The Forlorn Hope (29 page)

“—five-two-eight,” the speaker concluded loudly. Two of the soldiers with him dropped their gun muzzles to cover the returned lieutenant. Their commander looked up from the long print-out in his hand. “Waldstejn?” he demanded. “What kind of uniform is that?”

Albrecht Waldstejn did not need the brassards or the strack uniforms to identify the unit arrayed to greet them as part of Morale Section. The chain-dogs had always frightened him, even before he was conscripted. Their brief was limited in theory to members of the armed services, but many of them shared with their Republican opponents the belief that righteousness took precedence to human distinctions.

They seemed less frightening now, to a man who in the past week had learned that death took precedence even to righteousness.

“It's what there was available,” the Lieutenant said mildly. He fingered the off-planet synthetic. It was already losing its coppery tone to take on the shadows of the dock interior. “Christ knows, it looks better than the one I was blown through the bushes in.”

The Morale Section officer was a colonel, though his name tag was too dim to be read. He slapped Waldstejn across the face. “Watch your tongue, soldier!” he said. “You're in enough trouble already!”

There was a pause in the shuffling of boots behind Waldstejn, a restive silence like that of a cat tensing to spring. The Cecach lieutenant turned. “
Stand easy
!” he shouted. He managed not to add the curse that would have brought another blow—and what he was praying he could avoid. Waldstejn's cheek burned. His body trembled with the lightness he had never thought to feel after they reached safety, reached Praha. “Stand
easy,
I say!”

The mercenaries' weapons were closer to use than the crisply-uniformed chain-dogs realized. None of the hands Waldstejn glanced across were thumbing guns to safe again, but there was a slight relaxation. The line began to move again.

The Colonel blinked. He had been startled by the incident, but he did not understand it. He glanced back at his print-out—names and ranks, Waldstejn could see now, and enough of them to be the entire complement of the 522nd Garrison Battalion. “All right,” the Colonel said, “all members of the Cecach garrison of Smiricky #4, front and center! Cecach Armed Forces only!”

Pavel Hodicky was just crossing the catwalk between Troopers Hoybrin and Dwyer. Like his lieutenant, Hodicky had been issued a uniform from the Company stores aboard the
Katyn Forest.
Before the Private could speak, Churchie Dwyer's palm swung across his mouth. Albrecht Waldstejn was saying loudly, “Sir, I was the only member of the battalion not to turn traitor. The rest of these troops are off-planet volunteers, under contract to the government.”

The Morale Section officer looked from Waldstejn to the soldiers who had broken out of Smiricky #4 with him. More of the men than not had shaved when they got the opportunity, and all the troopers wore fresh uniforms. They were still a savage, alien presence eying the Colonel and the crisp-looking platoon with him. “Right,” the Colonel said. He found he had to clear his throat before he could add, “Who's in charge of you lot, then?”

There was a pause too brief to be called hesitation. Hussein ben Mehdi strolled forward. His left thumb was hooked in his equipment belt. It seemed natural enough that his right palm would rest on the grip of his holstered grenade launcher. “I am,” he said in a drawl which emphasized disdain instead of volume. “Since the native battalion we were supposed to be supporting decided to turn coat and murder our Colonel. What seems to be the problem?”

The chain-dog commander blinked again. Ben Mehdi's moustache was its precise line again despite the thin welt of pink scar tissue angling across his face. His tone of suave superiority, coupled with the implications of the words themselves, shook an officer who was used to deference from even generals with line commands. “Ah,” he said, “your men will accompany Captain Kolovrat here to the Transit Barracks for reassignment. Stack your weapons. They'll be returned to you when required.”

Someone in the Company rank cursed audibly. Lieutenant ben Mehdi gave a chuckle which sounded more natural to others than it seemed to be to him. His mind was quivering with memories of the tank that howled and shuddered as he fired down its intake duct. “I'm afraid that won't be possible—” he gestured as if he could not recall Federal rank insignia and saw no reason that he should— “Captain. We'll continue to billet ourselves on the starship here. I'll be obliged if you'll make arrangements for our commissary—” he paused—“and for proper bedding, yes.”

“Who in the
hell
do you think you are, soldier?” the Colonel roared.

“I think we're—” and ben Mehdi's peremptory gesture brought the three sergeants forward. Jensen's face-shield down even in the dimness of the dock—“the people whose contracts you broke, Mr. Government!”

“We didn't—” the Colonel began. Around him guns pointed at the mercenary sergeants, then wavered as Morale Section soldiers met eyes as flat as the reflective face-shield.

“Captain, you put us in a position of danger in which we were attacked by Federal troops,” the Lieutenant said flatly. “By Cecach Armed Forces. That's a breach of contract, pure and simple. All deals are off until we've made a composition of damages with the hiring authority.”

It was a flawless performance, thought Albrecht Waldstejn. He supposed that it would usually have been acted out in a conference room, with Colonel Fasolini there to provide the bulk and bluster. Individually the three sergeants were the faces of Death. Together, they were the Furies, and their silence had lowered over the Cecach platoon as surely as Colonel Fasolini must have done in dozens of meetings with dress uniforms.

“There are three bulk carriers in port that seem to have been converted to carry troops,” said Sergeant Jensen. His lips, cracked and gummy behind the shield, caused him to enunciate with great care.

“Yeah, just how many other contract soldiers are there right here in Praha?” rasped Sergeant Hummel. She pointed a finger at the Morale Section officer. Her slung weapon waggled also, its barrel parallel to the line of her forearm.

“And don't think the units at the Front haven't heard how Federal troops turned on us,” added Sergeant Mboko somberly. “Praha wasn't the only place we talked to when we sailed through the lines.”

The Cecach Colonel was opening his mouth to speak. Before he could do so, Lieutenant ben Mehdi applied the counter-stroke to the whip-saw. “Of course,” he said, “we don't hold you
personally
responsible, Captain … but until legal responsibility is determined, I think you'll agree that matters had best be left to your superiors.”

The Colonel turned abruptly. “Take that one away!” he snarled to the pair of soldiers holding Albrecht Waldstejn. As sharply, he whipped back around to ben Mehdi, but he did not meet the mercenary's eyes. “For the time being, you can remain aboard,” he muttered. “Someone will see about rations and bedding.”

“Some problem about Captain Waldstejn, I see?” said Hussein ben Mehdi. He thumbed idly toward the sound of boots echoing out the rear of the enclosed dock.

“
Lieutenant
Waldstejn,” snapped the Morale Section officer. He was out of the quicksand and his arrogance had returned in full force. “And there's no problem, no. An internal matter which even hired killers can understand, I suppose.”

Ben Mehdi raised his lip and an eyebrow instead of asking the question out loud.

“The 522nd had orders to defend its positions to the last man,” said the Cecach colonel in a rising voice. “Lieutenant Waldstejn instead chose to retreat.”

“Even
your
sort shoot soldiers who desert in the face of the enemy, don't you?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“You understand, Mr. Mehdi, that the, ah—” Benoit paused to look around the bridge of the
Katyn Forest,
even though he knew that he, Captain Ortschugin, and the mercenary lieutenant were alone there. The plump man was factor for a dozen off-planet space lines besides Pyaneta Lines; but he was legally a Cecach citizen and thus subject to local law if the wrong person heard him imply that there were two governments on the planet—“the Republicans had no right to seize the
Katyn Forest.
That, of course, affects your claim for salvage for rescuing her.”

“The Rubes poked guns in my face and told me the ship belongs to the Lord's Host,” said Vladimir Ortschugin. “
You
were going to come from Praha and tell them they were wrong?” The spacer spat ringingly into the cuspidor.

“Yes, I believe the Captain has noted the salient point,” ben Mehdi took up smoothly. He had stripped off his holster and bandoliers for this interview. Now he luxuriated in an absence of weight which to him was by no means primarily a physical thing. “It isn't significant for purposes of the present discussion whether the loss was due to piracy or to the act of a duly-constituted government. The fact is, the loss
did
occur—”

“The vessel was still under the control of her crew when you, ah, boarded her,” the Factor interrupted.

“In the possession of her crew,” said the mercenary, “but under the
control
of the cannons trained on her, wouldn't you say?”

The hull shuddered. A pair of gantries had begun to winch the damaged fusion bottle out of the Power Room. The omni-directional bracing had been cut, but the weight of the unit itself had pressure-welded the bottle to the deck during years of service.

“Not that we plan to be unreasonable, Mr. Benoit,” resumed Hussein ben Mehdi. He unfolded a print-out run from the
Katyn Forest
's own manifesting computer. “In fact,” the mercenary said, “we have a proposition here that will reduce the out of pocket cost to your client by twenty percent.”

Forty percent, in all likelihood, ben Mehdi said within his smiling face—though he would hold out for thirty-five down to the last. But Pyaneta would take the deal.

By Allah, they would take it if the Company had to ram it down their throats with gun barrels.

*   *   *

“How they hanging, Pavel?” asked Churchie Dwyer. He did not look up from the lap board on which he was dealing cards.

“Churchie, good God, he's been condemned!” blurted the Cecach private. “One of the repair crew just told me!”

“Yeah, that's old news,” said the veteran, continuing to deal. “Guess you wouldn't have heard it, not leaving the ship—” he grinned up at the deserter—“so you don't get recognized and wind up in the next cell.”

“Old news?” Hodicky repeated. He squatted to bring his face nearer to that of Dwyer. “You
knew
that?”

“Yeah, we been playing poker with some of the guards at the Karloff Barracks,” Churchie said. “They mentioned it a couple nights ago, didn't they, Del?”

Del Hoybrin was seated on the deck beside Churchie. He nodded happily. “Hi, Pavel,” he said.

“I can't believe this!” Hodicky said. “The Lieutenant saves your butt how many times? And all you care about's how much money you can win from the guys who're going to
kill
him!”

Dwyer peeked at each of the hands he had just dealt. He sighed and slid them together into a pack again. “Win?” he said. “Not with the cards I've been getting, kid. Why, even Del here's been making out better'n I have.”

“That's right, Pavel,” agreed the big trooper.

“Tried everything, you know,” Churchie went on while his fingers shuffled as if with their own sentience. “Been carrying over liters of industrial ethanol, cutting it with juice while we play. Hell, those hunkies still clean me out every afternoon. And don't they crow about it!” The gangling man dealt the cards, face down as before.

Half a dozen workmen began manhandling the base unit of a vibratory cutter through the hatchway. The holds and the compartments aft were theirs, twenty-four hours a day while the repairs went on. The bridge and the cramped quarters forward provided a little privacy but no real quiet. Troopers had rented several rooms outside the port with the tacit approval of Federal officials while negotiations continued.

The Cecach private licked his lips. Anger gone, he pleaded, “Churchie, I
know
you don't mean that. Look, if you know people in the place he's being held, maybe you can get through to see him. There's got to be something we can do!”

“Churchie says he can appeal,” put in Del Hoybrin. He frowned as he generally did after he had spoken of his own volition.

“Appeal!” Hodicky shouted. “Appeal! Sure, to Commandant Friis. His
is
Morale Section. Mary and the Saints, he complains that his men ought to have the same authority everywhere that they have within ten klicks of the Front. To shoot people without
any
trial for ‘crimes against discipline'!”

“Ever been in Karloff Barracks?” Churchie asked unperturbed. “Thought you might have trained there or something.”

The little man shook his head. He was unsure where the question was leading. “No,” he said, “the place has just been the military prison since before I was born.” He grimaced. “They stopped executing people there a couple years ago. Too many complaints about the shooting right in the center of town, since Friis really got Morale Section ‘organized'.”

“Well, Pavel,” said the veteran judiciously, “I don't see there's much good in you getting your bowels in an uproar, then.” He began to turn over the hands he had just dealt. “Feel like a game of something?”

Pavel Hodicky slumped. The anger had burned out. Now the hope was gone too. “Then that's it,” he said dully. “After all he did for you, and you're just going to leave him to die.”