— 1 —
"Soldiering is all I know, and this is no way to do it." Paul Nelson grumbled in English as he prodded the frightened peasant family along the muddy path to Parson's headquarters.
"Come on, come on, I haven't got all day," he barked, punctuating his command by poking the barrel of the M‑16 in the man's ribs. This time he spoke in the local Tran dialect. It had taken a while, but eventually Paul, like the rest of the mercs, had caught on to the local lingo.
"Please, please," the man pleaded. "My wife has just given birth . . ."
True enough, Nelson thought. This peasant's woman must have had a tough time, too. The filthy family barely inched through the ice-crusted mud, held back by the ragged woman's slow pace. She held the baby cradled against her breast; the two other hungry children were crying quietly, clinging to the man's legs. No way of knowing when they'd last had something to eat.
And no way of knowing when they'll get much more to eat either, Nelson thought. Ever since Parsons got us into this war as allies of Sarakos, things have gone from bad to worse. The locals hate us; won't work, won't grow crops; they hide in the hills and the bush and pick us off every chance they get. Sarakos can't even feed his own army. If we didn't have "starweapons," we'd be as hungry as these peasants ourselves.
". . . and we have not eaten in two days. There is famine, disease, and death. Please, mercy . . ." the scrawny farmer continued.
Now I'm out rounding up more of these miserable, hungry peasants to serve Parsons as work slaves, or worse. The woman, she could clean up to look okay; worse luck for her.
Well, the hell with this! Should have known Parsons was no good when he threw out the captain. Seemed logical then; Parsons had more experience. But now he's nothing but a bloody warlord, a slaver, and coming unhinged to boot. Hasn't been right in the head since this guerilla war turned against us.
"Okay, okay, shut up and listen," Nelson said. "Do you have any food left at your village, any hope of getting food there?"
The man looked blankly at Nelson.
"Yeah. Won't tell me, and with good reason. Probably have a teenage son out in those woods somewhere, stealing food from us, don't you, you old beggar?"
The man made no reply, his filthy face frozen in a mask of fear.
"Go on, get out of here," Nelson said with disgust, dropping the rifle from firing position.
The man lifted up the younger of the two children, gripped his wife firmly by the arm, and began a slow trek back along the path. Nelson watched them for a moment, then walked toward the mercs' base, another klick away over the rolling hill ahead.
Going to be hell to pay when I go back to Parsons empty-handed, he told himself. Elliot will back Parsons up on whatever he wants to do to me. But I'll be damned if I'm going to be a slaver for that conceited, power-hungry megalomaniac. By Yatar, I wish things could be different!
But things weren't different. One Tran year ago—1.7 Earth years—neither Nelson nor any of the other mercs had ever heard of Tran. They were busy fighting for their lives, CIA volunteers on a clandestine mission against Cuban troops in Africa. They were being beaten—badly—and when the moment came for the choppers to show up and pull them out, someone in Washington got cold feet about the whole operation. The choppers didn't show. The mercs figured they were sure to be Cuban dogmeat.
Then the flying saucer showed up.
The men got on board. Captain Galloway said it was a CIA ship. Maybe some of them believed that until they got on board. Maybe. All of them believed that whatever was on the saucer was a lot better than being killed by the Cubans—or worse, captured by them.
The aliens took them to Tran. In exchange for their rescue, the mercs were to set up shop on this human-inhabited planet with its medieval technology and grow a weed called surinomaz. The Shalnuksis, the aliens, promised to trade with the mercs, providing whatever was needed, if the surinomaz crops were good.
As soon as they landed, Lieutenant Parsons took over. He let Captain Galloway go free and even gave him a rifle and some ammo. A few of the men wanted to go with Galloway, and finally Corporal Mason was given the nod. Neither Mason nor Galloway had been heard from since.
Parsons led the group pretty well for a while. With their weapons—the locals called them "starweapons"—the mercs had things pretty much their way. They could take what they needed, and before long most of them had a wife or two and some kids on the way. They lived like petty kings.
Then Parsons had joined forces with Sarakos, a local king of some sort, and got them into this war between Sarakos' Five Kingdoms and the feudal kingdom to the south, a place called Drantos.
The battles were fine—a few mortar rounds put an end to the mounted knights of the enemy. But the people, they were something else. They fought tooth and nail against the invaders. It was like 'Nam all over again, but this time there weren't any medics, choppers, or resupplies of ammo.
As the situation worsened, so did Parsons. Everything that went wrong was someone else's fault, not his. The men were starting to grumble. Sergeant Elliot stayed loyal and kept discipline, but Nelson knew that Larry Warner and Corporal Gengrich were quietly talking about a walkout against Parsons.
Spring wouldn't bring any improvement in the food supply. The land had been ravaged by Parsons and Sarakos, and the locals would rather ambush Sarakos' troops than plant crops. Parsons was resorting to outright slavery to get the menial work done and generally behaved like some kind of tyrant. He'd probably dump Sarakos when this war was over and set himself up as a king.
If, that is, he could beat Drantos. The main army had been defeated, true, but there was another force in the country now, made up of hill tribes from a region called Tamaerthon. Sarakos' knights spent a lot of time wondering how this hill tribe army had managed to beat the Romans last year. The Roman legions were considered the best troops on Tran—except, of course, for the knights of the Five Kingdoms themselves.
Nelson had an idea that maybe those primitive hill tribes had a little help against the Romans. There was talk, too, about a university on Tran, and a few other developments that hinted at outside aid. Maybe, somehow, Art Mason and Captain Galloway were helping Tamaerthon and Drantos. Or maybe the hill tribes had just sprouted themselves a once-in-a-century genius. Nelson didn't know, and he didn't say anything about it. In a merc crew about to be torn in half by mutiny, it was best to keep your mouth shut.
At any rate, this wasn't Nelson's idea of soldiering. Nelson was a small-town Indiana boy, raised on corn-fed beef, mother love, and Republican patriotism. When Uncle Sam needed help in southeast Asia, Paul Nelson decided to skip college and answer the call. There'd be time enough for college after the Reds were kicked out of Viet Nam.
Nelson fought hard in Viet Nam, and volunteered for a second tour of combat duty there. The second tour was enough. After 1973 Nelson didn't want to watch any more good men die in a war the politicians weren't going to let them win. He came home and worked on a Bachelor's degree in science, with an eye to teaching when he got out. By the time the piece of paper was his, he was bored with the schools and the soft life lived by those who attended and ran them. He longed for a life that would again combine action with patriotic duty.
The CIA was the answer, or so it seemed. Through some old Army buddies, Nelson heard about the need for "volunteers" in Africa. It was merc work, and the politicians would probably back out again when the chips were down, but Nelson was bored and patriotic enough to give it a try. Then there'd been that awful night in the bush, and the flying saucer. . . .
And now here I am on Tran, with nothing but the rank of private. I'm commanded by a crazy man who wants to be a feudal king, Nelson thought as he approached camp. God, or Yatar, or Vothan, only knows what I'm going to do now.
"Who goes there?"
The challenge came from a light copse just ahead on the perimeter of the merc camp.
"It's me, Nelson, returning from a 'recruitment' patrol."
"Okay. Hey, Elliot's been looking for you."
"Elliot has found him, now, soldier. Nelson!"
Paul Nelson looked up and saw Sergeant Elliot approaching from the woods.
"Report!" Elliot snapped.
"No slaves for the . . . lieutenant," Nelson said, staring directly into Elliot's eyes.
"There were locals in that village only three klicks away this morning."
"Well, there aren't any now." At least that was true in a way. "I got no beef with you, Sarge, you know that."
Elliot stared back at Nelson for a long moment. "Okay, soldier. Get some grub and get warm. I'll tell Parsons the villagers bolted. That is what you're reporting, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir." Nelson walked to a nearby tent, helped himself to a cup of hot wine, and stalked off into the deepening, cold dusk away from the encampment. None of the other mercs spoke; they were busy keeping warm and keeping themselves out of Parsons' doghouse.
It's time to make my move, Nelson thought. I can't stand Parsons any more. I like Warner, but he's tied in with Gengrich, and Gengrich will never be able to hold a unit together. I could try to get through to the Drantos troops and join up with Galloway, if Galloway is with them, but there's no way to know that for sure. And there's no guarantee the captain would take me in. He might decide to hang a mutinous merc or two to set an example to any others who come his way.
So, it looks like I'd better go it alone. I know Gengrich thinks a group under him could hook up with some of the City States southwest of here. If Gengrich can find work for a group there, I can sure find something for myself.
Private Joe MacAllister started to curse the cold of the Tran winter night, invoking the wrath of Yatar, Vothan, Hestia, and Christ against the criminal stupidity and maliciousness of all officers, especially Lieutenant Parsons, who picked him to stand perimeter sentry duty tonight. The curse died in his throat, unspoken, when he heard a rider approaching—coming from the camp, not toward it!
MacAllister readied his rifle and crept toward the one good path leading to the campsite, taking care to keep cover behind a large oak tree. Oaks weren't native to Tran, but neither were horses and mules. Somehow, they all fit into the crazy quilt ecology of this planet. Fortunately, horses on Tran still snorted in the air of a winter night, and that sound carried.
Peering down the path, MacAllister saw Private Nelson mounted and armed, approaching at a slow walk, with a pack mule trailing behind. MacAllister wasn't surprised. Nelson is a quiet one, he thought, but his eyes tell you a lot. I've seen him listen to Gengrich and Warner, and he was interested. Now it looks like he's going to take out on his own. Better talk to him.
"Psst!"
Nelson heard the whispered sound and reined his mount to a sudden halt, eyes searching the surrounding trees.
"Nelson, it's me, MacAllister." MacAllister moved into full view, his weapon unslung but not pointed at Nelson. "You're getting out of here, aren't you?" MacAllister asked.
"Unless you shoot me."
The two men looked at one another, expressionless. Technically, this is desertion, Nelson thought. MacAllister should certainly raise an alarm, and would be within his rights to shoot me if I try to force my way past him. He knows that if he does nothing, he'll answer to Parsons by the time the True Sun rises.
"Parsons will have me for sure if I let you go," MacAllister finally whispered. And it's time, he thought, to see if Nelson is willing to get a good comrade in trouble.
Mac is a good soldier, Nelson told himself. There aren't many mercs in the outfit who don't owe Mac at least one life, thanks to his sharpshooting skills. Getting him in dutch with Parsons is slim thanks for his aid in combat and his friendship in the camp. Mac would be a good man to have.
"Come with me. Neither of us has rank, so we'd go as equals."
"No can do. I've got my own plans," MacAllister confided. He was glad to see that Nelson sought a compromise. That meant he was okay.
"When?"
MacAllister stood silent for a moment, thinking hard. "What are you taking?" he finally asked Nelson.
"My M‑16 with two hundred rounds. A Colt .45 and a hundred rounds. Personal gear. Food, two blankets, knife, compass, canteen, binoculars, two skins of wine. This horse and that mule."
At least he's not stealing us blind, MacAllister decided. He's not taking more than would be his share. Less, actually, since he never picked up much of the loot from the battles. Well, the hell with Parsons.
"You asked when I was going. I guess the answer is sooner than I thought. But I'll stick with Gengrich."
Nelson nodded to MacAllister and took up the horse's reins. The animal began slowly plodding forward. Nelson kept his eyes locked on MacAllister, after all, the man was a sharpshooter, a trained sniper. MacAllister's face broke into a broad grin.
Hell, MacAllister thought. Wait till Parsons sees what Gengrich and Warner are going to be making off with tomorrow. Most of his equipment and twenty-two, no, better make that twenty-one, of his men!
Nelson rode at a steady pace for several days, moving south and west as rapidly as possible in the winter weather. Drantos was largely a ruin of a country, and the natives were hostile, but his M‑16 was usually enough to secure him food and convince someone to provide horse fodder. He didn't sleep in the villages, though: no one to watch his back. Night after night he spent in open fields or on rocky hillsides, rigging booby traps and alarms around his simple camp to guard his sleep.
Aside from necessary contacts to get food, he avoided people altogether. He didn't want reports of a "star lord" reaching Parsons, or Gengrich, or even Captain Galloway, for that matter. Rumors couldn't be prevented, but there was no sense in being obvious and turning a few rumors into confirmed intelligence.
By the time he emerged onto the plains of the City States, Nelson looked more like a Germanic tribesman than a star lord. His blond hair fell shoulder length over the furs he used to cover his camouflage fatigues. His three ten-days in the snow and the light of Tran's three suns gave his broad face a tanned, weather-beaten look, and this appearance of roughness was accented by his thick blond beard.
Not that Nelson was normally unimposing. He stood five feet, eleven inches high—tall by Tran standards—and weighed one hundred eighty-five pounds. None of it was fat: he was large-boned and well-muscled.
He led his pack mule, his knife showing in the belt around his outer furs. His rifle stayed hidden beneath a saddle roll. Nelson looked for all the world like a wealthy, healthy tribal chieftain. That's probably what caused the attack.
The lands around the City States vary from flat plains to gently rolling hills. Where the land has not been cleared, light forests alternate with large meadows. The land is well watered by rivers and their tributaries, and often crossed by trails leading from village to village. The trails are lined by scrub brush and tangles of Tran trees—perfect terrain for an ambush.
Nelson's mind wasn't on ambushes as he rode through the scrub. He pondered his ultimate destination. He knew that Gengrich and his crew were interested in the city republic of Kleistinos. And, he figured, once they have themselves established in the South, they'd make some kind of power play for either Viys or Rustengo, the two most dominant of the City States. That meant the cities of the Sunlands, south of the City States themselves, would probably be a safe haven for a solitary star lord who would prefer to avoid company.
Deep in thought, he ignored his horse's first warnings: a pricking up of the ears, a sniffing of the air with raised head. He didn't ignore what happened next. The arrow thudded into the side of his saddle, narrowly missing his upper right thigh. A war whoop sounded as the arrow hit, and six short, ugly, bearded men sprang from the cover of the scrub brush. A seventh stood, nocking another arrow while the six brutes rushed Nelson. Two of the attackers wielded long swords, one swung a flail, and the remaining three charged with crude clubs made from tree branches raised over their heads.
Nelson reached beneath his furs and produced the Colt .45 automatic. He got off a shot at the man with the flail just before the first sword stroke hit him. The man rocked back and fell stone dead, a red blossom growing on his chest. Then Nelson's world became a tangle of battering weapons, flailing limbs, and pain as he alternately struck and fired at his assailants.
The six bandits have a Melee value of 3 each. They attack using Chart E.
Nelson's Melee value is 6. This includes his ability to fire the pistol at close quarters. He attacks using Chart C.
Continue the fight until four bandits are killed or until Nelson becomes a casualty.
If four bandits are killed, go to section 2.
If Nelson is a casualty, go to section 3.