Zenya dot-11 Read online

  Before Dumarest could lean over the table, a civilian entered the room and came toward him. Deftly he took a series of measurements, departing as quietly as he came. "For your uniform," explained Paran. "Your rank will be that of marshal, your pay equal to my own, two years' pay as initial bonus-it has already been placed to your credit. Your suite, of course, will be provided by the state, and all other expenses similarly met."

  "My powers?"

  "Advisory as regards operations. Almost unlimited in the field. We need to end this thing, and quickly. Do that, and no one will argue about what steps you may take."

  Dumarest studied the map spread on the table. The rafts were strung in a thin line, and the field detachments were based, as far as he could see, more on a precise mathematical pattern than on the varying needs of the terrain.

  "Your basic assumption is at fault," he commented. "Sonel does not lie within easy attacking distance from the hills; therefore, we must assume that an attack can come at any time from any direction. I would suggest that half the rafts be fitted with infrared detectors in order to spot the advance of any large body of men. They should ride high and maintain constant observation. The field detachments are of little use based as they are. They would be of more use placed in the actual villages. A strong body of well-armed men will maintain the morale of the farmers and provide a defensive force against any attack."

  "True," admitted Paran. "But then how to protect the crops?"

  "You can't, so forget it."

  "But-"

  "The lofios is important to you," said Dumarest patiently. "I haven't forgotten that. But to protect the crop would mean a fantastic number of men, and even then you would have no assurance of success. Let me clarify. In any war it is essential to determine the objective; once that is done, the next step is to decide the tolerable cost in both men and material. A defensive war is always a long one. In this case, the equation consists of three variables at least; to protect the crops, to protect the villages, to remove the threat posed by the attacks. You cant do them all."

  "No," admitted Paran. "I realize that."

  "Remove the threat, and you will have no need to worry about the rest," said Dumarest. "That can only be done by making contact with the enemy."

  "Destroying them? But-"

  "Contacting them," interrupted Dumarest. "I am aware of the situation. That means an expeditionary force must be sent into the hills."

  "We tried that," said Paran grimly. "Twice. The second force didn't come back."

  "Which means the next must be better trained. I shall need volunteers."

  "Sir!" Fran Paran had been listening. He stepped forward, his salute crisp. "With respect, sir, I would like to accompany you."

  Dumarest heard Paran's sharp intake of breath. "No Fran! I can't permit it!"

  "Sir?"

  Dumarest said bluntly, "What were you before you became an officer? A student?"

  "I trained in electronics, but-"

  "Have you ever killed a man? Fought for your life?" Unfair, perhaps; few men on a civilized world had done either of those things. Sharply Dumarest added, "Have you traveled the country? Seen the Ayutha?"

  Frowning, the young man said, "I don't understand. I am willing to go. Isn't that enough?"

  "Far from it. You realize that if I take you, I could be risking my life on your obedience? That others may die because you misjudge, or simply because you are ignorant? War isn't a game conducted with neat, clear-cut rules. There is no glory, and little honor. You'll be tired and hungry and afraid most of the time. You could be killed. And, frankly, I can't see that you would be an asset. Here you are doing a good job; out in the field you would be simply a man with a gun. I want more than that."

  "You'll get more! Damnit! Must I stay here at a desk just because my father…" Fran broke off, controlling himself. More quietly he said, "You'll need communications equipment and someone who knows about such things. I am an expert in the field."

  Knowledge and eagerness, two assets for any task, and Dumarest hesitated, conscious of Colonel Paran, the delicate situation. He was in no position to make enemies.

  And then the colonel said flatly, "All right, Fran. I won't stand in your way. If Earl is willing to take you, I'll arrange for your replacement."

  "Sir!" The salute was a model copied from a book. "Thank you, sir. When do I start?"

  Dumarest glanced at Captain Louk, who had remained silent during the exchange. "Is there a place we can use for intensive training?"

  "Yes, marshal. The Lambda warehouse."

  * * *

  It was a big, rambling structure still redolent of the goods it had once held, the sacks of lofios blooms, the precious oils. Open ground flanked it, now filled with marching men, uniforms bright in the prenoon sunlight. A hoarse-voiced officer yelled commands, sending them through routine motions, turning, wheeling, keeping step. His salute was casual, the gesture of a man who knew his business to those who, in his estimation, didn't.

  Captain Louk said, "Lieutenant Thomile, Marshal Dumarest."

  Thomile grinned, jerking his thumb at the marching men. "New intake," he explained. "Raw, as yet, but they'll improve." His eyes studied Dumarest. "I've heard about you, marshal. From Samalle, right? What do you think of the men?"

  Dumarest said harshly, "When talking to me, you stand at attention. You address me as 'sir.' As for your question, the men look like yourself, dirty, lax, more of a mob than a disciplined unit. How long have you been training them?"

  "Eight days."

  "What?"

  "Eight days… sir."

  "In my experience, you should have reached this point at the end of the first day. Basic maneuvering is used only to instill obedience to orders and to achieve an esprit de corps. I don't want a machine, I want men who can move and fight and think for themselves. Soldiers, not automatons. Now, get out there, lieutenant, and get to work. Real work. Move!"

  As they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse, Louk said, "You were hard on him, marshal. Thomile's a good man."

  "Too good to be allowed to fall into bad habits," agreed Dumarest. "And while we're on the subject, I noticed too many soldiers in the streets. They should be at camp, training, not displaying their new uniforms to admiring females. See to it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You don't agree?"

  "Well, sir, they are young, and it's natural to show off a little. Also it helps recruiting, and-"

  "You think I'm acting like a thick-headed martinet, right?" Dumarest shrugged, as the other made no comment. "As you heard me tell Fran Paran, war isn't a game. Each of those men may have to risk his life and the only thing they will have between living and dying is the training given to them. A good officer hates waste, the waste of his men most of all, and if he is careless of lives, then he is unfitted to hold command. If I appear hard, it is with reason."

  He glanced toward the field, where Thomile's voice could be heard. It was different now, harsher, more savage, and beneath its lash the men had straightened, moved with grim purpose instead of casual indifference.

  "Take my compliments to the lieutenant. Ask him to select a group of men from those he has trained. They are to be tough, skilled, clever, and obedient. He won't find many, but have him send those he picks to the warehouse."

  "Sir!"

  "You have an intensive training program already under way?"

  "Yes, sir. Captain Raougat is in command."

  He stood at the back of the vast building surrounded by a circle of men stripped to shorts and shoes. He was of medium height, well-muscled, his torso scarred from old wounds. He moved like a cat, poised on the balls of his feet, and watching him, Dumarest was reminded of a fighter, a skilled professional who had earned his living in the arena.

  Raougat was talking, his voice like a purr, echoing softly from the beams overhead.

  "Now, listen and pay attention. I'm going to show you how to take care of an enemy guard. You there!" He pointed. "You get up here.
Stand in front of me, back toward me, looking ahead."

  From a seat he took a length of rope about a yard long, wrapping each end around his hands and leaving a loop of about eighteen inches. Approaching the back of the waiting soldier, he threw the loop over the man's head, and as it came level with his throat, lifted his right knee and ground it against the back as he jerked. Coughing, the soldier doubled, retching, rubbing at his neck.

  "I was gentle," purred Raougat. "A trifle more force, and he would be dead now. It never fails."

  Dumarest said loudly, "Like hell it doesn't."

  "You doubt me?" The captain smiled as Dumarest stepped forward. "And you are…?" The smile widened as Dumarest introduced himself. "Ah, our famous marshal. The man dedicated to war. Perhaps you are willing to show me how I am at fault?"

  There was no humor in the smile, and less in the soft purr of the voice, and looking at his eyes, Dumarest knew that, this time, there would be no control of the force used, that given the chance, the man would willingly snap his spine and rupture his throat.

  "You want to demonstrate on me?" Dumarest said quietly. "Is that what you are asking?"

  "With respect, sir, if you are willing. Of course, we will all understand if you are not."

  "Commence."

  Dumarest turned, waiting. He sensed rather than heard the soft pad of feet, the blur as the rope dropped before his eyes. The man had used his right knee, and he spun to the left as it rose, left arm slashing sideways to catch the thigh, to knock it away, sending Raougat falling hopelessly off-balance. The rope jerked at the back of his neck, and Dumarest followed it, ignoring it as his right hand lifted with his knife, the point halting as it touched the skin of the captain's throat.

  For a moment they lay staring into each other's eyes, and then Dumarest said gently, "I have proved my point, I think?"

  "A knife-"

  "A guard would be armed. And a knife is unessential." Dropping it, Dumarest rested the tips of his fingers beneath the other's eyes. "I could have blinded you." The hand lifted, the fingers clamped to form a blunt spear, falling to rest on the point of the throat beneath the ear. "Or killed you. You see, I had a choice."

  "Fast," whispered Raougat. "You were too fast. I have never seen anyone move as quickly. And now?"

  "You work," replied Dumarest as quietly. "Doing what you love-teaching men how to kill. But from now on, you will do it without tricks and without sadistic demonstrations of your skill. If not, we will meet again. You understand me?"

  "Too well." Raougat, his dignity and position saved, essayed a grin. "But, my lord, should you ever grow tired of the work you do, the stadiums are always waiting. In a year, less, you could be a champion on any of a dozen worlds."

  Rising, Dumarest said to the watching men, "That was a lesson. Never make a simple action complex. Never make the mistake of underestimating your opponent. If you want to kill a guard, do it like this." His hand lifted, swept down, the stiffened edge halting at the base of Raougat's spine. "Use the barrel of your rifle, the butt, anything heavy and sharp. And never be gentle. You want to kill him, not bruise him. Hit hard enough, and he will drop like a sliced tree. Now, get dressed, quickly!" A soldier said, "For exercise?"

  "You are soldiers. You don't go into action half-naked. Your enemy may be armored. To be of value, training must be realistic. Now, move!"

  To Raougat he said, "How are they as regards killing potential?"

  "Weak." The captain saw the bleak expression in Dumarest's eyes and added hastily, "I have tried to correct it, sir, but it isn't easy. They are the product of a soft environment. They talk, but when it comes to the time to act, who knows?"

  "You should know," snapped Dumarest. "That is what you are paid for."

  "True, but they are volunteers, the sons of rich families for the most part." Raougat shrugged. "I can take a man and turn him into a beast, given time. If the basic ingredients are there, it is simple. But if they are not, then it is hard. And I am not dealing with one man, but several."

  And there would be more. Dumarest turned as Thomile came into the warehouse ahead of a score of men, Fran Paran among them. Saluting, the lieutenant said, "The men, as ordered, marshal. The best I could find."

  "Which means?"

  "Exactly that, sir. A couple of troublemakers, they like to argue, some would-be heroes, the rest bored with routine and eager for action." He paused, then added casually, "With respect, sir, I would like to see how you handle them."

  A check, but that was to be expected. Wherever he went men would be watching, eager to learn and as eager to criticize. And Dumarest knew that should he make a single slip, his pretense would be questioned. As a supposed lord of Samalle there was nothing about war that he should not know.

  To Captain Louk, who had accompanied Thomile and his men, he said, "I shall need rafts for transportation. And weapons firing a low-velocity missile. Pneumatic guns would do, if you can get them. Something to sting, but not kill or incapacitate."

  Frowning, Louk said, "Would low-caliber target rifles do? We could reduce the charge and so lower the velocity."

  "Yes. See to it immediately." As the captain moved away, Dumarest added, "And we shall need the services of a medical team. Make sure they are fully equipped."

  Thomile, curious, said, "Your orders, sir?"

  "Get the men outside. All of them. Have them move at the double. I want them hot, tired, thirsty, and worn before those rafts get here. Let them carry the heaviest packs you have. Move!"

  At his side Raougat said, his voice a feral purr, "My congratulations, marshal. A hard medicine, but an effective one."

  "You understand?"

  "Of course. How often have I trained men for the arena in exactly that fashion? The best way, sir, and when time is short, the only way. Let us hope that certain outraged parents will not be screaming for your blood when they learn what you have done to their precious offspring. To have them hunt each other, to shoot at each other, to learn by actual pain to hide, to aim straight, to hate. A neat plan." He squinted up at the sun. Already it was a furnace in the heavens, gilding the dust rising from the impact of running feet, beading faces with sweat, darkening uniforms with perspiration. "A hot day, marshal." His chuckle was a whisper of sadistic anticipation. "A hot day, for them, in more ways than one."

  * * *

  The medic rinsed his hands and said with a weary finality, "That's the last one, marshal. If you've any bright ideas for tomorrow, perhaps you'll let me know. I'm not fond of surprises."

  "You object?"

  "I'm a doctor. What else would you expect me to do, cheer?"

  "You are an officer in the medical corps," corrected Dumarest. "If you don't like picking pellets out of barely hurt men, how are you going to handle real casualties?"

  "I've done it before."

  "Accidents, yes. Stitching up a knife slash, maybe, but I'm talking about men with their intestines hanging out, limbs torn from their bodies, faces roasted in laser beams. You think that what happened today was bad? It was nothing, an essential part of military training. How else can you teach men to dodge and stay under cover? Those who got hit learned the price of being careless."

  "One man blinded in his left eye," said the doctor savagely. "One shot in the groin-and he hasn't been married a month. Two others practically riddled, and one of them with a slug almost touching his heart. A dozen more with minor wounds, twenty others in pain, most of the rest suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. A hell of a way to train men!"

  He was disrespectful, forgetting rank and the deference due to higher command, outraged and unable to retain his opinions to himself. A dangerous man to have in any military force.

  Dumarest crossed the space between them in three long strides, reached out, and caught the front of the green smock the man wore, lifted his right hand, and deliberately slapped the rotund cheek.

  "Listen," he grated. "I am a marshal of the army of Chard. You are under military law. You could be facing a cou
rt-martial for those remarks, and I mean a drumhead trial here and now with death as the penalty, should you be found guilty. You doubt my power to do it?"

  "You can't-I have my rights!"

  "You have no rights," snapped Dumarest. "You yielded them all when you put on that uniform. What's bothering you, doctor? You want the glamor without the responsibility? The right to command without the duty to obey? Those men you treated wanted to be soldiers. I've shown them what it means to face an enemy, and did it by taking away the real danger. That eye can be replaced, the groin will heal, not one of them will suffer more than a little inconvenience, and under slowtime they will be ready to march in a day. You know the alternative. That force which got itself massacred taught you that. And you know what we're up against-or have you remained blind to what was found in the villages?"

  "You're hard," whispered the doctor, rubbing at the welts on his face. "By God, you're hard."

  "But truthful."

  "Yes, I guess you are. It's Just that…" The doctor broke off, kicking at the leg of his field table. "Damnit, why do fools make war out to be wonderful?"

  "Because they are fools," said Dumarest bitterly. "Because they never have to fight. They prate of glory and heroism and ignore the death and dirt and wounds. No sane man or culture wants a war."

  The doctor blinked. "You say that? A lord of Samalle?"

  Dumarest stepped to the door of the tent. Outside, it was dark, the night blazing with stars, relatively cool after the heat of the day. Without looking at the other man, he said, "You think I should glorify war because it is my profession? You are a doctor, a surgeon, do you then love pain and operations?"

  "The things aren't the same. I work to heal."

  "And so do I. What can be worse than a badly fought war? With skill I try to limit the destruction, but if you think that any soldier loves war, you are mistaken." Without changing his tone, Dumarest added, "You have the necessary equipment to conduct a deep bodily survey?"

  "What?" The doctor looked baffled. "I don't understand."

  "I have reason to suspect that I may have a foreign object buried somewhere in my person." Dumarest turned and faced the man. "With action imminent, I want to make certain that I am fit. Will you please examine me and report on what you find."