authorization code, they'll  start transmitting everything  they have for  us on
the current situation. Then we can  make real plans for our landing  and initial
movements."

Lon nodded.  "Captain Roim,  are we  picking up  any sign  of other  traffic  in
system?"

"Not  yet. Colonel,"  Roim said.  "All three  ships are  actively scanning,   of
course. We'll continue that as long as we're here. Ground as well as space, once
we're close enough to do you any good with ground tactical."

"I always feel a lot better when I know we've got good eyes watching out for us.
Captain."

That conversation was tabled when Deputy Governor Henks came on-line.

"Roger, am I glad to see you back!" Henks said, mopping sweat from his forehead.
"We've had trouble. The  raiders attacked Lincoln  last night. It  was just  hit
and-run, not a lot of damage, but it's got people in a panic here."



9

Several small  mining camps  had been  abandoned in  the past  weeks-sites where
miners worked a month shift, than went home to families in towns or villages for
a  month.  Militia  garrisons  had been  strengthened  in  the  permanent mining
villages, but  that drained  manpower from  Lincoln, the  only real  city on the
planet. No  mining was  done in  or right  around the  capital, but  all of  the
refined precious metals,  minerals, and rare  elements passed through  it before
going off-world in Bancroft's normal trade.

As soon as Lon and the others  had the initial data feed from Government  House,
they took time to study the material and confer. More updates came in. Dan Henks
provided almost hourly reports on what was happening.

"It could have been worse," Roger  Sosa confided to Lon and Captain  Roim. "It's
bad enough,  the first  strike against  the capital,  against any  of our larger
towns, but I've had nightmares about how bad it might have been."

Lon kept his face blank. He  could understand what the governor was  hinting at.
"Fear was probably  what the raiders  were trying to  sow. Governor. If  a small
raid against Lincoln forces you to  hold forces back from protecting the  mines,
they've eased their primary job."

"It would have worked if we didn't  have your people coming in," Sosa said.  "We
would have had no choice but to  defend Lincoln and the other towns. We'll  turn
the entire militia  camp over to  your regiment. Colonel  Nolan, the main  camp,
there at the edge of Lincoln, where your company stayed before. Unless there's a
raid in progress when we  get close enough to land,  the best thing would be  to
put all your people down where folks  in the capital can see just how  much help
we've got."

"I'll have  A Company  alerted for  possible diversion  in case  there is a raid
going on," Lon  said. "That's where  most of the  men who were  here before are.
Toronto will have fighters  ready to move in  as well. Two or  three Shrikes can
put quite a hurt on ground forces  that don't have any air cover, especially  if
the raiders aren't expecting attack from above. If there's no immediate  action,
they can do a  flyover while the shuttles  are landing, give you  a little extra
show."

"Is A Company the one trained with rocket packs?" Sosa asked.

Lon shook his head. "That's Charlie, and the packs are stowed on Tyre. We're not
in position to  use them going  in. Governor. I  don't want to  risk one company
when there's no chance to get  reinforcements to them, not until we've  had time
to  get a  firsthand evaluation  of the  situation." Lon  and his  men had  been
surprised by raiders using  rocket packs to land  men in a heavily  wooded area,
where  no  shuttle  could  land, during  their  previous  contract  on Bancroft.
"Besides, this is hypothetical, since we don't know that there will be a raid in
progress when we're ready to land."

Governor Sosa was unable, or didn't try, to completely suppress a low sigh.  "It
would be nice to be able to hit them hard before they know that we've brought in
outside help," he said.

"Nice, but not essential.  Governor," Lon said, managing  a smile. "I agree,  it
would be dramatic,  but I don't  think your problem  is going to  be solved that
quickly."

"No, of course not, but still..."

                                    *  *  *

OSI  had done  a remarkable  job working  with the  material Alpha  Company  had
brought back from Bancroft nine years earlier. They had edited tens of thousands
of hours of  video taken from  ships in orbit,  by shuttles during  all of their
operations, and through cameras mounted in the helmets of officers and  noncoms.
The resulting maps and overlays provided a high-resolution photographic atlas of
a large section of Bancroft's primary continent, along with moderately  detailed
surveys of the rest of the  planet's surface. The result was that  2nd Battalion
was going in with far more  precise knowledge of the physical conditions  on the
contract world than the Corps usually enjoyed... "only" nine years out of  date.
For Lincoln, the three  other main towns, and  several of the largest  villages,
that  meant  that almost  every  building was  pinpointed.  All of  the  smaller
villages  and  mining camps  were  located, though  terrain  or tree  cover  had
prevented building-by-building charting.

Long  Snake had  the complete  map database  in its  Combat Intelligence  Center
computers, which  could feed  information to  the complinks  and mapboards  that
officers and  noncoms carried.  The maps  would be  updated constantly  once the
Dirigenter flotilla was in position over the inhabited continent. New buildings,
new villages,  new mining  camps would  be added.  Abandoned camps  and villages
could be annotated. There was a  slow but constant shift to mining  sites, apart
from the  movements dictated  by the  latest raids.  Old lodes  played out.  New
deposits were discovered.

Governor Sosa and his  aides had pointed out  where some of the  new sites were.
Those were  indicated by  a separate  overlay on  the map,  to be  replaced once
direct video and topographical charting could be done.

"We've managed  to increase  our population  substantially since  you left  here
before," Sosa told Lon  during one conference over  the map. "We advertised  for
new settlers from some of the  older colony worlds and brought in  nearly twenty
thousand people, and our people have also been doing their best to build up  the
population the old-fashioned way."

Nine years earlier, the DMC had estimated Bancroft's population at three hundred
thousand. As a result of that first contract, the estimate had been increased by
20 percent. Now Lon suspected that the  number was probably over half a  million
still relatively small  for a world  that had been  opened to colonization  more
than a century earlier.


"Remember, this is  subject to last-minute  change if there's  anything going on
when we  get into  the landers,"  Lon said  as his  staff and company commanders
gathered twelve hours before the scheduled start of landing operations. "We hold
Alpha back, in the shuttles but not launched, until the rest of the battalion is
on  the  ground.  Bravo  will  be  first  in,  to  establish  contact  with  the
constabulary militia and to provide a security perimeter around the militia base
at the  edge of  Lincoln. My  headquarters detachment  will go  in behind Bravo.
Charlie and Delta will follow us. As  soon as we're organized enough to be  able
to get Charlie  and/ or Delta  dispatched to meet  any raid, we  bring Alpha in.
We'll have Shrike coverage throughout the landing operation. Toronto will try to
keep four Shrikes  in position to  provide immediate support  during this phase.
After that, I expect to keep the  Shrikes on alert status, ready to lend  ground
support or to intercept any ships coming in-system."

"You going to keep some of the shuttles on the ground?" Tebba asked.

Lon nodded. "Probably half; rotate shuttles and crews between Long Snake and the
ground. That gives us the means to move two full companies at a moment's notice,
or to use shuttles for ground support." Dirigenter shuttles carried rockets  and
multibarreled,  high-speed  20mm  cannon  pods.   Though  not  as  fast  or   as
maneuverable as Shrike fighters, the assault shuttles were armed nearly as well.

"I expect we'll have at least  one day, possibly more, before we  begin mounting
offensive action," Lon continued. "Subject,  of course, to what the  raiders do.
I'd love to have two or three days to get us settled and making regular  patrols
before we have to react to enemy action, but that's beyond our control."

"If there's something going on when we  get up in the morning. Alpha goes  right
in on top of it?" Tebba said.  It wasn't really a question. He merely  wanted to
get the plan verified once more.

"That's the plan," Lon agreed, nodding.  Lon had little doubt that Tebba  Girana
was his best company commander. Like  nearly half of the officers in  the Corps,
Tebba had come up from the ranks.  If he remained in the DMC long  enough, Tebba
would be a battalion commander someday. But that was a big if. Tebba already had
thirty-seven years in  uniform. He was  also Lon's oldest  company commander, by
more than a decade.

"Make sure  your men  know the  plan, and  how it  might change,"  Lon told  his
captains. Don't let  them think that  the Old Man  doesn't have a  plan or can't
make up his mind. he thought. That would be bad for morale.


"At least  we shouldn't  have to  fight our  way ashore,"  Lon told Vel Osterman
after the meeting broke up. The two were alone in Lon's office,

"Amen to that," Vel  said. "No hot landings,  no one targeting us  before we can
get out of the box."

The box: Infantrymen felt-and were-helpless  in their landers, unable to  defend
themselves, subject to having their ride blown apart around them. Coming in on a
hot landing-opposed by ground  forces or enemy air  cover-could be the stuff  of
nightmares. Until  a Dirigenter  could get  out of  the box  and in  position to
contribute to his own defense, he was  as helpless as a chick still in  the egg.
And knew it.

"I know  we didn't  discuss this  before, Vel,  but I  want you  to ride in with
Alpha. I'd rather go  with them myself, but"-Lon  spread his arms in  a helpless
gesture-"that would be setting a poor example.  I need to ride with the bulk  of
the battalion, go in with the governor, and so forth."

Vel nodded, not mentioning the thought he had entertained, that Lon would choose
to go in with his old company, especially if something was definitely  happening
on the surface when it was time  to climb into the boxes. The executive  officer
had been prepared  to argue the  point with his  boss. He was  glad it would not
come to that-not on their first contract together.

"Chances are we'll get in first," Vel said. "Be on the ground before the raiders
hit  anywhere.  Sosa said  the  pattern has  been  several days  between  raids,
sometimes a week."

"Not a firm pattern,"  Lon said. 'They've been  careful not to establish  a hard
pattern."

"It's what any professional would do," Vel said.

"And I expect we'll be  facing professionals. Earth-trained officers who've  had
the time to train a cohesive fighting force." Maybe some of them who trained  at
The Springs, took the same courses 1 did, Lon thought. That could cut both ways,
give him a slight edge on what the enemy might do ... and give them some idea of
what he might do. He  got to his feet. "Let's  get some supper, then try  to get
some sleep. Morning isn't going to wait for us."


Supper, a walk-through of the troops' bays,  a few words here and there. By  the
time Lon got back to  his cabin, Drop Hour was  less than nine and a  half hours
away. Reveille would be two hours before that.

This might be the last night of undisturbed sleep you get for three months,  Lon
told himself as  he undressed. You  've got to  take advantage of  it. He had  a
sleep patch laid out on  the stand next to the  bed; that would guarantee him  a
minimum of four  hours' undisturbed sleep.  In his younger  days, he would  have
tried-and likely failed-to get by  without the patch, tossing and  turning while
he fretted about everything that might conceivably go wrong, leaving himself  in
less than first-rate shape for  the landing. With an entire  battalion depending
on him, he could no longer afford such a foolish indulgence.

"Don't let me fail my men," he whispered. He turned out the light, lay down, and
put the  sticky side  of the  patch against  his neck.  In five  minutes he  was
asleep. There were no dreams to disturb his quiet... one more telling reason for
him to resort to the help.


Morning. During the journey from  Dirigent to Bancroft, the ships  had gradually
adjusted shipboard time so it would agree with local time in Bancroft's capital.
On the day of  the landing, sunrise was  scheduled in Lincoln at  0627 hours, by
the military clock. Reveille in the troop bays of Long Snake was at 0430  hours.
The men would be ordered to their shuttles at 0615, and the landing craft  would
start the ride down to the surface at 0630. Clockwork. Schedules.

Corporal Jeremy Howell,  Lon's clerk and  aide, knocked on  the bedroom door  at
0415 hours-as instructed.  He waited thirty  seconds and, when  he had heard  no
response from inside, opened the door and turned on the light.

"Colonel, time to get up," Howell said in a conversational tone as he closed the
door behind him. "Coming up on reveille."

Lon opened his eyes a little, squinting against the glare of the ceiling  light.
"I'm awake.  Jerry," he  said, though  his voice  was scarcely  evidence of  his
words. "No problems?"

"I guess not, sir," Jeremy said. If  there had been a problem in the  night, the
battalion  commander would  have been  wakened and  told long  before his  clerk
learned of it.

"Okay." Lon sat up, still squinting. "I'll check with Captain Roim while I  have
breakfast. You check on the exec and Lead Sergeant Steesen. Ask them to eat with
me. I'll need twenty minutes to shower and dress."

"Yes, sir. I'll see to  it. The lead sergeant is  already up. I saw him  heading
toward Alpha's quarters on my way  here. He was already dressed for  departure."
Jeremy Howell  had been  four years  old when  Lon entered  the DMC.  Howell had
earned his corporal's stripes on a  combat contract a year ago, after  less than
six years  in the  Corps. And  there was  a good  chance he  would make sergeant
following this contract. Lon had taken an almost parental interest in his  aide,
who had lost his  own father, a platoon  sergeant in Delta Company,  when he was
only three.

"Tell him about breakfast and see if Major Osterman is up, then get to your  own
feed."

"Yes, sir."

Lon waited until he was alone before he permitted himself a yawn that seemed  to
try to split his face  wide open. He stretched, then  put his feet on the  floor
and stood  to stretch  some more,  twisting, trying  to pump  his mind  the last
distance  up from  sleep. He  stripped off  his underwear  and headed  into  the
attached  bathroom. This  morning, twenty  minutes would  be tight  for  getting
ready.


At 0615  hours Alpha  and Bravo  Companies moved  from the  troop bays  to their
shuttles. Although there was no sign-yet-of any raider activity on the  surface,
the  entire  battalion  would  go  in  ready  for  combat,  wearing   camouflage
battledress and battle helmets, magazines  in weapons, but with safeties  on and
no rounds chambered.  Lon moved into  the command shuttle  with his headquarters
detachment just as the first two companies were being sealed into their landers.
Charlie  and Delta  Companies started  moving toward  their craft  five  minutes
later.

It was a busy time  for Lon, so busy that  he no longer had time  to worry about
anything but the essentials. He was in radio contact with the launchmaster. Long
Snake's  bridge and  CIC, his  executive officer,  and the  company  commanders,
switching from channel to channel frequently. More rarely he spoke with Governor
Sosa, who was seated next to him in the shuttle.

The command shuttle,  a model only  recently introduced, was  smaller than those
that carried  the line  companies. Instead  of holding  fifty people, it held-at
most-thirty, with the same minimal standard of comfort. Slightly faster and more
maneuverable, a command shuttle was  armed and better equipped for  surveillance
and reconnaissance.

The hangar  holding Bravo's  shuttles was  depressurized. The  two landers  were
launched and  started their  descent, accompanied  by the  first Shrike fighters
that had been  launched a few  minutes earlier from  Toronto. Lon's shuttle  was
next out. There would be a delay before Charlie and Delta were launched, and the
men of Alpha would remain sealed  in their landing craft, in the  hangars, until
the rest of the battalion was on the ground. That wait would not make for  happy
soldiers.

Lon  had  three video  monitors  placed within  comfortable  viewing range.  The
shuttle's pilots  had one  showing Long  Snake; the  second the area approaching
Lincoln, which was near the horizon, east of the ship's position; and the  third
tracking the two shuttles carrying Bravo Company.

Shuttles  were  not  equipped  with  Nilssen  generators  to  provide artificial
gravity-an unnecessary "luxury," planners said. Passengers remained strapped  in
tightly, even during  a "cool" landing,  where gravity would  reassert itself as
much as fifteen minutes before the craft touched down.

Governor Sosa sat holding a portable complink, in contact with Government  House
in Lincoln. Without a Diri-genter battle helmet, he was effectively out of touch
with everyone in  the shuttle except  for Lon. Even  without any troubling  news
coming in, Sosa looked extremely worried. Part of that was just the fact of  the
shuttle ride. Like many people  who rarely experienced zero gravity,  Roger Sosa
did not like the experience.

"We've all got a lot riding on  this," Sosa said when Lon questioned him  as the
shuttle  settled into  its glide  path for  the landing  at Lincoln.  "I'm  past
worrying about the political ramifications of failure. If we fail to put an  end
to these raiders, Bancroft is going to suffer, worse than it already has."

Lon stared at the  governor for a few  seconds before replying. He  thought Sosa
was sincere, but he found it difficult to trust the words of any politician.

"We should have enough going for us. Governor," Lon said, lifting his  faceplate
to make it easier for Sosa to hear him.

Sosa did not hear much, though. The command shuttle banked hard to the right and
started to accelerate.  Lon received a  quick alarm from  the pilot at  the same
time.

"We're under fire from the ground. Colonel. Two missiles tracking us."



10

Thirty seconds before the attack, the  views on the three monitors had  all been
focused on the ground-the militia base, Bravo's landers near it, and the closest
portion of Lincoln. Once the shuttle pilot started violent evasive maneuvers and
accelerated to get altitude, the views on the monitors flashed around so quickly
that  anyone watching  them closely  might have  become dizzy.  Lon gripped  the
armrests of his seat, fighting against the surge of blood away from his head  as
the shuttle climbed at  more than an eighty-degree  angle, trying to escape  the
two surface-to-air missiles that had been fired at it.

Seconds. The sound of the  shuttle's straining rockets covered any  other noise.
Lon could not even hear his own heartbeat-which surprised him.

The shuttle  flipped sideways,  then dove,  forcing blood  toward Lon's head and
threatening him with  a revolt of  his stomach. He  swallowed hard to  keep from
vomiting. Governor Sosa did not manage  to keep his breakfast down. It  spurted.
He dropped his complink. It flew away from him, a missile to ricochet around the
passenger compartment.

One of the Shrikes dove in behind the shuttle, its mul-tibarrel cannon firing at
the two missiles. It detonated one of the small rockets. The other lost its  fix
on the shuttle and climbed until it  ran out of fuel, giving another Shrike  the
chance to explode it before it could fall back to the ground.

The shuttle banked around again and  the pilot cut the rockets, switched  on the
jets, and worked to slow  the craft for a landing.  This time the pilot did  not
concern himself with a  gentle landing. He wanted  to get his aircraft,  and his
passengers, on the ground as quickly as possible.

Lon heard  the details,  but late.  As the  shuttle braked  to a  stop near  the
southern wall of the militia base-scattering most of the welcoming  committee-he
was  still receiving  updates, piped  straight through  to him  from the  Shrike
pilots, who had gone hunting the shooters  on the ground. The two SAMs had  been
launched from within a mile of Lincoln.

The instant the shuttle stopped, Lon  hit the release on his safety  harness and
staggered to  his feet,  still dizzy  from the  aerial gyrations.  He spread his
feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and then-carefully-leaned over to  help
Governor Sosa get out  of his harness. Sosa  appeared far more shaken.  He still
gripped  his armrests  as if  he thought  the shuttle  were still  in the   air,
maneuvering wildly.

"Come  on. Governor.  We need  to get   out of  the box,  in case  there's  more
trouble," Lon said, half-lifting Sosa from his seat.

Sosa's eyes  did not  focus as  their gaze  crossed Lon's  face. They started to
rotate upward, and  the governor started  to black out.  His knees buckled.  Lon
caught him  and dragged  him toward  the hatch.  Two men  from the  headquarters
detachment came over and  took charge of the  governor, one on either  side. The
rest were already out of the shuttle, out of the box.

One  platoon from  Bravo Company  had moved  into position  around the  shuttle,
covering three sides, weapons pointed outward. Another platoon was moving in the
presumed direction of  the SAM launches.  Lon looked that  way and saw  a Shrike
making a low pass, strafing the edge of a wooded area. The shuttles carrying the
Charlie and Delta platoons had been launched from Long Snake but were being held
in  orbit.  Toronto  was  launching an  additional  four  Shrikes  to cover  the
landings.

Slowly, Lon's attention caught up with the reports coming in, but he had to  ask
for repeats. The second  Shrike pilot reported that  they had seen a  half dozen
men running into the woods, and those  were the targets they had gone after.  "I
think Zeke  got a  couple of  them. Colonel,"  the pilot  added. "Your  boys are
headed in the right direction- about six hundred yards."

A company of constabulary militia was also moving to intercept the raiders.  Lon
heard  about  their  movements  secondhand,  from  an  officer  in  the Bancroft
Constabulary  Militia  (BCM). At  first  Lon didn't  recognize  the man  ...  he
scarcely had a second to glance at him. Several minutes passed before Lon lifted
his faceplate and really looked at the Bancrofter.

"Crampton, isn't it?" Lon asked.

"Wes Crampton," the local officer said, nodding. "Colonel now, commander of  the
BCM. Sorry  about the  reception. I  thought we  had sterilized  the area around
Lincoln."

"Your governor got more  than he bargained for."  Lon looked around and  finally
spotted Sosa, sitting on the ground with his back against the log palisade  wall
of the militia base,  almost hidden by the  people clustered around him.  "Can't
really blame him for the way he reacted. None of us did much better."

"Damned  strange  piece of  luck,"  Crampton said.  "Passing  by the  first  two
shuttles  filled  with troops  and  hitting the  shuttle  bringing you  and  the
governor in. They must not have been able to get into position fast enough."

"If they didn't know we were coming,  it isn't strange at all," Lon said.  "They
wouldn't have known anything was going  on until the first shuttles came  in. We
just happened to be next."

"Maybe."

Lon stared. "You think there's something more?"

"Let's just  say I  can't rule  it out,"  Crampton said.  "It was  no secret the
governor went to Dirigent  to get help. The  debate over whether we  should seek
your services  went on  for weeks.  If the  raiders are  tapped into  our public
comnet or have other sources of information, they might have been waiting."

"Other sources?"

"We've had a  lot of new  settlers since the  last time you  were here. Colonel.
It's not  impossible that  some of  them might  have had,  shall we say, suspect
reasons for coming to Bancroft."

"Spies for the Colonial Mining Cartel?" Lon asked.

"I know that  sounds melodramatic, but  it is possible.  Before, we had  a tight
social bond here. All our families had lived on Bancroft for generations. Now we
have all these immigrants, different backgrounds, different customs."

"It's not something Governor Sosa mentioned," Lon said.

Crampton shrugged. "The governor has a more optimistic view of human nature than
I do."

The discussion ended. Lon could hear gunfire off to the south-more clearly  over
his radio  than directly.  He was  linked to  the platoon  sergeant chasing  the
raiders. The firefight lasted less than two minutes, ending before the BCM  unit
could reinforce the Dirigenters.

Lon turned back to Colonel Crampton. "Better have your men see if they can  find
the raiders hit by the Shrike, Colonel," Lon said. "Hope there's somebody  still
alive.  The four  men my  people got...  well, one  of them  is alive  now,  but
probably won't survive to get to a trauma tube."

Crampton nodded and spoke over his own radio. The Bancrofters had battle helmets
purchased from Dirigent now, one  of the commercial contacts that  had continued
since the first time the DMC had helped against off-world raiders.

"We're closing  in on  them," Crampton  reported. "Have  to go  in with a little
care, in case there are any still capable of, ah, resisting."

"Of course.  I've just  spoken to  CIC aboard  Long Snake,  ordered the next two
companies in," Lon said. "They'll be  on the ground in twenty minutes."  Lon was
ready to write off the possibility that any survivors would be taken in in  good
enough condition to  question under truth  drugs. "I just  hope they don't  have
more SAM teams in position."

"We'll do what we can to make sure the route in is covered," Crampton  promised.
"I've got every available man moving."

"We'll be alert to the possibility  as well. Colonel," Lon said. "If  a tracking
system locks  on, we'll  know." Should  have known  before, Lon  thought. It was
something to check on  later, why his shuttle  had not detected targeting  radar
locking on before those missiles were fired.


"I  thought we  had cleared  the area  after the  raid the  other day,"   Deputy
Governor Henks said. It was past noon. The last Dirigenters were on the  ground.
Half of the shuttles had returned to Long Snake. The rest were parked on the new
plascrete landing strip next  to the militia base  that had been turned  over to
the mercenaries.  This meeting  was being  held in  the commandant's  conference
room.

"It happens," Lon said. "We got lucky. I just wish we'd been able to take one of
the raiders alive." The  one wounded man had  died, as expected, before  medical
or-derlies could get to him with a trauma tube.

"I wish I could be as casual about it as you are. Colonel Nolan," Governor  Sosa
said. He had showered and changed clothes, but his face still seemed  uncommonly
pale, and his  voice sounded weak.  "That is something  I don't ever  want to go
through again."

"No one likes to be exposed  like that. Governor," Lon said. "It's  something of
an occupational hazard for us, but no training can truly prepare a man for  it."
One of the  two pilots  had reacted  the same  way Sosa  had aboard  the shuttle
vomited. "And it's something a civilian should never have to experience."

"It was my fault. Governor," Colonel Crampton said. "My responsibility."

Sosa made  a dismissive  gesture. "We're  not looking  for scapegoats.  Colonel.
Right now, the important  thing is to get  the situation on the  ground in hand,
rid our world of those bastards once and for all."

"There is one security measure I believe we need to take right away," Lon  said.
"Since the raiders  might be able  to receive any  public comnet broadcasts,  we
have to make certain that they can't  pick up anything that might give them  any
tactical advantage-anything  about the  positions and  movements of  DMC and BCM
personnel and other assets;  operations, plans, suppositions; casualty  reports,
intelligence of any sort."

"Censorship?" Henks asked.

"You don't tell the enemy where to  point the gun, sir, or give him  information
on how well you think he's doing," Lon said. "You've been a military man."

"We have the authority under the emergency measures the council approved,"  Sosa
said. "Do it, Dan."

"Yes, sir. I'll have my staff prepare plans this afternoon," Henks said.

Sosa shook his head. "We don't drag this out. Have an executive order ready  for
my signature in an hour and be ready to implement it immediately. I want you  on
top  of  this  personally,  Dan,   and  I  want  every  possible   leak  plugged
immediately."

"Of course. Governor," Henks said, a little stiffly. "If you'll excuse me,  I'll
get right  to work."  He pushed  his chair  back and  stood, bowed abruptly, and
left.

"It's something  we've never  had to  worry about  before," Sosa  said after his
deputy left.  "We cherish  our freedoms  here, and  censorship, even  if it only
means delaying the public release of  information for a few hours or  days, will
not be  easy medicine.  I agree,  though. Colonel  Nolan. It  is most  certainly
necessary that we not provide the raiders with any avoidable assistance."

"Yes, sir,  I understand  how you  feel. But  it is  necessary. In some cases it
might not  be a  matter of  hours or  days. Some  information might  have to  be
withheld until the  raiders are eradicated,  or until we  are absolutely certain
that they no longer have the capacity to use that information."

Sosa nodded. "Whatever the situation requires. Colonel."

"I'll have my executive officer coordinate with your people on this.  Governor,"
Lon said. "We'll try to keep it from being too onerous."


The militia compound looked, on the outside, like something that would have been
more at home in the Old West of North America a thousand years before. The walls
of the compound were wood palisades, tree trunks planted next to each other with
pointed tops. The  headquarters building, barracks,  and other buildings  inside
were also of log construction. The base  would not stand up to attack with  even
small-caliber artillery or shoulder-launched rockets. To address that  weakness,
which  Lon  had  pointed  out nine  years  earlier,  the  Bancrofters had  added
additional  cleared ground  on three  sides-all but  the side  that abutted  the
built-up sections  of Lincoln,  the planetary  capital-and had  set up defensive
measures farther out. razor wire, pits, and electronic snoops that would warn if
any  enemy force  came within  striking range.  Armed patrols  were also  routed
around the base now ... since the return of off-world raiders.

Inside,  the buildings  were thoroughly  modem, with  no trace  of the  frontier
design visible. Lon's  office in the  headquarters building was  larger than his
office on Diri-gent, and the living  quarters above the office were very  nearly
luxurious. By suppertime of  his first day on  Bancroft, Lon was confident  that
his men  were ready  to move  to offensive  operations. Liaison  with the  local
government and the BCM were in  place. His officers had direct radio  links with
their  counterparts   in  the   militia.  Shuttles   and  Shrikes   were  flying
reconnaissance missions  to look  for any  concentration of  raider forces.  The
computer map had already been fully updated.

"I think we're ready to roll, Phip,"  Lon said. The two men were alone  in Lon's
office.

"There's one good thing about being on a contract like this," Phip said. "We can
stuff most of  the red tape  in a boot  box and leave  it until we're  shipboard
headed for home. Oh, by the way,  they got your shuttle cleaned up. Sosa  wasn't
the only one who  puked. And we've returned  his complink-what's left of  it. It
got banged around pretty good this morning."

"That was too close, Phip," Lon said, very quietly.

"Don't look  for an  argument from  me. All  the years  I've been  in the Corps,
that's the closest I ever came to a dirt pension. It'd really have been hell  if
three of the four of  us went out on the  same world. Maybe Janno was  the smart
one, getting out when he did."

Lon  squeezed his  eyes shut,  briefly. The  same thought  had occurred  to  him
earlier. Dean had died on Bancroft. Lon and Phip had almost followed, nine years
later.

"I've got a mean itch up my  back, Lon," Phip said after letting a  silence grow
for a minute or more. "Something tells me the trouble might be worse than  these
raiders just  listening to  the local  compnet. That  they might  have had  more
direct news of us, like when we were coming in, maybe even the landing order."

"A spy  in Government  House or  the BCM?"  Lon tried  to make  it sound  light,
skeptical, but did not completely succeed.

"They've had a lot of new people come in. Why couldn't Earth have planted a  few
ringers?"

"No reason, except  maybe practicality." Lon  never talked about  the details of
his own mission  to Earth, the  fact that Dirigent  had resident agents  working
there.

"What practicality?" Phip  asked. "Putting a  couple of people  out, every world
they could, that  might be the  most practical idea  they could have.  Tell them
where they  might find  easy pickings,  what the  target was  worth, and  have a
helping hand available if they decided to come in. Like here."

"Okay, it's possible, and I'm sure the Bancrofters know that as well as you  do.
They still can't put everyone who's come here in the last nine years under truth
drugs to  ask. And  we can't  treat every  member of  the militia as a potential
enemy. We've got to work with them or this contract is impossible."

"Maybe, but we should  make sure our people  know to keep their  eyes open, even
with 'friends' covering their backs."

"Go easy, Phip. Vigilance is one thing. I don't want to turn everyone paranoid."

"Sentry lists are posted," Phip said. "Besides regular posts, I've set it up  so
that one shuttle  crew is on  duty at all  times, ready to  use their weapons as
well if the  raiders try to  have a go  at us. I  remember those little shuttles
they used."

"Long Snake and the other ships  are watching for surprises like that,  Phip. We
should have plenty of warning  if any of them get  in the air anywhere within  a
thousand miles."

"Yeah, right," Phip said. "Like when they hit us at that mining camp nine  years
ago."

"We didn't know the  raiders had shuttles then,  Phip. We know to  look for them
now."

"But we don't know how good their  stealth technology is. They might be able  to
hide better than we can seek."


Originally, Governor Sosa had  planned to host a  formal dinner for Lon  and his
senior  officers their  first evening  on Bancroft.  After his  close call,  the
governor decided to postpone that reception for twenty-four hours. Lon ate  with
his  staff and  company commanders  instead, and  it was  a working  meal,  with
discussions of each company's readiness and initial assignments.

One company would always  be on alert, ready  to board shuttles and  head to any
trouble  spot within  fifteen minutes.  The other  three companies  would  share
responsibility for the security of the base-mounting guards and sending  patrols
out in the vicinity-until the Dirigenters had enough intelligence to go  hunting
the raiders. Already,  CIC was putting  together bits of  information that might
lead to action  within a day  or two. They  were using new  technology developed
largely as  a result  of the  previous Bancroft  contract, techniques that might
make it possible for the Dirigenters to find raiders without necessarily waiting
for them to strike. Might.

"There's one thing that's been puzzling me," Captain Kai of Charlie Company said
as the meal was winding to an end.

"What's that, Sefer?" Lon asked.

"That  cave  system where  you  had the  raiders  bottled up  last  time-did the
Bancrofters ever open it back up to see if there were any other caches of stolen
metals and minerals?"

"He wants to know if they still owe us any percentage," Tebba said, laughing.

"Deputy Governor Henks and  I talked about that  this afternoon," Lon said.  "He
was the one who  brought it up. They  opened those caves thirty  months after we
left.  They  found  only  negligible  amounts  of  stolen  goods,  supplies  and
munitions, and fourteen bodies-raiders who didn't make it out."

"Did they account for everyone who was here?" Kai asked.

"Henks thinks that  maybe three or  four weren't accounted  for, that they  must
have died on  their own, either  prey to local  predators or from  starvation or
whatever."

"Or maybe they  survived until these  new raiders landed,"  Captain Magnusson of
Delta suggested.

"I don't think they'd be  much use to the new  lot if they'd been living  in the
wild for nine years," Captain Carlin of Bravo said. "More of a liability."

"In any case, not something we should have to worry about," Lon said. "Let's not
borrow trouble. For now, we wait, ready to head out the minute we have a contact
or a fix on raider positions from CIC. Nothing shows in the next couple of days,
we start putting patrols out near the last few raids, see if there are trails to
follow."


Lon's  quarters  on  the  third floor  of  the  headquarters  building were  ...
considerable. The bedroom  was twenty-eight feet  square, with windows  on three
sides, high enough to look over the  outer wall of the compound. He could  stand
on one side of his  room and look out at  the city of Lincoln, a  growing, modem
city. The  tallest buildings  were six  stories high,  and Government  House was
visible at the far end of a broad avenue. If Lon crossed the bedroom to look out
the  opposite windows,  he could  see across  the cleared  defensive zone   into
untouched old-growth forest-woodlands that stretched hundreds of miles with only
minimal breaks. On the third wall, the view was mainly forest, but with the city
beginning to intrude-new residential neighborhoods that had grown over the  past
nine years.

Sunset. Dusk. Night. The only light in  the bedroom was the dark blue glow  of a
blank complink screen on the table next to the full-sized bed-a bed larger  than
the one that Lon and Sara shared at  home. Lon was in no hurry to try  this bed,
in no hurry to tempt sleep. He paced softly, slowly, then stood in front of  one
window or another to stare out, perhaps as long as ten minutes before moving  to
the next window.

Thoughts. Worries. Memories. Scenarios-growing wilder as the evening progressed.

What the hell am I doing here? he wondered more than once. This was the time for
doubts he could not let his subordinates-even those who knew him best-see. Alone
in the dark, he  did not need to  hold the mask to  his face. The cracks  in his
public facade could widen. There would be time to repair them, time to sleep and
let new mortar set.

Thoughts flickered through and vanished, often unconnected bits of trivia as the
flip-flop  blocks  of  random  association  struggled  to  fill  the  voids   of
consciousness. It was  near midnight when  a series of  frames came together  to
pose Lon a question that jerked him clear of his reverie.

What happened to the second shuttle that attacked us the last time we were here?
Two raider shuttles had come down that valley after dropping men on jet packs to
hit the mercenaries with  gunfire and rockets. One  shuttle had been shot  down,
the wreckage available for inspection.

"We never found the second shuttle," Lon said. "It didn't show up while we  were
here. I wonder if the Ban-crofters ever  found it." He went to his complink  and
keyed in a note to himself, to ask the locals in the morning. Then he  undressed
for bed and put a sleep patch on his neck.



11

"No, we  never found  it," Daniel  Henks said  when Lon  asked about  the raider
shuttle the next morning. They were  speaking over a complink hookup. "I'd  damn
near forgotten about that.  Colonel. We were so  overjoyed at the way  your lads
and mine smashed  the raiders in  that last big  fight it completely  slipped my
mind for the longest time. By the time I thought about it again, you had already
made your first Q-space jump toward home."

"Did you look for it then?" Lon asked.

"I didn't have the facilities or  equipment for an exhaustive search, but  I did
have our shuttle crews looking, off and on. We did spend time searching the area
around those caves where  we cornered the raiders,  figuring it was most  likely
they'd have kept their transport close to base. From the air and on the  ground.
We  found a  clearing they  had apparently  used for  shuttles, but  no sign  of
anything other than the one your people shot down. Is it important?"

"I don't know yet. It could be. It's a loose end, something that popped into  my
head last night. If that shuttle got off-world, made rendezvous with a ship,  it
would explain where any stragglers got to, and it would mean that the CMC  would
know how we caught their  people. Could mean they'll be  ready for us if we  use
the same tactics we did last time."

"And if  it didn't  get off-world,  that shuttle,  or at  least wreckage, should
still be around, somewhere."

"Something like that," Lon said. "We'll look for it. Our close-in surveys  ought
to spot that much metal on the  ground even if it's under trees or  covered with
camouflage netting. As long as we know what we're looking for."

"We know this new  batch of raiders has  similar shuttles," Henks reminded  Lon.
"We've never spotted more than two at a time, but that's no guarantee that's all
they have."

"And we haven't spotted any of them yet," Lon said, as much to himself as to the
deputy governor.


"This and that and three other things," Vel Osterman said when Lon mentioned the
missing shuttle. "You'd think  we'd be able to  detect any craft on  the ground.
We're running electronic detectors, magnetic detectors, mapping scans on  dozens
of frequencies from  ultraviolet through infrared,  microwave, and I  don't know
what-all  else  in addition  to  visible-light video.  And  if any  of  them get
airborne, we ought to know within seconds."

"That's  the theory,"  Lon said.  "The samples  of the  wrecked shuttle  we  had
analyzed showed  extensive passive  stealth technology,  but we  should still be
able to catch them."

"Active stealth?" Vel asked. "ECM?" Electronic coun-tenneasures.

"If we're dealing with equipment from Earth, that's likely," Lon conceded. "Hard
telling how advanced.  That's not the  kind of thing  they let out."  Lon wasn't
certain if there  was anything on  that in the  material he had  brought back to
Dirigent from Earth. There was so much material on the data chips that they  had
not been  completely analyzed  before the  battalion left  Dirigent and made its
first transit of Q-space.

He leaned back and closed his eyes,  letting out a soft sigh. "This is  a little
on the screwy side, Vel," he said.  "Not a regular combat scenario at all,  even
though we're talking fairly substantial numbers. No fixed lines, areas of  enemy
control, or  anything. We  have to  find the  enemy before  we can even begin to
engage them."

"If they know we're here, and we have to assume they do, they might go to ground
and just try to wait us out," Vel said. "Good chance we wouldn't find them."

"Wrong. We'd  find them,"  Lon said.  "We came  prepared to  look for caves this
time. We  can use  echo ranging  from the  shuttles to  find cave systems, if it
comes to that, then  send people in on  the ground to do  close-up slap-and-grab
charting to see if the caves have anyone in them."


We'll  find them.  Lon kept  telling himself  that, but  every hour that  passed
without any  sighting, without  anything that  said Here  they are,  he felt his
tension increase. It did not help much to remind himself that the battalion  had
been on the world little more than twenty-five hours.

CIC's computers had been running pattern recognition searches-location of raids,
time  between attacks,  size of  raiding party,  even the  specific metals   and
minerals stolen-looking for sequences that might help determine the location  of
the main base of the raiders ... or the time and place of their next attack.  So
far the computers had  not been able to  find anything that could  be definitely
posited as more than random.

"There have never been two precisely simultaneous attacks. That's the only thing
that's struck me so far," Lon told Phip when Steesen came in and found his  boss
staring at the complink screen,  watching the computer sequence the  location of
attacks and the duration  between them. Lon had  been staring at various  visual
summaries for  nearly an  hour, often  going for  minutes without even blinking,
nearly hypnotized by the program.

Lon turned  away from  the screen,  swiveling his  chair until  he was  directly
facing his lead sergeant. 'Two and a  half hours apart is the closest two  raids
have come, and the targets were sixty-eight miles apart."

"In other words, it's  just barely possible the  same people hit both  of them,"
Phip said.

"Can't rule  it in  or out,"  Lon said,  nodding. "The  lack of any recognizable
patterns, either it's all  blind luck or the  opposition is being directed  by a
damned military genius."

"Or a good computer program," Phip  suggested. "One that's able to outsmart  our
CIC brain boxes."

"Where's my shuttle?" Lon asked.

Phip glanced at  his watch. "Should  be leaving Long  Snake right about  now. It
went up  to refuel  and load  some of  the extra  scanning gear. Maybe to switch
crews as well. I'm not sure about that."

"Pick out a good squad to go along. I want to get out and have a look around for
myself," Lon  said. "Maybe  that will  give me  more ideas  than staring  at the
complink."

"Can't hurt," Phip said. "You, me. Jerry, and a squad?"

Lon hesitated before he  nodded. "Full battle kit,  just in case. And  make sure
CIC knows  what we're  doing and  has a  Shrike or  two ready  if we turn up any
worms."


The cockpits of the DMC's larger attack shuttles had three seats-pilot, copilot,
and crew chief. A command shuttle, though it was smaller, added a fourth seat in
the cockpit, above and behind the pilot-empty except when the infantry commander
chose to  occupy it.  Lon strapped  himself into  the fourth  seat, pulling  his
harness as tight as it would comfortably go.

"Just what  do you  have in  mind, Colonel?"  the command  pilot. Lieutenant Art
Felconi, asked.

"A little prowling. Art,"  Lon said. "I've got  to see things for  myself. Maybe
we'll get lucky and stumble onto something."

"Like those  rockets yesterday?"  Felconi asked.  "I'd rather  not go that route
again just yet, thank you."

"That's not quite what I had in mind, but it would give us a location on some of
the enemy. Let's start west.  We'll make a tour over  as many of the sites  that
have been raided as we can. Maybe follow a few valleys, see if we happen to turn
anything."

"You're the boss," Felconi said.

Petty Officer Steve  Tink, the crew  chief, came into  the cockpit and  strapped
himself  in.  "Everyone's aboard  and  the box  is  sealed tight,  skipper,"  he
reported.

"Colonel?" Felconi asked.

"Whenever you're ready," Lon replied.

Lon had ridden in the  cockpit of a shuttle only  four times before, in all  his
years in the Corps. The first time hadn't even been in a Dirigenter shuttle, but
in one of the transports the  Bancrofters used-Taking off from this same  place,
Lon thought as the pilot pushed  the throttles forward and the aircraft  started
to tremble at power being held back by brakes.

When the shuttle  lunged forward, quickly  gaining speed, Lon  forced himself to
keep his eyes open,  though his instinct was  to close them. Seventy  yards from
standstill to airborne. The  pilot pulled the nose  of the shuttle up  while the
copilot  opened the  throttles farther.  They climbed  at a  seventy-five-degree
angle. Lon  concentrated on  his breathing  as acceleration  pushed him into his
seat, telling himself that this would only last a few seconds. When the pressure
eased and  the shuttle  nosed forward  into level  flight, Lon  could feel blood
moving forward in  his head again.  For an instant  he felt almost  dizzy, but a
couple of deep breaths- covering an involuntary sigh of relief-brought him  back
to something approaching normal.

"Where do we start. Colonel?" Felconi asked.

"Head for the southwest limit of the primary sites," Lon said. 'The valleys  and
ridges are all pretty much southwest to northeast, so we can go up and down  for
a while. I'm going to want to get low enough to have a look at the villages  and
larger camps."  The weather  was perfect.  There were  only a  few wispy clouds,
high, nothing that would obscure the view.

"The garrisons  know we're  coming? I'd  hate to  have even  a friendly  missile
chasing my butt around."

"They're supposed to  know, but I'll  call Colonel Cramp-ton's  headquarters and
make sure," Lon offered.

Hills and valleys,  creeks and rivers,  almost endless trees.  Most of Bancroft,
even in the area  that had been settled,  remained mostly as it  had been before
the first humans landed. There still  weren't the numbers to do great  damage to
the environment, even  though Bancrofters preferred  to grow most  of their food
rather  than  use nanotech  assemblers  to construct  it  from patterns  out  of
whatever  organic materials  came to  hand. A  hundred people  here, a  thousand
there, only a handful of population centers were larger.

To Lon's right, the crew chief  kept busy monitoring the scanning equipment,  in
case they got lucky and found human activity where it didn't belong. Lon watched
out the front of the shuttle, mostly, supplementing that with glances at the two
small monitors in the console in front of him.

The  pilot  kept  the  shuttle's   airspeed  low-slow  enough  that  Lon   could
occasionally  see  more  than  just  a blur  of  trees  racing  past.  When they
approached one of the  mining villages or  camps, the pilot  made a series  of S
curves, banking from side  to side to give  them more time overhead  to look the
terrain over.

I don't know what I hope to see, Lon thought after an hour of looking. No  one's
going to stand in a  clearing and give us the  finger. He didn't expect to  spot
raiders beginning an  attack. That would  be too much  to ask for.  Maybe we 'II
turn up one of their shuttles. That might happen, if luck was running with them.
A magnetic or electronic  signature that did not  belong in unspoiled forest,  a
flash of  matte black  surface, the  glint of  light off  a cockpit  windshield.
Something.

One  of  the  monitors in  front  of  Lon kept  him  posted  on their  position,
indicating the names of villages and camps. The flight had been in progress just
minutes short  of two  hours when  they went  over the  cave system  where Alpha
Company had bottled up the raiders and then destroyed them nine years before.

"Let's  take a  closer look,"  Lon told  the pilot.  "We're just  about out   of
valleys. Past the next ridge to the  east, the ground starts to flatten out  and
slope toward the sea."

"You don't  think they'd  go back  to the  same place,  do you, sir?" Lieutenant
Felconi asked.

"Odds and evens," Lon said. "No, I don't expect that they'd go back to the  same
place. Even if there  were no survivors to  tell them what happened,  they could
see that the entrances had been  destroyed by explosives and guess. But  if they
thought we'd think that, it might seem to be the safest place. With a few  extra
safeguards to try to avoid the same fate."

"You're making my head spin. Colonel. Here we go."

The shuttle made a  gentle banking turn, losing  five hundred feet of  altitude.
Lon had  never seen  the location  from the  air before.  The perspectives  were
different. It was not until he spotted the narrow chimney along the northwestern
end of the hill where  he had first discovered traces  of the enemy that he  was
able to orient himself. He had the pilot make several passes along the valley on
the west side of the ridge, gradually picking out several of the other entrances
to the cave system-mostly from rock that was colored differently, scars left  by
the explosions that sealed off the cave. The areas of heaviest fighting could be
deduced from that, though there was no visible evidence of the battle after nine
years.

"Okay, Lieutenant, I guess I've done  enough sightseeing for one day," Lon  said
finally. "Let's head back for Lincoln."

"On the way," Felconi said.

The shuttle was still climbing when Lon got the report. Raiders were hitting one
of the newer mining camps,  considerably to the northwest. Lon  didn't hesitate.
"Head for those coordinates. Lieutenant. This might be what we're looking for."

Felconi pushed  the throttles  all the  way to  the stops,  and the shuttle went
supersonic. The site of the attack was eight minutes away.


Lon was too busy to  notice the ride. He linked  to Vel Osterman to ensure  that
the alert  company-Delta-was on  its way.  The men  were already  boarding their
shuttles and were  off the ground  almost before Osterman  could report it.  Two
companies  of  militiamen  would  be  no  more  than  five  minutes  behind  the
mercenaries; they were coming from two different locations.

"The mining camp is called Xavier's Beak, and don't ask me why," Osterman  said.
"There are about sixty civilians and forty militiamen stationed there. The mines
produce copper ore and trace elements usually associated with copper deposits."

"Any sign of raider shuttles?" Lon asked.

"Negative, and we're doing a close scan of the area around Xavier's Beak.  First
reports from the camp  say there are at  least fifty raiders, but  we don't have
any way to  confirm that yet.  There is shooting  going on now.  The militia got
three minutes'  advance warning  from snoops  they had  planted along the valley
floor, so the raiders weren't able to just walk over."

Before Lon could say anything, Vel started talking again. "We've just lost radio
contact with the camp.  The uplink must have  been blown." No more  than fifteen
seconds elapsed before he passed along confirmation of an explosion at the  edge
of the camp,  spotted by Long  Snake first, and  then by several  shuttle pilots
almost simultaneously.

"Bravo has the base security detail?" Lon said, seeking confirmation. He  didn't
wait for  Vel to  agree. "Get  Alpha and  Charlie ready  to move on ten minutes'
notice. Get on to Long  Snake to get shuttles down  to carry them, ASAP. We  hit
them and hit them hard."

"CIC  is monitoring  our talk,  Lon. There,  I've got  confirmation on   another
circuit. Two shuttles will launch in  seven minutes. With what we've got  on the
ground, that will carry Alpha and Charlie."

"We should  reach Xavier's  Beak about  ninety seconds  before Delta. We'll stay
overhead to provide close-in eyes, at least until they're on the ground and  can
engage," Lon said. "I'll decide what I'll do next when the time comes."

"Just stay high enough to keep out of trouble, Lon."

"We'll do our best."


The command shuttle deployed wing flaps  to cut its airspeed once Xavier's  Beak
was in sight.  The shuttle went  subsonic and Lieutenant  Felconi banked into  a
wide turn, orbiting the area at twelve thousand feet-high enough to ensure  that
they would be able to escape any surface-to-air missiles that might be fired  at
them.

"We've got a  good fix on  the raiders. Colonel,"  Felconi said before  they had
made one complete circuit. "I'm linked through to the militia commander and I've
got the positions of his people and the enemy."

"Can we give them something to think about? A couple of rockets, maybe?"

"Coming up. We should get  a little closer, though, to  be sure we don't have  a
bird stray off in the wrong direction."

"Go for it, Lieutenant."

A transparent bubble came down over the  crew chief's head. Inside, he was in  a
virtual reality gunner's  turret. The pilot  controlled the missiles.  The chief
operated the two Gatling gun pods.  Going in close, the cannon might  be needed.
With  the assist  of a  targeting computer,  the cannon  might even  be able  to
destroy a SAM coming at them.

Lon keyed the controls on one of his monitors to give him a constant readout  of
altitude and airspeed. They dropped below four thousand feet-inviting range  for
a shoulder-launched rocket.  Their speed fell  to 450 miles  per hour-a crawl-as
the pilot used air brakes and reverse thrust to slow the shuttle.

Not for  long. As  soon as  the two  missiles were  launched, Lieutenant Felconi
increased  the  shuttle's speed  and  climbed out  of  harm's way,  accelerating
rapidly enough  that Lon  thought he  was near  to graying  out as  the g-forces
pressed him back against  his seat. There was  a roaring noise in  his ears, the
feel of blood pressing against skin, fleeing his face. It was difficult to  draw
a deep breath. Then it ended. Too  much weight was replaced by a few  seconds of
virtual weightlessness as the shuttle nosed over.

"Right on target. Colonel," Felconi announced. The view on one of Lon's monitors
changed,  showing smoke  coming up  from under  the trees  in the  valley  below
Xavier's Beak.

"Good shooting.  Lieutenant," Lon  said. "Get  ready to  go in  close to provide
covering fire when Delta's shuttles arrive.  They're going to land right on  the
strip there at the edge of the camp. Let's give them a chance to get the men out
of the box."

"Yes,  sir," Felconi  said. "I  show them  about forty  seconds from  touchdown,
coming in fast from the southwest."

"Let's go get the bad guys. Lieutenant," Lon said.

Felconi nosed the shuttle over  and started gliding toward the  raiders, holding
airspeed down to allow safe use  of the Catlings-if the shuttle were  flying too
fast  it  might over-run  the  bullets. Like  the  pilots, Lon  watched  for any
indication of a shoulder-fired SAM coming toward them. Below five thousand feet,
they were especially vulnerable.

The shuttle launched two  more missiles. As soon  as they were away.  Chief Tink
started strafing, using only the  lower turret gun. The missiles  exploded. More
bits of  the wooded  hillside got  thrown around.  Tink's shells started chewing
through leaves and branches. He kept  firing even after the command shuttle  had
to bank away and start climbing again.

Two  Shrike fighters  made passes  at the  raider positions,  one'following  the
other, rockets and cannons  chewing up more of  the hillside. By that  time, the
attack shuttles carrying Delta Company had  landed and the men were pouring  out
of the  troop compartments  and moving  into their  initial defensive perimeter.
That drill took DMC soldiers less than thirty seconds.

"We'll  hang around  until the  Bancrofter militia  arrives," Lon  said as   his
shuttle leveled  off two  miles above  the mining  camp. One  camera had already
picked up the  local shuttles speeding  in, though the  aircraft were only  dark
points against the sky without magnification.



12

The two Dirigenter attack shuttles took off before the BCM arrived, and  circled
overhead-ready  to  contribute  to the  fight  on  the ground.  As  soon  as the
militiamen were  out of  their shuttles  and moving  to flank  the raiders-while
Lon's Delta Company kept them pinned down-Lon told Felconi to land.

"I want to see this from the ground," Lon said. He had been monitoring the radio
traffic among  Captain Magnus-son  and his  platoon leaders  and sergeants.  The
fighting was not  heavy. Only scattered  rifle fire was  coming from the  raider
positions.

"Yes, sir," Felconi said, staring to nose the shuttle around to line it up  with
the landing strip. "The LZ should be secure."

"I should hope so," Lon said, more to himself than the pilot. Between Delta  and
the two BCM companies, the odds on the ground were about those of a battalion to
a platoon-twelve to  one-without considering casualties  that Lon's shuttle  and
the Shrikes might have inflicted.

Still, as soon as the command shuttle came to a stop on the ground-along a ridge
across the  valley from  the buildings  of the  mining camp-Lon  was out  of his
safety harness and moving toward the exit as quickly as if he knew that  hostile
fire was coming. Phip Steesen, Jeremy  Howell, and the squad Phip had  assembled
from the  headquarters detachment  moved out  of "the  box" with  Lon and stayed
around him... just in case. The firefight was continuing, but not with any great
ferocity-scattered bursts of rifle fire, none of it near the landing strip.

"Just what did you  have in mind. Colonel?"  Phip asked. He and  Corporal Howell
were so close to Lon that they were physical shields-which annoyed Lon.

"I want to see what's going on, take a look at any raider casualties they  leave
behind," Lon said, moving away from  his companions. They moved right with  him,
giving up only a  few inches after a  glare. The defensive squad  gave them more
room,  arranged in  a semicircular  perimeter, facing  out, rifles  ready.  "The
sooner we get  some kind of  handle on the  action, the sooner  we can bring the
contract to  a successful  conclusion. Let's  move toward  the camp,  see what's
going on with the miners."

The squad with Lon moved in a double column, keeping Lon, Phip, and Jeremy  near
the  center.  They  detoured  past the  village  on  the  opposite slope  before
descending and crossing the narrow valley, giving the firefight as much room  as
possible.  That fight  was beginning  to move.  The raiders  were attempting  to
withdraw, but were being pressed too heavily  by the DMC and BCM forces to  have
much chance.

Xavier's Beak mining camp consisted of a half dozen buildings-including the  ore
refinery-and five separate excavations. The latter included mine shafts and  two
deep bunkers for explosives. The buildings were hastily constructed in  frontier
style, using available wood-large log cabins  for the miners and militia to  use
as barracks,  a slightly  larger building  to serve  most other functions- built
along the slope  above the eastern  side of the  valley, high enough  to be safe
from flooding if the narrow creek that marked the lowest contours ever  flooded.
Rough paths connected buildings and the excavations. A broader path led from the
camp to the landing strip that was the only access between Xavier's Beak and the
rest of Bancroft.

The largest building had been turned into a medical facility. The single  trauma
tube that  the miners  had was  in use.  The two  tubes that  Delta Company  had
carried were being set up as Lon arrived. One of Delta's medical technicians was
directing several  miners to  help with  the work  and give  first aid to a half
dozen wounded men who had been brought in.

"We're doing pretty good, so far. Colonel,"  the medic said when Lon came up  to
him. "None  of our  people have  been brought  in yet.  Several miners and local
militia were wounded  before we got  here." He shrugged.  "Don't know about  the
other side yet. Not much worried about them."

"If you need help, a couple of the men with me are trained as medics, and  we've
got another trauma tube in the shuttle," Lon said. The portable trauma tubes the
DMC carried into the field were  not quite as sophisticated as those  that would
be found in a permanent medical facility, but they did the job. If a wounded man
survived long enough to get into a tube, he had better than a 98 percent  chance
of complete  recovery. A  tube provided  life-support machinery  plus hordes  of
medical-repair nanobots to repair damage done to the body. Only extensive damage
to the nervous system or amputation were likely to require extensive periods for
recovery and regeneration. Anything less and the wounded soldier would  normally
be ready to return to duty in four hours or less.

"Colonel, we can always use  more trauma tubes," the orderly.  Corporal Allison,
said. "And I'll take any help I can get."


Fifteen minutes  later, the  fighting at  Xavier's Beak  was over. Three wounded
prisoners were brought in for treatment. Captain Magnusson had two platoons, led
by his senior lieutenant, pursuing the twenty or more raiders who had managed to
withdraw. One militia company was also engaged in the pursuit.

"We've come off pretty good, so far,"  Magnusson said when he came to report  to
Lon in person.  "I've got two  men with minor  wounds, no one  killed. There are
seventeen  raider  bodies  out  there." He  gestured  vaguely  toward  where the
firefight had occurred. "I didn't want to risk men keeping any of the enemy from
escaping, not at the start like this."

"You did right. I would have told you if I wanted more. I'd rather have them  on
the move, giving us some clue as to where their base might be. CIC has its  eyes
open, and the shuttles  and Shrikes are doing  what tracking they can.  Were you
able to get a good count on how many of them there were?"

Magnusson shook  his head.  "Three captured,  seventeen bodies,  at least twenty
escaped. Might have  been twice that  number that got  away, depending how  they
were originally deployed and whether any moved out before we got close.  Doesn't
look like  they got  close to  any of  the loot  they were  after. I've  got men
collecting weapons  and equipment.  And these."  He pulled  a small plastic tag,
just over an inch in diameter, from a pocket and gave it to Lon.

"ID tag?" Lon asked, turning the disk over. There was no visible writing, just a
sketchy logo that Lon did not recognize.

"That's my guess," Magnusson said. "All the bodies we've checked had them strung
around their necks."

"The computers in CIC  should be able to  decipher anything on them,"  Lon said,
giving the tag  back to Magnus-son.  "We'll ship all  of them up  to Long Snake,
along  with  samples  of  the weapons  and  equipment.  They  were using  active
electronics, shielded too well to let us get precise fixes on position."

Magnusson nodded. "Good  battle helmets. Not  exactly like any  I've seen in  my
twenty-odd years with the Corps, but close enough. The rifles were the same ones
shown  in  the  database  from  the  last  time  the  Corps  came  here. Martian
manufacture."

Lon  looked around  to make  certain no  Bancrofters were  close. "How  did  the
militia do?"

"No complaints. This wasn't really a  good test, but I'd say they've  kept their
standards fairly high."

"I hope  so," Lon  said. "They  had it  quiet long  enough that  they might have
relaxed."

"If these raids started  a year ago, they'd  have had time to  whip their people
back up," Magnusson said. "At least we don't have to train them from scratch."

Lon grunted. "Let's take a walk. I want to see what we've got left on the ground
here."


Squads of Bancrofter militia were  combing the area around the  village, looking
for bodies or wounded men. The  dead were not being collected yet,  but weapons,
gear, and personal effects were-labeled as to which body, or fragment of a body,
they came  from. The  smell of  battle lingered  on the  hillside, a  mixture of
gunpowder, burned wood  and flesh, and  death. The cannon  and rockets had  done
considerable  damage  to  the  trees.  Outcroppings  of  rock  were  chipped and
blackened.

The  remaining militiamen,  and the  other two  platoons of  Delta Company,  had
established a wider  perimeter around the  mining camp, alert  against the small
chance that the  surviving raiders might  dare another assault  against Xavier's
Beak.

"Something bothers me about this attack," Magnusson said while he and Lon  stood
over the body of one  of the dead raiders. Phip,  Jeremy, and most of the  squad
that had come with them were close, still providing up-close security for  their
commander.

"Like what?" Lon asked.

"The timing, mostly," Magnusson said. "They  came in the middle of the  day, and
managed to  trip an  electronic snoop  before they  were close  enough to do any
good. They should have been able to  figure that we'd show up before they  could
neutralize the militia contingent here and make off with anything. I mean, we do
assume that they know we arrived, don't we?"

"Almost a certainty, Ron. That might be the point of this raid, just to see  how
fast we can respond given the most favorable conditions for us."

"Waste that many men to feel us out?"

"We're not dealing with humanitarians," Lon said. "Earth has more people than it
can deal with. They won't mind losses. We played hell capturing any raiders  the
last  time  here. It  wasn't  until the  last  battle that  we  bagged any  live
prisoners."

Magnusson turned until he was looking in the direction of the buildings.  "We've
got some now. Ought to be able to find out quite a bit about the opposition from
them."

Lon nodded.  "Whatever they  know." Maybe  we'll be  able to  end this  job in a
hurry, he thought. Find out  where the enemy base is  and hit it hard. Once  the
prisoners came  out of  the trauma  tubes, they  would be  questioned under  the
influence of truth drugs that could not be resisted or fooled-at length, by  men
who knew how to get the most out of an interrogation.


"Colonel Nolan, we've got a big  problem." The call came from Corporal  Allison.
Lon was still walking over the site of the firefight with Magnusson. "All  three
prisoners are dead."

"What?" The shout was unintentional. Lon grabbed Magnusson's arm, then  gestured
and they started back toward the buildings. Lon forced a brisk pace.

"Couldn't help it. Colonel. I infused  them with stabilizers to keep them  going
until we could get  them into trauma tubes.  Less than five minutes  later, they
started going into convulsions. Before I could do anything, they were all  dead.
I've never seen  anything like this  before. Colonel. Never  even heard of  that
kind of reaction."

"Any sign of any of the other  wounded reacting?" "No, sir, and I used  the same
batch of infuser on two Bancrofters."


The three prisoners who  had died were lying  on blankets, by themselves,  along
the east  wall. Corporal  Allison was  standing over  one of  them when  Lon and
Magnusson entered.

"I just  don't understand  it. Colonel,"  Allison said.  "This just shouldn't be
possible. Look at them."

They were not pretty. The visible  skin was livid, marked by blotches  and lines
of dark  red going  black. "It  looks like  massive hemorrhaging,  as if all the
blood vessels exploded," Allison said. "I don't know any way that could  happen,
not from what I gave them."

"It looks as if the enemy  doesn't want us questioning their people,"  Magnusson
said.

Lon glanced at him. "Some kind of booby trap in the blood?"

Magnusson  shrugged. "Sounds  like a  good guess.  Hit them  with any   nanobugs
without neutralizing the defenses, and zap."

After a hesitation, Lon  looked toward the ceiling  and said, "Same thing  might
happen if we use truth drugs."

"Probably," Magnusson said. "Maybe we can  get enough from a postmortem to  find
the triggering agent, and how to counter it."

"Colonel?" Allison waited until Lon looked  at him. "You mean they rigged  their
men to die if they got captured?"

"That's what we're thinking. We need to get these three and some of the  raiders
who were killed outright to Lincoln for detailed examination. Ron, will you take
care of that?"

"Yes, sir," Magnusson  said. "I'll get  my lead sergeant  right on it.  Send the
bodies back on one of our shuttles."

"I'll have Major Osterman make the arrangements on the other end," Lon said.  He
turned and walked away, leaving the building.

Outside, he walked down to the bottom  of the valley, near the thin stream,  and
looked up into the sky. After a moment he squeezed his eyes shut.

"No easy fix this time," he whispered. "Unless we find a way to counter whatever
they've done, it's going to be just like before, hunt them out on the ground."



13

Lon could  think of  dozens of  things he  would rather  do, or  should do, that
evening other than attend a formal dinner at Government House. But there was  no
avoiding Governor Sosa's invitation. The political aspect of leadership demanded
Lon's gracious attendance, and that of his second-in-command.

"I really don't like for both of us to be away at once, Vel, but that's the  way
it goes," Lon said after they donned formal white uniforms. A car was coming  to
pick them up.

"A couple of hours, Lon,  and it's not as if  we had to jump to  Q-space for it.
We've got our radios and  we can get back to  base in, what, five minutes  if we
have to?"

"I  know, it's  just"-Lon hesitated  for ten  seconds or  more-"I've never  been
comfortable with the highbrow stuff."

Vel laughed. "Seems that, once upon a time, I heard someone suggest that you got
married just to escape  going to all those  junior officer functions, the  grand
balls and all that."

Lon couldn't help a smile.  "No, that wasn't why I  got married, but it sure  as
hell was a nice bonus. I couldn't get out of all the social nonsense, but once I
had Sara along, it wasn't  nearly as hard to bear.  Three or four times a  year,
when we're in garrison, I can manage. Snag is, now that I've got the  battalion,
I'm going to have to go to more of those affairs, be on display, play the game."
See and  be seen.  Talk with  the right  officers, smile  at the right officers'
wives. Play the game, the inevitable politics of command.

"How's the food at Government House?" Vel asked. The limousine was just  pulling
to a stop in front of the headquarters building in the militia compound.

"Okay, I guess, the two times I ate there. But that was a lot of years ago. They
might have a different chef now."


Polite conversation. Soft music in the background. Introductions and meaningless
smiles. Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.  Men in uniforms or dinner  jackets. Women
in fancy gowns, festooned with too  much jewelry. Lon tried to give  the evening
all  the attention  he could,  but it  was difficult.  He played  the game,  but
absently,  his mind  wandering to  the events  of the  day, the  fight and   the
gruesome death of the injured prisoners. There were no final reports yet on  the
postmortem examinations. Tests were still being conducted and analyzed. Maybe in
the morning, CIC had told Lon  while he was dressing for the  governor's affair.
All the medical lab could confirm so far was that whatever had been added to the
medical nanosystems  of the  dead raiders,  it had  self-destructed after death,
making analysis  difficult,  perhaps  impossible.  They  would  try  to  reverse
engineer the  nanotech agents.  That seemed  the necessary  step if any antidote
could be fashioned, but that might  also prove impossible without too much  time
and better facilities than were available on Bancroft or aboard the  Diri-genter
ships.

The "dinner is served" announcement was a small relief to Lon. It meant that the
end of the evening  was a little closer.  The preliminaries were over.  An hour,
maybe ninety minutes, would see the end of dinner, and it might be possible  for
Lon and Vel to excuse themselves not too long after the meal.

Most  of  the other  guests  seemed excited  at  the victory  over  the raiders,
especially since it had been accomplished without any Bancrofter fatalities  and
without the  loss of  any of  the metals  and minerals  that fueled  the world's
economy.

Lon scarcely  noticed the  quality of  the food.  He ate  in mechanical fashion,
keeping up a portion of his share of the table talk, trying to pay attention  to
what was going on around him. It wasn't easy, but he kept reminding himself that
he had  to play  the game.  Vel Osterman  seemed to  enjoy it.  He kept the talk
going, turning  phrases that  brought polite  giggles from  the women  seated at
either side of him and holding the attention of most of the people at the table.

Dessert. Brandy. Lon sampled both  only sparingly. His primary interest  in them
was  as indications  that the  dinner was  nearing its  conclusion. He  watched.
Either the governor or, more likely, his wife would stand and make some trifling
comment. That would be the signal for everyone to rise. There would be a general
migration toward  the formal  parlor and,  after that,  guests would  be free to
leave. He did not notice the servant  who came up and leaned forward to  whisper
in his ear.

"Excuse me, sir,"  the liveried attendant  said, "the governor  requests you and
Major Osterman to give him a few minutes after dinner. I will conduct you to the
governor's office."

"Of course. Thank you," Lon said, thinking. So much for a quick exit.

The governor made excuses and promised his other guests that he would join  them
in the parlor as soon as possible. He moved toward a narrow door that was almost
concealed by a tall cabinet at the  side of the room. The servant conducted  Lon
and Vel through the same door, down a corridor to the governor's office.

"I'll  only take  a moment,  gentlemen," Governor  Sosa said.  He had   remained
standing. "I was most distressed to hear of the fate of the prisoners taken this
morning at Xa-vier's Beak. I can't believe that Earth has become so barbaric."

"It was unexpected. Governor, but I  can't say that I'm especially surprised  at
it," Lon said. "Shocked,  yes, but not surprised.  Human life doesn't carry  the
same value on Earth as it does on most worlds. It's obvious that Earth knows, or
surmises, that prisoners were taken before and were questioned. They don't  want
to take the same risk again."

"Will you be able to find a way to neutralize whatever it is that causes such  a
ghastly death?"

Lon spread his hands.  "I can't even make  a decent guess. We're  working on it,
full blast, in the labs  on Long Snake and Toronto,  but it might be beyond  the
scope of what we can do here. A message rocket couldn't carry sufficient samples
to Dirigent, and I don't want to detach one of my ships to make the trip."

Sosa started  to speak,  but stopped  with his  mouth open.  Then he shut it and
started over. "I see why," he said. "A month in transit for the round trip,  and
whatever time your  ground labs might  take to analyze  the problem and  come up
with a solution ... if there is one."

"I have a lot of faith in the research people back home," Lon said, "but this is
something that might take years to puzzle out, if we can at all. Computer models
can't take  the last  step, to  verify anything  they reverse-engineer, and this
isn't the kind of thing we would ever consider doing live trials on."

"Of course  not," Sosa  said. "Nor  would we."  He paused,  frowned. "This  does
complicate matters."

"Possibly.  It  certainly  robs  us of  the  easiest  shortcut  to solving  your
problem," Lon said. "But  aside from the macabre  fail-safe Earth seems to  have
infected its  soldiers with,  the encounter  this morning  was encouraging. Your
garrison got word  out of the  attack fast, and  both your people  and mine were
able to get to the scene fast enough to stop the raiders cold."

Sosa  nodded  absently. "They  were  not scoring  every  time they  hit  before.
Colonel-not to belittle your contribution. But  I wonder if part of our  success
this morning might have been due to the  fact that you were in the air when  the
raid started and were able to get to Xavier's Beak even before your fighters."

"It's possible," Lon conceded.  "There might be a  lot of factors that  went our
way this morning. That  particular raid might have  been staged just to  let the
raiders gauge how we  react to an attack,  feeling us out, trying  to figure out
what changes they might need to make in their tactics."


Three in the morning.  The dream was one  that Lon welcomed being  wakened from,
even for bad news. The ghost of Dean Ericks, nearly transparent, defined more by
dripping blood than form, had come to him. Though nothing had been said yet, the
dream fit an all-too-familiar pattern. Lon  was certain that Dean was coming  to
tell him that Lon, Junior, had been killed on contract.

"Colonel Nolan! Wake up, sir!" The voice was Jeremy Howell's.

Lon opened his eyes and blinked several times against the light in his room.  He
lifted his arm to shade his eyes. "What is it?" There was nothing sluggish about
Lon's voice. He had wakened completely-the better to escape his nightmare.

"A raid. At least we think it's a raid," Howell said. Lon swung his legs off the
side of the bed and sat up. "Calm down. Jerry. Start at the beginning."

"Mining camp  called Three  Peaks didn't  make a  scheduled check-in  at  oh-two
hundred, then didn't answer when militia HQ called. There's no netlink with  the
camp. Then one of our Shrikes spotted smoke rising from the location."

Lon had gotten to his feet and stretched while Howell was talking. "Three  Peaks
that's one of the places the raiders hit when we were here last time," he said.

"Yes, sir. I recognized the name."

"Are we  responding?" Lon  asked. His  answer came  from outside.  He heard  the
engine sounds of two attack shuttles taking off just south of the militia base.

"That's Alpha Company, Colonel," Howell said as soon as the initial roar  abated
enough for easy talk. "And the militia OD said they'll have two companies on the
way in five minutes."

Lon sat on the edge of his bed again. He glanced at the timeline on the complink
on the nightstand. "You might as well get back to bed. Jerry. I'll stay up until
we've got a report from Captain Girana."

"Would you like some coffee?" Howell asked.

"No. I want to be able to get back to sleep once I know what's going on."

Lon yawned as  Jeremy left. His  moment of peak  alert-ness had passed.  Then he
moved a little, to get closer to his complink. He keyed in instructions and  got
a radio link to Girana aboard his shuttle.

"Tebba, I want a direct report as soon as you get on the ground and know  what's
going on at Three Peaks."

"We  should be  touching down  in about  twelve minutes,"  Girana said.  "A  few
minutes to get  into the camp,  unless the landing  is contested. I'll  keep you
posted."

Lon  closed the  link and  yawned again,  after noting  the exact  time. He  was
moderately surprised  at the  return of  sleepiness. He  felt no  excitement, no
nervousness. There was no  urge to jump into  battledress and take a  shuttle to
Three Peaks to see what was going on for himself.

Age, I guess, he thought. Trouble would come when it wanted to. He felt no  call
to go  looking for  it. Twenty  years of  winning other  people's wars  with our
blood. He yawned. The  thought was no longer  novel, no longer revolutionary  to
his mind.

He sat slouched over, head occasionally nodding. There was a pleasant feeling of
detachment  as  he  hovered  on  the edge  of  the  slide  back  into sleep,  an
anesthetizing warmth. Outside, there  would be the chill  of a spring night.  It
had been noticeably cool when he left Government House five hours earlier. Early
spring. The nights could still get close to freezing in Lincoln.

When his complink buzzed to alert him to an incoming message, Lon was  startled.
Twenty minutes  had passed  since he  had talked  to Tebba.  Lon had nearly been
asleep. He reached quickly to accept the call.

"We're on the ground at Three Peaks, Colonel," Tebba Girana reported. "It's bad.
Looks as if  everyone here was  killed, militiamen and  miners. The raiders  are
gone, presumably with whatever was worth taking."

Sleep was banished. Lon could feel his heart start to beat more rapidly. He  sat
up straighter.

"First glance, it looks as if  the raiders hit with grenades, got  past whatever
snoops the  militia had  planted, knocked  out the  netlinks before anyone could
call for help," Tebba said.  "The buildings were all torched-intentionally,  I'd
guess. It's been raining  here, and one building  didn't bum all the  way to the
ground."

"You send patrols to see which way they went?" Lon asked.

"Not yet. I thought I'd better check  with you and give the Bancrofters time  to
get organized. They're still moving away from the landing strip."

"Right. You'll have  to work with  the senior officer.  Get a perimeter  set up,
then put out patrols to look for the raiders' trail. Anything more might have to
wait until daylight. Is it still raining there?"

"Yes, sir, and fairly  heavy. Miserable. The pilot  said the cloud deck  extends
all the way to the ocean and the ceiling is nine hundred feet-below some of  the
peaks in this area."

"Which limits what  we can see  from above," Lon  said, more to  himself than to
Tebba.

"Limits what  we can  see on  the ground,  too," Tebba  said. "The  odd bolt  of
lightning hurts more than it helps, blurs the night-vision gear."

"Do  what you  can tonight,  Tebba. I'm  going to  have to  confer with  Colonel
Crampton before we fix anything past the immediately necessary. You know what to
do."


The  conference  with the  Bancrofter  militia commander  came  sooner than  Lon
expected. Before he could call BCM headquarters. Colonel Crampton linked through
to him.

"I heard," Lon said before Crampton could say why he had called. "I just got off
the line with my senior man on the scene. Your people had just arrived."

"I told my company commanders to put themselves under your man," Crampton  said.
"I assume we go right after these raiders." There was no question in his voice.

"If possible," Lon  said. "We're putting  patrols out to  try and pick  up their
trail. There's a lot of rain in that area now. That might make it impossible  to
find any trail we can follow."

"We can't let them get away scot-free!"

"If it's humanly possible to prevent  that, we will. Colonel," Lon said.  "Right
now, we've got to give  the men on the ground  there a chance to do  their jobs.
Swimming blindly in  the mud won't  do us any  good." Neither will  hysteria, he
thought.

"I'll be  heading out  there shortly,"  Crampton said.  'Time it  to reach Three
Peaks at dawn. The forecast says the  rain should let up by then. It's  starting
to rain here now, but Lincoln is right on the edge of the system."

"Tell you what. Colonel. Why don't you come over here and we'll take my  command
shuttle. Takeoff in  an hour, maybe  an hour and  a quarter." Crampton  scarcely
hesitated. "I'll be there."


Coffee, a shower, more coffee. Lon gave orders to have his shuttle prepared, and
had Phip  wakened to  gather a  few men  to ride  with them.  Shave, eat a quick
breakfast, drink  more coffee  ... go  to the  latrine. Lon  plodded through the
routine, as if this were just a normal  morning. As far as he could, he put  off
thinking about  Three Peaks.  There would  be time  enough for  that later. Once
Colonel Cramp-ton arrived, it might be impossible to escape discussing the raid.

Crampton arrived before Lon finished but  did not intrude. Crampton went to  the
communications center and  talked with his  officers in Three  Peaks-getting the
latest tally on the  disaster. The duty officer  informed Lon that Crampton  had
arrived.

"I'll be down in a  few minutes," Lon replied, and  he made a point not  to rush
through the few remaining  necessities. When he left  his room, Lon was  in full
field kit, carrying his battle helmet under one arm and his rifle slung over the
other.

"No warning this time?" Phip Steesen asked as Lon came out of the bedroom.

"Doesn't look like it," Lon said. "You ready to go?"

"We're ready.  I've got  a fire  team in  the shuttle,  and the pilots should be
through their checklist by now. Just  waiting for you, me, and Colonel  Crampton
and his people."

"How many did he bring?" Lon asked.

"Just two. They'll fit."


"We can't let  these raiders get  away with an  attack like this  one," Crampton
said while the men were walking across the compound toward the gate on the south
side.

"We're talking about sixty people killed, most while they were sleeping."

"No one's letting anyone get away with anything," Lon said. He had his helmet on
with the faceplate tilted up, away from his face. There was a steady rain coming
down over  Lincoln now,  but without  much wind  to drive  it. "That's why we're
here, to stop these raiders. It just might take time."

"After this, we'll play hell keeping miners  at any of the camps. We might  even
have to evacuate  some of the  villages, bring people  into the towns.  And that
plays hell with the economy,  on top of the way  our citizens are going to  feel
about a massacre like Three Peaks."

Lon stopped  walking and  turned to  face Crampton,  almost colliding  with him.
"Look, Colonel,  I know  how you  feel, but  snapping your  fingers and  saying,
'We've got to do something this minute' won't accomplish one damned thing. We're
here. We'll do what is possible, as fast as possible. You're a good officer, but
you can't think straight getting emotional. Get a grip on yourself."

For  a few  seconds, Lon  could see  anger rising  in the  Bancrofter; his  face
started to get red; his jaw worked as he ground his teeth. Lon waited, ready for
any kind of  reaction, even violence.  Finally, Crampton closed  his eyes for  a
second, let out a long breath, and swallowed hard.

"You're right. Colonel," Crampton  said, his voice sounding  near strangulation.
"I was  letting myself  get out  of control.  Please excuse  me. But  I am under
pressure. I had a call from the governor. He wants action, and military facts of
life mean less to him than they do to you or me."

"Our  turn will  come. Colonel,"  Lon said.  "Come on.  It'll be  drier in   the
shuttle."



14

Three Peaks was no longer one of the most isolated mining camps on Bancroft, but
it was still not  in a well-populated area.  There were several new  camps, even
smaller, within a radius  of twenty miles,  but all of  them had been  abandoned
temporarily. Colonel Crampton said, until the raiders were destroyed.

Only one  shuttle was  on the  ground when  Lon's craft  made its  approach. The
landing strip, hacked out of rock, did not have facilities for multiple shuttles
to sit around.  There was barely  enough room for  aircraft to land.  The mining
camp and its landing strip  were on a broad shelf  on the flank of a  moderately
steep hill, some fourteen  hundred feet above mean  sea level. The camp  got its
name from  three broken  heights along  the ridge  on the  southwest side of the
ledge.

"Looks like some expansion since I was  here last," Lon said to Crampton as  the
shuttle touched down.

"I think so, yes,"  Crampton said. "We opened  two new shafts a  couple of years
ago, brought in more people to work them. And we had to build a barracks for the
militia detachment."

Tebba Girana was waiting  at the landing strip  with a squad from  his company's
first platoon. One of the Bancrofter captains was also waiting to report to  his
commander.

"Doesn't look like the locals had any chance at all here, Colonel," Girana  told
Lon as they walked away from the Bancrofters, toward the remains of the village.
"They got hit hard  and fast, without warning.  The bodies I've looked  at, most
were killed by fire  or shrapnel, most looked  like they didn't even  get out of
bed before they died. I've only seen one body with bullet wounds, and the  medic
said those might have happened after the guy was already dead."

"You find any snoops planted around here?" Lon asked. "They should have had some
warning."

"We've pulled three snoops, all nonfunctional," Tebba said. "I can't say if they
were working when the  raiders hit. Outside of  that, it was raining  and foggy.
The clouds  extended nearly  five hundred  feet down,  more than  halfway to the
valley floor when we got here. Without night-vision gear, visibility would  have
been zero-minus. We haven't been  able to determine which direction  the raiders
came from, or which way they went  when they left. All the rain, we  might never
figure it out."

"We'll have to  search, Tebba, at  least until we  know we're not  going to find
anything," Lon said.  The rain had  stopped, but there  were still high  clouds,
thick enough to hide the sun.

"I've got three platoons out, and  half the Bancrofters are out as  well." Tebba
glanced over his shoulder.  "The other militiamen are  taking care of the  dead,
getting them ready to take home."

"No survivors at all?"

"None that we've been able to find. I suppose there's a small chance one or  two
might have managed to slip away, to hide in the woods, but it's not likely. Odds
are we'd have already come across them."

The walk had carried Lon and Tebba,  followed by the squad that had been  on the
ground and the Dirigenters who had come with Lon, into the center of the  burned
ruins of  Three Peaks.  Even with  the rain,  the smells  of fire  and ashes-and
burned flesh-were heavy, rank odors. Some of the remnants were still smoldering.

Three Peaks had been a narrow strip. A natural ledge along the hillside had been
widened. Nowhere was the level cleared  area more than a hundred feet  wide, and
the settlement, including the landing strip, was only six-tenths of a mile long.
The buildings had been built against the back of the ledge.

I doubt  anyone escaped,  Lon thought.  They had  only one  way to  go, and  the
raiders would have  been waiting for  them there. He  shook his head,  a minimal
gesture.

Bodies encased in plastic bags were being laid out on the wet rock. Two rows.

"Not much left to some of them," Tebba said when he saw Lon staring at the  body
bags. "Charred, some burned down to the bones. Hot fire." He paused, then added,
"I  wasn't the  only one  to puke.  An' one  of the  Bancrofter militiamen  went
hysterical. They had to slap a sleep patch on him to quiet him down."

"I can imagine," Lon whispered.

"Weren't just wood burning, that's for sure," Tebba said. "We've taken scrapings
of some of the charred wood. The raiders used something to make the fire bum hot
and fast. Maybe just white phosphorus, maybe something more sophisticated."

"Won't make much difference to the people  who died, but it might help us  prove
who's behind this," Lon said. "Not that  it's ever going to get into a  court of
law."

"News gets out to enough worlds, it might make a difference," Tebba said. "Earth
could pretty much cut itself off from the rest of the human worlds."

Despite the  surroundings, Lon  felt a  smile cross  his face. "Politics, Tebba?
You?"

"A thing like this can do it  to you," Tebba said, his tone completely  serious.
"News gets out we  can prove Earth was  behind this kind of  raiding, it'll help
Buckingham and Union. And Dirigent. Folks'11  maybe not hesitate so long to  get
professional help when things start happening on their worlds."

"If the Second Commonwealth  and the new Confederation  of Human Worlds get  too
big, it'll hurt business for us  and the other mercenary worlds, Tebba.  Time'11
come when there won't be room for independent worlds like Dirigent."

"Not in my lifetime," Tebba said. "We're a long way from that."


Lon was not particularly  surprised to learn that  Governor Sosa was coming  out
to view the  scene of the  tragedy at Three  Peaks. He did not look forward   to
hearing what the governor might have  to say. Neither could be avoided,  though;
Lon  also knew  that. Because of  the visit, the  bodies were not  removed. Sosa
would take some of them  back in his shuttle. The  rest would follow in  one  of
the  militia shuttles ... after Governor Sosa had been videoed walking down  the
line of  the dead.

"We're going to close down more of the small camps, Colonel," Sosa said after he
had performed the political rituals for  the cameras. "We can't take the  chance
of having  this happen  again. Close  the smaller  camps, move  the miners home,
increase the garrisons at the mining villages and more important camps."

"That's probably  wise. Governor,"  Lon said,  relieved that  there had  been no
irrational outbursts. Yet.

"They have escalated the conflict," Sosa said. "I suppose in retaliation for  us
bringing you in, and for their defeat at Xavier's Beak."

"None of the electronic snoops  placed around Three Peaks were  operational when
we found them. Governor," Lon said.  "Whether they were working earlier I  can't
say. Either the garrison had turned  them off, or the raiders were  somehow able
to get around the security codes and shut them off themselves. Or the  equipment
was defective; that might be  possible, though it seems extremely  unlikely. The
men in Three  Peaks had no  warning, no chance  to call for  help, no chance  to
defend themselves."

Sosa frowned at Lon. "I thought  the encryption schemes used on the  snoops were
too secure for anyone to get around them. We bought them from Dirigent."

"I know. We pulled the snoops to check. And the security codes..." Lon shook his
head. "The way it was explained to me is that it would take a dozen of the  best
computer nets a thousand years to hack through the protection. Hell, snoops that
were around five centuries  ago were too good  for troops in the  field to crack
the security codes without setting off an alarm."

"If the codes can't be broken and  it's so unlikely that all of the  units would
be defective, that would  indicate that either the  garrison had turned off  the
snoops for some reason or the raiders somehow managed to get their hands on  the
codes that would let them deactivate the devices?"

"Those are the only alternatives that I've been able to come up with," Lon said.
"And neither seems all that likely."

"I can't imagine why the garrison  would turn off the snoops," Sosa  said. "That
is too  incredible. Their  own lives  were at  stake and,  especially right now,
every garrison would know that it was snoops that saved Xavier's Beak. And  only
the garrison of the  camp and perhaps two  people at militia headquarters  would
have access to the specific codes that the individual snoops at this site used."

"Governor, I'd like to  bring a couple of  specialists down from Long  Snake. We
need to know  for certain that  we can account  for every person  who was in the
camp, and that could mean sifting through a lot of ashes to make sure that  none
of the victims were burned too completely to leave visible remains."

"Are you suggesting what I think you  are, that there might have been a  traitor
in the camp?"

"I'm  suggesting  that  we  need  to  be able  to  rule  that  in  or  out as  a
possibility."

Sosa nodded once, an  abrupt gesture. "Do it."  Then he walked away,  waving for
his aides to join him. He was ready to leave Three Peaks.


It was past noon before the sun  came out over Three Peaks. The bodies  had been
removed. A  preliminary count  showed a  discrepancy. One  man-everyone at Three
Peaks had been male-was unaccounted for.

"Can't be sure yet," Tebba reminded Lon. "Some of the bodies we did find, wasn't
much left but a few bits of bone and more ash."

"I know," Lon said. "That's why we brought the lab people down to shift  through
the ashes and look for traces of human DNA or small bits of bone that might have
survived incineration."

"You think there was a traitor in the camp," Tebba said. It was no question.

"I think  that's the  most likely  explanation. Probably  one of  the men in the
militia garrison. Turned off  the snoops and got  out of the way,  left with the
raiders. Maybe even set  incendiary devices in the  buildings where the rest  of
the miners  and militiamen  were sleeping.  But we  can't say  anything until we
know. Absolutely know." Lon shrugged. "The governor knows what I suspect. It was
hard to miss the implications."

"The locals get to thinking they can't  trust each other, that'd make the job  a
hell of  a lot  harder," Tebba  said. "They'll  be too  busy looking  over their
shoulders, wondering which of their buddies might snuff 'em."

"And they've got ready-made targets, Tebba,  all the new settlers who have  come
to Bancroft in the  past nine years. 	The  militia has a bunch  of  newcomers.
This could get really messy."

"There's something else," Tebba said,  hesitating before he continued. "Even  if
there was a  traitor here, nothing  says the raiders  had to take  him away with
them. They might have left his body just so we wouldn't figure it out."

Lon nodded. "Start pulling our people in.  If we haven't found any trace of  the
raiders by now,  we're not likely  to. We go  back to Lincoln  and do some  more
waiting."

"We're  not  going  to  find  anything. We've  been  out  three  miles  in every
direction, farther along the easy travel  routes, and not a clue which  way they
went or came from. Hang on a second. Colonel, I've got Harley on the line  now."
Lieutenant Harley Stossberg was one of A Company's platoon leaders.

Lon  waited,  resisting the  urge  to switch  channels  on his  helmet  radio to
eavesdrop on the conversation. It lasted less than a minute.

"Maybe  we  got  something, Colonel,  but  not  much," Tebba  said  when  he had
finished. "Four  miles off,  across the  ridge to  the southwest.  First platoon
found a clearing big enough for  shuttles. They found scorch marks, coulda  come
from shuttle engines, and fresh tire tracks. Looks like the raiders came in  and
left by air."

"Harley get video?" Lon asked.

Tebba nodded. "And scrapings from the scorch marks."

Lon shook his  head. "We didn't  pick up anything  in the air.  That's not good,
Tebba. Their stealth technology is beating us."

"They had good weather for hiding. Colonel. Don't forget that."

"Tell the militia commanders here what we found," Lon said. "I'm heading back to
Lincoln now. That'll clear the landing strip so you can get your company out.  I
imagine the locals will be hanging around a while longer."

"That's the last word  I had. I expect  they'll want to look  that clearing over
for themselves."


Impatience did not help. Lon knew it would take time to get answers-both on  the
search for  human remains  and the  investigation of  the deactivated electronic
snoops-but waiting was difficult. Back in  the privacy of his office, Lon  paced
through much of  the afternoon. He  took reports- the  return of A  Company, the
work of the lab technicians from Long Snake, the end of the collection  process.
He talked by complink with Colonel Crampton, then with Deputy Governor Henks.

The Bancrofters had begun the process  of identifying the remains of the  miners
and militiamen. Before sunset,  Henks was able to  give Lon the name  of the man
who could not be accounted for, and  had his DNA code transmitted to Long  Snake
so the lab could look for matches.  "He had been in the militia more  than three
years," Henks said. "He came to Bancroft with his wife from Lorenzo seven  years
ago. We had thirty-odd  families who came here  after Lorenzo voted to  join the
Second Commonwealth."

Lon keyed a note to himself to check Lorenzo in CIC's database. "Dissidents?"

"I don't have details. Colonel," Henks said. "It's likely. And, to save you  the
trouble of asking, there are only  two other Lorenzo immigrants in the  BCM, and
neither of those is posted to any of the mining garrisons."

"We don't know  for certain that  there's cause for  worry there yet,  sir," Lon
said. "But  since you  brought it  up, I  assume you  have also  checked on  the
employment status of other members of that group?"

Henks hesitated before he said, "Yes, we have collected data on all of them. All
in all, quite an accomplished group of people. Most live and work in Lincoln  or
the other towns. Two are lawyers. One of those works for the Ministry of Justice
as a prosecutor. One is a chartered accountant who operates on contract from the
government, auditing mining and trade accounts."

Lon responded without taking time to consider his words. "Someone who would know
which targets might be most valuable?"

Henks's hesitation was a lot longer this  time. "That did occur to us. Damn  it,
Colonel,  I know  we have  to look   into these  things, but  this is  all  most
distasteful."

"I understand, sir,"  Lon said. "I  agree that it  is most distasteful,  and the
problems an investigation could raise might be troubling long after the  raiders
are dispatched. Especially since  one cannot assume  that ;/ there  are traitors
still an unproven hypothesis-they must necessarily all come from the same world,
from the same batch of immigrants."

"Colonel Crampton informed me that he has had the security codes changed for all
of the  electronic monitoring  devices, and  has restricted  knowledge of  those
codes to the  officer in charge  of each garrison.  None of those  officers is a
first-generation immigrant. Or second, as  it happens. If we can't  trust people
whose families have been here three  or more generations, we are in  much deeper
trouble than we could possibly imagine."

You are  indeed, Lon  thought after  the conversation  ended. But it's unlikely.
That realization was little comfort.


"Gentlemen, we're at a standstill  here." Lon was addressing his  staff officers
and company  commanders in  the conference  room adjacent  to his  office in the
headquarters building  of the  militia base.  Supper had  ended fifteen  minutes
earlier.

"Our surface scans have provided no clue to the whereabouts of any raider  bases
or aircraft. We  haven't made any  significant progress in  determining what the
enemy has done to their soldiers  to cause death if they receive  treatment from
us, so  we can't  begin to  search for  an antidote  that might  keep a captured
raider  alive  long enough  to  answer questions.  We  haven't established,  for
certain, that a Bancrofter  traitor shut off the  snoops around Three Peaks  and
left with the raiders after the massacre. We haven't been able to come up with a
computer analysis  of any  pattern to  the raider  attacks that  we could use to
anticipate their next strike.

"What is  infinitely worse,  as far  as I  am concerned,  is that there's damned
little we  can do  immediately to  improve our  grasp of  the situation. We have
troops and equipment, but  little useful way to  employ them until we  have more
intelligence  or catch  a break.  I dislike  waiting for  the enemy  to make   a
mistake. Our contract  is for three  months, and every  day that passes  without
making serious progress puts us that much closer to the possibility that we will
fail  to fulfill  that contract  on time."  Lon paused  and held  up a  hand  to
forestall interruption.

"I know. We can't make things happen  simply by wishing for them, and I've  seen
several of the proposals that  you and your lieutenants  have come up with,  war
gaming the situation." He  smiled. "It's good to  know that some things  haven't
changed. Encourage your platoon leaders to keep it up. There's a chance  someone
might actually come up with something useful."

Captain Kai raised his hand and waited for Lon to nod before he spoke. "Some  of
the men are getting a bit... restive, wondering when we're going to get off  our
butts and do something. Especially after  we heard about what happened at  Three
Peaks."

"I know, Sefer," Lon said. "All we can do is what we always do. Be as open  with
the  men as  possible. Tell  them why  we're not  doing much  but chasing  after
raiders.  Hell, we  did get  in a  few licks  at Xavier's  Beak. Husbanding  our
strength until we  have a reasonable  chance of scoring  against the raiders  is
infinitely preferable to putting two or three companies out in the woods to look
around, just hoping to  stumble on some sort  of trail when we  can't even guess
where we should do our stumbling.

"We will respond to any alert, and keep our sentries and patrols working  around
this base. Apart from those duties, we  keep the men eating and resting as  much
as possible, maintain the highest level of readiness. If the need arises, I want
to be able to  put the entire battalion  in the field, anywhere  on Bancroft, as
quickly as transportation gets down here from Long Snake. Questions?"

"I've  got  one," Tebba  Girana  said. "We  know  the raiders  are  using active
electronics this  time out,  helmets as  sophisticated as  ours. Did  any of our
ships or aerial patrols  pick up anything last  night, during the time  when the
attack on Three Peaks must have happened?"

"Almost," Lon  said, and  he paused  for a  beat before  he explained.  "Nothing
identifiable  was  noticed  at  the time.  Neither  the  computers  nor the  men
monitoring the feed picked up anything more than a little static, not  localized
enough  to  be  a  helmet  or portable  complink,  not  strong  enough  to be  a
combination of emissions from a shuttle. After the fact, CIC put men going  back
over  the recordings.  The last  word I  had was  that they're  'ninety  percent
certain' that there were signals, just  too well protected for us to  intercept.
Their ability to mask emissions is better than our ability to detect."

"Ouch," Tebba whispered.

"CIC is trying to fine-tune our gear. We might be able to do a little better now
that we know the problem, or at least once they figure out just what adjustments
to make. That might take time ... like everything else on this contract."


It had been a long day. Lon was exhausted by the end of the meeting. He went  to
his quarters and sat on the bed, his mind caught between the need for sleep  and
a sense of urgency-the need to find a  key to allow him to move his men  against
the raiders as soon as possible. He had seen some of the newsnet coverage of the
massacre at  Three Peaks,  sampled some  of the  responses posted  on Bancroft's
public nets. There  was anger, and  not all of  it was directed  at the raiders.
Some was being vented against the government and the mercenaries brought  in-"at
tremendous cost," one respondent noted-to prevent such disasters from happening.

I can't do  anything useful now,  Lon thought, suppressing  a yawn. My  mind has
turned to mush. I need sleep. Hopefully, a full night's sleep. Maybe the  answer
will come to me in a dream. I'll wake up in the morning and know what we have to
do. He shook  his head  and nearly  laughed at  the absurdity  of those thoughts
dream up an answer when his conscious mind could not provide one.

He glanced  at the  timeline across  the top  of his  complink screen. It wasn't
eight-thirty-2030 hours-yet. He shook his head slowly, then leaned over to  open
his  boots  and take  them  off. That  was  as far  as  he bothered  to  go with
undressing. He turned off  the room lights and  flopped over on the  bed, asleep
almost before the bed's springs stopped vibrating. Deep sleep, void of troubling
dreams-the sort of sleep only monumental exhaustion can bring.

It  lasted  less  than  four  hours.  His  complink  buzzed  loudly,  the volume
increasing until he woke and hit the accept key.

Colonel Crampton was on the line. "More trouble. Colonel."

Lon came completely awake.



15

"A mining camp called Erskeine, almost three hundred miles due north,"  Crampton
said.  "One of  our newer  work sites.  It's scheduled  to be  evacuated in  the
morning. Twenty minutes  ago, the lieutenant  commanding the militia  detachment
shot one of his  own men who was  attempting to deactivate the  snoops. With the
changed codes, he didn't have any luck. I notified your duty officer and alerted
my own people.  My aide has  a line open  to the commander  in Erskeine. There's
been no attack yet, but we expect it... soon. The men on the scene are as  ready
as they can be, militia and miners."

"My alert company  will be in  the air in  ten minutes," Lon  said. "I'll have a
second company ready  to go fifteen  minutes after that.  Maybe we can  turn the
tables tonight"  "I hope  so," Crampton  said, then  cut the  link. Lon rang the
officer of the  day. "Who's alert  company?" "Charlie, Colonel.  They're heading
for the shuttles now." Harley Stossberg from Alpha had the duty.

"Turn them around quick. I want them carrying their rocket packs. We'll put them
on the  ground behind  the raiders,  have the  shuttles circle  overhead if they
arrive before the enemy does." Rocket  packs let soldiers jump in wherever  they
might be  needed. If  the shuttle  didn't land,  the troops  weren't limited  to
setting down in the  nearest clearing, which might  be miles from where  the men
were needed. It was a tactic used sparingly in the DMC. Only one company in each
battalion trained routinely in the equipment and tactics. "Get the next  company
on the list moving. I  want them out as fast  as possible. They'll go in  at the
landing strip at this place-Erskeine. You have that located on your map?"

"On the  complink and  on my  mapboard. Colonel.  I phoned  it in  while Colonel
Crampton was still telling me about it."

"Right. Wake Major Osterman and Captain  Berger. Have them meet me in  my office
in ten minutes. Then get on to Long Snake and tell Captain Roim that I want  the
rest of  our shuttles  ready to  head in  on five  minutes' notice. I'll contact
Taranto myself to have them get Shrikes in for

the attack."

"Yes, sir." Harley quickly repeated his instructions.

"Anything else?"

"Not yet, Harley. I'll be down in ten minutes."

Lon made the call to Taranto, held that to thirty seconds, then pulled his boots
on-grateful that he hadn't bothered to get completely undressed before going  to
bed. The uniform was battledress, so the lack of sharp creases was  unimportant.
He  got up-hearing  the roar  of shuttle  engines powering  up for   takeoff-and
hurried down to his office. Lieutenant Stossberg was sitting at Lon's desk,  but
got up as soon as the door opened.

"What's the weather like at Erskeine?"  Lon demanded as soon as he  came through
the doorway.

"Heavy cloud cover,  snow flumes. Ceiling  sixteen hundred feet,  just above the
hilltops. Temperature  hovering right  around freezing  as of  ten minutes ago,"
Harley  said quickly.  "The snow  flumes should  end within  the next  hour.  No
accumulation. Erskeine had less rain than  Three Peaks. Ought to be ground  soft
but firm enough to hold prints if there's any dirt between the rocks. Of course,
a couple of inches of snow would be better. We could damn sure track the raiders
then."

Vel Osterman entered  the office then,  without knocking, and  Torry Berger, the
battalion's  adjutant  and third-in-command,  was  right behind  him,  with Phip
Steesen right on his heels.

"You heard?" Lon asked, turning to face the new arrivals. All three men nodded.

"We put maximum effort into this. Charlie on the rocket packs. Delta going in at
the camp's landing strip. I've got Long  Snake on alert to send the rest  of the
shuttles down on short notice to move Alpha and Bravo if there's any. need,  but
I hope we'll be able  to hold at least one  of them as a reserve-and  a hedge in
case the raiders stage a second  strike while we're handling Erskeine. Maybe  we
caught the break we need.  With a little luck we  might nab a few prisoners  who
haven't been  wounded. Maybe  we can't  use drugs  on them,  but there are other
ways. Old ways."

"You going in right away?" Osterman asked.

Lon shook his head. "Not this time. I want to be here to coordinate  everything.
Once  we get  the first  response out  and know  that the  raiders actually  are
hitting the camp, you take off in the command shuttle. Take Phip with you.  I'll
keep Torrey here. I'll use you to handle things on the scene, our people and the
Bancrofters. Crampton has two companies on  the way, and I'll have him  ready to
reinforce them if necessary."                        '

Only then did  Lon bother to  go around to  sit behind his  desk. He felt better
than he had since hearing about Three Peaks. Maybe this is the break we need, he
thought, leaning back in his chair. I've got a feeling.


Lon's anticipation grew  quickly in the  next few minutes.  He had his  mapboard
open on  the desk,  the zone  of coverage  narrowed to  an area  with a two-mile
radius around the mining camp at  Erskeine. On the desk complink he  had several
communications channels  open, to  allow him  to monitor  anything that might be
relevant... and to give commands when-if-necessary.

The first  important message  came from  CIC aboard  Long Snake. "Colonel Nolan,
we're picking  up the  same kind  of static  we did  during the  attack on Three
Peaks, about three thousand yards from Erskeine, northwest."

"How narrow can you focus on that static?" Lon asked.

"We're working on that now. Colonel.  So far, we show static over  an elliptical
area a hundred yards long and sixty wide."

"Moving?"

"I'll be able to give you a better read on that in a few minutes. Colonel. We've
just picked this up. If there is movement, it's slow."

"Can you highlight the area on the mapboard circuit for me?" Lon asked,  pulling
his mapboard closer.

A yellow oval appeared on the screen, drawn in roughly. "Right at the edge of  a
fairly large clearing. Colonel," the duty officer in CIC reported. "Easily large
enough for a shuttle to  land and take off from.  It doesn't seem to be  moving.
Stationary. Hold on. Colonel, Captain Roim is here."

"Colonel Nolan, we've got as  good a fix on this  static as we're likely to  get
tonight. This is all on the edge of what we can get out of our instruments right
now. We can't tell if this is men or maybe a shuttle. Should I vector Shrikes in
to saturate the contact before they can get to the miners?"

Lon hesitated for nearly  half a minute before  he said, "Not yet.  Captain, not
without knowing what the target is.  Have the Shrikes within range, high  enough
that they won't be heard, but hold off on any attack. I've got a company  moving
in with rocket packs.  We'll jump them in  behind the raiders. Have  the Shrikes
hit that clearing just before my boys jump. I'll have Captain Kai link  directly
to you to coordinate the strike. Okay?"

"We'll butter the bread.  Colonel." "We'll use the  noise of your attack  to put
shuttles in at the landing strip  in Erskeine as well," Lon said.  "That'll give
us a full company on either side of the raiders- whatever your Shrikes leave for
us.  Give me  a minute,  Captain, while   I pass  the orders  on to  my  company
commanders."

Lon linked through  to Sefer Kai  and Ron Magnusson  together and gave  them the
orders for Charlie and Delta companies, and  put them on an open link to  CIC in
Long Snake. After he switched back to Captain Roim and confirmed orders, it  was
time to sit back and wait. Again.

"I wouldn't count  too much on  getting prisoners out  of this," Captain  Berger
said. He had remained with Lon after Vel Osterman left to get ready to take  the
command shuttle into the area. "Those Shrikes might not leave a hell of a lot."

"They'll leave enough, I think-if it's  men on the ground Long Snake  is picking
up, and not a  shuttle. No matter how  heavy the attack, some  men will survive.
Big trees and rocks. We're not going to fry that entire valley. Remember, Torry,
we don't even know how many raiders we're talking about."

"What if it is a shuttle?"

"The Shrike  pilots know  what to  look for...  and what  to look  out for. In a
fight, our Shrikes have it all over the shuttles the raiders use."

"Those they used nine  years ago," Berger said.  "We haven't actually seen  what
they have this time, now have we?"

"Nope," Lon agreed.

"Can I make a suggestion?"

"Of course."

"As close a search as possible in the area behind the presumed raider party.  If
the contact Long  Snake has isn't  a shuttle, the  raiders might still  have one
sitting on the ground  somewhere in the vicinity,  unless the men on  the ground
have been walking  forever. Or a  shuttle might be  in the air,  somewhere in or
under the cloud cover, waiting  for them to do the  job so they can drop  in and
pick up the raiders and their loot."

Lon nodded. "Good point." He called  Long Snake again and passed the  suggestion
on. Captain Roim was still in CIC.

"We're already working on that. Colonel," Roim said. "All three ships as well as
the Shrikes and shuttles in the  air. That offers the hope of  triangulation and
gives us the chance of  putting together a full-dimensional picture  of whatever
is down there, if anything. We haven't turned up anything yet, but I'll keep you
posted."

"I almost wish I'd  kept Vel here and  gone myself," Lon said  after ending that
conversation. "This all comes off smooth, it could be quite a show."

"Ought to ease the  pressure the government is  under," Berger said. "If  we hit
the raiders as hard as they hit Three Peaks."

"Better if we  can pull a  prisoner in one  piece, but, yes,  it will help," Lon
said.

"If we hit the raiders before  they reach the snoops-and leam they  haven't been
shut down-it  should confuse  the raiders.  If nothing  else." Berger  shrugged.
"Give  them  something to  think  about. If  they  get the  word  back to  their
headquarters on  planet. Even  more if  these raiders  simply disappear and they
don't know what the hell happened to them."

"They'll find out something, eventually," Lon said. "We have to assume they have
contacts among the immigrant population  here, and almost certainly some  way to
get information quickly."

"And we can't keep it a secret that we hit them," Berger said.

"I don't think so,"  Lon confirmed. "The governor  is going to want  to show his
people we're earning our pay."


Charlie and Delta Companies  were in position. The  area of static had  faded so
much that none of the Dirigenter  gear could detect it. Four Shrikes  were ready
to swoop in to saturate the area  between the clearing and the mining camp  with
rockets and cannon fire.

Lon remained a spectator. He had given the orders. Now he could only wait to see
how  the fight  progressed. If  there was  a fight.  "I've never  been fond   of
waiting, Torry," he said softly, his attention on the complink and mapboard.

Torry Berger did not respond.

Four Shrikes  began their  attacks, going  in one  at a  time, launching rockets
first, then braking to give them more  than a fraction of a second to  use their
rapid-fire cannons.  Charlie Company  started to  jump, the  men trusting  their
lives to metal and composite  packs strapped to their backs,  sixty-four seconds
of rocket  propulsion to  get them  safely to  the ground.  Delta Company's  two
shuttles started to make their hot  landings seconds apart, leaving no room  for
error for either pilot. Get  down, get the men out  of the boxes, get back  off,
out of the way as quickly as possible.

"You ever jump in on fire cans?" Berger asked.

Lon shook his  head. "Not on  contract. Made the  necessary practice jumps  back
home."  He  hesitated, then  added,  "And hated  every  single one.  Worse  than
parachutes."

"I don't think I've  ever come across anyone  who likes the cans,"  Berger said.
"It's a miracle we've still got them in inventory."

Video of the  Shrike attacks  started to  come in  over Lon's  complink-infrared
enhanced to show as much detail as possible in the dark.

"There!" Lon jabbed a finger toward the complink screen. "Men moving. They're in
there. Tony. They're in there."

The scene on the screen changed abruptly. Lon saw a tail of fire coming up  from
the ground, and the Shrike's pilot started maneuvering violently to come out  of
his dive  and climb  away from  the surface-to-air  missile. The  feed to  Lon's
screen changed, coming from one of the other Shrikes. The fighters were shooting
at the SAM, then at three missiles  as more were launched by the raiders  on the
ground.

One SAM  exploded, low,  before it  came near  any of  the Shrikes.  One missile
suddenly veered sideways and ran into the hillside, destroying nothing but trees
.. . and  any wildlife unlucky  enough to be  in the kill  zone. The third small
missile kept coming. The pilot of the Shrike whose video Lon was watching pulled
out of  his dive  and accelerated,  at such  speed that  Lon suspected the pilot
might have blacked out, at least  momentarily. Lon was slightly dizzy just  from
staring intently at the changing view on his screen.

"Charlie Company's on the ground!"

Lon scarcely noticed that call, or the one ten seconds later that told him  that
Delta  Company's  shuttles  were  landing.  The  video  he  was  watching  shook
violently. Light seemed  to flash forward  from behind the  camera out into  the
field of vision.

"I've been hit!"

Lon did not recognize the voice of the pilot, but did not expect to. He knew few
of the Shrike fliers well. The frame rotated through more than 360 degrees, then
dipped. Lon found  himself gripping the  arms of his  chair. He leaned  forward,
unaware of the way his body was moving in response to the view.

"I'm losing fuel. Can't tell how much  damage to the bird yet," the pilot  said,
his voice sounding much calmer than Lon felt. "Vibrations, getting heavier.  I'm
going to have to look for a place to set down. Can't make it back to Toronto."

Gel out while you can,  Lon urged silently. Get down  in one piece. We 'II  pick
you up.

"Have Toronto send pickup, or do we do it?" Captain Berger asked-loudly, to make
sure that Lon heard him.

Lon blinked  and looked  away from  the screen.  "See if  Vel is close enough to
track him in. If  the command shuttle can't  get to the site  quickly enough ...
hell, that'll still be faster than waiting  for Toronto or Long Snake to send  a
shuttle. Make the call."

Seconds. Minutes.  Lon focused  on the  Shrike, listening  to its  pilot talking
almost constantly-matter-of-factly-as the condition of his fighter deteriorated,
seemingly by the second.

"Controls  are getting  flaky," the  pilot said.  "Can't be  certain of  landing
safely. I'm going to have to eject."

"We've got  pickup on  the way,"  Lon said,  hitting the  transmit switch on his
complink. "We're tracking you."

"Thanks, whoever you are. I see a clearing ahead, to my left. I'll come down  as
close to that as I can. Here I go."

Lon heard a muted explosion, then the rush of wind as the Shrike pilot blew  his
ejection capsule from the wounded fighter.  The wind noise ended quickly as  the
pilot cleared the fuselage. The ejection capsule was gas-tight. There were times
when a pilot might have to eject in vacuum.

"Major Osterman is homing in on him. Colonel," Captain Berger announced. He  had
a headset on  to allow him  to communicate without  disturbing Lon. "They'll  be
overhead by the time the pilot gets to the ground."

"Stay with  it until  they have  him," Lon  said. That  was all the attention he
could spare. The fighting on the ground had started.

Sefer Kai's Charlie  Company had formed  up and started  toward the raiders.  He
reported spotting  at least  twenty of  the enemy.  After the  last pass  by the
Shrikes, the  raiders had  formed up  again and  started moving toward Erskeine,
leaving two men to treat the wounded and tend to the dead.

"Get the  men treating  the wounded!"  Lon yelled,  interrupting Sefer's report.
"They might have what we need, the antidote to keep the wounded alive."

"We'll try.  We'll get  whatever they're  carrying," Kai  said. "I'm leaving one
platoon  to handle  that. We'll  circle around  to keep  after the  rest of  the
raiders. Need the angle anyway. Delta is only six hundred yards off."

The shooting started less  than two minutes later.  Lon listened to the  traffic
among  the  officers   and  noncoms  of   the  two  companies   on  the  ground,
concentrating, trying to  follow the confusing  babble of voices.  There were at
least three dozen raiders active. Maybe four dozen. Charlie Company counted,  in
passing, fifteen dead from the Shrike attacks, and found traces in the  clearing
that a shuttle had used it. But there  was no shuttle there now. One of the  men
acting as a medical  orderly resisted and was  killed. The other had  taken off,
running. He had not been caught yet. A squad had been sent after him.

Delta Company got close  enough to join in  the firefight, stopping the  raiders
who had continued moving toward Erskeine. Now the remaining raiders were  trying
to move out of the middle, toward the northeast, over a hill that was too  steep
to allow them any easy route out.

The Shrike pilot was on the  ground, reporting that he was safe,  uninjured, and
maybe a half mile from the  clearing he had spotted. Someone aboard  the command
shuttle gave him a course. The shuttle was gliding in for a landing. One of  the
other Shrikes was overhead to provide cover in case there were more enemy assets
in the area.

The first company  of Bancrofter militia  landed at Erskeine.  The men debarked,
and the shuttles took off to allow  the other company to land. Contact had  been
made with the  militia detachment and  miners stationed at  the camp. There  had
been no casualties there .. . except for the militiaman who had been shot by his
commander. The start of the entire sequence.

"Sergeant Steesen is  taking a fire  team to meet  the flier," Berger  reported.
"Should make contact in less than a minute."

Lon leaned back and rubbed at his eyes, then sucked in a deep breath. He was  as
keyed up as he might have been if he had been on the ground, physically part  of
the battle.

"Let me know when they have him aboard the shuttle," Lon said.


The firefight ended.

"We're still  sorting things  out," Sefer  Kai reported.  "There's a chance some
raiders  got  away, but  we're  trying to  make  sure we've  got  security here,
checking prisoners."

"You get that one medic?" Lon asked.

"Not alive. We've got all his gear, though. The other one is still on the loose.
We won't do more than bandage  the wounded prisoners, hope they stay  alive long
enough to be useful." Sefer did not sound particularly optimistic.

"Move them to the landing strip at Erskeine, Sefer," Lon said. "Bring them in."

"What about the raiders still on the loose?"

"We'll leave  Delta to  coordinate with  the militia.  It's your people carrying
those tin cans on their backs. What kind of casualties on our side?"

"No dead-thank God-just two minor wounds. We got lucky."

This time, Lon thought. He closed his eyes in a wordless prayer of thanks. "It's
about time we caught a little luck, Sefer," he said. "Good job. And pass that on
to your men."



16

"The militiaman who was shot for trying to deactivate the snoops at Erskeine was
from Miranda, not Lorenzo,"  Deputy Governor Daniel Henks  said. He had come  to
Lon's office before nine o'clock in the morning. Lon had barely beat him to  the
office. Lon had decided to sleep in an extra couple of hours to make up for  the
sleep he had lost during the night.

"Miranda? That's a CHW world, isn't it?" Lon asked.

Henks  nodded.  "One  of  the  original  worlds  that  supported  the  breakaway
Confederation on Union. And one of the largest populations."

"There aren't  many CHW  worlds that  permit emigration,"  Lon said. "Except for
punitive reasons."

Henks shrugged. "It expands the problem for us, however it came about. The first
traitor  came  from a  world  that was  in  the process  of  joining the  Second
Commonwealth. The next comes from one  of the core worlds of the  Confederation.
We have close to a hundred people on Bancroft who came from Miranda. Add in  the
other emigrants from Confederation worlds and the total must be more than six

hundred."

"There  probably  wouldn't be  many  agents planted.  Colonel,"  Lon said.  "And
there's a chance that  some of them might  have switched loyalties since  coming
here. Have you learned anything yet about these two men?"

"Nothing  obvious,"  Henks  said.  "Nothing  to  point  to  their  contacts   or
confederates. Have  you been  able to  get anything  from the  raiders who  were
captured during the night?"

"Only two of them made  it back here alive, and  neither is in any condition  to
talk yet. Since we can't  treat then-injuries without triggering whatever  their
bosses infected  them with,  we can't  be certain  either man  will survive long
enough to be questioned.  Your people and one  company of mine are  still on the
ground out there, trying to track the last of the raiding party."

"What about the items you took from their medic?"

"Still  being analyzed."  Lon hesitated.  "If we  find one  of the  fluids  that
doesn't measure up as a known  medical treatment, we might try injecting  one of
the wounded men with it, then stick him in a trauma tube and see what  happens."
He  shook his  head. "I'm  not particularly  fond of  that option.  We could  be
killing the man to no point."

"No, you could be giving him his only chance to survive," Henks said.

For a time, Lon  thought. Bancrofter justice would  be less certain. "We  should
have some indication on what we have before much longer," he said. "If we'd been
set up to do the analysis here, we might have it already, but I sent the samples
up to Long Snake. Their lab is considerably more sophisticated."

"You'll keep me posted?" Henks asked, getting to his feet.

Lon stood as  well. "Of course."  He walked to  the office door  with the deputy
governor, opened it, and  then shook hands with  Henks as he left.  Lon stood in
the open doorway until Henks left the building.


"We can't give you a one-hundred-percent guaranteed answer, Colonel Nolan,"  the
chief lab technician aboard Long Snake said. "We would need much larger  samples
and a lot more time for that."

"What can you give me?" Lon asked.

"You sent us four  samples. Samples two and  three are identical and  are normal
first-response  treatments-stabilizers  and blood  generators.  We believe  that
samples one and four are identical to each other, but different from the others.
We can't be certain what one and four actually are, or that they are indeed  the
same.  So far  we have  been unable  to complete  any structural  or  functional
analysis. The  nanoagents in  those two  samples actively  resist, attacking the
probe  nanoagents-with  some  success-and changing  themselves  in  the process,
apparently some sort of fail-safe device."

"Which means those samples are probably the ones we need to counteract  whatever
the raiders have been infected with to keep them from talking," Lon said.

"There's no  way to  be certain.  Colonel, but  that would  be my  guess. I must
emphasize, though, that it is only a guess, not something I would care to bet my
life on. For example, one of them  could be the antidote you're looking for  and
the other could be the infecting agent."

"But we can rule out samples two and three?" Lon said.

"We have found nothing, ah, out of place in those samples," the technician said.
"The analysis is not complete. We are still disassembling the active nanoagents.
But there have been no surprises so far."


The two wounded prisoners  were being held in  the infirmary inside the  militia
base. It was a small facility  attached to the headquarters building, four  beds
and four trauma  tubes, added since  the DMC's first  contract on Bancroft.  Lon
went to  the infirmary  after ending  his conversation  with the  lab technician
aboard  Long Snake.  The battalion's  senior medical  technician. Sergeant  Enos
Carvel, was standing  between the two  occupied beds. He  moved away from  them,
meeting Lon halfway to the door. "How are they doing?" Lon asked.

Carvel shook his head, and moved farther from the two prisoners. Lon moved  with
him. "The one might die  almost anytime if I can't  get him into a trauma  tube.
Colonel, Frankly, I'm  not certain a  trauma tube can  save him after  this much
time-even if we have the antidote to  keep his own system from killing him.  The
other  one, well,  all I  can really  say is  that he's  not quite  as bad  off.
Apparently his body's maintenance  nanoagents stopped the internal  bleeding and
his major organs aren't affected, but he's running a fever and his system  isn't
keeping up with the infection."

"Is he conscious?"

"No. Any word on those vials we took off the dead raider medic?"

Lon gave him the short version of what Long Snake had said.

"If  we don't  take a  chance," Carvel  said, "at  least one  is going  to  die.
Probably both of them. And since we don't know the proper dosage, or how long to
wait between injecting the antidote  and beginning standard treatment, we  can't
be certain that we'll save them even if we pick the right one."

"No chance at all without, minimal chance with?" Lon said.

'That's about the size of it. Colonel."

'Try one of them on the man who's in worse shape. Make your best guess on dosage
and the waiting time. And save enough for the second man. I'll record the  order
to cover you," Lon said.

'Thank you. Colonel." Carvel hesitated, then said, "One thing: Even if we  don't
save the  first man,  we should  be able  to tell  if we've  got the right vial.
Afterward."

"You mean if it doesn't leave the  man the way the ones we treated  before ended
up," Lon said, and the medtech nodded.

'The  sooner you  start, the  sooner you'll  know," Lon  said. He  went to   the
infirmary's main complink and keyed in his order for the risky treatment, signed
it, and displayed the screen for Sergeant Carvel.

Lon waited while the medtech got the  vial from which the first sample had  been
taken  and charged  an injector.  Carvel talked  through the  process, for   the
complink, to make certain  there was a step-by-step  record of what he  did, and
the results.

"I have to assume," he  said at one point, "that  a medic would carry enough  of
the antidote to treat the highest estimate of possible casualties among the  men
under his care, and that the delay between antidote and standard treatment would
be minimal. Otherwise, they could lose  people they didn't have to. That  is, at
least, how we would handle the situation-in the unthinkable event that we  would
intentionally poison our men to keep them from talking if captured."

Carvel called  two men  in to  help him  move the  treated prisoner  from bed to
trauma  tube. Lon  helped as  well. Carvel  made the  connections from  tube  to
patient, then,  standing with  his hand  over the  contact that  would turn  the
medical apparatus on, he looked at Lon.

"Do it," Lon said, nodding.

The medtech  touched the  switch, then  let his  hand drop  away from it. Carvel
watched the gauges at the head of the trauma tube. Lon stared at the face of the
man in it.

"It took several  minutes before the  first raiders we  attempted to treat  went
bad," Carvel  said after  he had  turned on  the trauma  tube. There was nothing
visible happening- and wouldn't be,  unless this patient's system turned  on him
the  way the  earlier ones  had. The  man's open  wounds had  been covered  with
bandages, so the two men watching would not even see the wounds knit.

At the moment, the trauma tube reminded Lon of a glass coffin, perhaps from some
children's fairy tale. There won't be any handsome prince to come along and save
this poor bastard with a kiss, he thought.

"This is going  to be borderline,  even if we  guessed right," Carvel  said. Two
minutes had passed since he started the trauma tube. "He lost so much blood  the
tube might not be able to replace enough in time. Heart, lungs, and kidneys were
all near the point of failure.  Brain waves are ... depressed but  still there."
The whole time he talked, Carvel never looked away from the gauges on the trauma
tube.

Lon scarcely dared to  breathe, hardly blinked as  he stared at the  face of the
man in  the tube.  Time seemed  suspended, distorted  beyond recognition  of its
passage. He was  so focused that  he might have  been trying to  heal the man by
willpower alone. It had gone beyond the point of merely wanting a live enemy  to
question, it was the desire to see a man survive.

Live, damn you, live.

Five minutes.  "No sign  yet of  his system  trying to  self-destruct," Sergeant
Carvel said. "It was ... about this long with the others. The medics who treated
them couldn't say  precisely how long.  But when they  went bad, they  went in a
hurry.  Every   organ  in   their  bodies   seemed  to   rupture  or  hemorrhage
simultaneously, turned their insides to mush."

"I saw the bodies," Lon said.

"If we guessed right, I think he'll survive. This much time, the tube has had  a
chance to get  the essentials covered.  I wish we  knew for certain  how long it
took for those other wounded  to go bad. I'd sure  like to know how much  longer
before I can breathe right again."

"We can breathe later," Lon said. "Let's be certain first."

Ten minutes. "It couldn't have been much longer than this, no matter how far off
the medics were," Carvel said.

I think you 're right, Lon thought,  but he said, "Give it another five  minutes
to be certain. Maybe you should check your other patient."

Carvel started, visibly, as if he  had completely forgotten that he had  another
patient in the infirmary. "Yes, of course," he said, looking around, then moving
to the bed that held the other  captive raider. He did not spend much  time with
the man, just long  enough to check his  heart rate and respiration-less  than a
minute.

"He's hanging in," Carvel said when he  returned to his position at the head  of
the occupied trauma tube. "He can stand a few more minutes' waiting."

"Refresh my  mind. Sergeant.  Once the  tube finishes  working on  this man, any
foreign substances in his system should be flushed out and destroyed, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Including any of these destructive nanoagents?"

"I can't see any way they could disguise themselves to avoid detection. Colonel.
Either they act or they don't. And if they don't, they should be gone. What  are
you getting at?"

"Being able to  question these men  once they're out  of danger," Lon  said. "We
need to know anything they can tell us about raider operations on Bancroft."

Carvel hesitated for a beat. "I don't see why they won't be fit for  questioning
assuming they come out of the trauma tubes alive and fully repaired. This man, I
think he  may need  more than  four hours  before the  tube releases him. He was
awfully close  to gone."  He looked  at his  watch. "It's  been nearly  thirteen
minutes since I turned it on."

"Let's get the other man  into a tube, ready  for the injection of  the antidote
the presumed antidote," Lon said. "Soon as we're sure of this one, you can start
the other."


They waited past the fifteen-minute mark-closer to twenty-before Sergeant Carvel
gave the second man a dose of the "sample one" fluid. Then Lon waited until  ten
minutes after the trauma tube had been activated for the second man.

"I think you've done  it. Sergeant," Lon said,  standing between the two  trauma
tubes.

"So far. Colonel," Carvel said.

"Just remember  that they're  prisoners. I'll  make sure  there are  guards here
before they can be a problem."

There was a noticeable  pause before Carvel said,  "Yes, sir. Of course.  I hope
you're not in too great a hurry to question them. Colonel. I'd like to give them
at least a  couple of hours  after the tubes  release them, time  for a meal and
some oral fluids, a chance for me to make absolutely sure."

It was Lon's turn  to hesitate. Then he  nodded. "At least two  hours. Sergeant,
but I won't guarantee a lot more than that."



17

By sunset, it was clear that the pursuit of the survivors of the failed raid  on
Erskeine was going nowhere. The miners had been evacuated from the camp. Lon had
pulled the last  of his men  from it. Colonel  Crampton had left  one company of
militia-on the long chance that the raiders might double back and try to make up
for their failure-but pulled the rest back to Lincoln, including the  detachment
that had garrisoned the site.

"We have prisoners now," Lon  reminded Crampton when the militia  commander came
in  to share  supper with  him. "Before  the evening  is over,  we should   know
everything those two prisoners know about raider operations here."

"I can hardly wait," Crampton said. "That also goes for the governor and  deputy
governor.  I came  here from  Government House,  and they're  having  difficulty
containing themselves."

"As long as they keep  the secret." Lon had explained  to Sosa and Henks why  it
was necessary that no one else leam that they had prisoners who could-and  would
talk. "We don't know what sources of information the raiders have."

"I haven't told anyone,  not even my staff  and company commanders, and  they're
all from old families," Crampton said. "Once we do question the prisoners, we're
going to have to mount an operation in a hurry."

Lon nodded. "As quickly as we can  without botching it. Plan first, then go  in.
Get the job done right."

"I've got no argument with that."

The two  men were  eating in  Lon's office-Colonel  Crampton's office before the
arrival of the mercenaries. Lon ate with more appetite than he had since landing
on Bancroft. Crampton had done little more than pick at his food. He was visibly
excited by the prospect of learning the secrets of the raiders. Early on, he had
pressed  Lon  about  how  soon they  could  start  the  interrogation. Cramp-ton
intended to be present for it.

"If we  get enough  information from  the prisoners  to allow  us to  do the job
without more intelligence," Lon said.

Crampton had been lifting his glass. He stopped with his drink still a couple of
inches from his mouth. "What do you mean by that? Why wouldn't we get enough?"

"First of  all, we're  assuming that  there isn't  a second  level to the raider
fail-safe nanoagents, that our equipment must have cleansed them completely from
the men's systems. We  think we have, but  if we're underestimating the  enemy's
technology, injecting the prisoners with  the truth drugs might still  trigger a
lethal reaction. Second, we can't be  certain that the two men we  captured will
be able to give us enough information to locate the enemy's base camp and assess
their strength."

"You  think they  blindfold their  own men  coming and  going?" Crampton  asked,
setting his glass back on the table.

"As far as  we know, we  have a couple  of privates, or  the equivalent. Grunts.
Maybe conscripts. We  know they were  treated with a  lethal agent to  keep them
from talking to  an enemy. But  we don't know  how much information  the raiders
share with the rank and file. If they're moved in and out of their base camp  by
air, there's  not a  reason in  the world  for their  leaders to  give them  map
coordinates."

Crampton simply stared at Lon.

"We can't let our hopes get too high," Lon said. "We should be able to get a lot
of useful  information, but  we can't  count on  getting everything  we want. Or
need."

"I take it you didn't tell  the governor that," Crampton said after  letting out
an audible sigh.

"I told him not to expect too much,  but I didn't go into detail," Lon said.  "I
thought Dan Henks, at least,  would figure it out once  he had a little time  to
mull it  over. Once  the initial  excitement faded.  He's got  the background in
police and military affairs.  We'd have to get  one of their officers  to expect
anything really precise on locations. Maybe  a noncom. And I don't think  we got
either."

"You certainly shot holes in my excitement," Crampton said. He sounded deflated.
"Now I don't know whether to look forward to the questioning or dread it. Like a
boy who wants  Christmas to come  but fears he  won't get the  gift he's set his
heart on."

Lon  smiled. "I've  had trouble  keeping my  own expectations  from getting  too
high,"  he  said. "We'll  leam  what we  leam.  My adjutant  and  senior medical
technician will handle the injections and the questioning. You and I will simply
be  spectators and  advisers. We  listen and,  if we  think there's  a  specific
question that  should be  asked, we  put it  to Captain  Berger, let him ask the
prisoner. Having only one voice to deal with helps."

"Your Captain Berger knows what to ask?"

"We spent  a couple  of hours  discussing lines  of questioning.  Torry is good.
There's not much chance we'll have to  interrupt to get him to ask something  he
hasn't thought of."


The room where the questioning would be conducted was adjacent to the  infirmary
soundproof, without windows,  illuminated to highlight  the subject and  obscure
witnesses. The first  prisoner-the second man  treated that morning-was  wheeled
in, strapped to his bed. A mild sedative had already been administered. Sergeant
Carvel was one of the men moving  the ... patient. The medical orderly with  him
left the room and closed the door as soon as the bed was in position.

The two colonels were seated  on the far side of  the room from the bed,  behind
the  lights, in  shadows too  deep to  let the  man on  the bed  make out  their
features. A table was in front of them, and each man had a portable complink. If
they had  questions for  Captain Berger  to ask,  they would  key them in on the
complink; he would  see them on  a screen behind  the prisoner's head.  Sergeant
Carvel stayed next  to the bed;  he would remain  there throughout the  session,
administering drugs and observing  the instruments that monitored  the patient's
vital signs.

"Is the  patient ready?"  Berger asked,  standing just  across the  bed from the
medtech.

"Vital signs are stable and proper," Carvel said. "Administer the medication."

Carvel applied  two med-patches  to the  prisoner's neck,  one over  the carotid
artery, the other over the joint between two vertebrae. The man on the table was
conscious, but  just barely.  His eyes  were open  no more  than halfway, and he
moved his head little, except as a direct result of Carvel's activities. The man
did not, could not, resist.

"Three  minutes," Carvel  said after  he had  applied the  second patch.   Three
minutes was how long the nanoagents  in the patches would need to  penetrate and
work their way through to their  "duty stations" in the prisoner's brain,  ready
to dispense minuscule doses of several drugs as necessary.

Torry Berger glanced at his watch, noting to the second when he would be able to
begin  questioning. Across  the room,  the two  colonels each  glanced at  their
watches, in perfect unison. � /'// never be comfortable with this, Lon  thought.
It's too damned creepy. It was only the fourth time he had directly witnessed an
interrogation. The three minutes seemed to drag interminably. Lon found  himself
clenching his teeth and had to force  himself to relax. He glanced to his  left.
Crampton was fidgeting  visibly, crossing and  uncrossing his legs,  waiting for
the questioning to begin.

Three minutes. Torry Berger leaned over the bed, until his face was eight inches
above the face of the prisoner. "Tell me your name," Berger said, loud enough to
make certain that he got the drugged prisoner's attention immediately.

The prisoner whispered something, too softly for Lon to hear, almost too  softly
for Berger. "Tell me again, louder," the captain ordered.

"Coffee. Brind Coffee."

Name. Age. Place of birth.  Berger started the questioning gently,  staying with
personal  questions,  getting Coffee  used  to answering,  weakening  any mental
reluctance, assisting the drugs.

Brind Coffee. Twenty-four years old. Calgary, North American Union, Earth.

He had  worked for  the Colonial  Mining Cartel  less than  three years. Trained
first as a security  guard in West Africa,  which included coursework on  how to
recognize  and  evaluate  samples  of minerals  and  metals.  Selected  then for
additional training. Military training. Transferred to a permanent  paramilitary
unit; used to  help put  down a  riot in  a deep-water  mining habitat; sent off
world then. The unit spent six months protecting a mine on Gardner. The unit was
given two additional months of training,  on the same world. Then they  received
orders to move again. They were not told the name of the world until after  they
landed.

Gradually Coffee's  answers became  less reticent,  more coherent,  plainer. Lon
worked  hard to  conceal his  impatience. He  knew the  reason for  the  lengthy
prologue. It helped to have the  subject used to answering questions like  this,
reliving his life, speaking of the routine, the common, the familiar. It  helped
to further submerge any notion  of resistance once the important  questions were
put to him.

Thirty minutes into the session.  Carvel replaced the patches on  Coffee's neck.
Berger was silent during  that procedure, and while  Carvel waited to check  the
gauges. It wasn't until the medtech nodded that Berger resumed his questioning.

Berger asked Coffee about his  arrival on Bancroft, details of  landing, setting
up camp, and about the men with  him. The questions were still not pointed,  not
directed toward  anything that  the mercenaries  and their  hosts could use. The
ship that  had brought  Coffee and  his comrades-  "How many?" "Six hundred"-had
parked  in synchronous  orbit on  the far  side of  the world  from the  settled
regions. The landers had  operated only when it  was dark on the  colony side of
the  world, taking  detachments in  each night,  needing nearly  a week  to  get
everyone to the ground  with their supplies-"And picking  up the stuff that  the
first company had collected since they 'd been here. "

Gradually Berger worked the more  important questions in. Coffee wasn't  certain
how many troops the CMC had sent to Bancroft altogether. Six-hundred-odd in  his
ship. Fewer than that before. Each time a ship had come to take off the  "goods"
they  had  collected,  a  few   more  men  were  left  behind-replacements   and
reinforcements. Coffee guessed that there might be more than a thousand of  them
now, even allowing for the casualties he knew about. They were not all stationed
in the same place. He wasn't certain  how many camps there were. He didn't  know
exactly where any of them were, not even  his own, just that it was a system  of
caves, somewhere  away from  any of  the settlements.  They always  moved out at
night, marching to a clearing not too  far from the cave. A shuttle picked  them
up,  took  them near  their  objective, and  brought  them back  after  they had
finished.

Wes Crampton groaned softly. Lon frowned  at him, but Coffee gave no  indication
that he had heard the sound.

Berger worked around  the problem. He  asked Coffee to  describe the scenery  he
could see from  outside the cave  where he was  stationed. "Trees, hills,  sky."
None of the men  was allowed outside much  during daylight hours, just  a few on
sentry duty. Coffee  took his turns  at that, but  there was never  much to see,
certainly none of the enemy  he was to watch for.  He couldn't say what kind  of
trees there were, just a mix, not unlike trees he might have seen on Earth.  The
hills-a line that the caves were in, another to the west, several miles away; he
knew it was west because of the sun.

There was another  interruption in the  questioning, another replacement  of the
med-patches. Sergeant Carvel gave Coffee a sip of water through a tube.  Captain
Berger moved  out of  the ring  of light  to get  a longer  drink himself. Fruit
juice. He toweled the sweat from his face.

Wes Crampton leaned close  to Lon. "I don't  think we're going to  get much more
here," he whispered.

"Maybe not," Lon replied, "but we've got to go the whole route before we work on
the other man. Tomorrow morning. There's no way to do it all tonight."

"Different people working the second man?" Crampton suggested.

"Best to let the same team do both. And these are the best I've got."


"We got more than  I expected," Lon told  Crampton after the session  with Brind
Coffee was  over. They  had returned  to Lon's  office. Someone  had provided  a
pitcher of cold beer and two steins. Lon poured for both of them.

"What do you  mean? We didn't  get anything useful,"  Crampton complained as  he
reached for his glass. "Not one bleeding clue to where their camp-camps-are."

"We know they have more than one camp. We have a better estimate of their  total
numbers than before. We know that one group at least, of about six hundred  men,
is living  in a  cave system,  and that  there's a  clearing large  enough for a
shuttle close enough that the raiders can  get from cave to clearing in an  hour
or less. We know they're using those little shuttles extensively, and no  matter
how good the stealth technology they have, we'll find a way to get around it."

Crampton shook his head. "I know you warned me not to expect much, but I thought
we'd get something useful."

"We did."  Lon held  back a  sigh. There  was obviously  going to be no pleasing
Crampton. "We just didn't get an instant fix. In the morning we'll question  the
second man. We  probably won't get  anything startling from  him either, but  by
comparing what the two  men say, we might  come a little closer  to building our
picture of raider operations."

"The governor  isn't going  to be  very happy  with tonight,"  Crampton said. He
seemed to  be talking  more to  himself than  to Lon,  so Lon  didn't bother  to
answer. A few minutes later, Crampton excused himself and left. He still had  to
visit Government House before he could go to bed.


Phip Steesen came  into the office  as soon as  Colonel Crampton had  left. "You
look all done in," Phip observed as he crossed to where Lon was sitting.

"I am. Help me with this beer. I hate to see it wasted." Phip refilled the stein
that  Crampton  had  used, then  took  a  long drink  and  smacked  his lips  in
appreciation. "Major Osterman said  there wasn't a whole  lot in what the  first
prisoner said."

"Nothing we can use  to mount an operation,"  Lon said. "It was  all recorded in
CIC," Phip said. "The  computers and analysts will  be through it backwards  and
sideways by morning."

"We  have  a little  more  for the  search,"  Lon said,  yawning.  "The physical
description of what the  man could see outside  the cave. It's not  much-a large
cave system in a hill. Fairly broad  valley to the west. Landing strip within  a
few miles."

"Seems to me we're not going to be able to do anything major unless CIC  figures
a way to track  the shuttles the raiders  use," Phip said. "Unless  we manage to
flush a group and  follow them to their  lair, the way we  did the last time  we
were here."

Lon snorted. "If what Coffee said about how his group was moved for raids  holds
for the rest of their force, we won't do that. All we could do is track them  to
where they're supposed to be  picked up by a shuttle  after a raid. My guess  is
the raiders would abandon a detachment rather than risk having us get a  shuttle
or follow it  to wherever it's  going. Even if  we manage to  catch and wipe out
every raiding party, it's not going to be a quick job. If they've got a thousand
or more men here, it might take forty or fifty operations to get them all."

"And take a lot more than the  three months this job is supposed to  last," Phip
said.

"We need a break." Lon pushed his beer mug away. "And I need to get some  sleep.
My head is starting to spin, and  I haven't drunk enough of this to  account for
it."


For a time, getting into bed was too much of a chore to contemplate. Lon  sat on
the edge   of it,   arms resting   on thighs,   waiting to  gather the energy to
undress and  slip between the sheets. Again. Over  a period of several  minutes,
his only motion came when he yawned.

We need a break, he thought. Something. The job was supposed to be simple.  Find
the raiders and close  them down, using whatever  force might be needed.  He had
not  suspected  that  finding  the  raiders  would  be  so  difficult.  We  came
prepared... for the last fight. Like so many other armies in the past.

Lon got  one boot  off, then  rested before  attempting to  remove the  other. I
didn't make it  all the way  last  night, he  remembered. Slept in  his clothes.
Didn't have a  chance to shower  and change until  after the action  was over at
Erskeine.

He didn't remember getting the second  boot off, didn't recall lying down.  When
his complink beeped to announce an  urgent message, three hours later, the  room
lights were still on.

Captain Eldon Roim of Long Snake was on the link.

"An  unidentified  ship just  emerged  from Q-space,"  Roim  announced when  Lon
clicked the accept key on his complink. "At its current speed, it's seventy-four
hours from Bancroft. It's not broadcasting any standard ID codes."

"Have you challenged it?" Lon asked.

"I wanted to check with you first. Colonel."

"Do it," Lon said. "What kind of ship is it-civilian transport or military?"

"The profile we've picked  up doesn't match any  known military craft, but  it's
not a standard civilian transport either, none that I've come across."

"Will Toronto be able to intercept if it's hostile?"

"If they keep  coming in, yes.  But if they  decide to make  a run for  it right
away, probably not."

"Have Toronto start moving now," Lon said. "Give us all the leeway we can get."

"That will leave you without fighter  cover, or just with the Shrikes  on patrol
now, if Toronto doesn't wait to recover them."

Lon's hesitation was minimal. "Have the Shrikes on patrol now land at  Lincoln's
spaceport when it's  time. We'll service  them on the  ground and make  do until
Taranto gets back in position. If that ship is connected to the raiders, I  want
it disabled or destroyed."

"I'll pass the orders on," Roim said.

"And keep me posted.  This might be a  major break for us."  Despite exhaustion,
Lon had difficulty getting back to sleep.



18

It scarcely mattered that  Lon was wakened again  before reveille. He had  slept
only fitfully after being  wakened the first time.  Within ten minutes, he  knew
there would be no third try. He was up to stay.

The call that woke  Lon was from Colonel  Crampton. 'The raiders have  hit a dry
hole, a mining camp known as Damron's Scar, due east of here, on the last  ridge
of hills before the coastal plain. The miners, garrison, and everything they had
processed was lifted out yesterday. I've got two companies on the way. Maybe  we
can catch this batch."

"I'll get my alert company  out as well," Lon said.  "At least we don't have  to
worry about civilians on the ground."

When Lon made the call to send the alert company, he learned that the two Shrike
fighters that had been patrolling when  he sent Toronto to try to  intercept the
incoming ship had landed twenty  minutes before, for refueling. The  pilots were
in the spaceport terminal, looking for a place to bed down for a few hours. That
had to  wait. Lon  ordered them  back up,  as soon  as their  fighters could  be
readied.

Two minutes later. Colonel  Crampton was back on  the link. "Another raid,  this
one at Long Glen,  forty miles northwest of  here. They just hit.  Colonel, Long
Glen  is a  big village,  maybe five  hundred people  live there-families.   I'm
diverting the shuttles I had going to Damron's Scar and getting another  company
ready to  move as  quickly as  the men  can get  to their  shuttles. We  have to
protect those people."

"I'll divert our alert  company as well," Lon  said. "Get the next  company out.
Send them to Damron's Scar. We can't let the raiders think they can overwhelm us
by hitting more than one place at a time."

By the time Lon finished issuing those orders. Captain Roim was waiting to  talk
with him.

"The  intruder  spotted  us, altered  course,  and  started accelerating,"  Roim
reported. "If  they keep  going, there's  no chance  Toronto can  intercept them
before they can jump to Q-space again. Should I have Toronto abort the pursuit?"

Lon scarcely hesitated. Having Toronto close enough to use its fighters would be
welcome, especially with two raids in progress. "Yes, abort. But keep an eye  on
that intruder. If  they start decelerating  again, look like  they might try  to
come in, tell Toronto to be ready to  head after them. I want all of the  attack
shuttles here as fast as you can get them to us. I'll send two companies to Long
Glen and have  a third ready  to go to  Damron's Scar if  the militia needs help
there. That puts  the last company  on alert in  case the raiders  hit somewhere
else."

Let's put everything we can into this,  Lon thought. If we 're going to  have to
take them piecemeal, best to get it started right now. He allowed himself only a
few seconds to rest. Then he got up and started moving. There was a lot of  work
to do, even if he was still tired.


Lon's office was on  the west side of  the headquarters building, so  he did not
have sunlight streaming in a window to announce the coming of day. Jeremy Howell
brought breakfast in, and  made pointed hints about  eating when Lon started  to
push the tray aside. Lon picked at the food-a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, a
couple of bites of toast. Coffee was different. He drank two cups quickly-on top
of several he had already consumed since getting up.

Long Glen  was only  forty miles  away. The  alert company,  Charlie, was on the
ground  there,  engaging  an enemy  that  appeared  to be  nearly  its  equal in
strength. At the moment, Charlie was providing security for the landing strip to
allow the  two companies  of militia  to get  down safely.  It would  be another
twenty minutes before Toronto would be in position to launch additional  Shrikes
to help.

Lon had his staff busy, and all of  the men were up as well-some to move  out as
soon as they could board shuttles, the last company going on alert status, ready
to respond  if the  raiders staged  a third  attack. The  command shuttle was on
alert also, and Lon had notified  his staff to be ready to  leave immediately-if
he decided to head toward one of the raids.

The  raiders at  Long Glen  were not  giving ground.  A rocket  hit one  of  the
shuttles bringing in the  militia, but the craft  managed to land. There  were a
few minor casualties,  but the men  were able to  disembark safely. The  shuttle
would need  extensive repair  work before  it would  be able  to take off again,
though, but in the meantime it would limit use of the landing strip.

"Shuttles can get in  and out," Captain Kai  reported, "but only one  at a time,
and there's absolutely no margin for error."

"There are two other clearings within five miles of you," Lon replied, scrolling
his mapboard in for a closer view. "We're watching those for enemy shuttles.  As
soon  as  Ta-ranto gets  back  in position,  we'll  have Shrikes  covering  both
clearings."

"Why not put Delta on the ground, split between those two locations?" Kai asked.
Delta  was the  other company  moving toward  Long Glen.  Bravo was  heading  to
Damron's  Scar,  leaving  Alpha  on alert  in  Lincoln.  "We  really don't  need
reinforcements here, and  the way the  landing strip is,  putting them out  like
that might be a hell of a lot safer, and it gives us the option of closing in on
the raiders from behind, no matter which way they go."

Lon spent a few seconds looking at his mapboard before he replied. "Good  point,
Sefer. I'll divert Delta as you suggest."

When he passed those orders to Captain Magnusson and the pilots of the  shuttles
carrying Delta Company, Lon made a point of mentioning that enemy shuttles might
intend to use  one or the  other of the  clearings. "Keep your  eyes open and be
ready for attack from the air," Lon warned.

His next call  was to CIC  on Long Snake.  "Are you picking  up that static from
enemy electronics?" he asked.

"No. sir," the duty officer in CIC said.

"Any sign of enemy shuttle activity?"

"Not yet. Colonel. We're linking all our assets with new search frequencies  and
filters. Our  hope here  is that  with the  additions, and  as many  overlapping
search vectors as possible,  we'll be able to  spot them in fairly  short order,
shuttles or men on the ground using active electronics."

In other words,  Lon thought, they  still don't have  the faintest idea  whether
they 're going to be able to spot them at all. He shook his head slowly. /  hope
we get a chance to  look over one of those  shuttles before we get out  of here,
find out what makes  their technology better than  ours. A coup like  that would
make the contract far sweeter than  the payment Dirigent was receiving from  the
government of Bancroft.

"There's a good chance they won't be using the shuttles soon, though.  Colonel,"
the man in CIC said. "Any stealth they have is only going to be really effective
at night, and it's already light over both of the sites being raided.  Daylight.
they can be seen by the naked eye if they're low enough to be of any use."

"We don't assume  that," Lon said.  "They timed this  raid too close  to dawn to
have expected to get out by  shuttle before first light. What's the  cloud cover
over Long Glen and Damron's Scar?"

"Patchy over Damron's Scar; almost  nonexistent over Long Glen, Colonel.  We can
see the shuttles on the ground at Long Glen in visible light from here."

Lon closed his eyes,  trying to concentrate. They've  timed raids close to  dawn
before, he reminded himself. And it's cost them. Why stage two more at the  same
time when their men  will be trapped on  the ground for more  than twelve hours?
What are they trying to prove? What are they trying to get us to do?

"I want a  close scan for  unidentified electronics, that  fuzzy static, for  an
eight-mile radius around the two sites," he told CIC.

"We're already doing that.  Colonel. You think they  might be trying to  draw us
into a major battle?"

"I  don't know  what to  think, but   I want  to be  ready for  any  conceivable
scenario. If they hope to sucker us into  a trap, we need to be able to  turn it
back against them."


There was no fight at Damron's Scar. Before the DMC and BCM forces arrived,  the
raiders had left-empty-handed, since there had been neither miners nor metal  at
the site.  Bravo Company  was trying  to find  their track,  with one company of
militia. The Dirigenter shuttles were back in the air, helping with the  search,
ready to provide air cover if the men on the ground ran into an ambush.

"I don't know what to think," Lon  said. He had Vel Osterman, Torry Berger,  and
Phip Steesen in  the office. "Are  they trying to  draw us into  a major battle,
still  feeling us  out, or  something else?  They've shown  they can  be  damned
cunning, get in  and out of  a site if  they have inside  help. They didn't give
themselves the cover of night this time, though, and that puzzles me. Maybe they
didn't know Damron's  Scar had been  evacuated, but what  about Long Glen?  They
couldn't have hoped to get in and  out before we could respond, even if  someone
killed the snoops."

"As  I  recall.  Colonel," Phip  said,  "the  raiders didn't  seem  to  act very
logically the last time we were here."

"The operation is bigger now, and it's shown signs of being better organized and
more coherent, not so damned haphazard. We have to assume that the raiders  have
some logical plan in mind."

"Maybe they were hoping to provide enough distractions on the ground to let that
ship come  in for  a pickup,"  Vel suggested.  "Or bring  in reinforcements  and
supplies." He shrugged. "They can't count on getting munitions from the  locals.
Their rifles aren't the same caliber as the Ban-crofters use. Any ammunition has
to come from off-world, and fuel for their shuttles. I assume they must get most
of their food and other supplies the  same way, other than what they can  gather
raw materials for to use in replicators. And they're not doing their job if they
can't get their loot out."

"That ship that came  in, it's just sent  an MR out," Tony  Berger said. Message
rockets were the fastest way to get information across interstellar space, other
than taking a ship. Radio transmissions  were limited by the speed of  light. An
MR-basically just a propulsion system and Nilssen generator, with minimal  space
for cargo, less than a cubic foot-made the same jumps a ship would.

"If they've  sent an  MR home,  we can't  assume that  they're going  to leave,"
Osterman said. "There'd be little point,  unless they were afraid that the  ship
might be destroyed before it could jump to Q-space."

"Which means that we might be up to our butts in raiders in a month," Lon  said.
"If they choose to reinforce the assets they already have here. It would be nice
if we could neutralize the raiders on the ground before any newcomers arrive."

"Colonel,  I just  thought of  something else,"  Phip said.  "This stuff  today,
drawing so much of our force  away. Maybe the raiders figure on  hitting Lincoln
again, just to stir up the fear  factor. Like they did before. Try to  erode the
support base among the civilians."

"Every raid contributes to that," Osterman said. "That's one of the reasons  the
government brought us in. They lose  money and support every time a  mining site
is successfully raided-not to mention the people they've killed."

"They do stockpile all their export stuff here in Lincoln," Berger said. "If the
raiders were strong enough to hit the city in force, they could make one hell of
a haul, especially  if they had  a transport coming  in to pick  it all up right
away."

"How much of a haul?" Lon asked.

"The locals haven't given us precise figures, but I would guess perhaps as  much
as a ton of refined gold and platinum, perhaps twice as much in other marketable
elements and precious gems. Or more."

"There's no evidence that the raiders have the assets to attempt a coup de main"
Major Osterman said. "If they did, they would have tried it before we arrived."

"Unless they were waiting for this  new ship, and whatever other units  might be
waiting to pop in," Berger said. "We  don't know where that MR was headed.  They
might have a fleet one jump out. If that's the case, we could be in deep shit in
a week."

"Vel, I want you  to compile the data  we have and get  an MR of our  own off to
Dirigent,"  Lon  said. "Apprise  them  of the  situation  in as  much  detail as
possible, including a transcript of this meeting. I'll have my own report to add
to the package. And make sure any outgoing mail gets out as well."

"How soon?" Osterman asked.

"We'll take a break now. Say an hour. That'll give me time to finish my report,"
Lon said. "Torry,  you keep monitoring  the action. Let  me know if  there's any
significant change."

Phip hung  back as  the others  left. When  he was  alone with  Lon, Phip  said,
"You're really worried about this, aren't you?"

Lon nodded.  "I have  to be.  I've got  this nagging  feeling that we're missing
something important,  maybe something  vital. The  raiders are  being too damned
cute. They have  to have an  ace in the  hole, something we  haven't figured out
yet."



19

One Shrike was  brought down by  a surface-to-air missile  at Long Glen  just as
Lon's  staff reconvened.  A barrage  of SAMs  were launched  at the   Dirigenter
fighters and two shuttles that were  in the air attacking the raider  positions.
None of the other craft  were hit, but Lon decided  to pull the shuttles out  of
action-they were less  maneuverable and more  vulnerable than the  fighters. And
Lon-pressed by his staff-decided to hold off on a personal visit to the scene.

Reports from the men on the ground  kept revising the estimate of the number  of
raiders upward. By midaftemoon the best guess was that there had to be at  least
two hundred raiders committed  to the fight. The  battle had turned mobile,  but
that brought no clear advantage to the Dirigenters and Bancrofters. The  raiders
were showing themselves to be more professional than the militiamen ... and very
nearly the equal of the  mercenaries. Maybe equal, Lon allowed  reluctantly. The
real test hasn't  come yet. It  seemed clear that  the raiders were  better led,
better organized, and better trained than the ones Lon's company had dealt  with
on Bancroft nine years before. Those had shown no solid organization at all.

"They learned. Have  we?" Lon asked  Phip Steesen. The  two were alone  in Lon's
office. It was nearly time for supper, though Lon was having difficulty  finding
any appetite.

"Maybe that's the wrong question," Phip said. "Maybe we should be thinking  more
about how they  learned from what  happened here before.  None of the  prisoners
taken in the last fight ever got  back to Earth. There was at least  one shuttle
unaccounted for when we  left, and who knows  how many raiders we  didn't bag. I
know what the Bancrofters say, that  they cleaned out the last pockets  and that
anyone left over must have eventually died out in the wilds, but I wouldn't make
book on any of it."

"You don't think  the survivors managed  to hold together  any kind of  coherent
group through the eight years before the new raiders showed up, do you?"

Phip shook his head vigorously. "Not for a minute. That wouldn't have helped.  I
think that some of them got back to Earth, or Mars, or wherever they were based.
I think  they carried  back pretty  good reports  of our  activities and  how we
defeated them. That shuttle we didn't  find, and however many other shuttles  we
might not have known about-I think they  took the survivors off the next time  a
ship came in to pick up booty."

"I can't argue against the possibility,"  Lon conceded. "That would tell them  a
lot about how we operate, and since we trained the first thousand members of the
BCM, it would tell the raiders how the locals operate as well."

"It tells them  how you operate,  Lon," Phip said,  lowering his voice.  "We got
picked for this because the locals wanted the same man. Maybe it would have been
better if someone  else had come,  someone who thinks  differently, who commands
differently."

"Too bad you didn't come up with that argument before we left Dirigent. We might
still be home with our families."

"Yeah, well, you know how  it is. Give me enough  time and I can fumble  through
and find the answer  to anything. You got  any idea who it  was put the idea  of
getting the  same troops  here? I  know it  sounds kind  of logical, but did the
governor think it up on  his own? Or Henks? Or  somebody else, maybe one of  the
immigrants working in Government House?"

"And I thought  I was cynical.  You look under  your bed before  you climb in at
night?"

"I'm a bit older, and I've been in this outfit longer." Phip grinned. "Let's  go
eat,  and maybe  have a  beer. All  this thinking  is giving  me one  hell of  a
headache."


Four  hundred  Dirigenters and  six  hundred Bancrofters  were  involved in  the
engagement near Long Glen. Two hundred of each were pursuing the raiders who had
hit the empty mining  camp at Damron's Scar.  Before he could go  to supper, Lon
argued with Colonel Crampton  over the second force.  Crampton had showed up  at
Lon's office  as Lon  and Phip  were leaving.  Lon wanted  to bring  the men  at
Damron's Scar back to Lincoln, ready to deal with more serious threats. Crampton
wanted to continue looking for the  raiders who had triggered the snoops  in the
abandoned mining camp.

"We need to get rid of all the enemy," Crampton insisted. "Letting some get away
doesn't do it."

"We're wasting resources there," Lon  repeated-for the third time. "The  chances
of finding those raiders is too small  to be worth the effort. We're better  off
having those companies here, where they can respond quickly to any new threats."

At  the end,  because Lon  insisted, Crampton  agreed to  pull the  men in   the
morning, if they hadn't found the raiders yet.

"He's as stubborn as you," Phip whispered after the militia commander left.

"I can see his point. His worries aren't quite identical to ours," Lon said.

"You just could  have told him  you were going  to pull our  company out of that
place and let  him worry about  keeping his own  people there without  us," Phip
suggested.

Lon started walking again.  "For a second, I  considered it," he admitted.  "But
it's better to do it this way. Consulting rather than commanding."

"Load of bull crap," Phip said.


Supper sat like lead in Lon's stomach. After he ate, he spent an hour conferring
with CIC and  with his company  commanders at Long  Glen and Damron's  Scar. The
fighting  was  intermittent near  Long  Glen now,  occasional  skirmishes moving
gradually  farther from  the village.  North of  Damron's Scar,  traces of   the
enemy's path had been found, lost, then found again. And lost again after dark.

"Don't  push  your  men  too hard  tonight.  Brock,"  Lon  told Bravo  Company's
commander.  "We'll  guide you  toward  a suitable  LZ  in the  morning,  get the
shuttles in  to bring  you back  here ...  unless you  run into something before
then. And from what you've told me, I don't expect that."

"I think  they're playing  hide-and-seek with  us," Captain  Carlin said.  "Just
showing enough trail to keep us interested, if you know what I mean. I've got my
scouts looking for any hint of ambush."

"They're capable of it," Lon said. "Watch your back, Brock."

Sefer Kai and Ron Magnusson had similar impressions- that they were being  drawn
intentionally  by  the raiders.  'They  hit Long  Glen  hard, but  they  started
withdrawing, fighting in good order,  stepping lively enough to keep  from being
surrounded," Captain Kai said. "Then, just when it seems that they've managed to
break contact, something happens. They send  a patrol to ambush our scouts,  hit
us on a flank .. . something."

"Colonel, if we didn't have near a thousand men here, I'd swear they were trying
to draw us into a fight-to-the-finish battle on their ground. They don't want to
lose us," Captain Magnusson added. "Like  kids, one daring the other to  cross a
line, over and over."

"You know to  watch out for  whatever tricks they've  got up their  sleeves. You
having any trouble with the BCM commanders?"

"They're a little too  eager. Colonel," Magnusson said.  "They want to press  on
full speed, all the time, force  the engagement right this second, and  damn the
consequences."

"Hold them in as best you can," Lon said.

Lon went to his room, undressed, then took a long, hot shower. It eased some  of
his tension, left him  feeling sleepy, ready for  bed. He made one  last call to
the duty officer, to make sure that nothing new had come up in the past  fifteen
minutes, then turned  out the light  and climbed into  bed. The timeline  on the
complink next to the head of the bed said 2127 when he closed his eyes.


It was 2317 when Lon opened his  eyes again. For a few seconds, he  thought that
the sounds of explosions he had heard had been part of a dream. Nightmare.  Then
he heard another explosion, and the stutter of a rapid-fire cannon, and he  knew
that it was no dream.  Then the siren sounded to  call the men out of  barracks,
ready to respond to... whatever.

Lon got  out of  bed, leaping  to his  feet, just  as the  glare of  a secondary
explosion lit up the  scene outside his window.  The sound of this  blast took a
second to reach him-  extremely loud, and close.  The room seemed to  tremble at
the concussion.

"What the hell was that?" Lon demanded, hitting the switch on his complink  that
connected him to the duty officer.

It was all of ten seconds  before the duty officer, Harley Stossberg,  answered.
"That was your shuttle. Colonel, blown up where it sat. Air raid. Looks like two
raider shuttles."

"Was the crew aboard?" Lon asked.

"No, sir. In barracks."

Lon had already started pulling clothes on, beginning with his battle helmet. He
switched to the radio  circuits in that. "I'll  be down in two  minutes, Harley.
Get on to  CIC and get  all the Shrikes  in we can.  And get the  crews into the
shuttles on  the ground,  ready to  take off.  Give us  something to  fight back
with."

"In the works. Colonel," Harley said.

Reports came in about the air attack.  Two raider shuttles had come in from  the
west, attacking the Dirigenter craft on  the ground just south of the  palisaded
walls, strafing the compound, then moving on to launch rockets and fire  cannons
as it passed over the main  boulevard of Lincoln toward Government House  at the
far  side  of town.  By  the time  Lon  had his  boots  fastened, he  knew  that
Government House had taken one  rocket hit. The north wing-where  the governor's
office was-had started to bum. There was no word on casualties. The governor and
his family lived in the mansion,  and there was considerable staff and  security
on duty there, around the clock.

Lon strapped on his pistol  belt and picked up his  rifle. He ran to the  stairs
and down to the duty office on the floor below. His staff, in various degrees of
dress, were already working the complinks. A half-dozen different  conversations
were in progress. Lon stopped just inside the doorway and listened. It was  hard
to make sense of anything in the seeming confusion.

Major Osterman concluded one discussion, then crossed to Lon. "We're less than a
minute  from having  two Shrikes  here, Lon,"  he started.  "The two  that  were
patrolling over  our people  north of  Long Glen.  Toronto has  launched another
four. They'll need seventeen minutes to  get here. We have three wounded  men in
the compound. The command shuttle looks like a total write-off. No word yet from
Government House or  from in town.  I looked out  that way. Three  or four fires
started in  buildings facing  the boulevard  between here  and Government House.
It's late, so-with a little luck-there won't be any civilian casualties in town.
Not much nightlife here." He stopped  just long enough to take a  breath. "Alpha
Company is outside the  walls, and we've got  eight men with SAMs  waiting for a
shot at those shuttles if they make another pass."

"Any  enemy  activity on  the  ground?" Lon  asked  when Vel  stopped  his rapid
recitation again.

"No evidence of ground forces yet.  They haven't tripped any of our  snoops, and
CIC hasn't picked  up any of  that static, except..."  He stopped and  shook his
head.

"Except what?" Lon asked.

"This isn't certain yet, but CIC  thinks that-just maybe-they've come up with  a
way to get around the stealth  capabilities of the enemy shuttles. We  had about
seven seconds'  warning before  they opened  fire-not enough  to allow  us to do
anything, but enough to lend some credence to what CIC told me."

"Either they do or they don't, Vel. Did they say 'shuttles headed in' or not?"

Osterman closed his eyes  for a couple of  seconds. "What they said  was, 'There
appear to be  two objects  moving toward  Lincoln at  high speed  from the  west
northwest. We think-' That was when the first rocket exploded and Harley  missed
the end of the sentence."

"Something iffy?" Lon asked.

"I haven't had time to  go over it with CIC,"  Osterman said. "That would be  my
guess, though. Maybe they'll  be able to hone  it a little better  now that they
know they're on the right vector."

"Any new activity with our people in the field?"

"Torry's checking that  now," Osterman said,  turning toward the  complink where
Captain Berger was seated.

Before they could move close enough to ask Berger what he had learned.  Corporal
Howell shouted for Lon  from the next complink.  "Colonel! Long Snake reports  a
new pattern of static on the ground near Long Glen- behind our people!"

"Warn Captains Kai and Magnusson, Jerry!" Lon shouted back. "You have details on
just where this new static is?"

"Yes, sir, between our companies and the village, closer to the village."

"Go on, get the  word out." Lon turned  to Osterman again. "That's  what they've
had up their sleeves."

"Which? Putting us in the  middle of two forces, or  luring us away so this  new
batch can hit Long Glen?" Osterman asked.

"Either way, it stinks," Lon said. "Get on to Brock and get Bravo Company headed
toward the nearest clearing where their  shuttles can get in and out.  I'll call
Colonel  Crampton and  advise him  to do  the same  with his  militia  companies
there."

"We bring them back here or send them to Long Glen?" Osterman asked.

Lon shook his head.  "We'll hold our options  open for now, decide  when they're
ready to get airborne."

Lon moved toward his  desk as he initiated  the call to Colonel  Crampton, using
his helmet radio. Crampton did not argue with the decision to pull everyone away
from the  hunt north  of Damron's  Scar now.  His voice  was more  than a little
shaky.

"I just heard that the governor and his family are unhurt," Crampton said  after
agreeing to Lon's suggestion. "But several members of the staff are either  hurt
or dead."

"You getting the fires under control?" Lon asked.

"We're just now getting the fire brigade  out, and there are too many fires  for
them to get to all of them at once. I'm sending two platoons of my men to  help,
calling for garden hoses and civilians as well. Are those shuttles coming back?"

"Hang on. I'll see  if we've got a  tag on them yet."  It took nearly a  minute.
"They banked around toward the north  and headed west," Lon reported. "Then  CIC
lost the faint track they had. We've  got a good vector, though, and we'll  send
Shrikes to check it out. They'll be available in a little more than ten minutes.
I'm keeping two  over Lincoln for  defensive purposes, though.  By the way,  the
raiders have brought a second batch of men in, between Long Glen and our people.
We've already warned them that they've got trouble behind them."


Damage reports. Manning reports. Casualty reports. Action reports. Slowly, Lon's
staff brought  order to  the confusion.  The two  Dirigenter companies near Long
Glen had started moving,  circling to try to  catch the new raider  force on the
flank. Half of the Bancrofter militia  were circling the other way, leaving  the
rest  in  place between  the  two enemy  units.  Bravo Company  and  the militia
companies with it  were moving toward  a landing zone.  They would need  another
hour to reach the LZ and secure it  for the shuttles that would come in to  pick
them up.

Lon got behind his desk and took off his helmet. There seemed to be no  imminent
danger of  a ground  assault on  Lincoln, and  there was  no sight  of the enemy
aircraft. He was just beginning to relax when he had a call from Captain Roim.

'That unidentified ship has made a series of course changes over the last thirty
minutes," Roim reported. "It looks as if they might be coming in toward Bancroft
again."

"Even if they are, what'U it take them, another couple of days?" Lon asked.

"The earliest  they could  reach our  positions is  forty-three hours.  Colonel.
Should I send Toronto after them again?"

"No, we can't afford to play cat and mouse with that ship right now. If it wants
to come in, let it. Let them do the traveling. We can hit them later. Just  keep
alert for the possibility of more potentially hostile ships coming in-system."

"We  always do  that. Colonel,"  Roim said.  It was  11:37 P.M.,  2337 hours  in
military time.


Coffee and  chocolate bars.  Vel Osterman  lit a  cigar but,  after a  couple of
puffs, set it aside and let it go out. Reports continued to come in, but not  as
frequently, not as urgently, as in  the first minutes after the air  raid. There
were  soft discussions  among members  of Lon's  staff, men  looking for  proper
countermeasures, new angles on the problems of Bancroft.

Midnight. Twelve-thirty.

"Colonel, Charlie Company and  the militia unit with  them will reach the  LZ in
approximately  twenty  minutes,"  Captain  Berger  reported.  "Have  you decided
whether to bring them here or send them to Long Glen?"

Lon closed his eyes  briefly before he replied.  "Bring Charlie back here.  I'll
advise Colonel  Crampton to  do the  same with  his people.  Charlie's been out.
We'll try to give them time to get cleaned up and get some sleep. Alert Alpha to
move to Long Glen as soon as Charlie gets in."

After talking  to Colonel  Crampton, Lon  called Captain  Kai and  told him  the
arrangements. "Your men might go back in, somewhere, almost anytime, Sefer. Make
sure the rocket packs are charged and serviceable."

He cut Kai's reply short to take a call from CIC.

"Colonel, we've got a report from one  of the Shrike pilots who tried to  follow
the raider shuttles. He thinks he might  have spotted where one or both of  them
landed. Thinks," the  duty officer said.  "It's marked on  the mapping computer,
and we're going to keep something in the air over that location all night."

Lon  almost  leaped  to his  feet.  "Torry!"  he shouted.  "When  you  get Alpha
assembled, they're not  going to Long  Glen. We may  have found where  the enemy
parks their shuttles. I'll take Alpha as  close as we can get. Have Bravo  ready
to follow us in after they've had a chance to get a few hours' sleep."

"You'll take them in?" Major Osterman asked.

Lon nodded. "I'll take them in."



20

Osterman would not argue in front of the rest of the staff, but he followed  Lon
out of the office to make his  case. "It's hardly protocol. You have the  entire
contract to administer, not just one company to go chasing through the woods."

"This might be  the entire contract,  Vel," Lon said.  "If we can  cripple their
transportation, the  rest of  it gets  simpler-tedious, perhaps,  but simpler. I
need to be on the  ground, where I can see  what's going on firsthand, not  back
here  trying to  coordinate through  secondhand reports.  I'll be  with my   old
company, and there are enough people still in Alpha who have worked with me  for
years."

"I hate to say this, but you've been  away from that kind of action a long  time
as  well, staff  assignments in  garrison and  more than  half a  year on   that
intelligence lark to Earth."

Lon smiled. "I'm not that far out  of shape. The Corps has no use  for deskbound
officers. If I can't cut it out there, it's time for me to take up bartending as
a trade."

Osterman chuckled. He knew about the  pub Lon's in-laws ran. "Okay, you've  made
your point. Just  don't take silly  chances. The reason  we got picked  for this
contract  was  the  locals  want your  brain  and  experience  behind the  whole
operation. Don't make them have to be satisfied with the second string."

"You'll have my full cooperation. I  want you here to coordinate getting  people
where they need  to be. If  the raiders do  have their shuttles  parked where we
think they do, they've probably got most  of their men fairly close as well,  so
this operation might turn into an all-hands affair in short order."

"I'd say that's another reason for you to stay here and leave this expedition to
Captain Girana-or me, if you think  it demands higher supervision on the  spot,"
Osterman said.

"Maybe next time, Vel. You'd better get back inside, stay on top of things here.
I'll leave Phip with you, though we might  have to chain him to the desk for  me
to get away without him. Get on to Colonel Crampton and make sure he's ready  to
pour as many men as possible in on this as well. Now I need a few minutes to get
ready to catch my ride."


I am  back in  shape, Lon  told himself  as he  climbed the  stairs to his room.
Almost all the way. He had been pushing himself hard, to make up for the  months
he had been unable  to maintain his normal  training regimen. He was  still five
pounds heavier  than he  wanted to  be, and  the workouts  were still a bit more
difficult than they used to be, but he was fit enough to pass an annual  fitness
test with points to spare.

He needed only  five minutes to  get his combat  pack and gear.  Corporal Howell
kept his boss's  things in good  order. Rifle, pistol,  ammunition. Lon refilled
his canteen, adding a  single drop of lemon  concentrate. He no longer  recalled
where he had picked up that trick. It helped keep water "fresher."

When Lon left  his room, ready  to leave, Howell  was standing in  the corridor,
similarly attired. "My job to go with you. Colonel," he said.

"Haven't you learned not to volunteer for anything yet, Jerry?" Lon asked.

"I don't want to stay here and listen to Lead Sergeant Steesen rant about  being
left behind, sir. He hurts my ears when he screams."

Lon chuckled. "He can get shrill. Okay, let's go."

"Alpha Company is already moving out to the shuttles, sir. Captain Girana  knows
we're coming along."

"Then we'd better hurry." Lon moved past Howell, toward the stairs. The corporal
had to scramble to stay with his boss.


Captain Girana had already given the order for his men to board the two shuttles
that would take them to Long Glen.  The files of men were moving into  the craft
when Lon and Corporal Howell reached them.

"Getting bored riding a desk?" Girana asked.

"Got to  get out  once in  a while,  Tebba," Lon  responded. They  talked over a
private radio frequency, even though they were only a foot apart, to ensure that
the conversation remained confidential. "This could turn into the main event."

"I thought it might,"  Tebba said. "They're not  going to leave their  transport
far from  protection. We  find where  the birds  are, we're  apt to find most of
their foot soldiers."

"Very possible," Lon said.

They moved aboard one of the shuttles together.

"You might want to keep a special eye on Harley this time around," Tebba said as
the shuttle took off.

"A problem?" Lon asked.

"No, I  just want  your evaluation.  Look, I  know we  haven't talked about this
before, but this isn't a whim. I've been thinking it's about time for me to hang
up my boots. Get out and do  something else. I've got nearly forty years  in the
Corps. Soon as Harley's ready to take over the company, I'm out."

Personnel turnover  was slower  in the  DMC than  in many  planetary or national
armies, certainly slower than in armies of even two centuries before, but it was
just as inexorable. There were, inevitably, fatalities. The business of the  DMC
was war, and war always  exacts its price. Medical retirements  were rare-trauma
tubes  and the  extensive regenerative  therapies available  had almost  totally
eliminated the need to invalid soldiers out. Transfers between units did  occur,
but  with minimal  frequency. Ninety-five  percent of  all soldiers  in the  DMC
remained within the  same regiment throughout  their careers; 80  percent stayed
within the same battalion;  60 percent never left  the company they reported  to
after completing recruit training. But men aged. Their priorities changed. There
were no minimum enlistments: The DMC  had no use for reluctant soldiers.  Except
on contract, a man  could get his release  from the Corps on  seventy-two hours'
notice.  Many  served  for ten  years  or  less. A  Dirigenter  could  take full
retirement after twenty-five  years. Fewer than  one in a  hundred stayed longer
than thirty-five years, and in the enlisted ranks, the rate was little more than
half that.

"Do you think  Harley's ready to  handle the company?"  Lon asked after  several
seconds of silence.

"I think this contract will tell the tale," Tebba said. "It's been quite a while
since we had  a really hot  combat contract. The  rest, no question.  Harley can
handle garrison duty and training contracts. But that's not enough. He has to be
able to shine in combat before he can take over a company. If he handles himself
well here, that should remove any doubt."

"I'll keep my eyes open, Tebba. Now, about this little expedition ..."

Lon spent the rest of the flight briefing Tebba and his two lieutenants,  Harley
Stossberg and Min Jason. Jason had been with Alpha nearly two years-had won  his
lieutenant's pips as  an officer-cadet in  the company, on  a one-company combat
contract. Jason  was blond,  thin, and  deceptively slight  in build.  It seemed
impossible that he could march all  day carrying full combat kit, but  he could,
without complaint. The talk in battalion  headquarters was that Min Jason was  a
goer, likely to progress far and fast in the Corps... if he survived and  didn't
make any serious  mistakes. His  intelligence test  scores were  in the  top per
centile in the regiment.  "He'll go far, Lon,"  Matt Orlis had said  more than a
year before.  "If he  lasts, that  boy will  be General  someday, and  might set
records getting there."

If he lasts. For a soldier, there always had to be that qualification.


The  landing zone  CIC had  found for  Alpha Company  was seven  miles from  the
suspected position of the two raider shuttles, just east of north, across one of
the lower ridges  in the mountain  range, with the  peaks little more  than four
hundred feet  above the  flanking valleys.  The shuttles  circled around to land
from the  north-northwest, cutting  engines as  far as  possible to minimize the
noise of the aircraft.

Lon hung back, letting the men of A Company deploy into an initial perimeter. He
and Corporal Howell were the last men  off the shuttles, staying out of the  way
during the critical first  minute on the ground.  As soon as the  company was in
position, away from  the shuttles, both  of those craft  got back into  the air,
heading north again, to circle above ten thousand feet-high enough to be out  of
immediate range of any  enemy on the ground,  but close enough to  provide close
air support on less than a minute's notice.

"Looks like this valley's been burned over in the past year or two," Tebba  said
when he reported to Lon that his men were ready to move. "All new growth. A  lot
of fallen trees."

"I noticed,"  Lon replied.  "Get a  heading for  the clearing  where that  pilot
thinks  the  enemy  shuttles  are.  We'll  take  the  most  direct  route that's
practical."

"Already working. I've got  a squad moving now.  The rest of first  platoon will
follow as soon as the point squad is a hundred yards out. Main body after  that,
along with a squad on each  flank. Fourth platoon will provide the  flankers and
rear guard."

"Jerry and I will stay with the main body for now, Tebba," Lon said. "Keep a few
squads between us and you."

Orders were passed by radio, but once the company was on the move, talk over the
radio was kept to an absolute  minimum, and limited to officers and  noncoms, to
cut down on the chances that  the electronic emissions might be detected  by the
enemy. When possible,  hand signals substituted.  Every man in  the company knew
the routine signs.

The plan of attack,  sketchy though it was,  called for Alpha to  be in position
near the suspected enemy  position before first light.  That gave them a  little
more than three hours to cover seven  miles ... virtually none of it level.  Lon
did not expect time to be a  problem. The terrain was not terribly severe,  even
with a hill to cross.

Lon fell into the routine of the march without conscious effort, keeping a watch
on both flanks, keeping track of the man in front of him, listening for any hint
of danger on either side of the  column. He kept his rifle at the  ready, safety
off,  selector switch  set to  automatic, but  he kept  his finger  outside  the
trigger guard, so there would be no accidental discharge. Lon and Jeremy were in
the center of the  main body, between the  company's second and third  platoons.
Lon monitored the radio frequencies used by the officers and noncoms but did not
interfere-did not violate  sound discipline. When  a call came  in for him  from
headquarters, he kept his replies  minimal, just a click of  acknowledgment when
possible. Charlie Company would be ready to move on short notice. Extra shuttles
had been  brought down  from Long  Snake to  make it  possible to  bring the two
companies at Long Glen in on  little more notice. Colonel Crampton was  ready to
move six hundred men, almost as quickly as Charlie Company could be delivered to
the scene.

After an hour, Tebba Girana called for a ten-minute break. The point squad  took
slightly  less.  While the  company  was stopped,  the  men mostly  just  sat or
squatted where they were, taking a drink of water and a bite from an energy  bar
while they remained alert, watching either side.

When the point squad reached the ridge, there was another short stop, while  the
first dozen men up scanned the next valley with binoculars and infrared sensors,
looking for any indication of an  enemy presence. They concentrated on the  area
of the clearing but did not exclude  the terrain around it, or the slope  on the
opposite side of the valley. That was nearly fifteen miles away, too far for the
soldiers to expect to tell much.

There has to  be something down  there, Lon thought  after hearing the  negative
report from the point squad's sergeant. That pilot couldn't have been completely
wrong. Lon wasn't certain if that was simply wishful thinking. He was  uncertain
whether  enough  time had  passed  for the  thermal  signature of  well-shielded
engines to cool off  sufficiently to be invisible.  He did not have  the math in
his head  for the  calculation, and  since he  didn't know  how much  better the
raiders' stealth technology was than what the Corps possessed, he couldn't  have
done the calculation anyway. But that  could not stop him from puzzling  over it
from time to time.

As the  main body  neared the  ridgeline, Tebba  Girana stepped  out of line and
waited  until  Lon reached  him.  The two  men  lifted the  faceplates  of their
helmets, switched off transmitters, and whispered.

"I think we ought to fan the point squad out, maybe add a second squad, give  us
a broader sweep moving in," Tebba said. "That'll give us a better chance to spot
any snoops, boobytraps, or sentries, and maybe spot signs of people where  there
shouldn't be any."

"Go ahead," Lon  replied. "Maybe increase  the separation between  the point and
the rest  just a  little?" He  made it  a question,  willing to defer to Tebba's
technical judgment.

"A little, I think, not  much. If they run into  trouble, I want us to  be close
enough to reinforce them in a hurry."

Lon nodded.

"How close to the coordinates do we go?" Tebba asked. "We've still got a  little
time in hand. Should we go in to try to confirm the presence of those  shuttles,
or wait until reinforcements are in the air, ready to come in?"

"We stick with the plan I laid out before," Lon replied. "I'm not going to bring
everyone in until we know the enemy is here. We get confirmation first. When  we
get on the slope going down into the next valley, have your men keep their  eyes
open for any hint of caves as well. If those prisoners had it right, the enemy's
base could be under this ridge, not too damned far away."

"Yeah," Tebba said, and  he hesitated a beat  before he added, "I  thought about
that."

"We'll find  a decent  spot maybe  halfway down  the western  slope and send one
platoon ahead to scout out the coordinates that pilot provided," Lon said. "Wait
until we get word from them, one way or the other."

"That's going to put us three miles back, Lon. That platoon gets in trouble,  we
might not be able to get to them fast enough to make a difference."

"Unless the raiders have a major  ambush sitting in place waiting for  us, we'll
have time. Just tell the platoon leader  you send to back off at the  first hint
of trouble."

"I'll send Harley,  with fourth platoon,"  Tebba said after  another hesitation.
"Fourth used to be Wil Nace's platoon. Right now, it might be the best one  I've
got for this job."

                                    *  *  *

I hope we're not losing sleep for  nothing, Lon thought as he waited for  fourth
platoon  to  complete its  scouting  mission. The  rest  of the  company  was in
position just below  the ridgeline, with  half a company  on the reverse  slope,
securing the rear. Lon had changed  his mind after looking over the  valley from
the ridge, deciding  that altitude would  give more advantage  than a few  dozen
extra yards to the west. No foxholes  or trenches had been dug, but most  of the
men had improved their positions as best they could without a lot of effort  and
noise, moving rocks, scooping out shallow depressions in the rocky soil-whatever
was possible and quick.

Fourth platoon had been out less than twenty minutes. There was no radio traffic
from them, or within the platoon. Lon  did not expect any, unless they ran  into
problems, and then he knew he might hear the trouble before Harley or Wil  could
report it.

It shouldn 't take more than another half hour, Lon decided, noting the time  on
his helmet's head-up display. That 'II give them time to get right in the middle
of the  enemy, if  they're there.  Earlier, it  had been  easy to think that the
Shrike pilot couldn't be mistaken, that  there had to be something out  of place
in or  near that  clearing, but  Lon was  no longer  so confident. Ghosts in the
night. He shook  his head. Some  things never change.  But some did.  Cold, hard
ground  felt colder  and harder,  more uncomfortable  than it  had twenty  years
before, when he was young, when it was all new.

He wasn't certain  what brought Lon,  Junior, to mind  just then, but  Lon could
almost see him lying on the hillside in camouflage battledress, looking over the
barrel of  a rifle,  waiting for  some enemy  to attack,  fidgeting impatiently,
anxious for the fight to start. Another image flashed quickly through his brain,
sending a shiver of momentary terror down  his spine. He was looking at his  son
in uniform head on, and could see  a bullet hole through the center of  Junior's
forehead.

Lon lifted his  faceplate halfway and  reached in and  rubbed at his  eyes, hard
enough  to bring  spots of  color to  his vision,  trying to  banish the  waking
nightmare. The  image was  already gone,  but it  left a  knotted lump  in Lon's
stomach. Come on, Harley. find the enemy. Anything to end the thinking time.

Thirty  minutes. Forty-five.  Lon found  it difficult  to avoid  staring at  the
timeline at the top of his faceplate. He had an itch to call Harley to ask for a
report, but he did not  scratch. Harley would report when-if-there  was anything
to  report. Calling  would be  an unnecessary  distraction for  Harley, a   poor
example, and a sure way to  telegraph his own nervousness-never the best  course
for a commander.

Charlie Company boarded its shuttles in Lincoln. The men had their rocket packs.
If needed,  they could  reach the  site in  less than  ten minutes  and jump  in
wherever Lon  thought they  might do  the most  good. If  Alpha's fourth platoon
found the enemy shuttles or flushed an enemy force.

Lon scanned the valley floor with his binoculars. He checked his head-up display
for the green blips that indicated the positions of Harley Stossberg and  fourth
platoon's noncoms. They were  very nearly to the  location the Shrike pilot  had
given-where he thought  the two enemy  shuttles had gone  to ground. Any  second
now, Lon thought. When the gunfire began, it still startled him.



21

Gunfire, then  the first  report from  Harley: "We  missed a  sentry, dug in and
camouflaged." His voice showed the excitement of the moment, the adrenaline rush
of sudden action, but he did  not seem unduly flustered or emotional.  "At least
two or three more sentries. Enemy electronics going active-close, very close. It
was like we just walked into range. I've got one man down, vital signs weak but

still present."

"What about the shuttles?" Tebba asked as soon as Harley paused in his report.

"No ...  Yes. There's  one. Two.  I see  them, Tebba.  Under thermal  camouflage
rigging. Sandbags on the sides, about three feet high. And something beyond  the
shuttles. I can't tell what that is yet, something fairly large."

"Take the shuttles out before they  turn their guns on you," Lon  said, breaking
into  the  conversation  he  had  simply  been  monitoring  before.  "Blow those
suckers."

Harley did not have time to acknowledge the order, let alone give orders  before
Lon saw first one and then a second rocket trail, bright streamers through  gaps
in the forest. There were two quick explosions.

"Good work, Harley," Lon said. / like prompt results, he thought with a grin.

Then there was a third explosion, larger than the first two. A fireball  erupted
through  the  forest  canopy and  cast  arcs  of burning  material  up  and out,
scattering  fiery blobs  over more  than an  acre of  ground. Lon  heard a   few
exclamations of surprise, even a couple of curses, before Harley came back on to
report.

"That third object. It was a fuel tank. We've got a damned inferno in here.  The
enemy has stopped shooting, for the moment, anyway. I still can't tell how  many
we're facing, but they've got to have more people close, and they'll be all over
us now."

"Pull back, Harley," Lon  said. "You've done your  job. Get that platoon  out of
the way as fast as  you can. We're set to  provide covering fire if the  raiders
get their act together too soon."

"On our way," Harley said.

Ten seconds later, gunfire erupted again. Even at a distance, Lon could tell the
difference between the raiders' weapons and those the DMC used. The sounds  were
distinct, difficult to confuse.

"Tebba, that sounds like more than a few sentries," Lon said, switching channels
to talk just to Girana.

"It  does," Tebba  said. "At  least a  platoon, maybe  more. Should  we move  to
reinforce fourth platoon?"

"Not yet." Lon said after a short hesitation. "Let's see what Harley needs. Just
have your men ready to put covering fire in over their heads." �

"That  blaze could  make things  difficult," Tebba  said. "Plays  hell with  the
night-vision gear anywhere close to it. And that smoke is getting thick."

At least a score  of smaller blazes had  started around the major  fires, bright
points topped by billowing smoke as trees and the new foliage of spring  started
to bum. Burning wood crackled. Some of those sounds were almost like gunshots.

"We're pulling back in good order," Harley reported nearly two minutes after his
previous transmission.  "I've got  a couple  of men  with minor  bums. still fit
enough to move on their own and  fight. I make the opposition at least  equal to
our own  strength. We're  making headway,  though. They're  wasting time  moving
around, trying to avoid being backlighted by the flames."

"Get men out ahead of you on this side, Harley," Tebba said. "If they've got men
in caves somewhere under this ridge, they could be between us."

"I hope there's more eyes than  we have watching for that, Tebba,"  Harley said.
"We're a little busy just now."

"Doing what we can. Harley." Tebba  switched channels again. "Lon, you going  to
bring in Charlie now? Even if no extra raiders show their heads, we're going  to
have to give this area a close search and see what else is around."

"They'll  be in  the air  in fifteen  seconds, Tebba,"  Lon said.  He had   just
finished giving the  order. "I'd like  to have a  better idea where  to set them
down before they get here. I'm not going to give drop coordinates until the last
minute."

More waiting. Lon played  with the idea of  sending another of Alpha's  platoons
out, to try to flank the raiders  who were chasing the platoon Harley was  with,
but he decided to wait. The three platoons on the ridge might not be compromised
yet. The  raiders might  not have  any idea  that there  were more soldiers that
close. Keep the  aces facedown as  long as possible,  Lon told himself.  // they
don't know how many we are, we still don't know how many they are either.

Lon spent several minutes talking  with Vel Osterman in Lincoln.  The engagement
near Long  Glen had  joined again,  with Bravo  and Delta  Companies moving back
toward the mining village and the new raider force that had landed there.  There
had been several  skirmishes, with the  raiders hitting and  moving, drawing the
pursuit  toward and  then around  the village.  The Bancrofter  militiamen  were
positioning themselves to keep the  first raider force from doubling  back. That
entire operation was so fluid that it  was difficult to be certain of much.  The
raiders were operating in small teams now, splitting apart, but still apparently
working in concert, harassing, sniping.

As far as he could, Lon tried to put Long Glen out of his immediate thoughts. He
had his own situation to  concentrate on. Two shuttles carrying  Charlie Company
were in the air. Colonel Crampton reported that he had four companies of militia
in shuttles ready to lift off as soon as Lon called for them.

The  sky was  beginning to  show the  approach of  morning. Lon  and the   three
platoons on the slope  below the ridgeline were  still in shadow, but  that line
behind them was more  clearly etched now. Stars  were fading from view.  Sunrise
was no more than twenty minutes away.

"Tebba, I'm going to  bring Charlie down well  on the other side  of the fight,"
Lon said, glancing into  the eastern sky. "They're  going to be visible  jumping
in, so  we've got  to give  them some  space. We  need to  let them get down and
organized before they get sucked into a firefight."

"Where's that Shrike that was stooging around?" Tebba asked.

"Just waiting for my go-ahead," Lon said.  "I want to make sure we've got  clear
separation between fourth platoon and the enemy before I have him come in-unless
things get too hot for Harley."

"He's got more than a hundred yards' separation between his people and the enemy
now, Lon. Maybe one-twenty. It's not going to get much wider than that."

Lon switched  channels. "Harley,  link to  the Shrike  pilot. Lead  him in for a
strike  on  the  raiders  coming  your  way.  Be  careful.  Give  him  the right
coordinates."

"Don't worry, I'm not about to screw up and order my own ass shot off. Colonel,"
Harley said. "Switching channels now."

"Tebba, Charlie will  drop right after  the Shrike makes  its second pass,"  Lon
said after he also switched channels. "I'm  going to bring them in one mile  due
west  of  the  explosions. And  I'm  going  to have  Colonel  Crampton  send two
companies in the same place we landed."

"If you bring them in  right away, we won't have  time to get a detachment  back
there to secure the LZ," Tebba said.

"No help for that. I  don't want to weaken our  position here. Any luck at  all,
there shouldn't  be any  raiders behind  us. I'll  tell Crampton  we don't  have
anyone there, to treat it as if the enemy might be waiting."


The second raider  force revealed itself  as the Shrike  made its attack  on the
first force. Two  surface-to-air missiles streaked  toward the Shrike,  launched
below and left- south-of the line  Lon and the three platoons were  holding high
on the hillside. The first missile veered farther left, missing the Shrike by  a
wide margin, but the  second caught it near  the tail, blowing the  tail control
surfaces away.  The Shrike  spiraled into  the ground,  exploding on contact, no
more than fifty yards from where the craft on the ground had been destroyed. The
pilot never had a chance to eject.

Lon called Captain Kai. "Sefer, switch your  drop zone. Half a mile west of  the
main fires instead of a full mile. We've got more bogeys on the ground, no count
on them yet. I need your men sooner rather than later."

"Half the distance," Kai said. "I'll pass that to the pilots now. Colonel."

Charlie  Company jumped  from its  shuttles less  than two  minutes later.   The
jumpers were not invisible. Thin tails of pale blue marked the exhausts on their
rocket packs, and sunrise  was close. There was  some light. To cover  the jump,
Lon ordered the rest of Alpha Company  to take the raiders near the base  of the
hill under fire, even though they did not have a good read on the exact position
or number of the enemy there-only the spots from which the two missiles had been
fired. Rifles and rocket-propelled grenades.  The grenades offered more hope  of
hits than the rifles, though the range was extreme.

The enemy  reacted quickly,  turning to  respond to  the gunfire  from near  the
ridge. After thirty seconds, Lon estimated that there might be a full company of
raiders below-three hundred  feet lower  and twice  that distance  to the  south
southeast, at the base of the line of hills.

The second Shrike made a fast pass across the enemy positions, too high and  too
fast to use its cannon. It  scattered three missiles along the enemy  line, then
climbed out of harm's way as quickly as possible, almost straight into the  sky.
It didn't level off to circle around until it was above fifteen thousand feet.

Lon rested  in the  most solid  firing position  he could  manage. The range and
angle made accurate rifle fire  difficult, even with his helmet's  optics linked
to the rifle's sights, but he  got off several three-shot bursts, waiting  until
he saw  the muzzle  flashes of  enemy rifles  and targeting  them. No one in the
company  was firing  on full  automatic. Dirigenters  were taught  not to  waste
ammunition. For  the same  reason, Lon's  men were  being extremely sparing with
their rocket-propelled grenades.  The range was  near the maximum  effective for
the weapons.

Charlie Company hit the  ground and got organized.  Jumping into a wooded  area,
there had been some inevitable dispersal as men maneuvered to find clear  routes
among the trees. Squad leaders  and platoon sergeants were busy  gathering their
men and checking to make certain that there had been no serious injuries on  the
jump. It took  several minutes for  Lon to get  the report: Three  men had minor
injuries-sprained  ankles  or knees;  several  others had  cuts  suffered coming
through the foliage.

"Move toward  your right,  Sefer," Lon  told Captain  Kai. "We  want to  put the
raiders at the foot of this ridge between us. Move carefully, though. They might
have a lot more men underground anywhere along here."

"In other words,  while we're trying  to flank them,  they might be  flanking us
farther down the line," Kai replied.

"We've  got more  men coming  in, Sefer.  The sooner  we know  the size  of  the
opposition here, the better."

"That's easy  for you  to say.  Colonel. We'll  do what  we can.  Just remember,
there's not enough  juice left in  the rocket packs  to take us  back up to  the
shuttles."

"I'll keep it in mind," Lon  said, suppressing a chuckle. A year  earlier, Sefer
Kai had startled a regimental officers' conference by suggesting that the rocket
pack  system  might be  upgraded  to permit  extraction  as well  as  insertion,
glossing over the considerable difficulties of having two hundred men attempt to
rendezvous with shuttles traveling a minimum of 180 miles per hour.

I wish we could close off the trouble at Long Glen so I could bring the rest  of
the battalion here, Lon thought. Having two major engagements going at once  was
not the way  he wanted to  handle the raiders.  And if the  raiders were able to
stage a third raid at the same time, the Diri-genters and their hosts would have
trouble responding to that at all.

Daylight. They probably won't try any new raids before sunset, Lon thought. .  .
hoped. With a  little luck we  can clean up  one or the  other of our operations
before then. It was too soon to make any serious plans for consolidating  forces
to concentrate on  one site or  the other. The  people of Long  Glen couldn't be
left unprotected until  the immediate threat  there was over.  And this nameless
site couldn't be abandoned until Lon's  men could determine whether there was  a
major raider base concealed  nearby. That might take  days, even if the  raiders
engaging them were all neutralized quickly-killed or captured.

"Tebba, did you mark where the first firing started below us?" Lon asked,

"Not precisely. I think we can narrow it down to within twenty or thirty  yards,
though."

"That should be close  enough. We get this  firefight ended, that's where  we'll
need to start looking for a cave entrance."

"I don't think they'll be anywhere  with only one exit, Lon," Girana  said. "You
remember last time. That cave had more ways out than an illegal whorehouse."

"Yeah, I've been thinking about that. When those militiamen get here, I'm  going
to have them covering  the ground behind us  and around to the  south from here,
looking for holes as well as raiders."

"Going to be midday or later before they can do much good at that," Tebba  said.
"I've already got men putting snoops out behind us and past the ends of our line
here."

"We're getting close monitoring from overhead as well," Lon said. "But we  can't
do any real probing for caves on the ground until this firefight ends."

Real guerrilla warfare, Lon thought. It's hard to keep thinking of this as  just
simple raiding. It might not be enough to deal with the men Earth has put on the
ground here. Unless the Bancrofters can keep more of them from coining in  after
we leave, they could find themselves faced with the same thing, again and again.
He shook his head. It  was starting to look more  and more as if Earth  had more
final intentions toward Bancroft,  destabilizing the government and  then taking
over the world directly.

What's that unidentified ship doing now? Lon wondered, and he called Vel to have
him check with CIC again. I feel  as if I'm juggling ten-pound razor blades,  he
thought while he waited for Osterman to  radio back. If I'm not careful I  could
miss a blade and slice my head off.

"Action coming from the south!" Tebba shouted over his link to Lon. "One of  the
snoops picked up movement, two hundred yards out, just on the other side of  the
ridge. They're trying to sneak in  behind us." "How many?" Lon asked.  "Can't be
sure, but it looks like just a couple of squads ... so far," Tebba said.  "Might
be more behind the ones the snoop can see."

"I'll take a squad and have a look," Lon said. "Okay if I grab the squad closest
to me?"

"You're the boss."

Lon signaled to the  leader of the squad  that was closest, Dominic  Schwartz, a
newly promoted corporal, and quickly briefed him on what they were going to  do,
cutting into  the squad's  operational channel  so that  everyone would hear the
plan.

Schwartz put his point man out, and Lon got into the squad's line in the  middle
of the first fire team-and Jer-emy  Howell followed right along, though Lon  had
not "invited" him.

"More volunteering?" Lon asked softly.

"Hard to break  the habit, sir,"  Howell said. "My  mama always said  bad habits
would be the death of me."

"Not today, okay?"

"Fine by me, sir."

"Stick close to me and keep your head down," Lon said.

There  was no  elegant plan.  Lon merely  planned to  take the  squad along  the
western side  of the  ridge until  they were  behind the  raiders moving  on the
eastern side-then  cross over  and take  them from  the crest  and behind. Tebba
would have men  watching the crest  farther north, to  make certain the  raiders
weren't able to sneak up on the rest of the company.

Walking silently across the steeply pitched slope required concentration.  There
was loose rock in among the roots and a very thin layer of soil that was all the
hill offered to anchor  the few short, scrawny  trees, sparse bushes, and  grass
that managed to  grow so near  the summit. The  trees would offer  little cover.
This high up spring was just beginning to sprout new leaves.

Four  minutes. Lon  estimated that  they should  be just  opposite the  raiders,
separated only by the top thirty feet of the ridge, less than fifty yards  apart
laterally. As  long as  they don't  peak over  the crest  too soon, Lon thought,
glancing that way himself. Every man in the squad with him was thinking  similar
thoughts.

Tebba reported that there had been no additional warnings from the snoop on  the
other  side  of  the  ridge. "It  counted  twenty-two  men  moving past,"  Tebba
reported. "From your blips, you should be  twenty yards or so beyond the end  of
the raider column."

"Too bad we can't see blips for the raiders," Lon whispered back. "I think we'll
give them a little more space before we turn."

"Your call," Tebba said. "You're the one on the scene."

Two minutes. An extra thirty yards. Then Lon told Corporal Schwartz that it  was
time to turn left. The squad  turned, moving from column to skirmish  line, with
two to four yards'  separation between men as  they started climbing toward  the
crest of the ridge. The distances between men varied considerably over the  next
few minutes  because the  terrain did  not always  permit straight movement. The
ridgeline was irregular, the  last stretch of the  climb was steeper, and  there
were places where men  would have needed ropes  and climbing gear to  hold their
relative positions. Schwartz halted his men just below the crest and dressed the
line as best he could, making certain the men were not bunched too tightly. Then
he had the man at the far  end of the line-presumably the man farthest  from the
raiders-edge up; he would be the first to look across for any sign of the enemy.

"Be ready for  anything," Schwartz warned  the rest of  his squad. "We  could be
within spitting distance of them if we've guessed wrong or they quit moving."

Lon did not interfere.  The corporal would know  his men better than  Lon could.
Every private in this squad was new since Lon had last gone into combat with it.
Only Schwartz and the lance corporal commanding the squad's second fire team had
been with it before Lon had transferred to battalion from A Company.

"Colonel, you ready?" Schwartz asked.

"Whenever you are. Corporal," Lon replied. "Just think of Corporal Howell and me
as two extra rifles in the squad. I'll leave the operation to you if possible."

"Thank you, sir. Ten seconds."

Lon could not avoid a silent countdown. Schwartz gave his point man the order to
look  over the  crest. Lon  kept counting  seconds in  his head  until the   man
reported.

"Nothing within fifty  yards of us,  Corp. More like  seventy yards. Looks  like
they haven't started moving  up toward the crest  themselves. I can see  fifteen
men. There might be more farther on, though."

"When I give the  word," Schwartz said, "you  and Ma-guire go over  and get into
what cover you can find." Ma-guire was the next man in line, and he carried  one
of the squad's two grenade launchers. "We'll get in position and open up on them
together. Wait for the order," the corporal repeated.

Lon adjusted his footing and checked to make certain that his rifle's safety was
off. His head  was two feet  below the crest;  he was lying  against the rock at
nearly a fifty-degree angle. There was another narrow ledge pressing against his
thighs, just above his knees. When Corporal Schwartz gave the order to start the
action, Lon would move up  to that last ledge to  give himself an angle of  fire
along the crest.

Schwartz gave the first  order, and the two  men farthest south rolled  over the
crest and slid into position several yards down the slope on the other side.  As
soon as they reported that they were ready, the corporal alerted the rest of the
squad, then checked with Lon.

"You give the word," Lon told him.

Schwartz switched back to his squad frequency to give it. "Go!"

Lon stepped up to  the firing position he  had marked, getting his  rifle across
the top and  tracking for targets.  He had just  started to squeeze  the trigger
when he heard the sound of the  first grenades being launched. He got off  three
bursts with his rifle before  those grenades exploded. Both grenadiers  followed
up with three more shots apiece, scattering their grenades along the line of the
enemy squads.

The raiders under the barrage did not get off a single shot in return.

"We'll check 'em out. Colonel," Schwartz said. "I'd feel a lot better if you was
to stay put for a couple of minutes, sir. Make it easier on my boys."

"We'll start back on  this side of the  ridge. Corporal," Lon said.  "Good work.
Tell your men I said so. And be careful checking out those raiders."

One little bit of this finished nicely,  Lon thought. If the rest would just  go
the same way.



22

Harley Stossberg and  fourth platoon worked  their way back  toward the line  of
hills, angling slightly toward the north, pulling out of contact with the raider
force that had been protecting the  shuttles and fuel supply. They left  several
mines to complicate the enemy's pursuit.

Charlie Company was moving south of the now smoldering remains of the two raider
shuttles and the trees and ground cover that had been ignited by the explosions.
Even the  fuel in  the storage  tank had  mostly burned  out, leaving only a few
trickles of flame centered  in the ashes of  the larger blazes. The  morning air
was thick with smoke  trapped by the trees,  and the odors of  fire still clung,
irritating noses and throats.

Captain Kai detached one squad to  investigate the remains of the shuttles.  The
patrol was almost  to the central  blackened area when  the point man  tripped a
mine that had somehow survived the earlier explosions and fire. Attached to  the
underside of a large  branch, near the trunk  of the tree, the  mine's blast was
focused toward the  ground. The squad's  point man was  killed. The next  man in
line suffered  major injuries  from shrapnel,  and the  third man caught several
large splinters  of wood  from the  tree. The  remaining men  first went prone-a
reflex-then moved to care for their casualties.

Two hundred yards away. Captain Kai halted the rest of his men, waiting for word
on the results of the explosion.  His men watched their perimeter more  intently
than usual,  in case  the blast  was the  prelude to  an ambush  that might also
include them. As  soon as Kai  heard from the  leader of the  detached squad, he
passed the results to Lon.

"Lozzet needs  a trauma  tube, but  Baukir's condition  is okay; med-patches and
bandages will do for him." Lozzet was the man who had taken the shrapnel.

"How critical is Lozzet?" Lon asked.

"The medic says he needs to be in a tube as soon as we can manage, no more  than
thirty minutes," Kai said.

On the ridge, Lon squeezed his eyes shut, just for an instant, while he tried to
decide among risky options. Thirty minutes was going to be difficult. Coming  in
on rocket packs, Charlie Company had not brought a trauma tube along.

"We can't bring a  shuttle into that clearing  without securing the entire  area
first," Lon said. "Too easy for the raiders to bring it down. The medics up here
have a portable tube, so either your men will have to carry Lozzet here, or  the
medics  will have  to carry  the tube  down to  where he  is." Lon's  pause  was
minimal.  "Have his  squad carry  him toward  the ridge.  Use the  rest of  your
company to run interference, angle over and try to put a wedge around them. I'll
have Tebba detail two squads to escort a medic and the tube toward the bottom of
the slope, to meet you partway."

"We'll get him there," Kai said.

"Sefer, don't get careless. Don't make a  lot more casualties to get one man  to
treatment. We've  only got  the one  trauma tube  on the  ground." Lon  felt his
throat tighten, as if it didn't want  to let those words out. Take care  of your
casualties. Get them to help as  quickly as possible. Never abandon a  man while
there's any hope at all for him.  But, too often, that led only to  the creation
of more casualties-often without saving the man whose rescue occasioned them. It
wasn't always easy to act prudently, though. The pull of emotion, the dedication
of comrades to  each other, made  that difficult. The  gamble was accepted  more
often than it was declined.

Lon switched radio channels and told  Tebba what was needed. "We've got  to give
those men all the cover we can."

"We'll do what we can," Tebba said.


There were two groups of raiders operating openly- known to Lon and his men. One
group was on the valley floor, still harassing the platoon of Alpha Company that
had been sent to look for  the shuttles and their defenders, but  losing ground,
finding it difficult to regain contact with Harley and his men. The other  group
was on the side of the valley and on the lower slopes of the line of hills  that
bordered the valley on the east. The intensity of the fighting had declined over
the last  several minutes,  and it  was slow  to build  again as Charlie Company
moved to get its casualties to help.

On the  slope, Lon  and Tebba  readjusted the  lines, moving  the center farther
downhill to put Alpha Company in  a wedge-shaped deployment, with only a  single
fire team at  the top of  the wedge to  guard the rear.  Attempting to cover the
movement of Charlie Company and the men carrying the one seriously wounded  man,
both platoons  were free  in their  use of  rocket-propelled grenades and almost
profligate with  rifle ammunition-more  concerned now  with suppressing  hostile
fire and movement than in causing enemy casualties.

Lon  contributed  to  the  covering fire,  interrupting  his  shooting  only for
essential radio conversations.  The three companies  of Bancrofter militia  were
nearly all on the  ground. The first company  had already started moving  toward
the action. Taranto had sent down two more Shrikes, to replace the one that  had
been shot down and to relieve the other one on station. Four other Shrikes  were
on alert in case one of the  firefights escalated. At Long Glen, Lon's men  were
boarding shuttles to join this new  fight, leaving the village's defense to  the
militia. Aboard Long Snake, a shuttle was being loaded with ammunition and other
supplies for the  Dirigenters on the  ground. That lander  would come in  at the
same time Bravo and Delta  Companies did, and those mercenaries  would transport
the load to the rest of the battalion.

The rendezvous of wounded soldier and trauma tube took more than twenty minutes.
Without time to move them to a  more secure location, a perimeter had to  be set
up around  the rendezvous  point. Charlie  Company set  that up  initially, only
linking up  with Alpha  Company after  the fact-as  Harley Stossberg and Alpha's
fourth platoon returned to the rest of the company. That platoon had several men
with minor injuries, but nothing requiring a trauma tube.

"We're too spread out," Lon said on  a circuit that connected him with both  Kai
and Girana. "We need  to set up a  better defensive perimeter here  on the slope
until our reinforcements arrive."

"We can carry the trauma tube," Captain Kai said, "but we'll have to move slowly
with Lozzet in it. Where do you want us?"

"Move toward  your left,  Sefer," Lon  said. "As  you get  into position  on the
slope, you'll take the north half  of the perimeter. Alpha will move  around the
circle and take the south half. We'll adjust our spacing later. Right now I just
want to  get everyone  pulled in  together. It's  going to  be at  least another
ninety minutes before the militia starts to arrive."

"When do the rest of our people get here?" Kai asked.

"It's going to be at  least four hours, unless I  have to bring them in  on this
side, and I don't want to do that," Lon said. "Unless we're up to our armpits in
crap, I won't risk shuttles and the men in them this close to the enemy."

"You still bringing the militia around on the south?" Girana asked.

"That's the plan. Two companies of them,  at least. I think I'll bring the  last
one straight over the ridge the way we came. Put them in on the north end of our
position and on the crest."

Waiting. The raiders were doing only occasional sniping now. They appeared to be
moving, but Lon could not be certain where they were moving to. It was rare  for
any of his  men to spot  any of the  enemy, and they  were not intercepting  any
enemy electronics, so the Dirigenters held their fire as well, simply  targeting
the snipers when they spotted the location of one of them.

Lon had  Alpha and  Charlie gradually  expand their  perimeter on  the hillside,
arranging  better  defensive  positions.  Men  worked  at  scooping  out shallow
depressions for  themselves, where  there was  soil over  the rock  of the hill.
Others  moved stones  and branches-anything  to give  themselves even  a  little
better cover against enemy gunfire.

If they  know how  we dealt  with their  people nine  years ago,  they won't let
themselves get boxed up in their caves this time, Lon thought-certainly not  for
the first time.  From what had  happened so far  on Bancroft, he  felt he had to
assume that  these raiders  knew about  the fate  of their predecessors. They'll
come out, take their chances in the open. They must have contingency plans. Even
if they didn 't know we would be here, they 'd know that the Ban-crofters  would
be after them sooner or later.

Lon rolled over onto  his side and looked  into the sky. Two  enemy shuttles had
been destroyed on  the ground, but  it seemed certain  that the soldiers  of the
Colonial Mining  Cartel must  have more  aircraft available-somewhere.  They had
moved men  into Long  Glen after  the two  here had  been spotted and were under
surveillance. And the  abandoned mining camp.  They won't come  out in daylight,
Lon thought, not without heavy cloud cover to hide them. But after dark,  that's
another story. They  could use whatever  resources they have  to move troops  or
just to attack us. Maybe. Would they risk whatever air resources they still had,
knowing  that the  Dirigenters would  be watching  for them?  "I wouldn't,"  Lon
mumbled, after checking to  make sure his transmitter  was off, "not unless  the
situation were desperate."

Was it? For the raiders? How would they view their position? They were being hit
hard, whenever they  exposed themselves, in  significant numbers. Most  of their
raids were being frustrated, and they were losing men and equipment.

That unidentified ship was  still in the system,  edging closer to Bancroft  but
maintaining fleeing room, keeping the  planet between itself and the  Dirigenter
vessels. Ta-ranto was not moving after the intruder, but staying in position  to
support 2nd Battalion's operations on the  ground and to protect Long Snake  and
Tyre. It  can't just  be a  transport coining  to pick  up what the raiders have
grabbed, Lon thought. / don't think  they would have stayed around with  so much
opposition. They must have extra men or critical supplies, maybe more shuttles.

It was all guesswork, deduction from insufficient data. Trying to juggle all the
maybes and what-ifs was starting to give Lon a headache. One step at a time,  he
thought. Worry about the enemy below  you, the ones you know about.  Worry about
the rest after you take care of these.

He rolled back over,  looking over the barrel  of his rifle into  the valley. It
had been several  minutes since he  had heard a  gunshot, from either  side. The
raiders might be withdrawing from the  area as fast as caution would  permit. By
the time Colonel Crampton's three militia companies arrived, there might not  be
any raiders within shooting distance ... or they might have the equivalent of  a
DMC battalion lying in wait, ready to spring a massive ambush.

"Tebba, we need to  put some feelers out,  find out where the  raiders are," Lon
said, opening his channel to Girana. "I need to know if they're still close  and
what they're doing, before the militia companies walk into something big."

"I've been thinking about that, too,"  Tebba said. "The raiders have gotten  too
quiet for my liking."

"Maybe one fire team  south along the ridge,  another probing into the  valley,"
Lon said.  "They're to  avoid getting  caught in  an exchange  of fire if at all
possible. I just want to know where the enemy is, not start the shooting  again.
I'll have Sefer put out probes on his side." As soon as Girana acknowledged, Lon
called Captain Kai and gave him his orders.

Stealth was second nature to Dirigenters, something they trained hard at, but it
made  for  slow patrols.  At  night, Lon's  men  might even  have  been able  to
infiltrate a strongly held line  without being observed. In daylight  they might
be able to come within thirty yards of the enemy without giving themselves  away
except by wildest chance. The camouflage battledress they wore had been designed
specifically  for  conditions  on  Bancroft.  Each  fire  team-six  men  at full
complement,  half a  squad-could operate  with the  assurance of  scores,  often
hundreds, of hours training together, at just this sort of maneuver.

Lon set his helmet to monitor the radio frequencies that the patrols would  use,
but did not expect to hear anything unless one of them ran into trouble. Part of
stealth was not using  active electronics that could  be monitored by an  enemy.
The lead company  of militiamen was  also observing electronic  silence, and the
other two companies  had already reduced  transmissions to a  minimum. Lon noted
that with approval. The BCM had maintained the level of training the mercenaries
had established for them on their previous visit to the world.

But the raiders were also observing strict electronic silence. No emissions were
being detected by the  battle helmets of the  Dirigenters or by the  Shrikes and
shuttles  in  the air-all  of  which were  monitoring  the area  around  the two
companies of 2nd Battalion. Had they  picked up anything, even the vague  static
that was not quite an intercept, the information would have been linked  through
to Lon immediately.

Vel Ostennan relayed a  report from the militia  commander on the scene  at Long
Glen. The  raiders there  had broken  off the  engagement, disappearing into the
forest. The militia  was not pursuing,  but maintaining its  defensive perimeter
around the village.

Wait. Lon talked with Colonel Crampton, who was moving with the third company of
militia on its way to reinforce Lon's two companies. Lon laid out his  suggested
deployment for  the militia,  and asked  Crampton to  put out  patrols along the
eastern side of the line of hills, especially to the north. "That's the  section
we've given least thought  to," Lon said. "The  raiders have kept our  attention
focused west and south,  which makes looking the  other way seem very  desirable
just now."

It was past noon before the  first militia company started crossing the  line of
hills through a pass 2'/2 miles south of the mercenaries. They would put patrols
out farther south, but the bulk of the first two companies would work their  way
north, spreading out  to cover both  the flank of  the ridge and  the section of
valley between it  and the wreckage  of the raider  shuttles-looking for contact
with the enemy.

They knew to look for cave entrances.

Bravo and Delta Companies  of 2nd Battalion were  on the ground, at  the landing
zone in  the next  valley east.  The supply  shuttle was  also on the ground. It
would take a solid  three hours-and then some-for  those two companies to  reach
the  rest  of  the battalion  and  get  into position.  Lon  had  not given  the
commanders of those two companies orders  for the disposition of their men  yet;
he wanted to take them out," Lon told Tebba. One man in each fire team carried a
beamer, an energy rifle: silent, striking at the speed of light.

Then  Lon  switched  to  an  infrared  overlay  that  painted  the  terrain   by
temperature. Out in the open, it was only sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit,  cooler
in the shadows. Infrared resolution was not as precise as visible light, but Lon
was only  looking for  anomalies, evidence  of an  unusually cool location-which
might mark a cave entrance emitting a breeze. It was an imperfect search method,
dependent  on too  many variables,  but it  did offer  a chance  of  discovering
entrances to the caves he assumed were under the line of hills.

This  might  work better  in  the middle  of  summer, he  thought,  when outside
temperatures are twenty or twenty-five degrees  hotter than they are now. Or  in
the dead of winter. The temperature  inside an extensive cave system would  be a
steady  fifty-eight  degrees.  The greater  the  difference  between inside  and
outside, the better the chance of spotting an opening. With little more than ten
degrees' difference, and foliage intervening, Lon had no success. After reducing
the magnification to give himself a broader view of the area, Lon finally folded
the mapboard and put it away.

Several gunshots sounded, close together,  coming from near the location  of one
of the men Lon had spotted. He guessed that one of the men with a beamer had hit
a target, and the men around the victim were firing back. A few seconds later he
received confirmation from Tebba that one of the targets had been dropped.

"They  haven't  all  just  hit the  trail,"  Tebba  said.  "They're down  there,
somewhere, waiting for whatever."

"Maybe  waiting  for dark,  the  way we  might  in similar  circumstances,"  Lon
replied.  Despite  sophisticated  night-vision systems,  the  dark  remained the
infantryman's friend.  Not even  the best  system, such  as that incorporated in
Dirigenter battle helmets, provided vision equal to what unaided eyes could  see
in clear daylight.  Depth perception was  reduced, and thermal  insulation could
reduce the visibility of a target drastically. In theory, the Dirigenter  system
provided 80 to 90 percent of daylight vision. In practice, it could be  somewhat
less than that.

"Waiting to fight, or waiting to escape?" Tebba asked, and Lon had no answer.


A private  in Charlie  Company's third  platoon was  killed by  a sniper  eighty
minutes later-one  shot that  caught its  victim just  under the  bottom of  his
helmet's  faceplate  and  angled  up through  the  brain.  The  man died  almost
instantly, before his squadmates to either side could even react to the gunshot.
No one marked the direction  the shot had come from.  The squad laid down a  few
dozen rounds of rifle  fire across a thirty-degree  arc, with no way  to tell if
any of those shots found a target.

The last of  the three militia  companies moved into  position. Lon's Bravo  and
Delta Companies were  approaching the eastern  base of the  line of hills,  more
than a mile  apart. Bravo would  arrive in a  little over an  hour. Delta thirty
minutes after that.

Colonel  Crampton  and a  younger  militia officer  worked  their way  to  Lon's
position and  settled in  behind what  cover was  available. "Colonel," Crampton
said, "this is my son. Lieutenant Wilson Crampton. He commands lad Company."

Lon nodded. "Lieutenant." The younger Crampton nodded back. They were  separated
by his father, and since all three men were nearly prone, there was no  question
of handshaking.

"Do you think  you've located the  main body of  the raiders?" Colonel  Crampton
asked.

"I'm  not sure  what to  think," Lon  replied. "We  have some  raiders, and   we
certainly took care of two of their shuttles and a large fuel tank. The last few
hours, there's been nothing but occasional  sniping back and forth. I wanted  to
wait until we had as many men here  as possible, just in case we are sitting  on
their  main  force. I'm  not  sure what  the  raiders are  waiting  for-probably
nightfall."

"You plan to move against them before then?"

"We're already moving. With two companies of your men moving in on their  flank,
they've got to do something."

"Well, I've deployed those companies the way you suggested, leaving two platoons
to cover  their rear,  in case  the raiders  have cave  exits south  of where we
crossed  the ridge,"  Colonel Crampton  said. "And  Wilson's company  is on  the
reverse slope, above us." He gestured over his shoulder.

"If the raiders  don't engage before  then, we'll start  pressing as soon  as my
last two companies get in position," Lon said. "About ninety minutes from now."

"When the  last of  your men  get here,  we should  have nearly fourteen hundred
altogether. That should be enough to handle anything the raiders can put against
us." The militia commander's voice did not sound as confident as his words.



23

There were several small skirmishes while Lon waited for the rest of his  troops
to arrive and move into position. The raiders clashed with the militia companies
moving in, but none of the actions seemed to involve more than a single squad of
raiders-patrols or a  rear guard covering  the withdrawal of  the rest of  their
force. It was impossible to be certain which.

Lon set up a commanders' conference on the radio, with Colonel Crampton and  all
of the commanders from the DMC and the BCM, going over the plan he had  devised.
On the  south, two  militia companies  would press  west, beyond the burned-over
area and  the clearing  that the  raiders had  used for  a landing strip. On the
north, three of Lon's companies would  push west. The two forces would  curve in
toward a rendezvous a mile beyond the clearing. Alpha Company and the  militia's
2nd Company would hold positions along the ridge to complete the circle.

Lon  hoped  to  trap the  raiders  within  that circle.  Once  it  was complete,
mercenaries and  militiamen would  draw it  tighter, aiming  to force combat and
neutralize this raider  force. Once armed  opposition ended, they  could turn to
searching the line of hills for the  cave system Lon suspected had to be  there,
serving as a base for the raiders. If the raiders had already withdrawn the  men
who had been  in the area,  the combined force  of Dirigenters and  Ban-crofters
would establish a solid perimeter, then go to work searching for the caves. They
would cover as much of this line  of hills as necessary to find those  caves ...
or be certain they did not exist.

"What if their main force is here and we get more than you seem to be bargaining
for?" Colonel Crampton asked after Lon had laid out the essentials.

"We're hoping to draw their main force into battle. Colonel," Lon replied. "I'll
have six Shrike fighters  to provide close ground  support, as well as  the guns
and rockets of four of our attack shuttles, once we can cut down on the odds  of
the raiders using SAMs to bring the aircraft down. My guess is that the  raiders
will offer combat early once we start pressing-if their main force is  concealed
in  caves  here-rather than  risk  having the  same  thing happen  to  them that
happened to the raiders nine years back."

"You really think they know what happened then?" Colonel Crampton asked, clearly
skeptical.

"It's virtually certain. Colonel," Lon said. "My best estimate is that they knew
about it before this new incursion was launched, a year ago. That knowledge most
likely influenced their planning for this new attack on Bancroft."

Crampton hesitated before he said, "I must confess I still have my doubts  about
that,  but I  can see  that we   have to  proceed on  the assumption  that  it's
possible."


Bravo Company  arrived, carrying  part of  the resupply  for Alpha  and Charlie.
Ammunition and food packs were distributed. Men ate while they could. Bravo  and
Charlie started shifting into position for their thrust westward. Delta  Company
was climbing the  eastern slope of  the ridge. The  extra supplies they  carried
would  be  left with  Alpha  and 2nd  Companies.  Colonel Crampton's  other  two
companies  had  gone  into  a temporary  defensive  perimeter,  waiting  for the
attacking force to be complete. Company commanders briefed their platoon leaders
and noncoms. Sergeants briefed platoons and squads.

"Colonel, I've never been in a fight  as big as this one looks to  be," Corporal
Howell said. He had kept busy through the afternoon, passing messages both ways,
assisting Lon as he normally did.

"You starting  to think  better about  your choice  to come  along?" Lon  asked,
turning his head toward Howell.

"This is where I should be," Howell said, "but I think my stomach's tied  itself
in about three knots."

"I know the feeling." Lon closed his eyes for an instant. Even if we get slammed
completely here, there 'II at least be  a few people back in Lincoln to  get the
message  out. Vel,  Phip, and  most of  the headquarters  detachment were  still
there. And the ships overhead. News would  get home. / don't want to go  down in
the history of the Corps as the commander of the worst defeat since 9th Regiment
was destroyed on  Wellman, Lon thought.  The 9th had  never been re-formed.  The
Corps consisted of  fourteen regiments, but  there was no  number nine-and never
would be again.

Gloomy thoughts  had often  plagued Lon  before action.  After two  decades as a
professional soldier there was  still a part of  his mind that recoiled  at what
combat offered- threatened-promised-fear, injury,  death. Why would anyone  risk
that? Duty. Dedication. Patriotism. The men of the DMC might be mercenaries, but
serving in the Corps  was still an act  of service to their  world. Soldiers and
military  materiel  were  the  stock  in trade  of  Dirigent.  It  did  not have
significant deposits of rare  metals and minerals to  offer. At times it  had to
import the products of better-endowed planets. Like Bancroft. Without the  Corps
and the munitions industry that had grown up beside it, Dirigent would still  be
an agricultural world, a  small colony with perhaps  no more than 10  percent of
its current population-vulnerable, prey to any predator that came around.

With all that, how can I possibly  keep Junior from joining the Corps when  he's
old enough ? Lon  wondered, and the intrusion  of that old worry  shook him from
his morose  meandering. Colonel  Crampton had  a son  as well,  and the  younger
Crampton was clearly following in his father's professional footsteps.

There's no reason to think this will go that badly, Lon told himself. We've  got
the manpower and heavy weapons overhead.  Even if we were outnumbered, we  ought
to be able to hold our own.


Delta arrived. Lon  told Captain Magnusson  to give his  men fifteen minutes  to
rest and  eat before  moving down  the western  side of  the hill  to join Bravo
Company for the push. Then Lon  alerted Colonel Crampton and all of  the company
commanders in  the combined  force that  they would  be beginning  their push in
forty-five minutes. Lon ate a quick meal himself, forcing the food in. His mouth
was dry. The food needed a lot of water to wash it down. There was nothing novel
in that, either. The best  food in the galaxy would  have been hard to eat  just
then.

Lon took the magazine from his  rifle, jacked the cartridge out of  the chamber,
and  looked  down  the  barrel to  make  sure  it  wasn't plugged-an  inspection
instigated by nerves. He put a full magazine in and ran the rifle's bolt to  put
a shell back into  the firing chamber, then  looked to make certain  the rifle's
safety was on. He took his pistol from its holster and ran a similar check.  The
handgun's magazine was full, so he merely put it back in. He was ready.

Twenty-five minutes remained before his force started trying to close the  horns
around the raiders in the valley.


Ten minutes  before the  designated time,  Lon's palms  were sweating  enough to
annoy him. He wiped them on his trouser legs. Although he would remain in place,
far from the greatest danger, he was  at least as nervous as he would  have been
had he been in the spearhead, walking point toward an expected ambush.

The patrols he had sent out earlier had pinpointed the location of several small
raider groups, but nothing that looked as  if it might be the main body.  "Looks
like they left outposts," Tebba said  when he passed the reports to  Lon. Girana
was acting as Lon's second-in-command in  the field. "No more than a  squad each
place, with snoops and mines planted to give them warning of anyone approaching.
We were lucky not to trip any of the mines."

"What about their snoops?" Lon asked. "Our patrols give themselves away?"

Tebba was too far away for Lon  to see him shrug. "Probably, but we  didn't pick
up any emissions from the snoops our patrols spotted."

"If we get a chance to do it  safely later, I want one or two of  those snoops,"
Lon said. "Give the labs back home  something to play with. Maybe they can  pick
up something to  improve our gear."  "Safely" was the  key word. A  man couldn't
simply pluck an enemy snoop from the  ground and stick it in his pack.  The odds
were at least even that it would be booby-trapped.

"I want those outposts targeted," Lon said. "We drop a couple of grenades on top
of each of them right as we kick off the operation."

"Already coordinated that, on both ends, Lon," Tebba said.

Lon changed channels  to speak with  Colonel Crampton. "Sixty  seconds. Colonel.
Your men ready to move?"

"Ready."

Again, Lon switched channels to connect to all of his company commanders. He was
watching the timeline on his visor's head-up display. "Thirty seconds."

When those seconds had elapsed, Lon's order went to Colonel Crampton and all  of
the company commanders in both units: "Go!"

                                    *  *  *

From Lon's  position, there  was no  immediate sign  of movement.  It might take
several minutes  before he  would see  blips moving  on his  mapboard or  on the
overlay of position  blips he could  cycle onto his  head-up display. The  first
clear indications he had of action  were the sounds of grenade launchers  firing
RPGs, and the whistles  of the projectiles as  they arced toward their  targets.
The  explosions came  in a  tightly grouped  series of  explosions-the flash  of
blasts,  the noise  of detonation,  the ripping  of shrapnel,  occasionally  the
cracking of  a tree  limb, small  clouds of  whitish smoke.  A second  volley of
grenades sounded more ragged. The explosions  were not as closely spaced as  the
first.

Scattered gunshots-the  heavier-caliber weapons  that the  raiders used-sounded.
The reply sounded uncoordinated, and there were not many shots.

Lon shook his  head as he  scanned the valley.  I've got a  feeling most of them
pulled  out, he  thought, that  they just  left enough  men behind  to keep   us
occupied. If they  hit somewhere else  tonight while I've  got all my  men and a
third of  the militia  tied up  here, we  could have  trouble responding quickly
enough.  He  had  discussed  that  possibility  with  Colonel  Crampton   before
committing  so many  men to  this operation,  and Crampton  had been  even  more
convinced than Lon that they had to do it.

"Looks  like  the best  chance  we've had  to  do a  significant  number of  the
bastards" was how Crampton had put it.

Lon heard the deeper explosion of a land mine to the south. A militia squad  had
tripped it, though it was nearly five minutes later before Corporal Howell could
relay details to Lon. Three men had  been killed and five wounded by the  blast.
That squad and several medics stayed  where they were while the next  squad took
over the point and kept moving-a little more slowly, far more cautiously.

On the north,  the advance stopped  for two minutes  while the point  squad used
hand grenades to trip a mine they  had spotted. It took several attempts to  set
it off.

Flanking patrols on  both sides ranged  farther from the  main advances, looking
for any indication that the raiders  had pulled out along the valley.  They left
electronic snoops every hundred yards or so to leave a warning system in  place.
Extra  snoops  had  been  among  the supplies  brought  in  by  Bravo  and Delta
Companies.

Half an hour after  the start of the  advance, the leading company  on the north
came under fire-a barrage of RPGs accompanied by rifle fire that was intense for
several minutes  ... and  then ended  completely as  the raider  patrol that had
launched the attack  disengaged. Casualties in  Charlie Company were  light, but
two men were  dead. The attack  was enough to  slow the advance.  It was all too
possible that the raiders would set up a second ambush.

Lon linked to Tebba Girana and Lieutenant Crampton. "Let's start moving down the
slope," Lon said. "No rush. Make sure your men are paying attention to any holes
that might lead  into a cave  system here. We  find anything like  that, we stay
above it, make sure the raiders can't come out behind us."

One platoon from  Alpha Company and  one platoon from  Lieutenant Crampton's 2nd
Company would remain near the ridgeline as a rear guard.

Lon's knees felt stiff from lying  almost motionless for so long. His  first few
steps were awkward, almost painful. He stumbled and slid, but Jeremy Howell  was
close enough to steady his boss. Lon nodded his thanks.

"You're too close to me. Jerry. You forgotten everything about proper  spacing?"
Lon said, as gently as he could.

"Yes, sir,  I guess  I have,"  Howell said,  the tinted  faceplate of his helmet
masking his grin. He moved  to the side a couple  of paces, but before they  had
gone  ten yards,  he had  cut that  separation in  half. Lon  noticed but   said
nothing.

Halfway down the slope, Lon halted the movement of his men to allow the  militia
company to catch up.  The lower half of  the hill was more  thickly wooded, with
taller, thicker trees and fuller greenery.  The line was still above the  valley
canopy, but looking out through trunks  and foliage around them. With limbs  and
leaves  overhead, the  temperature felt  several degrees  cooler-a relief  after
lying in the sun for so many hours.

It took 2nd Company  five minutes to get  back into position. Lon  told Tebba to
slow Alpha's pace as they started moving again. The two companies had  descended
only  another  twenty yards  before  Tebba signaled  that  his men  had  found a
concealed opening, and Lon halted both companies. They were still slightly above
the forest canopy of the valley floor.

"We'll set up our  line here," Lon told  Tebba and Wilson Crampton.  "Above that
opening, and give it some room. Looks like we've got more soil to work with,  so
have the men dig in as well as they can."

"You want us to investigate that opening?" Tebba asked after switching  channels
to talk privately with Lon.

"We're not sending anyone  inside," Lon said quickly.  "Not while we've got  the
rest of this  to worry about.  Have your men  hang a snoop  into the entrance if
they can do  it without  exposing themselves.  And set  up a  couple of  command
detonated mines in case we have to deal with a sortie from that opening."

"I'm going to  move over to  where they found  the opening and  have a look  for
myself," Tebba said. "And you don't have to tell me to be careful. I'm not going
to stick anything out to get shot off."

"Yeah, well,  I'll tell  you anyway.  Be careful.  You do  want to retire in one
piece when the  time comes." Inescapably,  Lon toyed with  the idea of  going to
have a look at the hole in the hill himself, but common sense held him where  he
was.  That sort  of operation  was no  longer his  business. He  had more   than
fourteen hundred  men to  worry about-his  own battalion  and Colonel Crampton's
militiamen.

The  sun was  low enough  in the  west to  shoot beams  under the  trees on  the
hillside. Bright sunlight  and deepening shadows,  extreme contrasts that  taxed
the  ability  of helmet  optics  to resolve  satisfactorily.  Lon found  himself
minimizing the polarity of his faceplate so that the shadows could hide nothing,
then squinting against the sun.

Lon was still  waiting for a  report on the  hole when Captain  Roim called from
Long  Snake:  "That  unidentified  ship  has  altered  course  again  and   it's
accelerating-it  looks like  full out.  It's either  going to  use Bancroft   to
slingshot it out  of the system,  or it's going  in close to  launch shuttles or
fighters. If it holds course, it'll  come within one hundred and fifty  miles of
the  surface  at  its  closest approach-four  hundred  miles  southwest  of your
location-in a little more than three hours."

"Is either Long Snake or Toronto in position to intercept?" Lon asked.

"Beamers  and missiles,  at far  more than  optimal range.  If that  ship has  a
hardened skin, the way ours do, our weapons probably won't be enough to stop it.
Toronto can't get Shrikes close enough to do the job either-not before that ship
reaches the likely launch point, if that's what it intends."

"What about the Shrikes we've got down here? Can they get up to intercept?"  Lon
asked.

"Wrong munitions load," Roim said, so quickly that he had to have considered the
possibility before. "The missiles they're carrying aren't designed for  antiship
use. They're carrying ground-support warheads."

'They could deal  with shuttles, if  that's what the  ship launches," Lon  said.
"Keep them from getting down here to cause us grief."

"Toronto is set to launch Shrikes  to intercept anything that ship drops,"  Roim
said. "If necessary, Toronto can put eight Shrikes out, though that might  short
you on cover later. It's your call. Colonel."

"I'm not going to overrule the experts. Captain," Lon said. "We'll do it the way
you laid it out. Maybe you'll get lucky and cripple that ship."

"At least we should be able to  keep it from crippling us, Colonel," Roim  said.
"She doesn't show any obvious armament, and if we're too far away to be  certain
of hurting her, there's even less chance for her to hurt us."


"We've got  that hole  ringed and  ready to  plug, Lon,"  Tebba reported several
minutes later. "It  does look like  a cave. I  inspected it through  the snoop's
optics and couldn't see how far it goes. The opening is large enough for two men
to go through standing up. Then the hole slopes down and to the south."

"I don't want it plugged, except in an emergency, Tebba. Just as long as we  can
slam anyone trying to come out hard."

"We've got two mines in place, and several extras close enough to stop a  second
or third attempt."

"Good enough." Lon told Tebba about the extra ship coming toward them. "My guess
is they're going to launch reinforcements-either troops or aerospace fighters."

"How large is that  ship?" Tebba asked. "What's  the most trouble they  might be
able to throw at us?"

"CIC says  maybe four  hundred men  if they've  got them  packed in,"  Lon said.
"That's just a guess,  though. They still haven't  matched it against any  known
types."

"They check that database you ^brought back from Earth?" Tebba asked.

"I'm sure they did. It's in the computer."

                                    *  *  *

It was  three hours  past sunset  before the  ring was  complete. There had been
nothing more than  scattered skirmishes during  the movement of  mercenaries and
militiamen. They had not encountered any opposition larger than squad  strength.
Nor had anyone seen  evidence that there might  be several hundred of  the enemy
inside the extended perimeter.

"I know we  have to check  it out," Brock  Carlin said during  a conference that
included the two colonels and all of the company commanders, "but the feeling  I
have is  that we've  got a  lot of  nothing. The  raiders must  have pulled  out
early."

"Don't let that  feeling make you  careless. Brock," Lon  said. "We'll pull  the
perimeter in the way we planned, but  move as if you knew there was  a battalion
of soldiers in  there somewhere, with  mines and booby  traps every step  of the
way. We know these raiders have planted some of those.

"We leave half the men in  position, watching in and out," Lon  continued. "Move
the rest in slowly,  toward the ridge. I  don't want anyone rushing  this. We'll
take all the time we need to do the job right. Mines, booby traps, snoops. There
might even be  snipers left, or  cave entrances. Those  don't have to  be in the
side of the  hill. They could  be anywhere, a  small hole in  the ground leading
down to maybe an intricate system of caves. Check everything!"

"When do we start?" Colonel Crampton asked.

Lon hesitated.  "Some of  the men  have been  on the  go for  nearly twenty-four
hours. Much as I want to get this operation finished, we've got to let  everyone
get some rest. We put the men on half-and-half watches, and bed down until  dawn
unless the raiders decide not to let us take that much time."

Lon was surprised  that the night  did pass without  major incident. There  were
only a couple of shots fired by  snipers well outside the perimeter. No one  was
hit. Most of the men managed to  get at least some sleep during the  night. Even
Lon got a couple of hours.



24

Lon did not get  nearly as much sleep  as he had hoped.  He had been wakened  by
news  of the  strange ship  in the  system. The  plan to  intercept it,  or  any
shuttles or fighters  it might launch,  had failed. "I  don't know whether  that
ship's captain is a genius or a suicidal fool," Captain Eldon Roim said when  he
gave Lon the news. "Maybe he's a little of each."

The ship had made several more course corrections, aiming closer to the edge  of
Bancroft's atmosphere, and had continued  accelerating, long past the time  when
the computers in  the Dirigenter ships  said it would  have to start  braking or
change course to avoid going too close to the planet-to avoid being burned up in
the atmosphere like a meteorite. The  ship had launched six of the  small attack
shuttles the Dirigenters had seen before forty minutes sooner than CIC expected,
so  the plan  to intercept  them became  impossible. The  ship itself-its   skin
glowing red from heat friction in  the thin upper atmosphere-had come to  within
forty miles  of Bancroft's  surface, still  accelerating, before  its speed  and
course carried it out of range of the DMC ships and Shrikes.

"Our computers  went haywire  over the  data," Roim  said. "By  every standard I
know, that ship should have broken up or burned."

"Forty miles, that's still pretty high,  isn't it?" Lon asked. "I mean,  there's
not a hell  of a lot  of air that  far above the  surface. Even twenty  miles up
you're basically  talking a  pretty damned  good vacuum.  There's certainly  not
enough air to breathe. Why not take a ship that close?"

'That ship  was traveling  forty thousand  miles an  hour when  it got that low,
sixty  percent above  escape velocity,"  Roim said,  his voice  rising in   what
sounded like complete  indignation. "There are  still enough molecules  at forty
miles to do major damage to an  object that large moving that fast, more  damage
than I could expect a full salvo  of every energy weapon aboard our three  ships
to do."

"So he did something we couldn't  do... or wouldn't attempt," Lon said.  "What's
the ship doing right now?"

"It has stopped accelerating," Roim said after a slight pause. "It even  appears
to be decelerating slightly, now that it's safely out of our reach."

"What about the shuttles it launched? Were you able to track them to where  they
landed?"

Roim's hesitation was considerably longer  this time. "We weren't able  to track
them all the way  in," he admitted. "A  combination of factors-the early  launch
point, the  course the  shuttles took,  electronic countermeasures  used by both
ship and shuttles. Damn  it. Colonel, we just  weren't ready for what  they did.
That's the up and the down of it. They caught us with our pants down."

"It happens," Lon said. "We'll just have to deal with it."

"On the  plus side.  Colonel, we  are making  progress with  our analysis of the
raiders' stealth technology. The lab got its best clue from the captured helmets
you sent up. They use white-noise generators to cancel out electronic emissions.
The algorithm appears to be orders of  magnitude better than what we can  manage
and that's just from empirical testing.  We haven't been able to crack  the code
yet and may never be able to. Assuming that the same basic technology is used in
their shuttles, that minimal static we've been able to detect on some  occasions
is  the extent  of the  lag between  emissions and  blanketing, or  some  slight
imperfection in the  implementation of the  technology. With helmet  electronics
the lag is too small for us to find it at any distance. Your men have had to be,
what, within fifty yards to catch any of it? Ten years ago we wouldn't have been
able to detect as much as we can now. Ten years from now we might be able to  do
better. I don't suppose there's enough left of the two shuttles you destroyed to
give us much help."

"Not much.  After the  explosions, both  burned. We  get a  chance, we  can have
technicians look it over, but I wouldn't expect much."

"My tech officer would love to get his hands on an intact specimen. Colonel.  He
was salivating at the prospect."

Lon chuckled. "We'll try to accommodate him. Captain."


Another six armed shuttles on the surface-somewhere- in addition to however many
more the raiders already had. Perhaps as many as 350 additional soldiers-also in
addition to previous assets; the raider shuttles were smaller than those the DMC
used. Munitions  and supplies.  Lon shook  his head  as he  thought through  the
possibilities. And no idea where the hell they might be.

"Nothing we can do about it  right now," Lon whispered to himself.  "We've still
got whatever forces the  raiders have in this  area to worry about."  But he was
unable to get  back to sleep.  He gave Colonel  Crampton the tactical  news, and
mentioned it to Tebba Girana when he called Lon an hour before dawn.

"At least  we know  they've dropped  those shuttles,"  Tebba said.  "We can quit
worrying what that ship might or might not do. Gives us an upper limit."

"For now. Nothing says that ship can't  come back and drop more shuttles. Or  do
something bizarre."

"Lon, you can't worry  about the movement of  every atom in the  galaxy. That'll
drive you crazy."

"I know, Tebba. It's just hard to know where to draw the line sometimes."

Draw the line. Lon fixated on that for several minutes after cutting the link to
Girana. Lon's men and the militiamen with them had drawn one line,  encompassing
a large section of the valley and  the western flank of the next line  of hills.
There were at least two hundred  of the enemy somewhere in the  vicinity, though
Lon  was no  longer hopeful  that those  raiders might  actually be  inside  the
territory his men had staked out.

There must be a base under these  hills, he told himself. It's probably not  the
only raider base, and it might not even be the main base, but it has to be here.
They had those shuttles parked in the valley, and they had at least a company of
men to guard them. No other explanation fit those circumstances. There had to be
an underground enemy base close.

Forty-five minutes before local sunrise, Lon passed the word to wake the men and
get them ready  for the mom-ing's  search. He ate  a meal pack  and did what  he
could in the field to make himself presentable with a little water and a lot  of
scouring. He even shaved.

Morning's shadows were still long when Lon gave the order to start searching the
area within the perimeter. It was a painstakingly slow process, requiring men to
literally look at every  square foot of ground  in an area of  a thousand acres.
After two hours  Lon knew  there were  no raiders  on the  ground-on the surface
within  the  perimeter. As  the  circle contracted,  he  started moving  patrols
outside the  original perimeter,  looking for  traces of  which way  the raiders
might have gone, other than underground.

Two patrols  had contact  with enemy  patrols, or  lone snipers. Those incidents
were widely separated.

"What about  that cave  entrance your  men found  last night?"  Colonel Crampton
asked. "When do we explore that?"

"Not yet," Lon said. "I've got a supply  shuttle alerted to bring down our  echo
ranging gear. We've got the clearing on this side secured now, out far enough to
minimize the chance of  a raider getting a  lucky shot with a  shoulder-launched
missile. We can do some mapping from the air, close in, and use equipment on the
ground to get a more accurate picture. We map any openings we find on this  side
of  the ridge.  As soon  as it's  feasible, we  send men  to start  looking  for
openings on the other side, and set up a perimeter there. Then we map any  caves
in the entire zone."

"Like you did nine years ago?" Crampton asked.

"Similar. The  principle is  the same,  but what  we have  now is  somewhat more
sophisticated. We stick probes  in the ground around  the entire area, then  use
one large  shock and  measure the  results." Lon  paused. "Instead  of doing  it
dozens of times to map out one small section at a time."

"How soon do we get to this mapping?"

"Unless we run into trouble, we should be sot by the middle of the afternoon."

"More waiting, doing damned little constructive?"

"It's  very  constructive. Colonel,"  Lon  said, trying  not  to let  Crampton's
impatience annoy  him. "We'll  have a  large cleared  area inside  our perimeter
then, have any obvious cave entrances  marked, and be ready to take  action once
we have a map of any extended underground system. If the raiders we  encountered
yesterday are above ground and within three miles of our perimeter, our  patrols
should have them located by then." He paused. "There have been no new reports of
raids elsewhere, and Long Glen remains secure."

"The raiders were able to land reinforcements without challenge," Crampton said.

"Only because that ship's skipper took a desperate chance," Lon said. "An insane
chance, according to the skipper of Long  Snake. The fact that he dared do  what
he did should be proof enough that we're making a difference. He risked a  large
transport ship and however  many hundreds of  people were aboard  on a  one-in-a
million maneuver. Actually,  I find the  fact that the  enemy is that  desperate
pretty damned  encouraging." Now,  after the  fact, after  losing sleep over the
possibilities.

"Maybe," Crampton  conceded. "Oh,  hell, I  just hate  sitting around like this,
waiting for something to happen."

"I know what you  mean, but we're going  at this the best  way we can, slow  and
methodical. In the long run, that'll get the job done and keep the casualties to
a minimum."


Slowly. Methodically. Painstakingly.  It was past  noon when the  supply shuttle
landed. Lon had men stationed near  the clearing and well out along  the craft's
approach  to provide  security. The  shuttle landed  and unloaded  gear for  the
attempt to map any subterranean voids-and two technicians from Long Snake's crew
to operate the equipment and help interpret the results.

Alpha Company  and the  militia 2nd  Company had  started searching  the eastern
slope of the ridge. By 1300 hours, two more companies of militia had joined that
effort. By that time, more than four hours had passed without any contact at all
with the raiders-not a  patrol or a sniper.  The Dirigenter patrols ranging  out
from the perimeter in all directions  had found nothing to indicate the  passage
of large numbers of the enemy.

"You think they must have gone into the caves, then?" Colonel Crampton asked Lon
during a conference that included all of the company commanders.

"It's possible, but I wouldn't say  it's certain," Lon replied. "It wouldn't  be
impossible  for even  two or  three hundred  men to  get beyond  the area  we've
patrolled without leaving  clear sign. Or  our patrols might  simply have missed
the track they followed. We have to assume that they could hit us without a hell
of a lot of warning."

"If we find that there is an extensive cave system under this ridge, with  maybe
several hundred enemy inside, do we handle it the same as the last time you were
here?" Crampton asked. "Block  all the exits but  one and wait for  them to come
out?"

Crampton could not see Lon's frown. "I  don't think so, not right away. My  idea
is to block all of the exits at once, dump enough rock over the openings to make
it impossible  for anyone  to get  out without  days of  digging. Listen for the
sounds of that kind of work. Leave just enough men on site to man the  equipment
and  warn us  if the  raiders try  to bring  in more  assets to  dig out  anyone
trapped. We can come  back later to uncork  the caves-and see if  there's anyone
left alive in them."

"Bury them alive?"

"We lost too many men doing it the other way. Colonel," Lon said. "If there  are
going to be casualties, I'd prefer they were the enemy."


The naval petty officer who  came to report to Lon  had a disgusted look on  his
face.

"There may be a cave system like you're looking for somewhere along this line of
hills. Colonel, but you're not sitting  on it," the petty officer said.  "We got
good echoes over quite  an area-call it two  thousand yards along the  ridge and
twelve hundred yards wide, extending into the valleys on both sides. There are a
lot of little holes, but not connected. The largest gap we found is behind  that
opening you marked yesterday, and the one chamber in there is only forty feet in
diameter, and part of that seems to  be under water. No way several hundred  men
could be using  it as a  base. And, yes,  before you ask,  I'm sure, one hundred
percent positive. Sorry, Colonel, you just don't have the right spot."

Lon nodded. He had been about to ask, knowing the question would have been .  ..
foolish. "We'll get you back up to Long Snake," Lon said instead. "You and  your
assistant. Thanks for the help."

The petty officer  laughed. "Anytime, Colonel.  This little detour  qualifies us
for a day's hazardous-duty bonus."


"Now what?" Colonel  Crampton asked after  the technicians had  started down the
hill toward the shuttle that was waiting to take them back to their ship.

"I  don't  think  we're that  far  off  target," Lon  said.  "Assuming  that the
prisoners we questioned were using that clearing down there, they said they were
in a cave about an  hour's march from the LZ,  and the caves were east  of where
they got on and off the shuttle."

"We're too close," Crampton said. "Men  could hike from the bottom of  the slope
below us to that clearing in thirty minutes or so if they weren't worried  about
running into enemy soldiers or some kind of trap."

"More or less," Lon agreed.

"So, what?" Crampton asked. "We hike up and down this line of hills looking  for
them? Or do we start thinking this isn't the place those prisoners were  talking
about?"

"Even if it isn't the place they  were talking about, we know the enemy  had two
shuttles based here, along with fuel, crews,  and more than a company of men  to
guard them-more like two companies. Even if we might have missed where those men
went yesterday,  if they've  been here  for any  length of  time, going back and
forth between that  clearing and their  camp-under the ground  or above it-there
has to be a trail we can find."

"You figure to keep fourteen hundred men here looking?"

"A little longer, at least," Lon  said. "Maintain our lookouts and hope  to give
everyone a chance to get more  sleep tonight. Resume the search in  the morning.
Leave a third of  the combined force here  to maintain this position,  split the
rest to search both north and south  along the ridge and in the valley,  most on
this side, a few on the eastern  side. Put some of my best trackers  starting at
the clearing, looking for the cave-or whatever-the raiders used for the men  who
stayed here to service and protect the shuttles. I think we've got a damned good
chance of finding that site.

"What else  would we  do-go back  to barracks  and sit  around until the raiders
start hitting villages again?" Lon asked. "Unless we're needed somewhere else, I
think this is the best place for  us-at least through the next day or  two. I'll
have Shrikes and shuttles in  the air looking for the  men who got away from  us
yesterday as well. We don't want to forget about them."

"Between two and three hundred?" Crampton  hesitated for a few seconds. "No,  we
don't want to forget about them, but they could be thirty or forty miles away by
now-or anywhere on the continent if they got somewhere their shuttles could pick
them up."

Lon shook  his head  vigorously. "Not  this time.  Colonel. We  kept too close a
watch on  the few  clearings large  enough to  let a  shuttle land anywhere they
could have reached on foot. We spot them,  we go for them, try to force them  to
fight or  surrender... and  the raiders  haven't shown  any great  tendencies to
surrender."

"No, they haven't," Crampton agreed.

"When we do meet them,  I want the best odds  possible going for us. That  makes
for fewer casualties among our men."


Lon lowered the  level of alert  for his men  for the night.  There would be  no
long-range patrols. Electronic snoops had been planted roughly two hundred yards
from the perimeter,  with enough land  mines to make  infiltration dangerous for
any enemy force. And, instead of keeping half the men on watch at a time, he cut
it to one-third-two men out of each  fire team, four men per squad. With  nearly
eleven hours between sunset and sunrise,  that would give everyone a chance  for
something close to a full night's sleep ... if there were no alarms.

Maybe I'll even manage to catch up a little on my sleep, Lon thought. He set  no
regular  watches for  himself. One  of his  company commanders  would always  be
awake, "on  duty" to  respond instantly  to anything,  to handle  any questions.
Gunfire, any noise, would wake Lon. Even dreamed noises might do that.

One squad from Tebba's company had  been designated to provide security for  the
battalion commander-Lon-a final line of  defense. They were arranged around  him
near the  crest of  the ridge.  The squad,  with the  help of Jeremy Howell, had
already spent  several hours  "improving" the  position, scraping  out trenches,
moving rocks to provide more cover,  even felling trees to use their  trunks and
larger branches as part of the defensive shield. Although they were far from the
outer perimeter of the combined force, that squad would maintain the same  level
of alert as the rest, four men on watch at all times.

Lon spent nearly  a half hour  conferring with Major  Os-terman in Lincoln,  and
with the captains of the three Di-rigenter ships overhead. The fourth ship  near
Bancroft, proven hostile by its actions, had moved to a position far enough from
the Dirigenter  vessels to  make interception  impossible, and  had decelerated,
assuming a highly eccentric elliptical orbit of the world.

Just give us a quiet night, Lon thought as he arranged himself in his blanket to
try to sleep. A quiet night and a measure of success tomorrow.

He was tired enough that he got to sleep almost immediately.



25

The dreams came. They  did not wake Lon,  but did trouble his  sleep. His groans
were too soft for even the sentries  nearest him to hear. Lon had gone  to sleep
wearing  his  helmet, the  faceplate  closed. The  nightmare  was an  impossible
mixture of reality and fantasy, set against a backdrop that had never  happened.
He saw himself and  Lon, Junior; Matt Orlis  and his dead son;  Wesley Cramp-ton
and his  son Wilson.  They were  all together  in one  location-which had  never
happened, could never happen. The affair seemed to be a father-and-son picnic at
some undefinable location. Lon, Junior, looked much as he had when Lon had  last
seen him. Matt's boy  looked to be about  the same age, as  did Wilson Crampton.
Lon had known the younger Orlis at  that age but had obviously not known  Wilson
Crampton as a teenager. There were games and races-all very pleasant-until...

It started almost imperceptibly, discoloration  of the faces, but only  in small
splotches that grew slowly. Then there were bloodstains, missing limbs,  screams
of terror. It struck  all three boys:  Orlis first, then  Crampton, and  finally
despite Lon's silent screaming denials-his own  son. When he saw all three  boys
laid out  in a  row, mangled  and bloody,  Lon woke  in a  cold sweat, trembling
violently, clenching his teeth against a final scream that fought to erupt  from
his throat. Lon clenched his teeth and held himself as rigidly still as he could
until the tremors  subsided. He squeezed  his eyes shut.  His heart was  beating
wildly. His lungs fought  for air. The throbbing  in his head subsided,  but all
too slowly.

Five minutes passed before  Lon felt able to  relax his body and  open his eyes.
The pale glow of the timeline at the top of his head-up display read 0358.

More than seven hours of sleep, he thought. I don't often get that much at  home
in my own  bed. He did  not feel rested,  though. His breathing  was not back to
normal yet, and neither was his heart rate. "Damn." He had not intended to speak
the word, but it came out on its  own, soft but with some force behind it.  This
isn 't  the time  to worry  about what  Junior will  do in  the future. I've got
enough to worry about right here.

It was 0411 when Lon got the call from Long Snake. "Colonel, we have a  sighting
of men moving toward your position, east of the ridgeline and approximately  two
point five miles south of your perimeter. At least a company in strength. One of
the  Shrikes spotted  them crossing  a bare  patch of  slope. The  pilot  wasn't
certain how much of the van he might have missed, but he saw enough to say  that
there are at least two hundred."

"Thanks, and  thank the  pilot for  me," Lon  said. He  had sat  up while he was
listening to the call. "Have everyone keep a close watch for other movements."

"Of course.  Colonel. The  weather is  liable to  get rotten  where you are in a
couple  of  hours.  We're tracking  a  major  cold front,  and  there  are heavy
thunderstorms now about forty  miles west of you,  moving at about twenty  miles
per hour. The cloud cover extends west more than four hundred miles."

"Which means you wouldn't  be able to detect  enemy shuttles anywhere under  the
weather."

"Sorry, Colonel, but we haven't been able to refine our search enough for that."

"I know, and I know you'll do what you can. Thanks."

Lon called Colonel Crampton  first with the news.  Crampton was also awake,  and
said he had been up for more than two hours. "I'm not all that used to  roughing
it," Crampton admitted. "I tossed and turned all night."

"Let's get all the company commanders  on the link," Lon said. "We  know there's
at least one company of raiders heading toward us, and my guess is that  they've
got more  coming from  somewhere. Maybe  those shuttles  that made  it down last
night. They could hit the ground close enough to let their troops hit us at  the
same time as this other batch."

"How do you propose to respond?" Crampton asked.

"Circle the force we've located so they can't run away, then pound the hell  out
of them from air  and ground until they  surrender or can't cause  trouble," Lon
said. "Keep enough men in our current perimeter to make certain we're ready  for
any surprises on this side of the ridge."

"How many men do  we send? All we  have is a minimum  on the enemy force,  not a
maximum. You don't want to send too few to handle the situation."

"We don't have to outnumber them on the ground. Colonel. I'm going to have  four
Shrikes and three  attack shuttles available  to provide close-in  cover and hit
the raiders from the  air. I figure we  send two platoons of  my men and one  of
your companies east, to get below the  slope and the enemy force. Send the  same
numbers along the western slope, ready to bend around behind the enemy. Hold off
until they get close enough for our  perimeter to use men on it to  complete the
ring."

"Okay," Crampton said.

"Fifteen minutes give you enough time to get your companies alerted?" Lon asked.

"I'll make it enough."


Lon selected two platoons from Bravo and two platoons from Delta. Crampton  sent
his 2nd and 3rd Companies.  They rendezvoused and started moving  twenty minutes
after  the conclusion  of the  short conference  the colonels  held with   their
company commanders.

Lon vetoed the idea of hitting the enemy force from the air prematurely. "I want
them to keep coming,"  he had told the  commanders during their conference.  "We
start hitting them now, they might disappear  again, and I want to take care  of
that force for  good, all at  once, while we've  got the chance,  not just chase
them off."

The enemy's  line of  march was  observed as  closely as  possible from the air.
Three pilots  were already  on the  job, staying  high enough  to avoid becoming
targets, low enough to catch an occasional glimpse of men moving north along the
slope of  the line  of hills.  The men  on the  ground appeared  to be taking no
special precautions to stay out of sight.

That brought a frown to Lon's  face. "They've never been that careless  before,"
he confided to  Tebba Girana. "Even  if they were  confident of surprise,  you'd
think they'd  take elementary  precautions to  avoid detection.  It's as if they
want to be found, want our attention focused on them."

"If they're only one pan  of a coordinated attack on  us, they might want us  to
look just  at them,"  Tebba said.  "Maybe draw  all our  people out of defensive
positions. Maybe they want to end this game as badly as we do."

"Makes  you  wonder,  though,  just  how  many  more  men  they  think  they can
concentrate  against us,"  Lon said.  "Six shuttles,  maybe three  hundred  men,
wouldn't be enough- even conceding that this force we're watching might have  as
many as six hundred in it."

"Maybe there are caves  with more men in  them, out past where  we searched, but
still close by," Tebba said.

"I haven't  forgotten that,"  Lon said.  "There could  be cave  entrances within
eighty or a hundred yards of the perimeter."

"Or closer," Tebba said. "I remember how  well hid that one you found last  time
was. You said you damn near missed it from ten feet away."

"That's why we took so much time making sure there weren't any holes inside  our
lines yesterday,"  Lon said.  "And why  I had  snoops put  out so  close to  the
perimeter." "How much time you figure  we've got before they hit?" "A  couple of
hours, at least," Lon  said. "I don't think  they'll be able to  manage anything
before sunrise. They can bring their  shuttles as close as possible under  cover
of the storms, put the men  on the ground within five  or six miles if they  can
two hours' march.  Of course, those  people might not  hit the same  time as the
others. If there are men underground closer, we could get hit first by the  ones
we can see, then the troglodytes,  and finally this supposed force coming  in by
shuttle." "Troglo-what?" Tebba asked. Lon laughed. "Troglodytes, cave dwellers."
"No words that big in the DMC Manual," Tebba said.


Men ate breakfast while they could, scooping food in as if the attack might come
any second. Dawn-a gloomy lightening  of the night. The approaching  storms were
close enough that flashes of lightning  were visible over the peaks of  the next
line of hills to the west.  Thunder rumbled across the valley. Thunder  or heavy
artillery, Lon thought, they sound so  much alike at a distance. That  brought a
memory of Earth and his days at  The Springs, the military academy of the  North
American Union. During the summer after his third year, Lon had spent six  weeks
at the army's primary artillery training  facility in the South Plains  District
in what  had once  been the  state of  Oklahoma. Lon  and the  two hundred other
cadets had been exposed to every  kind of artillery the NAU army  possessed, all
the way up  to 255mm self-propelled  howitzers and the  various types of  rocket
artillery. The noise  was the dominant  memory, extreme even  with high-tech ear
protection.

The  rain  arrived,  light,  windblown squalls  followed  by  the  heavier, more
persistent thunderstorms. Those seemed to come in waves, each more intense  than
its  predecessor, with  only brief  easing of  the rain  and wind  to mark   the
progression.

"The rain's  liable to  continue all  day," Lon  warned his  company commanders.
"Thunderstorms off and on. Maybe some hail  now and then. And CIC says a  couple
of the storm cells are intense enough that there's a possibility of tornadoes."

"Tornadoes?" Captain Magnusson of Delta repeated. "You've got to be kidding."

"A possibility, Ron," Lon said. "Only a possibility."

"Yeah, but how do we deal with a tornado if one does hit?"

"Hunker down and ride it out," Lon said. "Pick up the pieces afterward.  There's
nothing we can do about the weather. It's not going to stop the raiders, and  we
can't let it stop  us. Our Shrikes can  operate in just about  anything except a
funnel cloud, and Shrikes have the  speed and maneuverability to stay away  from
them without completely leaving the  area. Don't get sidetracked by  the chance,
and don't spend your time staring at the sky looking for one. If a tornado  does
appear, we'll have a little warning. The greater danger is lightning. This isn't
a training mission back  on Dirigent, where we  can cancel training to  avoid an
electrical storm."

"We proceed according to plan in spite of the weather?" Tebba Girana said.

"Yes," Lon confirmed. "The rain is going to be an inconvenience, but it hits the
raiders the same as  it hits us, and  they might not be  as well prepared as  we
are. Stay low, stay focused. Visibility is going to be minimal. We might have to
go to our night-vision gear if it gets too bad."

The units that had to  move were on the way.  The men who were remaining  in the
perimeter had shifted to cover the  gaps left by the mercenaries and  militiamen
who were on their  way to intercept the  raiders coming north along  the eastern
slope of the ridge. Lon expected the  first contact to come within the next  ten
or fifteen minutes.

The rain.  Dirigenter battledress  uniforms were  designed to  shed water rather
than absorb it, but the protection  was not quite total over extended  exposure.
In  time, the  fabric would  begin to  absorb water  rather than  repel it.  And
despite the best care, there could be some infiltration of water at the neck and
wrists. But it was better than  nothing. Dirigenter battle helmets shed most  of
the water that hit them past the neck. Faceplates were treated to prevent  water
from  beading  on  them.  An  occasional  wipe  kept  visibility  from  becoming
impossible.

Mud was a problem only in the valley and on the lowest stretch of the slope, but
the ground  became soft  and mushy  wherever the  rocky spine  of the  ridge had
gathered soil.

CIC radioed  Lon that  the enemy  ship was  moving again,  coming in  toward the
planet on a course  similar to the one  it had followed to  deploy the shuttles.
"We don't anticipate them launching significant reinforcements," Captain Roim of
Long Snake said. "They shouldn't have many more shuttles available, likely  just
enough for the crew."

"Then why come in again at all?" Lon asked.

"It's possible that they might try  to launch missiles at you," Roim  said, "but
our best guess is that the ship is merely a decoy, trying to draw our  attention
away from the action at your location, maybe hoping to get us to divert  Shrikes
from close air support to chase the ship."

Lon hesitated.  "It would  be nice  to zap  that ship.  Captain, for a number of
reasons."

"I agree, but... it's iffy at best.  Colonel. Even if we pulled all our  Shrikes
and spread them to give us our best shot at intercepting, we couldn't be certain
of destroying  or disabling  that ship,  and we'd  rob you  of most  of your air
cover."

"We can't go that far. Captain. Too many men on the ground here, but if we could
move Toronto a little closer to the course that ship is on, maybe deploy four or
six Shrikes, we might get lucky."

"We'll do what we can."


Mercenaries and militiamen reached their positions around the raider force-which
had slowed its advance. The ring around the enemy column was virtually complete.
The best  estimates from  the officers  on the  scene was  that the  enemy force
consisted of about three hundred men. Their point squad had stopped  completely,
and the rest of the column was adjusting its positions rather than continuing to
march north along the slope. Tlie  point was still three hundred yards  from the
perimeter of the main DMC and BCM forces.

"I think they're waiting for  something," Lieutenant Crampton reported, to  both
his father and Lon.

"Waiting for  another group?"  Colonel Crampton  suggested. "Coordinating  their
attacks?"

"Could be,"  Lon said.  "Let's spoil  their timetable.  Two minutes. Lieutenant.
From now." Lon noted the exact  time. "I'll notify the other commanders.  I want
everyone to hit them at once."


Gunfire and grenade explosions. The coordination was better than Lon had allowed
himself to  hope. The  two militia  companies came  in perfectly  timed with the
mercenary  platoons. The  difference in  altitude among  the various  components
helped minimize the danger of friendly-fire casualties-always a concern with  an
enemy force completely surrounded.

For  thirty  seconds  the  battle  seemed  completely  onesided.  Lon  could not
distinguish the heavier sound of raider  rifles. The only gunfire came from  the
Dirigenters  and  the Bancroft  militia.  Then, just  as  the encircled  raiders
started to return fire, gunfire sounded west of that fight, on the western slope
of the ridge, south of the perimeter.

"They've come out of the caves!" At first Lon did not recognize the voice as Ron
Magnusson's. His  company was  the closest  DMC unit.  "At least  two companies.
Colonel, maybe a full battalion. Some are moving up the slope behind our people.
The rest are coming straight at us."

Lon did not have a chance to reply immediately. That was when the enemy shuttles
struck from the west.



26

The enemy shuttles came in low and relatively slowly. By the time Lon heard  the
report that the shuttles  had dropped three hundred  men on rocket packs  half a
mile  west of  the perimeter,  the shuttles'  multibarrel cannons  were  already
firing, chewing paths through the forest and up the western slope of the ridge.

Two Shrikes had started strafing runs on the raiders on the eastern side of  the
ridgeline just before the enemy  shuttles were spotted. The Shrikes  were coming
out of their shallow dives after  hitting the raiders on the ground  with cannon
fire  and rockets  as the  enemy shuttles  approached the  crest of  the  ridge,
climbing and accelerating, directly toward the Shrikes.

In virtually any other circumstances,  the boxy raider shuttles would  have been
no match for  the Dirigenter fighters.  Shrikes were faster,  more maneuverable,
and better protected. But chance  more than design brought shuttles  and Shrikes
together when the DMC craft were most vulnerable.

All four raider shuttles launched  missiles-two apiece- at the pair  of Shrikes.
There were too  many missiles, too  close, for the  Shrikes to defeat  them with
electronic coun-termeasures or evasive maneuvers.  Both were hit more than  once
and erupted in balk of fire. Neither pilot had a chance to eject.

The nearest  Shrike exploded  little more  than three  hundred yards  from Lon's
position, less than a thousand feet  above the crest of the ridge.  Debris, much
of it burning, showered down on  the slopes. Luckily, most of the  wreckage came
down well away from the manned positions.  None of it hit the few dozen  men who
were near the center. And with all the rain, the fires quickly burned out.

Lon took  only minimal  notice. There  was too  much happening  all at once. The
Shrikes had exploded. Their pilots had not ejected. He radioed that news to CIC,
then turned his attention to the more critical problems on the ground.

The men  caught in  the middle  of the  two raider  forces, high  on the western
slope, already knew that they were in the middle. The commanders were responding
as best they could. On the perimeter. Captain Magnusson was doing what little he
could to ease the pressure on the exposed mercenaries and militia without moving
his remaining two platoons out of the perimeter to advance on the enemy force on
the slope in front of his positions-a force that was also advancing toward him.

"Tebba, move your company south," Lon  said. The last wreckage from the  Shrikes
had scarcely hit the ground. "Push through behind our people on this side of the
slope. Try not to lose contact  with the perimeter, though. And remember,  we're
suddenly  short  on air  cover."  There were  still  two Shrikes  supposedly  on
station, and  the shuttles  that Lon  had put  in the  air, but  the loss of two
fighters was still of major significance ... apart from the pilots killed.

Lon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The last force-so far as he  knew-of
raiders on the ground would need at least another seven or eight minutes  before
they could get close enough to  the western perimeter to cause trouble,  and the
units  closest to  them knew  they were  coming. But  the fact  that there  were
raiders on that side kept Lon from pulling soldiers from there to help with  the
enemy on the south.

Do I dare strip men  from the northern arc of  the line? he wondered. North  and
northeast were  the only  sections of  the perimeter  not directly threatened by
raider ground forces. After a few  seconds, Lon decided not to attempt  it. Yet.
Not until the situation was a lot clearer... or more desperate.

Four raider  shuttles came  back for  a second  pass. This  time the  Dirigenter
shuttles and  Shrikes were  ready. The  final two  Shrikes overhead  came at the
raider shuttles from ahead and  above. The mercenaries' attack shuttles  came at
them from the  north. This time  the results were  more satisfying. None  of the
Dirigenter craft were hit, and two  of the raiders shuttles went down  hard. The
other two reversed course and headed west, into the heart of the storm, at  full
acceleration.

The Dirigenters did not pursue. Instead,  they turned to help the forces  on the
ground. The  Shrikes took  the lead,  since they  would have  a better chance to
avoid surface-to-air missiles.

There were plenty of those after  the raider shuttles had cleared the  area. Lon
noted three, and  heard reports of  others. In all,  at least a  dozen SAMs were
fired by the raiders-without effect.

The initial ambush  that Lon had  engineered had turned  into a confused  melee.
There were  four groups  of soldiers  more or  less parallel, alternating, which
left one combined force of mercenaries and militia between two enemy forces, and
one raider unit also  sandwiched. On the eastern  side of the hill,  the two DMC
platoons from Bravo Company and the militia 2nd Company commanded by  Lieutenant
Crampton were trying to  fight their way upslope  to close with the  enemy. That
first raider column had been hit the hardest. The younger Crampton reported that
the raiders looked to have suffered nearly 50 percent casualties, with the  rest
in considerable  disarray. "We  have fixed  bayonets and  are moving  in for the
kill," the young commander said.

                                    *  *  *

On the  western side  of the  hill, Lon's  Alpha Company  was moving through the
perimeter, thrusting a wedge out toward  the area between the other half  of the
initial ambushing  force  and  the  raiders  who had  come  up  from  the  south
presumably  out of  caves-to support  it. Tebba  was coordinating  with  Delta's
platoon leader and  sergeants, and the  two militia company  commanders ahead of
him, letting them  concentrate on the  first raider force  while he moved  in on
their flank.

That  was when  the final  raider force  joined the  battle, firing  rifles  and
rocket-propelled grenades from the west. The final force that the defenders  had
been aware of.

A new source  of incoming fire  on the northern  end of the  perimeter came as a
complete surprise to Lon.  For a few seconds  after Captain Carlin reported  it,
Lon was silent, startled. Then he found a possible explanation.

"That first batch. Brock, from the other day. They went north instead of  south.
They've been lying in wait out there, somewhere. That has to be it."

"Maybe, Colonel, but I  think there are more  guns out there than  the couple of
platoons that  went off  that way  could account  for. This  sounds like  a full
company or more," Carlin  replied. "Just how many  raiders are there here?  They
must be hitting us with every man they've got."

"Then let's make sure we do the job we came here for," Lon said. "Hang on  while
I get Sefer and Colonel Cramp-ton in on this." The pause was not long.

"We need to shrink our perimeter," Lon said. "Pull back toward the ridge on  the
west and pull south toward my position  on the north before we get too  extended
to deal with all this crap."

"I've only got two of my  platoons here, remember that," Carlin said.  "The rest
are over on the other side of the ridge."

"I remember," Lon  said. "Two of  your platoons and  two of Magnusson's.  As you
move back, I want you to slide  up higher on the slope. Sefer, your  people will
fill the gap as you get back toward the base of the hills. Can you get a platoon
out without them  being seen to  give us a  better idea how  many men we've  got
coming in on the north?"

"We'll find a way," Captain Kai said.


"I have three  more companies alerted  to come in  here," Colonel Crampton  told
Lon. "Three-that's all I can  move at one time, unless  you want to use some  of
your shuttles. And then  I'd have to start  stripping garrisons from the  larger
mining villages-or even  the towns. I  can't pull the  company that's protecting
Lincoln except as a last resort."

"We're certainly not  down to last  resorts yet," Lon  said. The two  commanders
were together now, only a few feet  apart, behind a low wall of rocks  and logs.
As a matter of sound discipline, they still communicated by radio, whispering in
the insulated security  of their helmets,  while they watched  the perimeter and
listened to reports on the action  from their subordinates. "I don't think  it's
time to bring in the three  companies you have alerted. It's enough  that you've
got them ready to  move if we do  need them. Right now  I want to make  sure the
raiders fully commit themselves to this fight. All the eggs in one basket, so to
speak."

"They're not doing anything anywhere else.  From the reports we have, they  must
have  more  than a  thousand  men here  now.  That sounds  like  they are  fully
committed, as close as they're ever likely to get," Crampton said.

"And fully engaged," Lon said.  "Look, we've still got numerical  superiority on
the ground. And we have  more airpower than they have,  by a factor of at  least
three to one,  and one Shrike  is equal to  several of those  small shuttles the
raiders  have, even  after what  happened before.  If we  bring in  another  six
hundred of  your people,  the raiders  might disengage  too soon,  and I want to
finish this here and now. if we can."

"We can bring the extra companies in behind them, make sure they've got no place
to go."

"Covering  all the  possible routes  out would  spread your  men too  thin.  The
raiders could break through. No point in taking casualties when it won't do  the
job. Colonel. We need to let this develop a little longer."


The first raider force,  the one that had  been observed moving north  along the
eastern slope of the ridge, had  taken the heaviest casualties during the  early
fighting,  but  the  mercenaries  and  militiamen  were  unable  to  contain the
remnants. They fought their way south and then over the ridge, linking with  the
second raider force, the one Lon assumed had come out of caves. The first  force
left behind more than two hundred dead and wounded.

"My guess  is that  about a  hundred fifty  made it  across to join the others,"
Lieutenant  Crampton  reported to  his  father and  Lon.  "At least  that  many,
possibly as many as two hundred."

"What about your casualties?" Colonel Crampton asked.

His son hesitated. "I've  got at least twelve  dead and thirty wounded.  Some of
the wounded probably won't live long enough to reach trauma tubes."

"There's not much we  can do about that,"  Lon told Colonel Cramplon  over their
private channel. "We've only  got eight tubes available  here, and we can't  get
shuttles in close enough to evacuate the wounded to Lincoln yet. The raiders are
between us  and the  clearing on  the west,  and it  would take several hours to
carry men to that clearing  to the east, where you  and your people came in.  We
get the  wounded back  here as  quickly as  possible, and  hope the medtechs can
stabilize them enough to keep them going until tubes are available. In a  pinch,
they can rotate  men in the  tubes, put them  in just long  enough to start  the
healing process, then move them out to help others."

"Can we air-drop more tubes from shuttles?" Colonel Crampton asked. "Any  chance
at all?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. They're too  fragile for any kind of rough  landing, even
hanging from a parachute. Between the rocks and trees, not to mention the storm,
probably not one in five would be in working condition when we got to it."


Slowly,  Lon was  getting better  estimates on  the raiders'  numbers. The  last
force, the one that had come in from the north unexpectedly, consisted of  about
200 men, equivalent  to a DMC  company-and approximately 300  had dropped in  by
rocket pack  west of  the combined  DMC and  BCM force.  Between 150 and 200 men
remained from the first raider force.  And somewhere between 400 and 600  men in
the group that had come up from the south, west of the ridge.

Minus casualties.  Raider casualties  were harder  to get  good information  on,
except where  bodies could  be counted.  Ninety minutes  after the  start of the
battle, the best  estimate Lon could  make-based on information  coming from his
men and Colonel  Crampton's militia- was  that the raiders  still had more  than
1,000 effectives, men still able to fight. The raiders showed no inclination  to
surrender, individually or in groups. The  only prisoners taken so far had  been
men wounded too badly to escape.

The Bancrofter militia had a total of 21 dead and 75 wounded for the day.  Lon's
battalion  had lost  only 5  dead and  30 wounded  on the  ground. Between   the
mercenaries and the militia, the combined force still had more than 1,250 men in
place.

The  numerical  advantage was  too  small to  let  Lon feel  complacent.  We 're
supposed  to  be  doing the  hunting  here,  he thought,  but  it's  the raiders
attacking and us sitting on this hill on the defensive. What other surprises  do
they have waiting to spring?

He tried to piece together the possibilities. The most likely scenario he  could
imagine was  that the  raiders had  still more  men waiting  to enter the fight,
whenever they thought it  would be most advantageous.  The second was that  they
had more armed shuttles  available than the four  Lon knew about, aircraft  that
would not be detectable in the storm clouds until they started shooting.

What else? Lon shook his head. The raiders still had a ship in orbit, moving in,
but Lon could not accept that it might contribute a lot. It wasn't large  enough
to carry many more troops or the shuttles to carry them in. It might be able  to
launch missiles, but the opposing forces were too close together for that to  be
a particularly intelligent move.

Lon spoke often with Vel Osterman and with CIC aboard Long Snake, separately and
together.

"Maybe you're reaching too far for an explanation," Osterman said during one  of
their conferences. "We assume that they  know what happened to the raiders  here
nine years ago, right?"

"No way to escape that assumption," Lon said.

"It seems fairly clear that this batch of raiders wants to avoid making the same
mistake. They don't want to get trapped underground, where they can't put  their
numbers to good  use. They don't  want to get  sealed off and  ., , whatever. So
they have to force the issue on the surface, before we can whittle their numbers
down by attrition or pin them in their holes. They tried to continue raiding  as
normal after we  got here. That  didn't work, especially  after we learned  that
they  had inside  help and  took measures  to plug  that advantage.  They  tried
meeting us in small-scale fights. That  didn't do them much good either.  So now
they look for one grand  battle to give them a  chance. If they can beat  us and
thirty percent of the militia, that gives them free rein. For a time, at least."

"Possible," Lon conceded, "but we can't rely on that."

"Lon, I read your reports on your first trip to Bancroft long before we got this
contract. The  raiders you  encountered then  showed no  military discipline, no
sense of strategy or tactics when  they were opposed by a professional  military
force. They were just thugs who had been gathered to raid and loot. Is that what
we're facing now?"

"No, of course not. We're facing well-trained, highly disciplined soldiers  with
solid leadership. Professionals as good as the militia here, and very nearly  up
to  our standards,"  Lon said.  "That doesn't  necessarily square  with  risking
everything on one throw of the dice."

"It does if  a good analysis  of the situation  says that's the  only reasonable
shot you have."


After six hours of almost  constant rain, everything was soggy.  Even Dirigenter
battledress had lost some of its resistance to water. Where there was bare soil,
it had turned  to mud long  before. Grassy areas  were soggy, spongy  underfoot.
Everything on the slopes  of the ridge was  slippery. At the foot  of the slope,
conditions were worse because  water had been running  down the hills since  the
start of the rain.

Thunderstorms  cycled  through  the  area, no  more  than  forty  minutes apart,
sometimes considerably closer together. As the day warmed up, the storms  became
more intense,  more violent,  more frequent.  The wind  gusted as  high as sixty
miles per hour occasionally, and the mete-orologists aboard Long Snake continued
to issue warnings that tornadoes were "highly possible." Three funnel clouds had
been detected, but  the closest had  come no closer  than thirty miles  from the
scene of the battle.

Lon had pulled the perimeter  in as tightly as he  dared on the north and  west,
reinforcing the crest and the southern half of the perimeter, where most of  the
fighting was concentrated. Sefer Kai had  managed to get one platoon out  to act
as scouts. That platoon had broken into its constituent squads, even fire teams,
to be able to cover more ground.

It was one of  those squads that spotted  a new column of  raiders moving toward
the fight.

"Another company,"  Lon told  Colonel Crampton  as soon  as he  had the  report.
"Coming from the south-southwest, about a mile out from the perimeter now."

'Time to bring in my extra companies?" Crampton asked.

"We still  can't put  them on  the ground  close enough  to get into action soon
enough to deal with these men, but"- Lon hesitated for several seconds-"I  guess
it is  time to  get them  on the  ground here.  They'll have  to come in at that
clearing east  of here.  That means  a three-hour  march to  reach us, longer to
circle around on the south to get behind the raiders."

"I'll have them in the air in five minutes. I've got them bringing extra  trauma
tubes as well. Six  portables and two fixed  units. Can we start  moving some of
the seriously wounded toward that clearing?"

"I'll have  the medtechs  work on  it. We'll  have to  send a strong escort with
them."

"One platoon to carry wounded, another for escort?"


The Shrikes had been  relieved by others. The  two currently available did  what
they could to damage and delay the raiders Captain Kai's people had  discovered.
Cannon  fire  and  rockets. The  Shrikes  came  up from  behind,  guided  by the
mercenaries on the ground. Behind them, two attack shuttles came in to add their
measure to the attack.

It stopped the  raider column for  several minutes. Then  three fire teams  from
Charlie Company started  to harass the  raiders from the  flanks in a  series of
hit-and-run attacks.

Two raider shuttles returned to the attack on the ridge, but arrived too late to
have a chance to  go after the Diri-genter  shuttles, and the raider  craft were
met by  Shrikes. One  raider shuttle  went down  in flames,  almost hitting  the
column of raiders on  the ground. The other  shuttle turned and ran  west again.
This time the Shrikes stayed with it, close enough to keep it in sight, and  it,
too, eventually was brought down .. . after leading the Shrikes sixty miles from
the main battle.


"Time to start trying  to envelop the raiders  on the south, Colonel,"  Lon told
Crampton a few minutes later. "We've concentrated forces on that end. We can put
nearly two full companies of my men and one of your companies into pushing  down
the slope into the enemy's main force. The rest of us will start moving down and
into them from this end, leave just enough troops in the line to keep the  enemy
forces on the west and north from overrunning us from behind."

"My son's got 2nd Company in position," Colonel Crampton said.

"I'll have Captain Girana in tactical control," Lon replied. "He's in  position,
too,  and he  has two  platoons from  my Bravo  Company as  well." Delta's   two
detached platoons had moved back into the line with the rest of the company.

"How soon do we move?"

"We'll wait until we can make a couple more passes from the air," Lon said. "Two
additional Shrikes are on their way down to relieve the ones here. Before  those
two go back up to Toronto to rearm, we'll use them in the softening up as  well,
along with the shuttles I've still got here. Five minutes until the air  attack.
As soon as the Shrikes and shuttles pull away, we go."

                                    *  *  *

It did not go exactly as planned. As the aircraft came in for their runs at  the
main  force of  raiders, the  enemy was  starting a  move of  its own,   pushing
diagonally uphill toward the north,  into the defense perimeter below  the bulge
that had been formed earlier. At the  same time, the enemy forces that had  been
positioned to  the west  and north  started advancing,  moving in  closer, using
fire-and-maneuver tactics. And the final enemy column, its numbers reduced by  a
third after the air and ground attacks on it, was within minutes of being  close
enough to contribute to the main battle.

The  security detachment  around the  two colonels  was fully  involved in   the
fighting now,  when they  could spot  targets-difficult at  extreme range in the
rain. Lon was firing as well, except when he was too busy on the radio. He  went
through one  magazine for  his rifle  and loaded  another. Five  feet from  Lon,
Jeremy Howell was  operating a grenade  launcher-and Lon had  no idea where  the
corporal had come up  with that. Jeremy had  not been rated as  a grenadier even
before he had become part of Lon's headquarters detachment, but he was operating
carefully, taking time to aim and loosing grenades one at a time. not emptying a
five-grenade clip as quickly as he could pull the trigger.

Lon just happened to be looking toward Jeremy when the corporal jerked back  and
to the side, a  bullet through his left  shoulder, blood quickly blossoming  out
over the fabric of  his battledress tunic. Lon  quickly crawled over to  Jeremy,
forgetting everything else in his hurry to assist the young corporal. He  ripped
the younger man's tunic more, to  let him see the wounds-entry and  exit-better,
and pulled pressure dressings from the first-aid pouch on his belt. He had  just
finished applying the bandages when he heard a high-pitched scream, so  piercing
that it was painful, over his radio.

"What was that?" Lon asked, switching to a channel that would connect him to all
his officers and  noncoms. "Who screamed?"  There was no  answer. Lon clicked  a
control to bring up  a communications log on  his head-up display, to  determine
what  channel  the  scream  had come  over.  Colonel  Crampton  and the  company
commanders from both Lon's battalion and the militia force were the only  people
with regular access to that channel.

Lon needed only a few seconds to cycle through the vital signs of his  captains,
to make sure that they were all still alive and healthy. Then he switched  radio
channels to talk to Colonel Crampton.

"That scream must have come from one of your company commanders," Lon said.

"My  son doesn't  answer," Crampton  replied. "I  can't get  his lead   sergeant
either."

That conversation  was cut  short by  the explosion  of several  grenades on the
hillside, thirty  yards below  the two  colonels, close  enough to send shrapnel
past them with enough speed to be lethal if it hit anyone in a vital area. Those
blasts were followed  by an intensification  of the rifle  fire directed at  the
defenders  high  on  the  slope. The  raiders  below  were  mounting their  most
determined  assault  yet  on  the  shrunken  perimeter  of  the  mercenaries and
militiamen.

Lon leaned close to Jeremy Howell for  just a few seconds. "The wound is  clean,
in and out. Jerry. You'll be okay."  Howell nodded, and Lon picked up his  rifle
again and got into a firing position over the low barricade in front of him.

For several minutes Lon had no time to worry about the scream, his wounded aide,
or the  progress of  the battle  around the  rest of  the perimeter. He answered
radio calls  with no  more than  a terse  acknowledgment-luckily, none  required
more. The raiders had pushed up to the base of the slope, within thirty yards of
the perimeter, and seemed determined  to break through no matter  the casualties
they took in the process.

Two  enemy shuttles  appeared, firing  cannons and  rockets into  the  defensive
perimeter. Lon's men were ready.  Three missiles were launched at  the shuttles.
One exploded as it made a hard turn to the north, trying to escape. The  flaming
wreckage fell close, forcing defenders and attackers alike to duck away from the
debris. The second was hit, but not decisively. It trailed smoke as it tried  to
escape west  again, losing  altitude rapidly.  Lon did  not see  it finally come
down. He used the momentary letup  in the raiders' attack to pull  the perimeter
in more  at the  center, bringing  his men  and the  company of militia that was
closest up to the line he was on.

When the raiders started advancing up the slope, they came under heavy fire from
three sides. The attack faltered, then  came to a complete stop less  than fifty
yards  from Lon's  position. The  surviving raiders  took cover  using the   low
ramparts the defenders had abandoned in their initial perimeter, but taking fire
from  above, those  did not  offer much  protection. After  several minutes  the
surviving raiders  started attempting  to withdraw-and  took more  casualties as
they did. Of the three hundred or more who had launched the advance, fewer  than
a third made it out of the final crossfire.

Lon slung his rifle and went back to Jeremy. "Come on, kid, let's get you to the
medtechs," Lon said. Howell was still conscious, but when he attempted to get to
his feet, he got dizzy and almost  fell. Lon supported him and moved him  toward
the crest  of the  ridge. The  medical station  had been  set up  on the eastern
slope.

The  medical  station  was  overflowing  with  wounded-  many  clearly  in worse
condition than Jeremy Howell.  A medtech took a  quick look at Howell's  wounds,
said, "You're doing okay. We'll get to you when we can," and helped Lon set  him
against a rock, out of the way.

As Lon was turning to head back to  his command post, he saw two men carrying  a
makeshift stretcher in from the south, with a familiar face walking next to  it.
Wil Nace, Alpha  Company's new lead  sergeant, was covered  in blood-the sleeves
and front of  his battledress tunic  were completely red.  There were smears  of
blood on  his helmet  and on  his face  under the  turned-up faceplate. Lon went
toward Nace and the stretcher.

"What happened to you?" Lon asked, raising the faceplate of his own helmet.

"I'm  okay. Colonel,"  Nace said.  He gestured  at the  stretcher next  to  him.
"Colonel Crampton's son. He's in  bad shape." The stretcher-bearers kept  going,
hurrying toward the medtechs and  the collection of portable trauma  tubes. "I'm
not sure if he'll make it." Nace shook  his head. "Close as I can make out,  two
RPGs exploded pretty much at the same time within a couple of feet of him. Maybe
three. Killed a half dozen men around him, including his lead sergeant. Blew off
both the lieutenant's legs. Hell, half his left hip is gone."

"How'd you get all the blood on you?" Lon asked.

"His blood. I was about the closest man not wounded or shocked senseless by  the
explosions. I  got to  him and  did what  I could  to stop  the bleeding."  Nace
squeezed his eyes shut. "God, I didn't know  I was capable of what I did. I  had
to reach inside the chopped meat those grenades left to tie off the arteries  in
his left leg-hip. That was the only way I could keep him from bleeding to  death
right there, and I still don't know if it was enough. There was nothing left  to
put a tourniquet on. The right stump at least had enough left for that."

Wil Nace  turned to  the side,  away from  Lon, and  started puking, retching so
violently that he had to drop to his knees to keep from falling.

                                    *  *  *

Lon gave Colonel Crampton the news about his son while he was on the way back to
his command post. "He's alive but in very bad shape," Lon told him. "He may have
lost too much blood before they got him to the trauma tubes."

There was a  long pause before  Colonel Crampton said,  "Thanks for telling  me.
I'll get over there as soon as I can. I can't let go right now."

"You'd better go now," Lon advised.  "I'll keep you posted on anything  going on
you need to know about."

There were reports from company commanders. The raiders were moving uphill again
on the southwestern front, where they had the bulk of their troops. Some of  the
fighting was already hand-to-hand.

"We'll leave one company of militia and two platoons of our people to guard  the
medical station," Lon said. "I want everyone else pushing toward the main  enemy
force. Let's  finish the  job here  and now.  If anyone  hasn't done it yet, fix
bayonets."

Lon attached his  bayonet to his  rifle as he  spoke. When he  got to the squads
that had moved back toward his command post, it was only long enough to  collect
those men and start them moving south, along the side of the hill.

Toward the enemy.


The raiders were concentrated in a wedge, 300 yards long, 150 yards wide at  the
base. The apex had reached and penetrated the defensive line through the  middle
of one of  the militia companies  but had bogged  down there, unable  to turn to
roll up the line on either side of the breakthrough. While Lon was concentrating
his forces, the  raiders were attempting  to broaden their  attack, widening the
wedge. The last members of the other raider forces were converging with the main
body. All their eggs in one basket, just the way we wanted it, Lon thought.

At the sides of the raider wedge, mercenaries and militiamen worked to turn  the
comers back, fighting to compress and contain the enemy. Lon led the men he  had
gathered near his  command post-a  mixed force  of Diri-genters  and Bancrofters
toward the center of the firefight,  the point where the raiders had  broken the
defensive line. There were already six  platoons-two mercenary and four  militia
trying to  push the  raiders back  out of  the gap.  Captain Magnusson had taken
command of  the joint  effort, bringing  two platoons  in to  plug the  original
penetration and then gathering the nearest militia platoons to try to repel  the
enemy. Lon added the men who had come with him.

The raiders resisted  with as much  determination as any  soldiers Lon had  ever
encountered, as if they knew they had  nowhere to go, no escape. Even when  some
of the enemy ran  out of ammunition, they  continued fighting, moving closer  to
use bayonets or belt knives.

Slowly  the  raiders were  forced  back toward  the  south and  down  the slope,
fighting every step of the way, taking and giving heavy losses. Only after  more
than an  hour  of  this  deadly  close-in  fighting  did  some  of  the  raiders
individuals,  then   small  groups-start   throwing  down   their  weapons   and
surrendering. They  were stripped  of helmets  and any  remaining gear and moved
away from  the fighting.  Those raiders  who were  too badly  wounded to move on
their own were left where they lay, with the dead.

The fighting ended suddenly, after nearly ninety minutes of hand-to-hand combat.
Two piercing  blasts on  a whistle  were followed  by a loudspeaker announcement
from within the concentration of  raiders-an order from the ranking  officer for
his men to lay down their weapons and surrender unconditionally.



27

It was  nearly sunset  before the  rain finally  stopped, leaving water dripping
from trees and running down the slopes of the line of hills for hours afterward.
Water was slow  to seep into  the saturated ground.  There had been  none of the
magical cleansing  of a  poet's springtime  rain. This  left only  mud and dirty
puddles, many of them tainted by blood.

The fighting was over, but not  the work. Shuttles had been operating  in relays
carrying the wounded  back to Lincoln  and Bancroft's other  towns-anyplace with
medical facilities.  Dirigenters and  Bancrofters were  given priority.  Wounded
prisoners went afterward, to be treated when possible. The location of the  main
raider  base,  two  miles south  of  the  area Lon's  people  had  searched, was
discovered easily.  Several wounded  raiders were  anxious to  tell where it was
after being reminded that they couldn't  be treated without the antidote to  the
nanotech self-destruct mechanisms they had been infected with. Several  portable
trauma tubes  were found  in the  caves, as  well as  tons of metal and minerals
plundered from Bancroft's mining facilities.

Manning reports were  compiled for mercenaries  and militiamen. Lon  grimaced at
each detailing of the  dead and wounded from  his battalion, though the  numbers
were not as high  as he had feared  they would be. Thirty-seven  Dirigenters had
been killed in the day's fighting,  140 wounded or otherwise injured. The  three
companies  of  militia had  suffered  slightly more  casualties,  both dead  and
wounded. Lieutenant Wilson  Crampton had survived,  though Lon's senior  medtech
said it was  the most extraordinary  survival he had  ever seen. "It's  a bloody
miracle he made  it," Sergeant Carvel  told Lon. Colonel  Wilson Crampton echoed
that sentiment.

"The miracle was one of your  sergeants," Colonel Crampton said when he  and Lon
met to go over the reports they had been receiving. "One of my son's men said he
saw one of your sergeants go to  Wilson and stop the bleeding-said if he'd  been
five seconds slower he wouldn't have made it."

"Company Lead Sergeant  Wil Nace," Lon  said. "I saw  them when they  got to the
medtechs."

"I want to thank him personally," Colonel Crampton said. "I owe him more than  I
can ever repay."

"I'll arrange it," Lon  said, looking away for  an instant, remembering that  it
might be his son in similar circumstances ... in not too many years.


Raider casualties took longer to enumerate. Dead, wounded, captured. The  raider
force had suffered more than 50 percent casualties-dead or wounded-in the fight.
Some of the wounded might have been  saved had it not been for the  toxins their
leaders had infected them with to keep them from talking. Many of those who  had
been seriously wounded died before the antidote could be located and brought  to
the medical stations to allow treatment of the prisoners.

The prisoners  were kept  together and  guarded through  the night.  Stripped of
their helmets, weapons, and most of their other gear, they posed little  threat.
By morning,  many of  them were  willing to  talk. The  other raider  bases, the
locations of  the remaining  shuttles, even  schedules for  transport ships were
learned in the first few hours of questioning.

"There are a few officers among the prisoners," Colonel Crampton told Lon  after
they had all returned to  Lincoln. "It looks as if  we'll even get the names  of
most of the agents  the Colonial Mining Cartel  managed to plant here."  Colonel
Crampton had been spending most of his time with his son. Wilson would need  two
months or more of trauma tube treatment to fully regenerate his legs.

"That's good. We won't have any trouble clearing the rest up either," Lon said.

"What about that raider ship?" Colonel Crampton asked.

"Shrikes from Toronto  managed to disable  that yesterday," Lon  said. That news
had come  as something  of a  surprise to  him after  the battle. Somehow he had
completely missed the reports on that ship from Captain Roim of Long Snake.  The
Shrikes that had been assigned to intercept the raider ship had not been able to
destroy it, but they  had crippled its propulsion  system. It was locked  into a
very eccentric orbit around Bancroft. "We haven't received a surrender from them
yet, but we will. Either that or we'll finish the job."

"I hope you can get them to surrender," Colonel Cramp-ton said. "We can use that
ship, once it's repaired.  Get men trained to  crew it. That ship  could give us
the protection we need out in space . .. some of it, anyway. We'll be ready when
the next raider transport comes to make  a pickup, and we'll make it harder  for
those bastards from Earth to try something like this again."

Lon smiled. "We'll see what we can do for you. Colonel."


Phip Steesen was not so  easy to appease. "You kept  me out of the big  fight on
purpose," he  charged, the  first time  he managed  to be  alone with  Lon after
everyone had returned to Lincoln. "You  stranded me back here so I  wouldn't end
up like Dean."

"I didn't know this was going to turn out to be the big fight when we left here,
Phip," Lon explained. "And no, I wasn't trying to keep you out of anything."

"Like hell you weren't."

"It didn't even occur to me."

Still, for the next three days Phip spoke to Lon only when duty demanded it.


Cleaning out  the remnants  of the  raider force,  recovering material  they had
looted and the munitions and  supplies cached in their various  strongholds, and
taking the two remaining attack shuttles left to them took nearly two weeks. The
crew of the ship  needed twelve days to  decide to surrender. The  ship had been
boarded  and the  crew taken  off. Engineers  from Taranto  and Long  Snake  had
already started repairing the ship's propulsion system. Bancroft had  contracted
for an engineer and two officers from Toronto's flight crew to stay over for six
months to train Bancrofters to operate the ship. Those Dirigenters would  return
home  when a  supply ship  came to  bring new  weapons and  four Shrikes.  Eight
Bancrofters would be going to Dirigent for flight training. A dozen others would
go for more extensive training in ship operations.

"A most profitable  addendum to a  successful contract," Lon  noted in the  last
report he  dispatched to  Dirigent via  message rocket.  "It seems unlikely that
Earth's Colonial  Mining Cartel  will attempt  to attack  Bancroft again, but if
they do, Bancroft will be better able to defend itself."

The prisoners,  nearly seven  hundred altogether,  including twelve  families of
recent settlers identified as  agents working for CMC,  would be routed back  to
Earth-as transport became available-except for several dozen men who asked to be
allowed to stay and  settle on Bancroft. The  government of Bancroft also  began
distributing detailed reports of the activities of the Colonial Mining Cartel to
other worlds, and it sent an  official diplomatic protest to Earth ...  for what
little good that might do.

There  was  a  formal  ceremony  at  Government  House  to  mark  the successful
completion of the contract. Governor Sosa announced a large completion bonus for
the men of 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment, and one further honor. Lead Sergeant Wil
Nace was awarded the Medal of Valor of the Bancroft Constabulary Militia.


It was sixteen days after the climactic battle that an MR arrived from Dirigent,
carrying-in  addition  to  official  mail-personal  mail  for  the  men  of  2nd
Battalion. There were  two message chips  for Lon among  the personal mail,  one
from his wife  and children, the  other from his  parents. In a  rare gesture of
self-indulgence,  Lon postponed  reading his  official mail  and turned  to  the
family letters first. Lon  was used to the  segmented nature of the  letter from
his family. Sara had recorded a number of sections in private. Lon, Junior,  and
Angie  had  also  recorded  private  messages.  In  addition,  there  were joint
sessions, with  all three  sitting around  talking more  or less  at once.  They
talked about the details of daily life, and about the things they had been doing
with the elder Nolans. All in all,  that letter ran for nearly an hour.  Lon was
tempted to replay the entire thing immediately,  but took the chip from his  com
plink and inserted the chip from his parents.

"God, it's good to have them on Dirigent," Lon whispered while the second letter
was playing. He hardly noticed the tear at the comer of his left eye, wiping  it
away absently.

His parents were full of cheery news, their discoveries, their "exploration"  of
their  new  homework!. Several  times  Lon found  himself  chuckling over  their
exuberance. But  one  passage-his father  speaking  without his  mother  present
almost brought Lon to tears.

"I've  spent  quite a  lot  of time  chatting  with Junior.  He's  been full  of
enthusiasm for your outfit and swearing  that he's going to enlist the  day he's
old enough. I know  how much that troubles  you, but I think  that maybe there's
hope he'll change his mind. Junior has talked a lot, but he has also done a  lot
of listening-not your  strongest suit when  you were his  age, if you  remember.
I've talked about my  teaching, and about the  options he has here.  Given him a
different perspective on a few things, I think. Maybe it sounds different coming
from an  old geezer  like me  rather than  a certified  hero-soldier. There's no
guarantee  here,  son,  but  the  last few  days  Junior  hasn't  been  quite so
absolutely adamant about becoming a soldier."

"I hope  you're right.  Dad," Lon  whispered to  the comp-link  screen. "I  pray
you're right."


The  Dirigenter  ships  started for  home  three  weeks before  the  end  of the
originally contracted three months, their job finished. Lon paid his first visit
to the section of Long Snake where the Dirigenter dead were being stored for the
trip home. There  were too many  dead-one was too  many-but he consoled  himself
with the knowledge that it could have been much worse.

He sat alone in the antechamber for more than an hour, staring at the hatch that
led to the bodies. How many fathers and mothers have to mourn? he wondered.

Maybe, subconsciously, I  was trying to  keep Phip away  from the fighting,  Lon
thought-honest in proximity to the  dead. Colonel Crampton nearly lost  his son.
Jerry was wounded.  Lon shook his  head. There was  one problem he  still had no
answer for. "How can I  convince Junior there are other  things to do than be  a
soldier like his  father?" Just the  hope that maybe  his father would  make the
difference.