"Why not?" Halloran retorted. "Sure, they've spent a lot on us—but there's no sense letting marginal ones go on to get killed the minute they land on Adirondack. Why do you think they put off implanting our computers until after the test?"
"To save some money where possible," Jonny grunted. "Parr, stop shuffling those cards—either deal them or put them away."
"You know what we need?" Viljo spoke up abruptly. "A night out of this place. A few drinks, some music, a little conversation with real people—especially of the female sort—"
"And how exactly do you expect to persuade Mendro to let us out for this little sortie?" Deutsch snorted.
"Actually, I wasn't planning to ask him," Viljo said calmly.
"I think that qualifies as going A.W.O.L.," Halloran pointed out. "There are lots of easier ways to get ourselves crusked."
"Nonsense. Bai said we were off-duty, didn't he? Anyway, has anyone ever explicitly told us we were confined to Freyr Complex?"
There was a short silence. "Well, no, now that you mention it," Halloran admitted. "But—"
"But nothing. We can sneak out of here easily enough—this place isn't even guarded as well as a regular military base would be. Come on—none of us is going to sleep well tonight anyway. We might as well have some fun."
Because tomorrow we might die. No one said those words aloud, but from the shifting of feet it was clear everyone was thinking variations of them . . . and after another brief silence Halloran got to his feet. "Sure. Why not?"
"I'm in," Noffke nodded quickly. "I hear there's good card games to be had in the pleasure centers in town."
"Along with lots of other stuff," Deutsch nodded. "Druma; Jonny? How about it?"
Jonny hesitated, his brother's words about decadence and holding onto his ethics flashing through his mind. Still, Viljo was right: nowhere in their verbal or written orders had there been anything about not leaving the complex.
"Come on, Jonny," Viljo said, using his first name for the first time in days. "If you can't justify it as relaxation, think of it as practice infiltrating an enemy-occupied city."
"All right," Jonny said. After all, he wouldn't have to do anything in town he didn't feel right about. "Just let me change into my other fatigues—"
"Phrij on that," Viljo interrupted. "Those look fine. Quit stalling and let's go. Druma?"
"Oh, I guess so," Singh agreed. "But only for a little while."
"You'll be able to leave whenever you want to," Halloran assured him. "Once we're in town everyone's on his own timetable. Well. Out the window?"
"Out and up," Viljo nodded. "Lights out . . . here goes."
It proved far easier to leave the complex grounds than Jonny had expected. From the roof of their wing they dropped to a darkened drill field used by the regular Army recruits in Freyr; crossing it, they arrived at an easily-negotiated perimeter wall. Avoiding the simple photobeam alarms at the top, they went over. "That's it," Deutsch said cheerfully. "Nothing but ten klicks of field and suburb between us and fun. Race you!"
Even with having to slow down once they hit populated areas, the trip took only half an hour . . . and Jonny got his first taste of what a real city could be.
Afterwards, he wouldn't remember much about that first plunge into mainstream Dominion recreational life. Deutsch took the lead, guiding them on a giddy and tortuous path among the shows, night spots, restaurants, and pleasure centers that he'd become familiar with in the weeks between his arrival from an Iberiand university and his final enlistment in the Cobras. More people than Jonny had ever seen at once in his life seemed to be crowded into the district—civilians in oddly cut, luminescent clothing; other civilians whose focus of ornamentation was wild facial makeup, and military personnel of every branch and rank. It was too festive an atmosphere for Jonny to feel uneasy, but by the same token it was too outlandish for him to truly relax and enjoy, either. It made for a lousy compromise, and within a couple of hours he had had enough. Excusing himself from Deutsch and Singh—all that were still together of the original six—he worked his way back through the crowds to the soothing darkness surrounding the town. Getting back into the complex was no harder than sneaking out had been, and soon he was sliding back through the window into their dark and deserted room. Leaving the lights off, he quickly prepared for bed.
He'd been lying in his bunk for perhaps half an hour, trying to will his overactive mind to sleep, when a noise at the window made him open his eyes. "Who's there?" he stage-whispered as the figure eased into the room.
"Viljo," the other murmured tightly. "You alone?"
"Yes," Jonny said, swinging his legs out of bed. Something in Viljo's voice was distinctly off-key. "What's wrong?"
"I thought Mendro and the MPs might be here by now," Viljo said distractedly, flopping onto his back on his own bunk. "I'm not sure, but I think I'm in trouble."
"What?" Jonny bumped his vision enhancers up a notch. In the amplified background light Viljo's expression was tight, but he didn't seem hurt. "What kind of trouble?"
"Oh, I had a little argument with some phrijeater behind one of the bars. Had to bounce him around a bit." Abruptly, Viljo levered himself off the bunk and headed for the bathroom. "Go back to bed," he told Jonny over his shoulder. "If the guy makes trouble we'd both better be innocently asleep when the investigations start."
"Will he recognize you again? I mean—"
"I don't think he was blind or illiterate, no."
"I meant was it light enough to read your name off your fatigues?"
"Yeah, it was light enough . . . if he had time to pay attention. Go to bed, will you?"
Heart pounding, Jonny crawled back under his blanket. Bounced him around a bit. What did that mean? Had Viljo hurt the other—perhaps even badly? He opened his mouth to ask . . . and then closed it again. Did he really want to know all the details? "What are you going to do?" he asked instead.
"Get undressed and go to bed—what did you think?"
"No, I mean about . . . reporting it."
The sound of running water stopped and Viljo reemerged. "I'm sure as hell not telling anyone else about this. You think I'm crazy?"
"But the guy could be badly hurt—"
"He got away under his own power. Besides, he's hardly the sort of phrijeater worth risking your career over. That goes for your career, too."
"I—what?"
"You know what. You go blabbing about this to Mendro and you'll have to admit you were out of Freyr tonight, too." He paused, studying Jonny's face. "Besides which, it'd be a lousy demonstration of team unity for you to turn me in over something this trivial."
"Trivial? What was he armed with, a laser cannon? You could've gotten away without fighting. Why'd you stick around?"
"You wouldn't understand." Viljo climbed into his bunk. "Look, I didn't really hurt him; and if I overreacted, it's too late to change things now. So let's just forget it, huh? Chances are he won't even report it."
"But what if he does? If you don't report it first, it'll look like you're trying to cover it up."
"Yeah, well, I'll play the odds—and since it's my risk, you're invited to stay out of it."
Jonny didn't answer. Silence again returned to the room, and after a few minutes Viljo's breathing slipped into the slow, steady pattern of sleep. The mark of a clear conscience, Jonny's father would have said, but in this case that hardly seemed likely. For Jonny, though, the immediate problem was not Viljo's conscience but his own.
What was the proper thing to do here? If he kept quiet he was technically an accessory after the fact, and if the civilian's injuries turned out to be severe, that could mean real trouble. On the other hand, Viljo's point about team loyalty was well taken. Jonny remembered Bai saying something about such things at the orientation meeting, and if Viljo had in fact simply put a bully in his place, forgetting the incident would seem the best course. Point, counterpoint; and with the limited information he had the two arguments could chase each other around
his brain all night.
They made a good try at doing just that, keeping him uselessly awake for the next hour and a half. One by one his other four roommates came in the open window, performed their bedtime preparations, and went to sleep. At least none of them had gotten caught; and with that particular worry out of the way Jonny was finally able to force the rest of it far enough back in his mind to fall asleep himself. But his dreams were violent, tension-ridden things, and when reveille put an end to them, he felt worse than if he'd been awake all night.
Somehow, he managed to dress, grab his prepacked combat bag, and head down to the mess hall with the others without his groggy eyes drawing any special comment. No MPs arrived while they were eating, nor was anyone waiting by the transport as they crowded in with the rest of the trainees; and with each kilometer they flew Jonny's load eased a little more. Surely the authorities wouldn't have let them leave if there'd been any complaints of Cobra misbehavior in town. Apparently the other participant in Viljo's fight had indeed decided to let the whole matter slide.
They reached the hundred-thousand-hectare test site an hour later, and after giving them new computer modules, extra equipment, and final instructions, Bai turned them loose on their individual objectives. Putting the entire previous night out of his mind, Jonny set to work surviving the exam.
It was therefore something of a surprise when, returning to field HQ from his first successful exercise, he found an MP transport waiting. It was even more of a shock to find it was waiting for him.
* * *
The young man fidgeting in his chair next to Mendro's desk certainly looked like he'd been in a fight. Heal-quick bandages covered one cheek and his jaw, and his left arm and shoulder were wrapped in the kind of ribbed plastic cast used to speed broken bone repair. What was visible of his expression looked nervous but determined.
Mendro's expression was merely determined. "Is this the man?" he asked the other as Jonny sat down in the chair his MP guard indicated.
The civilian's eyes flicked once over Jonny's face, then settled onto his fatigue tunic. "It was too dark to see his face well enough, Commander," he said. "But that's the name, all right."
"I see." Mendro's eyes bored into Jonny's. "Moreau, Mr. P'alit here claims you attacked him last night behind the Thasser Eya Bar in Farnesee. True or false?"
"False," Jonny managed through dry lips. Through the haze of unreality filling the room a nasty suspicion was beginning to take shape.
"Were you in Farnesee last night?" Mendro persisted.
"Yes, sir, I was. I . . . sneaked out to try and relax before the final exam started today. I was only there for a couple of hours—" he glanced at P'alit—"and I most certainly didn't fight with anyone."
"He's lying," P'alit spoke up. "He was—"
Mendro's gesture silenced him. "Did you go alone?"
Jonny hesitated. "No, sir. All of us in my room went. We split up in town, though, so I don't have any alibi. But . . ."
"But what?"
Jonny took a deep breath. "About a half hour after I got back one of the others came in and told me he'd—well, he said he'd bounced someone around a little behind one of the bars in Farnesee."
Mendro's eyes were hard, unbelieving. "And you didn't report it?"
"He indicated it was a minor argument. Certainly nothing so . . . serious." He looked again at P'alit; only then did the sophistication of the frame-up sink in. No wonder Viljo hadn't wanted Jonny to change clothes before they all left. "I can only conclude that he was wearing my spare tunic at the time."
"Uh-huh. Who was it who told you all this?"
"Rolon Viljo, sir."
"Viljo. The one you attacked in the mess hall awhile back?"
Jonny gritted his teeth. "Yes, sir."
"Obviously just trying to put the blame on someone else," P'alit spoke up scornfully.
"Perhaps. How did the fight start, Mr. P'alit?"
The other shrugged with his free shoulder. "Oh, I made some snide comment about the outer provinces—I don't even know how the topic came up. He took it personally and shoved me out the back door where a bunch of us were standing."
"Isn't that what you targeted Viljo over, Moreau?" Mendro asked.
"Yes, sir." Jonny resisted the almost overwhelming urge to again explain that incident. "I don't suppose any of your companions might have gotten a clear look at your assailant, Mr. P'alit?"
"No, no one saw you clearly—but I don't think that's going to be necessary." P'alit looked back at Mendro. "I think this story's pretty well lost its factory finish, Commander. Are you going to take action on this or not?"
"The Army always disciplines its own," Mendro said, tapping a button on his desk console. "Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention." Behind Jonny, the door opened and another MP appeared. "Sergeant Costas will escort you out."
"Thank you." Standing up, P'alit nodded to Mendro and followed the MP out. Catching the eye of Jonny's guard, Mendro gestured minutely, and the other joined the exodus. The door closed and Jonny and Mendro were alone.
"Anything you'd like to say?" Mendro asked mildly.
"Nothing that would do any good, sir," Jonny told him bitterly. All the work, all the sweat . . . and it was about to come crashing down on top of him. "I didn't do it, but I don't know any way to prove that."
"Um." Mendro gave him a long, searching gaze and then shrugged. "Well . . . you'd better get back to the testing, I suppose, before you get any further behind schedule."
"You're not dropping me from the unit, sir?" Jonny asked, a spark of hope struggling to pierce the rubble of his collapsed future.
"Do you think this sort of misbehavior rates that?" Mendro countered.
"I really don't know." Jonny shook his head. "I know we're needed for the war, but . . . on Horizon, at least, picking on someone weaker than you are is considered cowardly."
"It's considered that way on Asgard, too." Mendro sighed. "It may very well come to expulsion, Moreau; at this point I don't know. But until that decision's made there's no point in depriving your team of your help in the group operations."
In other words, they were going to give him the chance to risk his life—and possibly lose it—and then decide whether that risk had any real meaning or not. "Yes, sir," Jonny said, standing up. "I'll do my best."
"I expect nothing less." Mendro touched a button and the MP reappeared. "Dismissed."
* * *
It wasn't as hard as Jonny had expected to forget his new troubles as the testing continued. The defenses he faced were devilishly tight, and it took every milligram of his concentration to handle his assigned missions. But his luck and skill held out, and he completed the solitaire exercises with nothing more serious than skinned hands and an impressive collection of bruises.
And then he joined his roommates for the group tests . . . and there the disasters began.
Facing Viljo again—working and fighting alongside him—brought out thoughts and feelings that even their danger couldn't suppress . . . and that distraction quickly manifested itself in reduced competence. Twice Jonny got himself into situations that only his computerized reflexes were able to get him out of; more often than that a failure to do his part of the job wound up putting one of the others in unnecessary danger. Singh took a laser burn that had him operating under the sluggishness of heavy pain-killers, while only quick action by Jonny and Deutsch pulled Noffke out of a pincer trap that would almost certainly have left him dead.
A hundred times during those two days Jonny considered having it out with Viljo, either verbally or physically; of letting the others know the kind of vermin they were working with and at least eliminating the lie he was being forced to live. But each time the opportunity arose he choked his anger back down and said nothing. They were all just barely surviving with one of their number under an emotional handicap; to multiply that burden and spread it around would be not only unfair but likely lethal as well.
The other logical alternative
occurred to him only once, and for an hour afterward he actually regretted the fact that his ethical training forbade him to simply shoot Viljo in the back.
The missions went on, oblivious to Jonny's internal turmoil. Together the six of them broke into a fortified ten-story building; penetrated and destroyed a twenty-man garrison; disabled the booby-traps around an underground bunker and blew up its entrance; and successfully rescued four remotes simulating civilian prisoners from a Troft jail. They camped overnight in a Troft-patrolled wasteland area, picked up the characteristics of an off-center group of civilians quickly enough and accurately enough to avoid being identified as strangers an hour afterwards, and led a group of Resistance remotes on a simple mission that succeeded despite the often dangerous errors the remotes' operators allowed their machines to make.
They did it all, they did it well, and they lived through it . . . and as the transport flew them back toward Freyr, Jonny decided it had been worth the risk. Whatever discipline Mendro chose to administer, he knew now that he indeed had what it took to be a Cobra. Whether he was ever allowed to serve as one or not, that inner knowledge was something they could never take from him.
When they reached Freyr and found the MPs waiting, he was almost glad. Whatever Mendro had decided, apparently it was going to be over quickly.
And it was. What he wasn't expecting was that the commander would invite an audience to watch.
* * *
"Cee-three Bai reports you did extremely well," Mendro commented, looking around at the six grimy trainees seated in a semicircle in front of his desk. "Given you're all alive and relatively unscathed, I would tend to agree. Any immediate reactions to the missions that spring to mind?"
"Yes, sir," Deutsch spoke up after a moment of thoughtful silence. "We had some major problems leading that Resistance team—their mistakes were very hard to compensate for. Was that simulation realistic?"
Mendro nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. Civilians are always going to make what are—to you—incredibly stupid mistakes. About all you can do is try and minimize that effect while maintaining an attitude of patience. Other comments? No? Then I suppose we'd better move on to the reason I called you here: the charges outstanding against Trainee Moreau."