Alarm of War (3 page)

Emily braced herself. “Sir, yes Sir!” she shouted.

Kaelin jerked his head at the door. “Out,” he ordered. She started for the door. “And Tuttle!” She turned back, questioning. “One more goddamed wink out of you and I most certainly
will
have your ass. Got that!”

She nodded, and then fled.

T
he third person at the meeting sat slightly apart from the other two. Arrogant, vain, xenophobic and ruthless in the sureness of his superiority, Prince RaShahid was a Royal Born of the Tilleke Empire. But he was not in his homeland now. He was visibly uncomfortable in such close physical proximity to free born commoners. The prince had taken the chair furthest away from Hudis and Dreyer, but they were well within his privacy zone and Prince RaShahid made no effort to conceal his discomfort. Nor his distaste. On Tilleke, after all, a commoner was not allowed to be closer than twenty feet of a Royal, on pain of death. For Hudis and Dreyer to even sit in his presence would have been an unpardonable insult on Tilleke.

Inwardly, Hudis despaired. How would he ever forge these three wildly disparate nations into a force to defeat the Vickies? He restrained a sigh.
One must work with the tools at hand
, he reminded himself.

Hudis cleared his throat. “I think perhaps it is time we also hear from our honored guest from the great Empire of Tilleke. Prince RaShahid, you honor us greatly with your presence here.” From the corner of his eye Hudis could see the grimace of distaste of Dreyer’s face.
Didn’t she understand the need for this?

Prince RaShahid bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement of Hudis’s homage. “I send you greetings from His Most Sovereign Majesty, the Emperor of Tilleke. My father…” The Prince paused slightly, savoring the words that bestowed on him his personal power and status. “My father has sent me as his personal emissary to hear your concerns and convey his wishes in this matter.” Another pause. “I speak for the Emperor.”

Hudis raised an internal eyebrow.
Did he really?
If this arrogant young pup was authorized to speak for Emperor Chalabi, that meant that the Emperor was not merely interested in what the Dominion and Cape Breton wanted to do, but that the Emperor had already decided on a course of action. He glanced at Dreyer, who stared back with studied, professional blandness.
Good, she understands as well,
he thought with relief.

“What are the Emperor’s thoughts on this matter?” Hudis inquired.

Prince RaShahid bowed his head again. “As you know, my father, His Most Sovereign Majesty, has as his first and most pressing duty the safety and well-being of his people.” Hudis kept his face expressionless. Just a week earlier, as part of his briefing for this meeting by the Dominion Intelligence Directorate, he had been shown video footage of the now-famous Arcadian delegation that had affronted the Emperor in some way. It had given him nightmares.

The Colonel from the Dominion Intelligence Directorate who briefed him had been a short, stocky man with a no-nonsense attitude and a scar across his cheek that suggested he had not always served the DID from behind a desk. He had been characteristically blunt when briefing him about the need for proper etiquette around the Tilleke royalty.

“Do not fuck with these people, Citizen Secretary. These people think they are God,” he warned flatly. “Once the Prince is in the same room, be respectful at all times and keep your physical distance. On his home world no commoner may get closer than twenty feet to him, under penalty of death. The Prince’s protocol officer has granted you a special dispensation: you may sit in his Royal presence, but you may not sit within ten feet of the little bastard. Get any closer and it is a sign of disrespect. Do not challenge him directly. Do not make any jokes at his expense. In fact, stay away from humor entirely. The Tilleke have no sense of humor and are suspicious of those who do. Whatever you do, do not say anything disrespectful about the Emperor. These people are very,
very
touchy.”

“For the love of God,” Hudis had complained. “We are meeting in the heart of Darwin! What is the Prince going to do, challenge me to a duel?”

The DID officer had stared at him with a flat look that made Hudis squirm. “No, Citizen Secretary, the Prince will not challenge you to a duel. He does not
duel
with people who displease him, he
kills
them. What he will likely do is call in one of his fucking trolls, the Savak, the Crèche-born monsters that make up his personal guard. He, or it, or whatever the fuck it is, will twist your head until your spine snaps, then he will cut it off. The Prince will add it to his little collection.” Unspoken was the fact that the DID would not prevent it from happening. If Hudis slipped up and displeased the Prince, he was expendable; the Citizen President had been clear about that. The Dominion of Unified Citizenry needed the Tilleke’s participation if this…this enterprise was going to succeed.

Then the DID officer had shown him the video.

L
ate one afternoon at the end of the third week, they were broken up into four companies of one hundred each. Each recruit was issued a new uniform that seemed to have a lot of metallic threads woven into it, a battle harness, two canteens, a rucksack and assorted gear to enable them to spend several days outside.

And, to Emily’s astonishment, they were issued weapons.

Sgt. Kaelin stood on a small platform in front of them. He looked at them solemnly, hands on his hips. “Each of you has been assigned to a company, Red, Green, Blue or Gold. Tonight Red Company will stay here, but the other three companies will be moved to separate barracks. From here on in, you will be at war with each other. In every field exercise you will be pitted against one or more of the other companies. All of you will have the same weapons, the same tools. No one will have a technological advantage. How you do in the field exercises will depend on how well you think and plan, how disciplined you are. And sometimes, how bold you are.”

He paused for a moment. Emily glanced about. Most of the faces around her showed no particular understanding of what was being said, but Emily felt a surge of excitement. Tactical training! And after less than a month! She had always read that the Fleet basic training was months and months of physical training and basic instruction, and then, time permitting, some modest tactical training before being shipped off to advanced school. What were they doing?

Sgt. Kaelin held up a rifle, the same rifle that had been issued to the recruits an hour earlier. “Each one of you has been issued the training version of the M24 Bull Pup assault rifle. This is not a sonic blaster, which is considerably more powerful. Those of you who go into the Royal Marines will learn how to use blasters.” There were some scattered cheers and Kaelin waited tolerantly for them to subside. “The regular model M24 shoots a flechette projectile, but for training purposes we use a low power laser. The Bull Pup weighs ten pounds and requires a battery source, which weighs another pound. The battery gives you enough power for approximately seventy shots and then it has to be recharged or replaced. The Bull Pup has a removable three-power scope. The rifle has an effective range of eight hundred yards, but its shot can be deflected by foliage, so take note. From this moment on, each of you is personally responsible for your rifle. You will keep it with you at all times. If you damage it or lose it, you will have to answer to me, and you won’t enjoy the experience.”

Emily wondered how the laser rifles recorded a hit. Would the uniform glow? Turn colors? Make a noise?

“Some of you are wondering how you’ll know when you’ve been shot by the enemy. A brief demonstration is in order.” He barked out orders, and the recruits each separated so they were standing in two long rows, ten feet apart. Emily had a sinking feeling.

“On my order, each recruit will aim his weapon at the leg of the recruit facing him and shoot! Another pause.
This is going to hurt,
thought Emily. “Aim,” Kaelin bellowed, “and fire!”

Four hundred howls of pain and outrage echoed across the parade field. To Emily, the sensation felt like someone had stabbed her with a hot knife. Her leg erupted in pain and she was dimly aware that her uniform pants leg had stiffened, making it very hard to bend her knee. “Gods of Our Mothers!” she screamed. Off balance, cursing, she unceremoniously collapsed to the ground.

“That is how you know when you’ve been shot,” Sgt. Kaelin said mildly. You will find that the pain will diminish over a period of an hour and that the stiffness in your uniform will go away after one to two hours, depending on the severity of the wound.” He pointed to a nearby recruit. “On your feet!” The recruit staggered to his feet, one hand still clutching his thigh.

“If you receive a fatal wound, “Kaelin said, “your uniform will do this.” He pointed a laser pistol at the recruit and shot him twice in the chest. The recruit staggered back and opened his mouth to scream, then stopped and looked sheepishly about. “I don’t feel nothin’,” he said. The recruits near him snickered.

“That’s because you’re dead, dipshit,” a woman muttered.

The recruit’s uniform was blinking on and off, a brilliant fluorescent orange.

“Once this happens, you are FOF, or ‘flashing orange forever.’ Dead, in other words. You are out of the battle. Your uniform will keep blinking until it has been reset by one of the Drill Instructors,” Kaelin concluded.

That night Emily settled into new barracks as part of Blue Company. There were no bunk assignments and she found herself standing next to a bunk bed with a tall, strongly built Hispanic woman.

“I’m Maria Sanchez,” she said, holding out a hand. “My friends call me Cookie.” She had a round face, high cheek bones and rich brown eyes, which were bright with amusement. “How do we get out of this chickenshit outfit?”

S
ome historian I turn out to be! I’ve been here for five weeks now and not made one journal entry. I don’t even have a proper notebook – I am writing this on a roll of toilet paper, much to the amusement of my bunk mates.

I am in the Blue Company barracks, or I should say the Blue Company women’s barracks. The men’s barracks is across the parade ground. Life so far has been pretty regimented. Up at 5 a.m., calisthenics ‘til 6 a.m., breakfast, and then start the days maneuver by 6:45. I have my very own rifle now, and take it everywhere I go. And I mean everywhere. They are very serious about that. One recruit got caught coming out of the toilet without his rifle and spent the rest of the day running up and down a hill with a backpack full of sand. I am in the top bunk and finally learned to just sleep with Gertrude rather than leave her on the floor somewhere. Cookie, my “downstairs” bunk mate, laughed when I named my rifle. But “Gertrude” describes my rifle perfectly: ugly, utilitarian and deadly when angered. We have all learned the hard way it hurts like hell to get shot. And since they started us on a steady diet of combat maneuvers, I have been shot several times. (This has even given rise to “mercy killings” among friends, but the Drill Instructors ream you out if they catch you.)

I was surprised that they started us on field maneuvers so fast. Most of us are going to the Fleet and will be on warships. (I, of course, will be happily ensconced in the Fleet Department of Military History.) If we ever face battle it will be in space, firing missiles and lasers at hundreds or thousands of miles. Why teach us to run around in the woods and spring ambushes? I didn’t really figure it out until this morning after breakfast. They had us moving across a large field, bordered by a hill on one side and a copse of trees on the other. It hit me then: I was no longer thinking like a civilian. I looked at the trees and thought: “Just big enough to hide a squad of men.” Not how pretty the trees were in the morning sun, not curious about what type they were. Just that they were a suitable ambush site. I kept my eyes on those damn trees all the way across that field, feeling naked and vulnerable. It’s a different way of seeing things, and not something you get in a classroom.

My fellow recruits are a mixed lot. Most are young, quite a bit younger than me. Mostly no college, with a few exceptions. In the men’s barracks there are fifteen men from my home planet, Christchurch. All miners, hard, quiet men who just take what the Drill Instructors hand out without complaint. They are old fashioned and proper in their own way. Once they learned I was from Christchurch they made it a point to look after me. On the long marches they offer to help carry my rucksack, even though the DIs would be all over them if I accepted. They tease me and call me “Little Sister” as if I were from their village. I am very proud of my Christchurch men, and a little sad that life on Christchurch offered so little that they had to join the Fleet. Course, that’s why I’m here with them.

Most of the others are here because they couldn’t figure out what else to do with themselves. Some flunked out of school; some had trouble with the law. Only a few seemed to be intent on a military career. Cookie wants to join the Marines. (When we are on a long run, she even chants the Marine creed: “All together! Never alone!” Drives me nuts after a few miles.) Can’t say that I have met anyone quite like her. She dropped out of high school in her senior year – “Had enough schoolin’” – and drifted around at odd jobs after that. Too bad, had she gone to college she could have made it on an athletic scholarship of some sort. She is a large, muscular woman – at 19, more of a girl, really – and
fierce
. Doesn’t take any crap, never backs down. Amazon warrior type; the Marines will love her, if she doesn’t get canned first. Several of the men have hit on her already (the Fleet seems to take a pretty
laissez faire
approach to fraternization among the recruits, as long as it does not interfere with discipline). One of them would not leave her alone, so Cookie punched him in the nose. No warning, no pleas, just bam! (DI Kaelin got a little excited about that.) There is actually a quaint little institution here: about a mile behind the barracks there is a lake. Maybe half a mile wide and two miles long. Lots of woods around. On Sunday afternoons, when we are allowed about four hours of time on our own, there is quite a little procession of men and women going up there for some privacy and intense fraternization. “Going up to the lake” has already taken on a distinct connotation. Sociology major would have a field day here. Early tribal customs of warrior groups. Or something.