2
The three mercenary officers were brought before the governor of New Bali together. Lieutenants Lon Nolan and Carl Hoper, platoon leader for the company’s first and second platoons, flanked Captain Orlis as they were returned to Government House and taken to the second-floor office of Governor Pranj Nuwel. The three ranking officers from the Singaraja militia barracks were also present.
Governor Nuwel stood behind his desk and stared at the Dirigenters for a moment. Then he smiled and nodded shallowly before coming out to the center of his office, coming face to face with the outworlders.
“Captain Orlis,” Nuwel said with a broader smile. “I think we can consider the contract fulfilled.” He extended his hand and the two men shook. “You and your men have done an admirable job of training our militia. The, ah, final examination you staged this morning was most impressive.”
“Thank you, Governor,” Matt Orlis replied. “The demonstration has to be as real as possible, or it doesn’t prove anything. Your men have been excellent students.”
“The people of New Bali will be able to sleep more soundly in future,” Nuwel said. “We survived the first coup attempt by the grace of God. If our dissident minority tries a repeat, they shall find us far more prepared, thanks to you and your men.”
“I hope it never comes to that, Governor, but if it does, I’m sure that your men will be able to cope with any situation that does arise.”
Governor Nuwel shook hands with the lieutenants, offering each a smile and a few words of gratitude. Then he returned to Orlis.
“Captain, I know that you’re in something of a hurry to return home, but I do hope that you and your men can see yourselves free to give us a few more hours. My government and the city of Singaraja have prepared a small celebratory party—a luncheon, if you prefer—for late this morning.”
“Thank you, Governor. We would be honored,” Orlis replied.
Huge pavilions of green and yellow fabric had been erected along the beach. Insulated tarps covered the sand under the canopies. Fans and dehumidifiers struggled to make the pavilions comfortable. In the governor’s pavilion, several long tables had been set. All of the mercenaries were there, officers at the head table that was perpendicular to the rest, sitting with Governor Nuwel and his chief civilian and militia officials, as well as the mayor and council president of Singaraja.
The festivities started two hours before noon, with the mercenary officers being presented to scores of local notables. Cameras and microphones were present for the inevitable speeches that preceded, followed, and interrupted the eating, and were broadcast to the people in the other pavilions and via the public complink net to the rest of New Bali.
Lon and his companion officers wore off-dress white uniforms. The enlisted men wore clean fatigue uniforms. None of them had brought anything fancier along on a contract.
“I’d just as soon use the time to take a nap in a refrigerator,” Lon had said earlier, when the three officers were alone together for a few minutes after their meeting with Governor Nuwel. “Get some sleep. Get away from the heat.”
Captain Orlis had laughed. “You’ll get your chance soon enough, Nolan. This is part of the business. We’ve got to leave a good impression. Maybe a reference from the people here will bring another job or two for the Corps in the future.”
By the time they were escorted to the beach for the luncheon, Lon was feeling very sluggish. There had been no sleep for the mercenaries the night before, and he had not slept well for several previous nights, basically since the Dirigenters had moved into the jungle, away from the relatively comfortable accommodations they had enjoyed while they were training the local militia. “We need to get in a little refresher training of our own” was the cover story that Captain Orlis had given the local militia commander. “You’ve got a sort of terrain that we don’t have back home.” Only the governor had known the actual reason: the training was a cover for some sort of final exercise to test the militia. And even he had not known exactly what the mercenaries were going to do or when, just that they were going to put the militia to the test.
In the governor’s pavilion, drinks were served early and often. The enlisted men had beer and wine. At the head table, the drink was a lemon-flavored liqueur of a yellow tint, served over ice. It was deceptively innocuous, sweet and mild in the mouth. But, as Lon quickly discovered, it seemed to erupt about halfway to the stomach, providing an inner heat that chased away any awareness of the outside temperature.
“Whew, that’s really something,” Lon said, turning to the militia lieutenant at his right after his first taste of it.
The New Balinese officer grinned. “This is but ice water, my friend. The yellow djorja is less than sixty percent alcohol, and watered down slightly in the mix. And this is on ice, diluting it further. The green djorja we drink in the evening—neat—now that is a real drink.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Lon said, daring a second cautious sip of his drink.
The djorja lost its bite after a few more sips. Lon found himself taking more each time. It provided a pleasant sensation once the shock of introduction had passed. It’s a good thing I came prepared, Lon thought while a waiter refilled his glass for the third time—before the first course of the luncheon had been cleared away, I’m going to need a killjoy-patch before dessert. The patch, applied to neck or arm, would provide molecular agents to metabolize the alcohol quickly and remove any alcohol-related toxins from his system. A killjoy-patch could take a man from unconscious-drunk to duty-sober in twenty minutes.
Lon glanced along the table. Captain Orlis was also drinking freely and appeared to be showing no ill effects from the djorja. I’ll bet he stuck a killjoy on before we came, Lon thought. I wish I’d thought of that. He looked around, then tried to put on a patch of his own without being obvious about it. He applied the patch to his wrist, under the cuff of his shirt, then looked to see if anyone had noticed. No one was pointing and laughing. Satisfied, Lon rewarded himself with another drink.
By the time the formal festivities ended, it was past two in the afternoon. Lon had lost track of the amount of djorja he had consumed. Even with the killjoy-patch on his arm, he was feeling a slight buzz. He recognized the familiar euphoria of moderate intoxication, the feeling of reduced weight, a touch of light-headedness, the pleasant sense of satisfaction. All was well with the world. It felt eminently comfortable in the pavilion. Not even the assault of the sun and unconditioned air when he emerged from the pavilion could disrupt his feeling of well-being and comfort.
Captain Orlis showed no impatience. He conversed with a group of notables from Singaraja. The governor had said a few final thank-yous to the mercenary officers, then left to return to Government House. The four Dirigenter platoon sergeants were assembling their men (and making certain that everyone who needed killjoy-patches had them) for the march to the spaceport and the trip up to their ship for the journey back to Dirigent.
Lon stood on the periphery of the group surrounding Captain Orlis, trying not to look bored or impatient. He was almost startled by the touch of a hand on his arm.
“A small present for you,” said the lieutenant who had been seated next to Lon, proffering a box. “This is the real stuff—green djorja.”
Lon grinned as he accepted the gift. “Thank you.” He nodded. “I hope I have the nerve to try it some evening soon.”
The shuttles were waiting at the spaceport. Lon had scarcely noticed the two-mile march from the beach. The formation had been remarkably lax for Dirigenters, but all Captain Orlis had to say was “For God’s sake, make sure we don’t leave anyone behind.” The men were counted before the company left the beach. Noncoms watched along the way to make certain that no one dropped out of formation. The men were counted again when they reached the spaceport, with assurances being passed up the chain of command that everyone was present. Even after that, Lon stood where he could watch both troop entrances to the shuttle his platoons would ride and counted heads again. And when the men were all inside, he ordered a final roll call.
Two attack shuttles could carry the entire company. The men’s gear, weapons, helmets, and packs, and the rest of the company’s equipment, had already been taken up to the ship by transport shuttles while the men of Alpha Company were being feted by the New Balinese.
“Make sure everyone gets strapped in tight,” Lon told his platoon sergeants. “I don’t want any drunk soldiers floating around the cabin when we hit zero-g.”
“I’ve already told my squad leaders and their assistants to do that,” Weil Jorgen said.
Ivar Dendrow nodded, then added, “I just hope nobody starts puking when their stomachs don’t know which way is down.”
That goes for me too, Lon thought. If one starts, we might have a dozen others toss their cookies. Most especially, he did not want to be the one to start the parade. It would be too embarrassing.
There was no rush about this trip. The shuttles remained on the ground for ten minutes after the doors had been sealed and the roll taken once more. The Dirigenters waited for a local shuttle flight coming into Singaraja to land before their shuttles were given clearance to take off. The shuttles taxied to the end of the runway and took off no more than ten seconds apart.
The pilots made an “economical” boost, keeping the shuttles subsonic until they were at fifty thousand feet and out over the ocean, thirty miles from the nearest settlement on the ground. The shuttles went to rocket power then, but the acceleration remained moderate—for attack shuttles. Even at peak, the men aboard the two boats never experienced more than two and a half gees.
Video monitors spaced around the troop cabin offered views of New Bali and then—once the shuttles were in space—also one view of their ship. Piranha was a Scorpion-class transport, large enough to carry slightly more than two companies of soldiers along with supplies for two months. The Scorpion-class vessels were the smallest dedicated troop carriers in the Dirigenter military fleet. With only Alpha Company aboard, Piranha seemed more spacious than a civilian liner.
Lon felt a moment of queasiness when the shuttle’s rockets shut down and robbed the passengers of any feeling of weight. He rebounded against the straps of his safety harness, looking around for any signs of men who might get spacesick. If it was going to happen, it would likely happen in the first couple of minutes of zero gravity. He did not quite hold his breath.
So far, so good, Lon told himself when the most critical period had elapsed. Booze or not, they look okay. He took stock of his own physical feeling. His stomach felt uneasy, but did not seem ready to reject any of the food or djorja. Then he remembered the package he had been given, the stronger green djorja now stowed safely beneath his seat, and managed a smile. I will have to try that, he thought, after we get home.
Without helmets, there was no radio communication among the soldiers. It felt strange being in a shuttle and not wearing full field gear. But the only practical limitation this time was that Lon could not confer with his noncoms or with Captain Orlis. The captain was in the other shuttle. Lon could talk with his platoon sergeants, but only by shouting. Neither was seated especially close.
One of the pilots increased the magnification on the video of Piranha. Lon could make out the open hangar doors waiting for the two troop shuttles to rendezvous, rectangles of bluish light against the matte black of the ship’s hull.
Soon, Lon thought. But it could hardly be soon enough. He was looking forward to sleeping between sheets again; to good, freshly prepared food rather than battle rations; and—most of all—to comfortable temperature and humidity levels. He closed his eyes. Even in zero gravity, he felt that he could drift off to sleep. If he permitted himself to. That was something else he was looking forward to—plenty of sleep, interrupted only by meals and the barest of other necessities. Piranha would offer that luxury. During the two weeks that the trip back to Dirigent would take, Lon would have only minimal calls upon his time. There would be little work for anyone in the company. Coming home from a contract was a time for rest and recuperation.
Lon did not completely allow himself to fall asleep on the shuttle. He dozed, but his eyes came open every minute or so to assure him that all was well. It was not very restful. He kept thinking of things he needed to remember to do or say once they got aboard ship. He did have responsibilities.
An announcement over the loudspeaker that the shuttle was about to dock with Piranha finally brought Lon out of his torpor. He blinked several times and did his best to disguise the gaping yawn that forced its way through his mouth. He stretched as best he could within the confines of his safety harness, and looked around to see that many of his men were going through similar routines. A few men appeared to be asleep. He had no problem with that, save envy. They could sleep until they docked, if they could manage it.
Sergeant Dendrow spoiled it, though. “Look lively,” he called out loudly. “Wake those men up. We’re not about to carry anyone aboard.”
There were groans and a few good-natured complaints from the men. Someone said, “Carry me, carry me!” in a falsetto that effectively concealed the speaker’s identity. It was not the first time that Lon had heard that voice make a wise cracking comment in the past few months. Lon kept a straight face despite the way that Dendrow spun his head trying to see who the joker was. Ease up, Ivar, Lon thought, just a second before Dendrow’s face relaxed and he managed a smile and a slow shake of his head.
“One of these days!” the platoon sergeant said with mock seriousness. “I’m going to find out who our female impersonator is, and then we’ll see who has the last laugh.”
At least they’re in good spirits, Lon thought. He had worried that the oppressive climate of New Bali might cause morale problems, as bad as a combat contract could when things went wrong. Maybe the party the New Balinese threw for us helped. Lon smiled. The party and the thought of the contract-completion bonus that the men would receive as soon as they got home to Dirigent.
The feeling of weight returning was a relief, even though it came quickly as the shuttle was hauled into its hangar and secured to the deck. Lon unfastened his safety harness before the pilot gave clearance. Lon did remain seated until the message came over the loudspeaker. Then he was on his feet, springing up as if he were rebounding from a trampoline.
“Okay,” he called out. “Let’s get aboard and get squared away. I want weapons and field gear cleaned before anyone gets the idea of sacking out for the next two weeks.” Humid conditions were rough on rifles and pistols, even without the insult of the putty bullets that had been used in the final examination for the New Balinese militia.
The responding groans were softer this time. The order had been inevitable, and everyone in the two platoons knew it, even the sprinkling of rookies—men who had never been on contract before. The men were, after all, professionals. They depended heavily on their weapons and other gear—often for their very lives. And if anyone did forget, even momentarily, the sergeants and corporals would be certain to remind them.
Both exits opened. The hangar door had been sealed. The chamber had been pressurized. Lon moved to one of the exits and stood there while third platoon went through the doorway, with Ivar Dendrow standing across from him. Fourth platoon used the other door. Platoon Sergeant Jorgen monitored his men.
The platoons moved out of the shuttle in good order. There was little congestion as the men hurried to get back to their shipboard accommodations. Spartan though those might be, they would seem luxurious after the tropical rain forest of New Bali. For a time, perhaps only a few days, everything would seem better than the men had ever realized before. It was not that the colony world had been so primitive, just a reflection of how stressful the climate was.
“Sometimes it astounds me,” Sergeant Dendrow said, almost under his breath, after the last of the men had left.
“What?” Lon asked, a little startled at the way Ivar’s statement seemed to reflect his own thoughts.
“Some of the lads have already forgotten the misery. By the time we get home it’ll just be something to brag about in the bars, how rough conditions were on New Bali.”
Lon shook his head. “Be thankful for small favors,” he said, stepping through the hatchway to the hangar deck. “I’d hate to see them coming out with their chins in their socks.”
Dendrow chuckled softly as he followed the lieutenant out. “Aye, sir. That’s always rougher.”
The inspection, before dinner that evening, was relatively informal but thorough. Corporals inspected the rifles and other field gear of their squads. Platoon sergeants inspected at random, checking the equipment of two or three men in each squad—and the squad leaders. Finally, Lon did his own random sampling, knowing full well that he would not find anything to complain about in weapons or anything else that the corporals and sergeants had passed. But he did not slough off his duties. He also had Sergeant Dendrow check his gear, while he inspected the weapons of his platoon sergeants. Even Captain Orlis would have his rifle, pistol, and field kit inspected by other eyes. No one wanted to have anything wrong with his professional tools.
During the trip home, the armorer would inspect each weapon more closely, to make certain that it had not suffered damage, and repair any wear and tear he found. An electronics technician would run diagnostics on battle helmets, mapboards, and every other piece of electronic gear that had gone down to the surface of New Bali. Faulty units or components would be repaired or replaced before Piranha got home. Alpha Company would land on Dirigent as prepared for action as it had been when it reached New Bali.
Piranha was boosting away from New Bali by the time the inspection was over and the men were sent off to dinner. Captain Orlis had assured everyone that there would be no unnecessary fatigue details during the trip. The only chores would be the daily routine of keeping the barracks cabins clean and the hour of physical conditioning each morning to make certain that the troops were as fit for action when they got home as their equipment would be.
The trip home would take fourteen or fifteen days. Any interstellar journey required that long, whether the distance traveled was three light-years or three hundred. The ship would make three “jumps” through Q-space. Piranha would be five days out from New Bali before its first Q-space transit. The other two jumps would be spaced three days apart—three days of traveling in normal space—and they would emerge from the final transit three days out from Dirigent.
“Two weeks after we get home, a few of the men will start wondering when we’ll be shipping out again, when the next contract might come our way,” Captain Orlis told his two lieutenants after dinner. The three officers were together in the captain’s stateroom, sharing a bottle of wine from home.
“Well, this wasn’t a combat contract,” Carl Hoper said.
“It takes longer after a hard one, when men have died and others have been wounded.” He spoke softly. All three of them had been on contracts like that. Lon Nolan’s predecessor as leader for the company’s third and fourth platoons had been killed in action the last time out.
Lon thought about Arlan Taiters, and about the other men he had known who had been killed. He did not intend to say anything, but a thought forced its way past his lips almost without his realizing that it was coming. “Two weeks after we get home, they’ll be back from their after-contract leaves. Most of the men will have drunk up their bonuses. All they’ve got to look forward to on Dirigent then is training routine and a stint with the planetary defense command.” He shrugged and glanced at the other two self-consciously. Rather to Lon’s surprise, both Orlis and Hoper considered his facetious comment seriously.
“That’s only part of the answer, Lon,” Orlis said after a moment’s reflection. “True for some of the men, some of the time, but there’s more to it.”
“Some of the men, especially those who’ve been in the Corps longest, get to feeling as if they’re not … fulfilling their purpose in life in garrison. They’re in the profession of fighting, and when they’re not doing that, they get to feeling as if they’re not earning their keep, or doing their duty.”
“And some would just rather be doing something different than what they’re doing at the moment, no matter what the alternatives are,” Orlis said. “Enough shop talk. We’ve still got half a bottle of this wine to finish tonight. Let’s save the philosophy until we get home and have plenty of time for it.”