Soldiers Read online

  Syllabus of Human History

  Collegiate Books, Lyon, France

  Sky Harbor was the political and commercial capital of Hart's Desire, and Drago Dravec, Henry Morgan's surrogate, knew it well. And while he had nothing to fence this trip, Morgan had done business there with Harlan Cheregian for more than a decade. And Cheregian, who knew everything and everybody worth knowing on Hart's Desire, also had the ear of government there.

  The monsoon had arrived, hot and humid, and Drago Dravec set the Minerva down at the port of Sky Harbor in an afternoon deluge. (The squadron's other three ships had put down at Nuevo Oaxaca, far from Hart's central government. Summers at Nuevo Oaxaca were relatively cool and dry, the entertainment district less restricted, and the port authority more flexible. And Harlan Cheregian had a branch office there.)

  A cabby had seen the Minerva land, and moved hopefully to her pad. Dravec sprinted the few unprotected yards to it, jumped in and slammed the door behind him, somewhat less than soaked.

  "Where to?" asked the cabby.

  "The roof of the Cheregian Building."

  "They expecting you?"

  "I wouldn't go if he wasn't."

  He. The cabby nodded. The spacer was indifferently dressed, but he'd arrived in what appeared to be a very expensive yacht, and gave the impression of someone in charge. Cheregian probably did expect him. The cabby lifted his floater against the downpour, riding lights flashing a penetrating blue, then swung toward the commercial district, headed for the Cheregian Building. "You from offworld?"

  "Yep."

  "Did you hear about the alien invasion?"

  "Yep."

  The spacer's answers didn't inspire follow-ups. Minutes later the floater hovered inches above the Cheregian Building's passenger pad, as close to the canopy as the cabby could get it. A flunky in a suit waited with an umbrella. The cabby turned to Drago, expecting plastic, and wondering what sort of tipper the guy was. Instead of plastic, the spacer handed him a Commonwealth 50-credit note, and got out saying, "Keep the change." He'd hoped for more, but it wasn't too bad.

  Drago had been to the Cheregian Building before, and remembered his umbrella-carrying guide, who asked his name but didn't request identification. They rode a drop tube down a single level to the seventh floor, then followed a clean-carpeted corridor to a suite. The suite and its furnishings were like the building, the corridor, the carpet-not imposing, but they indicated money and conservatism. A receptionist buzzed Cheregian and announced, "Mr. Dravec." Drago did not doubt that Cheregian was watching on a screen.

  The receptionist looked up at Drago's guide. "Take Mr. Dravec in," she said.

  The first thing Cheregian said was, "I presume you know about the aliens." Everyone on Hart's knew. The Gem of the Prophet had been captured, and apparently the Star of Hibernia. Darwin's World was also in the invasion corridor, not so far from Star. So the Commonwealth embassy there had evacuated to Hart's Desire, which seemed to be safely clear.

  Drago nodded. "The aliens don't fool around. They started pounding Tagus the same day they arrived in the system."

  "I suppose you have nothing to sell this time," Cheregian said.

  "Right. What I'm looking for now is a favor."

  Cheregian's rambunctious eyebrows rose. "I suppose you know that Commodore Morgan warned Kunming. A selfless act. What favor do you have in mind?"

  Warned Kunming? This made things look more promising. "I want to use the Commonwealth embassy's savant, to propose something to Kunming. But if I simply knocked on their door, I'd probably end up in jail. So I hoped you'd refer me to them. Call me an ex-employee you haven't seen in years… "

  "Hmm. And what is this proposal to Kunming?"

  Dravec smiled wryly. "For three years I was a midshipman in the Space Academy. I want to scout the aliens. Sting them, see how they respond. Learn whether they have force shields, that sort of thing. Then duck into warpspace and let Kunming know by savant. Which means I'll need to take one with me."

  "Aha. What do you suppose the odds are that the aliens will let you escape, after you've, ah, `stung' them?"

  "I've got four ships. I'll stand off, send them in and watch, then generate warpspace and report to Kunming. I've talked it out with my captains, at rendezvous." Drago paused. "The aliens moved in and started blasting without any communication whatever. As if they preferred killing to negotiation. So our prospects of survival-mine, the Commonwealth's, the human species'!-look rotten. And this just might help."

  Cheregian nodded, thinking sixteen thousand ships. "I'll see what I can do," he said, then tapped keys and spoke to his phone. He was put on hold, but only for half a minute. Meanwhile he keyed the call to his desk speaker, so Dravec could hear both sides of the exchange.

  A woman's voice spoke. "This is Ambassador Khai. What can I do for you, Mr. Cheregian?"

  "I have a gentleman in my office, a Mr. Drago Dravec. He was referred to me by a business associate who feels I might have more influence with you than he would. Mr. Dravec would like to propose something to you regarding the alien intruders. And he seems to me worth listening to. He's one of Commodore Morgan's associates."

  "Indeed! Well." There was a moment's silence. "The alien intruders." Another silence. "I'll send a car for him. It should arrive at your roof in-ten minutes. Considering what Commodore Morgan has done for humanity, we owe him that."

  With eyebrows raised questioningly, Cheregian turned again to Drago, who nodded. "He'll be waiting," Cheregian said, then disconnected.

  ***

  Drago went to the embassy in the ambassador's chauffeured floater. The ambassador didn't ask many more questions than Harlan Cheregian had. She'd already alerted her savant's attendant. Now she talked her way to Admiralty Chief Fedor Tischendorf himself. With Tischendorf "on the line," she turned the session over to the pirate, prepared to assist if necessary.

  Savant communicators duplicated not only the speakers' words, but their voice, tone, and emphasis, as nearly as their vocal equipment allowed. Which was nearer than a listener might think possible, given the typical savant's mental and physical difficulties. To Drago it was almost like listening to the admiral himself, who took him seriously, and definitely seemed interested. Tischendorf-famous for his recall-remembered Drago from twenty years past. The pirate had been a promising midshipman, till he'd been expelled for repeated unacceptable behavior while on pass. The Space Academy was fairly lenient about minor misbehavior on pass, but Dravec's had outgrown minor. His loyalty and command potential had never been questioned. His problem had been impulsive mischief or violence, usually inspired or aggravated by alcohol.

  The admiral and the pirate rather quickly agreed on what Drago could reasonably hope to learn about the aliens, and how to approach the mission. Then Tischendorf spoke with Ambassador Khai again. "Madam Ambassador, I'd appreciate it if you'd arrange the transfer of Ambassador Rees's savant to-um-Commodore Dravec. And the savant's attendant, of course. Can you do that?"

  Rees, Drago realized, had to be the Commonwealth's evacuee ambassador to Darwin's World.

  "I'll propose it to Ambassador Rees."

  "Do you expect him to balk?"

  "I don't expect him to, no. He doesn't need a savant; he no longer has an embassy. And he's been an agreeable guest."

  "Good. Let me know when it's arranged. And Drago, keep me informed of your progress."

  Though she couldn't have said why, Ambassador Khai had felt a moment's misgiving when Tischendorf asked her to arrange the meeting with Rees. When she went to Rees's small embassy apartment and broached the matter, the man's face went-wooden was the best description. But he agreed to talk with Dravec.

  Ten minutes later she brought Dravec to Rees's living room. "Mr. Ambassador," she said, "I'd like you to meet Commodore Drago Dravec. Commodore Dravec, this is Ambassador Llewellyn Gustavo Rees."

  Now Rees's face was more stony than wooden. Drago realized something was seriously wrong, but extended his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you,
Mr. Ambassador."

  Rees's arms remained stiffly at his sides. "I had never," he said, "expected the pleasure of meeting one of Morgan's men under such-gratifying circumstances."

  Drago frowned, his extended hand lowering. "It seems you don't like me," he said slowly. "Care to elaborate on that?"

  "First let me say how pleased I am that your nest of hoodlums has been destroyed. And if you think I dislike you… I hate your master, Henry Morgan, with a passion you could never understand."

  The pirate's gaze was mild, but it didn't soften Rees. "I got that," Drago said, hoping to get the meeting back on the subject. "And I suppose it's appropriate for you to hate him. And me. What do you think about the aliens?"

  "I prefer them to you. They perform their atrocities against foreign life-forms. You perform yours against your own species."

  Drago stood quietly, groping for a useful response, something that wouldn't torpedo his proposal. "Ah… Meanwhile the matter at hand is a reconnaissance of the alien armada. And I need your savant to make it work."

  "You shall not have her, sir. First of all, you intend no reconnaissance. That is a cover, a sham. Your intention is to get hold of a savant for your own piratical purposes. And my savant is female-I'll wager you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  Drago's hands took them all by surprise. Quick as snakes they grabbed Llewellyn Rees by the shirt front and jerked him close, even as the seams split. The violence shattered the man, who began to babble. But to Drago the babbling made sense. "Do you remember the yacht Guinevere, Mister Pirate? Do you remember the officers and crew jettisoned out the trash lock? One of them was my younger brother! Murdered! Cold-bloodedly, without even being accused of anything! Our sister was Gomer Colwyn's niece, sent off in a lifeboat. It was she who told us what happened."

  Rees was panting and trembling with repressed hysteria.

  Drago stared and let him go. All he could say to the man was, "I'm sorry. I understand." To Ambassador Khai, he said "Let's go."

  Two minutes later they were alone in her office. The emotional encounter had left her almost as shaken as Rees, but she'd remained oriented on Drago's mission. "You'll have your savant," she said. "I'll message Kunming, tell them I'm going to let you take Peng, and I'll take Lew's Lovisa to myself. I'm in charge here; I have the authority. And if they have misgivings, I'll refer them to Admiral Tischendorf."

  She paused, looking at Drago, really seeing him for the first time. "Would you like a short drink before you return to your ship?"

  "Yeah, I could stand a drink."

  "I have several mild liqueurs… "

  "Scotch and water if you have it."

  She poured first for him, then for herself, and they sipped. "Lew really lost it this evening," she said.

  "Ambassador Rees? Yes, he did."

  "You handled it effectively."

  Drago shrugged. "It's a good thing he didn't see the Minerva. My ship. She's the old Guinevere, renamed for the Roman goddess of martial prowess."

  "Really!" She paused. "What is there to Llewellyn's story?"

  He told her. He hadn't actually been there; as Morgan's principal captain, he'd been off with the other squadron, and heard the story after returning to Tagus. From the man who'd brought the Guinevere in as a prize.

  "Morgan got back a month later," he went on. "The Morgan I knew, had known for years, was easy to get along with. The boss, but even-tempered. I'd seen him annoyed, but that was unusual. And I hadn't been able to reconcile the man I knew with the story I'd heard. So one evening over cognac I asked him about it."

  Drago paused, pulling threads, retrieving memories. "And he told me. Things he'd never told anyone, he said, not even Connie. His father had been an abuser. Abused him sexually and generally. And the owner-master of the Guinevere-the ultimate in coincidence-was a cousin named Colwyn, maybe ten years older then Morgan." Drago fished for a moment and came up with the first name. "Gomer Colwyn. Morgan's dad had abused him, too, and Colwyn took it out on Morgan. They hadn't seen one another since Morgan ran away from home, barely in his teens. Made a living as a petty criminal, and worked up from there.

  "Anyway Morgan recognized Colwyn, who tried to get the drop on him. The boss got the gun away from him, and things were said. In Welsh. Until Morgan totally lost control, and did what he did. Afterward, according to the crew, he locked himself in a cabin and stayed drunk for days."

  Khai sighed gustily. "Gentle Buddha," she said, "the things people do to each other!" And wondered how Drago Dravec had wandered into piracy.

  When they'd finished their drinks, her chauffeur took Drago back to the Minerva. She'd been tempted to invite him to spend the night. She was only forty-three, and her mirror told her she was still attractive. Drago Dravec was probably still short of forty, and the most vital man she'd seen since… ever, she decided. And she hadn't had a man in her bed since she'd left Terra. Her husband, the director of a major art museum, had refused to follow her off-world, and she'd never been seriously tempted to indulge herself in the opportunities on Hart's.

  It's best not to this time, either, she'd told herself. It would complicate things.

  She awoke to someone pounding on her bedroom door. A marine guard, a sergeant; she recognized the voice. "All right!" she called, "I'm awake! I'm awake!" Muttering, she swung her legs out of bed; dawnlight filtered through one-way windows. Slipping into her robe, she went to the door and opened it. "What is it?" she demanded.

  "Ma'am, it's Ambassador Rees! He's been found bound and gagged in a closet, with a lump on his head! When he woke up, he made enough noise, thumping around, to wake up his orderly."

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. Dravec. It had to be Dravec.

  "And, ma'am, his savant is gone! And her attendant!"

  Good grief! she thought. And right under the noses of marine security. The Minerva would be gone, too, from Sky Harbor and probably from F-space. The Ministry would cry bloody murder, and look for someone to blame. Her.

  She looked at the situation. If War House backed her, it might not turn out too badly. In these times, War House would outweigh the Ministry. And Osterdorf wasn't deputy minister for security anymore.

  Security. She wondered if her marines had anything to do with this, then shook her head: surely not.

  Chapter 10

  Esau Wesley

  The trees were tall for a heavyworld. Mostly their branches were strongly upsweeping, but remained subordinate to the strong central trunk.

  This was old forest, the ground marked by fallen, "mossy" trunks of an older generation gradually converting to soil. Scattered patches of green shoots broke the sodden layer of last year's fallen leaves. Here and there were clusters of delicate pink-the first spring flowers.

  Esau Wesley was adding his own dynamic to the ever-fluctuating system. He swung his ax again, and a chip flew from the steelwood tree. Then chop! and chop! and another flew. He continued, working his way around the tree without pause, cutting an unbroken ring through the hard bark and outermost layer of wood. Only then did he pause, removing his sweat-stained, lightweight leather hat and wiping his forehead on a homespun sleeve. It was early spring, and cool, but he was sweating. Steelwood was exceptionally dense and hard, even for New Jerusalem, but it favored the most fertile sites. And Esau was ambitious, and a bear for work.

  He was also tall-five feet eight inches in his bare feet-and on Terra would have weighed a lean 227 pounds stripped. On the scale at the flour mill, however, he registered 322 pounds; gravity on New Jerusalem was 1.42 Terran-normal.

  The years too were long. Esau was fourteen and a half by the calendar of New Jerusalem. On Terra he'd have been reckoned nearly nineteen. His frame was broad, his bones thick and dense, his heavy muscles powerful. And he was agile. Wrestling was a popular youth activity, and he was exceptionally good at it.

  Thirty generations after the colonization of New Jerusalem, bodies more or less like Esau's were the rule. Bodies created by ruthless selection and strong gravity. An
d by the vigorous lives to which the colonists had been committed, in accordance with what the founders considered the Will of God.

  The people of New Jerusalem were aware of space flight, and that their long-ago ancestors had come from distant Terra, where people lived ungodly lives, in technological sloth, and fought wars-the greatest evil of all-killing each other in droves. That was pretty much all the Jerusalemites knew about their ancestral world, and even that was incorrect. The last war on Terra had been fought before their forefathers left it.

  The Commonwealth maintained a small embassy on New Jerusalem, though beyond the upper hierarchy, almost no Jerusalemites knew or cared anything at all about what went on there. Which wasn't much. Through the church hierarchy, the embassy purchased certain local products with silver and gold. The Jerries had no electronics, rejected paper money, and disapproved almost all proposed imports. All in all, the embassy had virtually no impact on the lives of New Jerusalem's citizens. Though it was about to. It had been put there mainly to confirm that New Jerusalem was part of the Commonwealth.

  The Church of the Testaments taught its people to read scripture, write letters, and do basic cyphering. Nonbiblical history, even of their own world, was not taught, except as morality and precautionary tales. The only books were on paper-scripture, hymn books, prayer books, and Elder Hofer's Commentaries on the Testaments.

  The Jerusalemites, of course, sinned like anyone else. They murdered, abused, lied, seduced, cuckolded-even occasionally blasphemed!-but rarely stole. Mostly, though, they were a law-abiding people who generally trusted the officials of their theocracy. Theirs was a peaceful, stagnant, patriarchal, and rather tolerant backwater. Occasionally someone went berserk-perhaps assaulted a family member or neighbor with ax or gun, or themselves with gun or rope. But there were no psychologists to point the finger at depression growing out of frustration. The preachers had their own explanation: the evildoer had been led astray by Satan. And whoever doubted, kept it to themselves.