DMC: Book #03

Major



by Rick Shelley





The year is A.D. 2814. 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 nineteen 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

Angle Nolan  had blue  eyes and  blond, almost  white, hair  that was  naturally
curly. In two days, she  would be ten months old.  So far, Lon had been  able to
see no resemblance in Angie to either her mother or her father, though he tried,
diligently.

Captain Lon  Nolan finished  dressing his  daughter after  a diaper change, then
picked her up and carried her back to the living room, talking softly to her the
whole time. Though he kept the words simple, he never resorted to the  gibberish
of "baby talk."

"It'll be a miracle if she ever leams to walk, the way you and Junior carry  her
around all the time," Sara  Nolan said when she saw  them. There was a smile  on
her face, though; this was an old  joke between her and her husband. Sara  stood
in the  doorway between  kitchen and  living room.  Outwardly, she looked little
different to Lon than when he had first seen her, more than eight years  before.
Even now,  there were  times when  Lon could  not believe  his memories  of that
evening. They had gone  from being strangers to  being engaged to be  married in
only a couple of hours. The  precipitous nature of their courtship had  led some
to predictions of disaster, but that cliched "love at first sight" had not  only
survived, it had also grown with each passing year. There were tiny lines at the
comers of her  eyes now, and  she wore her  red hair shorter,  but that was  the
extent of the changes that Lon noticed.

Lon, Junior, was sitting  on the floor, too  near the entertainment console,  as
usual. He  was seven  years old  and looked  very much  like his  father. Junior
looked toward his mother as if he were ready to contradict some part of what she
had said, but he saw the smile and turned back to his program instead.

"She'll have plenty of time for  walking," Lon said, carefully setting the  girl
on the floor next to her brother. She immediately climbed onto Junior's lap  and
made herself comfortable, ready to stare at the show on the console with him.

"Angie walks pretty good already," Junior said then, shifting her so he was more
comfortable.  The boy  had never  exhibited any  jealousy at  the arrival  of  a
sister. He doted on her nearly as much as their parents did.

"Go  wash your  hands for  supper," his  mother said.  "It'll be  ready in   two
minutes."

It was a Saturday  evening in early October,  a mild autumn in  Dirigent City. A
third of  the Dirigent  Mercenary Corps  was off-world  on contract. Lon's unit,
Company A, 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment, was  near the top of the lists for  both
company- and battalion-size  operations. The next  contract, the next  trip away
from Dirigent,  might be  no more  than days-weeks  at the  most-away. That made
Lon's time at home, evenings and  weekends, all the more precious to  him. After
eleven years in the DMC, he no longer looked eagerly forward to the next  chance
for contract pay. Even  if a mission did  not involve combat, it  still kept him
away from his wife  and children, and that  was hard, beyond what  the extra pay
for off-world service was worth to him.

The battalion had been back on  Dirigent for seven months this time  around. The
men had  gone through  their regular  stints of  training and  planetary defense
duty, getting in furlough time as possible, and had just gone back to a training
schedule.  For Lon  that generally  meant a  five-day workweek,  eight to  five,
little  different from  any other  working man  on any  developed world.   Night
exercises were rare. The  only regular interruption to  the routine was the  one
night out of twelve when he drew duty as battalion officer of the day. His  last
turn at that had come the previous Sunday.

Angie sat  in her  high chair  between her  parents at  the kitchen  table. Lon,
Junior, sat  across from  his sister.  Living quarters  for married captains and
lieutenants did  not include  a separate  dining room.  Those were  reserved for
senior officers.

When everyone  was in  place, Lon  said grace.  He had  never been  particularly
religious,  but he  had rarely  questioned the  existence of  a God,  and  Angie
thought that  it was  important to  show a  good example  for the children. When
possible, they even attended services at the nearest chapel on base together. At
times like this, Lon found that  there was little pretense in his  open prayers.
He looked around at his family and thought how lucky- how blessed-he had been in
life. It couldn 't be better, he thought.

Junior carried most of the conversation during  supper. He talked about his  day
the shows he  had watched, his  "adventures" playing, and  what Angie had  done.
Every day  seemed to  bring some  new accomplishment  for the  infant, and  that
amazed the boy.

Lon listened and watched in fascinated amusement. He could not recall ever being
as exuberant as his  son. He could not  really recall being that  young himself.
There was only one passage in the boy's talk this evening that bothered Lon.  In
the course of one tale. Junior said something that started with "When I grow  up
and join  the Corps  ..." Lon  felt the  frown settle  across his face before he
could mask it, but Junior did not notice.

"There are other things besides being a soldier," Lon said when he got a chance.

"But I want to be a soldier, just  like you," the boy said, and he went  on with
his story.

I hope  you change  your mind,  Lon thought,  no longer  really listening to the
narrative. You're smart, even smarter than I was at your age. There are lots  of
other things you could do with your life. Junior had started reading when he was
just a little past  his third birthday, and  he tested in the  top percentile of
children  his  age. Lon  had  never seriously  questioned  his own  career  as a
soldier, and the desire to follow that vocation had started when he was  perhaps
no older than his son  was now. Lon did not  like to admit it, even  to himself,
but the thought that his son might someday join the Corps made him anxious.

"He'll change his mind  a thousand times over  the next ten years  about what he
wants to be when he grows up," Sara  told Lon when they were alone for a  moment
after supper. Junior and  Angie were in the  living room again. Lon  was helping
his wife put dishes  in the washer. "Children  are like that." She  had seen the
strained look on Lon's face when Junior talked about wanting to be a soldier.

"I hope so," Lon whispered. "But I wasn't. I set my mind on being a soldier when
I was  about Junior's  age and  never wavered.  All I  ever wanted  to be  was a
soldier." That phrase nearly  brought a shiver to  him. It hadn't been  easy. He
had lost his chance at becoming a soldier on Earth when the top students in  his
class at  the North  American Military  Academy were  earmarked for  the federal
police and the  task of containing  the millions of  idle poor who  lived in the
city  areas known  as circuses.  He had  left Earth  to escape  that career   of
intentional brutality, heading for the mercenary world of Dirigent... a lifetime
ago. "And here," Lon continued, "one way or another, the entire planet  revolves
around the Corps. It's impossible to escape the influence."

"It is what we do," Sara  said. "Without the Corps, Dirigent wouldn't  amount to
much." She  kissed Lon  on the  cheek. "And  it's too  soon to  worry about what
Junior's going to be  when he grows up,  anyway. It'll make you  old before your
time." She started the washer, then led Lon toward the living room. When Lon was
home, Saturday evenings were for the family.

Junior chose the show they watched that evening, not the rarest of events.  This
one was an adventure about a handful of people stranded on some world  dominated
by gigantic dinosaurs and  dragons, searching for  some fabulous-and  improbable
artifact. The plot had more  holes in it than a  target after a long day  on the
rifle range, but that never bothered  Junior. And his father could tolerate  it.
The  vid  was  full  of  unintentional  humor.  The  adventure  was  nearing its
incredible climax  when a  red light  on the  status line  at the  bottom of the
screen started blinking to signal an incoming call.

"I'll get it in the kitchen," Lon said.

He closed the door between the two  rooms to shut out the sounds of  dragons and
dinosaurs, then keyed the accept button on the complink. The screen came to life
instantly. Major Matt  Orlis, adjutant for  2nd Battalion, was  calling from his
office.

"Lon, we need you at regimental headquarters as fast as you can make it," Orlis,
Lon's predecessor as commander of A Company, said.

"A contract?" Lon asked.

Orlis shook his head no. "Are you alone there?"

Lon nodded yes.

"There's been a  problem, in 3rd  Battalion. You will  be sitting as  one of the
officers on a general court-martial."

Lon felt his breath catch. "What's the offense?"

"Murder."



2

By the time  Lon had changed  into uniform, there  was a car  waiting outside to
take him to regimental headquarters.

"You're not going out on  contract, are you?" Sara had  asked as soon as he  got
off link and headed through the living room toward their bedroom.

"No, not a contract," he said, not stopping to talk. Sara followed him into  the
bedroom. Once the door was closed behind them, Lon told her what little he knew.

"Murder?" she asked.

"That's what  Matt said.  I'll let  you know  as soon  as I  know anything I can
share," Lon promised. He  was already out of  his civilian clothes and  reaching
for a fresh uniform from the closet.

Murder. No one in the DMC had been charged with that crime in all the years that
Lon had been on Dirigent.

"Will you be late?" Sara  asked as Lon affixed the  oval pips of a DMC  captain,
red enamel and gold, to the lapels of his uniform shirt.

"I have  no idea  if I'll  even get  home tonight,"  he said.  "I don't know how
complicated  this  is  going to  be."  In  the DMC,  a  court-martial  panel was
assembled as early in the process as possible. They oversaw the investigation by
the military police  and judge advocate,  charged with protecting  the rights of
victims, witnesses, and the accused-as well  as with finding the truth. Lon  had
sat on  two special  courts-martial-one step  below a  general court-martial  in
numbers and in the maximum sentence they were allowed to impose-in his years  as
an officer in the DMC.

Lon was  slipping on  his dress  boots when  the doorbell  rang and Sara went to
answer. It was the driver sent for Lon.

"Sorry to have  to roust you  out on a  Saturday night, Captain,"  the driver, a
corporal from regimental headquarters, said.

"Not your fault.  Corporal," Lon said  as the driver  held open the  door to the
ground-effect vehicle for him.

They did not discuss the  case. Lon knew no more  than what Matt Orlis had  told
him,  and  he  knew  better  than to  ask.  Nor  did  the  driver volunteer  any
information. The ride to 7th Regiment's headquarters took less than ten minutes.
Several other vehicles were parked in front of the building, and there were more
lights than usual on inside.

An MP standing watch just inside the main entrance directed Lon to the office of
the OD, the officer of the day. The door to that office was standing open. Major
Orlis, now the executive officer for 2nd Battalion, was the regimental OD.

"Sorry to  spoil your  weekend, Lon,"  Orlis said,  getting up  to return  Lon's
salute and to shake hands.  "But this is a bad  one. I can't tell you  more now.
We're still waiting for  two more members of  the court-martial. I'll brief  you
all at the same time. It shouldn't be long."

"Where do I wait?'' was the  only question Lon asked, though there  were several
others he wanted to have answered.

"Conference room just across  the hall. There's a  fresh pot of coffee  going in
there, or there was ten minutes ago."

Lon nodded and went to the other room. There were two officers already in there,
sitting at the oval conference table, across from each other. Major Tefford Ives
was  the executive  officer of  the regiment's  1st Battalion.  Near fifty   and
unlikely to advance any  higher in the Corps,  Ives nodded a casual  greeting to
Lon and gestured  at the empty  chairs. Lon needed  a few seconds  to recall the
name of the other officer. Captain Dave Gow-ers from 5th Regiment. Lon could not
recall what battalion or company Gowers  belonged to. Lon got coffee and  sat at
the table.

"Orlis say how  much longer we've  got to wait  before we find  out what's going
on?" Ives asked after Lon was seated.

"Just that it shouldn't be long, Major," Lon said.

The  next  officer  arrived  almost on  Lon's  last  word.  Captain Wallis  Ames
commanded 2nd  Battalion's B  Company, and  had ever  since Lon  had joined  the
battalion. He was past sixty years  of age, steady but unremarkable as  a combat
leader. And less than two minutes  later, the final member of the  court-martial
panel was escorted into the room by Major Orlis.

"Gentlemen," Orlis  said, "Colonel  Johan Ellis  will be  the president  of this
court-martial." The officers sitting at the table had all stood to attention  as
soon as the commanding officer of 12th Regiment entered the room.

"Please sit, gentlemen," the colonel said as he went around the table to sit  at
the center of one of the long sides. "Let's save the formalities for when  there
are others present."

"Coffee, Colonel?" Lon asked. He was closest to the chair that Ellis took.

"Thank you. Captain, yes."

Matt Orlis waited until Lon had fetched coffee for the colonel, then moved to  a
position across from  Ellis, but remained  standing a couple  of paces from  the
edge of the table, where everyone could see him without straining their necks.

"Colonel, gentlemen, you have been convened to sit as a general  court-martial,"
Orlis said,  part of  the ritual  required for  the empanelment.  "The convening
authority is the General, Herman Rodrigues."

Lon  closed his  eyes for  an instant.  The General  himself was  the  convening
authority, and the president of the court-martial was a full colonel. Those  two
items were enough to tell him that the case was one in which the sentence  might
be death if the suspect-whoever he was-were convicted.

"The accusing officer  is Lieutenant Colonel  Jack Draco, commanding  the Corps'
military police detachment,"  Orlis continued. "The  defendant is Private  Kaiko
Green, A Company, 3rd Battalion, 2nd Regiment. The charge is willful murder, the
specification that Private Green did, on or about sixteen-fifteen hours, October
seventh, 2814, willfully murder Platoon Sergeant Holfield O'Banion of C Company,
3rd Battalion, Third Regiment, in  Dirigent City, at the civilian  establishment
known as the Purple Harridan."

Lon did not recognize the name of either the defendant or the slain man.

"Captain Knowles, the officer in charge of the investigation, is waiting for you
to join  him at  the scene  of the  crime," Orlis  said. "Your transportation is
waiting. There is only one formality left before you depart. Colonel, gentlemen.
Major Rice from the judge advocate's office  is here to swear you in as  members
of the court-martial."

The formality took less than a minute. Then Major Rice escorted the five members
of the court-martial out to a  waiting floater, a large vehicle that  could have
comfortably seated twice as  many. The driver was  a sergeant, as was  the armed
guard who accompanied him.

There was no  talk during the  ride into the  section of Dirigent  City known as
Camo Town, the area that existed to serve the off-duty desires and needs of  the
soldiers who were  the backbone of  the world's economy.  Bars, brothels, gaming
arcades, restaurants, cheap hotels,  and various other establishments  lined the
streets of Camo  Town. Lon stared  out the window  at his side,  but he was  not
really looking at the passing scenery. The thought that one member of the  Corps
had murdered another-if the allegation was true-was too disturbing. Lon tried to
tell himself not to  make guesses about what  might or might not  have happened.
Before hearing the facts, that would be presumptuous. But he could not  entirely
restrain his mind. The  accused killer and the  victim had not been  part of the
same  company,  or  even  the  same  battalion.  Unless  one  or  the  other had
transferred, that might indicate that it was not a duty grudge carried off base.
Beyond that...

It's been a long time since I was in the Purple Harridan, Lon thought, and  that
almost brought a  smile to his  face. Or the  Dragon Lady, or  any of the  other
places we used to go. Phip Steesen,  Janno Belzer, and Dean Ericks had been  his
usual companions-an age  before, it seemed  now. When Lon  had first joined  the
Corps, they had been in the same fire team, unofficially assigned to steer Cadet
Nolan  through the  process of  adjustment. The  four of  them had  done  almost
everything together, been compared with  more regularity than any of  them liked
to D'Artangan  and the  Three Musketeers.  But that  couldn't last forever, even
though they had been nearly inseparable.  Janno had married a waitress from  the
Dragon Lady, then  resigned from the  Corps for civilian  work. Lon had  won his
officer's pips, then  promotion to captain  . .. and  a wife. It  was the latter
more than the other considerations that had  put an end to his jaunts into  Camo
Town with friends and comrades. Phip and Dean were still in the Corps, still  in
A Company. Phip was a platoon sergeant now, and Dean a corporal, a squad  leader
who would earn his own sergeant's stripes before much longer. The four men  were
still close  friends, but  time and  circumstances had  forced the relationships
among them to change. It was not the same as it had been back in ...

"The good old  days," Lon whispered  very softly. The  Purple Harridan had  been
closed for the investigation. Two MPs stood at the main entrance, their look  of
formal menace enough  to ensure that  passing soldiers gave  them a wide  berth.
Some crossed  to the  far side  of the  street to  avoid coming  too close.  Lon
assumed that the other doors would be similarly guarded.

Inside, the  loud music  had been  stilled and  the strobing  lights switched to
constant-normal-illumination. Several  more MPs  stood around,  making sure that
nothing was disturbed and  that the potential witnesses-staff  and customers-did
not leave the premises prematurely. An MP captain came over to Colonel Ellis and
saluted. Ellis returned the salute.

"Colonel Ellis is president of  the court-martial. Captain Knowles," Major  Rice
said. "These other officers have been empaneled to sit on the court-martial."

"Has the accused  been assigned representation  yet?" Colonel Ellis  asked. "His
attorney should be present for this."

"That would  be me.  Colonel." A  man in  civilian clothes  moved away  from the
others at the bar and approached the  newly arrived group. "Tim Isling,  attomey
at-law." He nodded but did not offer to shake hands.

"Counselor." Ellis returned  the nod. "If  you have no  objections, we might  as
well begin the tour of the crime scene."

Captain  Knowles  started  reporting. "At  sixteen-fifty-five  hours  today, our
office received a call from the Di-rigent City police, reporting that there  had
been a murder committed at this location, that they had responded and found that
both victim and accused assailant were serving members of the Dirigent Mercenary
Corps. They requested  that we dispatch  personnel to accept  responsibility for
the investigation. My  team responded  immediately, arriving  here at  seventeen
eleven hours.

"I  accepted  custody  of  the  accused.  Private  Kaiko  Green,  and  gave  the
investigator from the  city police a  receipt for him  and formal acknowledgment
that  the  Corps  accepted responsibility  for  the  investigation. The  victim,
identified as Platoon  Sergeant Holfield O'Banion,  had been pronounced  dead by
the  medical  emergency response  team.  The body  was  still in  place  when we
arrived. Once we had taken holographs and accounted for physical evidence on and
around the body, it was removed to the base's medical center.

"If you will follow me, gentlemen, I will show you the crime scene now." Knowles
led the way to the back barroom of the Purple Harridan, a somewhat smaller  room
than the front bar.

Lon noted a table with a broken  leg, tipped over, the leg itself lying  nearby,
covered with  stains that  he assumed  were blood.  There were  other signs of a
struggle in the room, though that  was not exceptionally uncommon in the  Purple
Harridan.

"According to the  witnesses we have  interviewed so far,"  Captain Knowles said
once  everyone  had a  chance  to look  around  the room,  "Private  Green first
accosted Sergeant O'Banion at approximately fifteen-thirty hours. Several  other
soldiers, apparently friends of the accused, managed to pull Private Green away.
Several people said that they thought that Private Green and his companions left
the establishment at that time. No  one recalls, with any certainty, seeing  the
accused here  during the  next twenty  to twenty-five  minutes. At approximately
sixteen-ten hours, though.  Private Green reappeared,  coming over to  the table
where  Sergeant  O'Banion was  sitting.  According to  witnesses.  Green started
shouting at the  sergeant, then pushed  the table over  onto him. When  Sergeant
O'Banion got to his feet, he was immediately assaulted by Private Green. At some
point in  the next  minute or  two, one  leg was  broken off this table. Private
Green grabbed the leg and repeatedly struck Sergeant O'Banion with it,  knocking
him to the ground, and continuing to use the table leg as a weapon to batter the
sergeant's  head  until  several  other  people,  soldiers  and  members  of the
establishment's staff, managed to pull Private Green off and subdue him."

"Have you interviewed all of the  witnesses to this fight. Captain?" Mr.  Isling
asked.

"We have interviewed all  of the witnesses who  were present when the  municipal
police arrived on the scene. Any witnesses who might have left between the  time
of the  fight and  the arrival  of the  first police  are unknown  to us. We are
making efforts to discover if such witnesses exist, and to identify them."

"You  have  verified the  identities  of those  witnesses  you know  about,  and
informed them that they  may be required to  respond to additional questions  by
myself and the court?'' Isling asked next.

"Yes, sir," Knowles said, "as required by both the civilian and military justice
codes. A list  of names and  addresses, along with  a transcript of  preliminary
evidence from each,  will be available  to you and  to the court  as soon as  we
conclude our work here."

When Major Rice and the members  of the court-martial left the Purple  Harridan,
Tim Isling went with them. The next  stop for the bus was the medical  center on
the DMC base. The group was expected. The medical examiner had the. body of  the
dead man laid out on an autopsy table.

"My preliminary  examination shows  that the  deceased died  from massive  blunt
instrument trauma to the head,"  the doctor reported, pointing out  the grossest
injuries. "The skull was fractured repeatedly, and there was severe hemorrhaging
within the brain. Death would have occurred very rapidly."

"Have you tested the blood and stomach contents yet for alcohol or other foreign
substances?" Isling asked.

"Blood samples have been taken and are being tested now," the doctor said.  "The
contents of the stomach will be tested during the autopsy. All procedures  will,
of course, be recorded, and the record will accompany my report. This should all
be available by oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow."

"Thank you. Doctor," Isling said.

Colonel Ellis nodded, then turned to the other officers with him. "If any of you
have any questions ... ?" -he prompted. No one offered any.

Next the  group went  to the  guardhouse, where  they finally  saw the  accused.
Private Kaiko Green. The private was escorted into a conference room where Major
Rice, Mr. Isling, and  the members of the  court-martial panel were seated.  Two
MPs flanked Private Green, whose hands were cuffed in front of him.

"You are Private Kaiko Green,  A Company, 3rd Battalion, 2nd  Regiment, Dirigent
Mercenary Corps?" Colonel Ellis asked.

"Yes, sir."

"You have consulted with your attorney, Mr. Tim Isling?" Ellis asked next.

Green glanced at the civilian before he answered. "For about two minutes, sir."

"Understand, Private Green, we do not sit in judgment of you now. Your trial has
not yet been scheduled. You may, if you wish, make a statement or offer evidence
you feel has not been addressed by the investigating officers at this time.  You
are not required to do so, and  you may consult your attorney in private  before
deciding whether you wish to speak now. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir. It's clear. Mr. Isling told me I should say nothing at this time."

"You have been advised by counsel," Colonel Ellis said, nodding. "I must  inform
you that  the decision  is still  yours. You  are not  required to  abide by the
advice your attorney gives."

"I guess I'll do what he says, sir," Green said.

"Very well. You may go now," Ellis  said, and the two MPs escorted Green  out of
the room. Ellis turned toward the attorney then.

"Counselor, is there anything you would like  to say to us at this time?  Either
officially or off the record. If convicted of the charge of willful murder, your
client could  well face  a sentence  of death  by hanging.  I will  extend every
possible consideration to you in your defense of him."

"I  believe  I  should wait  until  I  have time  to  study  the report  of  the
investigators and the testimony of the witnesses before I say anything specific.
Colonel," Isling said. "I assume that the court-martial will be held Monday?"

As  I  told  your client,  it  has  not been  scheduled  yet,  but-providing the
investigating team gets all  of its data submitted  in time to provide  you with
the mandatory twenty-four-hour  notice-my guess is  that it will  indeed be held
Monday."

After Isling left the room to  consult with his client, Colonel Ellis  permitted
himself a short sigh.  "Well, gentlemen," he said,  looking around at the  other
members of the panel, "I believe there is no more we can usefully do tonight.  I
suggest  that  we  meet  at  fourteen hundred  hours  tomorrow  to  go  over our
preparations for the  trial of Private  Green. I also  suggest that each  of you
review  the  pertinent  sections  of the  court-martial  manual  before  we meet
tomorrow. This is an ugly business, gentlemen, so we must be especially  careful
that we make no errors.

"Major Rice, if you would be so good as to have our transports come here to take
us home?"

The children  were in  bed, asleep,  when Lon  finally got  home. It  was nearly
eleven o'clock. Sara  was still up  waiting, reading-or pretending  to read. She
was still holding the  hand-reader when she met  Lon at the door.  She had heard
the staff car drive up.

Lon gave her a tired kiss, then put  his arms around her and rested his head  on
hers.

"Was it bad?" Sara asked.

"Gruesome," he said.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. I don't even want to think about  it. I've got to go back in for  a meeting
tomorrow afternoon, and the court-martial will probably be held Monday."

"Anyone we know involved?" Sara asked.

Lon pulled his head back  and shook it. "You might  as well go on to  bed, dear.
I've got to study the court-martial manual tonight. It's going to take a while."

"Why not sleep now and do your  studying in the morning?" Sara asked. "You  look
as if you've had all you should tonight."

"Can't take the chance.  Besides, it's going to  be some time before  I can even
think about sleeping."  And getting through  the night without  seeing that body
laid out on the slab  in the autopsy room will  not be easy, he thought,  but he
would not say that to Sara-or anyone else.

"Want me to fix you something?" Sara  asked. This time, Lon shook his head  more
vigorously. "I can fix myself coffee later, if I want it. Just go on to bed. The
kids will have you up early in the morning."

Lon  had first  studied the  court-martial manual  of the  DMC while  he was  an
officer-cadet. As in the army of the North American Union, back on Earth,  there
were three possible  levels of court-martial-summary,  special, and general,  in
order of increasing severity. A summary court consisted of one officer, and  the
most  severe  punishment   it  could  impose   was  thirty  days'   imprisonment
and.discharge with prejudice from the DMC. "Discharge with Prejudice" deprived a
soldier  of all  pay and  allowances, and   the right  to vote  or to  hold  any
government job  for the  rest of  his life.  A special  court consisted of three
officers  and  could  impose  a  year's  imprisonment,  plus  the  same  sort of
discharge. A  general court  was made  up of  five to  seven officers and had no
limits on  the punishment  it could  impose, up  to and  including death or life
imprisonment.

The manual had sections dealing with each type of court-martial, and  procedural
instructions for every stage in the process. "During the investigative phase, it
is the responsibility of the court-martial panel to ensure that the civilian  or
military police adhere  to proper procedures,  to protect the  rights of victims
and  accused,  and to  order  any steps  necessary  and permitted  under  law to
determine the truth."

We're in that stage of the case now, Lon thought, turning away from the complink
monitor he was using to read the manual. Any steps necessary and permitted under
law-if the case required  it, they could even  order a suspect questioned  under
truth drugs that  could not be  circumvented. A defendant  was not permitted  to
refuse such questioning,  but could request  it if his  lawyer thought it  might
help his case.

Lon scanned some  sections and read  others very closely.  He was not  concerned
with memorizing anything. There would always be a law officer, a lawyer from the
judge  advocate's  office, present  to  help with  details  and procedures.  Lon
assumed that Major Rice would continue to serve that function.

In general, the procedures were not much different from those Lon had learned at
The Springs, the military academy  of the North American Union.  The prosecuting
attorney would begin with his case, evidence and witnesses. The defense attorney
had  the  right to  cross-examine  witnesses and  object  to evidence.  Then  he
presented the defense case, evidence and  witnesses. The prosecutor could  cross
examine and so forth. And the  members of the court-martial could also  directly
question witnesses for either side.

Lon  fixed  himself coffee  but  got little  enjoyment  from it,  even  after he
seasoned it with just  enough whiskey to give  it flavor. After two  sips he set
the cup aside and forgot it.                                 .

When he finally closed  the manual and blanked  the complink screen, Lon  simply
stared at the blank screen for more than a minute. I'm going to have to vote  on
whether or not to hang a man, he thought.

He slept very little that night.



3

Sunday's meeting of  the court-martial panel  consisted largely of  listening to
reports from the military police who had questioned people who knew the dead man
and the accused, trying to determine what had occasioned the assault. They  also
formally called the start of the trial for Tuesday morning at 0900 hours.

"More than the  required notice," Colonel  Ellis told the  defense attorney. "It
gives the MPs and yourself more time  to find and question people who knew  both
individuals."

"Thank you. Colonel," Isling said. "We shall be ready."

After Isling left. Major Rice spent twenty minutes explaining the procedures for
the beginning of the trial, and  answered questions from several of the  members
of the court. It was nearly five o'clock, 1700 hours, before Lon got home.

"It's been twenty years since a DMC court-martial sentenced a man to death," Lon
said. He was sitting at the table as Sara set it for an early supper. Angie  was
taking a nap  while Junior played  outside. Once in  a while, his  parents could
hear him whooping through whatever game he was playing. "I wish I didn't have to
be involved this time."

"You don't know yet that you'll do that," she said, watching him more than  what
she was doing. The way he had moped about since coming home worried her. It  was
so unlike him. "You haven't heard all of the evidence yet."

"No, but I can't  imagine any extenuating circumstances  that could result in  a
conviction for  less than  willful murder-certainly  not in  acquittal. Too many
people saw the killing, and the witnesses are unanimous in saying that Green was
the aggressor. And if we convict him, we'll have to vote on whether to  sentence
him to death or something less."

Sara wasn't sure what else she could  say. She had watched the news reports  the
evening before  and earlier  Sunday afternoon.  Normally she  didn't bother with
crime news, but this was clearly affecting her husband.

"Why don't you see if Angle's ready to wake up?" Sara suggested. "Supper will be
ready in ten minutes. And call Junior. Tell him to wash his hands."

Not even the exuberance of the children  could pick Lon up out of his  funk. But
that could not slow  Junior and Angie. After  supper, Lon went into  the bedroom
alone for a  time. He simply  sat on the  edge of the  bed, leaning forward, his
arms resting on his thighs, his mind as nearly blank as it could get. He  wasn't
in there for long before Sara came in.

"Junior asked, 'What's wrong with Daddy?' "  she said when she sat next to  him.
She rested her  hand on one  of his. "Lon,  you've got to  quit beating yourself
over the head with what might happen. You tossed and turned all last night.  You
look like hell now. You're not doing anybody any favors."

"I know," Lon said,  almost in a whisper.  He did not lift  his head or look  at
Sara. "I've seen death before, all too often. I've given orders to men,  knowing
they might die as a result. But this is different. Right at this minute I  don't
much enjoy being a soldier."

"There are  five of  you on  the court-martial.  You'll listen  to the evidence.
You'll decide whether the man is guilty  or not, and vote on the sentence.  Then
the General will review everything and decide whether to uphold the verdict  the
court imposes or reduce it. It doesn't all rest on your shoulders. Anyway, think
about the other man, the one who was killed."

He sighed, almost theatrically, then straightened up and looked at her. "I know.
I know. I'll be okay.  I just need a few  minutes alone to get myself  together.
You go on back out with the kids. I'll be out shortly."

After Sara left the bedroom, Lon continued to sit for several minutes, then  got
up and went into  the bathroom. He stared  at himself in the  mirror. There were
dark circles under his eyes, and his  face looked more drawn than usual. He  ran
cold water in  the sink, then  splashed water on  his face several  times before
shutting off the faucet and drying his face and hands.

"I'll use a sleep patch tonight to  make sure I get some rest," he  promised his
reflection.

Eight hours of sleep did help, but not as much as Lon had hoped. There had  been
no restless dreams in the night, but the nightmare was still there when he woke.
He was up at six in the morning, ready to head in to his headquarters by  seven.
A shuttle service operated for married officers and their families. Lon only had
a five-minute wait for the small bus, and a five-minute ride to the edge of  the
regimental parade ground. Reveille was long  past. Some of the men were  already
returning  from breakfast,  ready for  the next  formation, at  0800 hours.  Lon
needed a moment to  recall what A Company's  schedule held for the  day. The men
were due to spend the entire day at the rifle range.

Good, Lon thought as he walked across the parade ground toward the building that
housed A Company's offices and headquarters  staff. Nothing I really have to  be
present for. There  was another meeting  of the court-martial  scheduled for the
morning, and there was no telling how long it might take-perhaps the rest of the
day.

Lead Sergeant Weil Jorgen was in the company orderly room when Lon arrived. Weil
had  been promoted  nearly four  years earlier  after his  predecessor had  been
transferred to regimental headquarters. "Morning, Weil," Lon said.

"Morning,  Captain."  Weil  got to  his  feet  and followed  Lon  across  to the
commander's private office. "I hear you've drawn court-martial duty, sir."

"Yes, and you know I can't discuss the case," Lon said.

"I know, sir. Looks  pretty calm for us  the next couple of  days, though, rifle
range today and squad tactics tomorrow,"  Weil said. "No need to worry  about us
while you're, ah, occupied."

Lon smiled, briefly. "Tebba and Harley here?" "Yes, sir, up in the coffee  room.
Should I get them?" "No, I'll go up there. I need the exercise." "I'll have  the
manning reports ready by work call," Weil promised as Lon left the office.

Tebba Girana had been commissioned from  the ranks just days after Lon  had been
promoted to captain,  following the Aldrin  contract eight years  before. He now
led the  first two  platoons of  A Company.  The other  two platoons  were under
Lieutenant Harley Stossberg, who had won his lieutenant's pips two years ago, on
Kepler, after doing his stint as an officer-cadet under Tebba's tutelage. Girana
had been in the Corps since before Stossberg was born.

The two  lieutenants were  sitting and  sipping coffee,  scarcely aware  of each
other's presence.  Tebba was  leaning back,  staring out  the window. Harley was
just staring, perhaps at  the ceiling. Stossberg was  the first to notice  Lon's
arrival. He  stood immediately,  not quite  jumping to  his feet.  He was barely
twenty-one years old,  and three hard  combat contracts had  not yet robbed  his
face of a look of youthful naivete.  He had soft blue eyes and rosy  cheeks that
always made him appear as if he had just come in from the cold.

"Good morning. Captain," Harley said. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

"Sit down, Harley," Lon said. "You've been  at this too long to still be  acting
like a  cadet." There  was humor  more than  censure in  Lon's voice.  The young
lieutenant was still so infernally eager. But it was impossible to dislike him.

"Captain," Tebba said, getting  to his feet more  slowly-making it seem that  he
was stretching rather  than showing proper  military courtesy. "I  heard you got
stuck with trying the murder."

"Yes, and you know that's all I can say," Lon said.

"I assume you're going to  be busy on that and  not paying much attention to  us
here until it's over," Tebba said.

"Yes, so you  two will have  to keep things  going at least  the next couple  of
days. That makes  you in charge  while I'm gone,  Tebba. Try to  keep the beaver
here from blowing a fuse."

"I'll slap a tranq on him if I have to," Tebba said, grinning at Harley.

The younger  lieutenant showed  no annoyance  at the  ribbing he  took from  the
others. After two  years, he was  more than used  to it. At  times he seemed  to
revel in being the butt of such jokes.

"I'll be here for formation this morning," Lon said after pausing long enough to
be sure that Harley did not have one of his rare rebuttals. "Tomorrow morning as
well, if I can."

Lon got a  cup of coffee  and sat on  the edge of  the table to  drink the brew.
Tebba asked Harley  about his weekend,  and Harley replied  at some length.  Lon
scarcely listened. His mind had drifted inside itself again, going to  something
near a trance state to avoid thinking about the court-martial of Kaiko Green.

Five  minutes before  it was  time for  the morning  regimental formation.  Lead
Sergeant Jorgen knocked on the door, opened it, and reminded the officers of the
time.

"Let's get to work," Lon said, getting off the table. "You two better check with
your sergeants and find  out what's going on."  He waited until the  lieutenants
had left, then poured himself another  half cup of coffee and drank  it quickly.
He did not need to head outside quite yet.

That afternoon, once the  work of the court-martial  panel was finished for  the
day, Lon went to  the regimental gymnasium and  worked out for an  hour, pushing
himself as  hard as  he had  when he  was half  as old.  In high  school and the
military academy on Earth, Lon had been a distance runner, his best time for the
mile nine-tenths of a second short  of the world record, which had  continued to
improve while his times had started to fade. Now fifteen pounds heavier than  he
had been at his racing peak,  Lon's times were markedly slower, but  he remained
in top physical condition. An officer  in the Di-rigent Mercenary Corps did  not
dare allow himself to get out of shape. Combat made no allowances for desk duty,
and the DMC rigidly enforced physical standards for all its personnel. Even  the
colonels who sat on  the Council of Regiments  had to meet those  standards each
year.

Lon ran two miles on the indoor track. The standard he set for himself was eight
minutes and fifteen seconds for the distance. That was enough to make him  press
himself carefully. After he took a  final lap to gradually relax, he  did twenty
minutes on the weight machines, working his upper body, then did fifteen minutes
swimming laps  in the  pool in  the next  room. By  the time  he had taken a hot
shower and dressed again, he was feeling pleasantly exhausted, his mood improved
by the physical exertion, as it usually was. The entire time Lon had  exercised,
he had not once thought of the trial starting Tuesday morning.

At  home that  evening, he  was more  nearly his  usual self,  playing with  the
children, helping Junior  with his studies,  spoiling Angie relentlessly.  After
the children were in bed,  Lon and Sara sat together  on the sofa in the  living
room, cuddling gently while music played on the entertainment center.

"If you're still on-planet  then, do you think  you'll be able to  take a week's
leave so we can go visit my folks for Christmas'?'' Sara asked.

"I'm afraid there's not much chance  I'll be home for Christmas this  year," Lon
said. "We're too close to the top of the small-unit lists. If I am, though, I'll
try. I might only be able to get a  couple of days. You and the kids can go  for
longer, though, whether I'm here or not."

"You might have a short contract and be back before then," Sara suggested.

He chuckled. "Always the optimist, aren't you."

"Of course," she agreed, nestling her  head against his shoulder. She never  let
him see the I have to be, I married a soldier thought that always came when they
talked about him going  on contract. And she  worked very hard to  keep him from
ever seeing how much  she worried about him  when he went on  a combat contract.
She was a  Dirigenter, and Dirigenter  women had been  sending their men  off to
battle for centuries.

"One of these years, maybe we'll draw another stint at the testing range and  we
can spend a little more time with your folks," Lon suggested.

"When I was talking to Mama yesterday,  she said that Dad is looking forward  to
the day when they can retire and turn the pub over to us."

Lon couldn't help himself. He nearly convulsed with laughter, shaking loose from
Sara in the process.

"I didn't think it was that funny,"  she said, watching him with amusement. .  .
and relief.

"I'm sorry," Lon said, wiping a tear from  the comer of his eye as he fought  to
stifle the laughing jag.  "I just had a  mental picture of me  pulling pints and
you slaving in that little kitchen, and we both looked ridiculous."

"Lon..."

"Come here." He pulled her against him, hugging her tightly. "I know your father
hopes to turn the pub over to us eventually. Someday, maybe ten or twenty  years
from now, I'll be able to see it. But I'm a long way from being ready to  retire
from the  Corps and  move to  Bas-combe East  and the  rural life, hon. It's too
alien to the way I think now." He  kissed her on the forehead. "At least I  know
you can cook as good as your mother."

In the morning, Lon woke before five o'clock, more than an hour before his alarm
was scheduled  to wake  him. The  murder of  Holfield O'Banion  had invaded  his
dreams, and shocked him from slumber. Lon got out of bed before the last of  the
dream faded from  his mind, crossing  first to the  bathroom, then going  out to
prowl  through the  living room  and kitchen,  trying to  subdue the   lingering
emotion that the vision of O'Banion's murdered body had left in its wake.

Nightmares were nothing new. Lon had too often been visited by the ghosts of men
who had died in combat. Sometimes they came to chat about old times-and what had
happened since death had separated them. At other times they just stood in Lon's
mind and shook their heads sadly, as if in anticipation of the day when he would
join them. It had been several years since the last time Lon had felt  compelled
to seek counseling to deal with those ghosts. He understood the why and how. But
this was different.

Lon had not known Holfield O'Banion in life.

And what about  Kaiko Green ?  he asked himself  as he stood  in the kitchen and
waited for fresh  coffee to brew.  If we sentence  him to death,  is he going to
haunt me as well?

As soon  as the  coffee was  ready, Lon  poured himself  a cup  and drank  it as
quickly as  he could,  not moving  from where  he stood  at the kitchen counter.
Slowly, the memories and the worries  faded-as he concentrated on coffee so  hot
it threatened to scald his tongue.

After  he poured  a second  cup of  coffee, Lon  decided to  fix breakfast   for
himself. That was something new that married life had taught him. He had come to
the point where he actually enjoyed bustling around the kitchen, fixing an  easy
meal, or helping Sara prepare something more complicated.

"How long have you been up?"

Lon started, badly shaken. He had been so deep in thought that he had not  heard
Sara walk into the  kitchen. He sucked in  breath to cover the  instant of shock
and turned toward her. "I didn't hear you coming," he said.

"That bacon must be about burned," she said, nodding toward the stove. "It  woke
me from a sound sleep."

"I just turned it off," he said. "I was just ready to toss a couple of eggs into
the pan. You want some?"

She shook her head. "I'll wait until later, after the kids have their  breakfast
and Junior leaves for school. You didn't answer my question."

Lon shrugged. "I haven't been  up all that long. I  woke and decided I might  as
well get up to stay. It wasn't worth going back to sleep for just another hour."

"An infantryman who doesn't think another hour's sleep is worthwhile?" Sara said
in her  most sarcastic  tone. Lon  shrugged again.  "Nightmare?" she asked, more
gently.

"Yeah." Lon turned to the stove again, pulled the bacon from the frying pan, and
cracked three eggs into the hot grease.

"You want to talk about it?"

"No, it's okay now.  A little coffee and  a little cooking, that's  all it took.
Nothing serious."

She came across the kitchen  to give him a quick  kiss. "I'm going back to  bed,
then. I think another hour's sleep is worth something, even if you don't."

There was a  light mist falling  when Lon left  the house a  little before seven
o'clock. There were patches of fog softening the autumn morning. Lon grinned  as
he  walked out  to catch  the shuttle  bus. It  was perfect  weather for   squad
maneuvers; the men would grouse all day.

Lon went to his company offices,  talked with Weil and the two  lieutenants, but
did not take morning  formation. He watched that  from the orderly room  window,
staying  dry and  warm, and  drinking another  cup of  coffee-his fifth  of  the
morning. The  caffeine gave  him a  momentary edge,  before the medical nanobots
that  guarded his  health could  neutralize it.  Platoon sergeants  reported  to
platoon leaders, who would  normally have reported to  Lon. Tebba Girana was  in
front  of  the  company formation  today,  though,  and he  made  the  report to
Lieutenant Colonel  Hiram Black,  the battalion  commander, who  reported to the
regimental commander.

"The eternal ballet of the army," Lon mumbled. He watched until the regiment was
dismissed, battalions and companies marching  off to whatever work and  training
they were scheduled for that morning.

A moment later, Weil Jorgen returned to the office. He would spend the day there
rather than out in the field  with the men. While they practiced  squad tactics,
he wasn't needed.

"The weather  forecast said  it's supposed  to be  clearing up  early. Captain,"
Jorgen said after he had hung his cap on the stand next to the office door, "but
it sure doesn't look like it. This kind of mist can go on all day."

"No good training only when the  weather's perfect," Lon said. "We sure  as hell
don't get perfect weather often on contract."

Jorgen chuckled. "That's a fact. Captain." He sat and scrolled through the day's
notes on the calendar window of his  desk complink. "This says you should be  at
regimental HQ by oh-eight-thirty, sir."

Lon nodded. "I was just waiting for the troops to get moving before I left."  He
paused, then  said, "I'm  not looking  forward to  any of  this, Weil.  I'd much
rather be out in the  rain with the men." Jorgen  met his gaze. For an  instant,
the two men just looked at each other.

Then Jorgen nodded. "I know what  you mean. Captain," he said, his  voice deadly
serious.



4

There were no spectators in the chamber. Only the members of the  court-martial.
Major  Rice  as law  officer,  the prosecutor,  the  defense attorney,  and  the
defendant  were  in  the  conference room,  which  was  only  rarely needed  for
proceedings such as this. An automated recording system would provide a complete
audio and three-dimensional visual record of everything that transpired.

The room's standard  furnishings-a large round  table with a  number of complink
consoles set in it-had been removed. The  five officers who comprised the  court
martial board sat along one side of  a long table that had been placed  parallel
to the head of the room. Major Rice sat at one end of the table. Smaller  tables
were arranged  for the  prosecutor-Captain Eulie  Tuk-and the  defense attorney.
Private Green sat with his lawyer, Tim Isling.

There was only one other chair in the room, centered between the head table  and
the other two, for witnesses.

Colonel Ellis, president of  the court-martial board, sat  at the center of  the
head table. Major Ives was at his right and Captain Gowers at his left. Captains
Ames and Nolan  were at the  ends, the junior  officers on the  panel. Once they
were all seated. Major Rice gestured to an MP at the door. Captain Tuk came  in,
followed a few seconds later by Mr. Isling and Private Green.

The MP, a company lead sergeant wearing pistol and baton on his belt, closed the
door and stood at parade rest in front of it, a physical barrier to disruption.

Colonel Ellis opened a mauve portfolio in front of him and studied the top paper
for a  moment. He  glanced at  Major Rice  then, who  nodded, and Ellis read the
document authorizing the conduct of  this court-martial, and naming the  members
of the court and the attorneys.

The next sheet of paper in Ellis's portfolio contained the formal indictment  of
Private Kaiko  Green. Colonel  Ellis read  that document  with even greater care
than he had read the first.

Green was not asked to plead guilty or innocent. There was no place for that  in
a DMC court-martial. In any case, the judge advocate's office had to present its
evidence  and prove  its case.  A guilty  plea from  a defendant  could not   be
advanced as a cause for reduced punishment.

"Private Green, do you understand the charge that has been brought against you?"
Colonel Ellis asked after he had finished reading the indictment.

At his attorney's urging, Green  stood before replying. "Yes, sir,  I understand
the charge."

"Do  you  understand  the  sentences  that this  court  can  impose  if  you are
convicted?" Ellis asked next.

This time Green faltered a little before he could get his answer out completely.
"Yes, sir. That was explained to me."

As soon as Green sat  and Ellis had asked both  attorneys if they were ready  to
proceed, the first witness was called.

Lon tried to listen attentively to everything that transpired in the  courtroom.
He made occasional  notes, despite the  knowledge that complete  transcripts and
recordings would be available. The first witness was the civilian policeman  who
had reached the scene in response to the call, describing what he had found  and
what he had done in the  first minutes. Other policemen, civilian and  military,
followed, describing what  they had learned  at the scene.  The medical examiner
described the autopsy and his findings. Other witnesses were called, one by one,
people who had seen the altercation in the Purple Harridan.

Pew of the  interrogations lasted longer  than fifteen minutes.  The court broke
for an hour, for  lunch, at noon. By  two-thirty the prosecution had  rested its
case. Then it was Mr. Isling's turn to present the defense.

"As stated in my witness list,"  Isling started, "Private Kaiko will testify.  I
also have five witnesses  to speak to the  prior relationship between my  client
and the deceased, witnesses the prosecution chose not to include."

"Are all of your witnesses present?" Colonel Ellis asked.

"Yes, sir, those I have been able to locate. There may be several others who are
currently on contract and out of my reach. And I know of one who might have shed
considerable light on this matter who was killed on contract six months ago." He
shrugged theatrically. "I do not  believe that these additional witnesses  would
be crucial to the defense's case."

I guess not, Lon thought, careful to keep his face from showing any reaction. He
was fairly certain of Isling's tactics. He had little choice but to try to  show
that Sergeant O'Banion had been a  bully who had repeatedly made life  miserable
for Private  Green-always off  duty, since  they had  never served  in the  same
company. There was  little doubt that  the court would  be forced to  find Green
guilty of  willful murder.  All Isling  could hope  to do  was to present enough
evidence impeaching the character  of the dead man  to keep his client  from the
gallows.

Colonel Ellis nodded. "Very well. Counselor. Call your first witness."

Private Kaiko Green  was called. While  Green was walking  the few steps  to the
witness stand, Lon noticed for the first time how thin the private looked, as if
he had not eaten in more than  just the three days since the killing.  He cheeks
were slightly sunken. He walked with a hesitation. There's fear in his eyes, Lon
thought. Green was sworn in and stated his name, rank, and unit for the record.

"Private Green,'' Colonel Ellis said  before Mr. Isling could begin  questioning
his client, "I want  you to understand clearly  that this court will  afford you
every possible opportunity to defend yourself. To this point we have heard  only
the case presented  by the judge  advocate's office, the  prosecution witnesses,
and your attorney's cross-examination of them.  It is your turn now. This  court
will not reach a verdict until it has heard all of the evidence."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Green said.

"Very well. Counselor. You may begin," Ellis said, glancing toward the  civilian
attorney.

Lon leaned back in his  straight-backed chair, concentrating on the  defendant's
face. He would  listen to everything  Green said, and  to the questions,  but he
wanted to see how the private spoke, and what his eyes did while he was talking.
Already Lon  had noticed  that Green  was far  more composed  than he would have
expected. There  was fear  in Green's  eyes, and  in the  small movements of his
body, but there was still discipline.

"How long  have you  been a  member of  the Dirigent  Mercenary Corps?"  was Tim
Isling's first question for his client.

"Seven years, sir, last June third," Green said.

"How many combat contracts have you been on?"

"Five, sir, and three training contracts."

"How long had you known Platoon Sergeant Holfield O'Banion?"

"All my life. We grew up in the same block in the Drafts," Green said.

"The Drafts? That is a residential quarter on the northwestern side of  Dirigent
City?'' Isling asked.

"Yes,  sir,  for  factory  workers,  mostly,  and  folks  that  live  on   basic
maintenance."

Lon could  not recall  ever going  through the  Drafts, though  he had heard the
name. It was the closest Dirigent had to  an urban slum, but it was still a  far
cry from the circus neighborhoods on Earth-the palest reflection.

"Tell the court about your  relationship with Holfield O'Banion in  the Drafts,"
Isling urged.

"Well,  he was  a couple  of years  older than  me," Green  started,  hesitantly
glancing first at his  attorney and then at  the officers of the  court. "He was
always bigger than me when we were kids, and sometimes he beat me up."

"How often did he beat you up?" Isling asked.

"I can't say how many  times. A lot. You know,  in memory, it seems like  it was
about every other day,  but I know that  can't be. But I  doubt a month went  by
that  he  didn't at  least  take a  couple  of punches  at  me, or  kick  me, or
something. All  the way  up until  he joined  the Corps.  I think  I was sixteen
then."

"Did you see him in the Drafts after that?"

"Once or twice.  He was in  the Corps. He  didn't come around  much, I guess, or
maybe I was just lucky enough to miss him."

"You joined the Corps when you turned eighteen?" Isling asked.

"Yes, sir. Three days after my birthday."

"Did you enlist in the Corps because Holfield O'Banion had?"

For an  instant. Green  appeared stunned  by that  question, as  if he could not
believe it had been asked.

"No, sir, of course not.  I think maybe by that  time I had almost forgot  about
O'Banion. I  joined the  Corps because  I knew  I was  fit for  it, and  being a
soldier seemed better than working in a factory or something like that the  rest
of my life. Being a soldier's the best work here unless you got the smarts to be
a brain-boy- you  know, a professional  or a science  type-and I never  had that
kind of smarts. And I knew it, early."

"After you  enlisted in  the Corps,  you started  to encounter  O'Banion again?"
Isling asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Did he start picking fights with you again, beating you up?"

"Sometimes, 'yes, sir. The first time I  saw him in Camo Town, just a  couple of
weeks after I finished boot training, he pushed me into an alley and said he was
going to show me I wasn't as hot as  I thought I was, that I wasn't fit to  wear
the uniform. Well,  I was just  out of training,  and feeling pretty  good about
being able to defend myself. In a fair fight, things might have been  different,
but he sucker-punched me, and I never got a chance to get started."

"Is that the only time  this sort of thing happened  after you were both in  the
Corps?"

"No, sir. It wasn't usually as bad as that time, though, but he would give me  a
punch, sometimes follow me until he could get me where nobody would see."

"Did you  ever report  this behavior  to anyone  in the  Corps? Your own platoon
sergeant, for example?"

Green looked down at his feet for  a few seconds before he replied. "No,  sir. I
talked to a couple of the guys in my squad, but I never reported it. I  couldn't
prove anything. It  would have been  my word against  his, and he  was already a
corporal the  first time  it happened.  He set  some kind  of record  for making
corporal in his battalion, fastest anyone had ever done it. And he made sergeant
almost as quick.  Besides, he started  threatening my family,  said things would
happen to them if I  ever tried to make trouble  for him. Said there might  be a
fire, an explosion, some night at my folks' home."

"He threatened your family?"

"Yes,  sir. That's  what really  led to  the ...  trouble Friday  at the  Purple
Harridan. He threatened my sister Jenny, and there was no other way I could make
sure she was safe."

His sister? Lon thought, leaning forward  just a fraction of an inch.  There had
been no mention of a sister in any of the prosecution's evidence.

"Yes," Isling said. "Now we come to last Friday afternoon. Private Green. I want
you to start by telling this court why you went to the Purple Harridan and  what
caused the argument  you had  with Platoon  Sergeant O'Banion  at about  fifteen
thirty hours on Friday."

"Yes, sir," Kaiko said, straightening up a little on the stand. "My company  was
given Friday afternoon  off because we  won the Colonel's  Cup for shooting  the
best overall score  on the rifle  range in the  regiment for the  third straight
month. After noon chow we were off duty until Monday morning. -

"Most  times  there's not  a  whole lot  going  on in  Camo  Town on  a  weekday
afternoon.  Not  that many  soldiers  are off.  I  didn't know  last  Friday was
different, that a lot of units were off. I made plans to meet several buddies at
the Purple Harridan later in the afternoon, but I figured I'd stop by Outfitters
and say hello to my sister Jenny and see if the family had anything planned  for
the weekend."

"Outfitters?" Isling asked.

"Yes,  sir. That's  a goods  store in  Camo Town-you  know, a  place that  sells
souvenirs and the  sorts of odds  and ends a  guy might want  to buy while  he's
doing the town, or gifts  to send to folks, all  kinds of stuff like that,  even
some civie clothes. My sister works in the replicator room in back, making  sure
they're never out of any of the stock items."

"Okay, thank you," Isling said. "Please, go on. You went to Outfitters to  speak
with your sister...."

"Yes, sir. Jenny's boss  is an all-right guy,  retired from the Corps,  I think.
Least, that's what he says. He let me  go through to the back room to talk  with
Jenny, but he said not  to take too long 'cause  they were busy and I  shouldn't
make Jenny get behind on her work.

"Almost the first thing Jenny  said when I got back  there was that she had  run
into O'Banion while she was out on her lunch break, about an hour earlier.  Said
he was stiff drunk then. He talked  dirty to her, offered her money to  have sex
with him, and when Jen slapped his face  and told him to stay away from her,  he
just laughed and told her to slap away, that if he decided he really wanted her,
wasn't nothing she  could do to  stop him. Then  he turned his  back on her  and
walked away, laughing.

"Jen was crying when she told me that,  and I got boiling mad. It was one  thing
for O'Banion to bother me all the time, but when he went after a young girl like
Jenny, it was too much."

"How old is your sister?" Isling asked.

"She turned eighteen  this February. Just  out of school.  Still goes to  church
regular, and believes."

"What did  you do  immediately after  your sister  told you  about what Sergeant
O'Banion had said to her?"

"I was mad, boiling mad. Right then,  I couldn't hardly think straight I was  so
mad. I went looking for O'Banion, to tell him to stay away from Jenny, and  that
I would ..." Green's voice had been rising, anger still clear in it over the way
his sister had  been treated. He  stopped abruptly, though,  and got a  confused
look in his eyes. His shoulders slumped a little.

"You were about to say?" his attorney prompted.

"I got nothing  to hide," Green  said. "I was  so mad that  I was ready  to tell
O'Banion I'd kill him if he ever  touched Jenny. It was my little sister  he was
threatening."

"Go on," Isling said when Green went silent again.

"I asked Jen what  was he wearing, where  did she see him,  and what way was  he
going. Then I went  looking for him. I  knew I'd find him  someplace that served
booze, so I started going in every  place in the neighborhood. I got madder  and
madder the longer I thought about what he had said, and I had a drink or two  to
keep me going. It took me a while, but I found him at the Purple Harridan."

This time,  when Green  stopped talking,  Isling remained  silent, watching  his
client,  the  way  the  members of  the  court-martial  board  were, seeing  the
difficulty-Green was having controlling his emotions even now.

' T went up to him. I guess I started by calling him a few names, and I told him
what I intended to tell him. Almost. I said if he didn't leave Jenny alone,  I'd
fix it so he couldn't bother any innocent  girls again, even if I had to get  my
whole squad along  to help me.  And more, I  guess. I don't  recall everything I
might have said, and maybe I just thought some of the things instead of actually
saying them to O'Banion." He took a deep breath and let it out.

"A couple of guys from my platoon  were in the Purple Harridan. I don't  know if
they saw me first or  heard me, but they came  over and pulled me away,  took me
outside. One  of them  slapped a  killjoy patch  on my  arm but  I ripped it off
almost before it stuck.  I told them what  Jenny had told me,  what O'Banion had
threatened to do. They tried to cool me down, said they'd do what they could. We
could all talk to the sarge together,  get something done, but I knew better.  I
still didn't have any proof. It was just my word against his."

"Your sister could  have filed a  complaint," Isling suggested.  "You would then
have been corroborating her report.".

Green shook  his head  a couple  of times,  looking down.  "I couldn't put Jenny
through that. I'm not  sure she would have  told anyone. She was  too upset, too
embarrassed by it."

"What did you do next?" Isling asked.

"I don't know just when, but I  started walking along the street, away from  the
Purple Harridan. My buddies came  with me for a bit,  but I kept going and  next
thing I knew, they weren't around  anymore. I didn't know where they  went, back
to the Purple Harridan, some other bar, or maybe back to base. I stopped walking
and just stood there on the sidewalk,  looking back the way I had come.  I could
still see the big sign out in  front of the Purple Harridan, so I  hadn't walked
more than a couple of  blocks. I stood there, not  moving at all, and the  anger
started building again.  I couldn't let  it go. I  had to go  back and make damn
sure O'Banion  knew I  was serious,  that if  he even  went near Jenny again I'd
dance on his face.

"Before  I  knew it,  I  was walking  back  toward the  Purple  Harridan, almost
running. I could feel my  face was red with anger.  I wanted to make sure  I got
back before he could leave and go someplace else, or maybe go looking for  Jenny
right then because of what I had said  to him before. I had to protect Jenny.  I
couldn't let anything bad happen to her.

"O'Banion was  still sitting  in the  same place.  He saw  me coming and started
laughing, as if  I was the  funniest joke he'd  ever heard. That  didn't help my
mood any. I told him what I came to say, that he had better stay away from Jenny
or else. He sat there smirking, and then he said..."

Green stopped abruptly and looked first at his lawyer and then at Colonel Ellis.
"Sir, do I say it just the way he said it, or clean it up for court?"

"If you're quoting,  use the exact  words if you  remember them," Colonel  Ellis
said.

"I remember, all right,"  Green said. "He said,  'I'm gonna go find  your sister
and fuck her up one side and then  down the other. Then maybe I'll dump her  for
the jar dogs to play with.' " Jar dogs were not really dogs, nor did their heads
closely resemble the jars that gave them the other half of their name. Jar  dogs
were one of the  few wild carnivores left  in the region of  Dirigent's capital.
Adult males reached two hundred pounds, females slightly more. They hunted as  a
family, adults plus adolescent cubs. Occasionally a family was spotted near  the
Drafts.

"I guess I really snapped then," Green said. He paused for a few seconds  before
he continued. "I  threw myself at  O'Banion, ready to  beat him senseless  right
there. I don't remember much of the fight. I guess the table broke right at  the
start, when I jumped for him. I don't remember picking up the leg of the  table.
I don't remember actually using it. It wasn't really until people pulled me away
that I was conscious of O'Banion lying  there, his head all stove in, blood  all
around, and blood on the table leg they made me drop."

"I have no further questions for this witness," Tim Isling said.

"No questions," Captain Tuk said.

Colonel Ellis looked first to one side and  then to the other, to see if any  of
the officers on the  court had questions to  ask. No one did.  No questions were
necessary.

Colonel Ellis  recessed the  court-martial until  0900 hours  the next  morning,
Wednesday.



5

"We should reach an  end to the testimony  well before lunch tomorrow,"  Colonel
Ellis told  his companions  before they  left the  room. Everyone  but the  five
members of  the court-martial  had already  gone, and  the monitoring system had
been deactivated. "I know you don't need  to be reminded of this, but I  have to
tell you  not to  discuss the  case with  anyone outside  this room,  even among
yourselves, while the case is still  being tried. I believe we should  meet here
by oh-eight-forty hours in the morning."

Lon nodded and left the room.  He walked out of regimental headquarters  without
really  noticing anything  around him.  As if  by habit,  he turned  toward  the
officers' club on the next street over. He was not a frequent visitor there, had
not been  since his  wedding, but  this day  he did  not even  have to  make the
decision. He  went in,  sat at  the bar,  and ordered  bourbon with water on the
side.

The first drink went down in one long gulp. The bum of the whiskey in his throat
finally brought  Lon to  something approaching  awareness. He  took some  of the
water and ordered a second drink.

I  don't think  I've ever  needed a  drink before,  he thought.  Not like  this.
Listening to  Kaiko Green  talk about  the events  leading up  to the killing of
Holfield O'Banion had tied Lon's  stomach in distressed knots. One  question had
started echoing in Lon's mind: Would I have done any differently in his place?

The knots  had started  when Lon  had been  unable to  convince himself that the
answer was Yes.

The bartender set Lon's second drink in front of him. She was discreet, did  not
say anything about the way Lon had thrown the first measure of whiskey into  his
mouth. As long as an officer remained  in control of himself and did not  make a
scene, nothing would be said. There was a ready supply of killjoy patches behind
the  bar.  The  closest  any  of  the  employees  of  the  club  would  come  to
remonstrating with a patron would be to offer a killjoy along with a drink.

Lon did not notice that the bartender  cast a sidelong gaze his way, waiting  to
see if the second drink went the same  way as the first. It did not. Lon  took a
little water first this time, then a more refined sip of the whiskey. He savored
the burning feeling as  the whiskey warmed its  way toward his stomach.  He held
off on the next  chaser, to make sure  that he missed nothing  of the sensation.
Before he took  his next sip,  Lon considered calling  Sara to tell  her that he
would be staying at his office for  the night, that he wouldn't be good  company
for her or the children  until the trial was over.  There was a cot in  the room
just above Lon's office.  He could sleep there,  and he always kept  a change of
clothing in an office cupboard for emergencies.

No, Lon decided  after pondering the  question nearly to  the end of  the second
drink. If I  don't go home,  I'll just drink  myself silly. I  don't want to  do
that, not tonight.

The bartender  tried to  hide her  relief when  Lon signaled  for the  check and
signed for his two drinks. She watched until he was through the doorway.

The remaining defense  witnesses were questioned  and excused by  1030 hours the
following morning. Jenny  Green had been  the first to  testify, and she  needed
forty-five minutes on the stand-more because she could not keep from crying than
because she had so many questions  to answer. She corroborated what her  brother
had said. The other witnesses testified about the abusive relationships  Platoon
Sergeant O'Banion had had with the Greens and with others.

The defense rested.

"The court will now retire to consider its verdict," Colonel Ellis announced. He
stood, followed by the other members of the panel and by the others in the room.

It would have been much simpler for the members of the court to remain and  have
the others leave, but this was the way it was done in the DMC. They went to  the
floor  above, to  an office  that had  been cleared  for their  use.  Electronic
countermeasures  were  in place  to  prevent anyone  from  eavesdropping on  the
discussion. Major Rice would remain in the corridor outside, in case his  advice
was needed, but  the deliberations were  private, for the  members of the  court
alone.

"Poor bastard," Colonel Ellis muttered, almost to himself, as the five  officers
were making themselves as comfortable as they could on the straight chairs  that
had been provided.

That's for sure, Lon thought, his eyes on the colonel.

Ellis looked  around at  the junior  officers. '  T don't  see that there's much
cause for it in this case, but the manual says that our votes are to be secret."
He  gestured at  the table.  "I see   that slips  of paper  and pens  have  been
provided. We might as well take a vote now. Guilty of willful murder, guilty  of
the lesser  charge of  manslaughter, or  innocent-those are  the choices  we are
permitted." Ellis  was the  first to  reach toward  the center  of the table for
paper and pen. The others quickly followed suit.

Lon stared at the square of paper in front of him for nearly a minute,  hesitant
to write what he knew he had to write. He closed his eyes for an instant, almost
daring to wish that the choice would go away. When he opened his eyes, he  wrote
one word on the paper, shielding that word from the others with his hand.

Guilty.  He  glanced  at the  others,  quickly,  as if  he  feared  discovery, a
schoolboy afraid of being caught cheating on a test. I know the standards of the
Corps, Lon thought.  I think I  know how the  others will vote.  His pen hovered
over the paper, but he could not write the words "willful murder." He  hesitated
again, then took a deep breath and wrote the second word.

Manslaughter. Lon folded the  paper over the words  and pushed it a  little away
from him, then placed the  pen carefully on the table  and sat back. He put  his
hands in his lap, waiting.

"Captain Nolan,  if you  would be  so good  as to  collect the  ballots for me?"
Colonel Ellis said after the last man had voted.

Lon gathered all five pieces of paper, even the one directly in front of Colonel
Ellis, and gave them to the colonel together, then returned to his seat.

Colonel Ellis held the papers in his hand. "According to the procedural rules we
operate under, a vote of five to nothing or four to one decides the question. If
the vote is three  to two, or split  more completely among the  alternatives, we
will take time to discuss any portions of the case necessary, then take  another
vote."

He started opening the ballots. He glanced at each, then set it in front of him.
The first two went together. The third  went a little to the side. The  last two
went on  the stack  with the  first two.  Ellis stared  at the  papers for a few
seconds, then looked up. There was no expression. on his face.

"The vote is one 'guilty of willful murder' and four 'guilty of manslaughter,' "
he announced. "I  will not ask,  and do not  want to know,  who voted how. That,
gentlemen, should remain each man's secret. Captain Gowers, would you ask  Major
Rice to step in here for a moment?"

While Gowers got up and went to the door, Ellis carefully palmed the ballots and
held them in his hand, below the table. Major Rice shut the door behind him when
he entered.

"You wanted me. Colonel?" he asked.

"Please refresh our memories. Major," Ellis said.

"What  would  the   possible  range  of   penalties  be  if   our  verdict  were
manslaughter?"

You didn 't say it is our verdict, Lon noted, as he had noted the way Ellis  had
concealed the ballots.

"The sentence could be anything from twelve to twenty years in confinement,  and
includes  discharge  with prejudice  from  the Corps  and  loss of  all  pay and
allowances, sir," Rice said.

"Thank you. Major. That will  be all. We will let  you know if we need  anything
else." Ellis waited until Rice had left  the room and the door was closed  again
before he put the five papers with the votes on them back on the table in  front
of him. They were well crumpled together now.

"In view  of our  previous vote,"  Ellis said  then, looking  at the other faces
individually, "I would  suggest that we  choose a compromise  figure rather than
look at  either extreme."  He paused,  as if  waiting for  anyone to  argue that
point. When no one spoke, he said, "I would offer fourteen years in confinement.
Does anyone wish to argue in favor of a different figure?''

There was a lot of looking  back and forth among the  five members of the  court
martial, but no one spoke.

"It might not be pure form," Ellis said, "but I think we can settle this with  a
show of hands. Those in favor of a sentence of fourteen years in confinement?''

Ellis was the first to raise  his hand. There was very little  hesitation around
the table. Five hands were raised.

At least I'll be able to sleep  tonight, Lon thought. He closed his eyes  for an
instant. His unexpected feeling of  relief could scarcely have been  greater had
he been the defendant and his own life had just been spared.

The court-martial  reconvened. Once  the five  officers were  seated at the head
table.  Major Rice  had the  MP at   the door  call for  the defendant  and  the
attorneys.

"The defendant will rise to hear the verdict of this court-martial," Major  Rice
intoned after the opening formulas were completed.

Green looked at his attorney before standing.

He looks ready to pass out, Lon thought. In his mind, he echoed Colonel  Ellis's
earlier appraisal-Poor bastard.

Colonel Ellis stood. The  other officers of the  panel did likewise. So  did the
two attorneys. Major Rice had already been on his feet.

"Private Kaiko Green, this court finds  you guilty of the crime of  manslaughter
in  the death  of Platoon  Sergeant Holfield  O'Banion. Subject  to review   and
approval by the convening authority, this court sentences you to discharge  with
prejudice from the Dirigent Mercenary Corps, loss of all pay and allowances, and
a term of fourteen years in confinement, at such place as shall be determined by
the office of the judge advocate."

Kaiko Green very  nearly did collapse  when he heard  "manslaughter" rather than
"willful murder." His knees half buckled under him and he had to support himself
on the edge of the table in front of him.

"You are  remanded to  the custody  of the  military police  until the convening
authority reviews  this verdict,"  Ellis announced.  "This court-martial  stands
adjourned."



6

Sara Nolan met her husband  at the door. She had  been watching for him. "Is  it
over?" she asked when she opened the door to let him in.

Lon gave her  a kiss on  the cheek before  he said, "My  part in it,  at least."
There was no need for him to ask what she was talking about. "The General  still
has to review and approve the verdict and sentence."

"Are  they  going  to  hang   him?"  Sara  asked,  her  voice   getting  softer,
apprehensive.

"No, we only found him guilty of manslaughter, fourteen years' confinement."

Sara closed her eyes  for an instant, letting  Lon guide her into  the house. "I
was so afraid you'd have to  convict him of willful murder," she  whispered. The
killing and court-martial had been all the talk among the officers' wives in the
neighborhood. Sara had been careful to just listen and not say anything, but the
fact that her husband  was sitting on the  court-martial had not stopped  anyone
else around her from  talking about the case.  The consensus had been  lopsided.
Green would be convicted of murder and hung in front of Corps Headquarters.

"So was I,"  Lon confessed. "But  that kid was  as much a  victim as the  man he
killed."

"In  spite of  that," Sara  said, "the  talk has  been that  the Corps  couldn't
tolerate a  private killing  a superior,  no matter  the justification, and that
justice in the Corps  was too rigid to  permit anything less than  hanging for a
murderer."

Lon smiled. He was still caught in  the feeling of relief that had come  when he
discovered that the Corps wasn't quite  that rigid. "If we had convicted  him of
murder,  I'm  sure  that  would   have  been  the  sentence,  but   we  didn't."
•

Sara's next question was harder to  answer. "How could a man like  that sergeant
be in the Corps  so long, be promoted  the way he was,  and nobody find out  how
terrible a person he was?"

"I don't know," Lon  said, shaking his head.  "It shouldn't happen, but  it did.
Now, enough about that. It's all I've heard about all week. Where are the kids?"

"You know, Pve been hearing some  interesting things on the backyard net,"  Sara
said that night as she and Lon were getting into bed.

Lon chuckled. "So what are the gossips doing now, handicapping the next election
for General?"

Sara made  a dismissive  gesture with  one hand.  "We figured  that out two days
after the  last election.  Nembi of  the First  Regiment has  a lock  on the job
unless he pulls  something outstandingly stupid  in the next  six months. I  was
talking about something more important."

"More important than who the General is?" Lon asked.

''I think so. The talk  is that for the first  time in more than a  century, the
Corps is about to promote a man  with under fourteen years of service to  major.
From what I hear,  it could come before  the first of the  year. And I must  say
we've earned it."

" 'We'?" Lon asked, trying without success to stifle a laugh. Sara hit him  with
her pillow.

"We," she said firmly. "Some of the  boring chat I've got to put up  with!" Then
she started laughing, too. "I think it's serious, though. I can sense how things
are going by who gets how friendly."

"Don't start making plans for the  extra money yet," Lon advised. The  Corps was
always rife with rumor,  but Lon hated to  admit that the gossip  Sara heard was
often far more accurate than what he did. "Has the gabble gathering figured  out
when I'm going out on contract?"

Sara made a pouting face at him,  then settled her pillow where it belonged.  "I
haven't heard anything about that," she said.

"I guess  the Corps  is safe  a little  longer then,"  Lon said, turning out the
bedside light. "It can still keep a few secrets."

Returning to duty in A Company the next morning felt almost like the start of  a
furlough  for Lon.  He even  looked forward  to wading  through the  inescapable
backlog of forms and memos.

"They've changed the schedule 'round on us, Captain," Lead Sergeant Weil  Jorgen
said when  Lon walked  into the  orderly room.  "Fourth Battalion  of the 6th is
going out on contract this morning, so  headquarters has switched us into  night
fire exercises tonight. The whole battalion."

"That means  the men  are off  at noon  tomorrow," Lon  said. "Give  'em a  long
weekend." Weil nodded. "Remind  me to call Sara  and tell her I'll  be very late
tonight."

Weil grinned. "Remember  to call Mrs.  Nolan and tell  her you'll be  very late,
sir."

Lon  smiled and  shook his  head. "Okay,  I walked  into that  one. Don't   take
advantage of me just 'cause I've been gone a couple of days."

"Who, me, sir?" Weil asked, wide-eyed. "But  maybe it would be best to call  her
now, before we both forget."

"You're right. Give me two minutes, then come on in and we'll start catching  up
on things. I know Tebba didn't tie any red tape together he didn't have to."

Catching up on reports  and the other necessities  kept the two men  busy for an
hour after morning  formation. When the  last form had  been keyed to  battalion
headquarters, Weil got  up to go  back to his  desk in the  outer office. At the
door, though, he stopped and turned back toward Lon.

"Can I say something, sir, off the record?" he asked.

"Of course, Weil. What is it?"

"I know it's none of my business,  sir, but I think the Corps should  have given
that kid  a medal  instead of  sending him  to jail.  That O'Banion  was a  real
bastard. Had no business being in the Corps."

"You knew him?" Lon asked.

"We had a run-in once, a lot of years back. I was a squad leader and he was just
a recruit. I helped pull him off a kid wasn't much more'n half his size. In Camo
Town. I guess maybe we should've turned  him over to the MPs then, and  maybe he
woulda got bounced, but we didn't. If we had, this Green kid wouldn't be looking
at fourteen years, of bars and bad food."

"Don't let the  'could haves' eat  at you, Weil,"  Lon said. "You  couldn't know
what would happen so many years later."

"Maybe I should have,  though. This has been  gnawing at me since  I heard about
the killing last Friday. I recognized O'Banion's name right away, even before  I
saw the ID holo of  him on the complink. And  I remembered the SOB, and  thought
about what we should have done. I couldn't say anything before now, though,  not
while you were on the court."

"No, I would have had to disqualify  myself," Lon said. Maybe I would have  felt
better then, he thought, but he didn't say it. Weil obviously felt bad enough.

"I just had to get  it off my chest," Weil  said. He hesitated for two  seconds,
then turned and left the office.

When Lon  left his  office for  lunch that  day, he  found Phip  Steesen in  the
corridor outside  the orderly  room. Sergeant's  chevrons still  seemed to weigh
heavily on Phip's arms. Responsibility had come hard for him. When Lon had  told
Phip that he was being promoted to platoon sergeant and given second platoon,  a
pained look had  come over Phip's  face. "What did  I ever do  to you to deserve
that?" he had  asked. "I know,  you're getting back  at me for  all the times  I
ordered ale for  you when you  wanted lager." But  then, Phip had  said the same
thing when .he was promoted to corporal.

"What is it, Phip?" Lon asked. "If you're lurking around out here, you must have
something on your mind."

"Night-fire exercises, tonight?" Phip asked. The two were alone in the corridor,
so Phip left off any honorific. The friendship between them was as old as  Lon's
service in the  Corps, but changing  circumstances put some  official strains on
it. They were both careful to keep their personal relationship separate from the
professional one. The tightrope was not always easy to walk.

"Not my doing,  Phip. I take  it you had  hot plans for  tonight?'' Lon grinned.
With Phip, it was no longer just a  hard night of drinking. He did less of  that
with each stripe he won. In lieu of that, he devoted himself to the ladies.

"And what plans!" Phip said. "But this sure puts a kink in it, if you know  what
I mean."

"I know. Look at it  this way. The company will  be off duty early tomorrow  and
you'll have a long weekend to take the kinks out."

Phip shook his  head. "Not with  this gal. I've  been trying to  get a night out
with her for weeks, and this was the only night she could make it."

"I can give you a chit to see the chaplain," Lon suggested.

"No, thanks. Her father's a chaplain."

"Well, offer to take her to chapel Sunday."

"Me go to chapel?" Phip's eyes got wide, as if Lon had just suggested  something
that violated the laws of physics.

Lon chose to eat in one of the  snack bars rather than go to the officers'  mess
and face questions from his peers  about .the court-martial. Now that the  trial
was over and the verdict had been reviewed and approved by the General, it would
be open season  for questions-even  if Lon  and the  other members  of the court
martial still would not be able to answer them.

The men were working in the  barracks, preparing for an inspection before  going
out to the firing range for  the night exercises. The inspection would  normally
have been held  on Friday, but  the schedule change  affected that as  well. Lon
would walk through the barracks later,  with Lead Sergeant Jorgen. By that  time
the platoon sergeants and squad leaders would have made certain that they  would
find nothing out of place.

"Major Orlis called  just after you  went to lunch.  Captain," Weil Jorgen  said
when Lon came through  the orderly room. "And  he called again ten  minutes ago,
said he didn't find you in the officers' mess. He'd like for you to come over to
his office as soon as you can."

"He say what he wants?" Lon asked.

"No, sir, not a clue," Weil said.

"I guess I'll go now," Lon said, reversing course. "If he calls again, tell  him
I'm on my way."

I  hope  it's not  about  the court-martial,  Lon  thought as  he  turned toward
battalion headquarters. I'd just as soon forget that.

Battalion headquarters  was only  eighty yards  from Lon's  office. Matt Orlis's
office was  on the  ground floor,  near the  back of  the building. His clerk, a
sergeant, told Lon to go straight in, that the major was waiting for him.

"I've been trying to track you down  for more than an hour," Orlis said  when he
saw Lon. "Come in and have a seat."

Lon nodded and went to sit across from Orlis. "What's up?" he asked.

"Officially, nothing. Yet. Until you get official notice, you don't repeat  this
outside this office. That will  probably be first thing Monday  morning, subject
to change."

"A contract?" Lon guessed.

Orlis nodded. "A one-company job. The  contract is for three months, training  a
constabulary militia. The world is Bancroft."

"Never heard of it," Lon said. He rarely knew the worlds they went to before the
orders came. "Is this just  training, or do they  have a problem that  needs put
down first?"

"As far as  they're saying, it  appears to be  just training their  people. They
claim there is no serious current problem. Take that with a grain of salt  until
you can check it out for yourself, but if it's true, this should be a beer run."

"A beer run  won't break my  heart," Lon said.  "I'd just as  soon they were all
like that."

"I'm  afraid it  means you'll  be away  from your  family over  Christmas,  Lon.
Sorry."

Lon shrugged. "We knew it wasn't very  likely I'd be home for the holidays  this
year. Sara and I were  talking about that just last  week. We were too close  to
the top on  both the company  and battalion lists."  Angle's first Christmas-Lon
had missed Junior's first Christmas as well.

"If something doesn't  come up for  two companies while  you're gone, the  whole
battalion might go out a company at a time. That fouls everything up."

Lon smiled. "Right now, I'd rather have it like that then to come back and  head
straight out again on a battalion contract. I'm not all that eager for  contract
pay anymore. Garrison pay is just fine."

The  major laughed.  "I know  what you  mean. Linda  keeps telling  me the  same
thing." Linda was Mrs. Orlis.

"One other  thing," Orlis  said when  Lon got  up to  leave. "When you tell Sara
you're going on contract, make sure she knows not to say anything to anyone else
before it's official."

"Hell, Matt, she probably knows about it already;

probably has my duffel packed. It  seems she knows everything else in  the Corps
before it comes through channels."

Company A, Alpha, stood in formation, dressed for combat, before their barracks.
The three other line companies in 2nd Battalion were in front of their  quarters
as well.  The men  did not  wear packs  or carry  grenades, rocket launchers, or
other ancillary gear, but they were in battledress with combat helmets, and each
man had his rifle slung over his left shoulder. Even the officers carried  their
rifles. They, too, would be shooting for scores that night. Ammunition would  be
dispensed once they reached the firing range.

Lon had  given the  order to  fall in  and had  taken manning  reports from  his
lieutenants five  minutes earlier,  then given  the "at  ease" order  while they
waited for  the other  companies to  finish lining  up-and waited for Lieutenant
Colonel Black and his staff to come out of battalion headquarters.

That afternoon, while making his inspection of the barracks, Lon had heard  some
grousing over the switch in schedule, over going out for night maneuvers at all,
but he  had taken  no official  notice, and  had managed  to repress any show of
amusement until  he was  out of  sight of  any of  the enlisted men. The platoon
sergeants would do a good enough job of squelching complaints. He had heard  the
lecture more than once himself, when he was an officer-cadet, supernumerary in a
squad in this very company, junior even to the rawest private.

"You're infantry. The night is your friend. No matter how good the  night-vision
gear your foe has, he still can't see  you as well as he would in the  daylight.
And if you're  going to operate  at night on  contract, you've got  to do a fair
amount of your practicing at night."

It was not  dark yet as  the officers and  men of 2nd  Battalion waited for  the
command staff. The sun was slightly  above the western horizon. But by  the time
the men marched the five miles to the firing range they would be using, it would
be dark enough.

"I'll bet there's been  a lot of hitching  about hiking out instead  of riding,"
Lon said on  a radio channel  that connected him  with his two  lieutenants. DMC
battle helmets offered a variety of  communications channels, along with a  head
up  display that  could show  terrain, position  of both  friendly and  opposing
forces, vital  signs for  subordinates, and  so forth.  The protection  a helmet
offered  against hostile  small-arms fire  and shrapnel  was almost  a  tertiary
design concern.

"There's  always hitching,"  Tebba said.  "The only  thing that  keeps it  under
control is the fact they all know that the desk jockeys from HQ will be  walking
along with the rest of us."

Finally, at  1905 hours,  the battalion  commander and  his staff, officers, and
enlisted men came out  of battalion headquarters and  formed up. The clerks  and
drivers from the headquarters staff formed up to the left of A Company.

Lieutenant Colonel Black gave the command to fall in, which was repeated by each
of the company commanders. The next order the colonel gave' was "Report."

"Alpha  Company  all  present,  sir!" Lon  said.  The  other  company commanders
reported in order.

"Left face," Black ordered. Almost as  one man, the entire battalion pivoted  to
the left. "Forward... march!"

Lon  and Lead  Sergeant Jorgen  walked at  the head  of their  company with  the
company's headquarters squad. Lon was just to the right of the formation.

The battalion drew  a few curious  glances from off-duty  soldiers, but everyone
took regular  turns at  this. There  were no  catcalls from  the gallery. Second
Battalion  turned  right  at the  end  of  7th Regiment's  area,  past  the next
regimental area and out  to the unpaved road  leading toward the firing  ranges.
The pace was not  difficult, a moderate route  step, not the quick  march of the
parade field. There  were times when  it felt too  slow for Lon.  He had to hold
himself back, because if he started  moving faster, his company-and the rest  of
the battalion-would do the same. Once the battalion was away from the  buildings
and on the country lane, Lon moved farther to the side and stopped to watch  his
company hike past him. Then he jogged back to his place at the head. It  offered
a change of pace, a different strain on lungs and legs. It was enough.

Along the way, Lon monitored the radio channels his men had available,  randomly
checking to make  certain that there  was no extraneous  talking. His men  were,
mostly, good about sound discipline, but alone in the privacy of a helmet with a
tinted faceplate, men could get careless, especially if they thought they  would
not be overheard.

The hike to  the firing range  took almost precisely  an hour. The  range safety
team was already in place, manning three towers behind the firing line and ready
to walk back and  forth behind the shooters  on the ground. An  ammunition truck
waited with cases  of ammunition for  the slug-throwing rifles,  and power packs
for the bea-mers.

"We'll  take  ten  before  the  firing  starts,"  Lon  told  his  sergeants  and
lieutenants. "I believe everyone knows where the latrines are."

Lon and his two lieutenants headed toward the center tower, where Colonel  Black
was conferring with the  range safety officer, RSO,  a captain who had  absolute
authority on the range-his orders superseding even those of a lieutenant colonel
or colonel. The officers from the other line companies were also heading in that
direction.

"No surprises," Black told  his officers when everyone  had gathered and he  had
finished his initial  conference with the  RSO. "Captains and  above fire first,
then the lieutenants  and lead sergeants.  Next the headquarters  detachment and
the platoon sergeants from the line companies,  then we run a company at a  time
through the course. Beamers in the last three slots to the right. Questions?"

Unsurprisingly, there were none. Day or night, this was routine.

The range was one  of the simple ones,  pop-up silhouettes spaced from  fifty to
four hundred yards out  from the final firing  positions in each lane.  Each man
would fire first  standing, then kneeling,  prone, and from  plascrete foxholes,
twenty rounds in each position, half single shot, and half in short bursts.

The RSO lifted the faceplate of his  helmet and looked out across the range.  "I
think about another ten or twelve minutes and it will be dark enough.  Colonel,"
he said, looking to Black.

Lon checked the timeline on his own helmet's head-up display and barely  noticed
Black nodding. "We'll be ready when you are. Captain,'' the battalion  commander
told the RSO.

A few  minutes later,  Lon found  himself in  lane six,  counting from the left,
waiting. He had four magazines for his rifle in a pouch hung from his web  belt.
His rifle's bolt was back, showing that  there was no round in the chamber,  and
no magazine attached. There were still a couple of minutes left before the  time
the RSO had set for starting. Lon stood easily, holding his rifle at port  arms,
waiting for  the command.  He used  the time  to start  breathing shallowly  and
regularly,  working to  stay calm,  relaxed. Firing  on the  range was  no  mere
formality.  Marksmanship  was one  of  the essential  skills  for a  soldier,  a
survival skill. The day  a soldier could not  meet the high requirements  of the
DMC was the day he  stopped being a line soldier.  If he stayed in the  Corps at
all, it would be in one of the ancillary, noncombat services.

"This is  the range  safety officer."  The voice  sounded directly against Lon's
ears, through  his helmet  radio. "From  this point  on, you  will obey  only my
commands or those of the safety officers immediately behind the firing line, and
you will obey those commands instantly." The voice was matter-of-fact, accepting
authority routinely, even over senior officers.

"Make certain that your safeties are in the 'on' position."

Lon tilted his rifle  to look directly at  the selector switch. It  was where it
was supposed  to be.  The RSO  waited fifteen  seconds, more  than long  enough,
before he continued.

"Gentlemen, lock and load."

Lon held his rifle in  his left hand and picked  a magazine out of the  pouch on
his belt, sliding the clip crisply into position, feeling the snap, then testing
to make certain that the fit was tight. Then he ran the bolt, sliding the  first
round into the rifle's chamber.

"Remember, gentlemen, keep your weapons pointed downrange at all times. If  your
rifle  jams  and  you cannot  clear  the  jam on  the  first  attempt, you  will
immediately return the safety to the 'on' position and request the assistance of
a safety officer over this channel.

"Ten rounds, single shot, from the standing position," the RSO continued. "Ready
on the right...  ?" There was  a pause while  he waited for  a response from the
safety officers  on that  side of  the range.  "Ready on  the left... ?" Another
pause.

"Gentlemen, set your selectors for single fire and assume firing position."

Lon moved the  switch while he  stepped into position  and started scanning  the
lane in front of him.

"Begin!" the RSO said, and Lon watched for the first target to pop up.

It was not a game. Targets sprang up at random, controlled by a computer.  There
was no  effective way  to anticipate  where the  next one  would be. Each target
remained visible for six seconds. The shooter had to react, aim, and fire in  no
more than five seconds to make sure  that the target would still be up  when the
bullet reached it. Motion had to be  smooth, to avoid throwing off the aim.  Lon
worked hard not to jerk  the muzzle of his weapon  from one target to the  next.
Spot, track, aim, then  squeeze the trigger.  Working at night,  with the  night
vision gear that was part of  DMC combat helmets, did add one  complication: The
targets  did  not  show  as  clearly as  a  live  enemy  would.  The temperature
difference between the target and its surroundings was minimal, which meant that
the infrared half of the dual system  gave little help. Shooters had to rely  on
visible-light enhancers. At times it could be almost like shooting at ghosts.

When the last target  went down, Lon's head-up  display flashed the result:  ten
targets, ten hits. Later, he would be able to go back over each run to see where
he had hit each target, vital area or not, and the length of time he had  needed
for each hit.

There was only a short pause before the second phase at the first position. Each
man had ten rounds left in his magazine. Three targets would come up, and remain
visible for the same six seconds. The object was to hit each target three times.
If you hit the first  two targets three times with  as many shots, you tried  to
put the last  four into the  final target. That  required an extremely  delicate
touch on the trigger.

"Set your selectors  at automatic fire,"  the RSO instructed,  and Lon complied.
"Begin."

On automatic fire, the rifle had  a tendency to move up and  right. Compensating
for that, and trying to fire three-shot bursts, made this part of the test  much
more difficult. Lon scored nine hits of ten shots, and he had loosed four rounds
at the middle target.

The officers on the range moved  forward to the next positions and  went through
the same sequence each time, finishing up in the foxholes.

"Remove magazines and check to make  sure the chamber of your weapon  is clear,"
the RSO ordered.  "Wait in position  until a safety  officer clears you  to move
back."

With only captains and above  on the line, it did  not take long for one  of the
safety officers to come to Lon, kneel next to the foxhole, and inspect the rifle
to make certain that there was no  round in the chamber and that the  safety was
properly on.

"You're clear. Captain," the safety officer, a lieutenant, said.

Lon got out of the foxhole and jogged back to where the rest of the men  waited,
ten yards behind the first firing positions.

"Not bad.  Captain," Phip  Steesen said  when Lon  joined him.  "I was watching.
Seventy-seven out of eighty. Guess you haven't lost your eye yet."

"Gives you a mark to aim at, anyway," Lon said.

"Might just beat you tonight,"  Phip said. "I still get  out at night once in  a
while."

"Just be sure you make your numbers  so you don't have to come out  Saturday and
retest," Lon challenged. The requirements  were tough. A man  had to hit  thirty
five of the forty targets presented  during the single-shot portions and ten  of
the twelve  offered during  automatic fire.  If he  failed at  either, he  would
receive two additional chances-Saturday and Sunday, when he would rather be  off
duty. If he still could not make his numbers, he would be detached for two weeks
and sent to a remedial training company for daily firing drills. If that did not
do the job. the soldier was finished  serving in a line company, which meant  an
end to the higher contract pay rates.

For the  rest of  the battalion's  time on  the range,  Lon was  a spectator. He
monitored the shooting of his lieutenants and noncommissioned officers directly.
The results posted by  the rest would be  reviewed by squad leaders  and platoon
sergeants. Anyone who failed,  if anyone failed, would  be flagged by the  range
computer, directed to the man's commanding officer.

It took until after one in the morning, 0100 hours, for the entire battalion  to
finish. No one in Lon's company  failed to make the minimum numbers,  and twenty
shot perfect scores for the night. Including Phip Steesen.

"You did that just  to show me up,"  Lon charged before the  battalion formed up
for  the march  back to  barracks. "You  haven't shot  a perfect  score in  five
years."

Phip chuckled. "It's a dirty job, but..." He didn't bother to finish the cliche.



7

Sara Nolan woke when her husband got into bed. She glanced at the bedside  clock
and saw that it was nearly three in  the morning. "What time do you want to  get
up?" she asked around a yawn.

"The usual," he  said, getting under  the sheet and  making himself comfortable.
"Morning formation's at the regular time. We just get off at noon."

"Should be the other way around.  Take the morning off and work  the afternoon,"
Sara suggested,  not really  paying attention  to what  she was  saying. She was
starting to slide back toward sleep already.

"Tell the General. By the way, you'd better figure on visiting your parents with
the kids over Christmas. Without me."

For perhaps ten seconds, that did not register on Sara's conscious mind. When it
did, she half rolled toward Lon. "A contract?" Sleep receded.

"This is still unofficial, so don't  tell anyone until the word comes  down next
week, but yes, three months, strictly a training contract."

"When?" Sara propped  herself up on  one elbow, facing  Lon, who had  closed his
eyes and was looking for sleep.

"Soon, sometime next week probably. I'll tell you more when I find out."

Lon was asleep in less than three minutes. Sara needed considerably longer.

Although it was a chore,  Lon did wake within minutes  of his usual time in  the
morning, just ahead  of the alarm.  He sat on  the edge of  the bed longer  than
usual, eyes scarcely open, yawning broadly.  It would have been so wonderful  to
flop back down and return to sleep, but... He stretched, then finally got to his
feet. It was that movement that woke Sara.

"Already?" she asked, squinting  toward the clock. "It  can't be. I just  got to
sleep."

"Already," Lon mumbled, too softly for her to hear.

Lon spent rather longer than usual in the shower, fin-, ishing with a hard blast
of cold water to help shock his system to full alertness. Sara had put on a robe
and gone to  the kitchen to  start breakfast. By  the time Lon  had showered and
dressed, the meal was waiting for him.

"You'll be home shortly after noon?" Sara asked while he ate. She had not cooked
anything for herself.

"As far as I know," Lon said. "You  know, we could take the weekend to pop  over
to Bascombe East to see your folks. Catch a shuttle this afternoon and come back
Sunday evening."

"Pull Junior out of school at noon?" she asked.

"I think he  can survive it,"  Lon said. "He  can finish his  lessons during the
flight, while I catch up on my sleep."

"Will we be able to get seats on the shuttle to Don-nelly at such short notice?"
Bascombe East was too  small to have any  scheduled flights. They would  have to
land at the nearby town of Donnelly and rent a floater or take a cab the  twenty
miles to the village where Sara's parents lived.

"Call and see,"  Lon said. "I  don't recall the  shuttle to Donnelly  ever being
booked solid. When you know, don't forget to call your mother and clear it  with
her."

Sara's brow  knitted into  a frown  as she  tried to  discover if there were any
other reasons to object,  or problems that might  have to be surmounted.  And to
force herself to remember everything she would have to do if they were going  to
take a trip on such short notice.

"I'll pack a bag for you," she said, not looking at Lon. "And I'll call and tell
you what arrangements I can make."

It all  kept her  too occupied  to remember  to ask  Lon more  about the  coming
contract until after he had left.

Lon dozed for five minutes on the ride in to the regimental area. It was a trick
most combat veterans mastered early in  their careers. Being able to catnap  was
essential, for the sake of sanity if nothing else. Sometimes it was the only way
to get any sleep at  all, occasionally for days on  end. But he woke before  his
stop, and it  was unlikely that  any of the  other officers on  the floater even
noticed that he had slept.

The morning after night-fire exercises could be counted on to be quiet-sluggish,
even. Probably  half the  battalion would  have skipped  breakfast, choosing  an
extra thirty  minutes of  sleep over  food. No  one would  press anyone too hard
through  the morning.  Only the  inertia of  any military  system mandated   the
morning work formation at  0800. The men would  be put to cleaning  the barracks
and their gear. There would  be no training or extraneous  work-fatigue-details.
Rifles had been cleaned as soon as the battalion returned from the firing  range
in the middle  of the night.  That was always  a priority. Weapons  rated higher
than the men who carried them.

It was five minutes before eight when Lon entered the orderly room. Weil  Jorgen
was already  at work,  but it  appeared as  if he  had just  started his morning
routine. Most days, he had everything ready for Lon a half hour earlier.

"It's mornings like this  I really hate. Captain,"  Weil said when he  looked up
and saw Lon. "When I woke,  I was dreaming about retiring and  raising geraniums
for the next fifty years-and getting twelve hours' sleep every blessed night."

"You'd be smoking those  geraniums in six months,"  Lon said, smiling. The  lead
sergeant just grunted.

"Come into my  office for a  minute, Weil." Lon  glanced at the  clock. They had
little more  than a  minute before  they would  need to  turn to for the morning
formation.

In Lon's private office,  he closed the door.  "Tell the platoon sergeants  that
the inspection this morning needs to be thorough. If we come back after the long
weekend and have orders to ship out on contract in three hours, I want us to  be
ready."

Weil raised an eyebrow.

"We're at the top  of two rotas, Weil,"  Lon'said. "A contract could  come up at
any time."

"I'll see to it. Captain," Weil said.  He had been in the Corps long  enough not
to ask questions. If Lon had wanted to tell him more, he would have. "We've been
keeping on top of  things the past two  weeks. Unless anything was  damaged last
night and I  don't know about  it yet, we've  replaced everything that  might be
even marginally  unserviceable. And  the armorers  have already  been alerted to
give all the weapons a close look this morning."

"Right. There's the call for formation. Let's not keep the colonel waiting."

It was not surprising that 2nd Battalion was the last to be in position for  the
regimental formation that mom-ing. Lon was still receiving manning reports  when
the  regiment  was  called  to attention.  The  tardiness  was  overlooked; each
battalion received the same courtesy the morning after night exercises.

After the  men were  released to  their day's  work. Major  Orlis came over to A
Company and called Lon aside.

"It's  official, Lon.  You can  tell your  men the  company will  be leaving  on
contract Monday afternoon. Contract briefing  for you and your lieutenants  will
be Monday at oh-nine-hundred.  For now, you can  tell the men it's  Bancroft for
three months, training their people."

Lon nodded. "How firm is that three months?"

Orlis smiled. "As firm as it  can be. You'll have authority as  contract officer
to accept an extension if they ask for it and the, ah, conditions are right. But
since  they say  there is  no military  threat requiring  our assistance,  there
shouldn't be  much question  of an  extension. But  don't go  promising the  men
anything certain."

"I understand. Major." Lon saluted and Orlis returned it, then turned and headed
toward battalion headquarters.

Lon's two lieutenants were still  standing on the parade ground,  together. They
had watched the conference between Lon and the battalion's executive officer but
had been far enough away that they could not overhear. Lon went to join them.

"We go  out on  contract Monday  afternoon," he  told them,  then gave  them the
little  information he  had. "We'll  know more  Monday morning.  I'll have  Weil
gather the platoon sergeants and squad leaders and tell them. Five minutes after
that, every man in the company will  know. You two might check the databases  to
see if we have  anything on Bancroft." It  was not until then  that Lon realized
that he  had not  checked that  himself after  Orlis first  clued him  in on the
coming contract. Maybe I'm  slipping, he thought. Used  to be, I'd have  checked
the DBs within minutes.

Weil Jorgen came over  to Lon just after  the lieutenants left. "Give  them five
minutes to get the men started working, Weil," Lon said, "then tell the  platoon
sergeants and squad leaders I want to  talk with them in the dayroom. And  you."
He watched Weil blink, then added, "Major Orlis just gave me the word. We go out
on contract Monday afternoon."

The pool and snooker tables in the dayroom were both covered. The drink  machine
was clean.  When Lon  entered with  his lead  sergeant at  his side, the noncoms
already in the dayroom came to attention facing the door.

"Make yourself comfortable," Lon told them. "This will only take a minute." Weil
had not  given anyone  advance notice  what the  captain wanted  to talk to them
about, but all of the  sergeants had been in the  Corps long enough to at  least
suspect that the topic might well be a contract.

It did not take even a minute for Lon to tell them the little he knew. "Pass the
word along to your men. The lieutenants and  I have our contract briefing at  oh
nine-hundred Monday. As soon as we get back from that, I'll give you more. Since
this is supposed to be strictly training, we'll pack garrison undress greens  as
well as  bat-tiedress and  fatigue uniforms.  Make sure  everything is ready for
contract when you inspect this morning."  He looked around, meeting the gaze  of
each of his noncoms before he asked, "Questions?"

There were none at the moment. Questions would come later.

When he got back to  his office, Lon used his  complink to connect to the  DMC's
encyclopedic data files  to search out  what the Corps  knew about the  world of
Bancroft.  A note  showed that  the entry  had last  been updated  the  previous
afternoon, with data  supplied by a  representative of the  Bancroft government.
Those data were all tagged, to indicate the level of reliability-much lower than
data researched directly by Corps intelligence. Lon knew what the innocuous  tag
really meant:

"Don't believe a word of this until you confirm it firsthand."

He had just started reading the short file when Sara called to tell him that she
had made the arrangements for their trip to Bascombe East.

"I hope you're going to be ready right at noon," she said. "The connection is  a
bit tight. The only other flight isn't  until this evening. We'll get a cab  and
pick you up at  the southwest corner of  the regimental area. The  return flight
leaves Donnelly Sunday evening at eight. Okay?"

"Perfect," Lon said, smiling at the camera over his complink terminal. "I'll  be
out at the comer at noon, waiting."

"I decided to  keep Junior home  all day instead  of picking him  up later. That
saves a good half hour. He's excited about going to see Gramma and Grampa."

Lon leaned  back as  his smile  grew. "It  should be  a fine  weekend," he said.
"Autumn's always the best time of year at Bascombe East."

"I'll let you get back to work. I've got a million things to do before we leave.
Love you."

"Love you," Lon echoed before she blanked the link.

Lon got up and went out to the orderly room. Weil Jorgen had just returned  from
some chore. "If anything comes up that needs me over the weekend-and I sincerely
hope it doesn't-I'll be at my  in-laws in Bascombe East. We're leaving  right at
noon and won't be back here until after nine o'clock Sunday night."

"I'll pass the word to battalion. Captain," Weil said. "Since we're going out on
contract Monday, they're letting us shut down our orderly room for the  weekend.
Any calls will be routed to the OD at battalion."

"I'll talk to Major Orlis then, have him shunt anything that doesn't  absolutely
require me to Lieutenant Stossberg." Harley will love that, Lon thought with  an
amused grin.

"I'll make sure the lieutenant knows too, sir," Weil said.

Lon shook his head. "I'd better handle that myself."

The conversations with Orlis and Stossberg ate up a few minutes. Lon spent  more
time signing forms that Weil queued  up on his complink, then went  back through
the file on Bancroft. At 1100 hours Lon called Lieutenant Girana to the office.

"I'm going to be out of town until  Sunday night, Tebba, leaving in about  forty
five minutes. Anything  comes up over  the weekend, battalion  will call Harley,
but you  might want  to make  sure the  OD at  battalion can  track you  down if
necessary. And let Harley know where you'll be. We don't want to throw him  into
a panic."

Tebba grinned.  "Harley's not  that raw  anymore, Lon.  It's been  ages since he
pulled a 'Chicken Little' act. I broke  him in good, you know that. Besides,  he
always seems to know where to find me, even when I don't want him to."

"Just to be safe.  Since he knows we're  going off-world Monday, he  might get a
little anxious. I'll be in East Bascombe until late Sunday."

"Gettin' in a couple of days of free beer?" Tebba asked.

"I might manage a pint or two," Lon allowed. Tebba knew the pub that his in-laws
ran. "I forgot to have  Sara ask her mother if  there were any troops at  Nassau
Proving  Range this  week." If  there were,  the pub  would be  hectic over  the
weekend. Lon shook  his head. "No,  Sara would know  to ask, and  she would have
said something."

"Well, enjoy yourself. Hard telling what the chow will be like this place  we're
going. The battle rations we take along might be the best food on the world."

It was unusual for Lon to leave  before his men had been dismissed for  the day,
but he allowed himself the exception,  starting toward the comer where Sara  and
the children  were to  meet him  with a  taxi ten  minutes before noon. He spent
thirty seconds regretting that he had not brought a change of clothes along.  He
would have to make the journey to East Bascombe in uniform. "No help for  that,"
he muttered as  he reached  the comer  and started  looking for  one of the lime
green taxicabs.

The cab came into view, around the comer from the road to the married  officers'
quarters, at two minutes past twelve. Lon, Junior, started waving through one of
the side windows as soon as he saw his father.

"I stayed home from school today!"  Junior announced when his father opened  the
door to get in.

"I know, sport," Lon said. "But that doesn't mean you get to skip your  lessons.
You can do them on the shuttle."

"Aw, that's no fun. I can't watch out the window if I'm doing schoolwork."

"Well, you won't want to do  them while we're at your grandparents',"  Lon said.
"And it's one or the other."

"I can do 'em on the shuttle comin' back Sunday," Junior said, beaming as if  he
had just found a loophole in his father's reasoning.

"You'll be sleeping on the ride back. It'll be past your bedtime when we get  on
the shuttle in Donnelly,"  Lon said. He glanced  across the backseat of  the cab
and saw that Sara was trying to hide her laughter.

"We went through this all at home," she said. "Twice." She tapped Junior on  the
shoulder and, when he turned to look  at her, she said, "You'll do your  lessons
on the shuttle today, young man. That was the deal."

"You trying to pull a fast one on me?" Lon asked the boy.

"You're a captain. Mom's just a civilian," Junior said.

"You do what your mother tells you," Lon said.

Junior climbed up on his father's lap  so he could see out the side  window more
easily. The boy wanted  to see everything along  the route from the  base across
Dirigent City to the  civilian aerospace port. A  half-dozen times he asked  his
father what something was, as if he had never seen any of these sights a hundred
times before.

Lon answered each question patiently, idly watching the passing scenery himself.
Usually, when he  traveled this route,  it was either  going out on  contract or
coming  back, and  his thoughts  on those  occasions were  more serious.   Angie
ignored everything. She had been asleep  when Lon got into the floater,  and she
stayed  that  way until  the  taxi stopped  near  the entrance  to  the civilian
terminal at the port. When she opened her eyes and saw her father, she wanted to
climb  across the  seat to  him immediately,  calling "Daddy!"  loudly until  he
reached over and took her, after Junior got off his lap. "I'll get a porter  for
the bags," Sara said.

A journey in a civilian shuttle was much different from one in a military craft.
This  aircraft  was  quite a  bit  smaller  than the  landers  that  ferried the
mercenaries of the DMC  between ship and shore.  The plane the Nolans  rode from
Dirigent City to Donnelly could hold a maximum of thirty passengers. Although it
was capable of burning for  orbit-to rendezvous with an interstellar  liner, for
instance-the plane's journey to Donnelly  was far too short for  that capability
to be needed. Its flight path was almost a ballistic trajectory, topping out  at
less than twelve thousand feet, with minimal g-forces. The trip would take  just
under thirty minutes.

There were half a dozen empty seats  on the flight to Donnelly. Sara sat  on one
side of the aisle, holding Angie. Lon and  his son sat on the other side of  the
aisle, with Junior  next to the  window. At first  Lon let his  son gawk at  the
scenery, but once the  shuttle was clear of  Dirigent City, he handed  the boy a
portable complink. "Lessons," he reminded Junior.

"Aw, Dad," Junior complained, predictably.

"The sooner you get your lessons done, the sooner you'll be free to do something
else. You don't  have much work.  Get right to  it and you  might be finished in
time to watch the landing."

As  soon  as  Junior  opened  the  complink  and  started  working  through  his
schoolwork, Lon leaned back and closed his eyes. He didn't really expect to  get
much sleep-the flight was too short-but even a few minutes would help. There had
been times  when he  had gone  as long  as forty-eight  hours on  no more than a
couple of five-minute naps. An edge  of hunger made napping more difficult  than
usual. Lon's stomach growled. He had  eaten only a light breakfast that  morning
and had not taken time for lunch.

That's okay, he told  himself. Mildred will have  something good and hot.  I can
eat as soon as we get there.

Mildred was  Sara's mother.  And I  can always  grab a  snack at the terminal in
Donnelly.

He did sleep. Lon was certain of that because he woke suddenly when the  shuttle
banked to the right as  it came in for its  landing in Donnelly. Lon yawned  and
stretched, then glanced at Junior. The boy had shut his complink and was staring
out the window again. "You finish  your lessons?" Lon asked. "Yes, Dad,"  Junior
said without looking away from the window.

Sara had chosen to rent a small floater-a ground-effect vehicle-for the drive to
Bascombe East  because it  might be  difficult to  get a  taxi to  come out from
Donnelly on Sunday evening for them to catch the shuttle back to Dirigent  City.
She also did the driving. She knew the route better, and Lon rarely drove.  They
did not have a family car. In Dirigent City, few people did.

It was just after  one-thirty in the afternoon  when Sara parked the  floater in
the narrow drive next to the  Winking Eye, Bascombe East's only pub.  Junior was
out of the car and nearly to the pub's entrance before Lon got himself and Angie
unbuckled. He didn't even have a chance to call for Junior to wait.

"I'll come back out to get the  bags," Lon said. "We'd better get inside  before
Junior takes over the place."

He carried Angie and still opened the door for Sara. Early in the afternoon, the
Winking Eye was not busy. There was only a single customer standing at the  bar.
Geoff Pine, Sara's father, was on his  way out from behind the bar. Mildred  was
on her way out of  the kitchen, with Junior at  her side, almost tugging her  by
the apron.

The next  few minutes  were the  usual chaotic  welcoming scene.  Even the  lone
customer was drawn into the

ritual.

"Freddie, you recall my daughter Sara  and her husband, Captain Lon Nolan.  Look
how my  granddaughter has  grown!" Geoff  said. He  had claimed  Angie from  her
father and stood her on the bar, holding her so she wouldn't fall.

"Don't forget me, Grampa!"  Junior insisted, moving around  to the front of  the
bar. "I'm here, too."

"How could  I forget  you, Lonnie?"  his grandfather  said, chuckling. He passed
Angie to his wife, then hoisted  the seven-year-old boy with almost equal  ease.
Decades  of  lifting  beer  kegs  had  kept  Geoff  Pine  in  excellent physical
condition. Almost every year at  the village's harvest festival, he  reached the
finals of the arm-wrestling competition.

"Seems the last  time I saw  you, lad," Freddie  Dowell said, "you  weren't much
bigger than your sister is now."

Junior wasn't certain, but  he suspected there might  be some kind of  insult in
that, so he just ignored the comment.

"We're gonna be here all weekend, Grampa," he said instead.

The specialty  of the  day was  a country  stew with  three kinds of meat, large
chunks of vegetables, and a gravy so  thick that a spoon would stand upright  in
it, served with bread that Mrs. Pine  had baked that morning. Lon ate two  ample
portions and washed them down with beer. Sara and Junior ate rather less.  Angie
had to be content mostly with her own food, though her mother gave her a  little
of the stew gravy.

Freddie Dowell left the Winking Eye. Sara's parents came out to sit at the table
with the family.

"Should be a quiet weekend," Geoff said after bringing new beers for himself and
Lon. "Nothing doing out  at Nassau, that I  know of. Haven't been  many soldiers
around all month. Now, next weekend should be livelier. That's when we have  our
harvest festival." He chuckled. -

"Lively, indeed," Mildred said. "A royal excuse for everyone to eat too much and
drink even more. By sup-pertime Saturday,  you won't know which side of  the bar
you're on."

"Sounds inviting," Lon said, "but by this time next week, I'll be well on my way
out-system." He  had already  told his  in-laws what  little he  knew about  the
coming contract.

"You know, Lon, anytime you're ready to start pulling pints instead of triggers,
you and Sara can come out here permanently and take over the pub. Mildred and  I
can retire and enjoy life a bit while we're still young enough to."

Lon's smile was hesitant. He still wasn't certain how serious Geoff was.  Sara's
father had started talking about retiring and turning the pub over to them  some
years back. "Not yet, Geoff," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I've still  got
to put in another nine years before I can draw even the minimum pension from the
Corps."

"Besides, he's gonna be the General someday!" Junior claimed loudly.

"Don't count on it," Lon said, smiling at his son. "The Council of Regiments has
never elected anyone  General who wasn't  born on Dirigent  and been at  least a
second-generation member of the Corps. You might have a chance someday, but  not
me,"

"Don't  count  yourself  out,  Lon," Geoff  advised.  "You've  already  been the
exception to a  number of rules.  And there's no  rule that says  you have to be
second-generation Corps  to be  elected General.  The way  things are going, you
might become the youngest man ever to get his own regiment."

"Don't you start," Lon said. "I'm a  long way from thinking about a regiment.  I
could still retire a captain if 1 stay in another twenty years."

Geoff barked a sharp laugh.  "I'd make book against  that, an' offer anyone  ten
to-one odds. You  know, I've still  got a few  connections in the  Corps. I hear
things. It wouldn't surprise me if you  were a major the next time you  come out
this way."

"Maybe," Lon allowed, "but even that's still a long way from full colonel and  a
regiment."

After closing that evening, Lon helped his father-in-law with the clean-up.  The
children were asleep upstairs. Sara and  her mother had finished in the  kitchen
and gone upstairs to talk.

"Something's  bothering  you,  isn't  it," Geoff  asked  after  they  had nearly
finished with the necessary work. He refilled their beer mugs.

"What makes you say that?" Lon asked.

"You spend thirty or forty years behind a bar, you leam to read people. What  is
it?"

"I'm not entirely sure. That might be part of the problem." Lon took a long pull
on his beer. "Maybe life's just starting to catch up with me."

"If you want to talk about it, I'm a good listener, Lon."

Lon remained silent  for a minute  or more, taking  a couple of  sips of beer to
cover his hesitation. "It's not the ghosts, this time," he said then, so  softly
it was almost a thought.

"The court-martial?" Geoff asked.

"You know about that?"

"A murder is  big news, especially  in the Corps.  And Sara told  her mother you
were on the court-martial. We followed the story pretty close."

"We had to send that kid to jail, and would have hung him if it hadn't been  for
the sister. But I can't convince myself that O'Banion didn't get exactly what he
deserved. Sure, that Green kid made mistakes, bad choices, but part of me thinks
he deserved some kind of medal for  what he did. But we didn't have  any choice.
We had to convict him. There wasn't one vote for acquittal."

Geoff shrugged. "We have to have laws, and we have to enforce them. That's  what
civilization is about. All in all, we've done pretty well for ourselves here  on
Dirigent, even if the code is a little . . . draconian at times. Back when I was
in  the  Corps, there  was  a man  convicted  of raping  a  girl. You  know  the
punishment for that?'' Lon nodded, but his father-in-law continued anyway. "They
chopped off his balls and most of his  pecker, left him just a tiny stub to  pee
with, and gave him ten years at hard labor on top of it."

"This was different," Lon said. "This was  ... well, what if it had been  Junior
protecting Angie? It could happen, fifteen, twenty years from now."

"You teach 'em  better than that  Green kid's folks  taught him. Make  sure they
know the right way to do things. That's what parents are supposed to do."

Lon took another drink. His mug was nearly empty again. "And Junior keeps saying
he wants to be a soldier just like me."

"What else?" Geoff asked. "This is Dirigent, and his daddy happens to be one  of
the best officers in the Corps."

"I know. It's just that, lately, whenever he says that, it sends a shiver up  my
spine."



8

By Sunday afternoon, Lon was feeling as relaxed and comfortable as he ever  did.
He enjoyed the company of his wife's parents, and even liked helping out in  the
pub, giving his father-in-law a little  extra time to be with the  children. His
only contact with  the Corps all  weekend was when  two of the  MPs taking their
month's tour  of duty  at Nassau  Proving Range  came in  for dinner  and drinks
Saturday evening. He "bought'' them a round of drinks, then sat and chatted with
them for a few minutes. The MPs, one a corporal and the other a private, knew he
was in the Corps, but not his rank.

"Maybe someday it would be nice to move out here and run the pub," Lon told Sara
while they were driving to Donnelly Sunday evening. The children were  sleeping.
Junior had fallen  asleep almost the  instant the floater  pulled away from  the
pub. Angie had needed only a couple of minutes longer.

"Someday when  you get  all the  soldiering out  of your  system," Sara replied,
speaking little  above a  whisper to  avoid waking  the children.  The more they
slept now, the better it would be. "Right  now, it's okay for a day or two,  but
you'd be climbing the walls inside of a week, and you know it."

"I know," he agreed, nodding even though she was watching the road and not  him.
"But someday."

"Just don't let Daddy stampede you into doing it before you're ready."

"You think he's really serious about wanting to retire?" Lon asked.

Sara did not  answer for nearly  a minute before  she said, "I'm  not sure. He's
always talked about retiring. When I was, I don't know, maybe ten or eleven,  he
started talking about just waiting for me to get old enough to take over. When I
hit fourteen or so, it was when I got  married and had a man to help me run  the
place. It's  always been  something of  a joke,  I think.  But I do know they've
managed to save enough to let them retire whenever they want to."

"He could always sell the pub and retire, anytime at all," Lon said.

"He'd never do that, not as long as  he has any hope at all of passing  it along
to someone in the family. I don't think he can even conceive of the Winking  Eye
belonging to anyone else. He's the fourth generation of Pines to own it."

At least  you have  something to  fall back  on if  something happens to me, Lon
thought. That was something  they hadn't spoken of  in five years, the  constant
chance  that he  might not  return from  a contract.  Rank was  no guarantee  of
survival. Over the centuries that the  DMC had operated, even four colonels  had
died on contract.

Monday morning, Lon called for a staff car from regiment to pick him up. He  had
a duffel bag to take in with him, clothing and gear he needed for the  contract.
He took a  few extra minutes  at home, though,  to say goodbye  to his wife  and
children, taking care to assure Junior that this was not going to be a dangerous
contract.

"We're just going  to teach some  colonists how to  defend themselves," he  told
him. "No real fighting at all."

"I wish they were all like that," Sara whispered in Lon's ear at the door.  "But
I knew you were a soldier when I first saw you."

He  laughed, avoiding  the subtext,  the worries  she seldom  confessed to,  the
possibility that one day he might not come home. Sara always seemed more  secure
about that than he was. "I hope so. I was in uniform."

Lon carried his own bag out to  the staff car but the driver, a  lance corporal,
got out and stowed the duffel on the passenger side of the front seat, then held
the rear door open for Lon.

I wish they were all training  contracts, too, Lon thought as he  waved good-bye
to Sara and the children. Junior had come  to the door, and Sara was holding  An
gie. But if the time comes when all anyone wants from the Corps is training,  we
're out of business anyway.

The drive was silent.  Lon's driver did not  speak until they had  reached Lon's
headquarters. "Good luck  on contract, sir,"  the driver said  as he lifted  the
duffel bag out of the floater. "Hope you have an easy one."

Lon grinned at him. "You and me both. Lance, you and me both."

"Want me to take this inside for you, sir?"

"No, thanks.  Time for  me to  get used  to doing  things for  myself again." He
hoisted the duffel  bag to his  left shoulder and  returned the driver's  salute
before heading inside.

Lon didn't get very far  with the bag. As soon  as he entered the orderly  room,
Weil Jorgen was up from behind his desk and took the bag.

"I'll get that. Captain. Set it right over here with the rest of our gear."

"No  problems over  the weekend,  I trust?"  Lon asked  as he  watched his  lead
sergeant set the duffel with his own and those of the men in headquarters squad.

"None that've  come to  my attention,"  Weil said.  "That means  nothing serious
enough to warrant official notice. No missing bodies, no one in hospital or  the
guardhouse."

"Always good signs," Lon said, grinning. "The platoon leaders upstairs?"

"Yes, sir, for the last thirty minutes," Weil said.

"I'd better get  up there before  they drink enough  coffee to slosh  during the
contract briefing."

Lon and his  lieutenants walked across  to battalion headquarters  a few minutes
before  the  briefing was  scheduled  to begin.  Lon  knocked on  the  executive
officer's door and was called in.

"Glad you came early," Matt Orlis said. "Gives me time to make the introductions
before the colonel gives his talk."

"Introductions?" Lon asked.

"You'll be taking three civilians from  the munitions combine along, as well  as
giving Bancroft's  negotiator a  ride home,"  Orlis explained.  "They're already
waiting in the conference room."

That was just  across the corridor.  The four men  inside all got  to their feet
when the officers entered.

"Mr. Isadore Stanley,  envoy of the  Bancroft government, Captain  Lon Nolan. He
commands the company that's going  to help you out.  His lieutenants, Tebba  Gir
ana and Harley  Stossberg." Stanley shook  hands with each  of them, then  Major
Orlis introduced the three civilian Dirigenters to the officers. They were Homer
Detweiler, Charles Chance, and Rob Menver.

"I'll go tell the colonel you're  ready for the briefing," Orlis said  after the
handshaking was finished and everyone was getting seated again. He was gone  for
less than two minutes, and came back a step behind Lieutenant

Colonel Hiram Black.

"This will be fairly short. Captain Nolan," Black said. "The contract is  fairly
uncomplicated, and you will  have Mr. Stanley along  on the trip to  Bancroft to
answer any  questions that  come to  mind." He  cleared his  throat and  glanced
around the room before continuing.

"Your company will shuttle up to Tyre at sixteen hundred hours today." Tyre  was
one of the older small ships in  the Corps fleet. It could carry one  company of
mercenaries or serve as a cargo transport as needed. "Sidon will accompany  you,
carrying munitions and equipment for Bancroft's own munitions industry, as  well
as additional supplies for your company.  The three civilians who will be  going
along  will  inspect the  factories  Bancroft has  now,  suggest any  worthwhile
changes, and supervise the installation and testing of the machinery that  Sidon
will carry.

"Once on Bancroft, Alpha Company will establish a standard training regimen  for
the men of  Bancroft's constabulary militia.  The course, to  last twelve weeks,
will be for approximately one  thousand trainees. In addition to  basic military
training for  all personnel,  the commissioned  and noncommissioned  officers of
Bancroft's  Constabulary  Militia  will  be  given  training  in  light infantry
tactics, with particular emphasis on counterinsurgency situations."

Nothing  we  haven't  done  a half-dozen  times  before,  Lon  thought as  Black
continued with  the briefing.  There was  a brief  glance at  a map  showing the
primary population  centers of  Bancroft, but  since no  action against  hostile
forces was contemplated, that did not  require much attention now. And it  would
all be available for  Lon and his lieutenants  to study at their  leisure during
the two weeks that the journey to Bancroft would require.

As promised, the briefing was short, only half an hour.

"I'll see you aboard ship. Captain Nolan," Stanley said, offering his hand. "The
colonel has arranged for me to go up ahead of your lads, so I'm out of the  way,
I suspect."

"I'm sure it's not that, sir," Lon  said. "A company of soldiers takes up  every
seat on two shuttles. You'd have to sit on somebody's lap, and that would be far
from comfortable."

"We're going up early as well," Homer Detweiler said. "My colleagues and I  will
be riding Sidon, Captain Nolan, so we shan't be seeing you again until we  reach
Bancroft."

There  was handshaking  all around,  until Major  Orlis shepherded  Lon and  his
lieutenants out of the conference room and across to his own office.

"This will only take a minute, Lon," Orlis promised, shutting the door after the
officers were inside.  "Two quick items.  First, Bancroft is  offering top rates
for  this  contract,  for  the  training  program  and  the  munitions   factory
replicators. Out of the  blue, the way this  came, there might be  more going on
than they've let on."

Lon shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time. Nobody ever tells us everything."

"No, they don't. But I want the three of you to keep your eyes open. If there is
more doing, there might be the chance of more lucrative contracts later."  Orlis
waited for nods, then said,  "Second, we've made arrangements for  conversion of
funds  to  local currency.  Since  this is  a  training contract  and  you'll be
stationed close  to, ah,  civilized services,  you'll be  able to  give your men
passes when  they're off  duty-at your  discretion. Mr.  Stanley has  been given
repeated assurances that our people know how to behave themselves in public,  so
see that they do."

"I'll bring the  lead sergeant up  to speed," Lon  told the lieutenants  as they
walked back toward A  Company. "You two brief  your platoons." Lon paused  for a
second, then added,  "Just what Colonel  Black had to  say. We'll save  the news
about passes for now. It might be more effective later."

"That's for sure,"  Tebba said. "Tell  them too soon  and they won't  be able to
concentrate on getting ready for the job at hand. Major Orlis did say it was  at
your discretion. That means  you don't have to  let anybody out 'less  they earn
it."

"And the first time anyone screws up,  even a little bit, that'll be the  end of
it," Lon said. "It  won't be like Camo  Town. The people of  Bancroft don't have
the experience to  deal with a  lot of raving-drunk  soldiers, and I  don't want
them to learn from us."

Eight hours later, Alpha Company was on its way out-system aboard the  transport
Tyre, accelerating toward  its first jump  through Q-space. That  would not take
place until Tyre and Sidon were five days out from Dirigent.

The two ships  were among the  smallest interstellar craft  that the mercenaries
employed. Each could carry a single company of men, with supplies to last  three
months  in the  field, or  it could  carry just  supplies, enough  to support  a
battalion for the same length of time.

Facilities were limited. Meals were eaten one platoon at a time in a galley that
was crowded with fifty men in it  at once. The gymnasium was little larger.  It,
too, was limited to a single platoon  at a time, and everyone rotated to  get in
their exercise  every day.  In the  troop bays,  bunks were  stacked three high,
little more than shelves  for sleeping. Platoon sergeants  had cabins, two to  a
room. Only the lead sergeant and the three officers had private  accommodations,
and those were scarcely larger  than closets. Isadore Stanley had  a compartment
in the crew's section of the ship, forward of the troop areas.

After Lon had eaten supper, he  started forward. As senior line officer  aboard,
there were matters of protocol to observe. He went all of the way to the bridge,
the command deck, some fifty yards short  of the bow of Tyre. A naval  rating at
the hatch opened it and allowed Lon through.

"Ah, Captain Nolan, come on in," Tyre's skipper, Commander Buck Tanner, said. He
got up from his seat at the center console and moved toward Lon.

Lon saluted, casually. "Good to be riding with you again. Captain," he said.  As
commander of a naval vessel, Tanner automatically earned the higher title.  Tyre
was  his  vessel, his  responsibility.  Although the  term  "navy" had  referred
exclusively to spacegoing forces for  nearly eight centuries, most navies  still
carried on the traditions of their seaborne ancestors.

Tanner was  as casual  with his  return salute.  "Your lads  all settled in?" he
asked.

"Pretty much. Still working through the supper rota."

Tyre's skipper grinned.  "Our civilian passenger  didn't make it  to supper, I'm
afraid.  He  came aboard  spacesick.  Couldn't handle  the  zero-g ride  on  the
shuttle."

"Some  folks are  like that.  Captain," Lon  said. "My  junior lieutenant   gets
spacesick almost every time we  go off-planet, even aboard ship  with artificial
gravity. Says it's just knowing his feet aren't on the ground."

"I understand you've  drawn a beer  run," Tanner said.  "That's what we've  been
told," Lon said. "Teaching

their militia the ropes."

"You sound as  if you don't  expect it to  be that easy."  Lon shrugged. "Oh, it
probably will be. But if I go in expecting the worst, anything better will  look
like picking a three-horse parlay at  the Downs." The Downs was Dirigent  City's
lone racetrack. Horses ran there during two six-week meets each year, and domes,
a native quadruped that  looked like a cross  between a camel and  an alligator,
ran in two other meets.

"Never had any luck at the races myself," Tanner said.

"I got cured the hard way, not long after I won my pips. Lost half a month's pay
in two hours," Lon said.  Both men laughed. "Anything I  can do for you, let  me
know." Tanner extended his hand-the sign that the meeting was over. "I'm at your
service."

Shipboard routine was limited.  Meals and exercise were  fit into each day.  The
officers  and noncoms  went over  details of  the training  program they   would
administer for the Bancroft militia. Lon spent time studying the available  maps
for  the  planet, concentrating  on  areas around  the  towns but  familiarizing
himself with as much of the planet's land area as possible.

The only full stops that came to the routine were for each of the three transits
of Q-space. The first  warning of each transit  was given thirty minutes  ahead,
even though the jump  schedule had been made  available at the beginning  of the
voyage. The first signal was the warning for the ship's passengers to return  to
their living quarters and strap  themselves in their bunks. Another  warning was
provided thirty seconds before the start and finish of each jump. The full power
of Tyre's three Nilssen generators, which also provided artificial gravity, were
needed to establish  and manipulate the  bubble of quantum  space that permitted
interstellar jumps. For the duration  of each transit-rarely more than  a couple
of minutes-each  ship was  effectively in  a universe  of its own, theoretically
tangent to  every point  in the  universe of  normal space.  The bubble universe
would be stressed at a carefully calculated point for the proper length of time,
and then the Q-space field would be reversed, depositing the ship back in normal
space. There were  always three jumps  to any interstellar  journey-one from the
system of origin to a standard  "shipping lane" whose jump parameters were  well
known, the  second along  that lane,  and the  third in  toward the  destination
system.

The jumps  were spaced  to minimize  any distortion  in the  Q-space fields. The
first jump did not take place until the ships were five days out from  Dirigent.
Three days always passed between jumps, and the third jump would leave the ships
three to  five days  out from  their destination,  so any  interstellar  journey
whether between neighboring star systems or halfway across the local spiral  arm
of the galaxy-required fourteen to sixteen days.

Lieutenant  Harley  Stossberg's  spacesickness  ended  three  days  out. Isadore
Stanley  got sick  each time  Tyre lost  its artificial  gravity for  a  Q-space
transit.

"I hope I never have to go off-world again in my entire life," Stanley told  Lon
during a meeting the mom-ing before the ship's final jump of the journey back to
his home. "Next time  they need a diplomat,  they can damned well  find somebody
else."

"I know it  can be rough,"  Lon said, nodding  in commiseration. "But  you'll be
home in a few days."

Stanley groaned softly. "After one more jump through Q-space and another shuttle
ride. I even asked the ship's medical officer if he could give me a patch to let
me sleep through the zero gravity, but he wouldn't do it."

"Standard practice. My lads who get spacesick don't get that either. The  medics
say it's dangerous."

"You'd think by now they'd have come up  with a pill or a patch to prevent  it,"
Stanley said.

Tyre and Sidon emerged into normal  space eighty hours out from Bancroft.  After
three  jumps covering  more than  seventy light-years,  the two  ships  appeared
simultaneously, eighteen miles apart-and that by design rather

than accident.

Lon spent the next three days and odd hours waiting

to hear whether there was any change in conditions on Bancroft, to learn whether
the mission would still be strictly training, or if he would have to renegotiate
the contract to  include more active  duty for his  company. That sort  of thing
happened  all  too  frequently  to the  Corps.  Governments  thought  they could
negotiate a better deal "since you're already here."

But there was no request for any change from the

government of Bancroft.

"The shuttles can set down right  at the spaceport in Lincoln," Isadore  Stanley
assured  Lon four  hours before  the mercenaries  were scheduled  to board   the
landers. Lincoln was the planetary capital. "We'll have ground transport on hand
to take your people to their barracks at the new militia base. You'll have  time
to get settled in before supper,  I believe." Shipboard time had been  gradually
adjusted during  the voyage  so the  mercenaries would  be on  the same  diurnal
"clock'' as the people at the destination-standard practice in the Corps.

"You're going  down with  the people  on SidonV  Lon asked,  though he  knew the
answer.

"Yes." Stanley frowned briefly. "They're sending a shuttle over to collect me in
about an hour. One extra bout of zero gravity I hadn't been counting on. But  my
government wants me  to come in  with the equipment,  and-as you said  before we
left your world-the shuttles with your men will be fully packed without me."

Be glad  you'll never  have to  ride a  shuttle going  in for  a hot  landing in
combat, Lon thought, suppressing a  smile. Accelerating toward the ground  until
the last possible second,  then reversing thrust. You  'd really get sick  then.
"But it will be over  soon enough," he said. "You'll  be home, both feet on  the
ground."

"And ready to keep things like that," Stanley said firmly.

The rifles of  Alpha Company held  neither magazine nor  cartridge when the  men
boarded  their  shuttles  for the  ride  to  the surface  of  Bancroft,  but the
ammunition  pouches on  each man's  belt were  full. The  DMC took  nothing  for
granted. Its men would not set foot on any planet but Dirigent without the means
to defend themselves. The shuttles themselves were armed with rapid-fire  cannon
and rockets, ready to cover a retreat or a defensive deployment. If necessary.

"We don't  go in  looking like  we're expecting  trouble," Lon  had reminded his
sergeants, "but keep your eyes open."

It was a gentle ride to the surface, not a combat landing. The two shuttles from
Tyre  went in  together, in  formation, and  landed near  the spaceport's   lone
terminal  building. The  cargo shuttles  from Sidon,  with the  first loads   of
equipment  and the  four civilian  passengers, did  not leave  orbit until   the
mercenaries were on the ground and the senior pilot had radioed back that  there
was no sign of trouble on the ground.

There was even a band waiting to greet the Dirigen-ters with festive music.



9

The men of Lon's  company emerged from the  two shuttles with rifles  slung over
left shoulders and the faceplates on their helmets raised-both measures designed
to  appear  friendly, nonthreatening.  There  was no  mad  dash to  establish  a
defensive perimeter either, the way they would have on a combat landing. Instead
they fell in  by platoon, between  the shuttles and  the terminal, just  as they
would have returning to Dirigent from a contract. Platoon sergeants went through
the routine of dressing ranks, then stood the men at parade rest.

The band had started  playing as soon as  the doors on the  two shuttles opened,
some rousing air that Lon thought he had never heard before. A handful of  local
dignitaries was also  present, standing a  little apart from  the musicians. Two
camera operators were  videoing the reception.  Farther off, behind  a series of
low barricades decorated with brightly colored pennants, several dozen civilians
watched-without much show of emotion, one

way or the other.

Lon and  Tebba walked  directly to  the welcoming  committee after handing their
rifles to Lead Sergeant  Jorgen. The man at  the center of the  committee wore a
black top hat, an anachronism that could only be a badge of office. Lon  saluted
him.

"I  am Captain  Lon Nplan,  A Company,  2nd Battalion,  7th Regiment,   Dirigent
Mercenary Corps,  at your  service, sir,"  he said,  taking his  helmet off  and
holding it under his left arm.  "This is my executive officer. Lieutenant  Tebba
Girana."

"Pleased to meet  you both. I  am Roger Sosa,  governor of Bancroft.  Welcome. I
trust you had a pleasant journey?" The governor spoke softly, in friendly tones.

"We stayed  dry, sir,"  Lon said,  which appeared  to baffle  the governor.  Lon
worked to keep  from smiling at  the look on  Sosa's face. The  remark might not
have made sense to anyone but a soldier.

"My people have provided  barracks for you in  our militia compound," Sosa  said
after an instant's hesitation in which  he decided to ignore Lon's remark.  "The
entire facility is new, so you should have no problems."

"That's good to know, sir," Lon said.

"We'll get you and your people settled  in this afternoon, give you a chance  to
look over what we have, and so forth. Tomorrow morning you can meet with Colonel
Henks, the commander of our new constabulary militia, and his officers, and  get
the training regimen  planned out. This  evening I would  be pleased if  you and
your officers would join  us for dinner at  Government House. Colonel Henks  and
his staff  will be  present. It  will give  you all  a chance to meet informally
before the work begins."

"We would be honored to accept, sir," Lon said, nodding slightly. Some series of
rituals  was  almost  inescapable  on  a contract  such  as  this.  It  was, Lon
reflected, better than rushing immediately  into combat with too little  time to
size up the situation. Maybe they were telling the truth up front, Lon  thought.
It would be a refreshing change of  pace. Maybe they don't have any real  threat
facing them.

"I'll have a staff car pick you up at, say, six-thirty?" Sosa suggested.

"At your  convenience, sir,"  Lon said.  It was  then slightly  past two  in the
afternoon, local time.

"And now.  Captain, there  are a  few of  our leading  citizens I  would like to
introduce you to," Sosa said, gesturing to the other civilians with him.

Lincoln  was  a  fairly  large  town for  a  thinly  settled  colony  world. The
population  figures  in the  DMC  database had  indicated  that the  capital  of
Bancroft held about  sixty thousand people,  with the planet's  total near three
hundred thousand. There were three other towns with populations between  fifteen
and thirty thousand, with the rest of the Bancrofters scattered among scores  of
villages  and mining  outposts. As  with many  other colony  worlds,  Bancroft's
lifeblood was its  natural resource-minerals and  rare metals. Only  compact and
valuable  cargoes-  primarily  raw  elements,  items  too  exotic  to  be easily
synthesized in factory replicators, and intellectual achievement-made economical
exports across interstellar

distances.

For Lon, the most immediate novelty about Bancroft

was that  the settlers  had concentrated  in the  northern temperate zone rather
than in the tropics or subtropics. It was early spring when A Company arrived in
Lincoln. The temperature was in  the upper fifties, Fahrenheit, under  a warming
sun in a clear  sky. Deciduous trees along  the edge of the  spaceport were just
sprouting their new crop of leaves. It reminded Lon, a little, of his  childhood
home in the western  portion of North Carolina-especially  since he could see  a
line of  low mountain  peaks just  off to  the west.  Lincoln itself  was in the
foothills of

a considerable mountain range.

"At least we shouldn't bake or freeze  on this one," Tebba said during the  ride
to the militia compound. He and Hariey were with Lon in a staff car leading  the
convoy.

"Not like some of the places we've been," Lon

agreed. "But it might get warm enough when summer gets here, near the end of the
contract." He  had his  battle helmet  on his  lap and  was watching  one of the
displays  on  the  inner  surface  of  the  faceplate,  scanning  for monitoring
electronics.  Routine  caution.  There  was  no  indication  that  the passenger
compartment of the floater was

bugged.

"We've seen more than our share  of tropical paradises," Tebba said. The  stress
he put on the final word altered its meaning completely. Lon just grinned.

"When we get to  the barracks, scan everything,  just to be certain,"  Lon said,
whispering,  scarcely  moving  his  lips.   Their  driver  was  in  a   separate
compartment, glassed off from the mercenaries, and showed no indication that  he
had any interest in what they might talk about.

"Of course," Tebba said, nodding.

The floater  turned a  comer then,  and the  Dirigenters could  see the  militia
compound ahead of them and off to the right.

"I'll be damned," Tebba said under his breath. "Look at that."

Lon was looking. "Like something from Earth, a thousand years ago," he said.  "A
frontier stockade. I've never seen one this big, though."

"What are you talking about?" Hariey asked.

"When Europeans first settled North  America, they built wooden forts  like that
as protection against the indigenous population they were displacing," Lon said.
"Chop down trees and build walls with them, logs stuck in the ground in a  tight
palisade. It was a place of refuge  for families in the area whenever there  was
trouble with the natives."

The near wall of the fort appeared to extend for at least two hundred yards. The
side wall that Lon and the others  could see seemed to be somewhat shorter,  but
still considerable. The logs that formed  the palisade rose forty feet and  were
around  two feet  in diameter.  It was  a formidable  structure, but  it  looked
totally out of place with modern buildings of plascrete and metal just across  a
paved boulevard.

"You could bum through  that thing in thirty  seconds," Tebba said, shaking  his
head. "Or blow it into toothpicks with a handful of rockets and grenades."

"The design  wasn't foolproof  even when  all it  had to  block were  arrows and
spears," Lon said.

"We're gonna have to  take holos back with  us or no one  will believe something
like this actually exists,"

Tebba said.

"So get a camera and make like a tourist," Lon said, laughing gently. The design
was authentic to Lon's eye, even inside. The buildings were of log  construction
as well, lining the inside of the defensive wall, one- and two-story structures.

"I've seen reconstructions  of early forts  like this on  Earth," Lon said  just
before the car pulled to a stop  in front of one of a dozen  identical buildings
inside. "The biggest would have fit easily in this parade ground." There was  an
open area, two hundred by three hundred feet, in the center of the fort.

"That must be the headquarters  building, over there," Harley said,  pointing at
the largest structure inside the walls, centered against the far wall,  directly
opposite the gate the convoy had entered through. There were two flagpoles  just
in front of the building, and it had a covered veranda in front.

"And this apparently is our home for the next three months." Lon pointed to  the
nearest building, the one they were parked in front of. Their driver got out and
opened the rear right-hand door, where Lon  was seated. He was the first of  the
Dirigenters out of the vehicle.

"It's considerably more modem on the inside, sir," the driver said. The name tag
sewn on the  chest of his  uniform read BLAZE.  "The government just  wanted the
historical look on the outside. We're not that far past the frontier stage, sir.
My dad's parents were both bom in log cabins."

Lon sent his lieutenants off to see to their platoons, then followed the  driver
inside the building.

"Each of these barracks is designed to house a hundred men. Captain," the driver
said. "Open troop  bays on the  ground floor and  half of the  upper floor, plus
half a dozen private rooms that can  be used for senior personnel or for  office
space, as needed. And storage rooms  along the side of the upstairs  against the
stockade wall. The next building over is equipped for recreation purposes. There
are three of those in the compound."

"I'm sure we'll  make out just  fine," Lon said.  "Tell me, are  you part of the
militia we're here to train?"

"Yes, sir. I'm an acting corporal." He grinned rather sheepishly. "Whether  that
rank becomes permanent depends on how I do in training. The colonel told us  all
that when we moved into the barracks last week."

"Have you had any training at all?" Lon asked.

There seemed to be embarrassment in Corporal Blaze's grin. "Not very much,  sir.
Just marching  and stuff  like that.  Some of  the men  have been  in the police
business longer, but most of us are new."

Lon took a quick walk through the one building,. There was indeed no sign in the
interior  of the  primitive exterior.  The troop  bays and  smaller rooms  might
almost have been part of the DMC's main base. After Lon's people started hauling
gear in, Corporal Blaze excused himself, said  he had to return to his unit.  He
gave Lon a link code to call if he needed anything.

"Tebba, we'll put first  and second platoons in  this building, the others  next
door. Tell  Harley to  find himself  a room  above his  men. We've got space for
platoon sergeants and above to have private quarters."

"Glad you decided that  way, Lon. We've already  started moving them in  on that
basis."

Lon nodded.

"Weil has started doing what you wanted," Tebba said, alluding to the electronic
scan. "He said he'd let us know as soon as he's finished."

"We'll use this  room as orderly  room. Give Weil  the room next  to it for  his
quarters, and I'll take the next. Find  one you like, then turn the others  over
to the platoon sergeants. Put Phip down on the end, as far away as possible.  In
case he  starts snoring  again." That  had started  only after  Phip Steesen was
promoted  to  corporal.  The  snoring came  and  went,  without  any discernible
pattern-except that it never happened  during a combat contract, when  there was
danger within reach.

"See to the men, then we'll hold a quick meeting up here. Platoon sergeants  and
up," Lon said.

"There's one thing that puzzles me  about this," Tebba said. "How come  we don't
get to meet the  militia big shots until  this evening? Why weren't  they at the
port to meet us, or here? You'd have thought that would be laid on without  much
thought."

"Don't ask me. There  wasn't room in my  duffel for the old  crystal ball. Maybe
Colonel Henks just thinks  it's below him to  greet a mere captain.  Or maybe he
doesn't  want our  heads to  get too  big for  our helmets."  Lon shrugged.  The
absence of any militia officers had seemed strange to him as well. "Maybe  we'll
find out

at dinner."

"Maybe the colonel didn't get his brass polished in time," Tebba said,  laughing
off his concern ... for the moment.

The recreation buildings also  held the mess halls,  on the second story.  There
were civilian cooks and staff. Lon walked through the mess hall that would serve
his  people. "Looks  like we  eat in  shifts here,  too," Lon  observed to  Lead
Sergeant Jorgen as they looked over the facility. "This might serve eighty at  a
time."

Weil nodded. "I make  it eighty-four seats, sir.  I'll check with the  head cook
and set up the schedule. The men won't be too happy about shifts, or waiting  in
line."

"It's better than it might have been, Weil. Let's go with lines and waiting  for
breakfast  and  try  to set  schedules  for  the other  meals.  The  men get  to
grumbling, tell them that if they're good we'll have passes for some of them  to
get  out,  evenings and  weekends,  and that  will  cut down  on  the crowding."
"Passes?" Weil said.

"At  my  discretion.  Sorry,  I  forgot to  tell  you  about  that.  There'll be
arrangements for the men to draw their pay in local currency. That's one of  the
things we need to set up with Colonel Henks and his staff. It won't be the first
few nights anyway, Weil.  We've got to get  the training program started  before
anyone  gets  a chance  to  lark off-and  it's  strictly a  matter  of 'on  good
behavior.' I don't want any incidents with the locals."

"Right, sir. On the eating situation, I'll check and see if there are tables and
chairs so we can  use part of the  rec hall for meals  as well. That will  speed
things up a little."

By the time they got back to the barracks, A Company was well settled in.  Bunks
had been made and clothing stored.

"All the comforts of home, almost," Phip Steesen said when Lon and Weil  entered
the bay that held second platoon. "Do you know if there's a canteen that  serves
beer and things?''

"Not that  I've seen,  Phip. Maybe  over in  the rec  hall. I wasn't looking for
taps. I don't have your thirst."

When the car arrived for Lon and his lieutenants, it was near sunset. There were
high,  thin clouds  in the  west, diffusing  the fading  sunlight, spreading   a
reddish glow  over the  horizon. Bancroft's  Government House  was nearly a mile
from the militia post, at the far  end of a broad avenue flanked by  businesses.
There were only a few people visible on the street, but most of those turned  to
look at the  passing car. Lon  wondered if it  was because they  knew who was in
it... or simply  because vehicle traffic  was rare in  Lincoln. He suspected  it
might be the latter. He saw no other cars or trucks moving during the ride.

The seat  of government  was only  moderately imposing.  It was  not the largest
building in town, even excluding the  palisaded militia base at the other  side.
Two stories tall and  only eighty feet wide,  it looked more like  a substantial
private residence than the center  of planetary government-and the residence  of
the colony's chief executive. The building was plain in style and painted white.
A circular drive had its apex near  the two sets of double doors that  served as
main entrance.

A man in what appeared to be red  and purple livery came out and opened the  car
door for Lon and  his companions. Lon stretched,  as unobtrusively as he  could,
and looked around while Tebba and Harley got out of the

car behind him.

Although it was not quite sunset, the temperature had dropped noticeably.  There
was an edge of chill to the  air, the breeze from the northwest a  reminder that
though  winter might  be gone,  it was  too soon  to forget  it completely-  Lon
breathed deeply, welcoming the coolness. The car had seemed stuffy.

The doorman opened the door to the mansion and held it while the three  officers
entered.  They were  met by  another man  in the  same uniform.  "Good  evening,
gentlemen. May I take your hats?''

That ritual completed, the  butler led them down  a corridor to the  right. They
were shown into a large parlor,  where the governor, his wife, and  a half-dozen
other people were waiting-some of them individuals who had been at the spaceport
to greet the mercenaries.  No one wore military  or police uniforms. There  were
more introductions and  handshakes all around.  Before those were  finished, the
three munitions experts from Dirigent were brought in, with Isadore Stanley, and
there were more introductions.

"A drink, gentlemen?" Governor Sosa  offered. "We can take refreshment  while we
wait for Colonel Henks

and his staff."

A servant arrived on cue with a tray of drinks. Lon took one and sampled it-some
sort of dry white wine, tart, almost sour. Wine was not Lon's favorite beverage,
but he tried not to show any distaste. He knew he did not have to consume  much.
He nodded to  the governor, as  if to compliment  the wine. The  governor smiled
broadly.

"So, Captain," he said, "what do you think of our militia compound?''

"Impressive, Governor,"  Lon said.  "The exteriors  appear true  to their Terran
antecedents, but on a much grander scale, larger than any of the reconstructions
I saw on Earth. And the interiors lack nothing of modem convenience."

Lon  noted the  point at  which Sosa  lifted an  eyebrow. He  was expecting  the
governor's next question.

"You've been to Earth?"

"I was born there. Governor, eastern North America."

"Most  interesting, Captain.  I don't  believe we've  had any  settlers come  to
Bancroft from Earth in at least fifty years. We've been left pretty much to  our
own resources,  as far  as growing  our population  base. Our  contacts with the
mother world have fallen dramatically since  Union and Buckingham became  better
paying,  and  more  congenial,  markets  for  our  raw  materials.  Earth  wants
everything at prices that amount to thievery."

"I've heard that elsewhere. Governor,"  Lon said, nodding. He had,  on virtually
every world he visited that had any communication at all with Earth. "They  want
everything they can get but can't-or won't-pay full value."

"They tell us it is our duty to subsidize the billions of people on Earth,  that
it is a  debt that time,  distance, and generations  cannot lessen," Sosa  said,
warming  to the  topic. "They  think we  should impoverish  ourselves for  their
benefit." He shook his head. "We will  not live as slaves for anyone here.  It's
not  as  if Earth  has  done anything  for  us since  our  ancestors arrived  on
Bancroft." The  governor shrugged,  then used  a continuation  of the gesture to
reach for a fresh drink from a passing tray.

"I do  understand Earth's  problems," Sosa  said after  sampling the  new drink.
"With eight billion people on the world and so few natural resources left,  they
have to look for anything they can find, anywhere. But they need to trade  value
for value."

Governor Sosa turned his  attention to the two  lieutenants then, and Mrs.  Sosa
led Lon over to some of the local notables.

Forty-five minutes later there was still no sign of Colonel Henks and his senior
officers. A couple of times a servant had come in and whispered something to the
governor.  Sosa  had  looked  moderately annoyed  each  time  and  had whispered
instructions back. But he did not offer explanations to his guests.

"I've got the distinct feeling that there's something going on that doesn't  sit
well with the governor," Tebba said softly during one of the rare occasions when
he and Lon managed  to be alone, away  from any of the  Ban-crofters. "Where the
hell are the militia people?"

"Your guess is as  good as mine, Tebba,"  Lon whispered back. "They  must have a
damn good reason for being late to a formal dinner with the governor."

"Something tells me the reason is going to be a pain in the ass for us."

"Yeah," Lon said. "Supper might be absolutely ruined by the time we get to eat."

Tebba snorted and  moved off to  find a drink.  Lon was still  nursing the first
glass of  wine he  had taken.  The glass  was more  than half  full. A couple of
minutes later, Harley came over to Lon.

"If I had known supper was going to  be so late, I'd have had a snack  before we
left," he  said, glancing  around nervously  to make  certain that  no one could
overhear.

Lon smiled. "I  doubt it will  be much longer.  If the rest  of the guests don't
show up soon, I imagine the governor will decide to go ahead and start the  meal
without them."

He did not find out if that was the case. He had scarcely finished speaking when
four men in dress uniforms, not overly gaudy but... distinctive, were shown

into the parlor.

Governor Sosa broke away from the  conversation he was holding and moved  toward
the newcomers. Lon and his lieutenants did likewise, with less dispatch.

"Captain  Lon  Nolan,  this  is  Colonel  Daniel  Henks,  the  commander  of our
constabulary militia."

The  two  men shook  hands.  "Captain Nolan,  my  executive officer.  Lieutenant
Colonel Digby Rose,  and my battalion  commanders. Major Wes  Crampton and Major
Ace Alon." Each man nodded smartly as he was introduced.

Lon introduced his  two platoon leaders.  Before the conversation  could get any
farther, a servant entered the parlor and announced, "Dinner is served."

Everyone migrated toward the dining room. Colonel Henks moved ahead quickly  and
took  the  governor  aside.  There  was  a  hurried  conversation  between them,
conducted in whispers, punctuated by frowns.

Lon was  seated directly  across the  banquet table  from Colonel  Henks, just a
couple of seats from Governor Sosa's place at the head of the table. As soon  as
everyone was seated, three servants came in bearing trays and set the  appetizer
course in front of the guests. It wasn't until after they had finished that  Lon
had a chance to speak to Henks again.

"I trust there's no serious difficulty. Colonel?"

"A minor problem. Captain," Henks said over a brief frown. "As head of  security
services, there was a crime scene I had to inspect in Long Glen, a village about
forty miles from here. That merely took longer than I expected."

The colonel's tone was easy to read. He did not want to discuss the matter.  Lon
did not press.



10

Colonel Henks did not wish to waste an entire day to sort out the details of the
training program.  He and  Lon talked  for a  few minutes  after the  governor's
dinner ended, long enough to  decide that the physical conditioning  would start
first thing in the morning-calisthenics and a two-mile run.

"My men have  been getting some  conditioning the past  two weeks," Henks  said,
"but they're certainly not  to the peak I  expect of them, and  your people will
want to run their own evaluations, in any case."

"Fair enough. Colonel," Lon replied. "My  men need a good workout as  well after
the trip here from Dirigent. I had  planned already to have them out working  in
the morning."

"Then we  can go  over your  training requirements,  Captain, the facilities you
think we need, schedules, that sort of thing. I'm anxious to bring my people  up
to speed as quickly as possible."

"We'll bring them along just as  fast as they're capable of. Colonel,  I promise
you that. Three months gives us plenty of time to get your thousand men  through
a solid training course and help you  pick out a cadre to train others  when you
need them. Once we get things moving. Lieutenant Girana and I will focus on  the
tactical training for your officers  and noncoms, and Lieutenant Stossberg  will
do the direct day-to-day running of the other training. We've done this  before.
Colonel," Lon added, sensing that Henks needed some reassurance. "And the  Corps
has had time to develop a very efficient curriculum."

Back at the militia barracks that  night, Lon found Weil Jorgen waiting.  He was
sitting on the low porch in front of the barracks, smoking a cigar.

"Thought I'd best find out what  the schedule's going to be for  tomorrow," Weil
said.

"We start at reveille," Lon told him. He gave him his instructions, in line with
the earlier  conversation with  Colonel Henks.  "Find out  what our trainees are
made of. Tebba, Harley, and I will be out as well. The three of us, you, and the
platoon  sergeants  will  space ourselves  around  to  get a  good  look  at the
conditioning of the militiamen. The squad leaders can look after our people."

"We all need to get a little more exercise than we did aboard ship," Weil said.

"Yes,  we  do,"  Lon agreed.  "We'll  work  it in,  one  way  or another.  After
breakfast, figure on  starting training on  close-order drill and  inspection of
the local weapons. We're going to have to get a few of those so we can  evaluate
them before we get to heavy gunnery training."

They talked for a few minutes longer, then Lon went inside, and up to his  room.
He was tired, ready for bed, but he  had work left to do before he could  sleep.
He opened his complink and linked into the Bancroft news net. He wanted to  find
out just what had happened at Long Glen, and what else was happening that  might
affect the contract. What he learned did not ease his sleep.

"I  read about  your trouble  in Long  Glen," Lon  told Colonel  Henks the  next
morning. They were in the colonel's  office and Lon had just finished  sketching
out the general format of the training curriculum. It was time for a break.

"A few people have decided that it's easier to let others do the work of  mining
and then just take the  minerals," Henks said, frowning. "They've  gotten bolder
of late."

"Six people killed, another  twenty wounded, and half  a village shot to  pieces
sounds more serious than that, Colonel," Lon said. "I know you haven't asked for
help on this, and it's  not part of our contract,  but do you mind if  I offer a
few thoughts on the natter?"

Henks hesitated before he said, "I'd greatly appreciate it if you can offer some
help. Captain.  It's largely  because of  these bandits  that our government has
gone to the expense of establishing this constabulary militia to augment the law
enforcement we had before."

"Well, I think you are moving in the right direction with that, Colonel. Attacks
of this sort  are not within  the scope of  most traditional police  forces. The
first thing that came to mind when I read the reports of these bandit raids was.
What do they do with the ores and so forth they steal? Unless they have a way to
funnel it back into the legitimate trade flow, they must have their own ways  of
getting  the  goods  off-world. Either  way,  if  you cut  them  off  from their
pipeline, you take the profit out of it for them, force them out of business."

Henks started pacing, talking while he walked. "We have been investigating  that
end of it for nearly a year,  Captain. It wasn't difficult to see that  they had
to have some way to realize a  profit from the raids. Basically, we can  account
for the origin of every ounce that we ship to market legitimately, right back to
which hole in the ground  it came out of. There  is a chance that we  might miss
small amounts, or that a-few producers might be in league with the raiders,  but
that couldn't possibly account for all of the thefts."

"Other ways to get it off-world?" Lon prompted.

"We run  into certain  practical difficulties  there. Captain.  We're simply not
equipped to police space around Bancroft.  We don't have a single spacecraft  of
our own, only a  small fleet of relatively  old shuttles to ferry  things to and
from interstellar transports in low  orbit. And we don't have  enough satellites
in orbit to give us reliable,  continuous coverage of even the settled  portions
of the world. Someone could park a transport so it would be occulted by our moon
and slip long-range shuttles in past the little surveillance we do have  without
trouble. Hell,  they could  run a  hundred flights  a year  in and never have to
worry much about detection."

"I can offer  one bit of  concrete help on  that, Colonel, at  least while we're
here. Our two transports maintain  continuous surveillance of space around  them
as it is. I'll alert the skippers about the possibility and have them relay  any
sightings to us here.  Maybe just the presence  of two armed transports  will be
enough to stop any landings for the duration of the contract. And if a ship does
come in, we might at least be able to identify where it comes from."

"Thank you. Captain. We would be most grateful," Henks said.

"Glad to help." That was  the truth. Lon was happy  to have a way to  assist the
locals without additional cost to the Corps. The goodwill that could build might
be most valuable in the future-and  not just on Bancroft. "Now, we'll  dig right
in to our  primary job, getting  your people ready  to solve the  problem on the
ground."

Bancroft's constabulary militia was organized in ten companies of a hundred  men
and officers. Not all of the men were raw recruits. Nearly a fifth had served in
the BCM's predecessor,  known as security  rangers. They had  provided the cadre
around which the BCM was built-officers and senior noncoms-and formed one entire
company of the new force. That company had gone to Long Glen with Colonel  Henks
the day of the Dirigenters' arrival  on Bancroft. Lon found out only  later that
they had pursued the  raiders for several hours,  which was why the  colonel had
been late to dinner at Government House.

"We'll accelerate the training of your veteran company, Colonel," Lon told Henks
shortly after he learned about it.  "Work with them on pursuit tactics.  You can
use them as a strike force, a rapid response team, especially if you can earmark
one of your  shuttles for their  use. You could  have them on  the ground at the
site of a raid quickly then."

"That's  how I've  been using  them," Henks  said. "And,  most times,  having  a
shuttle standing  by won't  be a  problem. It's  only when  we have  a transport
overhead for loading that we need all of them at once, and the way the  schedule
breaks down, we're  not likely to  have a ship  in until very  nearly the end of
your stay here."

In less than a week, the training  was running as smoothly as if this  were just
one more class passing through a boot camp that had been in operation for years.
Obstacle  courses,  firing  ranges,  sand-filled  pits  for  hand-to-hand combat
instruction, and the  other essential training  sites were quickly  outfitted by
civilian  and militia  labor under  the direction  of the  Dirigenters. The  BCM
received new equipment, helmets  with built-in night-vision systems  and radios,
and camouflage uniforms suitable for the terrain where they would be used.

After four weeks,  the men of  Bancroft's constabulary militia  were starting to
look and act  like real soldiers.  Some of the'  stress lines on  Colonel Henks'
face started to fade.

"I never  thought I'd  see this  much progress  so fast,  Captain," he  told Lon
during one of their daily conferences on the state of training.

"It's early days yet.  Colonel, but they are  doing well," Lon said.  "I've seen
boot camp classes on  Di-rigent that didn't look  this good so soon.  You can be
proud of your  men. Colonel, and  my hat is  off to whoever  devised the process
that selected them."

Henks smiled, a rarity in Lon's experience. "We had our choice of men.  Captain.
We put out a  call for volunteers and  had more than four  thousand responses. A
lot  of men  who had  worked in  the mines,  or who  were looking  forward to  a
lifetime working in them, were anxious  for any alternative. We want to  build a
professional  force, not  just a  ragtag group  of volunteers  who'll just  come
forward-maybe-when they're needed."

Two days later, Lon had a chance to see how some of the trainees could  function
in a real situation.

The alarm came in just after dawn, while instructors and trainees were at  their
daily calisthenics. The mining camp known as Three Peaks had been raided  during
the night. Casualties were heavy, but the totals were unknown yet. It had  taken
the survivors nearly three hours  to repair their communications antenna  to get
news of the  raid out. Colonel  Henks sent his  rapid response team  running for
weapons and field gear.

"We've  got the  shuttle alerted,"  he told  Lon. "By  the time  we get  to  the
spaceport, the pilots will be aboard and have it ready for takeoff."

"You have room for a couple of observers. Colonel?" Lon asked.

"Glad to have a couple of your lads aboard. Captain."

"I had myself in mind, along with one of my platoon sergeants," Lon said.

Henks nodded. "The trucks will be here  to take us to the port in  six minutes,"
he said after looking at his watch.

"We'll be  ready." Lon  turned and  started looking  for Phip  Steesen. When  he
spotted Phip,  Lon whistled  and gestured  to draw  his attention,  then made  a
pumping motion with his  right arm to indicate  that Phip should double-time  to
him.

"You've got four minutes  to get in battledress  and grab your rifle  and ammo,"
Lon said. "We've  got a little  observation to do.  I'll meet you  at the trucks
when they come in."

"How many of us?" Phip asked.

"Just you and me and Colonel Henks's rapid response company. Let's get moving."

Both men trotted toward their barracks,  almost turning it into a race.  Lon was
the first up the stairs and to his room. The time he had given Phip was scarcely
enough for Lon, even though everything was  laid out, ready to grab. He did  get
back out of  his room and  started down the  stairs before Phip  started running
along the corridor above him.

"What the hell's going  on?" Phip asked when  they got back outside.  The trucks
were just coming through the entrance to the compound, moving slowly. There  was
no need to run now.                -

"Raiders hit a mining camp called Three Peaks. The colonel is taking his  strike
team to  try to  pick up  the trail.  We're going  along to  see how they handle
themselves."

"How much lead time do the bad guys have?" Phip asked.

"Three hours now.  I don't know  how far we  are from the  scene. Figure another
half hour by the time we get on the ground at Three Peaks."

"Something tells me the  best we can hope  for is that they  won't find anything
they can follow and come back  without contact," Phip said. "It could  get dicey
if the raiders stick around to ambush the cops rushing to the scene. How many of
them are we talking about, anyway?"

"No idea  at all,"  Lon said.  "I doubt  even Colonel  Henks could  make a  good
estimate yet. But my own guess  would be fewer than twenty. Anything  above that
could be hard to support in the wild."

"Not if  they've got  contacts to  get their  loot off-world,"  Phip said. "They
could have an army out there."

"Then the  sooner we  find out,  the better.  I'll alert  Tyre to have a shuttle
ready to come down and bail us out if necessary. That make you feel better?"

"Poco," Phip said. The musical direction for "a little" had entered the slang of
the Corps  only in  the past  couple of  years. Lon  wasn't certain how that had
happened, or why.

The company that  formed Colonel Henks's  strike force was  double-timing toward
their buses,  rifles at  port arms.  Henks and  Major Crampton  were already  in
place, apparently ready to go along with their militiamen.

Lon saluted when  he reached the  militia commander. "Colonel,  Major. I believe
you both know Platoon Sergeant Phip Steesen." Both officers nodded.

"We're starting to get a few more details about the raid," Henks said,  speaking
softly to the Dirigenters while his troops started to file aboard the four buses
that  had pulled  up. The  report is  that we  have fifteen  confirmed dead  and
another dozen wounded. That's virtually everyone who was at the camp, as far  as
I can make out."

"You have medical response on the way as well, Colonel?" Lon asked.

"They'll take  off thirty  seconds after  we do,  a full  trauma team, and every
portable trauma  tube in  Lincoln," Henks  said. He  gestured toward the nearest
bus. "It's time to get aboard."

The convoy of  buses raced across  Lincoln to the  spaceport, driving right  out
onto  the field  and next  to the  first of  two shuttles  waiting with  engines
already warming up. The militia company  moved through the two entrances to  its
shuttle at a  jog. Lon, Phip,  and the two  militia leaders followed  at a brisk
walk. As soon as they were aboard, the hatches were sealed.

"Our seats are there, at the front," Henks said, pointing.

The accommodations were not the equal of those in a DMC shuttle, but this  craft
was designed more for hauling inert cargo than people. The militiamen sat in web
seats that folded down from the bulkheads. They were certainly not sturdy enough
to  keep  passengers safe  during  the high-speed  maneuvers  that DMC  shuttles
routinely used during  combat contracts, and  just rendezvousing with  a ship in
low orbit would  be uncomfortable-if not  dangerous-for passengers. The  shuttle
was built low and wide, using the expansive underside of the fuselage for lift.

"How far  is Three  Peaks, Colonel?"  Lon asked  as the  shuttle started  racing
toward takeoff speed. He had the faceplate of his helmet up so he could talk  to
the militia commander. The new helmets the Bancrofters used were nowhere near as
sophisticated as DMC gear-  that would take longer  to achieve-and they did  not
share any radio channels yet.

"One hundred thirty miles,  to the southwest," Henks  said. He had to  raise his
voice to be heard over the  thunderous noise of the shuttle's twin  jets. "We'll
need  twenty minutes  to get  there. One  of the  more isolated  of our   mining
operations. Just offhand, I think there are only two farther away from the  main
towns,  and one  of those  is on  a large  island in  the tropics,  more than  a
thousand miles away."

Lon took  out his  mapboard, a  specialized complink  that all  DMC officers and
sergeants carried, and unfolded it. He  keyed in a few commands. "Can  you point
Three Peaks out  to me. Colonel?''  he asked, moving  the mapboard so  the other
could see it.

Henks took the unit and looked at it for a moment. It was the first time he  had
seen one in use. He had to locate Lincoln first, then moved his finger along the
screen. "There," he said finally, tapping the screen.

Lon took it  back and adjusted  the scale, centering  the display on  the mining
camp. At maximum magnification the buildings of Three Peaks, and three  separate
mine openings, were visible.

"How do you manage that. Captain?" Henks asked.

"Direct observation from our  ships. Colonel. Anything in  line of sight can  be
updated continuously, day or night."

"Can you find the raiders with that?"

"Not likely. Colonel, unless they're  awfully damned careless. If they're  under
cover of trees we wouldn't have a chance, and that area seems to be pretty  well
forested. Other than that, we could only track them if they were actively  using
electronics."

"We've tried spotting them with  electronic emission detectors from the  air and
on the ground, without luck," Henks  said. "Either they don't use them  or we've
just never been  close enough to  catch them using  them. I'm not  sure what the
range on our gear is, but it couldn't match this, I'm sure."

"To get full use from this, you'd need a few satellites to give you coverage and
feed it to a ground station. The equipment is available from Dirigent,  Colonel.
It's something you might want to consider for the future." Years before, Lon had
gotten over any embarrassment at touting Diri gent's exports. It was part of the
job.

"How do you plan to deploy.  Colonel?" Lon asked when they were  halfway through
the flight.

"The landing strip is right next to the camp. Only level space around that  will
hold shuttles, and we had to blast quite a bit of rock out of the way for  that.
The men will exit the shuttle and move out to secure the perimeter of the  strip
and the camp. Then we'll see to the  survivors ... and find out what we can  do,
if anything."

The shuttle's approach was steep, the  glide fast. Lon was glad that  there were
no monitors to show him the exterior view. He was nervous enough, thinking  that
certainly the pilot would botch this landing,  come in too heavy to stop in  the
small landing  zone without  badly shaking  his passengers.  Lon held his breath
through the last thirty seconds.

There  was a  jolt as  the shuttle's  wheels touched  the ground  and the  pilot
reversed thrust on the  jets to brake the  vehicle quickly, but the  landing was
not nearly as hairy as Lon had  feared it would be. The other shuttle  will have
even less room to come in, he thought.

By that time the two doors were  open and the militiamen were filing out  of the
shuttle. They did not move as smartly  as Lon's men would have, and there  was a
moment's hesitation  outside as  they formed  up into  squads and  platoons. But
getting organized did not  take as long as  it might have with  amateurs, and in
just over a minute they were trotting off toward their initial assignments.

"That's something you might want to spend some training time on later. Colonel,"
Lon  said.  "Getting the  men  out and  into  operation faster.  It  may not  be
something you'll do often,  but the day might  come when cutting thirty  seconds
off at the start could be important."

Henks nodded, but  it was clear  that he was  not paying much  attention. He had
more immediate concerns.  His first glance  outside was to  see that the  second
shuttle, the one carrying the medical  team, was on the ground. Its  hatches had
not been opened yet,  but Lon decided that  was prudent-waiting to make  certain
that the area was secured before exposing noncombatants.

Lon scanned the entire area quickly, lowering the faceplate on his helmet so  he
could  make  use of  its  magnification and  camera.  The exteriors  of  all the
buildings showed bullet holes,  but what Lon was  interested in was seeing  that
there was no evidence of ordnance  larger than rifles or pistols. There  were no
blasts that could have been caused by rockets or explosives, and he did not  see
the characteristic scorch marks an energy weapon, a beamer, would have left.

One man  showed himself  in the  doorway of  one of  the buildings-cautiously at
first, just looking  past the side  of the open  door. Then he  came out. He was
dressed in dirty work clothes, and there was blood on his left arm. The man came
a few feet away from the building  and stood there, waiting for someone to  come
to him.

"Did you bring doctors?" he asked, his voice weak, as Colonel Henks and the  two
Dirigenters  moved  toward  him.  "Two  more  men  have  died."  Almost  as   an
afterthought, he added,  "My brother Jim  was one of  them." Then he  collapsed,
crumbling to the dirt before anyone could reach him.

Lon got to the man first and felt the side of his neck. He was relieved to  feel
a pulse, weak and thready but still there. The second shuttle had opened up  and
several people were running toward the buildings. One of them came to the aid of
the injured man.

"We'll have a  look around on  our own. Colonel,  if you don't  mind," Lon said,
gesturing to include Phip. "Keep out of the way while your medics work."

Henks nodded absently. He stayed near the fallen man just long enough to see the
medics start  to treat  him, then  headed toward  the doorway  the man  had come
through. Major Crampton had already moved off with one of the platoons, toward a
trail that led downhill, into the forest.

Lon gestured for Phip and they went  off in the direction in which Crampton  had
gone.

"They got hit  hard here,  Lon," Phip  whispered. "Automatic  rifle fire,  large
caliber stuff,  like the  rifles the  militia uses."  The Bancroft  weapons used
8.5mm ammunition, a full millimeter larger than Dirigenter rifles.

"We'll try to recover a slug," Lon  said. "The lab boys back home might  be able
to tell where it was made." He shook his head. "Elephant guns." He did not  have
to explain the reference. Phip had heard it before.

"We going into the woods after them?" Phip asked.

Lon shook his head again. "If you mean you and me, no. Let's walk the  perimeter
up  here. Crampton  headed off  this way,  as if  he thought  it were  the  only
possible route raiders could have taken. I want to see for myself."

The camp  was situated  on a  broad shelf  along the  side of a moderately steep
hill.  Lon's mapboard  told him  they, were  only fourteen  hundred feet   above
Bancroft's sea level, so it could not be called a mountain. The three peaks that
gave the camp its name were obvious, three broken heights along the ridge at the
southwestern side of the camp. The cleared level area was some two thousand feet
long but nowhere more than a hundred wide.

"Doesn't look  like it's  too steep  for armed  men to  climb anywhere along the
edge," Phip said  as they walked  toward the side  of the camp  area. "Plenty of
trees to help out, and all. We  could sneak the whole battalion straight up  the
side and get out the same way."

"Maybe, but if there weren't guards  posted, the raiders wouldn't need to  sneak
up the hard way. They could walk straight up that road."

"Must have had  to haul equipment  up that way  originally to clear  this," Phip
said. "If everything comes  in and goes out  by air now, they  wouldn't have any
use for a ground route."

"There's nothing below, no town or village," Lon said. "Henks told me the mining
crews spend a month up here, then rotate home for a month. It's just workers, no
families."

"I guess that's good, under the circumstances," Phip said, turning to look  back
toward the buildings. "No women and kids getting massacred."

"Just widows and  orphans," Lon said  under his breath.  He wasn't certain  that
Phip had heard.

They continued to walk the perimeter. Squads of militiamen had been there before
them, setting  up observation  posts and  looking for  evidence that the raiders
might have come or gone by a route other than the cleared roadway along the side
of the hill.  Men with powered  binoculars scanned the  valley and the  opposite
slope slowly, looking for any trace of the raiders.

On the other side of  the clearing, Lon and Phip  climbed up to a point  between
two of the peaks. There was a  well-used path, and a militia squad had  preceded
them. Five men and their sergeant  were standing together. Several of them  were
pointing at something on the reverse slope.

"Here, Captain  Nolan," the  sergeant-his name  tag read  GERMAN-said. "It looks
like they came  up over the  top on this  side. See." He  pointed down the other
side.

Lon moved closer to the edge and looked. The path leading down that slope seemed
almost as easy as the one he had  just come up, and it went farther. It  finally
disappeared into the forest  a hundred feet below.  Up close, though, Lon  could
see evidence that a lot of feet had walked it.

"Unless  there's something  down there  that the  miners visit  regularly,"  Lon
suggested. "You'd better tell your CO,  though. It's something that needs to  be
checked out. Good job spotting it. Sergeant."

"I  already radioed  the news  to my  captain. Captain,"  Sergeant German  said.
"We've still got another fifty yards of the ridge to check, but I don't like  to
leave this until someone else gets here."

"Tell you what. Sergeant. The two of us will walk the rest of your area. Give us
one man to radio anything we find. You  and the rest of your lads can stay  here
until reinforcements arrive."

"Right, sir.  Thank you."  Sergeant German  turned and  shouted, "Murphy, you go
with the captain."

Murphy came over quickly, looking between  his sergeant and Lon. "Yes, sir,"  he
said.

"We need  you along  in case  there's anything  to radio  back," Lon  explained.
"We're going to walk the rest of the section your squad is responsible for."

While they walked, looking  down the southwestern slope  for any other trace  of
men passing, Lon radioed Tyre and spoke directly with the skipper.

"You have our  two blips onscreen.  Captain?" Lon asked.  He had talked  to Tyre
before, to make sure that a shuttle would be ready, and to let the skipper  know
what was in the works.

"Clear as a bell. Captain."

"We're looking for  any sign of  armed men on  either side of  this hill, and we
found indications of men either coming up or going down the southwestern  slope.
There's a road of sorts to the northeast, and there may be other passable routes
as well. Do  as close a  scan of the  area around this  hill as you  can, out to
about twenty miles."

"Will do. I'm linked to Sidon right  now. We've got enough angle to do  a decent
three-dimensional observation, but that still won't show us much under the trees
unless they're using electronics."

"I know. We've just got to see what we  can rule in or out. Let me know as  soon
as you can."

"We've got the scan running now, Captain. Nothing's jumping off the screen. That
means no radios transmitting, no  energy sources above the background  noise, no
active electronics. And the computers  aren't picking out any motion  that could
be human. We'll keep watching, though."

"Thanks, Captain," Lon said. "I know it's  a long shot, but I want to  cover all
bases."

After he  had signed  off his  link with  Tyre, Lon  switched to  a channel that
connected him just to Phip. "I don't really expect anything to come of the scan,
but wilder coincidences have happened before."

"Sounds like you want us to tangle with these raiders," Phip said.

"No,  but  I would  like  to see  just  what the  locals  are up  against.  That
intelligence might come in handy."



11

"I hate to say this.  Colonel, but as long as  all you can do is  react to these
attacks, you might never be able to get on top of the problem," Lon said. He and
Colonel Henks were alone in the colonel's office. It was ten days after the raid
on Three Peaks, and  another raid had taken  place-two hundred miles from  Three
Peaks-just the day before.

"Right  now, my  options are  unfortunately limited,"  Henks said.  He  appeared
listless,  tired, sitting  slumped in  his chair,  without any  of the  military
"starch" he normally displayed.

"From what I've  been able to  see. Colonel, you  need to do  one of two things.
Either you have to infiltrate the  raiders to leam about their numbers,  sources
of supply,  and details  of raids  in advance,  or station  men at each possible
target. Even then, your goal, at first, has to be obtaining prisoners so you can
leam more about the gang or gangs you're up against."

"I know that very well. Captain Nolan," Henks said with a slight edge. "I've had
agents investigating undercover, trying to find a route to the raiders that way,
but with an  absolute lack of  luck. We don't  know anything about  them, and we
haven't even been able  to uncover reliable rumors.  We don't know where  or how
they recruit people. We haven't  been able to determine satisfactorily  that the
raiders are even recruited on Bancroft.  Our databanks might not be one  hundred
percent accurate, but  we haven't been  able to discover  enough people dropping
out of the system  to account for the  minimum number of raiders  we believe are
operating. That leads  to the strong  possibility that they  come from somewhere
else, and receive their supplies the same way."

"Which makes infiltration effectively  impossible," Lon said. Slowly,  Henks had
provided Lon  with more  information about  the raids  that had  taken place  on
Bancroft for more than a year.

Henks nodded. "As for the other, well, I do plan to station platoons at each  of
the most likely  targets, but not  before they're fully  trained. Until then,  I
might just be providing  additional casualties. I don't  want to waste men.  The
last several months,  most of the  miners have been  armed. After the  first few
raids, the  men started  taking their  rifles and  shotguns along  to the mines,
establishing sentry posts and everything else, and it hasn't done a bit of good.
The raiders strike fast and hard. So far, the miners haven't managed to  capture
or kill a single  raider." He paused, his  face molding itself into  a pout. "In
fact, letting  the miners  arm themselves  has been  counterproductive. From the
first  time the  raiders encountered  armed opposition,  they've been  far  more
ruthless, as concerned with killing as stealing." He shrugged. "But until I  can
provide a better  alternative, I can't  disarm the miners.  They'd quit working.
This way, at least they believe they have a chance."

Lon walked over to the single window  in the office and stood looking out  for a
minute. Then he turned back toward Henks.

"The problem may  be bigger than  you realize yet,  Colonel," he said,  speaking
softly. "I've had the combat intelligence center aboard Tyre analyzing the  data
we've been  given or  picked up  from the  local news  net. The  raids come  too
frequently, and at locations too widely separated for all of them to be the work
of one gang. We haven't been able to spot any shuttles or trucks operating  away
from  the towns  and settlements,  which limits  the distance  your raiders  can
travel per day and what they can carry, especially since some of the raids  have
netted more than  a ton of  metals or minerals.  You haven't detected  any local
recruitment of men, any  local source of food  and other supplies for  them. The
raiders may well have  off-world conduits for those  as well as to  ship out the
stuff they've stolen."

"You think we're being systematically raided by some other world," Henks said.

"It's almost a statistical certainty. Colonel. I had several of the bullets from
the Three  Peaks raid  analyzed. They  were all eight-point-five-five-millimeter
rounds, and from that and the trace  elements in the alloy, we believe that  the
planet of origin for the ammunition was Mars."

"Mars? The Mars next out from Earth?"

"Yes. The colony on Mars is even larger than your population here. Colonel,  and
munitions is a  major item of  export for the  Martians. Ninety percent  of that
trade is closely regulated by the old Confederation of Human Worlds on Earth-not
the breakaway confederation on Union-but roughly ten percent of the weapons  and
ammunition manages to fall through the cracks, unaccounted for officially.  Even
accounting for operations we know that the Confederation winks at, perhaps seven
or eight percent of the munitions is going places we don't know about."

"So we're being raided  either by Mars or  by someone who is  buying weapons and
ammunition from there?"

"It's a  damn good  guess. Colonel,  but you're  going to  need confirmation  by
capturing one or  more of the  raiders to question  under drugs. Unless  you get
lucky and shoot down one of the  transports that comes in to bring supplies  and
haul off booty."

"There are nearly a hundred different targets here the laiders can hit. Captain.
Some large, some  small. We haven't  found a pattern  to the raids.  The targets
aren't always the most lucrative at  any given moment. Two places have  been hit
twice. Others have  been spared while  villages and camps  all around them  have
been hit. Even when we get these entire thousand men trained, I won't be able to
garrison every possible target. And if the raiders scout their objectives before
hitting, they can just avoid the ones with garrisons."

"Bancroft  is vulnerable.  Colonel," Lon  said. "That  is going  to remain  true
regardless  of how  this current  problem is  resolved. Until  you have   enough
observation satellites in orbit to tell  you whenever a ship enters the  system,
and you have the means to  intercept any unauthorized ships, you're going  to be
easy pickings. That's the blunt truth. Your population base is relatively small,
and you have opened a considerable number of areas for mineral exploitation. You
don't belong to  either branch of  the Confederation of  Human Worlds or  to the
Second Commonwealth, which means you can't count on outside protection."

"Which is why  we hired your  people, and the  munitions equipment that  arrived
with you. Captain  Nolan," Henks observed.  He straightened out,  his depression
partially  offset by  growing annoyance  at having  his world's  vulnerabilities
spelled out at such great length.

"Which is why you hired us," Lon agreed with an easy nod.

"I do know the problems. Captain," Henks  said, his voice not quite as tense  as
it had been.

"I  just want  to be  clear. Colonel.  I didn't  mean to  imply criticism.  Your
problems aren't unique, and there are  several ways you could tackle them.  None
can be guaranteed to be easy, or inexpensive. I can lay out the alternatives for
you, but only your government can decide which-if any-of them to select."

Henks grunted. "There is no political desire here to join either Commonwealth or
Confederation.  The empire-makers  on Union  are too  heavy-handed. They're  not
looking for allies but subjects, slaves, just like the people on Earth. Alliance
with the Second Commonwealth  would be less onerous,  but they do exact  a small
tax  on trade  goods, and  our people  are loath  to surrender  any measure   of
sovereignty. And we are simply not wealthy enough to buy or build even a  single
warship to patrol our  system. That is unlikely  to change any time  in the next
century. Observation satellites and perhaps  half a dozen aircraft to  intercept
unauthorized landings are possible-perhaps in a decade, with considerable  luck.
Spending  the money  to hire  enough ground  troops, a  warship, and  a  fighter
squadron long enough to bring an end  to this predation is out of the  question.
The  possibility  was  discussed,  and almost  led  to  the  dissolution of  the
government and a call for new elections. We were left with the only choice  that
remained politically and economically feasible, hiring mercenaries to train  our
own people. Which, I hasten to add, you have been doing most admirably. Captain.
They're coming along much more rapidly than I dared to hope."

"I agree," Lon said. "In fact,  with the accelerated training we've been  giving
your rapid response company, they'll  be ready to begin operating  independently
within two weeks. And most of the other companies are ahead of schedule. If  you
have more recruits and the gear to outfit them, we can double up on some of  the
present units  and start  training perhaps  another two  hundred men.  That fits
within the scope of our contract, Colonel."

"It would help," Henks said.

"I know you plan to increase the size of the BCM, run your own training  courses
after we leave, but we can give you a little push. It depends on how quickly you
can assimilate recruits."

"I would appreciate the boost. Captain. I'll see what the situation is."

"If we start making  preparations now, we could  be ready to start  training the
new men in two weeks, when we graduate your rapid response unit."

"Let's plan on  it then. Captain,"  Henks said. "I'm  almost certain we  can get
authorization to recruit another  two hundred men and  have them ready to  start
training in two weeks. That'll be the midpoint of your contract, correct?"

"Correct, Colonel."

"You know, there's  one thing that  might do my  people more good  than anything
else. Captain.  To see  one band  of these  raiders caught  and hurt, by our own
militia or by your men, to see that it is really possible."

"I understand that, but my discretionary  powers are limited by our contract.  I
can't put  any of  my people  into a  combat situation  without a  rider to  the
contract and additional compensation. I do have the authority to negotiate that,
if your government  desires it... and  we can find  any of the  raiders to hit."
.,

"Just expressing a wish. Captain," Henks said. He did not quite sigh.

The  people of  Lincoln welcomed  the Dirigenters  warmly, and  never gave   the
impression that they were only interested in getting back some of the money they
were paying to have  the mercenaries on their  world. Even Camo Town  never felt
that comfortable. Lon was not extravagant  with the number of passes he  allowed
his men. On  average, it worked  out to one  night a week,  and one weekend  day
every two weeks,  that each man  was allowed to  go into town.  The one rule Lon
enforced was that his men should always travel at least in pairs, with each  man
responsible for the behavior of the others with him.

"We don't want anybody drunk and disorderly," Lon told them. "And even the  best
of intentions aren't always enough."

Lon even  held himself  to that  rule, on  the rare  occasions when  he left the
militia base for  an hour or  two in town.  One of the  lieutenants or sergeants
would go with him as escort.

"You know, even though this is the largest town on Bancroft, it feels more  like
Bascombe East than Dirigent City," Lon told Phip one evening near the middle  of
their  three-month  contract.  Lincoln  had  gone  from  early  to  late spring.
Temperatures were routinely warmer, hinting at summer's heat. Trees had  reached
their full plumage. There were always flowers in bloom.

It was Friday. The  new class of recruits  would begin training on  Monday. Lon,
Phip, and Dean were walking from the militia base to the nearest pub in Lincoln.
Lon could not recall the last time the three of them had gone on pass  together,
on Dirigent or anywhere else. It gave him a comfortable feeling of well-being.

"They're just not used to fleecing soldiers efficiently," Phip said,  chuckling.
"They give honest measure in their  drinks, and more than honest measure  with a
meal."

"Oh, you've  bothered to  waste time  eating on  pass?" Lon  asked, elbowing his
friend.

Phip sighed expansively. "Ah, the good old days aren't what they used to be. Not
since you made me  responsible for other men.  I told you that  you were ruining
me."

"You were ruined before he first  landed on Dirigent," Dean said. "You  were bom
ruined."

They were  in uniform,  so there  were limits  to the  banter. None of the three
could completely  forget their  professional relationship,  the way  they  could
occasionally- in  civilian clothes  on Dirigent.  And they  were not totally off
duty. Although they wore garrison uniforms and did not have battle helmets  with
them, each man had a pocket radio. They could be reached instantly at need.

A couple of  times, local citizens  called out greetings  and waved in  passing.
When they entered the first pub, the  bartender came out from behind his bar  to
lead them to the best available table in the public room, and offered the  first
round on the house.

"A man could get  to enjoy this," Phip  said after the bartender  went for their
drinks. "Kinda makes me wish we could do more to help them than teach their lads
how to fight."

"Don't go spoiling for a fight,  Phip," Lon said. "Getting rid of  their raiders
could be a long and nasty job, and that's not what they're paying us for.  Let's
not talk about  work this evening.  We'll have a  couple of drinks,  a meal, and
maybe stroll about a bit before we go back to the barracks and turn in."

"You were a lot more fun before you got married."

"He's right," Dean said.  He looked around. "You  know, this world has  a lot to
offer. A lot  of good people,  and opportunity to  have a good  life. Be a  nice
place to settle down and raise a family."

"Don't tell me you're getting the itch now," Phip said.

Dean shook  his head,  then shrugged.  "I don't  know. Just  an idle  thought, I
guess.  But  it  seems  they  might welcome  a  few  immigrants,  men  who could
contribute to their constabulary militia." He took a long drink, then shook  his
head again.  "I don't  figure anything  will come  of it,  but it's something to
think about in the quiet hours."

Lon did not drink enough to get  drunk, but when he started his second  beer, he
slipped a killjoy patch on his arm anyway. A killjoy would take a man from  dead
drunk  to  stone  cold  sober  in  minutes,  neutralizing  the  alcohol  in  the
bloodstream. The  meal was  good, the  evening comfortable.  Lon and his friends
were on their  way back toward  the militia camp  when Lon received  a call from
Colonel Henks.

"Captain, the governor  would like to  see you as  soon as possible,  preferably
this evening."

"Very well. I'm in town now, about five minutes from the camp."

"Give me the location and I'll pick you up. Governor Sosa said it was urgent."

No one  questioned the  presence of  Phip and  Dean. The  three Dirigenters were
picked up within  minutes and sped  toward Government House  with Colonel Henks.
They were met at the  door and led into the  north wing of the building,  to the
left, and shown into the governor's office.

Roger Sosa  was sitting  behind a  large desk  of highly  polished wood, leaning
back,  staring toward  the upper  panes of  one of  several large  windows  that
covered most  of one  wall of  the office.  He was  dressed casually.  For a few
seconds he did not seem to notice that anyone had come into his office.

"Come over and  sit down," Sosa  invited. He got  up from his  desk and met  the
military  men at  the more  informal conversation  area near  the windows.   Two
leather sofas and several easy chairs surrounded a coffee table. Lon  introduced
his companions. The governor shook hands with everyone, then they sat.

Lon found himself directly across the table from the governor. Colonel Henks sat
to the governor's left. Phip and Dean were at Lon's right.

"I  apologize for  interrupting your  evening off,  gentlemen," Sosa  said  once
everyone  was  settled.  "Captain Nolan,  Colonel  Henks  described your  recent
assessment of our situation with me. Unfortunately, it agrees far too well  with
my own estimate. The colonel and I spent some time discussing the possibilities,
and I then consulted with the  legislative council. The losses we have  suffered
do limit our options, since the government's  revenues are derived from the  off
world  sale  of  our  metals  and minerals,  but  as  of  this  evening, I  have
legislative approval for amending our contract with your company, if you  agree.
Captain."

"We're certainly  open to  negotiating additional  assistance, Governor. Exactly
what do you have in mind?" Lon asked.

"A  punitive strike  against the  raiders, providing  a suitable  target can  be
located.  Since  there   might  be  several   groups  operating  more   or  less
independently,  I hesitate  to ask  for the  complete elimination  of the,   ah,
problem. As you told Colonel Henks, that could be a far more ambitious  project,
beyond the capacity of the force you have here, and bringing in more mercenaries
and the  air and  space strike  capacity to  back them  up is,  regrettably, far
beyond what the  council is prepared  to fund." Sosa  paused, glanced at  Henks,
then continued.

"These raids are killing our citizens. Captain. Since they started, we have  had
nearly  a hundred  killed and  perhaps twice  that many  wounded. The   personal
suffering weighs more heavily than the  financial losses we have endured in  the
same time,  and those  have been  . ..  considerable. The  estimate is  that the
raiders have taken nearly three million pounds, to use the Commonwealth monetary
standard, or about seven million Confederation dollars."

Lon did a  rough conversion to  Dirigentan currency in  his head. The  figure he
arrived at would be enough to hire a full regiment with supporting warships  and
Shrike fighters for two months. "A considerable amount," he said, nodding.

"The  political reality  is that  my government  has to  show that  it can  move
effectively  to  protect our  people  and stop  the  raiding. Bluntly  speaking.
Captain, we need a victory, any kind of victory, against these raiders. A  large
segment of the public is beginning to lose confidence in us."

I'II bet,  Lon thought,  but he  did not  let that  reaction show  on his  face.
Political reality drove many contracts.

"I do have the  authority to negotiate a  rider to our contract,  within certain
limits. Governor. I have to answer to the Council of Regiments back home, and be
able to justify the terms and mission I agree to commit my men to. We would have
to agree on a clearly definable mission, one that is possible and does not  pose
an inordinate threat to my men. The Corps does not like to waste men. That's not
just a statement of pious theory. If our men can't feel confident that they have
a damn good chance  of coming back from  any assignment, they're less  likely to
join the Corps, less likely to stay in."

Three hours later, Lon  and the governor of  Bancroft signed the rider  to their
contract.

"I'll give you a ride back to the barracks," Colonel Henks offered when the last
formality was finished and the men had shared a drink.

"Thanks, Colonel," Lon said, "but I  believe we'll walk. The cool air  will help
me clear my head and I can start thinking about how we're going to implement the
new mission." Lon heard Phip's subdued groan but ignored it.

"You're in the wrong racket, Lon," Phip said once they were outside starting the
long walk across Lincoln to the barracks.

"What do you mean?" Lon asked.

"You should be in business. The way  you took the governor to the cleaners,  you
could be a millionaire in a year."

Lon chuckled.

"Look, I've never seen that side of you before," Phip said. "The way you were in
there, whew."

"It's not the first time  I was contract officer, and  I've sat in on some  that
make this look as simple as ordering a round of drinks at the Dragon Lady.  This
was nothing, really. You should hear the dickering when they're talking about  a
full regiment, two or three warships, and a squadron or two of fighters."

"Yeah, well, I don't remember hearing of any contracts where we were promised  a
piece of the action. Ten percent of any of the stolen goods we recover?"

Lon let out a full-bodied laugh this time. "I did wing that. The governor was so
concerned about the financial losses they're  suffering, I let him think he  was
getting a break on the base price  and snuck that in to cover it.  Besides, it's
ten  percent of  what we  recover over  and above  the price  of the  additional
services rendered."

"You think we've really got a  shot at finding these raiders and  hitting them?"
Dean asked after the group had walked another block. "The ships haven't had  any
luck spotting them so far, have they?"  There were few secrets within a unit  on
contract.

"Nothing certain," Lon admitted.

"Don't shine us, Lon.  What's that supposed to  mean?" Phip asked-just a  breath
before Dean could.

"Just what I said, nothing certain. But  there have been a couple of blips  that
need  closer  checking. Now  that  we have  the  rider to  our  contract, I  can
authorize using Sidon's shuttles for survey  work in closer. We just might  find
something that way."

"You've been  stonewalling the  colonel the  whole time  we've been  here?" Phip
asked.

"Not at  all. Before,  it wasn't  within my  discretion to  use the shuttles for
offensive survey work unless I could justify it because of a clear threat to our
people. I couldn't.  Those things cost  money to operate.  We did everything  we
could for the Bancrofters before, and a couple of times I came close to crossing
the line. This extra contract makes up for that."

"Especially if we recover a couple  of tons of refined gold and  platinum," Phip
observed.

As soon as  he got to  his room in  the. barracks, Lon  opened his complink  and
composed a message  to send back  to Diligent with  a copy of  the rider to  the
contract and his latest report on the training mission. He spent thirty  minutes
writing about the new contract, taking considerable pains with the wording.  His
efforts would be reviewed  by the Corps contract  office and might well  come up
for debate in the Council of Regiments.

When he was satisfied, he linked through  to the watch officer on the bridge  of
Tyre. "I'll need to speak with  Commander Tanner and the skipper of  Sidon first
thing in the morning," Lon said after relaying the gist of the new contract.

"I can wake the captain now if  it's necessary," the duty officer on Tyre  said,
though it was clear from his tone that he hoped it would not be.

"No, morning's soon enough for the conference. But I do need to get an MR on its
way to  Dirigent as  quickly as  possible," Lon  said. A  message rocket was the
fastest way  to send  information between  systems. An  MR had  its own  Nilssen
generator to  jump through  Q-space. That  meant two  weeks each  way, but radio
traffic required years to cross interstellar space-one year for each  light-year
of separation.

"I need the skipper's approval to send an MR."

"Well, then, I guess you'd better wake him. This does need to go out right away,
the files I've just transmitted, and the mail that's accumulated since the  last
one,"  Lon  said. "I'll  be  up for  a  bit yet,  if  Commander Tanner  has  any
questions."

"Very well. Captain. I'll send the yeoman to his cabin now."

Lon called  the duty  officer aboard  Sidon next,  leaving an  open link in case
there was any comeback from Tyre. This time he simply told the duty officer that
he would need to confer with  Commander Freng in the morning, and  mentioned the
amended contract.

"The skipper just left the  bridge, Captain Nolan," Sidon's watch  officer said.
"I'm sure he's still awake, if you'd like to talk with him now."

"Very well." It  was a matter  of courtesy more  than urgency, but  courtesy did
count. Although  the skippers  of the  two ships  technically outranked Lon, the
fleet was only an ancillary arm of  the Corps, and Lon was the contract  officer
for the operation.  He had the  authority to require  support services from  the
ships.

Before Commander Freng came on the  link. Commander Tanner was on the  open link
from Tyre.

"I just want to confirm what I was just told. Captain," Tanner said. "About  the
MR and about the new contract requirements."

"Sorry  to disturb  your sleep.  Captain," Lon  said. "Commander  Freng will  be
joining us momentarily, since his watch  officer said he was still awake.  I had
thought to confer with both of you in the morning. It was just the MR I  thought
should go out immediately."

"I sleep lightly away  from Dirigent," Tanner said.  "We might as well  get this
hashed out now."

As  soon  as Commander  Preng  joined the  conference,  Lon spent  five  minutes
outlining  the new  mission he  had negotiated  with the  Bancrofters. He   also
transmitted copies  of the  agreement to  each skipper.  Freng was  the first to
notice the clause about recovery of stolen material.

"A percentage?" he asked,  breaking in on what  Lon was saying. "You  managed to
get a percentage  of what you  find?" He laughed.  "I swear I've  never heard of
that before."

Tanner was equally amused. It took the edge off being disturbed in the middle of
the night.

"I'll get the first  shuttle out running your  survey right away," Freng  said a
minute later. "I'll have  CIC calculate the search  pattern based on what  we've
seen and the locations of the various raids."

"I appreciate it,"  Lon said. "We  can wait for  mom-ing before we  bring Tyre's
shuttles down to carry  the men when we  find a target. Unless  we get something
hot in the  next couple of  hours, I won't  bother anyone before  reveille. I'll
just make sure our Charge of Quarters knows to alert me if you find anything."

The noise of two DMC shuttles coming  in for a landing next to the  militia camp
was  an  extra  in the  morning,  bringing  even the  slowest  riser  to instant
alertness in the barracks Alpha Company inhabited. It was a sound that every man
in the Corps was familiar  with, and the surprise  of having them land  so close
instead  of  on  the far  side  of  town, at  the  spaceport-brought  a rush  of
adrenaline to most of the men.

At reveille, Lon  gave the entire  company the basics  of the amended  contract.
"We'll  use  three platoons  for  any operation,  leave  the schooling  for  the
remaining platoon to handle while we're gone," he said. "First platoon will take
the training mission, and Lieutenant Stossberg will remain with it." Lon  paused
and  looked  around. There  was  not much  light  yet. Reveille  in  Lincoln was
scheduled for six o'clock, and sunrise that day was ten minutes later.

"I don't know when we'll be going out. That depends on how long it takes to find
a target. But  except for first  platoon, we go  on alert as  of now. When Sidon
finds us a target, we could go out on less than five minutes' notice. That means
no passes until we get back."

The men were  too disciplined for  Lon to hear  any moans. But  he could imagine
them.

"After breakfast, draw  your weapons and  give them a  good cleaning. Make  sure
your helmet electronics  are functional and  the rest of  your gear fit  for the
field. I do have one  piece of good news," he  added. "Tyre is retrieving an  MR
from home. That means we should have a mail call sometime this afternoon."

Lon  watched  for  reactions  after  he dismissed  the  men,  and  sent  them to
breakfast. Only three men in the company had known anything about the change  of
plans before reveille-Phip, Dean, and  the corporal from fourth platoon  who had
drawn the Charge of Quarters duty overnight.

"When  did this  all come  about?" Tebba  asked. He  and Harley  had both   gone
straight to Lon.

"We negotiated the new  contract last night at  Government House," Lon said.  "I
didn't expect  to confer  with Tyre  and Sidon  until this  morning, but the way
things  worked  out, we  did  that about  oh-two-hundred.  Sidon's shuttles  are
running search  patterns, looking  for the  raiders. Tyre's  boats, as you might
have noticed, are here waiting for us."

"This  is  going to  be  strictly a  Corps  operation?" Tebba  asked.  "Just our
people?''

"It's going to be our operation," Lon said, nodding. "I'll offer to let  Colonel
Henks send  observers along,  maybe a  squad from  their rapid response company.
They  know  the flora  and  fauna we  might  encounter, if  nothing  else. Local
knowledge can't hurt. Besides, that one company is almost up to our standards."

"What  about the  training schedule  here?" Harley  asked. "With  the new  class
reporting in Monday, and  the way we've speeded  up training for everyone  else,
asking one platoon to do the work of four is slightly on the ridiculous side."

"We  make do,  Harley. Co-opt  Bancrofters from  the rapid  response company  to
proctor the field exercises. I'll make arrangements with Colonel Henks. This  is
the big one as far as the locals are concerned. They need something to show  the
voting public."

"Oh, it's like that," Harley said.

"Yes, it's like that," Lon agreed. "Now let's get something to eat."

"I can't give you a  detailed plan of operations now,"  Lon told the men of  the
three platoons that had been selected  for the attack on the raiders.  Breakfast
was over and  Lon had gathered  the men in  front of their  barracks. They were,
mostly, sitting on the worn grass.

"We're flying blind  for the present,"  Lon continued. "We  don't know where  we
will be going  in or when,  or how stiff  the opposing force  will be. Until  we
locate a target, we can't even begin to devise the operation. When we do  locate
the enemy, we may have to do our  planning in the shuttle on our way in.  I know
you don't care  for that kind  of improvisation. Neither  do I. But  it's all we
have this time. On the plus side, the opposition is almost certainly amateur, as
far as  military operations  go. They're  pirates, out  for booty. Individually,
there may be  a lot of  mean SOBs, but  they probably won't  have a lot  of unit
cohesion. We  hit them  hard, they'll  probably fall  apart. They  haven't faced
hard-core professionals before.  Of course, we  can't count on  them running for
home." Lon smiled briefly.

"I have every confidence in you.  You're experts, professionals in all the  best
senses of the word, and you've spent  the last month and a half teaching  others
your skills. Whether you  realize it or not,  that's a damn good  way to improve
your own ability. You have to think about what you're teaching. Some of you have
been on operations similar to the one  we expect. Most of you have seen  combat.
The few who  have never been  on a combat  contract have at  least had your full
training and you're surrounded by veterans. We'll see you through this."

It was a comfortable day to be outside and inactive. There were scattered clouds
in the sky and a refreshing  breeze. The temperature would likely hit  eighty by
mid-afternoon, but it was just seventy as  Lon paced back and forth in front  of
his men.

"I can't even tell you how long the wait might be. Sidon's shuttles might locate
a target for us within the next ten minutes. On the other hand, it might be  ten
days, two weeks, or more. I know. That's a real bitch. I hate waiting as much as
any of you. It's still better than dropping out in the middle of nowhere with no
idea where the opposition might be and stumbling around looking for them on  the
ground for ten days or a month, with no guarantee that we would ever get  within
a hundred miles of them."

Waiting.  At  times,  Lon  thought that  was  worse  than  combat. Until  memory
reasserted itself. The most vivid memories came in sleep-the chaos, the  horror,
the smell of death, and the cries  of dying men. The terror. The questions:  Why
would a  sane man  ever do  this voluntarily?  How can  anyone choose this for a
career? Lon had  first asked himself  those questions a  lifetime before, during
his first exposure to combat, on a colony world called Norbank. He still had  no
satisfactory answers,  no explanation.  He was  not a  native Dirigenter, raised
from earliest childhood to accept that war was the world's business, that  being
part of the  Corps-one way or  another-was as much  patriotic duty as  practical
necessity. And  his old  mantra, "All  I ever  wanted to  be was  a soldier," no
longer seemed sufficient-especially  since his son  had started to  echo it. For
Lon, that desire  had been born  years before he  had any experience  of battle,
before he knew what being a  soldier really meant. And the rationalization  that
combat,  deadly  peril, filled  only  a small  fraction  of his  days  seemed an
evasion.

Lon spent the rest of Saturday morning alone in his office, his complink  hooked
through CIC aboard Tyre to the  shuttles running their search patterns. For  the
present, only one shuttle was flying at a time. They spelled each other,  taking
three-hour shifts. If-when-one  of them found  something interesting, the  other
shuttle might  be brought  in to  permit better  three-dimensional probing, with
each craft standing  off to the  side, flying circular  routes to give  them the
best penetration available.

It was  lunchtime when  Tebba Girana  knocked and  entered Lon's  office without
waiting for an invitation.  He shut the door  behind him and went  over to Lon's
desk.

"You should know  that Harley thinks  you saddled him  with the stay-behind  job
because you don't think he's good enough for the operation," Tebba said  softly.
"He's still young and insecure enough that he needs reassurance."

Lon leaned back and sighed. "I should have thought of that myself, Tebba. Thanks
for reminding me."

"You get to  be fifty years  old, you pick  up on some  things a little easier,"
Tebba said.

"Don't give me that crap," Lon said. He looked at Tebba and grinned. Girana  was
indeed fifty, and his  hair was beginning to  show just a little  gray. But that
was the only visible sign of age, and it was almost by choice, Tebba refusing to
maintain the cosmetic appearance of youth. The molecular health implant  systems
the crowning achievement of  nanotechnology, according to some-that  everyone on
all but the  most primitive of  colony worlds received  at birth held  the aging
process at bay.  Old age did  not truly begin  until after a  person reached the
century mark. Tebba Girana was as  fit, mentally and physically, as he  had been
at twenty. And experience made him better.

"I'll talk  to Harley  after lunch,"  Lon said.  "We all  go eat,  then you find
something to do while we talk."

Lon did not mince words. "You  wouldn't be here if you weren't  fully qualified,
Harley. There  are reasons  why I  picked Tebba  over you  to go  along on  this
punitive raid,  but you  not being  good enough  isn't one  of them. Forget that
crap. Don't go feeling sorry for yourself. Sure, experience is part of it. Tebba
has been at this work longer than either you or me. And he knows how I work  and
think, doesn't have to stop and ask questions in the mid-- die of trouble. Hell,
he's been  close by  to keep  me out  of trouble  since I  joined the Corps. But
you're not being left back here to twiddle your thumbs and teach recruits  which
left foot to step off with. If we manage to get our butts in a sling, it's going
to be up to you and first platoon to bail us out. You and the Bancrofters  we've
been training. And no  matter how good they've  shown themselves to be,  I trust
you and first platoon more than their rapid response company."

Harley shrugged. "I didn't question the  arrangement, Captain. I do know how  to
obey orders. But yes, I was wondering why I was being left behind. It's hard  to
get  that experience  you talk  about from  the sidelines.  Tebba is  second  in
command. It seemed natural that he should be the one to stay back, more in  line
with the manual."

"Most times you'd be right, Harley,'' Lon said. "About not risking the CO and XO
at the same time.  Hell, going by the  book, I could make  a damn good case  for
staying behind myself and sending the two of you off." The thought Then why  the
hell  don't you  ? nickered  through his  head and  was banished  automatically,
almost without notice.

"But we're here to help the  Bancrofters. They're paying dearly. If I  don't go,
they might  suspect that  we're not  giving them  full value.  I'm taking  Tebba
instead of you because he does have all that experience. He's been in the  Corps
since long before you were bom. You'll have your chances, Harley, probably  more
than you want." Lon paused, then added,  "Trust me on that." "Waiting is a  pain
in the  butt. Captain,"  Harley said.  Lon grinned.  "Tell me  something I don't
know." He hesitated  a second, then  said, "You might  pass along the  word that
we've  got  all  the  mail  downloaded from  the  MR.  It  should  be ready  for
distribution shortly."

A little later, Lon called Tebba,  Weil Jorgen, and the three platoon  sergeants
who would be going along into his office.

"There's no word  yet from the  shuttles," Lon started,  to get the  unasked but
unavoidable question out  of the way.  "There are a  couple of things  I want to
cover now. When we go out, I'll double as platoon leader for second platoon  and
keep  Weil  with  me  unless  circumstances  dictate  otherwise.  If  it becomes
necessary to split third and fourth platoons, I might use Weil as acting platoon
leader for one  of them. The  rest of headquarters  squad will stay  behind, but
we'll take the medics for all four platoons.

"That's about all we can deal with  in regard to the operation. We'll carry  all
the ammo and food we can, since we  don't know what we'll need. If this goes  on
very long, we  should be able  to bring in  supplies by shuttle  since we're not
facing an organized military force.

"The men are going  to get antsy very  fast with this waiting,  especially since
they can't go anywhere. Do your best  to keep on top of that. Don't  let tempers
flare. Run inspections, put them to recleaning weapons, whatever you have to do.
But unless things get... testy, let them rest and get extra meals in, just as if
we were on ship waiting for a combat landing."

"Sir?" Platoon Sergeant Wil  Nace of fourth platoon  raised a hand halfway.  "No
idea at all how long this waiting will go on?"

Phip and Dav  Grott, third platoon's  sergeant, nodded. The  question interested
them as well.

"Not  a clue,  Wil. The  shuttles are  looking for  the proverbial  needle in  a
haystack, and they don't even know where the farm is. If this goes on more  than
three or four days, I'll have to start rotating one platoon out at a time,  play
musical chairs  with the  arrangements, and  I don't  want to  do that. Too much
chance for confusion." All of  the men in the room  had been with Lon since  his
cadet days. He had fought beside  each of them, and he trusted  them implicitly.
And they trusted him equally.

"If we're not facing pros,  we might pick up an  extra advantage if we go  in at
night,'' Phip  said. "That  could be  like making  them fight  with one eye tied
behind their backs."

"Don't get overconfident, Phip.  Our reliable intelligence about  the opposition
is effectively zero. We don't know anything more than the caliber of rifle  they
use."

"I've read all the reports by  the survivors. Captain, same as you,"  Phip said.
"There hasn't been one mention of anyone seeing night-vision gear, even when the
raiders struck at night."

"Not conclusive. They might just not want the Bancrofters to know they have that
capability," Tebba said before Lon could say essentially the same thing.  "Don't
let the opposition know any more than you have to."

"I've got  a different  question, Captain,"  Weil Jorgen  said. "Since we're not
going against  regular military  units-so far  as we  know-and most likely won't
face tanks or aircraft, do we take the usual complement of rockets and launchers
along?"

Lon hesitated. It was a question he had not considered. "You may be right, Weil,
but I don't want to go in without any protection against air or armor. Let's say
one launcher and  rocket load per  platoon. Anything comes  up that takes  more,
we'll have to rely on the shuttles. Any other questions?"

"Not a question, exactly," Weil said. "But the mail is ready for  distribution."
The system  was not  as complicated  as it  seemed. Individuals,  on either end,
wrote their letters  on message chips.  Those were collected  and transcribed to
the larger message chips that could  be included in an MR's minimal  payload, to
be transcribed back to individual chips on the other end, suitable for  playback
on complink or  portable reader. "I've  got the bundles  for each platoon  on my
desk next door.  Captain, I've  transferred your  stuff right  to your  complink
personal mail and a couple of official messages you might want to look at  while
you've still got us all here."

Lon nodded,  then opened  his portable  complink and  keyed up  a directory.  He
scanned the list, noting two personal  letters-a very long file from Sara  and a
shorter one from  Junior. There were  also a number  of official documents  from
Corps headquarters. Lon  stopped as one  of the files  caught his attention.  He
called that file up and quickly scanned the screen.

"I'll be damned," he whispered.

"What is it?" Tebba asked.

"Take a look for yourself," Lon  said, turning the complink so Tebba  could read
the screen.

Tebba read, then looked at the  others in the room. "Gentlemen, may  I introduce
Major Nolan to you?" he said, chuckling.  "As soon as we return to Dirigent,  he
will be relieved as  commanding officer of Alpha  Company and assigned to  staff
duties at battalion. But the promotion was effective fifteen days ago."

"Tell them the rest of it," .Lon said when Girana stopped.

"There's plenty  of time  for that  later," Tebba  said. Lon  snorted. "When  we
return to Dirigent, Tebba will  relieve me as commanding officer.  His promotion
to captain will be effective the same day."

The meeting dissolved in dual rounds of congratulations.

Lon sat on the  edge of his bed  and held his complink  on his lap. It  had been
seventeen  days  since  the  last  message  rocket  had  arrived  from Dirigent,
seventeen days since he  had read the last  letter from Sara. He  was anxious to
turn directly to the new letter from  her, and the letter from his son,  but Lon
forced himself to read through all of the official dispatches first. There might
be something important in those-more important than the two promotions.

The  time  lag  of interstellar  communications  meant  that conversations  were
extremely disjointed. Some of the official documents referred to reports Lon had
sent to Dirigent nearly six weeks earlier, and they could not take into  account
anything he had  sent less than  a month before.  And it would  be at least  two
weeks before Dirigent could receive  any response from him-iIhe ordered  another
MR dispatched at once. Unless it was vital, he would not, since he had just sent
one out early that morning.

He needed a half hour to read through or listen to all of the files from  Corps.
There was nothing requiring immediate  action, nothing critical to the  mission.
Satisfied, Lon  turned to  his personal  letters then,  starting with the letter
from Sara.

Sara's letters were almost  journals. She tended to  speak at least a  few lines
every day while Lon was on contract, telling him what the children had done, how
her  day  had gone,  news  and gossip  around  the Corps.  If  she recorded  her
narrative while the children were home  and awake, they would be sure  to appear
onscreen at least briefly.  Angie might sit on  her mother's lap throughout  the
session. Some days an entry  might go on at great  length if there was a  lot to
tell-or if Sara simply wanted to "talk" to  him at length. It was a way for  Lon
to feel as if he were not missing so much. But it wasn't quite the same as being
home. Occasionally Lon  found himself talking  back to his  wife's image on  the
screen ... until he realized what he was doing. Then he might sigh and shake his
head, or chuckle at the lapse.

Three days before the end of the letter, Sara managed to surprise Lon. "There is
something going on that might interest  you," she said at the beginning  of that
day's entry. "Kaiko  Green has become  something of a  cause here. I  don't know
exactly how it got  started, but there is  a growing movement here  intending to
free him, or at least get his sentence reduced. A petition drive directed at the
General, people all over  the nets arguing for  a pardon, or commutation  of his
sentence to time already served-even though it has only been a few months. There
is a measure of... outrage, I guess I have to say, at the way Sergeant  O'Banion
had behaved. Folks  are saying that  it is more  of an injustice  that Green was
imprisoned than  it was  that O'Banion  was killed.  Two members  of the   court
martial have already added their names to the petition. It would help the  cause
if  more members  of the  court-martial supported  this movement.  What do   you
think?"

When Sara passed on to the next topic, Lon paused the playback and stared at her
now motionless  figure on  the screen.  Pardon? Commutation?  he asked  himself.
Either one  would be,  so far  as he  knew, virtually  unheard of  in the Corps,
though it was within the scope of the General's executive authority.

I'll have to think about that, Lon decided. I wish she had told me which members
have already signed the petition. He  recalled wishing that there had been  some
way to avoid convicting Green. But to try overturning the verdict? Lon  couldn't
get it  out of  his mind.  A couple  of times  after he  resumed the playback of
Sara's letter, he  found his thoughts  drifting, found himself  missing what she
had to say.

Junior's letter  was much  shorter, recorded  in two  bursts of  energy. The boy
talked too fast and had difficulty staying still enough to avoid popping out  of
frame over and  over. He went  on at some  length about his  excitement over his
father's promotion to major. Sara had mentioned that, too; three days before the
order was  issued, she  spoke of  it as  an accomplished  fact. In the second of
Junior's sessions, he had something else to be excited about.

"We just got back from looking at our new home," Junior said, bouncing around so
constantly that he was  partially out of frame  far more than he  was completely
within  it.  As  a  major,  Lon  would  be  entitled  to  larger,  somewhat more
comfortable, housing. "It's huge," Junior said, spreading his hands as far apart
as he could get them. "Angie and I can each have our own rooms, and they're  all
so big. The house is two blocks from here, right down by the bus stop. I want to
move right away, but Mama says we have to wait until you get home. Please  hurry
home. Daddy."

Sara. Kaiko  Green. Junior.  Lon set  his complink  aside after  he had finished
watching his son's  letter for the  second time. The  boy was always  so excited
about everything. Lon' smile was short-lived, though. Junior had also reiterated
his desire to be a  soldier just like his father.  "I'm going to be the  General
someday," he had boasted, puffing out his  chest by taking in a deep breath  and
holding, it. "Then I can live right there in the Headquarters building."

I think I'd rather see you living above the Winking Eye and working in the  pub,
Lon thought. A safer life, and saner. But it wouldn't do any good to say that to
the boy,  not now.  Lon could  almost hear  the inevitable  rejoinder, "Then why
don't you quit and work in Grampa's pub?" Lon knew he would have no  intelligent
answer to that.

If I thought it would be enough to squelch his desire to be a soldier, it  might
almost be worthwhile leaving the Corps and taking over the pub, Lon thought.  He
shook his head. It wouldn't work.  On Dirigent, the Corps would always  be there
to attract any growing boy.

Kaiko Green. When the name came back  into his head, Lon squeezed his eyes  shut
for a moment.  I can't get  away from him,  even now. There  always seemed to be
something to remind him of the hapless young man. There had been times, standing
in formation  looking at  the men  of his  company, when  Lon had  found himself
wondering if there were any Kaiko Greens  among the faces or-more troubling  yet
any Holfield O'Banions. He had belabored the possibilities in the days after the
court-martial, even onto  Tyre during the  trip to Bancroft.  Make sure the  men
know what they should do if they ever come up against a man like O'Banion.  Make
sure there is no one like the dead sergeant hiding in the company. Look for  the
signs. Don't ever let a man get as far as O'Banion had.

Lon paced around his room for twenty  minutes or longer. The mail from home  had
not been as pleasantly  distracting as usual. There  was too much time  just now
for thinking. Brooding.

The waiting continued.



13

An hour before sunrise, Monday morning, the waiting ended.

Lon was wakened by the incoming message  alert on his complink. He had taken  to
turning the volume up to maximum before he went to bed, to make certain he would
not miss an important call by sleeping through it.

The caller was the duty officer in CIC aboard Tyre.

"We've just heard from Sidon's shuttle. Major Nolan. The raiders are attacking a
mining village right now. The fighting is in progress. It started less than five
minutes ago. I'm downloading everything now."

Lon had already hit a buzzer to  rouse Lead Sergeant Jorgen. The buzzer was  set
up for only this purpose. Jorgen would rouse the men.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Lon  said. "We'll head in  as quickly as we  can get to
the  shuttles." He  was already  moving, sitting  up on  the edge  of his  bunk,
reaching for socks and boots. He had  slept in battledress. He cut off the  link
to CIC and called up a map centered on the location of the raider strike.

"Identify location  and describe  terrain," he  said once  the map was onscreen.
While the complink complied, Lon completed dressing.

"The  mining village  of Tuplace  is located  seventy-three miles  southeast  of
Lincoln,"  the  artificial  voice  of  the  complink  said.  "The  most  current
population  figures list  two hundred  and seventeen  residents, almost  equally
divided among  men, women,  and children.  Tuplace is  one of  the older  mining
villages on  Bancroft, having  been founded  within five  years of colonization.
There are four working  mines around the village,  producing gold, a variety  of
trace elements, and  a unique variety  of quartz that  has several applications,
most notably in newer-model Nilssen generators and in communications  equipment.
There are also two abandoned shafts."

"Pause," Lon instructed. "Transfer feed to  my helmet. Hold." He put his  helmet
on, slid his mapboard into the leg pocket of his battledress uniform, and picked
up his  rifle. He  was ready  to go.  Only two  minutes and  fifteen seconds had
passed since he hit the alarm to rouse his men.

The sounds of  men rushing to  get dressed and  out of the  barracks had been an
audible backdrop to the computer's report. The sounds were starting to die down.
By the time Lon got outside, the  three platoons that were going on the  mission
were in formation. Platoon sergeants were checking the muster.

Beyond the log  palisade wall, the  engines of the  two DMC shuttles  were being
started, run up to power. The shuttle crews had been sleeping in their craft.

"The raiders  are hitting  a village  about seventy-five  miles from  here," Lon
announced as soon as the order to fall in had been given. ' "The attack is going
on now. We'll work out our plan of attack en route. Let's get moving."

He turned the formation over to Tebba Girana, who started the men  double-timing
to the gate. While he followed, Lon listened to the continuation of the computer
report.

"CIC reports that communications with Tuplace has just been interrupted.  Before
that, reports from the ground were that  the raiding force had come in from  the
southeast, along the valley, and had  hit that side of the village.  Tuplace had
put  out  trip wires  along  the land  routes  in, and  had  approximately three
minutes' warning of the attack, long enough  to get some weapons to bear on  the
attackers. The estimate on the ground was  that there had to be at least  thirty
weapons firing  into the  village. Sidon\  shuttle pilot  estimates a minimum of
twenty-five."

Tuplace was in a valley, on high  ground next to a small stream. The  mines were
on either side, with horizontal shafts into both of the enclosing hills. As  was
the case with most of the mining sites on Bancroft, the ores were refined within
yards of the mines.

Lon  brought Tebba  and the  sergeants into  a conference  and added  Lieutenant
Colonel Digby Rose, who was observing for the Bancrofters.

"Colonel Rose,  do you  know anything  about this  area we're  going into?"  Lon
asked.

There was a  slight hesitation before  Rose said, "I've  been there. Nothing  in
particular  stands out  in memory.  A forested  valley, maybe  ten miles   long.
Neither slope is particularly steep, as  I recall. I don't know about  clearings
for your shuttles, though, other than right at the edge of the village, and that
seems to be where the fighting is."

"My first impulse  is to land  one shuttle out  away from the  village on either
end, try to box the raiders in between us, if we can find LZs," Lon said. He had
CIC and the shuttle from Sidon looking for landing zones already. Lon's  company
was not equipped with the means to jump in; they had neither parachutes nor  jet
packs.

"If there's nothing close, the attack could be over before you can get anyone in
position." Rose  said, protest  clear in  his voice.  "That's a heavily forested
region. I know  there's a clearing  right next to  the village, but  it could be
miles to the next one.  The people of Tuplace could  all be dead before you  get
there."

"They might all be dead now. Colonel,"  Lon said. "If we can't find an  LZ close
enough to let us get to Tuplace quickly, we'll go to plan B."

"What's that?" Rose asked.

"Use the weapons  these shuttles carry  to blast our  way in right  there at the
village." And hope the raiders don't have rockets to shoot us down, Lon thought.
Even without that,  landing in the  middle of a  firefight was not  something he
looked forward to. It could be  costly in the only accounting that  mattered-the
lives of his men.

Thirty seconds later, Lon knew  there was no alternative. The  nearest clearings
large enough to take  a shuttle were more  than a dozen miles  from the village.
There was only the rough strip  right at the edge, where the  transport shuttles
came in to pick up the produce of Tu-place's mines.

He got out his mapboard and had Tebba and the sergeants slave their mapboards to
it. In thirty  seconds Lon roughed  out the plan  of attack. They  would come in
from  the northwest,  over the  village of  Tuplace, hit  the suspected   raider
positions with rockets and rapid-fire cannons,  and land in the clearing on  the
southeastern end of the village-most likely under direct fire from the raiders.

"We can't be certain that the  fight will still be clearly defined,"  Lon warned
the  others. "Communications  hasn't been  reestablished with  the village,  but
Sidon's shuttle reports that there is still shooting and that-as far as they can
tell-the raiders are still outside the village."

"No communications-that means we  can't tell the villagers  who we are, or  that
we're coming in," Dav Grott of third platoon observed.

"So tell the men to watch their butts as well as their heads," Tebba said.  "The
locals should be able to figure out fairly quickly which side we're on."

"Two  minutes,"  Lon said.  "Get  the men  ready.  Lock and  load."  He switched
channels to tell the two shuttle pilots what they were going to do. "Give us  as
much fire  support as  you can,"  he told  them. "These  raiders shouldn't  have
antiair rockets."

"You guarantee that. Major?" one of the pilots asked.

"I wish I could."

Lon slipped a magazine into his rifle and ran the bolt to put the first round in
the firing chamber,  then flipped the  selector switch from  safety to auto.  He
took  his  pistol  out long  enough  to  jack a  round  into  the chamber,  then
reholstered the sidearm, leaving its safety  on. He closed his eyes long  enough
to take three slow, deep breaths, part of a routine to keep himself calm. Two of
his radio channels were  open, one giving him  information from the cockpits  of
the shuttles as the pilots moved down toward their attack and landing. The other
let him monitor the passenger  compartment through the open non-corns'  channel.
By  concentrating,  he  could  keep  the  multiple  sources  from  blending into
meaningless babble, and that concentration helped him to focus on what he had to
do, keeping extraneous worries from claiming his attention.

As the shuttle opened up with its  weapons, Lon spared himself time for a  quick
prayer-Please don't let me fail my men-that he repeated each time he led his men
into danger.

The landing was hard, throwing Lon against his safety harness with enough  force
to be momentarily painful.  "Up and out!" he  shouted on his all-hands  channel.
"Arc perimeter, short. Watch yourselves."

Arc perimeter, short. Those instructions  called for a specific deployment,  one
that the  men had  practiced over  and over  on Dirigent.  Instead of  forming a
complete circular perimeter,  they would form  into a line  over 120 degrees  of
arc, 15 yards out from the shuttles,  facing the known enemy. Once the men  were
in position  and had  the enemy  under fire,  Lon could  order any modifications
necessary.

The shuttles continued to  fire their Gatling guns  after they touched down  and
the ramps were dropped to let  the soldiers disembark. That was done  as rapidly
as humanly possible, the men going through the two exits in each shuttle by twos
and spreading out to the left and  the right, running forward and diving to  the
ground, answering fire and seeking targets.

There was very little incoming fire  during the first seconds. The shock  of the
shuttles' assault had temporarily silenced  the raiders. It was only  after half
of Lon's men were out  and on the ground in  their initial perimeter that a  few
rounds started coming toward them, out of the forest.

Dawn was not  far away. Overhead  there was already  some light, but  it had not
penetrated into the trees. But the darkness inside the forest could not hide the
raiders from the night-vision lenses of Dirigent battle helmets. Heat signatures
and movement. Dropping to  the ground behind the  wedge of his men,  Lon scanned
the woods, quickly spotting close to two dozen individuals in several  clusters.
They had taken cover from the  rockets and cannons, but the raiders  had started
to show a little of themselves. They had to, in order to fire.

"Second platoon, echelon left,  fire and maneuver. Try  to get across the  creek
and flank them. Fourth platoon, echelon right, fire and maneuver. Third platoon,
maximum covering  fire. Shuttles,  same thing,  maximum covering  fire. Go." Lon
gave his orders and added  his own rifle to the  task of keeping the enemy  down
while two-thirds of his men moved to envelop them.

Once  the doors  had opened  on the  shuttle, Lon  had no  time to  think  about
anything but the  needs of the  instant. This was  the ultimate proving  ground,
where a soldier earned his pay, justified the years of training, and  discovered
or  rediscovered-his  own  abilities  and  limitations.  Training,  drills,  and
experience took over. You  did what you had  to do, often so  quickly that there
literally was no time  to think out each  action, each decision. It  had to come
automatically ... or you could die.

It was not that any of  the soldiers-enlisted men or officers-could be  mindless
automatons like the cannon fodder of  a thousand years and more before.  "A dumb
soldier is a  dead soldier," more  than one drill  instructor had barked  at his
charges over the years. It took intelligence and education to be a mercenary  on
Dirigent. The equipment  required that, if  nothing else. But  the hard thinking
had  to  be done  in  advance, as  much  as possible,  not  in the  middle  of a
firefight.

Lon had grown over the years. He no longer felt a need to micromanage his men in
combat. He decided on the tactics, gave the orders, and trusted his subordinates
to carry them out. He did not try to watch every move. That ability to focus was
hard-won, in arenas as deadly as-and often larger than-the mining village of  Tu
place, Bancroft.

For the time being, the most effective contribution Lon could make to the effort
was with his rifle, seeking out targets  in the forest and shooting at them.  He
did not keep conscious score. Hits just meant fewer of the enemy to endanger his
men.

Two minutes. Three. The enveloping movements on either flank had not had time to
get very far yet. But the amount of incoming fire was slackening rapidly.

"They're  pulling  back," Lon  said  on his  channel  to Tebba  and  the platoon
sergeants. "We clear the immediate area, set up a secure perimeter, and  account
for any raiders still inside, alive or dead. We need prisoners, not bodies." Now
he could make  that distinction. Coming  out of the  shuttle and setting  up the
initial perimeter, Lon  had avoided saying  that. In the  first minutes, it  had
been much more important to do what  he could to minimize the danger to  his own
men and establish a secure toehold on the area.

"Major Nolan!" He needed a second to recognize the voice as the pilot of Sidon's
patrolling shuttle.

"What is it?" Lon asked.

"Two small shuttles moving toward  you from the southeast, clipping  treetops. I
don't recognize the type."

"Can you intercept?"

"Not before they reach you. We  didn't spot them, Major. We weren't  looking for
shuttles and they came in along the valley floor, low and fast. They're  running
less than a hundred feet above the ground."

"How long do we have?"

"None, Major. They're damn near on you now."

The pilots of the two shuttles on  the ground had been listening in. They  moved
the aim of their cannon up and waited. Sitting on the ground, the shuttles could
not fire rockets  at aircraft. The  fixed launchers were  on either side  of the
fuselage, below the  wings, and the  aimable pod lowered  from the belly  of the
shuttle.

Lon broadcast a warning on his all-hands channel and barely got that out  before
the two shuttles came  racing over, machine guns  or cannons firing through  the
landing strip in the middle of the valley floor.

The mercenaries and their two shuttles were exposed to that fire for only  three
seconds-the  incoming aircraft  were simply  flying too  fast for  more time  on
target- but in that time more than a thousand rounds marched up the valley.  Lon
heard rounds striking the  skin of the shuttle  directly behind him and  saw the
moving trails of dust kicked up on the ground as they crossed third platoon.

It seemed  miraculous that  only three  men on  the ground  were wounded-and one
killed.

"Get the rockets ready  for when they come  back," Lon ordered. He  had no doubt
that the  hostile aircraft  would return.  He did  not waste time congratulating
himself for  ordering that  his men  not go  into this  operation without any of
their shoulder-fired rocket launchers.

"Where the hell did those come from?" Tebba asked, anger and indignation raising
his voice half an octave. "Where do backwoods bandits get fighters?"

"Not fighters, armed shuttles," Lon said. "And I don't know where they came from
any more than you  do." Lon had thought  that only Dirigent armed  its shuttles.
Most worlds  used shuttles  merely to  transport troops  or supplies, protecting
them with aerospace fighters if necessary.

Lon moved third platoon away from  their own shuttles, into better cover  toward
the ridge  on the  right. While  they moved,  he called  the pilots  of the  two
landers to check on damage.

"Still checking," the first  pilot said. "We've got  holes in the fuselage,  but
the diagnostics  say we  can get  off the  ground. We  just can't  get too  high
without patches."

"Zag is hit in here," the second  pilot said. Zag was his copilot. "One  pane of
the cockpit canopy  was shattered. My  crew chief is  bandaging Zag's arm  now."
There was a slight pause before he added, "I guess it's not too bad."

"Can you get off the ground?" Lon asked.

There was another pause  before that pilot said,  "Not for at least  an hour. We
had some control circuitry damaged as well, and it's going to take time for  the
system to repair itself."

"Then get out  of the box  and get to  cover. Those unidentified  shuttles might
have rockets as well." Lon told the  other shuttle to take off and get  up where
it could operate. "If you get a good shot at the bogies, be my guest," he added.

By that time, Lon was fifty feet above the floor of the valley, on the slope  of
the hill, under cover of the straggly trees that grew on that rocky flank of the
valley. He sucked in a deep breath.  Climbing the slope and talking at the  same
time had about depleted him. That  was when the pilot of Sidon's  shuttle called
again.

"Those two shuttles dropped at least forty men on rocket packs," he said.  "Four
miles northwest of  your position. You're  up against more  than a few  bandits,
Major."

"Tell me about it," Lon said. He had no trouble at all sounding sarcastic.

"Those shuttles haven't turned back  toward you," the pilot said  next. "They're
still running hot and low, following the valley northwest."

"Can you get in position to fire on them?"

"Closing in," the pilot advised.

"Dump them."

"Four hot ones away,"  the pilot reported less  than five seconds later.  "Enemy
separating, beginning evasive action. They  don't have much room for  that. Four
more hot ones away."

On  the ground,  Lon heard  the first  explosion just  after the  pilot  started
cackling about "one down."

There was a decidedly different sound to the blasts of rockets exploding against
rock and dirt rather than an enemy shuttle. The second enemy craft pulled clear,
moving east now.

"He's faster than I am," Sidon\ shuttle  pilot said. "I can't catch him up.  Two
more hot ones away, but the range is extreme, and growing."

"If those miss, detonate them in  the air," Lon said. "There's a  town somewhere
over in that direction. We can't drop munitions on the people we're supposed to

protect."

The self-destruct explosions, when they came,  were much too far off for  Lon to
even hope to hear them.



14

Forty minutes had passed since Lon's men landed at Tuplace. The sun was well up.
The top half of the  hill along the southwestern side  of the valley was lit  by
bright sunlight. The valley floor and the  side of the other hill were still  in
shadow. Lon's men had secured the village. Medics were treating the few  wounded
mercenaries and the greater number of wounded villagers. Two villagers had  been
killed in  the initial  assault by  the raiders.  One more  had died  during the
second fight, of injuries suffered earlier.

Six dead raiders  were found. No  wounded. The Di-rigenters  had not managed  to
take a single prisoner.

"If there were any wounded, they  were carted off by their mates,"  Phip Steesen
said when he came to report on the  results of the search. Because he had a  few
items taken from the dead raiders to show Lon, he had not simply linked  through
from his position on the new perimeter the platoons had formed around the mining
village.

"You find anything on the dead to  tell us where they came from?" Lon  asked. He
had set up a command  post in the entrance to  one of the mines, on  high ground
above the village.

Phip shook his  head. "No ID  of any kind,  damn little of  anything, not even a
snapshot with a background we might be able to place. The camouflage pattern  is
new to me. The weapons are what we expected, but there are no serial numbers  or
manufacturer's marks on  them. I field-stripped  two of them  myself. Whoever is
behind this wanted to make damn sure they stayed anonymous."

"CIC couldn't identify  the enemy shuttles  from the video  Sidon's shuttle took
either," Lon  said. "Nothing  in the  database that  even comes  close. And  men
operating with rocket packs."

"You thinking what I am?" Phip asked.

"We're up against professional soldiers," Lon said, and Phip nodded. "Someone is
paying good money to have pros raid Bancroft."

"But where from?" Phip  asked. "I thought we  had top-notch intelligence on  the
other major mercenary worlds, and  those shuttles didn't come from  some startup
outfit."

"The Corps might not even know the names of all the worlds renting out soldiers.
The way new colonies are being settled, and old ones growing, intelligence can't
keep up  with everything.  And it  might not  be a  mercenary world at all," Lon
said. "The banker might be recruiting personnel  from one world-or a half  dozen
and buying equipment somewhere else. Or supplying it from wherever the operation
was set up."

"We didn't find any grenades or rocket launchers," Phip said. "That doesn't mean
they don't have 'em, but it might mean that the men on the ground don't have

anything but rifles."

"Get back to your men, Phip. This isn't over yet. They didn't drop forty or more
extra men just to impress

us with their jet packs."

As Lon was walking the path down to the buildings, Digby Rose was on his way up.
He had been  talking with people  in the village,  trying to reassure  them that
they were being protected now as much  as trying to leam exactly how the  attack
had started.

"I've spoken with Colonel Henks on the  radio," Rose said when he joined Lon  in
the mouth of the mine shaft. "The news about the raider aircraft disturbs him

greatly."

"It disturbs me as well. Colonel," Lon said. "Not so much that they're here, but
the fact that we didn't spot them until they were so close."

"Do you plan  to attempt to  find the wreckage  of the one  that was shot down?"
Rose asked.

"I hope we have that  chance," Lon said. "But that  wreckage is a long way  from
here, and the raiders have at least  forty men on the ground between us  and it.
And raiders  on the  other side  as well.  I don't  expect they've moved too far
off."

"The repairs to your damaged shuttle?"

"Should be complete  within the next  thirty minutes or  so, for the  one on the
ground. Plugging the holes in the other one will have to wait until we get  back
to Lincoln."

"How do you plan  to proceed?" Rose asked.  Without coming right out  and saying
it, he was clearly informing Lon  that Bancroft did not consider the  downing of
one raider shuttle as the victory the mercenaries had contracted to provide.

"Right this minute, I plan to consolidate our position here. The forty men those
shuttles dropped to the northwest  could be almost on top  of us by now, and  we
don't know for sure how many were already on the ground in the other group.  If,
by some odd chance, they don't come to us, we'll go after them once it gets dark
tonight. The dead we found weren't wearing night-vision gear, so we should  have
a distinct advantage in the dark."

"You have no way  to know that the  raiders will attack. They  must know they're
outgunned. Instead of attacking, they're probably making tracks just as fast  as
they can away from here."

"They'll attack. That was certain  from the minute they dropped  reinforcements.
But very shortly, we'll know where they're at. I've got scouts out."

There was a long hesitation before Rose finally nodded, once, curtly. "I am glad
to see that you have both options covered. Major."

"This is what we do for a living. Colonel," Lon said, smiling to take any  sense
of rebuke from his remarks.

"We have  to know  our job.  Mistakes are  too costly.  I've already had one man
killed. I don't like to lose men, and  I'm damned sure not going to lose any  by
making careless errors."

Wil Nace of fourth platoon was leading one of the scouting parties. He had taken
his men up over the ridge and started northwest, looking for the raiders who had
jumped from the shuttles with jet packs. The equipment was as much his target as
the men. If  the raiders had  abandoned the propulsive  units-likely, since they
were heavy and would be a  distinct drag moving through the forest-Wil  hoped to
retrieve one.  That might  give a  clue to  its planet  of origin.  If A Company
couldn't determine where the jet packs had come from, taking all of the captured
material  back  to Dirigent  would  let the  laboratories  there have  a  crack.
Eventually some clue would be found, if only from analysis of the metals.

Lon had radio  channels open to  both of the  squads that were  out, but the men
observed tight sound discipline. Even though they could use subvocalizations and
be heard only through the radio links,  they were careful. Lon heard only a  few
brief orders being relayed as the squads worked their way toward the targets.

After  Lieutenant Colonel  Rose wandered  away, Lon  took out  his mapboard  and
opened it. He could track his men on that. Their helmet electronics allowed  the
shuttles overhead to  keep tabs on  them, and the  locations showed up  as green
blips on  the mapboard,  updated continuously.  Had the  enemy been using active
electronics, the shuttles would  have been able to  spot them as well,  and they
would have showed as red dots. But there was no red on the mapboard.

"Major." Wil Nace's whisper was almost inaudible, even though Lon had the volume
on his earphones set almost to maximum.

"Yes, Wil," Lon  replied, almost as  softly. The sound  insulation in Dirigenter
helmets was excellent.

"We have  the enemy  force in  sight. We're  about a  mile and  a half from your
position. They're moving  your way, very  slowly. They know  what they're doing.
They're as quiet as we would be."

"How many?" Lon asked.

"I counted forty-six," Wil replied. "Do we follow them back, or go on and try to
get one of the jet packs?''

Lon hesitated. He wanted a jet pack to look over, but he also wanted as many  of
his men as possible for the firefight that seemed certain to follow. "Send three
men after a jet pack  and anything else they can  find." Nace had a full  squad,
twelve men, with him. "The rest of  you tag along with the rocket men,  but stay
high on the slope,  out of the line  of fire. I don't  want them to know  you're
there."

"My sentiments exactly," Wil said.

"If we  can hit  them from  both sides,  we might  force them to surrender," Lon
said. "I want live ones to question, Wil. It could be vital."

"We'll do  our best.  If they  weren't moving  in such  good order,  I'd suggest
cutting tail-end Charley  out of the  pack, but we'd  never do it  without being
spotted."

Lon  signed  off  and waited  for  some  report from  the  other  scouts. Second
platoon's fourth squad had  split into its two  fire teams and was  moving along
the slopes on either side of the valley. Their assignment was, Lon thought, more
dangerous than Wil Nace's. The raiders who had retreated from the village  might
have stopped to set up an ambush almost anywhere. And they might be good  enough
to remain undetected until the Dirigen-ters were well into their kill zone.

We've got  more than  two-to-one odds  in our  favor, Lon  reminded himself.  We
should be able  to handle both  groups of raiders,  even if they  coordinate and
attack simultaneously. But that could not keep him from worrying. It was his men
who might have to pay the price.

The worrying stopped only when the next call came in.

"Major, we've spotted raiders," Corporal Taw Reil-lor, who led second  platoon's
fourth  squad, said.  "We're nearly  two miles  from the  LZ, as  close to   the
ridgeline as we could get without broadcasting our positions."

"I've got you on my mapboard," Lon said. "What's the situation?"

"I've counted thirty-five  of them, including  four men being  carried or helped
along-wounded. There was one more, but he must have died. They left him  behind,
took his rifle and ammo."

"You get a chance to search him?"

"Negative,  Major. He's  only about  eighty yards  from where  the rest  of  the
raiders stopped, and I think he's supposed to be bait for an ambush. The raiders
put one man high on either slope with what look to be clear fields of fire.  The
rest are setting up defensive positions. Wait...."

Lon waited.

"Major, they just started  moving their wounded farther  back, but the rest  are
staying in  place. They're  not digging  in. I  don't know  if they expect us to
follow them or  if they're supposed  to be the  anvil the other  bunch drives us
against."

"You alert your other fire team?" Lon asked.

"They're holding position, out of the way like we are. Major, we could take  out
half this bunch in the first

volley."

"Negative!" Lon said quickly. "That would  still leave enough of them to  return
the favor. Stay out of sight. Pull back if you have to, to make sure." .

"They  won't  see  us,"  Reillor promised.  Stealth  was  second  nature to  the
mercenaries because they worked hard at  it in training. "Between the trees  and
the rocks, we could move the whole company past them."

Lon smiled. There was probably more than a kernel of truth to what Reillor said.

"Don't get cute. Taw," Lon said.

"Not me. Major. I had  my butt half shot off  once. I'm not about to  tempt Fate
again."

Lon left the  mine entrance and  went down to  the village's buildings,  just to
take a quick look around. The residents had barricaded themselves inside as best
they could, moving  furniture against the  walls and windows,  giving themselves
what extra cover they could. The women and children had been moved into  another
of the  mine shafts,  back to  the first  cross shaft,  out of  the line  of any
gunfire outside.

Next, Lon inspected his men's positions.  The men, too, were ready for  a fight,
shallow trenches dug and  bolstered by piling dirt  and stone around the  edges.
Positions had been dug for the squads that were out as well, so they would  have
a place to flop if they came back in one step ahead of hostile bullets.

Then he headed back toward the mine  opening he was using as a command  post. He
had one fire team from second platoon deployed around the entrance, a last  line
of defense in case the raiders got through. Then he linked through to Tebba, who
had taken up a position on the other side of the valley.

"This stinks, Tebba,"  Lon said. "One  batch setting up  positions too far  away
from us to  be part of  a fight here,  the other group  moving in against  heavy
odds. They have to know we outnumber  them. They must have seen our shuttles  on
the ground before they jumped."

"But they might not know who we  are," Tebba said. "Maybe they think we're  just
more miners, or Henks's  old police force-someone they  can run over or  off. If
they are from off-world, with no local contacts, that could be the answer."

"Or maybe  they've got  more surprises  for us.  More men  coming in  we haven't
spotted yet, or a shuttle coming back for another go at us."

"You've got  two shuttles  and the  long eyes  aboard our  ships looking," Tebba
reminded Lon.  "Now they  know what  to look  for, they  won't sneak shuttles in
again without more warning. That last shuttle ready to take off yet?"

'"They finished the repairs," Lon said. "I  told them to be ready to get  out of
here on short notice."

"You don't think we need the extra electronics above

watching?"

"Probably not.  I'm going  to get  them up  out of  the way  before the shooting
starts, though. Maybe  another ten minutes,  the way the  rocket men are  moving
toward

us."

"Don't knock it, Lon. If we had jet packs, we could have done a lot better  this
morning instead of just dropping our shuttles in their laps. We could have snuck
in and creamed them before they knew we were here."

"Maybe. I'd just as soon  ride down on my butt  as one of those things.  When we
trained with them last year, I felt  like I had a big red bull's-eye  painted on
my ass, just begging  for a bullet. They're  not that much faster  than 'chutes,
and a hell of a lot less safe."

Tebba laughed softly,  but Lon didn't  hear all of  it. He switched  channels to
take a call from Wil Nace.

"They're about  to hit  you," Wil  whispered. "I  don't think  they're expecting
major opposition.  They're not  digging in,  just taking  cover behind trees and
rocks, sliding as close as they can. They move like professionals,

but the attitude-"

Wil did not get to finish his  comment. The shooting started then, a barrage  of
automatic rifle  fire. Even  though Lon  was well  out of  the line  of fire, he
pulled back a step  farther into the mine  shaft. Reflex. There was  no need for
Lon to issue  orders to the  men on the  perimeter to return  fire. He had given
instructions before.

There were only forty Dirigenters  directly facing the raiders who  had starting
firing into the village.  A few more of  Lon's men could bring  their weapons to
bear from the flanks.  At first, most of  the incoming fire went  high, over the
men on the valley floor, seemingly directed more at the village's few buildings,
where the miners had barricaded themselves.

"I told  them they  should get  underground with  the women  and children,"  Lon
muttered under his  breath. But that  had been refused,  vehemently. The men  of
Tuplace wanted another crack at the raiders who had struck in the night.

The raiders quickly redirected their  fire when they started taking  rounds from
the Dirigenters.  The response  was coordinated,  disciplined, another  piece of
evidence that these raiders were no ragtag assemblage of ruffians.

"Okay, Nace, hit them from behind," Lon instructed after the firefight had  been
in progress for two minutes. "Hit and run. Circle back around them."

The urge to  move to the  shaft entrance and  peek out to  watch the action  was
strong, but Lon resisted  it. He could not  needlessly expose himself. The  area
around the  mouth of  the shaft  was open.  He would  be clearly  visible to the
enemy, an  inviting target.  He listened,  both directly  and through  his radio
links, and watched what the camera on Tebba's helmet showed. There was a  change
in the raiders' pattern of fire after they found themselves with enemies on  two
sides. The sounds were easy to read, since Lon knew what was causing the change.

"Taw, any change with  the raiders on your  end?" Lon asked, switching  channels
briefly.

"They seemed to  perk up when  the shooting started,"  Corporal Reillor replied,
"but they don't show any sign of getting ready to run to the rescue."

"If they do, hit them,  then get out of range.  Take out the snipers and  anyone
else  you can  reach. Don't  get bogged  down in  a firefight,  and don't  start
anything unless they head this way."

"Right, Major."

Lon lifted his faceplate and rubbed at  his right eye. It had started to  twitch
annoyingly. "None of this crap makes sense!" he said loudly, even though he  was
alone. He had clicked off his transmitter first.

•The raiders Reillor's men were watching should not have been sitting where they
were. Either they  should have been  coming back to  help in the  fight, or they
should have been moving as fast as they could in the other direction.

"One or the other," Lon muttered. "They can't still be expecting the other  team
to drive us into their kill zone."

He  linked into  the channel  that the  shuttle pilots  used among   themselves.
"You're sure  there's no  sign of  more of  those shuttles  heading our way?" he
asked. "The situation we've  got here, the raiders  must be expecting help  from
somewhere."

"Major, there's not a thing  in the air within eighty  miles of you but us,  and
we're not showing anything on the  ground like trucks or armor moving  your way.
We'd see heat signatures if there were. If the raiders have more resources, they
must already be in your  area, on the ground. You  want us to take a  run at the
positions of the raiders firing at you?''

"No. Save your munitions. We might need them more later," Lon said. "We're doing
okay here-for now, at least."

"We'll keep  watching. Anything  shows up,  you'll know  as fast  as we do," the
pilot promised.

The explosion on the  slope above the mine  entrance knocked Lon to  the ground.
Dirt and rock fell  from the roof and  walls of the shaft.  Several timber beams
cracked loudly.



15

Tuplace was a mining village. The workers had stored explosives in a bunker half
dug into the side of  one of the hills they  worked, above and southeast of  the
village. Much of the load detonated at once. The hill shook. A crater was formed
in the area right around the cache-a man-made volcano spewing rock and ash, dirt
and  fragments of  trees. The  force of  the explosion  felled trees  out to   a
distance of three  hundred yards, in  the valley and  on both slopes  facing it.
Every building in the village was damaged. Two were totally destroyed. Shattered
trees flew like primitive  rockets. Shards of wood  scattered with the force  of
bullets. In the mine  shaft behind Lon, there  was a cave-in, first  one section
directly under the explosion,  then in the tunnels  near that, sections of  roof
collapsing like dominoes.

At the sound  of the blast,  most of the  men exposed in  the valley and  on the
slopes went  flat, some  covering their  heads. The  actions were  not always in
time. And some of the detritus of the blast went far enough to fall in among the
party of raiders that had jumped into the valley on jet packs.

The gunfire stopped.

"Major?" Wil Nace said into his transmitter. "Major Nolan?" There was no answer.
Wil switched to the  frequency his patrol was  on. "Disengage. We've got  to get
back there and find out what happened."

Nace and his men had been in  the firefight for no more than four  minutes. They
had started taking return fire, but  no casualties. Now Nace led them  away from
the enemy, moving over the ridge as soon as he thought it safe. The squad  moved
quickly toward  the village  and the  cloud of  smoke and  dust that had not yet
settled.

On another radio channel.  Taw Reillor was also  trying to contact Lon,  with an
equal lack of success.  For a few seconds  the fury of the  explosion had numbed
Reillor. The ground shook under him-the  shock wave was massive, even at  such a
distance. Debris  rained down  from the  blast. But  the shock  passed, and  the
corporal started calling to find out what had happened. When Lon did not  reply.
Taw switched channels to call his  platoon sergeant, Phip Steesen. Phip did  not
respond immediately- for a good reason. The'blast had temporarily deafened  him,
as it had many others.

"I can't get any  response from the major,"  Reillor said when Phip  finally did
answer his calls. "What the hell happened?"

Phip's ears were still ringing, making it difficult to understand the  corporal.
"The mountain blew," he said,  shouting. "That's all I know.  We're belly-button
deep in shit."

"Hey! Wait a minute," Taw shouted  back. "The raiders here are starting  to pull
back. They're leaving!"

"Stay put until I find out what to do," Phip said. "You try the lieutenant?"

"No. Should I?"

"I'll do it. Get ready to move in a hurry, though. We may need you back here."

Smoke and  dust were  still rolling  through the  valley, obscuring vision. Phip
could feel small debris continuing to flutter down. It was almost like snow,  or
maybe  sleet,  except that  there  was nothing  cold  about this  precipitation.
Something in the mix  started Phip coughing, so  violently that it was  nearly a
minute before he could control it and call Lieutenant Girana.

"We can't contact the major," Phip reported. "I'm gonna take a couple of men  up
there and see what's up." He did not ask permission. No matter what Girana said,
Phip was going. He had already made that decision. "The raiders Taw was watching
are beating it. I haven't heard from Nace."

"His men are on their way in," Tebba said. "Go ahead. See what you can find  out
about the major. The  bunker where the locals  stored their explosives blew,  up
near the top of the other hill. Must have been booby-trapped by the raiders."

Phip  was already  moving. He  took the  two nearest  privates-Shen Flowers  and
Hobart "Hobo" Jennings from his platoon's first squad-and started running toward
the hill and  the mine shaft  where he had  last seen Lon.  There was almost  no
gunfire coming in now, just a few stray shots on the side where the raiders  who
had jumped into the valley were.

The slope  had become  a major  obstacle course  as a  result of  the explosion.
Broken  trees,  rocks, and  pieces  of the  village's  buildings were  scattered
everywhere, especially near the bottom of the slope. Higher up, rubble was still
tumbling down, the tail end of  the landslide that had nearly cleared  the upper
slopes in a fan shape out from the point of the blast.

Dust was still boiling  out of the mine  entrance where Lon had  established his
command post,  a sulfurous  yellow, thick  enough to  make it  impossible to see
anything through  it, even  with the  infrared assistance  of a  helmet's  night
vision system. It  worked its way  up under the  faceplates of the  Dirigenters'
masks, almost threatening to choke them.

Phip did not  slacken his pace.  He went straight  into the churning  maelstrom.
Only after he was  inside the entrance did  he slow down. He  had to. Visibility
was less  than a  yard. Phip  did not  so much  find Lon  as trip over him. Phip
nearly fell flat on  his face. He used  his rifle to catch  himself, and turned,
going down on one knee to see what had tripped him.

Holding his breath to keep from inhaling more of the dust, Phip felt the side of
Lon's neck  for a  pulse. It  was long  seconds before  he felt  the first beat,
faint. But  he adjusted  his fingers  and the  beat was  stronger, but slow, too
slow. Phip slung his rifle over his shoulder and started dragging Lon toward the
entrance-a slightly brighter area in the dust cloud.

At the entrance, Shen and Hobart spotted  them and helped Phip carry Lon off  to
the side and farther up the  slope, looking for clear air. Lon  started coughing
hard, nearly convulsing with the effort of breathing.

Phip tried  to talk  but couldn't.  He lifted  his faceplate,  then grabbed  his
canteen and took a mouthful of water- swirling it around, then spitting it  out,
just trying to get rid of some of the dust. He had to do it a second time before
his voice was ready to work.

"Hobo, you and Shen look around for  the guys who were here, Zeffo's fire  team.
They were outside, deployed around the entrance, the last time I saw them," Phip
said while he pulled off Lon's  helmet. He leaned closer, listening and  looking
for movement in Lon's chest, a sign that he was breathing regularly.

Breathing, coughing.  When Lon  started to  choke again,  Phip lifted  him to  a
sitting position. When the spasms eased, he held his canteen to Lon's lips.

"You've got to wash out some of  the dirt," Phip said when Lon groaned,  a deep,
rumbling sound somewhere low in his throat.

"Take a sip, roll it around, then spit it out," Phip instructed when Lon finally
managed to open his eyes just a little. The eyelids were caked with dirt, making
it difficult  for Lon  to get  his eyes  open. He  leaned forward a little. Phip
tipped the canteen toward  Lon's lips and watched  to make sure that  his friend
did not take too much water right away.

Coming back was a slow and painful process. Lon felt as if someone were  sitting
on his chest.  Each breath took  a herculean effort.  He was not  truly aware of
Phip for several  minutes, even after  he had rinsed  out his mouth  twice, then
taken  a small  sip of  water to  swallow. The  muddy taste  didn't matter.  The
sensation of  drinking was  restorative. The  water might  have been  some magic
elixir. But it also brought the dawn of pain. Lon had been too numb to feel much
of anything before, but now ... He groaned again. His head throbbed madly. There
was a maddening ringing in his ears that pulsed and faded. The other aches  took
a bit longer to assert themselves-back and shoulders, one hip, both knees,  left
hand and wrist.

The touch of water on Lon's face was an almost electrical shock as Phip tried to
wash away the dirt caked around his friend's eyes.

"What hap-" was all that Lon could rasp out before he started coughing again.

"The explosives  bunker blew,"  Phip said.  "We're still  trying to  sort things
out."

The mountain didIall on me, Lon thought. "Water," he whispered.

"Take it easy yet, Lon,"  Phip said. "Just a little  for now. We've got to  have
one of the medics check you out. There might be internal injuries."

While he helped Lon drink, Phip clicked over to the radio channel that connected
him with Tebba Girana and reported that Lon was alive but hurt.

"Stay with him," Tebba said, needlessly. "We're still trying to find people."

"He needs a medic, when one can get here," Phip said. "The sooner the better."

The dust settled.  The smoke dissipated.  In the valley,  everything was covered
with a thick layer of yellow dirt and gray ash. Men walked or limped through the
apocalyptic landscape. Time seemed  to pass in slow  motion, even an hour  after
the explosion.

During that hour, responsibility for treating the wounded and accounting for the
dead had fallen to Tebba Girana. He had also sent scouts to trail the two groups
of raiders, to make certain that  they did not double back undetected  to attack
Tuplace and its defenders.

The Bancrofters had suffered most. In the buildings, there were twenty dead  and
another dozen badly wounded men. Lieutenant Colonel Rose, the observer, was  one
of the dead. He had been with  the villagers. Among the women and children,  who
had been hidden in  one of the other  mine shafts, casualties were  lighter- one
dead and a dozen injured, and most of the injuries were minor. The mine they had
been secreted in had been less affected than the one Lon had been in.

Ninety minutes  after the  explosion, the  casualty count  among the mercenaries
stood at five dead and sixty injured, with three men still unaccounted for. Only
a  third of  the wounded  men were  hurt seriously.  The rest  were treated  and
returned to duty. As quickly as  the seriously injured men could be  stabilized,
they were moved to a  shuttle that landed to  pick them up. Dirigenters  and Ban
crofters. The first shuttle loaded as many of the wounded as possible, to  hurry
them to Lincoln and  better medical care. A  second shuttle was on  its way from
Lincoln with a  half-dozen extra trauma  tubes. It landed  just after the  first
took off.

Colonel Henks  was on  the incoming  shuttle. He  was the  first man  out of it,
hurrying.  But he  stopped as  soon as  he saw  the extent  of the  destruction.
Mercenaries had to push around him to get to the trauma tubes and other  medical
supplies on the shuttle. Some of the wounded could not be moved to the  shuttle.
The tubes had to be taken to them.

One passing  medic was  the only  person to  hear Henks's  comment on seeing the
results of the blast: "My dear God!"

Slowly, Henks became  aware that he  was in the  way and moved  farther from the
shuttle and the open door. He  stood with his mouth hanging open,  transfixed by
the hellish vista. Several minutes passed before one of the mercenaries came  up
to him.

"Colonel Henks? Major Nolan asked me to bring you straight to him."

Henks blinked  and looked  at the  man who  had raised  his helmet faceplate. He
needed an  instant to  recognize Tebba  Girana. "Thank  you. Lieutenant,"  Henks
said. He gestured weakly. "I've never seen destruction like this."

"It doesn't come much worse," Tebba said without looking in the direction  Henks
had gestured.  "Not and  have anyone  live through  it. If  you'll come with me,
sir?"

Tebba led the way up  the slope. Lon had not  moved far from the mine  entrance,
but he had declined to go back inside, even though the dust had stopped  rolling
out of it. At the moment, he  was sitting propped up against a rock.  His helmet
was lying on the ground  next to him, and he  held his head in his  hands, still
not fully recovered from his  relatively minor injuries. He remained  moderately
dizzy. The tinnitus was still an annoying buzz. His hearing was muted, as if his
ears had water in them. People speaking to him seemed to be at a greai distance.
A medic had confirmed his suspicions that he had suffered a concussion.

"Lon,  here's Colonel  Henks," Tebba  said when  Lon did  not look  up at  their
approach.

Even now, Lon lifted his  head only slowly, and not  as far as he would  have in
other circumstances.

"Colonel. We've made rather a botch of  things so far," Lon said. "We think  the
raiders booby-trapped the village's explosives bunker and set it off  remotely."
He  shrugged, infinitesimally  because any  movement increased  his aches,  even
after a med-patch. "We may never know for certain, because we're not equipped to
do the sort of investigation it would take to find proof one way or the other."

Henks was slow to answer. He  was still looking around at the  destruction. From
the side of the hill, above the valley and closer to the site of the  explosion,
the devastation seemed infinitely worse. He marveled that anyone had survived at
all.

"There's  no defense  against an  attack like  that. Major,"  he said   finally.
"Except to be somewhere else when it happens."

"We should  have checked  that bunker.  Colonel," Lon  said. "It's  something we
should have thought of."

"They would have set if off sooner then, caught whoever you had sent to  inspect
it," Henks suggested.

"Maybe, maybe not," Lon said. "My guess  is that it was on a timer.  The raiders
who had been hitting the village when we arrived were gone by then, too far away
to see what was going on here."

"The other group was close. They  could have triggered it," Tebba said,  talking
more to Lon than to Henks.

"Where are the raiders now? Do you know?" Henks asked.

Tebba replied, "Both groups disengaged,  took off in opposite directions.  We've
got men following them.  The last report I  had, it appears that  they're moving
toward a  rendezvous east  of here.  They're not  going to  get a chance to have
their remaining  shuttle pick  them up.  We're maintaining  an air  patrol. That
other shuttle shows up again,  we're going to dump it  the way we did the  first
one."

"I've got people heading to that site now," Henks said. "One of our shuttles and
half my rapid response company."

Lon  looked  up  more  now.  "I  want  to  see  that  shuttle,  Colonel.  I want
comprehensive, detailed  video and  samples of  the materials.  It may take some
time, but we're going to find out  where that shuttle came from. We're going  to
find out who's behind this." Anger surged in Lon, suppressing the discomfort  of
such a long speech. When he had finished, he coughed, then took a drink of water
to lubricate his throat again.

"You will have all  the support we can  give you. Major," Henks  said. "When you
are ready to resume your pursuit of the raiders, my rapid response company  will
be at your disposal, and any of the other companies you feel are up to the job."

"Thank you. Colonel," Lon said. "We'll give you the victory you want over  these
raiders yet."

Tebba took  over. "We  are keeping  an eye  on them  on the ground. Colonel. The
scouts  will stay  on the  trail as  long as  necessary, until  they follow  the
raiders to their camp or until we're ready to hit them again."

"Your men are  equipped to stay  out for several  days, perhaps a  week or more,
without support?" Henks asked.

"They're carrying rations for three days and can supplement them off the land if
they have to," Tebba said. "I don't expect  it will take us a week to get  ready
to  hit the  raiders again,  but even   if it  took twice  that long,  I'd  feel
confident that our men are up to the job."

It was  a long  day in  Tuplace. The  wounded, villagers  and Dirigenters,  were
treated on-site  or evacuated  to Lincoln.  The dead  villagers were buried. The
dead mercenaries were flown to Lincoln, then up to Sidon. Their bodies would  be
returned  to  Dirigent. A  transport  shuttle came  in  to remove  the  gold and
minerals that  the raiders  had been  after. Then  the remaining  villagers were
evacuated. Their homes  were too badly  damaged for quick  repairs to make  them
habitable again. Colonel  Henks promised that  the homes, the  village, would be
rebuilt.

Finally,  after everyone  else had  been moved  from Tuplace,  the rest  of  the
mercenaries left. The last missing soldier's body had been found in the  rubble.
Every man was accounted for.

"You're going to keep people near  that raider shuttle?" Lon asked Henks  before
they boarded the last flight out of Tuplace.

"As long as necessary," Henks said.

"I'm going to want to  see it for myself in  the mom-ing," Lon said. "I  need to
see it."

Before the shuttle's crew chief closed the door, Lon looked out at the hill  and
the new crater at  its top. This isn  't over yet, he  thought. We 'II have  our
day.



16

Of the  sixty Dirigenters  who had  been injured  by the  explosion in  Tuplace,
fourteen were going to need extended periods for regeneration and  recuperation.
Most had lost limbs, or portions of limbs. One man had broken his back and neck,
severing the spinal cord in two  places. The remaining injured men were  fit for
duty before  sunset, the  day of  the blast.  Four hours  in a trauma tube could
repair just about anything short of amputation or major neurological damage.

"We can't give the men time to brood over this," Lon told Tebba and Well on  the
flight  back to  Lincoln. "As  soon as  we get  back to  barracks, put  them  to
cleaning and  repairing weapons  and equipment.  Get replacements  down from the
ships  for  anything lost  or  too badly  damaged  to repair."  He  paused. "The
electronics in my  helmet were wiped  out by the  blast. We might  have a lot of
that kind of damage. And my rifle ..." He shook his head. "I poured about  three
pounds of dust from the barrel. I dread to think what it's going to take to  get
the mechanics of it functioning again."

"The rifles shouldn't be  that big a problem,"  Lead Sergeant Weil Jorgen  said.
"Unless barrels are bent or parts in the receiver broken, it's just elbow grease
and such. We've got canned air to blow out dirt. It's the helmets that worry me.
At least a third of the men  lost some or all of their electronics.  We're going
to have to bring  down a lot of  replacements, parts if not  entire helmets, and
it's  going to  take six  to eight  hours to  make sure  every man  has a  fully
functional helmet. It's a good thing we  carry a lot of spares on the  ships, or
we'd be out of luck."

"Can we  bring the  armorer's mate  down from  Tyre to  check the rifles?" Tebba
asked. "Give him enough of  our men to help out,  but get the expert to  certify
the weapons?''

"Good thinking," Lon said, nodding.  "Make the arrangements. I want  the company
battle-ready before anyone beds down tonight. We get a good night's sleep  then,
and get  ready to  head back  out tomorrow  morning. We've  got men out there. I
don't want to leave them hanging a minute longer than we have to."

"I thought you were going  to wait, and let the  raiders get back to their  camp
first," Tebba said.

Lon was slow to reply.  "We may yet. It depends  on a lot of things-how  long it
takes  them to  get there,  whether our  people remain  safe, and  what kind  of
reception we get  in Lincoln. I  want to finish  this business as  quickly as we
can, safely. Get back to the training routine."

The mild  analgesic Lon  had been  given was  wearing off.  The stronger patches
might have been  dangerous with his  concussion, and in  any case, he  wanted to
keep his mind clear. Now he ached-all over, not just his head. He felt as if  he
had  just  gone through  a  twelve-round boxing  match  . .  .  after running  a
marathon. He hurt,  and he was  exhausted. Concentration was  difficult. All Lon
really wanted to do was curl up in the least painful position he could find  and
sleep for ten or twelve hours. But he had to see to his men, and get the company
back up to a battle-ready condition first.

"We lost nine  men today," he  said softly. "Fourteen  more might not  return to
duty before the end of the contract. That's not good, and it wouldn't have  been
even if we had managed to put down every last one of those raiders."

"I know  what you're  thinking. Major,"  Weil said.  "But that explosion, that's
outside the normal run of things. We're actually damned lucky. Our losses  could
have been a hell of a lot worse. There might have been ten tons of explosives in
that bunker instead of two or three. We could easily have ninety dead instead of
nine. It's a miracle we don't."

"I agree with Weil, Lon," Tebba said.  "We could have lost everyone but the  men
in the two fire teams we had out away from the village. The bunker those charges
were in was  solid. Most of  the explosive force  was directed out  and up, away
from us."

Lon squeezed his eyes shut. He knew how much worse it could have been, but  that
did not make him feel any better about the men he had lost.

A light rain was falling when Lon's shuttle landed next to the militia  compound
in Lincoln.  When Lon  stepped out  of the  lander, he  looked up into the rain,
thinking how appropriate it was. No  time for sunshine now, he thought.  Thunder
and lightning  might he  even better.  But this  was not  a storm, just a gentle
spring shower. He  walked slowly toward  the gate and  through to the  barracks.
Most of his men had returned  ahead of him. Squad leaders and  platoon sergeants
had already started their men at the necessary chores of cleaning and repairing.

"Get chow call as quickly as  possible," Lon told Weil. "Whatever the  cooks can
come up with. And anything they can think of in the way of special treats,"

"Yes, sir," Weil said. He was having difficulty walking as slowly as Lon was. "I
know this is out of the ordinary, and not covered by regs, but how about serving
beer with supper?  That'll pick their  spirits up quick  as anything, and  there
won't be time enough for anyone to get drunk."

"Go ahead," Lon said. "Just don't log it on the menu."

Five hours later, Lon had moved past exhaustion to a state of numbness that left
him feeling  as groggy  as he  had been  after regaining  consciousness from the
blast that morning.  He had spoken  with nearly every  survivor of the  fight in
Tuplace, inspected dozens of rifles and helmets, commiserated with those who had
lost friends and squadmates. He had spoken by radio with the men who were  still
trailing  the raiders.  The two  groups had  rendezvoused and  kept moving.  The
raiders had  made camp  just before  sunset. They  had marched  hard until then,
though,  averaging  better than  four  miles an  hour,  overland, through  rough
country. "They're in damn good shape, Major," Taw Reillor had reported. "Kept us
moving lively to keep up with them."

"Just don't let  them spot you,"  Lon said. "We'll  get to you  as quickly as we
can. With any luck, they'll lead you straight to their main camp."

"They won't  see us,"  Taw said.  "I can  give you  a firm  head count  on them,
though. There are seventy-eight of 'em."

"We're set, Lon," Tebba reported near  ten o'clock that night. "Every man  has a
serviceable rifle and helmet. We've  replaced all of the mapboards  and portable
com-plinks. Both of Tyre's shuttles have been fully repaired and restocked  with
ammunition and rockets."

"Okay, tell the men to hit their racks and get some sleep."

"I've already released the platoons," Tebba said. "First platoon will handle the
duty assignments tonight."

Lon nodded. "No  reveille in the  morning, not for  the men who  were out today.
Breakfast at eight, work formation at nine."

"We going straight back out?" Tebba asked.

"I'm not  going to  make that  decision tonight,"  Lon said.  "My brain is still
scrambled. We'll talk it out in the morning, us and Colonel Henks."

"You do look like you need your sleep, Lon," Tebba said. "You should have sacked
out an hour ago."

"No, not before the men," Lon said.

The men  who had  been lost.  Different ways  in which  the situation in Tuplace
could have been handled. The explosion. The pain. What to do next. Sara and  the
children. Home. Don't let your son grow up to be a soldier. Reports he needed to
write. There was so much competing for Lon's attention that he could concentrate
on none of it. The clutter started  his head buzzing again. He sat on  his bunk,
elbows  resting on  his thighs,  trying to  quiet the  mental cacophony  without
success.

"I should at least record a note to Sara," Lon told himself, but the effort  was
more than he  could summon energy  for. No, I  guess not, he  thought. The way I
feel now, she'd see it in whatever I said or wrote. She'd worry too much.

Slowly, he tumbled over into bed. He  had taken his boots off earlier. That  was
as far as the undressing went. Before he could remind himself to get out of  his
clothes, he was asleep, dropping into peaceful oblivion.

At least he would remember nothing of what passed during the hours he slept, but
he tossed and turned almost the whole night. There were times when he groaned in
virtual  pain  or  cried out  in  sleeping  fear. But  the  nightmares  were not
sufficient to wake him, or to imprint themselves on his mind when he woke,  just
before dawn, as he would have wakened on any normal morning.

Lon's clothing was soaked with sweat. He still felt physically exhausted. But he
laid that  off against  the rigors  of the  day before.  He sat  up, yawning and
stretching, trying to pump his mind up to something like normal alertness. After
a few minutes  he got up  and stripped off  his clothes before  walking down the
corridor to shower. Cold water at full blast, then hot water, then cold again at
the end.

It helped.

When he finally shut off the shower,  the sound of water dripping from his  body
was all Lon  could hear. Lon  was far enough  from the bays  where his men slept
that he couldn't even  hear snoring. He dried  off, then wrapped a  towel around
his middle for the walk back to his room.

In the room, he turned on only the small reading lamp over the headboard of  his
bed.  The  splash  of  the  narrow-beam  lamp  on  the  bedding  provided enough
illumination for Lon to find fresh clothes and dress. He did not think of  going
back to bed, even though it was only a few minutes after five in the morning. He
used a quiet power shaver while sitting on his bed, not bothering with a mirror.
He checked the results by feel.

Once  he was  "fit" for  the public,  Lon went  to the  company's orderly  room.
Platoon Sergeant Ernst Graw-ley of first  platoon was sitting there, feet up  on
the desk, acting as Charge of Quarters. He brought his feet down and stood  when
Lon entered.

Lon waved  him back  down. "Have  you heard  anything from  the men trailing the
raiders?" he asked.

"Not since ... about twenty-one  hundred last night, Major," Grawley  said. "The
raiders were bedded down. Our guys were ready to do the same, one man on  watch.
Corporal Reillor said they wouldn't call until the raiders started to move  this
morning, unless something  happened. I guess  nothing has. You  want me to  give
them a call, see what's going on?"

Lon shook his head. "Let them be."

"You gonna let  first platoon go  out next time.  Major?" Grawley asked  after a
moment. "We need our turn."

"It's not a  game, Ernst," Lon  said. "You've been  in the Corps  long enough to
know that." Grawley was  the only one of  Alpha's platoon sergeants who  had not
been in  third platoon  when Lon  was a  cadet. Grawley  had been  first platoon
sergeant  almost as  long as  Lon had  been on  Dirigent. Grawley  was due   for
promotion to company lead sergeant-and would have had that promotion already  if
he had not declined to leave A Company.

"It's what we do. Major. Our job.  And right now, first is in better  shape than
any of the other platoons."

Grawley was shaking his head. "I never think of it as a game."

"Sorry, Ernst. I shouldn't have said that." Lon took in a deep breath, then  let
it out slowly.  "I haven't decided  what we're going  to do next.  I need to sit
down with the lieutenants  and sergeants and talk  it through. And before  that,
I've got to find someplace quiet to sit and think about it myself."

"I could take a walk, get a cup of coffee, if you want to do your thinking here.
Major. Time to get my platoon up anyway."

"Thank you, Ernst. I relieve you as CQ."

"Thank you, sir." Grawley stood, saluted, and left the office, closing the  door
behind him.

I should have gone back to bed for another hour, Lon thought as he looked at the
door. I've got the feeling this is going to be another long day.

He sat at the desk, keyed the complink to show a map of Bancroft, and zeroed  it
in on the  position of the  men who were  following the raiders.  The answer was
somewhere in that area.

It has to be, Lon told himself. Either the main camp of the raiders or a landing
zone for their shuttles, a place where they could be picked up and moved.

"This time we pick the time and the place," he said. "And this time we finish it
off."



17

It was 0930  when Lon convened  his meeting. Tebba,  Harley, Weil, and  the four
platoon sergeants were in the office with him. Extra chairs had been brought  in
so everyone could sit.

"I've got some ideas," Lon  started. "I'm going to lay  them out for you, and  I
want feedback.  You see  a way  to improve  the plan,  speak up.  Shoot down any
flaws. I  want to  get this  all hashed  out and  smooth before  I present it to
Colonel Henks.

"The first thing is I don't want to leave a single squad of men out in the field
too long trailing the raiders. It's  not that I have any reservations  about the
ability of our men  to operate like that  for as long as  necessary. They simply
shouldn't have to.

"On the other hand, if it's at  all possible, I want to hit these  raiders after
they get to their main camp. The two batches we faced at Tuplace may not be  all
of them. One  problem is that  these raiders might  not go all  the way to their
main base on foot. They could be  heading to a rendezvous point for air  pickup.
If that's the case, we'll try to dump the shuttles that come in for them."

"After yesterday, I don't think they're  likely to try that," Tebba said.  "They
know we've got birds with teeth,  and we already dropped one of  their shuttles.
They can't have unlimited  resources or they'd have  been more open about  their
operations. I think those raiders we're tracking are going to go all the way  to
their camp-or their next target-on foot."

"I agree, sir,"  Weil Jorgen said.  "They'll save their  air transport for  when
they really need it."

"I was simply presenting the options,"  Lon said. "I also think that  it's going
to be walking for them. Either to  their base or their next target. If  they aim
for another  mining village  or camp,  we might  simply repeat  what happened at
Tuplace-get there after  the raiders hit,  find ourselves in  the middle of  the
shit again. I don't want that. So ..." Lon let that hang for twenty seconds.

"Late this afternoon, I propose to take the same three platoons out. We'll  find
an LZ far enough from the raiders that they won't see or hear us. We  rendezvous
with our patrol and move in parallel to the raiders until they get to their base
or move into position for another raid."  Lon held a hand out. "Hold on,  Ernst.
Don't start bitch-ing yet. Let me  finish." Grawley had obviously been ready  to
protest his platoon being excluded again.

"If they go  to a base,  we'll set up,  ready to go  in, and wait.  I'll call in
first platoon and Colonel Henks's rapid response company. We'll hit the  raiders
on every side, make damned sure they can't slip away from us. If they attempt to
strike another mining  target instead, we'll  be in position  to keep them  away
from the civilians and call in the  backup just the same. We're going to  finish
this batch of raiders." Lon paused to look at the faces of the others.

"The reason for going in part now  and part later is simple: We don't  know that
this is  the only  group there  is. If  another band  hits a  target while we're
hiking through the  woods following these,  there have to  be people here  to go
after them.  After what  happened in  Tuplace, I  want a  platoon of  our people
included. We did badly enough yesterday. None of Henks's people are up to facing
that by themselves.

"Satisfied, Ernst?'' Lon asked.

Grawley grinned. "Yes, sir. I guess that'll do."

"Harley?" Lon turned to his younger lieutenant.

Harley nodded. "Something comes up, we'll handle it."

"Now, ideas, gentlemen. I want to polish this until you can shave in it before I
go see Colonel Henks."

It was lunchtime before  Lon went to the  militia commander's office. Henks  had
meals brought in and listened while Lon laid out his proposal.

"I must admit," Henks said, "I was worried about the responsibility you laid  on
a single squad  of men. If  they were spotted,  I don't think  any of them would
have made it out alive."

"That wasn't my primary concern. Colonel. I do have faith in my men. I know  how
good they  are. But  I don't  want to  take a  chance of  losing track  of these
raiders. We want to end their activities, and we want prisoners so we can  learn
where they came from and who's footing the bill."

"Quite," Henks said, nodding. "Are you sure my people will be up to their end of
the operation you've outlined?"

"Obviously, we won't know that for certain until the time comes," Lon said. "But
they've done well in  training, better than we  could have demanded. They're  as
ready as we can make  them. And since you'll have  my people along as well,  the
odds will never be better for them."

"I shall be along when the time comes," Henks said.

Lon smiled. "I expected that. Colonel."

"Since you are  the veterans, the  professionals, I shall  willingly accept your
leadership in the operation."

"I appreciate that. Colonel," Lon said. He was relieved as well. The question of
authority had to be resolved in advance. It was spelled out in the rider to  the
contract that Lon had negotiated, but he was glad that Henks had brought it up.

"Do you  still want  to fly  out to  look at  the raider aircraft that crashed?"
Henks asked next. "We can go out and get back in little more than an hour."

"Your people are still guarding the site?"

Henks nodded. "I'd like to bring them back as quickly as possible. They've  been
collecting what they could, and  recording everything on video. Perhaps  some of
the debris will tell us who we're dealing with."

The flight was uneventful. Lon and Henks rode in the cockpit with the Bancrofter
pilots, so they had a clear view from the air of the scene. The raider craft had
gone in hard, snapping trees and  losing bits of itself for three  hundred yards
before  it  came to  rest.  The ground  immediately  around the  remains  of the
fuselage was fire-blackened, and the  nearest standing trees showed where  they,
too, had burned.

"Good  thing it's  been wet,"  Henks said.  "Could have  started one  hell of  a
wildfire in the dry season."

"We'll have  to land  three-quarters of  a mile  farther on,"  one of the pilots
said. "There's no place to set down closer."

Henks nodded. "We can manage from there." The clearing where the shuttle  landed
was scarcely  large enough,  even without  the other  Bancrofter shuttle already
parked at the edge. The pilot banked and braked, getting his craft level no more
than three seconds before the wheels touched down. Lon held on as tightly as  he
could, and gritted his  teeth. The landing was,  perhaps, less dangerous than  a
combat landing in  a Dirigenter shuttle,  but Lon had  never experienced one  of
those from the cockpit, where he could see everything the pilots

could.

Several militiamen were  waiting to escort  them to the  wreckage. Colonel Henks
set a brisk pace, surprising Lon and-apparently-his own men. The militiamen  who
had been on the scene since the day before had worn a bit of a path through  the
forest, but it was still

not a simple route.

"There  wasn't any  identification on  the two  pilots," one  of the  militiamen
explained as they neared the site of the crash. "We had to bury the bodies,  the
pieces we could find."

"No problem," Henks said.  "If we need to  examine the bodies later,  we can dig
them up."

Lon stopped  short as  soon as  he could  see the  wreckage clearly. Much of the
fuselage of the crashed  shuttle was still intact,  but it had been  bent twenty
degrees to  the right.  The wings  had been  ripped off,  along with the weapons
pods, antennas, and every other  protruding feature. The nose was  squashed. The
canopies fronting the cockpit had popped  out, and the openings now looked  like
squinting eyes. There was still the smell of fire and burned lubricants.

"Did  you  find any  cargo?"  Lon asked.  "Weapons,  ammunition, field  rations,
anything like that?"

"Bits and pieces. Major," the sergeant  in charge of the recovery efforts  said.
"We've been collecting it all, the way we were told. What we got is back on  our
shuttle, ready to go to Lincoln. There isn't a lot recognizable, though."

"A good lab can bring out quite a lot," Lon said. "Just by analyzing all of  the
metal and composites we might be able to tell where the items came from."

Lon walked slowly around the wreckage, scanning the hull of the shuttle closely.
If  there  had  been  any  identification  markings,  the  fire  and  crash  had
obliterated them  completely. UV  and IR  scanning might  pick something up, Lon
thought. We get through this next operation and still have questions, we can  do
it then.

For the present, he  was not concerned with  that. They still had  the chance to
take prisoners, and that would certainly yield answers. No one could resist  the
truth drugs that were available to Lon. All he needed was someone to  administer
them to.

The tail of the shuttle had snapped  off and lay separated from the rest  of the
fuselage by forty yards. That left an opening into the passenger compartment  of
the shuttle. Lon stepped up into it, switching on the night-vision system of his
helmet. The rows  of plastic seats  on either side  of the compartment  had been
heavily damaged by the  crash and the rocket  that had caused it.  Lon estimated
that there might  have been sixty  seats altogether, and  room for eighty  cubic
feet of cargo.

"Pretty basic,"  Colonel Henks  said. He  had been  slow to  follow Lon into the
fuselage, and he did not bother to make as close an examination of the remains.

"It was  sure as  hell functional  when it  hit us  at Tu-place," Lon said. "I'm
going to look into the cockpit."

"I'll go talk to my men, see if anyone noticed anything useful," Henks said. "We
don't want  to waste  more time  than we  have to  if you  want to get the other
operation started today."

Lon nodded. Henks's distaste for this  job did not startle him. Lon  walked back
to the front of  the passenger compartment. The  Bancrofters had pried open  the
hatch between that and the cockpit.  It had been bent, and wedged  shut. Getting
it open had been difficult.

Not much  was left  of the  cockpit. It  had been  small to  start with, and the
crushing effect of the crash had reduced it considerably. The seats for the  two
pilots  had popped  free of  their anchors.  The control  panel had  buckled  in
several places. The instrumentation had  been removed by the Bancrofters.  There
was not a monitor or gauge left in place.

Lon looked under the seats and through the holes in the instrument panel but saw
nothing that might be of use. After stretching over the panel to look out one of
the openings, Lon retreated through the shuttle and climbed down.

"Your men did good work," he told Henks. "I assume they collected samples of the
fuselage metal as well?"

"Several pieces, fuselage, wings, and tail assembly. Used a torch to cut  pieces
free," Henks said. "Do you see any  need to leave men to guard the  wreckage now
that we have everything you wanted?"

"No. Nothing  here is  of any  possible use  to the  raiders. I  can't see  them
mounting an operation to recover this junk."

Junk. Lon had decided as soon as he first saw the wreckage that the raider craft
had not been nearly as well constructed as Dirigentan shuttles were. In a  crash
such as this, everyone aboard one of the Corps' landers would have died, but the
shuttle itself would be in better condition. Not allowing for the effects of the
rocket that hit it, Lon conceded.

The two Bancrofter shuttles returned  to Lincoln together. Lon ascertained  that
there  were laboratory  facilities in  the capital  that could  do the  sort  of
analysis required, and he  arranged for the results  to be linked to  CIC aboard
Tyre.

"We can run the results against  our databanks," Lon told Colonel Henks.  "If we
get enough matches,  we ought to  be able to  tell what world  the ship and  its
fittings came from, and  that could lead to  finding out where the  raiders came
from."

"You think they might not be the same?" Henks asked.

Lon  shrugged. "It's  possible, but  far from  certain. It's  possible that  the
shuttle came from one world, the weapons and ammunition from another, and  maybe
the raiders themselves from a third, or several others. And the people behind it
might be from still somewhere else. When we get the analysis done, we should  be
able to narrow it down, at least a little."

"If we don't take any prisoners in the next operation?"

"Prisoners are still important," Lon said. "But having hard evidence to go along
with what prisoners tell us is better."

All three platoons were shorthanded because of the deaths and injuries requiring
extended regeneration and recuperation. There  were too many empty seats  in the
two shuttles  that Lon  and his  men rode,  even allowing  for the fact that one
platoon was  staying behind.  There was  no banter  among the  men as they filed
aboard and  strapped in.  Most of  the men  hid behind  the faceplates  of their
helmets, concealing  their faces-and  their thoughts.  Lon checked  with platoon
sergeants and squad  leaders individually, then  conferred with Tebba  and Weil.
There was no hard-and-fast plan of attack. The company would rendezvous with the
men  who  had been  trailing  the raiders  since  they left  Tuplace.  The three
platoons would separate then, one flanking the raiders on either side, the third
following.

Until... whatever.

"How long are you  prepared to keep this  up?" Tebba asked his  boss. "And don't
give me that 'as long as it takes' line of crap. You have to have some limit  in
mind."

There was a long pause before  Lon answered. The two were in  separate shuttles,
so they could not look at each other and read expressions or gestures.

"We're carrying provisions for five  days," Lon said eventually. "If  necessary,
we'll go at least  that long. Then ...  it depends on the  situation, whether we
can get a drop  of rations without spooking  the raiders we're following.  But I
really don't see this taking more  than five days. The raiders covered  thirteen
miles yesterday after the  explosion. And the last  report we had said  they had
already covered that much today and  were still moving. In five days  they could
cover a hundred miles. On the  course they're following, that will take  them to
within a hundred miles of the coast."

"Nothing says they have to be heading for their base," Tebba reminded Lon. "They
might be aiming for another target, or just drawing us away from everything.  No
matter how  cautious we  are, there  is a  chance they  know we've been watching
them."

"If  they're  heading for  another  target, we  should  know within  forty-eight
hours," Lon said. "They'll have to change course to hit any of the mining sites.
I had Colonel Henks locate all of them. They're marked on our mapboards."

"You still haven't answered my initial question," Tebba said. "Just how long are
you prepared to follow these raiders?"

"I don't know, Tebba," Lon said after  another long pause. "We can't keep it  up
forever, but I haven't decided yet where to draw the line."

The DMC shuttles stayed low, no more than fifty feet above the highest treetops,
and the  pilots kept  their speed  relatively low.  There had  been considerable
discussion about  where the  landers would  set down.  Clearings large enough to
take them were few  and far between in  the untouched forests of  Bancroft. They
needed a place that was close enough to the raiders and their shadows for  Lon's
platoons to  rendezvous with  their scouts,  but not  so close  that the raiders
might hear the shuttles coming in.

"We're going to have a hard march coming up," Lon told Tebba and the  sergeants.
"It's not going to be  possible to land within five  miles of the men we've  got
following the raiders. We'll be almost due  south of the bad guys when we  land,
and our course will be northeast,  aiming for rendezvous with our people  before
dawn tomorrow."

"That's going  to put  an awful  strain on  the men,"  Tebba said  on a  private
channel to Lon. "Tonight and all day tomorrow without sleep?"

"Maybe three hours for sleep," Lon said. "We push as hard as possible during the
early stages this  evening, check to  make sure we're  close enough for  a final
push in the hours before sunrise, then bed down for a bit. We can do it. I  want
us in close as quickly as possible,  just in case they're getting near to  where
they're going."

"It's not a race,  Lon," Tebba said softly.  "If they reach their  base, they'll
probably stick around  a day or  two, minimum. It's  no good running  a race and
then fighting as soon as you cross the finish line."

"I know, Tebba," Lon said, weariness  showing in his voice. "But the  rendezvous
will  be a  lot safer  if we  can  do  it in  the dark,  then get  the  platoons
positioned around the raiders before they start out tomorrow morning."

The landing zone was a narrow  floodplain on the northern side of  a fast-moving
stream. At present, the creek was narrow,  not quite to the flood, four to  five
feet deep. The ground  was covered with tall  grass that hid any  obstacles that
might  be there.  The LZ  was so  restricted that  the shuttles  could not  land
together. Lon's lander went in first, unloaded, and took off again to make  room
for the second  shuttle. Even coming  in slow it  made noise, enough  for Lon to
worry that the raiders might hear it even five miles or more away.

Lon moved with his men  to set up a quick  perimeter, just beyond the limits  of
the grass, where the  forest resumed. The grass  had proven to be  five to seven
feet high, and very  thick, which made movement  through it like wading  through
chest-deep water. But where the trees began, the grass quickly ended.

The trees bordering the LZ were coniferous, quite similar to trees Lon had known
on Earth as a child- Christmas trees, he thought with a brief and private smile.
These trees were tall, straight, and  narrow, with the lowest branches often  no
more than three or  four feet off the  ground. They provided decent  shelter for
his men,  as they  formed a  defensive perimeter  while the  men waited  for the
second shuttle to come in and unload its troops.

After the second  shuttle had taken  off, Lon called  Corporal Taw Reillor,  the
senior man in  the group that  had been tailing  the raiders. "We're  down," Lon
said. "Could you hear or see any trace of us coming in?"

"Not a breath. Major,"  Reillor said. "And I'm  sure the raiders didn't  either.
We're between them and your LZ."

"Stay back far  enough that they  can't spot you,  even by accident,"  Lon said.
"We're going to try to rendezvous with you before sunrise tomorrow."

"We're being careful," Reillor said. "And I know I'll be glad for the company. I
get to feeling like the mouse trying to bell a cat."

"Just remember where the mouse can end up," Lon said.

While Lon was on  the radio, Tebba Girana  organized the company for  the march.
Scouts and flankers  were sent out.  The rest of  the men in  the three platoons
were in their squads, ready to follow.

"Two minutes and the point squad should be far enough out," Tebba told Lon  when
they met.

"Who has the point?" Lon asked.

"Dean Ericks. Your old squad," Tebba said.

"Your old squad, you mean," Lon replied.  As a cadet, waiting for his chance  to
earn lieutenant's  pips, Lon  had been  assigned to  the second  squad of  third
platoon. Tebba had  been the squad  leader. And Lon's  closest friends had  been
Dean, Phip, and Janno  Belzer. Janno had resigned  from the Corps after  getting
married, nearly  ten years  back. Lon  still saw  Janno and  his wife, Mary, but
infrequently.

"Our old squad," Tebba allowed. Both  men had their helmet visors down,  so they
could not see each other's grins. The interlude served its purpose, though.  Lon
felt slightly more relaxed, less on edge. This early in the operation, that  was
good. It would not do to get too tight so soon.

The line  of march  spread out  over nearly  five hundred  yards. The paths they
found-animal paths reinforced by generations of use-were narrow. The mercenaries
generally had to move in single  file, and keeping decent intervals between  men
and  platoons did  the rest.  Lon took  his position  halfway back  in the  lead
platoon. Tebba moved in the middle of the rear platoon. Lead Sergeant Jorgen was
in the center. The three  leaders maintained their relative positions  even when
the platoons flip-flopped  their order  so that  each had  a turn  at each place
point, center, and rear. The squads  on the flanks and ahead were  also rotated.
Theoretically, those  changes of  assignment would  help keep  men from  getting
careless through boredom.

Every hour, the company  stopped for five minutes,  just long enough for  men to
take a drink of water and get off their feet for a short break. Lon checked  his
map-board to make  certain they were  still on the  proper heading and  that the
raiders had not changed course.

"At least the weather's cooperating,"  Phip Steesen commented during one  of the
breaks. "The temperature's decent and it's  not raining. What more could a  foot
soldier ask?"

Lon grunted.  "I've heard  you ask  for a  lot more.  Like trees  that run  beer
instead of sap."

Phip laughed softly. "The way I figure it, there's got to be at least one  world
in this galaxy where the tree sap is something like beer. That's not too much to
hope for, is it?"

"And maybe that sap would only run for  a week or two each year. That'd fix  you
fine."

"Hey, don't chum my dreams. They're all I have," Phip protested weakly.

Lon calculated that  they had three  hours of daylight  from the time  the march
started. As planned, he pushed the  company hard during those first hours,  more
so when the  topography forced a  detour that was  certain to add  a mile to the
distance they had to cover to make rendezvous with Taw's scouts.

Clouds started  to form  overhead. Between  the increasing  cloud cover  and the
trees, dusk came early. Lon pushed himself and his men. Instead of stopping long
enough for a meal right after sunset, he held off until it was almost night dark
and the men had been forced to switch on their night-vision systems.

But he would  not press  them beyond  rational limits.  He ordered  a meal  stop
thirty minutes. After four  hours of hiking over  rough terrain, the men  needed
more than five minutes to rest. Sitting on the ground, leaning back against  the
trunk of  a tree,  felt like  luxury even  to Lon.  The calves  of his  legs had
started to tighten up from the strain. Like his men, Lon was carrying more  than
his own weight.  Full field kit,  including weapons and  ammunition, added fifty
pounds.

"We're making good time," Tebba commented on his private channel to Lon. The two
officers were nowhere near each other-a standard safety precaution in  territory
where the company might be attacked  without warning. No one grenade, shell,  or
burst of rifle  fire could take  ou: both of  them. "You still  think we need to
push all the way to make rendezvous tonight?"

"As long as it's possible, yes," Lon said. "The raiders aren't lollygagging,  so
we can't either." Then, to forestall the arguments he suspected might come  from
Tebba, Lon added,  "We'll push on  for another three  hours, then take  stock. I
hope that puts  us close enough  to close the  gap in an  hour. That'll give  us
three and a half, maybe four hours for sleep."

Tebba did not speak, which spoke loudly to Lon.

"Once we catch up, we won't have  to go any faster than the raiders,"  Lon said.
"But until we get close, we can't do a damned thing for the people we've got  on
their tail. We'll just have to make do, sore feet and all."

"I know, Lon," Tebba said.

"I never ignore  your advice, Tebba,"  Lon said. "Even  when I don't  take it, I
take it into consideration. It's just that, this time, we need to do it fast."

Before the company  stopped to sleep,  they moved away  from the route  they had
been following,  off to  the side  more than  two hundred  yards, on  the remote
chance that  someone was  following them.  Sentries were  posted. Each fire team
would always have one man on watch within the encampment. And one sergeant would
always be awake, ready to respond instantly to any threat.

Lon stood near the center of the bivouac, waiting until his men were settled. He
talked to Tebba, Weil, and each  of the platoon sergeants, then merely  watched.
The perimeter  was roughly  circular, allowing  for the  terrain. The fire teams
stayed  close,  without  much  distance between  teams.  Because  the  chance of
hostiles  stumbling on  them was  so low,   Lon did  not order  the men  to  dig
trenches. Let them get as much sleep  as they can, he thought. No need  to waste
part of their  sack time digging.  If the level  of danger had  been greater, he
would have had no hesitation about ordering the work.

Only when most of the platoon had settled  in did Lon get off his feet. He  took
off his equipment  harness and let  the pack and  web belt slide  to the ground.
Then he sat beside them. He loosened the closures on his boots but did not  take
them off. After  hours of hiking,  his feet would  swell, and getting  the boots
back on in a hurry might be difficult.

Lon knew that once  he lay down, sleep  would come quickly, so  he waited before
stretching out under one of the low-slung trees. He was tired, his mind  slowing
already.  I guess  we did  push it  as hard  as we  could, he  thought. He   was
certainly no longer the youngest man in the company-far from it-but he was  also
not among the oldest. Tebba and Weil were both at least fifteen years older, and
there were a couple of other men in the company who were even older.

No one called with problems. Everyone  was ready to take what sleep  they could.
After several minutes, Lon pushed his  pack and harness farther under his  tree,
then slid in beside it. He unrolled his thermal blanket, wrapped himself in  it,
and lay  on his  back. The  padding in  his helmet  had to  serve as  pillow. He
adjusted his position and almost before he stopped moving, he was asleep.

Here, sleep  could not  be the  total oblivion  of slumber  in known  safety. No
matter the  exhaustion that  occasioned it,  sleep was  a skittish  horse in the
field, starting at  every real or  imagined hint of  danger. Lon's mind  did not
totally abdicate awareness, so there was a disturbed quality to his rest.  Sound
penetrated, raising his level of awareness until the mind convinced itself  that
no  immediate threat  had surfaced.  Dreams flitted  about the  edges,  chaotic,
incomplete; there was no way to assemble them into a meaningful whole, any  more
than a  jigsaw puzzle  could be  successfully erected  with miscellaneous pieces
from a dozen different pictures.  "Combat sleep" was what soldiers  called it...
on  the rare  occasions when  one man  could bring  himself to  discuss it  with
another.

Lon had left instructions to be wakened after three hours. It took only a single
word, "Major," spoken over the radio, to bring him out of his less than peaceful
repose.

"I'm here," he replied before he recognized Dav Grott's voice.

"Three hours are up," Dav said. "Should I rouse the men?"

Lon glanced  at the  timeline display  on his  helmet's visor.  "Another fifteen
minutes. Just call Tebba and Weil for now."

Lon put himself through a full minute of stretching exercises while he  remained
on his back, pumping  himself up to full  alertness, getting his body  ready for
the demands  of another  day. There  was a  damp chill  to the  night breeze,  a
promise-or threat-of rain  riding the air.  When Lon looked  out from under  the
tree, he noticed fog, ground mist,  softening the darkness, setting trees up  as
ghostly silhouettes.

His  abbreviated exercises  complete, Lon  called Tyre  and spoke  to the   duty
officer in CIC. There were no updates on the position of the raiders, no news on
other  activities  that might  affect  the mission  that  Lon and  his  men were
currently on, except for a confirmation that rain might be near. Then Lon called
Tebba and Weil.

"Half an hour for  breakfast and the necessary,"  he told them. "Then  we get on
our feet again.  We'll take it  fairly easy the  first hour, work  into our pace
gradually."

There were no comments other than acknowledgments.

The fog deadened what few sounds the men of A Company made getting ready for the
new  day-a "day''  whose sunlight  would not  start for  two and  a half  hours.
Dirigenters trained to operate silently, but the fog- which thickened during the
half hour Lon had allotted for preparations-would cover any mistakes.

"I hope it lasts well into the morning," Phip said when Lon checked in with  him
by radio. "It won't  hamper us any, and  it should put a  crimp in how well  the
raiders can see."

"If it's true that they don't have any night-vision gear," Lon qualified.

"None of the bodies we found at  Tuplace had any," Phip said. "I can't  see that
they'd take time to strip their dead of  those when they were in a hurry to  get
away."

"At  least some  of them  must be  able to  see in  the dark,"  Lon said.  "They
wouldn't be  so eager  to make  their attacks  at night  otherwise. Maybe  squad
leaders and up. And they might take the time to remove any evidence of equipment
they didn't want the  Bancrofters to know they  had. Just don't count  on any of
them being blind in the dark."

Lon talked to each platoon sergeant, eating while he did. There were none of the
problems  that  could plague  a  force on  the  march-leg cramps,  blisters,  or
sprains.  The minor  aches could  be treated  with med-patches.  Every man   was
accounted for.

"All  right, Weil,  form them  up and  let's get  started," Lon  told the   lead
sergeant when the half hour was up.

The company had not been  on the march more than  twenty minutes when Lon had  a
call from Corporal Reil-lor.  "Major, the raiders are  up and moving. They  were
already hotfooting it away when our  sentry noticed. The fog here's so  thick we
didn't see or hear anything before that."

"Any change of direction?" Lon asked.

"No, sir. They're still following this valley toward the southeast. I don't know
what got into them."

"Well, at least we know there's no target for them to raid anywhere close,  Taw.
Stay with them. We're about an hour back. We'll catch up to you as best we can."

"They got some kind of bug  in their drawers. Major," Taw said.  "They're moving
faster than they  did anytime yesterday,  like they suddenly  remembered they're
late for a hot date."

"Just keep an eye on them and make sure they don't spot you," Lon said. "You may
have  been  spotted already  and  they could  be  setting you  up,  so be  extra
careful."

Lon passed the  news to Tebba  and the sergeants,  who passed it  along to their
squad leaders.

"What do you  think it means?"  Tebba asked. "I  was about to  ask you that same
question," Lon replied. "One possibility is that they've spotted our people  and
are setting them up for an ambush. Other than that, they could be heading in for
an attack on some mining camp-except that according to the intelligence we have,
there are no mining camps anywhere close-  or they're in range of their base  or
an LZ and they're in a hurry."

"We  have to  trust the  intelligence Henks  gave us  that there  are no  mining
targets close," Tebba said. "It might be wrong, but we have to accept it.  Since
they seem to be in a sudden hurry,  I'd guess that it's either an ambush of  our
people or a scheduled rendezvous with air transport. In the dark, they might  be
able to get a shuttle in and out without our people spotting it, if they've  got
up-to-date stealth  tech. And  they were  moving shuttles  around without notice
until we caught them at Tuplace."

"I'll get on to  CIC," Lon said. "Make  sure they've started our  shuttle patrol
again. They pulled in everyone after the raiders bedded down for the night."

"Shuttle pilots need sleep, too, the same as real people," Tebba said.

Lon  switched  channels  to  talk  with  the  duty  officer  in  Tyre's   combat
intelligence center, who  brought the officer  of the deck  from Sidon into  the
conference. Both of Tyre's shuttles were  on the ground in Lincoln, next  to the
militia camp. Sidon was  just getting ready to  launch its first shuttle  of the
morning. That shuttle would be over the area of the raiders in twenty minutes.

"Assume the raider aircraft have at least the stealth capabilities of our Shrike
fighters,"  Lon  said. "I  know  we have  trouble  spotting them  on  exercises,
especially at night."

More things to worry about, Lon thought  after he signed off. Why can't it  ever
go right according to the plan ?

He asked more  speed of his  men, picking up  the pace. With  the raiders on the
move again, rendezvousing  with Taw and  the other scouts  before sunrise looked
less and less likely, but  he wanted to try. If  the raiders did plan on  luring
the scouts into  a trap, getting  another 130 men  into position would  turn the
tables in a hurry.

The other  possibility worried  Lon more.  Taw Reillor  and his  companions were
alert to the chance of an ambush, and they would not be easy targets. But if the
raiders met shuttles and were lifted  out of the area before the  three platoons
of Alpha caught them, the pursuers would be back where they started, with a  day
and a night of pushing through the forest wasted, and no victory or prisoners to
show for the effort.

Forty minutes after the report from Taw, Lon called the corporal back.  "Listen,
we still don't know what those raiders have in mind, but if they rendezvous with
air transport, you and  your men are going  to have to stage  a delaying action,
try to hold  them up until  we get there.  We're coming as  fast as we  can, but
we're not closing the gap very quickly. If it comes down to it, hit them,  move,
and hit again.  Maybe they won't  risk putting a  shuttle on the  ground if they
think there's a real firefight going on."

Taw hesitated for a couple of seconds before he replied. He had no doubt at  all
what the likely outcome would be if his handful of men tried to stop the  entire
raider contingent. .  . and it  wasn't something that  was likely to  give him a
chance to have grandchildren to tell about it.

"Yes, sir. If they rendezvous with air  transport, we'll do what we can to  keep
them in place until you arrive," Taw said.

A minute later, Lon told the point to pick up the pace again. "We can't catch up
at the rate we've been going."

After another hour Lon  could see some of  their rush. On the  mapboard, the gap
between Taw's men and the rest of  the three platoons had narrowed by more  than
half a mile. But the  raiders had yet to stop  for even a five-minute break  and
showed no sign of slowing down.

In the forest, the fog remained,  diffusing the first light of dawn,  giving the
men a little more visibility. Every few minutes Lon wiped his faceplate with his
sleeve to get rid  of the condensation. He  was beginning to feel  the strain of
the forced march through the forest. Soon he would have to give his men at least
a short rest, but  he begrudged the distance  they would lose stopping  even for
five minutes.

The raiders must be in the same situation, he told himself. We'll stop when they
do. But he kept looking at the timeline on his visor. When would they stop?  And
why were they in such a blazing hurry?

"Major, this is Taw." The  call came just as Lon  was about to concede a  break,
without waiting longer for the raiders to stop. "They've changed course. They're
starting up the slope on the east  side of the valley, almost due east.  I can't
see the lay  of the land  there clearly. I  don't know if  this is where they're
going or if they're just crossing to the next valley."

"Hold up  for a  couple of  minutes. Taw.  Give them  plenty of  room before you
follow." Lon pulled his map-board from its pocket on the leg of his  battledress
and  unfolded it.  "I don't  see any  sign of  a clearing  large enough  for  an
aircraft to get in there, not close." He zoomed in to the best magnification the
mapboard provided and scrolled his way along that next valley. "Maybe five miles
southeast, along the creek that runs along the bottom of that valley. As long as
you can see which way they turn, if they do, after they cross the ridge."

Five minutes  later, when  Taw called  again, Lon  could hear  gunfire over  the
radio. "They suckered us. Major. We've got raiders on three sides."



19

Lon  immediately called  the shuttle  that Sidon  had sent  down on  patrol  and
ordered a  strike against  the raiders.  The only  reference he  could give  the
shuttle was the  position of Taw's  patrol. "Cover the  area around them,  in as
close as  you dare,"  Lon told  the pilot.  "We'll need  forty minutes  to reach
them."

Without serious help. Taw and his men  would not be able to hold out  that long.
They might be able to slip away in the fog. Taw had said that there were raiders
on three sides. There was a chance for escape, but Lon could not count on it.

His next call was to Sidon, to get the next shuttle out as quickly as  possible.
One craft's  munitions would  not last  long. Then  he alerted  Tyre's shuttles,
parked outside the militia camp in Lincoln. "We may need to evacuate wounded, or
we may need  your weapons," he  told both pilots.  "Get ready to  take off on  a
minute's notice."

Lon had cut Tebba and Weil in on his conversations, so the news did not have  to
be repeated. "Tebba, take second platoon and  push as fast as you can. The  rest
of us will follow." He picked second platoon, Phip's platoon, because it was  in
front at the moment, a few score yards closer to the enemy than the rest of  the
company.

Second platoon had the  fewest men on the  march. In addition to  its casualties
from Tuplace, it was missing the men  who were being attacked now. They had  all
been Phip's men. That would give second platoon an extra incentive to move fast.

"Weil, we'll  take two  minutes, just  long enough  to reorganize  and get going
again," Lon said after  second platoon had started  jogging away from the  rest.
"We can't afford to take more time that than."

Weil passed the word to third and fourth platoons to rest for two minutes before
he replied, "Yes, sir. Two minutes will help, a little."

Lon squatted  where he  was, then  slid back  until he  was sitting  so he could
stretch his legs. He took a sip  of water, then spent the next minute  breathing
deeply, almost to the point of hyperventilating.

II the raiders are in reach when we get there, he thought, we hit them and  keep
hitting them. No more following to see where they go. As long as we get at least
one prisoner in condition to talk, that's victory enough.

Lon called  Harley Stossberg  and told  him to  alert first  platoon and Colonel
Henks. "Get ready  to board the  shuttles on two  minutes' notice, Harley,"  Lon
said.

"We can board now and be airborne  ready to come in," Harley said. "We  might be
able to get there before you can."

"No clearing near enough. We may have to use our shuttles for their rockets  and
cannons. But get on to Colonel Henks and tell him it's time to muster his  rapid
response company."

Lon got back  to his feet  before he gave  the order for  his men to  get up and
start marching again.

As soon  as third  and fourth  platoons were  on the  move, Lon  switched to the
channel  that linked  him to  Taw Reillor.  Lon called  Taw's name  but got   no
response,  only  a faint  static.  He switched  channels,  to one  of  the squad
frequencies that the patrol had been using.

"This is Zeffo, Major," a whispering voice said. "I don't dare make much  noise.
There's still raiders close by. They quit shooting at us as soon as the  shuttle
made its first run, but  they haven't gone far. We  got hit bad, at least  three
men dead. I guess I'm the only one still got a working radio."

"We're on our way, Zeffo," Lon said, also whispering. "We'll keep air cover over
you as much as possible. The second shuttle will be coming in as soon as it  can
get down from Sidon. And we'll be there twenty minutes later, maybe less. Second
platoon has gone on ahead, pushing. Just hold on."

Lon pushed forward from his position between the two remaining platoons, getting
near the front of third, which had the point now. He settled into the line  near
Dav Grott, who acknowledged his presence with a nod.

"We can't go faster than we are, Major," Dav said on a private channel. "Not and
do any good when we get there."

"I know, Dav," Lon replied. "I just.. ."He stopped, uncertain what he wanted  to
say.

"Yeah, me, too. Major," Dav  said. "I know just what  you mean." But he did  not
try to put it in words either.

The fighting was over  long before Tebba Girana  and second platoon reached  the
patrol. The attacks from the air had  kept the raiders from coming in to  finish
off the  survivors, but  only four  of the  Dirigenters were  still alive. Lance
Corporal Zeffo was the only one who was uninjured. Corporal Reillor had suffered
several wounds. Two  bullets had hit  his helmet, and  though neither penetrated
Taw's skull, there were  superficial head injuries- and  the helmet was a  total
loss. There were also wounds to his side and one leg. Tebba reported what he had
found and called off  the air attacks, then  posted a perimeter while  the medic
with the platoon treated Taw and the other wounded.

"Send a  couple of  scouts out  to try  to determine  which way  they went," Lon
instructed. "Tell them not to get in  sight of the raiders. I just want  to know
what direction they went."

"Right," Tebba said. He was breathing  heavily. After half running the last  two
miles of forest with full field kit, he had not had time to catch his breath. "I
was going to do that. I just had to take care of the immediate situation first."

"I know, Tebba," Lon said. "The rush is off now. I'm going to give the men  here
ten  minutes, then  we'll be  on our  way. The  shuttles will  be scouting  from
overhead, trying  to pick  up the  raiders, but  they might  not be  able to see
much."

"We're still going on after them?" Tebba asked.

"As  long as  they leave  a trail   we can  follow. Have  you found  any  raider
casualties?"

"Still looking. At  least two dead,  one with his  front slit open  from neck to
navel. Zeffo did that. The dead raider  was lying on top of him. I  guess that's
how he managed to escape."

"Do  what you  can to  get Reillor  stabilized, Tebba.  It's five  miles to  the
nearest landing we can bring a shuttle into, and we've got to get there in force
to protect the LZ," Lon said.

"The medic's  working. Taw's  the only  one hurt  bad. We'll  rig a stretcher to
carry him. The others will be able to walk shortly. Lon, if you take the rest of
the company on a direct line to the LZ, you'll save time."

Lon looked at his  mapboard, drawing lines with  the cursor and comparing  them;
then he emphasized the topographical  situation. "Maybe a few minutes,"  he said
then. "Over a hill  that rises about four  hundred feet over the  valley on this
side."

"Still faster, I think," Tebba said.

"We'll try it," Lon said. "Try to stay out of trouble."

Lon switched channels to talk with Weil Jorgen, Wil Nace, and Dav Grott. He gave
them the change  of plans and  slaved their mapboards  to his to  show the route
they were going to take.

"It will be faster," Weil said.

"I'd like to know where the raiders  are," Wil said. "They could be waiting  for
us when we show up."

"Second platoon is trying to find their trail," Lon said. "Right now, our  major
concern is getting  the wounded to  where they can  be picked up  for treatment.
Five minutes and we're back on the move."

As long as the location of the  raiders was unknown, Lon had another worry,  the
possibility that the enemy might reverse positions and become the hunter instead
of the hunted.  Every combat veteran  in the unit  was aware of  the chance. The
point and flanking men  were at their maximum  level of alertness, even  as they
worked to keep the pace of the platoons as fast as possible. Men trod carefully,
eyes on the ground as  well as on the forest  around them. They listened to  the
sounds, straining for any clue they might have to other intruders in the wild.

Lon kept a radio  channel open to Tebba,  who relayed information as  he learned
it. By the time the two platoons  with Lon had covered half the distance  to the
planned landing zone, the  scouts Tebba had sent  out had followed the  trail of
the raiders far enough to  see that they had started  to cross the next line  of
hills, continuing east rather than southeast.

"Do I keep them on the raiders' trail or pull them back?" Tebba asked.

You mean, do we risk losing another patrol the way we did the last? Lon thought,
hesitating-but only briefly.

"If we don't keep some contact with the enemy, we might play hell trying to find
them again," Lon said. "Tell your scouts  to stay with them, but well back,  and
to get out of  the way in a  hurry if they sense  anything- anything out of  the
ordinary. Right now, I'm content as long as we can mark their trail."

Lon waited for Tebba to pass  those instructions along before he continued.  "We
won't try to wait for  them to go to ground,  Tebba. Once we get the  shuttle in
and out, we  close with the  enemy as quickly  as we can  and attack. We'll deal
with this batch. And  it'll give the Ban-crofters  some idea of the  location to
search for any base, even if we don't take prisoners."

"We are still  going to try  for prisoners, aren't  we?" Tebba asked,  a hint of
uncertainty in his tone.

"Yes,  Tebba,"  Lon  replied. "We  stick  with  regs. We're  not  looking  for a
bloodbath if  we can  help it.  We want  prisoners, and  Henks wants  them, too,
someone to  parade through  Lincoln and  show the  people that  their militia is
doing its job and that we're earning our pay."

Ten minutes later, Lon decided on  a slight change in tactics. He  called Harley
Stossberg in Lincoln. "Get first platoon and the Bancrofters in the air. There's
a good LZ  six miles east  of the raiders'  current location, just  south of the
last line of march we  could mark. You take our  men in first to secure  the LZ,
then bring Henks's men  in behind and set  up a solid defensive  position. We'll
use classic hammer  and anvil tactics,  with us driving  the raiders into  you."
. .

"Six miles-isn't that going to be cutting things a little close?" Harley  asked.
He had a mapboard open and was looking at the situation. "You might have trouble
catching up with them in time, and I assume you want us all in on this."

"Yes, but we can't risk setting you down any farther away. If they change course
again,  it  could put  you  too far  out  of position  to  reach the  fight.  If
necessary, we can move you back a little once you're on the ground."

"We'll be in the air in five minutes," Harley promised.

The  men from  the militia  camp in  Lincoln-Dirigenters and  the militia  rapid
response company-were in the air when Lon received a call from CIC aboard Tyre.

' "There appears  to be a  raider attack in  progress, just started,"  Commander
Tanner, the skipper of Tyre, reported. "Sixty miles west-northwest of Lincoln."

"We'll  reroute my  first platoon  and the  Bancrofters," Lon  said. "I'll  have
Lieutenant Stossberg coordinate with you for updates."

"Roger, Major. We'll keep an eye on things."

"Can you spot a good LZ for them, close but not right on the target?" Lon asked.
He was still in the process of getting his mapboard out and finding the location
of the new attack.

"Three-tenths of a mile  out," Commander Tanner said  quickly. "A patch of  bare
rock on top of a ridge, or rather just west of the ridgeline, out of direct view
of the village."

As soon as Lon  finished his conversation with  Tanner, he switched channels  to
tell Harley about the change.

"Colonel Henks would insist  on responding to this,  so we start on  that basis.
Same deal as we were going to run here, Harley. Take our men in first to  secure
the LZ and bring the Bancrofters  in once you have a perimeter  established. Use
your shuttle's guns for close air support."

There was a very slight hesitation  before Harley replied. He had just  realized
that he was  going to  be commanding  in a  combat situation  for the first time
commanding, not in the middle,  as he had been  on his other combat  experiences
and if things went badly, there might not be time to get the rest of the company
in to support them.

"We'll do our best, Lon," he said.

"I know you  will, Harley. Keep  the Bancrofters in  check as best  you can. And
good luck."



20

Lon and the men with him climbed out of the fog

two  hundred  feet above  the  valley floor.  The  sun was  out,  casting bright
reflections off the  top of the  fog. The sun  was not very  high above the next
ridge to  the east.  Looking back  down into  the valley,  only the  tops of the
tallest trees were visible above the layer of fog. Overhead, the sky was  nearly
clear, with only a few wisps of clouds very high.

"We'll take  five minutes,"  Lon told  his platoon  sergeants. Lon  took out his
mapboard as he sat on a rock. He worked at stretching his legs while he  checked
map positions. His calves were tightening up, and he did not want to risk cramps
later. He called Tebba.

"We've got to rethink things a  bit," Lon said as soon as  his second-in-command
responded. "This new attack ties knots in our plans."

"I guess," Tebba  replied. "Any word  on how many  raiders are involved  in this
attack?"

"Not even a guess," Lon said. "Maybe  we'll get some idea once Harley and  Henks
are on the ground."

"What about the group we've been following?" Tebba asked.

"We find them, we take them out," Lon said without hesitation. "We don't let any
of them escape if we can help it. That might not end Bancroft's problem, but  it
should certainly put a crimp in the raiders' operations. Look, right now there's
no point in heading for a rendezvous near that clearing we were going to use  as
an LZ. Give your men  a rest and we'll catch  up with you as quickly  as we can.
Maybe forty-five minutes once we start again."

"I won't argue," Tebba said quickly.  "Hang on." The pause was just  long enough
for Tebba to switch  channels and get second  platoon stopped and moving  into a
defensive perimeter. "I'm  still concerned about  the people we're  following. I
don't want to have more men walk into an ambush."

"I know, Tebba," Lon said.  "But we've got to at  least know there's a trail  we
can follow. We  can't let them  disappear into the  forest and pop  up somewhere
else later."

"My guess is that we're not too far from where they're going," Tebba said. "That
deal with the ambush, and the sudden  change of course. It smells as if  they're
trying to get away  from observation before they  go to ground. And  it might be
exactly what they plan to do."

"Caves?" Lon asked after only an instant's hesitation.

"I've seen a couple already," Tebba  said, "and there's a good chance  there are
more of them around."

"Could be," Lon conceded,  nodding slowly even though  Tebba could not see  him.
"This country is  a lot like  where I grew  up, and there  were scores of  caves
around, some of them large enough to hide an army."

Lon gestured to Weil Jorgen, and the lead sergeant got the two platoons on their
feet and ready to move again. Lon  stood then and put his mapboard away.  "We're
starting out now," he told Tebba.

Fifteen minutes later, Harley called Lon to let him know that first platoon  was
about to  land and  secure the  landing zone  near the  newest raider  attack so
Colonel Henks and his rapid response company would be able to come in safely.

"We haven't had any additional intelligence about the situation on the  ground,"
Harley said. "Lincoln has lost contact with the village."

"That might mean we're  too late," Lon replied.  "They might be gone  already-or
secure enough to  hit you fast  after you get  on the ground.  Make sure the men
know they have to get out into a perimeter fast."

"They know," Harley said. "We all know."

"Keep me posted on what you find," Lon said before he cut the connection. He was
tempted to monitor the conversations going  on in first platoon once it  landed,
at least the channels that Harley and  his noncoms would be on, but he  resisted
the urge. It would  show a lack of  faith in Harley's leadership  abilities, and
Lon did not want to do anything to undermine the young lieutenant's confidence.

Lon knew the steps first platoon  would take-straight out of a drill  book until
events on the ground forced changes. The shuttle would come in hot-as fast as it
could safely manage. Even before it came to a full stop, the men inside would be
unbuckling their safety harnesses, ready to get out of "the box'' as quickly  as
they could. Lon could empathize. He  had been through enough combat landings  in
his years as  a soldier to  know exactly what  they would be  feeling. A soldier
felt most vulnerable while  he was in a  shuttle heading toward hostilities.  In
the box, he had no way to defend himself. His fate was entirely in the hands  of
others. Only after the  shuttle landed could he  get out, in position  to take a
hand in his own defense. No matter how intense the opposition, a soldier  always
felt a little relief getting out of the box.

On the march, Lon could not let his thoughts remain entirely with first platoon.
He had three others to worry about, and second platoon might run into raiders as
quickly as first. It was not out of the question that the two platoons with  him
might even come across the enemy  first, walk into an ambush. When  that thought
came into Lon's head, he called the fire team walking point and reminded them of
the possibility.

He also had to watch where he was walking, and keep track of the men directly in
front and behind to  maintain proper spacing. In  rough country, with plenty  of
cover, an average separation  of two to three  yards seemed plenty. That  spread
the platoons out enough  to minimize the casualties  that might be inflicted  in
the first seconds of a firefight if  the raiders did ambush them, but they  were
not so spread out that all of the men could not be brought into a fight quickly.

You've already divided  your command in  too many pieces,  Lon told himself.  He
took a quick look around,  scanning from as close to  the point as he could  see
toward  the rear.  We don't  have much  more than  parity in  manpower with  the
raiders  we  know  about.  A smart  ambush  could  quickly  give them  numerical
superiority. He shrugged, an almost invisible gesture. It was too late to  worry
about the number of slices he had cut  his pie into. They were not too far  from
gathering in one of the separated  platoons. That would give him back  the three
platoons he had allotted for this operation at the beginning.

Lon was  startled out  of his  reflections by  a hint  of quick  movement on the
ground, no more than two feet from the path he was following. A snake slid under
old dead leaves on the forest  floor, out of sight, fleeing from  the intruders.
"Snake on the right,"  he reported over his  all-hands channel. "Watch for  it."
Lon kept  moving, watching  that side  of the  trail for  the next few steps. He
could only wonder  if the snake  might be poisonous.  We know too  damned little
about the animals here, he thought. They had been briefed about the more  common
animals-predators and prey-but not in  nearly enough detail. That had  been back
before the mission had  changed, before the rider  to the training contract  put
the Dirigenters out in  the field. Should have  followed up on it,  Lon thought,
shaking his head. Too many mistakes here.

"We're on  the ground,  in our  perimeter," Harley  reported. "I  don't hear any
gunfire. The Bancrofter shuttles are on the way in now."

Lon acknowledged the report, then called Tebba. He relayed the news about  first
platoon, then asked, "Any sign of our raiders yet?"

"Nothing  new," Tebba  said. "Our  scouts don't  have them  in sight  just  now.
They're playing it  careful, the way  you said. They  think they've still  got a
good line on their trail, though."

"We're getting close. Should be within  sight of your perimeter in six  or seven
minutes. You know the course we're on." It was unlikely that Dirigenter soldiers
would make a mistake and fire on  their own comrades, but nothing would be  left
to chance. Lon was not going to make another mistake if he could avoid it.

"We'll be watching  for you," Tebba  said. "I'll give  you a call  as soon as we
spot the point."

Once rendezvous was accomplished,  Lon gave the men  who had marched with  him a
much-needed rest.  It was  only fifteen  minutes, but  even that  helped. Second
platoon spread their perimeter and did the watching for all of them. Lon, Tebba,
and Weil met near the center of  the defended area to plot out next  moves while
each ate a meal pack.

"We have to assume that the raiders know the terrain a hell of a lot better than
we do," Lon said. "That gives them an edge, and we've already seen that  they've
got tactical sense. We may have been underrating them from the beginning, gotten
a little too complacent. Myself included," he added after a short pause.

"The more I see of  their work, the more I  think we must be up  against trained
mercenaries," Tebba  said. "There  might not  be a  lot of  them, but the people
we've seen  operating here  are not  just a  bunch of  thugs hired  in spaceport
bars."

"Hitting our scouts the way they did,  that gives them a hell of a  boost," Weil
said. "Makes  us slow  down, take  more care,  gives them  time. If  they're not
professionals, they were trained by pros. I'd wager my contract bonus on that."

"When we get started on their tail  again, make sure the point and flankers  are
on the lookout  for booby traps,"  Lon said. "That  extra time might  have given
them a chance to lay stuff in our path."

Tebba and Weil both nodded. "We have to assume the possibility," Weil said, "but
my hunch is that they'd leave a  plainer trail if they wanted us to  hurry after
them, and they're  not. They appear  to be trying  to avoid leaving  any sign at
all-from the reports we've had from our scouts."

"We're not  going to  play 'odds  and evens,'  " Lon  said. "Right now, I'm more
interested in doing  this right than  fast. They're not  going to get  away from
us."

"In any case, if this chase goes much farther east, the terrain is going to  get
a lot better for us," Tebba said. "We're near the last chain of these hills. Two
valleys over, there's a fair-sized river that the raiders aren't going to  cross
without boats.  And the  one valley  left between  us and  the river  eventually
peters out and runs into the river as well, about thirty miles south of where we
are now."

It was  little surprise  to any  of them  when, three  minutes later, the scouts
reported that the raiders' trail turned north in the next valley over.

"Time to get  moving," Lon said  after he had  finished questioning the  scouts.
"We've got ground to cover."

Reports  started coming  to Lon  from Harley  Stossberg. First  platoon and  the
company of Bancrofter militia had entered the mining village called Doreen's Gap
after setting up a defensive perimeter around it. The raiders had been and gone,
leaving twenty villagers dead and  four dozen wounded-many of those  critically.
The Bancrofter shuttles had returned to the LZ, and the wounded were being given
battlefield first aid and a quick flight to Lincoln. The Dirigenter shuttle  was
circling high overhead, ready to come in to provide close support if that proved
necessary.

"Do you  want us  to try  to follow  these raiders?"  Harley asked  after he had
finished his report.

"No, and  do everything  you can  to persuade  Colonel Henks  not to," Lon said.
"Once the wounded and dead have been tended to, tell him you'll send scouts  out
to determine the direction the raiders took, but don't send anyone too far,  and
tell them to be damned careful they don't walk into an ambush."

"Lon, I don't think there's one chance in a million of holding Henks back.  He's
already made it clear he wants to go after these raiders."

"Tell him we've still got this batch of raiders to deal with. Once we neutralize
them, we should have prisoners who can  tell us where to find the rest  of their
forces. If he goes off after that bunch alone, he could lose men to no point. If
that argument doesn't work, bring me in on the radio and I'll try."

"I'll give it my best shot," Hariey said.

The platoons of A Company with Lon did not follow the trail on the valley  floor
that the raiders had  taken once they crossed  the ridge. Instead, Lon  kept his
men on the western slope, eighty to a hundred feet up. The footing was  slightly
less secure, and  the slope made  walking less comfortable,  but there was,  Lon
thought, less chance of running into  booby traps or ambushes. The raiders  were
moving too quickly to plant traps clear across the valley and both hillsides.

No one  let his  guard slip,  though. Even  twenty men  back in  the column, Lon
watched the ground and trees around him almost as carefully as he would have  if
he were walking  point. Lon would  not make the  mistake of underestimating  the
opposition again. Not soon.

The scouts reported at  irregular intervals, checking in  so no one would  think
that  anything  had happened  to  them. The  trail  they were  following  headed
northeast along the floor of the valley,  on one side or the other of  a shallow
creek that meandered along the lowest part of the valley.

"They're being more careful about leaving sign," one scout reported. "Can't tell
anything about how many  there are now, and  there's been a couple  of places we
went a hundred yards or more without seeing anything to say that people had been
by."

An hour  before noon,  a scout  spotted the  raider rear  guard. The Dirigenters
stopped  and went  to cover  immediately, then  waited for  five minutes  before
moving thirty yards to the side. Lon's orders had been to avoid direct contact.

Lon listened to the report, then  checked positions on his mapboard. He  stopped
the company for lunch,  then brought Tebba, Weil,  and the platoon sergeants  in
for a conference.

"We're only three-quarters of a mile  from the scouts and not much  farther than
that from the raiders," Lon said. He  slaved the mapboards of the others to  his
and moved a cursor  to highlight the relative  positions. "The break now  should
give the raiders a chance to move  away from the scouts, keep us from  having to
close with them too soon."

"How do we  handle this?" Tebba  asked. "Move in  and attack, or  try to get the
Bancrofters and our first platoon in front of them again?''

"It's going  to be  at least  a half  hour before  the others  can get  airborne
again," Lon said. "The  Bancrofter shuttles are just  getting ready to take  off
from  Lincoln after  transporting the  last of  the villagers."  The  un-wounded
survivors had been taken out after the wounded. "Harley's scouts will be back by
then as well.  The problem is  that there's no  suitable LZ close  enough to get
them in place here in less than three hours."

Lon  indicated  the nearest  suitable  landing zone  on  the other  side  of the
raiders. It was  north and east  of the course  the enemy was  following, across
another ridge. "And three hours is pushing it," Lon added.

"Does that mean we take them on ourselves?" Tebba asked.

"If necessary," Lon  said. "I'm going  to get the  others in the  air and moving
toward that LZ. After lunch, we'll start moving again. We have to try something,
I think, to slow the raiders down long enough for the rest of our assets to  get
into position. My inclination is  to catch up and hit  them. If we can pin  them
down until the others get here, so much  the better. If not, we take them on  by
ourselves. We'll  be above  them, unless  things go  drastically wrong, and that
should help."

"We gonna cross the  ridge to keep out  of sight until we're  in position?" Weil
asked.

Lon nodded. "That's what  I'm planning. We can  move faster, let a  fire team on
the flank get them in sight as well as watch for trouble."

Lon added an extra ten minutes to the lunch break, getting his men back on their
feet only  after Harley  called to  report that  first platoon  was in  the air,
behind the two shuttles carrying  the Bancrofter militiamen. By that  time Lon's
scouts had been moving for ten minutes, anxious to get back on the trail of  the
raiders.

Twenty minutes after that, Lon had a call from the scouts.

"We've lost the trail. Major. There was a rocky flat and we can't find any  sign
of which way they went from there."

"How far out have you looked?" Lon asked.

"Three hundred yards past, toward the north, about half that on either side,  up
the slopes. It's like they just vanished."



21

Lon turned off his transmitter before  he indulged himself in thirty seconds  of
soft cursing. He took a deep breath and held it for an instant before he  opened
the transmitter again.

"Don't take chances," he told the scouts.  "Head this way, fast as you can.  The
raiders might be setting another ambush."

"Moving now. Major."

Lon switched channels to give Tebba the news.

"I don't like it," Tebba said. "They're up to something."

Tell me  something I  don't know,  Lon thought.  "Let's just  get to  the scouts
first," was what  he said. "Once  we've got the  numbers together, we  can worry
about what comes next. Harley and Henks  will be on the ground shortly. One  way
or another we  should be able  to reestablish contact  with the raiders  and get
this over with."

"Maybe they went underground."

"If we don't find a trail somewhere, we'll bring echo gear down from Tyre."

"Won't a cave opening be fairly obvious?" Tebba asked.

"Not necessarily," Lon said. "Left natural, some of the caves back on Earth were
hard to find, even if you knew where the entrance was. And if these jokers  have
camouflaged a hideaway, we might search for a week and not find the way in."

The company kept moving during the discussion. Lon signaled a slight increase in
the pace. He was anxious  about the safety of the  scouts. One group of his  men
had  been  ambushed in  similar  circumstances. He  did  not want  to  have that
repeated.

It only  took twenty  minutes to  effect the  rendezvous. By  that time  Lon had
decided on the next course of action. He briefed Tebba and the noncoms.

"We head to where the scouts lost the trail. The first order of business will be
to set up a strong defensive position, to the point of putting snoops out around
our perimeter. Then we do a systematic search to find either some indication  of
which direction the  raiders took-or the  entrance to any  cave they might  have
taken shelter in. If necessary, we'll  keep at that until first platoon  and the
Bancrofters reach us. I've already alerted Lieutenant Stossberg to the fact that
we've lost track of the raiders and that they might be heading toward them." Lon
shrugged, though only a  couple of the others  were close enough to  witness the
gesture. "It would be too easy, I  suppose, to have the raiders walk right  into
the arms of first platoon and Colonel Henks's militia company."

"Stranger things have happened," Weil Jorgen commented.

"I'm going  to have  Sidon load  echo-ranging gear  on one  of her shuttles, and
we'll bring that in  if we have to,"  Lon continued, ignoring the  interruption.
"And the patrolling shuttles have been listening for electronic emissions  right
along-radio or anything else that puts out a detectable signal."

"Without luck," Tebba noted. "Part of the paradox. The raiders fight like highly
trained professionals, and they're well armed, but they're apparently not  using
any  electronics.  We  haven't  found  night-vision  gear,  sophisticated battle
helmets, or anything else on any of the dead they've left behind."

"They must have some  way to contact their  shuttles," Phip said. "Do  they have
gear that's so much better than ours that we can't even detect it?"

"We would have recognized comm gear,"  Lon said. "If they're using anything,  it
almost has to be on a very tight beam, maybe even a modulating laser."

"Not very practical  if one end  of the conversation  is aboard a  shuttle doing
several hundred miles per hour," Phip said. "Be almost impossible to keep a lock
on it without some pretty hefty tracking gear, and we know these raiders  aren't
carrying anything that bulky."

"I know, Phip. I know," Lon assured him. "Now let's get back on the move.  We've
had all the rest we can afford."

As the company started moving again, Lon caught himself checking the position of
the selector switch on his rifle, making certain that he had not left the safety
on. If  they walked  into an  ambush, the  fraction of  a second  he would  lose
learning  that his  rifle would  not fire  because the  safety was  on might  be
critical. Then he wiped the  palm of his hand on  the side of his trousers.  His
hands were sweating.

I  haven't been  this nervous  since the  first time,  he thought.  For just  an
instant, his mind flashed  back to Norbank, the  world where he had  experienced
his  first combat-years  and light-years  away. At  least we  knew who  we  were
fighting there. He recalled Arlan  Taiters, the lieutenant who had  mentored him
through his months as  a cadet, waiting his  chance to earn a  lieutenant's pips
the only way possible in the DMC-in combat. Lieutenant Taiters had not  survived
Norbank. Nor had a lot  of other good men. "We  try not to waste men,  but there
are never any guarantees,''  Taiters had once told  Lon. We've walked into  more
than our share  of hairy ones,  Lon thought. Even  though it had  been more than
four years-before Bancroft-since Alpha had lost any men killed on a contract, it
was the other contracts Lon remembered now.

He shook  his head  vigorously, as  if that  might help  him discard  the errant
musings of his mind. This was not the time to get lost in thought. Memories were
better restricted to the safety of a garrison, with no enemy on the same world.

Watch over the shoulder of the man  in front of you. Scan the terrain  to either
side. Keep your eyes moving. Give the minimum attention necessary to the  ground
underfoot but don't ignore it. After  twenty men have walked the same  path, you
're probably not going  to hit a trip  wire, but it's not  impossible. Don't let
yourself think that it's highly unlikely  that a small band of raiders  is going
to booby-trap the woods just because no one has ever really chased them for  any
length of time before.  They've shown themselves to  be smart and well  trained.
You don't know enough to assume you can predict what they will or won't do.  The
only surprise will be if there are no surprises.

The thoughts  were no  distraction; they  were scarcely  conscious. Lon  did the
proper  things  by habit.  Years  of drilling  and  field exercises,  months  of
teaching those skills to others  . . . and more  months of using them in  combat
situations made it all almost automatic. It was a way of life, a way of  staying
alive.

As a unit. Alpha Company functioned smoothly, efficiently, for the same reasons.
Every man knew what he needed to do,  and all but a few of them had  honed their
abilities on combat contracts in the  past. Every combat rookie had veterans  in
his squad to keep an eye on him and make certain that the necessary lessons were
not forgotten. Even the veteran had others to look out for them, squad  leaders,
platoon  sergeants,  up to  the  company lead  sergeant  and officers.  Detailed
instructions  were  rarely  necessary.  Lon felt  safe  in  delegating  tasks to
subordinates without trying to talk them through routine operations.

Lon's three platoons reached the rocky area where the scouts had lost the  trail
of the raiders. He  gave the order to  set up a defensive  perimeter. That would
not be on the valley floor, but high on one of the slopes that flanked it,  with
men  covering the  ridge. On  the ground,  it was  still an  axiom of   military
thinking that the high ground had the advantage.

"The  classic  example," one  of  Lon's instructors  at  Earth's North  American
Military Academy  had said,  "was the  destruction of  French imperial forces at
Dien Bien Phu  in what was  then known as  French Indochina, later  Vietnam. The
French, including elements of their legendary Foreign Legion, were in a  valley.
The  Vietnamese  freedom fighters  had  the high  ground  all around  them,  and
bombarded the French  with artillery and  small-arms fire until  the French were
forced to surrender . .. those who were lucky enough to live that long.''

The students in that freshman tactics class had replayed the Battle of Dien Bien
Phu  on  computers, on  sand  tables, and  on  their first  field  exercise. The
freshmen, plebes, had assumed the  role of the French forces.  Upperclassmen and
instructors had filled the roles of the besieging Vietnamese.

"We do a methodical grid search," Lon told his non-corns once the essentials had
been seen to. The men in each fire team were taking turns watching for the enemy
and scraping out defensive positions. The ground was impossible for foxholes, or
even proper slit trenches,  but some improvements could  be made. "I don't  care
how good these raiders are, they  can't go forever without leaving some  sign of
their passage. It's up to us to find  it. We'll put three squads out at a  time,
work the valley to  the northwest and each  side. Start by checking  out to five
hundred yards. If that doesn't produce  results, we extend the search, and  keep
at it at least until first platoon and the Bancrofters reach us."

"I know we don't have any mines with us, but do we plant bugs to let us know  if
anyone's coming?" Wil. Nace asked.

"Yes, but sparingly," Lon said. "We don't want to put everything out-in case  we
have to move in a hurry."

Lon flirted with the notion of going out with one of the patrols himself, but it
did not take much willpower to resist. That was not his job. It might almost  be
construed as dereliction of duty if he were to indulge himself that way. He  had
enough other duties to attend to. 

He  talked with  Harley, explaining  the way  he wanted  first platoon  and  the
militiamen to search for traces of the  raiders on the way in. He walked  around
the area  the company  had staked  out, stopped  to chat  with squad leaders and
platoon  sergeants,  casually inspected  the  preparations that  had  been made.
Occasionally he shared a few words with an individual or a fire team. There  was
no need  to critique  the preparations  that had  been made.  He saw  nothing to
criticize. He did offer an occasional word of encouragement.

Only after  he had  made a  complete circuit  did Lon  settle himself  in at the
makeshift  command  post that  Lead  Sergeant Jorgen  had  established near  the
center.

"Time you had something to eat. Major," Jorgen said. "Before the others get here
or something breaks."

Lon nodded and tilted the faceplate of his helmet up. The lead sergeant  already
had his faceplate up. Lon sat with  his back against a tree trunk and  stretched
his legs out in front of him. Then he took a battle ration packet from his  pack
and took out his canteen.

"It's an effort, but  you're right, Weil," Lon  said. He closed his  eyes for an
instant and chuckled.

"I could use a good joke if you'd like to share it, Major," Weil said.

"Just an odd memory," Lon said. "Back  when I was a fresh young cadet,  everyone
in the company  seemed preoccupied with  making sure that  I stuffed my  face at
every  opportunity.  Made me  feel  like a  torn  turkey being  fattened  up for
Thanksgiving." He pulled the tab that started his meal heating and opened it.

Weil smiled and nodded. "Good advice then and now, sir. Eat when you can. In the
field, meals can be a long time apart."

The reinforcements arrived-first platoon and the Ban-crofter militia-and settled
into  the  defensive  perimeter,  extending  the  area  within  it.  The patrols
searching for the  raiders continued, new  squads replacing those  that had been
out. Tebba Girana coordinated the search patterns, and started overlapping areas
so that two different patrols went over each. Much of the terrain was moderately
difficult. Some of the slopes were more than fifty degrees. Trees and underbrush
alternated chaotically with exposed rock-some of it rotten, fissured, and apt to
crumble or break  off when weight  was placed on  it. After the  first accident,
which luckily did not result in casualties, the men in the fire teams  exploring
those areas were roped together for safety.

By the  time the  afternoon shadows  had made  the forested  valley almost night
dark,  the searchers  were certain  there was  no sign  of which  direction  the
raiders had gone within seven hundred  yards of the point where their  trail had
been lost.

"It just isn't possible," Harley  Stossberg said. The three Dirigenter  officers
and Colonel Henks  were sitting together  a few minutes  before sunset. "Six  or
seven dozen men can't suddenly disappear, and they can't go far in a forest like
this without leaving some evidence of their passage. I don't care how good  they
are."

"I agree," Colonel Henks  said. "We know they're  not ghosts. We've counted  the
bodies of their dead.  And these raiders apparently  had wounded to carry  along
with them."

Tebba had started shaking his head softly while Harley was speaking, so Lon  let
him handle the rebuttal.  "We could do it,  if we had to.  Some of our men  have
done  just  that,  or more,  in  the  past. We  stress  stealth  throughout boot
training, and in  the practical exercises  we conduct to  keep ourselves in  top
form. We've  given your  men considerable  training in  the techniques. Colonel.
Maybe they've still  got a ways  to go before  they're up to  an act like  these
raiders  seem  to  have  pulled,  but  it's  not  impossible.  Difficult,   yes.
Impossible, no."  "Major?" Henks  asked, turning  toward Lon.  "Tebba is  right.
Colonel," Lon said. "For example, Wil Nace, my fourth platoon's sergeant,  could
do it almost with his eyes closed. A lot of the others in the company as  well."
He shrugged. "There is, I suppose, a slight chance that the scouts who lost  the
trail were mistaken about the exact point, but even so, we can't be far from the
place where they last  saw the raiders. They  were so close they  almost fell in
step with them."

Henks hesitated before he spoke again.  "I can't argue the point. Major.  But we
do continue the search, don't we?"

"In the  morning. Colonel.  Looking for  faint traces  of men  skilled at hiding
their tracks, we can't expect to do any good in the dark, not even with the best
night-vision gear in the galaxy-and we do have that."

"But by morning they might  be so far away we  won't have any chance of  finding
them," Henks protested.

"We  can't help  that," Lon  said. "We  are going  to keep  shuttles out  flying
patterns overhead and running infrared searches. The raiders we've seen  weren't
wearing any special thermal  protection. At night they  should be easy to  spot,
especially if they're moving. If one of our shuttles spots anything  suspicious,
I'll know about it within two minutes."

Lon slept lightly that night, as he always did in the field on contract, and  he
woke often. But there was  no message from a shuttle  or from CIC. There was  no
sign of the raiders.



22

There  was an  annoying chill  to the  air in  the hours  before dawn.  Dirigent
battledress  was  an  excellent thermal  insulator,  but  exposed skin  tingled.
Despite a moderate breeze, it wasn't really cold. The temperature never  dropped
below fifty degrees. But the chill was noticeable on cheeks and fingers.

"Good old mountain air-crisp, clean,  invigorating," Lon said when Phip  Steesen
muttered a half-serious complaint about  freezing important body parts. Lon  had
given up trying to get back to sleep about an hour before sunrise. He had heated
a  cup  of coffee-water  from  his canteen,  a  freeze-dried portion  of  coffee
crystals, and a catalytic  agent to cause it  to heat-and sat nursing  the brew,
waiting. Simply waiting. Phip had come  by fifteen minutes later and sat  by his
friend and commander.

"Why don't we  ever get contracts  in places where  the weather is  just right?"
Phip asked. "It's always too hot or too cold, or too damned wet."

Lon chuckled. " 'And the baby bear's porridge was just right!' " he quoted.

Phip's answering growl would have done Papa Bear proud. "A bear's hide would  be
welcome. At least bears stay warm."

"Six hours from now you'll be complaining that the sun's too hot," Lon chided.

"And I can't get  beer and sausages for  lunch," Phip replied in  the same light
vein. The bantering came  automatically, and on contract  it could be a  welcome
diversion for both men.

"Have a cup of coffee," Lon suggested.

"I did,  and a  breakfast pack  besides," Phip  said. "It  didn't help much." He
paused. "Seriously, Lon. What happens next? You really think we have any  chance
of finding that batch of raiders again?"

"They didn't  disappear into  thin air.  They went  somewhere, on  foot, on  the
ground. They had to leave some trace."

"It doesn't look that way. We  know they're good, Lon. Maybe they're  that good.
And even  though we've  been careful,  it won't  take much  before we get to the
point where we won't know if the sign we see is theirs or ours."

"You  were complaining  about the  cold. It  made me  think that  this kind   of
tracking would  be a  lot easier  with snow  on the  ground. They couldn't avoid
leaving tracks then."

"How long do we keep looking?" Phip asked.

"I don't know.  If we don't  find some trace  of the raiders  this morning, it's
something Colonel Henks and I are going to have to discuss."

The searches started again as  soon as the sun was  high enough to give the  men
decent light. One squad of men was sent to the nearest suitable landing zone  to
pick up the specialized sound equipment sent down from the ships.

"As soon  as we  get the  gear," Lon  told Colonel  Henks, "I'll  start a second
search, from  the point  where our  men lost  the raiders.  This time they'll be
looking for  cave entrances,  and using  the sound  gear to  try to  pick up any
subterranean activity-just in  case there are  cave entrances that  are too well
camouflaged for us to find."

"It's possible  you'd miss  caves even  if they  hadn't been camouflaged," Henks
said. "These hills  are riddled with  them. One of  the earliest gold  mines was
discovered by accident. A  teenaged boy fell into  a cave. He broke  his leg and
couldn't get out,  but he did  enough shouting that  he was found.  The rescuers
went into the cave  with lights. There was  a vein of gold  as thick as a  man's
thigh in the chamber where the boy  had fallen. That was within a hundred  yards
of a village. People had lived around there for ten years or more and no one had
ever spotted  that hole.  It was  hidden by  tree roots  and vines,  effectively
invisible until someone happened to step in the wrong place."

"That's why we're bringing in specialized equipment," Lon said. "This gear  will
tell us if there are caves, and should tell us if there's anyone in them."

In DMC slang, the sound  ranging gear was called "slap-and-grab."  A transmitter
electronically "slapped" the  ground. Three receivers,  placed at some  distance
from the  transmitter, mapped  the pattern  of echoes.  A series of observations
would provide a three-dimensional  chart, reaching as deep  as fifty yards ..  .
under ideal conditions. The control panel was linked to a portable comp-link and
compiled the information.  It was not  the most sophisticated  implementation of
the  technology, but  it usually  sufficed for  the needs  of the  Corps.  Every
lieutenant and  noncommissioned officer  took a  two-day course  in the  use and
interpretation of slap-and-grab, and many  of the privates in Alpha  Company had
some exposure to the equipment.

Weil Jorgen had more experience with  the gear than anyone else in  the company.
He was given  command of the  team, and he  carried the control  panel. Four men
from fourth platoon handled  the other parts of  the system, while a  full squad
provided security-even though the slap-and-grab search would be conducted inside
the area already searched by the company.

"Just in  case," Lon  told Weil.  The lead  sergeant nodded.  He had no argument
against caution. "I  think I'll walk  along with you.  It's better than  sitting
still."

They moved down the slope toward the  rocky flat in the valley. The raiders  had
left a clear trail until they reached that area. And none at all coming off.

"We might as well start  right in the middle of  that," Weil said. "I can't  see
how they  could have  hidden a  cave entrance  there, but  it'll give  us a good
baseline for the search."

"Sounds good to me" was Lon's only  comment. As much as possible, he stayed  out
of  the  way, watching.  Occasionally  he directed  the  covering squad  to  new
locations, or had them  check out tangled patches  of un-derbrush away from  the
area that was currently being mapped for underground cavities.

There  was  no  audible noise  to  the  probes, but  each  time  the transmitter
"slapped"  the  ground, Lon  thought  he could  feel  it in  his  feet, a  brief
vibration  that ended  before he  was absolutely  certain it  was not  just  his
imagination.

Although Weil kept his  crew working steadily, it  was a slow process.  He would
position the transmitter and receivers, run  a probe, then move everyone ten  or
fifteen  yards and  do it  again. The  rocky flat  that was  the starting  point
appeared to be solid rock, as far down as the equipment could chart. Even  where
soil started around the  edges of the bare  rock, there was stone  not far below
the surface, rarely more than eight to ten feet.

"About what you'd  expect in a  place like this,"  Weil commented while  his men
were  moving to  new positions  after about  twenty probes.  "We haven't   found
anything but  narrow fissures  so far,  nothing large  enough for  humans. Hell,
Major, I've only spotted one crack wide enough for a fur midge to crawl in." The
fur midge was  a rodent native  to Dirigent. It  was hardly larger  than a large
bumblebee from Earth.

"We get up on the slopes it might be different," Lon said, gesturing vaguely.

Weil did not reply. His men were ready for the next probe. That one also  failed
to  produce positive  results- as  did the  next two  dozen. Lon  got tired   of
standing around  and occasionally  looking over  Weil's shoulder  at the  latest
chart that the series painted on the control panel's complink.

Eventually Lon called Eelen Hoy, the  corporal in charge of the squad  providing
security for the slap-and-grab. "I want one of your men, Eelen," Lon said.  "I'm
going to roam around a little and I need a man for backup."

"Sure thing, Major. How about Toby Hastings?"

"Tubby will  be fine,"  Lon said.  The nickname  had nothing  to do  with Toby's
weight. If anything, he  had a slightly malnourished  look. But Toby had  become
Tubby in recruit training, and three years of service in the DMC had not  erased
it. Toby had resigned himself to it long before.

"What are we going to do. Major?" Toby  asked when he joined Lon at the edge  of
the area being investigated. Lon had the faceplate of his helmet up, so Toby put
his up as well.

"We're just going to take a little  walk along the slope, maybe toward that  low
saddle on the east,"  Lon said, pointing toward  it by nodding his  head in that
direction.

"You spot something suspicious?"

"If I had, there'd be more than two  of us going. Let's just say that I  need to
get a little exercise. All this standing around, my legs might cramp up."

Toby chuckled. "I guess I can understand  that, sir. All the hurry up and  wait,
the old army game."

"Something like that. Just stay a few  steps back, and stay alert, just in  case
there is someone close  enough to take a  crack at two guys  straggling off from
the rest." When Lon pulled his faceplate down, Toby quickly did the same.

Once they were away from the rest of the men, Lon moved as carefully as he would
have walking point for a patrol  into known enemy country. He carried  his rifle
at port  arms, scanned  the area  around him  constantly, and  watched where  he
placed his  feet with  each step.  The terrain  was not  much different from the
foothills  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains  he  had  explored  as  a  child and
adolescent. The flora was different, but not markedly so. There had been sizable
stretches of those hills  that showed no evidence  that humans had ever  visited
them before,  although-logically-Lon had  known even  then that  the chances  of
treading on  virgin soil  were slim.  For more  than eight  centuries before his
birth, the area had been a magnet for tourists, hikers, and campers.

Spring had been a good  time to explore the hills  back home, when a new  year's
growth was beginning to make itself visible-the dogwoods and redbuds especially.
Lon had  found the  colors of  spring fascinating,  and the  peacefulness of the
hills had always been a welcome retreat.

"I've seen caves you could miss if  you weren't looking at just the right  spot,
from just the right angle," he  whispered over his radio link to  Toby Hastings.
"A crack a  couple of feet  long and maybe  eighteen inches wide.  Maybe a quick
slide down  for a  few feet,  then a  chamber large  enough to  hold one  of our
shuttles."

"I'm a city boy. Major," Toby replied. "I'll have to take your word for it."

"Just keep your eyes peeled."

Lon had been looking for the type of low brush that could easily conceal such an
opening. There were  several candidates along  the eastern slope  of the valley,
even up into the  pass leading across the  ridge. He was most  interested in the
sections that would be most difficult to reach, assuming that anything close  to
an animal trail would have been  searched most carefully by the squads  that had
gone over the terrain before. At one point Lon got down on his stomach and edged
his way carefully under a tangle of vines. He got partway into the mess and then
started to slide. Behind him, Toby grabbed Lon's ankles to stop his slide,  then
had to pull his commander back out.

"You'd slid much farther,  sir, and we'd have  had to cut you  loose," Toby said
when Lon was back on his feet.

"Some  kind of  moss under  there," Lon  said. "Like  a water  slide, slick   as
anything."

"Maybe next time you'd better let me do the stunts, sir," Toby suggested. "Being
skinny does have some advantages."

There were no other locations that required such maneuvering. Lon looked at half
a dozen places without finding anything.  He and Toby worked their way  from the
flank of the hill to the pass between it and the next one to the north.

"The raiders had been working their  way toward the east before," Lon  said. "If
they planned to go any  farther that way, this was  the logical way for them  to
go."

"Yes, sir. I was on one of the patrols searching this way across. We didn't find
so much as a snapped branch."

"We'll work our way along this side of the pass, then come back along the  other
side." Lon pointed. "There's a lot of  bare rock, some of it covered with  vines
hanging from above or growing up the wall." He shrugged. "Not that the direction
it's growing in makes much difference."

It was  difficult to  get close  to the  steep side  of the pass. Thick, tangled
vines grew everywhere, obscuring, blocking.  It reminded Lon of the  kudzu vines
that had occasionally threatened large tracts of the area where he had lived  as
a child.

They had worked their way nearly halfway across before Lon stopped abruptly  and
pointed. "Look, back there," he said over his radio link to Toby. "You see  that
chimney?"

"Chimney, sir?"

"That vertical crack in the rock," Lon explained.

"Yes, sir, I see it. What about it?"

"You look back in there when you were searching this area?"

"I didn't, sir, but one of the others in the squad went back there, I'm sure."

"Well, I guess  we can check  it again," Lon  said. "You stay  out here and keep
your eyes  open. I'll  see if  I can  work my  way all  the way  back into  that
chimney."

"I can go in, sir," Toby said.

Lon chuckled. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to volunteer for anything in  the
army?"

"Not more than two or three hundred relatives," Toby replied. "I never was  much
good at following advice."

"Just the same, I'll go. I've had  experience with this kind of thing." I  might
even see if I can work my way up that chimney a little, Lon thought.

He took a  couple of steps,  then stopped abruptly.  He chided himself,  I'm not
taking this  seriously enough.  We're not  here to  play games.  There could  be
raiders close enough to  pick off a careless  target. He looked around,  shaking
his head.  Don't go  looking at  this as  if it's  a weekend  lark back in North
Carolina. You could get yourself killed in a hurry. He took a deep breath.

"You okay, sir?" Toby Hastings whispered over the radio.

"Fine, Toby. I just had to collect my thoughts. Keep your eyes open."

Lon took another deep breath, then  started to edge through the tangle  of vines
and scrub trees  toward the chimney  in the rock  wall. It was  possible to move
through  the  mess  without  snapping  twigs  or  scraping  bark,  but  it  took
concentration and  a measure  of planning-looking  three steps  ahead, or  more.
There was bare rock underfoot. The vines appeared to be rooted somewhere  above,
in the slope, hanging down. Lon spotted no ends. Everything seemed to curl  back
on itself in knots. Leaves-short, fuzzy things that reminded Lon more of  woolly
worms than vegetation-grew close to the ankle-thick branches.

Each step Lon took seemed to divert him from the direct line to the chimney. The
tangles could only  be accommodated; like  the Gordian knot,  they could not  be
conquered without  cutting. Lon  kept moving,  always looking  for a  route that
would take him more directly toward the opening he wanted to investigate.

Twenty  feet  back  into the  thickest  tangle,  Lon saw  clear  space  ahead, a
sheltered area just at the side of the rock face-kept clear of vines by a slight
overhang above. Almost like a cloister walk, he thought. The easiest path to the
clear area was off to his right, farther away from the chimney.

"Of  course," Lon  whispered. He  stopped and  turned to  look back  toward  his
starting point. Toby  Hastings had moved  from his original  post, attempting to
stay in the same relative position. Lon turned on his transmitter. "I'm going to
rest for about two  minutes here, Toby. Navigating  this mess is like  trying to
swim through gelatin."

After Toby acknowledged the message,  Lon squatted in place, looking  toward the
chimney, searching for  any hint of  an easier passage  to it. This  is a fool's
errand, he thought. Eighty-odd men didn 't sneak through to that chimney in  the
little bit of time  we weren't following them.  He snorted softly. All  the more
reason to keep looking.  That's just the kind  of thinking that would  help them
stay hidden.

He got back to his feet and stretched, careful not to bump into the vines  above
his head. Another  fifteen minutes of  steady effort took  him through the  last
section of vines to the clear space below the overhang.

"I'm back," he  radioed Toby. "I'm  going to look  along this clear  lane. There
could be  an easier  route through  the vines,  somewhere that  doesn't show any
obvious connection with the chimney. You  stay put, where you can see  into that
cleft in the rock."

Below the overhanging rock, he might  almost have been walking along a  corridor
in any well-kept building.  There was clear space  above his head. The  overhang
was about ten feet  up. The corridor petered  out on the west  after some thirty
feet. Lon  noted a  couple of  places where  travel through  the vines  might be
easier, but did not attempt to prove them. Once he was sure that he had  reached
the end of the cloister and there were no obvious avenues through the vines,  he
retraced his steps and followed the clear area toward the chimney.

Lon was cautious when he reached the  fissure in the rock wall. He put  his back
to the  wall and  edged closer  to the  break, moving  very slowly, watching and
listening-as if there might be a squad of riflemen just waiting for him to stick
his head around the comer.

"Toby, move around a little, until you can see back into the opening here,"  Lon
whispered. He waited until the private was in his new position.

"I don't see anything back there. Major," Toby said. "But I can barely see  you,
so it's no guarantee."

"I'm going across to the other side. Watch while I make my move." Lon waited for
Toby's acknowledgment, then said, "Now!" and a second later, he virtually jumped
across the thirty-inch break  in the rock, looking  back into the opening  as he
moved, his rifle swinging into position, ready for use.

He saw no one.

Beyond the chimney, he leaned back  against the rock, almost out of  breath, not
from the effort,  but from the  adrenaline rush of  the possibility of  imminent
danger. He needed a moment to get his breathing, and his heart rate, back  under
control, using feedback techniques he had learned as a cadet on Earth.

"I'm going back into the chimney," Lon said once he could speak without  effort.
"See how far it goes."

He was still careful  about exposing himself. He  got into position, then  moved
his head just enough to barely look around the edge of the chimney. The break in
the rock went back twenty feet, varying in width between thirty inches and about
six feet, mostly in abrupt breaks, with edges jutting out or back. The lines  of
different strata of rock were apparent in the wall, the layers tilted at  nearly
sixty degrees from horizontal.

The opening appeared to be  a dead end. Lon let  his gaze travel up the  chimney
then, looking  at it  as he  might a  climbing challenge,  judging the distances
across the gap, the difficulty of working up the chimney without ropes or  other
climbing gear. His rough assessment was that it could be done but that it  might
not be easy.

When he moved into the chimney and started walking toward the far end, Lon  held
his rifle at the  ready, his finger over  the trigger guard, the  safety off. It
might be overly cautious, but that was  the side he wanted to make any  mistakes
on.

Each place where there was a jagged edge  to one side or the other of the  lane,
he stopped and looked cautiously past, to see the next bit of rock. All the  way
at the end, there was a gap to his right, two feet across. That ended five  feet
over.

Just as I expected, a dead end, he thought, and he got ready to move back out of
the chimney. Then something on the ground caught his eye, something that did not
seem to belong. Lon knelt.  It was only a tiny  chunk of stone, not much  larger
than a  child's marble.  But one  side of  the sliver  of rock  was almost white
instead of the ocher  gray of the exposed  rock around him. It  had been freshly
broken off  from wherever  it had  belonged. Lon  turned the  stone over. It was
roughly pyramidal, but the point opposite the break had ... a few threads caught
on it. Lon brought the stone close to his faceplate and turned the magnification
of that up. Thread. Artificial threads.

Somebody came by and got their clothing caught on this, he thought. They pulled,
and  this bit  of rock  broke off.  Lon started  scanning the  rock around  him,
looking for  a matching  section of  light, the  place where  the tiny chunk had
been. His heart was beating a little faster.

"There," he whispered when he saw the place, waist high, at the end of the  side
cul-de-sac. He  got to  his feet,  stepped closer,  and noticed another opening.
There was a four-foot-high hole in the side of the hill, past a natural baffle.

Lon backed away quickly, then hurried out of the chimney, turning to the  right,
along the section of clear ground behind the vines that he had not  investigated
before.

"Toby, be ready for anything," Lon  instructed. "I think we've found what  we're
looking for." He switched channels on his radio then to call Tebba.

"Take a good  fix on my  location. I think  I've found where  they went. Get one
platoon positioned on top of this hill, bring another into this pass. Have  Weil
and his slap-and-grab crew drop what they're doing. I want to map the inside  of
this hill as fast  as possible. Talk to  Colonel Henks. Have him  spread his men
out along the  facing slopes to  either side. Put  a squad of  our men with each
half of his company."

Then Lon started working his way back through the tangle of vines. There was  an
itch in the middle of his back.  He felt as if someone had painted  a bull's-eye
on it.



23

"You still don't know that the  raiders are in there," Colonel Henks  protested.
The mercenaries and militiamen had formed a cordon around the hill. Weil and his
slap-and-grab team were mapping the subterranean structure. They had two  squads
of Dirigenters providing  protection for them  now. Lon and  his lieutenants had
discussed what they were going to do with Henks and his senior people.

"No, I don't know absolutely for certain. Colonel," Lon replied patiently.  "And
the mapping we're doing might not tell  us. What the mapping will tell us  is if
there's enough  room that  the raiders  could be  in there,  and it will map any
passages and chambers within reach, maybe pinpoint other entrances as well."

"And then?" Henks prompted.

Lon took a breath and let it out. "Then we go in and look for ourselves."

Henks did not respond to that except to blink.

"That is going  to be the  touchy part," Lon  said. "But if  your raiders are in
there, it's either  go in after  them or just  seal every entrance  we can find.
There are  two problems  with that.  First, if  we seal  the entrances,  set off
explosives to  collapse them,  you may  never know  if there  really was  anyone
inside. Second, you want  prisoners to question, to  show the people in  Lincoln
and the other towns that you've really accomplished something."

"Isn't there  any way  to force  the raiders  out?" Henks  asked. "It seems that
would be preferable to going in after them."

"Theoretically, you could flood them out, either with water or some noxious  but
nonlethal chemical agent; or, you could just mark all the entrances and put your
militia to watch until the raiders have to come out or starve. But, in practical
terms, none of those options is realistic."

"Why not?" Henks asked.

"How many million  gallons of water  can you force  into that cave  at any given
time?" Lon asked. He did not wait for an answer. "How much appropriate gas could
you pump in to  allow for dissipation and  however much volume it  would have to
fill? That could be millions of cubic feet. How many months are you prepared  to
keep men sitting  here waiting for  the raiders to  get hungry? They  might have
food replicators and enough raw materials to keep them going for a year or more.
And before you seriously consider any  of those options, you still need  to know
whether there's any point to it, if there's anyone inside."

"I get the point. Major," Henks said petulantly.

"Believe me. Colonel, if there were any other practical way to handle this,  I'd
be the first to  suggest it," Lon said.  "If there is anyone  inside, getting to
them might be a bloody business, and I don't like putting my men in  unnecessary
danger. It's bad for  business, if nothing else.  We value our people,  and from
what I've seen, you value yours just as much."

"We won't go in  blindly," Tebba offered. "Once  the mapping is finished  and we
locate  any additional  access points,  we do  some cautious  probing and  plant
electronic bugs.  We go  in a  little ways,  wait and  listen, then  go a little
farther."

"Until the raiders start shooting?" Henks asked.

"If it comes to that," Lon said. "But it might not reach that point. It  depends
on how  extensive the  caves are,  how much  of it  the raiders actively defend.
We'll know more as we go along."

"We do have one very major advantage. Colonel," Tebba said. "To the best of  our
knowledge, the  raiders have  no night-vision  gear. We  do. That  means they're
going to need lights to do anything, and we can operate almost as efficiently in
the dark as in full daylight- more efficiently in some ways."

"And we won't go in until it's  dark outside," Lon said. He paused, then  added,
"If we have to go in at all."

"What are you getting  at?" Henks asked. "Didn't  you just get done  saying that
there was no alternative to going in?"

"I did, and there probably isn't."

"You must have something in mind," Henks said.

"I'll know more once  the mapping is finished,"  Lon said. "We might  be able to
play mind games with  the raiders, if they  are under that hill,  and if there's
more than one way in and out.  We know we want prisoners, proof, but  they don't
know that. The raiders  would have to assume  we'd be satisfied to  see them all
dead. If there are other entrances, we can seal off all but one, try to make the
raiders think that their only chance of survival is to come out and make a fight
of it. It's like bluffing in poker."

"And hope  they take  the bait,"  Tebba said.  "Otherwise, we  still have  to go
inside."

"They could hide a couple of regiments in there. Major," Weil Jorgen said  about
three hours past  noon. The slap-and-grab  team was taking  a much-needed break.
"The gear can't  get to all  of it. There  are places where  we can see passages
leading deeper than we can range. We've marked two other entrances, and God only
knows how many more of them there might be. Some of them could be miles away."

"Get that hill charted,  then do what you  can to track any  passages that might
lead  elsewhere, Weil,"  Lon said.  Men had  already been  posted to  guard  the
additional entrances. Both were on the far side of the hill, one near the valley
floor and the other on the slope, halfway up. The squads sent to investigate and
watch them reported no  sign of anyone having  used them. But they  had not gone
in. Lon had ordered everyone to stay out.

"We're not going to finish this by dark," Weil said. "It could take two or three
more days to be sure we've got everything we can find."

"Whatever it takes,"  Lon said. "We  can't try to  scare them out  until we know
where all the bolt holes  are. If we miss some,  we could be watching the  wrong
hole when they come out. That could get dicey."

Waiting. Marking time. Running in place. However he thought of it, this was  not
Lon Nolan's favorite way to spend time. He kept himself busy, and tried to avoid
giving his men any indication of how  restless he was. The emotions of a  leader
were  contagious.  Some of  the  time he  spent  with his  complink  and radios,
conferring  with  CIC  aboard  Tyre, and  studying  maps  and  other data  about
Bancroft. He conferred with Colonel  Henks, his own lieutenants and  noncoms. He
spent a few minutes, now and then, with the slap-and-grab team.

The ring  around the  suspected location  of the  missing raiders  was improved.
Electronic bugs-sound and motion detectors-were placed. A shuttle dropped ration
packs and explosives by parachute. The drop was successful, the loads  retrieved
and brought into camp.

Sunset. A new team  took over the slap-and-grab  gear and worked for  two hours.
The job was far from finished, but continuing it would wait for morning.

Mercenaries and militiamen  took what sleep  they could in  the night. In  Lon's
company, one man in each fire team was on watch at all times. The rest slept, or
tried to. In Colonel Henks's militia company, the men were put on  half-and-half
watches-50  percent awake  and on  guard at  all times.  Colonel Henks  and  his
company commander split the time between them. Lon divided the night with Harley
and Tebba. One of them would  always be awake, monitoring the electronic  snoops
and alert to  any warning from  the guards or  from the eyes  above-the shuttles
that were still on rotating patrol and the ships in space.

When he was not on watch, Lon  at least made a pretense of sleeping,  rolling up
in the  thin thermal  blanket that  was part  of the  regular battle kit for DMC
soldiers. But he slept very little. His mind refused to let go, refused to  stop
searching  for  easier  ways  of  doing  what  had  to  be  done-or  finding  an
alternative.

If I have to order men into those caves after raiders, some of them are going to
die, was the thought that tormented him whenever he tried to clear his mind  for
sleep. Too many men had died on this contract already.

When he did  sleep, the faces  of friends who  had died on  other contracts came
back to haunt him.

At about  three in  the morning,  it started  to rain.  At first there were just
widely  spaced  sprinkles, but  the  rain increased  in  intensity after  twenty
minutes. There were no tents to shelter anyone. Ponchos gave the men who were on
watch some protection. The blankets the  sleeping men used also shed water,  and
most of the Dirigenters slept with  their helmets on. The webbing inside  made a
more comfortable pillow than rocky ground.

Near  four o'clock,  when he  started to  hear the  rumble of  thunder and   saw
lightning in the sky,  Lon gave up his  pretense of sleeping. The  lightning was
not yet close,  but it was  coming nearer, and  there was no  escape from it, no
place of safety he could  take his men to. He  did give orders to pull  sentries
off the crests of the ridges, to get them down far enough that they wouldn't  be
the nearest target for  an electrical bolt. And  everyone would avoid-as far  as
possible-the use of active electronics while there was lightning in the area.

For  thirty  minutes,  the  camp  was  deluged  by  heavy  rain  and  repeatedly
illuminated by lightning.  Just south of  the defensive perimeter,  one tree was
struck and burned briefly before  the flames were extinguished by  the downpour.
The thunder was so loud that no one was sleeping any longer-no one above ground,
at least. Men  huddled under their  ponchos, doing their  best to stay  dry, not
moving unless it was absolutely necessary.

The storm passed over and moved on  toward the east. The rain lessened and  then
ended. Lon called CIC and asked for a weather report.

"Looks like you  might have more  storms moving through,"  the officer on  watch
aboard Tyre said.  "We're tracking several  bands. It could  go on for  the next
seven or eight hours. The next should reach you in about forty minutes."

Lon passed the  report along to  the other officers  and his platoon  sergeants.
"Better tell the men to get their breakfast eaten while they can eat it dry," he
added.

He took his own advice, but once the meal was finished and the remnants disposed
of, he got up and packed his blanket.  It was time for him to start his  new day
in earnest.

There were the little things-the walk around the perimeter, stopping to chat for
a moment with individuals and squad  leaders. Lon was comfortable with his  open
style of leadership. He felt that it added to the cohe-siveness of his  company.
His men knew that he cared.

"Couldn't you  at least  have picked  better weather  for this  operation?" Dean
Ericks asked when Lon  stopped to talk with  him. "I don't mind  a little water,
but where there's rain, there's mud, and that I can do without."

Lon laughed softly. "Mud's good for the skin. Dean. Ladies pay good money to get
mud packed on their faces. Besides, with all this rock around, we shouldn't have
too much of it. Just keep your head down so you don't draw a shot of lightning."

"That's bone, not steel in my head. I think you owe Phip and me both a couple of
rounds the next  time we get  together somewhere that  has beer instead  of just
water," Dean said.

"If I bought all  the rounds the two  of you say I  owe, Lon, Junior, and  Angie
would have to drink water instead of milk."

"That's right, pull family on me. Make me feel like a heel."

Lon laughed again. "Well, if the shoe fits ..." Dean growled at the pun and  Lon
walked on to the next squad.

"You  know.  Major, we  can't  use the  slap-and-grab  while we've  got  thunder
overhead,"  Weil Jorgen  said. "Even  if we  were willing  to take  a chance  of
drawing a lighting strike, this gear can't filter out the interference." It  was
near sunrise, though the heavy cloud cover hid the first traces of dawn.

"I know, Weil. We'll just have to  work between the storms, do the best  we can.
The last line  of storms should  be past us  by noon. Thereabouts,  anyhow." Lon
shrugged.

"That's the report now,"  Weil said. "One thing  about the weather. It's  always
subject to change."

"Do what you  can between the  squalls, and hope  we can finish  the work before
sunset," Lon said.  "If possible, I'd  like to make  our move against  the caves
tonight. Finish this mission and get back to the barracks in Lincoln."

"Even without working between the raindrops,  I think we can finish by  sunset,"
Weil said. "Unless we find some major continuation of the cave system."

The creek in  the valley ran  a little higher,  a little faster,  but conditions
stayed decent along the slopes on either side. There was little bare soil in the
area. Everything that  wasn't rock was  covered with vegetation  of one sort  or
another.  Mud  was at  a  minimum. Weil  Jorgen  got his  crew  to work  between
thunderstorms.  The  chart  of  the cave  system  improved,  expanded.  Two more
entrances were traced  by the time  the last storm  struck the area.  After that
storm passed, the rain eased, then ended, and a few breaks started to appear  in
the cloud cover to the west.

Lon sent squads to  check the newly identified  cave entrances. One was  clearly
too small for humans. The other was  marginal but possible. It would have to  be
eliminated.

"Get a few men preparing the explosives for the openings we're going to  close,"
Lon  told Tebba.  "We're going  to take  out all  but that  first one  we  found
yesterday."

"Can I make a suggestion?" Tebba asked.

"Of  course."  Lon  was surprised  that  Tebba  felt it  necessary  to  ask that
question.

"Close that entrance. Hit it first and hardest. The raiders might know it's  the
one that tipped us off. Pick one  of the other openings to leave-one they  might
suspect we don't know about. That might increase the chances they'll try to make
a break."

Lon nodded.  "You're right.  Let's look  over what  we've got,  see which of the
other entrances gives us the best fire zones if they come out."

"If there's anyone to come out," Tebba said.

"There's always the possibility we're watching a dry hole," Lon conceded. "But I
don't think we are."

"I hope not. We're going to look  slightly foolish if we've wasted two days  and
all this effort," Tebba said.

There was still an hour  of daylight left when Weil  told Lon that his team  had
finished the mapping operation. "As far as  we're ever going to be able to,"  he
said. "There  were those  spots that  went down  below the  range of our gear. I
can't answer for where they might lead."

Lon rotated  the view  of the  final chart  on his  map-board through  all three
dimensions. The flat screen could only approximate full three-dimensional  form,
but layers could be represented by different colors and boldness.

"It should do," Lon said. "At least we can hope it will. Good work, and tell the
men that for me."

"I'd still feel a lot better if there was some way we could tell whether or  not
there are any rats in that hole  before we start plugging it," Weil said.  "Hate
to waste a lot of explosives if there's no point to it."

"Don't bet against  there being raiders  in there, Weil.  The odds are  all that
there are."

"I think so, too," Weil said. "After listening to that hill for the last day and
a half, I feel  them in my bones.  They're in there, thinking  they've pulled it
over on us for sure."

"We'll find out  soon enough. We'll  have all the  entrances set up  but the one
we're going to  watch before sunset.  Then we wait  for dark and  collapse those
holes one by one."

"That's a good touch," Weil said. "Space them out. Give the raiders more time to
think about what's happening."

"But not enough time for them to try bolting through the wrong hole," Lon said.



24

Ion held few  illusions. The sound  gear had never  picked up any  noises in the
underground system that pointed-inarguably-to the presence of humans. All of the
preparations might be for nothing. The raiders might be scores of miles away . .
. preparing for their next attack, perhaps, or just laughing at the way they had
escaped their pursuers.

But Lon  continued to  make his  plans based  on the  assumption that there were
raiders in the caves and that they  would have to come out once the  Dirigenters
started destroying the exits they would have to use. He chose which entrance  to
leave untouched,  set the  deployment of  forces around  it and  the sequence in
which  the  other  entrances  would be  demolished.  Nothing  was  arbitrary. He
conferred with his senior people on each step. But once the decisions were made,
they were not questioned.

"We give it time  to get completely dark  tonight," Lon told Colonel  Henks once
the Bancrofter militia company had been deployed alongside the mercenaries. Each
platoon of militiamen  had a squad  of mercenaries with  it, to ensure  that any
orders or warnings got through without delay or confusion. "We'll leave teams to
watch the other exits until each one  is closed, just in case the raiders  try a
premature  escape. One  by one,  we collapse  every other  opening to  the  cave
system. We'll wait at least twenty minutes after the first one. The raiders will
need  time to  decide what  the explosion  means. They  might suspect  it's  the
prelude  to  an assault.  We  let them  worry  about that.  Then  blow the  next
entrance-and the next."

"You think you can get  all of the other exits  closed in time to force  them to
use this one?"  Henks asked, gesturing  at the opening  the majority of  the men
were covering.

"That's the plan. We'll leave less time between subsequent explosions than we do
between the first and second. I  don't think they'll have time to  get organized
and moving before we blow the last of the ones we're going to."

I hope, Lon qualified silently.

"They'll come out, Lon. Once we start "blowing their exits, they won't have  any
choice," Phip Steesen said  over a private radio  channel. "Then we'll have  all
the advantages."

"I hope you're right, but it's  still all a patchwork of guesses,"  Lon replied.
Things are  really iffy  when Phip  thinks he  needs to  take the  positive side
instead of shooting bitches  at the idea, he  thought. He shook his  head. Don't
give yourself more reasons to worry.  The worst that's likely to happen  is that
it's all a waste of time, a dry hole. He wouldn't mind looking foolish-too  much
as long as no one was killed in the process.

"The only possible hitch  I see is that  the slap-and-grab might have  missed an
exit or two," Phip said.

Lon managed a chuckle. "I'm  glad you've got tunnel vision.  I can see a lot  of
possible hitches."

"Well, you always  were the worrying  type. That's why  you've got the  brass on
your shoulders and I've just got these miserable stripes on my arms."

Dusk settled slowly into dark. After the rain of the previous night and morning,
the sky had cleared, and there were plenty of stars visible overhead, as well as
a sliver of Bancroft's largest moon.  Under the trees the sky would  make little
difference, and if Lon had  to take his men into  the caves, the stars and  moon
would make no difference at all. To  put on a show of confident leadership,  Lon
sat and ate a meal pack in the last twenty minutes before the scheduled start of
the night's activities. The fabricated food was unusually dry and tasteless, but
Lon ate methodically, making a show of giving the meal his undivided  attention.
He smiled to himself at one  point, recalling how Matt Orlis, then  commander of
Alpha Company, had advised young Officer-Cadet No-lan to get involved in amateur
theatrics to improve his leadership presence.

Just as Lon was  getting rid of the  remnants of his meal.  Lead Sergeant Jorgen
came over and squatted near the commander.

"Everything's ready, whenever you give  the word, Major," he whispered,  lifting
the faceplate of his helmet halfway..

Lon nodded, checking the time as he did. "Another five minutes, then we go right
into it, the way we planned. What's the mood?"

Weil Jorgen shrugged. "Not bad. Kind of strange, actually. Some of the men think
we're wasting  our time.  Others see  it as  the operation  that gets us back to
barracks and that much closer to going home."

"I hope they don't get to thinking it's all a lark," Lon said. "This could  turn
nasty in a hurry."

"The noncoms will sit on any of that fast," Weil assured him. "All it will  take
is a single hostile gunshot and the men will all be one hundred percent, and the
squad leaders will make sure no one gets too careless before then."

Lon gave  the order  for the  first detonation  precisely on  the minute  he had
scheduled. Although he had the volume turned low on the earphones of his helmet,
the explosion still seemed uncommonly loud. It was three hundred yards from  his
position and set several feet back  into the cave entrance. The rock  and debris
that was blown out was directed by  the confines of the entrance, and Lon's  men
had been positioned so that no one would be directly in the anticipated path.

Well  away from  any of  the entrances,  the slap-and-grab  receivers had   been
positioned.  They would  be overloaded  at the  instant of  each explosion,  but
between blasts, the  echoes would allow  some refinement to  the charts, perhaps
even fill in some of the blanks-the  areas that had been too deep for  the power
of the set's transmitter.

"Fifteen minutes," Lon reminded his officers and sergeants immediately after the
first blast. He had  decided that twenty minutes  was too long to  allow between
the first two blasts and changed it an hour earlier. "We give them a little time
to think, time to get worried."

The order in which the openings would be closed was not truly random, though Lon
hoped that it would seem that way  to the raiders he assumed were in  the caves.
The second blast was almost as distant as possible from the first. Eight minutes
later,  the  third was  positioned  closer to  the  second than  the  first. Two
minutes. Blast. Six minutes. Blast.

Each time  an entrance  was closed,  the fire  team that  had been  observing it
waited for the debris to settle, then went as close as was safe to make  certain
that the opening  had indeed been  sealed. Then they  moved to other  positions,
either in the perimeter around the opening that was going to be left open, or in
the thin outer perimeter that  Lon had established against the  possibility that
the charting operation might have missed one or more exits from the  underground
complex.

"Major,  I  think  we've  got something,"  Weil  Jorgen  said  after the  fourth
explosion. "It's not  too clear on  audio, but the  analyzers call this  a human
scream." He played a few seconds  of sound that the slap-and-grab receivers  had
intercepted.

Lon listened to it, then listened again. "I think that's it, Weil," he said.  It
was indistinct, muted and mutated by echoes and depth, but the sound did seem to
be someone screaming. "Pass the word that we've got something to indicate  there
probably really are people down there."

It was a  relief, the first  solid evidence-if far  from indisputable proof-that
Lon's assumptions were correct. He let out a long breath, almost a sigh. Someone
down  there  tripped and  fell  over the  edge  of panic,  he  thought. Panicked
soldiers might not hold to whatever training they had received.

"Pass the word to your men that  we could have action almost any time  now," Lon
said, speaking on the channel that connected him with his platoon sergeants. "It
seems the folks down there have figured out what we're doing."

Another explosion. There were only two exits left to block. Lon was  considering
whether he might  speed up the  final two blasts,  set them both  off, leave the
raiders  with  only  one  way  out,  when  he  heard  gunfire,  followed  almost
immediately by a call from the lance corporal leading the fire team watching one
of the remaining holes.

"We've got a breakout. Major. They're coming out shooting."

"How many?" Lon asked.

"At least two dozen. They caught us a bit off-guard. They-''

The transmission  ceased. Lon  switched his  head-up display  to find  the vital
signs of the lance corporal who had been talking. Flat lines. He was dead.

"Tebba," Lon said, quickly switching  channels, "breakout at hole number  seven.
Move two squads to  block them." He switched  to his all-hands channel,  to warn
everyone to look out for the raiders. They were coming out.

, Lon could feel his mind gearing up, and it was only then that he realized that
he, too, had been less than confident  that his plan would work, that there  was
any enemy around.  There was no  time for him  to berate himself  over that lack
now, though. He concentrated entirely on the work at hand.

"Blow the other opening  before they start coming  out there, too," he  ordered,
and the explosion came  within ten seconds. That  left just two ways  out of the
caves- that Lon knew about. He  hesitated for only an instant, then  ordered the
demolition of the opening that raiders had already come out of. First, it  might
keep more from  coming out. Second,  it might put  down some of  the raiders who
were already engaging his men, help the survivors of the fire team that had been
watching that hole until their reinforcements arrived.

Lon started moving toward  the area where the  fighting was going on  as soon as
the last prepared explosion sounded and the heaviest debris came down. The  fact
that there was still  gunfire there was heartening.  Some of his men  were still
alive and fighting. The  nearest four men of  his headquarters squad moved  with
him, fanning out to put him nearly in the middle of their impromptu formation.

At a hundred yards  he could make out  targets. The raiders were  clustered in a
fairly small area, to either side of the  gap in the side of the hill where  the
hole they  had come  out of  had collapsed.  Lon's men  were farther off, on the
facing slope. And the two squads  that Tebba was sending as reinforcements  were
on a converging path.

"At least some of them must have night-vision gear," Lon said, not stopping.  He
was linked to his lieutenants and  sergeants. "That gunfire is too accurate  for
anything less."  '

Before anyone  could respond  to that  observation, gunfire  broke out  near the
final  cave  entrance,  the  one  that  the  Dirigenters  and  Bancrofters   had
concentrated their  forces against.  Lon was  not too  concerned with  that. The
raiders would have to come out almost single file, into the concentrated fire of
half of Lon's men and three-quarters of the local militiamen. He concentrated on
the first breakout.

"Get them bottled in, and put the cork in," he instructed. This was not the time
to remind anyone that they needed breathing prisoners.

Lon and the few men with him took cover and started adding their own rifle  fire
to the fight. On his own, Lon worked to wound rather than kill, aiming low.  Put
them out of action. Hope there are some  who live long enough for us to get  our
hands on them.

With more of his men moving into position, this part of the firefight would  not
continue  long.  Lon  monitored  the   other  engagement  over  the  radio   but
concentrated on the situation right in front of him.

There  were  only three  or  four raiders  still  firing when  the  final raider
counterattack started-the one that Lon and his men were not fully prepared  for.
Gunfire started coming from behind the main body of mercenaries and  militiamen,
north of the mapped areas of the cave system.

There was another exit,  one we didn 't  find, Lon realized as  he heard gunfire
coming from a new direction and heard the first radio reports of the attack. The
raiders •had emerged  and had time  to form up  before entering the  fight. They
were not seen until they started firing.

The assault  did cause  confusion. Among  the Dirigen-ters,  that confusion  was
minimal and lasted  only a few  seconds. Squad and  fire team leaders  responded
quickly, switching part of their forces to cover the new threat. The  Bancrofter
militia  was somewhat  slower to  react. They  didn't have  enough training   or
experience  for their  response to  be so  nearly automatic.  But nowhere   were
militiamen far from  mercenaries. As much  by example as  instruction, Lon's men
brought their trainees into alignment.

"I don't  think they  want an  all-out fight.  Major," Weil  said less  than two
minutes after the latest attack had started. "It looks as if they're just trying
to break everyone free."

"Maybe they don't want an all-out fight, Weil, but that's what they're going  to
get," Lon replied. "Our  hosts wouldn't have anything  less. We'll see just  how
determined the raiders are.  Maybe this last batch  will give up and  run for it
when they see they can't penetrate our lines."

It did not  take long. The  last group of  raiders fought- with  more enthusiasm
than skill-for nearly  ten minutes, but  then they started  to withdraw. On  the
other side, the raiders who remained of the groups trying to fight their way out
of the cave exit that had been left unmolested started pulling back inside.  The
threat of  being entombed  alive was  now less  than the  threat of being killed
outright. The few raiders  left whose bolt hole  had been destroyed behind  them
had no option. They tried retreating up the side of the hill past the rubble  of
the  explosion that  had closed  their exit,  but that  just exposed  them  more
completely to  the gunfire  of the  Dirigenters and  Bancrofters. That fight was
soon over. No raiders were left to contest the issue.

"Get men in there fast," Lon instructed. "We want live prisoners now."

"Do we go looking  for the exit that  last batch came out  of?" Harley Stossberg
asked a moment later. "If we don't find it, the rest of these birds might escape
the same way."

"Not yet, Harley," Lon said. "We've got  too many hostiles in the woods now  for
that. Hold your positions."

Colonel Henks, accompanied by a full squad of his militiamen, worked his way  to
Lon's  position.  "Some  of  the  raiders  are  getting  away,"  he  complained.
"Shouldn't we go after them while we can?"

"Not yet. Colonel,"  Lon said. "Right  now, we need  to secure this  site. We're
going to get your prisoners for you, and  we need to find out just what sort  of
prize we've captured. This might be their main base. Colonel, and we could  well
be set to  recover a fair  portion of the  loot they've taken.  You'll have your
victory, your prisoners, and maybe more."

That possibility  slowed Henks's  response. He  hesitated, uncertain  whether to
protest again about letting some of the raiders escape. A sudden increase in the
amount of gunfire near the last guarded opening interrupted.

Lon looked that way. "What now?" he asked on his channel to Tebba.

"I think it's just the  ones behind us trying to  pull the last of their  people
away," Tebba said. "We're  getting hit hard, but  they're not coming at  us. And
more of the  ones we had  pinned down against  the exit are  trying to slide out
from under us."

"Let them go," Lon said, glancing at  Henks even though he was certain that  the
militia colonel could not overhear the conversation. "Give them room. Don't make
it particularly easy, but I'd rather have them on the outside running than  back
in the hole where we'd have to dig them out."

"Lon, you'd better get to me quick." Phip's voice was unusually tight. There was
almost no shooting going on, just the odd shot by overenthusiastic  Bancrofters.
"It's Dean."

Lon started moving immediately, clicking  over the head-up display on  his visor
to look for the vital signs of Dean Ericks. What he saw was not good. The traces
were almost still, almost flat.

"You got a medic  there?'' Lon asked Phip  as he and his  headquarters squad ran
toward them.

"Yes, but..." Phip stopped, and Lon knew why. Dean's vital signs had stopped.

Don't you dare die on me! Lon thought, hoping against hope that the mental order
might make a difference. The  medic would not give up  as long as there was  any
chance at  all. If  the slightest  tie to  life remained,  getting a  man into a
trauma tube gave him a better than 98 percent chance of survival.

When Lon reached them, the medic was getting to his feet. Phip was kneeling next
to his longtime  friend. Phip's faceplate  was up. Lon  could see the  anguished
look on his face, and Lon's mind tried to reject the obvious. No!

"He never had a chance. Major," the medic said. "I don't think he knew what  hit
him.  The  bullet  severed the  spinal  cord  at the  base  of  his skull,  then
apparently ricocheted and ripped  open the carotid artery.  If there had been  a
trauma tube sitting next to him and he'd rolled straight into it, I don't  think
it would have made a difference."

Lon dropped heavily to his knees  at Dean's side, across from Phip.  Phip's eyes
showed awareness that Lon had arrived, but he could not speak. He looked at Lon,
then looked down at Dean.

At first, Lon felt nothing. His mind did not want to deal with what he saw, what
the  medic had  said. He  swallowed hard,  then reached  up and  pulled off  his
helmet. Unaware of his actions, Lon dropped the helmet at his side.

You 've seen death before. You 've always known this . could happen, to you,  to
anyone.  It's part  of the  job. It's   a risk  you accepted  a long  time  ago.
Anguished thoughts caromed around Lon's head, unheeded, almost unnoticed.  There
was an infinite instant of shock, a numbness.

Then the mask of leadership cracked. Shattered.

A tortured sob bubbled up out of Lon's throat. He bent forward, as if seized  by
a stomach cramp. For the first time in ages, almost longer than he could recall,
Lon Nolan cried helplessly.



25

Lon took no consolation from the fact that only two Dirigenters had been  killed
in the fight, or  that fifteen raiders had  been killed and a  dozen captured. A
part of Lon's mind, and more of  his heart, remained walled off, numb. After  no
more than two or three minutes, he put his helmet on again, got to his feet, and
moved away without speaking to Phip or the medic. Lon returned to the  necessary
work of concluding the engagement and dealing with all the casualties.

Tebba Girana and Weil Jorgen took as much of the load as they could, and most of
the men around Lon shielded him from any unnecessary interruptions. Everyone  in
the company knew  how close  their commander  had been  to Dean  Ericks. The old
timers recalled the four  young men who had  always been together. And  now only
two  were  left  in  the  company-one  dead,  another  long  escaped  from   the
occupational hazards of the mercenary life.

A new perimeter was established. Patrols were sent out to make certain that  the
raiders did not  remain close enough  to harass the  mercenaries and militiamen.
The immediate fight was  over, but not the  danger. Wounded men, on  both sides,
were treated. Colonel Henks  wanted as many healthy  prisoners as he could  get,
both for questioning and for parading in front of the citizens of Bancroft.

The cave entrance  that the slap-and-grab  team had missed  was found two  hours
after the firefight. It, too, was demolished, leaving-the Dirigenters hoped-only
one way in or out.

"We'll wait until morning to go in," Lon told his lieutenants and Colonel Henks.
He voice was under tight control, but  the men who knew him well could  feel the
pain he  was trying  to conceal.  "We've got  wounded who  need trauma  tubes to
survive." Portable trauma tubes and other needed medical supplies were on  their
way. A shuttle would drop them in.  After first light, the few wounded who  were
going  to  need extensive  periods  of regeneration  and  recuperation would  be
evacuated, along with most of the prisoners.

"There might still be raiders in the caves," Tebba said.

Lon shrugged. "We'll deal with it, go in as if we know they're there. We need to
see what's inside." His voice was flat, dull. "The men are on half and half?"

Tebba nodded. "For the last  hour." Half of the men  in each fire team would  be
awake, on watch, while the rest  slept. "We're sharing the duty of  guarding the
prisoners  with the  locals." Most  times that  would be  a precaution  to  make
certain that the  mercenaries' local allies  did not massacre  the enemy out  of
hand. It was probably unnecessary this time, but it was routine.

"When do we start questioning them?" Colonel Henks asked.

Lon stared at him for a moment before he answered. "It will keep until  morning.
Colonel. They're not going anywhere."

"It makes me nervous,"  Henks said. "I don't  like to take the  chance of having
anything happen before we get the answers we need about where they came from and
who set them up here. We lose  the chance to question these prisoners, we  might
not get another opportunity."

"I want answers, too. Colonel, but it will keep. We've put sleep patches on  all
of the ones who are healthy enough to cause trouble, and we've got enough people
to make sure no one is going to come in and rescue them. We all need what  sleep
we can get."

Sleep was a long time coming for  Lon, and it was uneasy, often disturbed,  less
restful than staying awake  would have been. There  were too many memories  that
would not be excluded, and they intertwined in bizarre combinations. Lon,  Phip,
Janno, and  Dean. Sergeant  O'Banion and  Private Green.  Lon, Junior.  Death in
dozens of macabre vignettes. Mourning.  When morning came, Lon looked  drawn and
haggard.

Soon after first light, Lon stood fifty yards from the cave entrance, staring at
it. Glaring. Grinding his  teeth. The temptation to  lead the first squad  going
into the cave was almost overpowering. There was something very like desperation
in his desire. He knew all the  reasons why he should not, but that  very nearly
was not enough. After Dean's death, he felt a compulsion to do something active,
to look for a chance to get  some personal measure of revenge. There might  be a
few raiders left inside the caves, and they might resist. None of the raiders so
far had shown any interest in surrendering.  As long as they were able to  move,
they fought, they died, or they fled. And killing one or two himself, preferably
at close range, even with his bare hands, would have been-temporarily, at  least
immensely  satisfying. Even  the danger  that this  job might  impose would   be
welcome.

Lon argued with himself, even though he knew what the outcome would-must-be. The
men in the company who knew Lon best could guess what he wanted to do. Tebba and
Weil had both been part of the discussion over tactics and assignments, ready to
object as strenuously as they could if Lon said anything about leading the first
patrol himself. And they were both close  in the morning as the time for  action
came.

The seconds, and  minutes, slid by  on the timeline  on Lon's visor.  Finally he
took a deep breath and repeated the assignments he had decided on earlier.

"Wil Nace will take his first and  second squads in on point," Lon said.  "Those
two squads  can leapfrog  each other.  As they  work through  a section of cave,
we'll bring in more  men to investigate any  branches and secure the  route back
out, keep reinforcements close enough to lend a hand if necessary." There was  a
long pause before he said, "My CP will be just outside the cave entrance.  We'll
set up an  inner perimeter on  the hillside and  place detachments out  farther,
along possible enemy approaches-bugs placed  to cover the gaps and  give advance
warning if the raiders decide to come back."

Lon missed the  glance that Tebba  and Weil exchanged,  the look of  relief that
neither managed to hide completely.

"Colonel Henks, I think you'd like to have at least a squad of your men  inside,
in the second detachment, following the two point squads?"

Henks nodded. He had  been wary in his  conversations with Lon since  the end of
the  fight  during  the night.  Weil  Jorgen  had taken  the  colonel  aside and
explained what was bothering Lon, that he had lost one of his closest friends in
the firefight. "Once the  place is secure. Major,"  Henks said, "I want  to look
around for myself. But later. I'm not suggesting interfering with the real work.
Let those who are best qualified do that."

"We'll get our chance. Colonel," Lon said.

Lon adjourned the  meeting after setting  a jumping-off time.  Then he took  Wil
Nace aside. The two men lifted the visors of their helmets and turned off  their
transmitters so their discussion would remain private.

"Be careful, Wil," Lon  said. "If there's even  a hint of someone  ahead of you,
toss  stun  grenades in  first,  unless you  think  there's too  much  danger of
bringing the roof down on your men. And watch out for booby traps."

Nace cranked out half a grin. "I value my skin," he said.

"I'm going to monitor the action through  your camera. Maybe I can't go in  with
you physically, but I'll be with  you every step of the way."  Dirigenter battle
helmets had small cameras. Linking through their communication system, Lon would
see almost everything Wil Nace did.

"Just don't  try to  micromanage this.  Major," Wil  said. "I  know how you feel
right now. You're  not going through  anything I haven't  gone through a  lot of
times. But the camera doesn't have the same field of vision I do, and I need  to
be able to communicate with my people instantly."

Lon hesitated briefly before  he nodded. "It's your  show, Wil. You're the  best
man in  the company  for this  job. That's  why I  chose you.  Just one  note of
advice:

I've spent time in caves before. Trust what your helmet tells you. It's easy  to
get  disoriented,  lost,  in  caves. You'll  swear  you're  going  in the  wrong
direction when you aren't. Go by  what your electronics tell you even  if you're
ninety-nine percent certain they're wrong. They probably won't be."

It was  a slow  process. Wil  Nace sent  two men  ahead, often crawling on their
stomachs, to the next  intersection or change of  direction in the cave.  There,
the point men  would extend electronic  snoops-the same bugs  that were used  to
provide  early warning  on a  defensive perimeter-past  the comer  to look   and
listen. Only once it was certain that the next section was clear would Wil bring
up the rest of his two squads. A different two men would scout the next section.

Larger chambers were handled similarly, with great caution. After the first  was
found, investigated,  and secured,  Wil passed  the word  to Lon  that the  next
section of soldiers could come in.  That included the other two squads  of Wil's
platoon and a squad of Colonel Henks's militia.

When Wil reached a  major branching in the  subterranean system, he had  his men
probe each of the branches out to fifty yards, then passed the decision to Lon.

"From the charts we have, the branch leading down and right is probably the main
course," Lon said. "I'll send your backup people to where you are now. They  can
guard the second branch while you go on up the first." Another group was sent to
cover the first large  chamber. "I don't want  to put everyone under  the hill,"
Lon said, "but  we need to  make sure you  have reinforcements close  if there's
trouble."

Sunset was two hours  away when Wil's men  discovered the cache of  minerals and
precious metals. '  Tt looks  like there's  a lot  the raiders  didn't ship  off
world,"  Wil reported,  although Lon  was still  watching through  Wil's  helmet
camera.  "Must be  a ton  or more  here. I  can recognize  gold. I  think I  see
platinum as well, but I'm not sure what some of the other stuff is."

The company of Bancrofter militia was detailed to carry the loot the raiders had
left out of the  caves. Lon gave Colonel  Henks very little choice.  "You've had
your victory over the  raiders. We've got prisoners.  Now you've got at  least a
nice fraction  of what  they stole.  We get  that out  of here,  then we  finish
sealing the cave,  along with any  raiders who might  still be inside.  It's not
worth risking my men or yours to investigate every cubic foot of that system. If
you're still  curious in  two or  three years,  come back  and open it up. There
might be other loot stashed somewhere else."            L

It would be  morning before shuttles  could come in  to pick up  the metals, the
minerals,  and the  men. Once  everything was  out of  the caves  and the  final
entrance had been  razed, Dirigenters and  Bancrofters started the  march toward
the landing zone five miles away. With prisoners to guard and more than a ton of
recovered booty to carry,  it was a slow  trek. Only when they  were camped near
the landing zone, with a perimeter in place, did Lon finally give in to  Colonel
Henks's continuing desire to start questioning the prisoners.

"We'll pick one likely-looking candidate, see what we get out of him," Lon said.
"We get a  few answers now,  that should satisfy  both our curiosities-at  least
enough to hold us until we're back in Lincoln."

The subject was chosen after Lon and  Henks consulted with the men who had  been
guarding the captured raiders. The guards indicated one of the prisoners who had
appeared to be  in command, some  sort of leader  among them. He  was taken away
from his cohorts. One of Lon's  medics administered the drugs that would  ensure
truthful answers to questions.

Colonel Henks wanted  to get right  to tactical matters-  how many more  raiders
there were on Bancroft, where they  would be, and where they might  strike next.
But Henks was not doing the  questioning himself. Lon was, and there  were other
questions he wanted answered first.

The process was not particularly fast. The truth drugs did not induce a  subject
to  volunteer  information.  Each  bit had  to  be  specifically  requested, and
questions sometimes had to be repeated and rephrased.

Arnold  Garr was  the name  of the  man being  questioned. He  was from   Earth,
specifically Montreal, in the North American Union's province of Canada. All  of
the raiders were either from Earth or Mars. They had been hired and trained-over
a period of nine Earth months- for this job. Their employer?

"The Colonial Mining Cartel," Garr said.

"I've never heard of it," Lon told Henks in a whispered aside.

"I have," Henks  replied. "They've got  the franchise from  the Confederation of
Human Worlds on  Earth to import  any mining products  from any colony  world. A
monopoly. We wouldn't accept the prices they offered. I guess they decided  they
weren't going to take no for an answer. We shut down their operation here, maybe
they'll think better of it."

Maybe, Lon thought.



26

The contract came to its scheduled conclusion. The three months of training were
completed.  Colonel Henks  announced his  satisfaction. Governor  Sosa hosted  a
celebratory dinner.  All due  fees were  paid, including  the percentage  on the
recovered loot. The mercenaries returned  to Tyre. The three civilian  munitions
experts returned to Sidon. The ships headed for home.

During the first days of the  voyage, before the ships made their  first transit
of  Q-space, Lon  spent as  much time   as he  could with  his men,  talking  to
individuals and  small groups.  He ate  with them,  exercised with  them- as  he
normally did while they were in transit.

After the ships made  their first transit of  Q-space, Lon went to  a section of
the ship he had only visited once before, and then just because he had wanted to
see every part of the vessel. His destination was far back in the ship, near the
main engines and just at the edge of the habitable portion of Tyre. He went  all
the way to a hatch he could not open.

Beyond that hatch, preserved by the cold of space, were the bodies of the eleven
men of Alpha Company who had died on Bancroft.

Including Dean Ericks.

The Dirigent Mercenary Corps always brought everyone home-when it was physically
possible. When they landed in Dirigent City, the dead would head the  procession
across town to base. They would pass in review before a regimental formation, be
given the salutes of their living comrades.

There were no chairs in the room just outside the sealed chamber where the  dead
made their final  space voyage. It  was just an  open space, little  more than a
glorified airlock, used only  when the cold chamber  was heated enough to  allow
loading and unloading.

At first Lon leaned  his forehead against the  sealed hatch. Although there  was
sufficient shielding, the metal bulkhead felt cold.

"Good-bye, Dean," Lon whispered, his eyes closed. "We'll miss you." He  remained
motionless for a couple  of minutes then, as  if he were listening  for a reply.
Then he sat on the floor, his back against the hatch.

Now, finally, there was time for him to work through the grief. He had days  and
light-years. It would not be enough to eliminate all the pain, but it would give
him a chance to move on. Silent tears fell freely.

When  the  first  flood  of  grief  had  passed,  leaving  Lon  feeling drained,
exhausted, he made the slow trek back to his cabin. With the door locked  behind
him, he sat on the edge of his bunk, portable complink on his lap. For a time he
merely  stared at  the blank  screen. Then,  very carefully,  he wrote  out  his
resignation  from the  Corps. He  spent an  hour at  the task,  going back   and
rewriting, revising, editing, trying to get every word exactly right.

Lon did not  date the letter.  When he had  polished it as  far as he  could, he
encrypted it and filed it in a private, locked directory on the complink.  There
was  no  rush. It  would  be another  ten  days before  Tyre  and Sidon  reached
Dirigent, and there would be no rush to submit it even then. He could take  more
time to  think, time  to talk  it over  with Sara.  Maybe it  is time to take up
pulling pints, he thought. Or maybe  emigrate, move to a world where  boys don't
grow up to be soldiers and die. A world where men like Kaiko Green don't end  up
in jail for protecting family.



EPILOGUE

It was the last week of February on Dirigent. There were a few traces of snow on
the ground, not yet melted despite several days when the temperature had risen a
few degrees above freezing. Bare trees stood sentinel around the cemetery  where
the dead of the Corps rested. Two hundred yards to the east, just beyond one  of
those lines of trees, were the nearest barracks.

Each regiment had its own section in the cemetery, noted by its regimental flag.
Flat stone  markers identified  every grave.  Embedded memory  modules could  be
linked to to hear  more information than was  provided on each headstone.  Name,
rank, unit, date of birth, date and place of death.

Two taxis waited at the curb of  the lane next to 7th Regiment's portion  of the
graveyard, their drivers waiting inside their heated vehicles.

Eleven new graves were grouped together.  The soil over the caskets had  not yet
completely settled. Near the foot of one of those graves, people stood silently,
staring at the headstone.

Phip Steesen stood  a little apart  from the rest.  Lon stood holding  his son's
hand. Sara held Angie, who really wasn't certain what this outing was all about.
Mary Belzer stood next to Sara. Her husband, Janno, was at the end of the  line,
and their three children  were between them: the  oldest was nine, the  youngest
just a few months older than Angie Nolan.

After a few minutes, the children started to get restive, though the older  ones
did know  why they  were there.  They remembered  Uncle Dean  and knew that they
would not  see him  again. Lon,  Junior, tried  to keep  from crying,  though he
wanted to. It happened to Uncle Dean; it could happen to Daddy.

The adults  also worked  to keep  their emotions  from showing.  There had  been
little talk since they had met at the Nolan house for this pilgrimage.

Lon's thoughts  were disturbed  by increased  pressure from  his son's  hand. He
glanced down at the boy and nodded. Then he looked to the headstone again.

"Good-bye, old friend," Lon said softly.  "We'll miss you." Phip and Janno  also
said  farewells, then  the group  moved back  toward the  taxis. The  women  and
children got in  one, to head  back to the  Nolan house. The  three men took the
other. Before they  joined the others,  they had one  other duty to  perform for
their lost friend.

At the Purple Harridan, they ordered four beers. Each man drank one. The  fourth
was left on the table, a coaster placed over the top.

Lon's letter of  resignation remained hidden  in his private  files. He had  not
reached a final decision yet.