We were in a white windowless room, with two rows of beds, mostly empty. The man who’d hit my foot with a stick was the one who had been with Bruno in the floater. He had on a different uniform now, with the cluster of circles on the arm that identified him as a Heller sergeant. Not my favorite branch of the human race.
Besides the four of us, there were two strangers groggily getting out of their beds. We all wore white hospital gowns. Somebody had undressed me — somebody had undressed Alegria while she was unconscious. If it was this sergeant I’d break his arm. I’d break his arm off, and beat him with it.
“Stand at attention. In front of the bed, stupid.” He had a ‘tangler on his hip.
“This training has gone too far,” Pancho said. “I’m going to —“
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do.” The sergeant jabbed the air with his stick, a few centimeters from Pancho’s face. Pancho didn’t flinch. “Very soon now.”
I was still groggy from whatever they’d given us to keep us asleep. My nose hurt, but not as if it were broken. Had they had time to fix it? I took a deep breath and held it, trying to force the fog away.
He stepped to the room’s one door and opened it part way. “By your leave, Commander.”
The man who walked in looked too young to have white hair. He was deeply tanned and tall, built like a young athlete. He wore a closely-tailored uniform I couldn’t identify, with gleaming gold insignia of rank. He stood for a moment, arms folded on his chest, and looked at us with a totally neutral expression. When he spoke, his voice was deep and quiet.
“I am Captain Forrestor of Her Majesty’s Marine Corps. I will be your commander for one year. Less, if we win in less time.”
“Whose Majesty?” Pancho said. The sergeant stepped toward and raised his baton to strike.
“No, Sergeant.” He looked at Pancho. “You haven’t been briefed yet?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sir!” the sergeant hissed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” Pancho said in a monotone.
“For the next year, all of you will be employed by Her Majesty Queen Phylle II. Of Sanctuary, on the planet Spicelle. We are here to resolve a dispute between Her Majesty and the reigning monarch of Feder. Also on Spicelle. We will meet Feder’s armies in the northeast quadrant of Purgatory, for a clean Class 2/D war, beginning two days from now.”
“Sir, there’s been some mistake,” I said. “We aren’t soldiers.’
“You can say that again,” the sergeant muttered.
“You are now,” the captain said. “I have your papers.”
“This can’t be legal,” Alegria said. “I’m a citizen of Selva, a student. We were kidnapped.”
He smiled slightly. “You won’t find many lawyers on Hell. Not this Hell, at any rate.” He took an envelope from an inside pocket and removed several sheets of paper from it. “You would be Private Alegria de Saladaña, formerly of the planet Selva. Now a slave conscript, leased to Her Majesty by Manpower, Incorporated.”
“No! We’re students, we were on a training —“
“I’ll explain, sir,” the sergeant said. “When you crossed that river you were on Northland soil. Slavery is legal in Northland, isn’t that barbaric? You were legitimately captured by Manpower, Incorporated, and leased through me to Her Majesty.”
“We won’t fight,” I said. “Sir.”
“Not all of you will have to fight. It takes more than combat troops to win a war … Private Saladaña, for instance, is being assigned to an aid station, because she’s had paramedical training. You would be …” He looked through the papers. “Carl Bok. You will fight, of course.”
“No, sir. We don’t have war on Springworld. I’m a farmer and a pacifist.”
“Here it says that you hired yourself out for gladiatorial combat on Earth. That’s an odd trade for a pacifist.”
“It’s not murder.”
“I’ve heard differently. At any rate, you will fight when ordered to do so, or face certain death. Either by military tribunal or a real-time field decision.”
“What are we fighting for?” Miko said. “I’ve never even heard of Sanctuary, or your Majesty.”
“That’s immaterial. Do you know what a Class 2/D war is?” Nobody answered. He turned to the sergeant. “I thought you said they were trained.”
“Physically trained, sir.”
“Ah. Well, for your information, a Class 2/D war is a very good kind of war for you untrained soldiers. We chose this type because our own Marine Corps Is not large, and we had to buy most of our footsoldiers here. Frankly, Sanctuary is not an extremely wealthy land, and we could not afford a large number of trained Heller mercenaries. So most of your comrades-in-arms will also be leased conscripts.”
“A Class 2/D conflict uses no nuclear weapons, nor lasers, nor any other weapon invented after the year 1900, on Earth, with the sole exception of cybernetic aids to these primitive devices. A reasonably intelligent person can master all of the allowed weapons in a day or two.”
“We have further agreed, with Feder, that no artillery be allowed, nor aerial observers, nor fragmentation weapons other than simple hand grenades.”
“What’s a hand grenade?” Miko asked.
The captain sighed. “This is Sergeant Meyer, my Field First Sergeant. He will be training you for the next two days. With God’s help he will not only teach you what a hand grenade is, but teach you how not to kill yourself with it.”
“Just keep this uppermost in your mind: what has happened to you may seem grossly unfair. But individual justice was never war’s domain. If you fight well and carefully you may survive to win your freedom. If you balk, or in any way impede the progress of our endeavor, you will most … certainly … die.” He turned to Meyer. “Sergeant, you will deliver these six to the staging area at 0900 Saturday, fully trained and cooperative.”
“Yessir.” They saluted, raised fists, and the captain marched out. The sergeant turned to us with a malevolent smile.
“Let me explain that in more detail. There are three ways the army can kill you for disobedience. One is a trial, a court martial. If the presiding officer finds you guilty, and he usually does, you’ll take a deever; hang by the neck until dead.”
“Choke to death?” one of the strangers said.
“It only hurts for a few minutes,” the sergeant said. “If you disobey under combat conditions, of course, any officer or non-commissioned officer, such as me, can kill you on the spot.”
“The third method is the most useful. The meat squad, TDU, Tactical Diversionary Unit. In essence, we strip you of arms and use you as bait, to draw the enemies fire. Often we can patch you up and use you again.”
I didn’t know what I was going to do, I could probably kill somebody who was trying to kill me. But kill in cold blood for somebody else’s politics? I wouldn’t even kill for my own politics!
But the alternative was dancing at the end of a rope. Was I willing to die for my pacifism? I was probably going to die anyhow. I wished B’oosa was here.
They took Alegria off to the aid station and put us with a group of about fifty men who were doing weapons training. None of us was very enthusiastic, but as the officer had said, the weapons were simple. We used rifles, knives and hand grenades. The hand grenades were bombs that you threw toward the enemy; when they exploded they shattered into thousands of tiny fragments, so you had to throw them far enough not to get caught in the blast yourself. Or get behind something.
The rifle shot bullets, powered by explosive powder, and was deadly simple to use. Looking through the telescopic sight, a bright dot showed you where the bullet would land. It incorporated a rangefinder that also evaluated the speed of the wind between you and your target. So the dot drifted around as the wind shifted, or as you moved from target to target.
We were training in some neutral part of Purgatory, in what amounted to a large prison compound. It was abo
ut two kilometers by three, inside a shock-fence, with armed guards on elevated platforms every half-klick or so. When we weren’t practicing with the weapons, we were running, doing push-ups, toughening-up in general.
That was curious. Since they’d taken our watches, we didn’t know what the date was, and we didn’t know how long we’d been unconscious. But while we were under they had done something to restore our strength; at our Northland camp I wouldn’t have been able to do one push-up, let alone fifty at a time.
We didn’t have much time for conversation, but I was able to find out a few things. Most of our fellow-conscripts were military students, sent here from other worlds, who were sent out on Northland maneuvers in small groups, as punishment. One man was a hunter and another was a casual vacationer, who had been talked into signing up for a Northland tour.
It was inconceivable that Hell authorities didn’t know about this recruitment-by-kidnapping. And it was obvious that none of us would ever live to tell about it.
Our only hope was to try to make an escape from the battlefield, and try to find our way back to the capital, Hellas. There was only one land bridge connecting Hellas with Purgatory, so no matter where we were, if we could find the coast and follow it, we would eventually get there. Our chances of escaping were probably as slim as our chances of surviving the long trek, but there didn’t seem to be any other way out.
One in Hellas, we could get help from some Confederación official. If the military didn’t find us first.
That first night another alternative presented itself. It was grotesque, but it had one advantage: it might keep the army from killing us as soon as the war was over.
We trained for eighteen or twenty hours and then staggered back to the barracks, for cold gruel and hard beds, both welcome. While we were eating and exchanging desperate whispers, Sergeant Meyer walked in.
He sat down on an empty bunk, and set a clipboard beside him. “You didn’t look so bad out there today. With practice, you might become decent soldiers.”
He tapped the papers on the clipboard. “I’m going to give you a chance to find out for yourselves, if you want to. These are recruitment forms. Sign them and you’ll be bona fide private mercenaries, with rank and pay and opportunity for advancement.”
“For how long would this be?” Pancho asked.
“Ten years.” He put his hands on his knees and looked straight at Pancho. “You wouldn’t be fighting all of that time, of course. Sometimes months go by without a war.”
“And in between times?”
“You would stay in a barracks. Like this one.”
“A prisoner.”
He shrugged, stood. “Think about it, talk it over. There are advantages.”
He dropped the clipboard on the bed where Pancho and I were sitting. “If the idea appeals to you, sign one of these forms. Write above your signature ‘Signed without coercion, 17 Diazo 49.’ “
“The seventeenth? We’ve only been here two days?” That matched with day-after-tomorrow being Saturday, but we were sure we’d been under for a week or even two.
“That’s right; the regeneration clinic is very efficient. As you’ll find out if you’re wounded. They don’t like to see soldiers wasting time in bed.”
“You don’t call this coercion?” Miko said.
“No. No one has to sign.”
“We just might live longer if we do,” I said.
“I’ll be back in ten minutes. Talk it over.” He walked away, then stopped at the door. “I was picked up the same way you were, eight years ago. It’s not such a bad life. It’s a life.”
Nobody said anything for a minute. Then one of the military students came over and signed a form. Pancho took the clipboard from him and also signed.
“They can only kill us once, amigo,” he whispered. “This way, we can wait for the best opportunity.”
I wasn’t sure that that increased our odds very much, but I signed. So did Miko. Eventually all the barracks did.
Meyer came back and picked up the clipboard; riffled through the forms. He nodded but didn’t smile. “Usually turns out this way … sweet dreams, angels. Heavy day tomorrow.”
The first day we had practiced with blank ammunition and dummy grenades; the second day was for real. I suppose what happened was inevitable; at any rate, Meyer was prepared for it.
The rifles were modern copies of a primitive design: instead of firing whenever you pulled the trigger, you had to cock a sliding bolt between each round. They seemed slow and awkward, and each cassette of ammunition only had ten rounds.
Meyer led us out to the firing range and his corporal handed each of us a cassette. We knew how to operate them from endless drills the day before.
One conscript, you had not said a word in two days, slipped the cassette into place, pointed his rifle at Meyer, and fired. Meyer was wearing heavy body armor, of course; the bullet knocked him back a step but he immediately drew his neurotangler and dropped the man. He quickly scanned the rest of us, then returned the pistol to its holster.
He stood over the fallen man. “Well, well. Corporal?” The other Heller noncom had his own pistol drawn and was looking excited about it. It was a laser, not a ‘tangler. “What should we do about this poor cob?”
“Kill him here. Less paperwork than a court martial.”
Meyer nodded thoughtfully. “We should make an example of him. He’s obviously too stupid to be an infantryman.”
“Burn ‘im?” He clicked the safety off.
“No. Might as well get some use out of him. We’ll use him as meat.” The corporal stooped and handcuffed the paralyzed man. Meyer raised his voice. “Tomorrow or Sunday you’ll see this man die, our first TDU. With luck, he may save your life, by showing us where enemy fire is coming from.” He put his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Any other volunteers?”
None of the rest of us was that desperate, or that resigned. We took our places on the range.
Our targets were man-shaped dummies that popped up at random from trenches fifty to two hundred meters downrange. You had one second or less to aim and fire. It was more difficult with real bullets than it had been with blanks. The noise was louder and the rifle butt kicked back against your shoulder in recoil. It was hard not to flinch in anticipation of the impact, which would throw your point of aim off by as much as several meters.
After five or six hours’ practice I was pretty good at it, but some people, including Miko, never did get the feel of it. Meyer remarked sarcastically that they were sure to improve when the targets started shooting back.
Then we lined up behind a transparent wall of scarred-up plastic. Ominously, an ambulance floater settled down behind us. We put on the heavy steel helmets we’d be wearing in combat.
This was the grenade range. When you got to the front of the line, Meyer would hand you a grenade. You stepped to the other side of the wall, pulled out the safety pin, and threw the grenade at a concrete target thirty meters away. And hit the dirt.
The fragments were deadly out to ten or fifteen meters from where the grenade exploded; some people could barely throw it that far. The plastic wall often rattled with stray chunks. One man put a couple of deep dents in his helmet and managed to shear off the last joint of his little finger. Meyer said that earned him a one-day vacation and a position in the leading trench, “where he could get lots of practice.”
We practiced using the knives as spears, clamped over the end of the rifle barrel. This was supposed to be useful if you ran out of ammunition. I don’t suppose it would be of much use if your enemy still had a bullet or two.
When night fell we had our “graduation exercise”: being shot at. We had to crawl down a zigzag trench while somebody fired over our heads with a gatling, a gun that shot a continuous stream of bullets. The trench was full of mud and scarcely a meter deep. The other people were small enough to go on all fours; I had to belly down. It was pretty scary, especially since Meyer was crawling along behind us, throwing grenades.
None of them rolled into the trench, though, and we finished the exercise with the same number of people we’d started with.
They gave us a good meal — meat, vegetables and wine — and let us go to bed early. That would have been fine if I could’ve slept. I stared at the ceiling until well after midnight, wondering what it was going to be like, wondering whether I would live to see another sundown, wondering what would happen if I actually did have to kill someone. Pancho and Miko and I had talked it over. It would be easy enough simply to miss, shooting at people with the rifle. But what would happen if we had to fight in close quarters? Miko swore he would die before he would kill someone for Her Majesty. I agreed with him. But it was just talk. I was pretty sure I would kill to save my own life; I certainly wouldn’t have hesitated during the games, on Earth.
When I finally slept I dreamed about home, but it wasn’t a pleasant dream. I had to face a harvest with no more weapons than I was taking to the war. I kept getting attacked by droolers and one-eyes.
I don’t think any war makes sense, but this one seemed even more stupid than the ones I’d read about. What was involved was two hills, named 814 and 905, with a small valley between them Sanctuary was to position 500 soldiers on hill 814; Feder would do the same on 05. They were to fight until one group had possession of both hills.
The valley was about two kilometers wide, filled with a network of deep trenches. Evidently that’s where most of the fighting would be done. Neither the rifles nor the gatlings were effective at a two-kilometer range; you could get a bullet that far, but you couldn’t aim. So the obvious strategy was to divide your group, leaving part of it to defend the hill, with the other moving from trench to trench toward the enemy’s hill. The second bunch had a more dangerous job, it seemed to me, but also would have better opportunity to escape.
About a third of the force were specially-trained men such as snipers, who had heavy rifles of great accuracy, demolition engineers, medical workers, and so forth. The other two-thirds of us were fodder.