Jerry Pournelle - West of Honor

And now I'm here, I thought. I looked down at the planet, trying to spot places I'd seen on the maps in our briefing kit. I was also listening to the troopers in the compartment. The instructors at the academy had told us that officers could learn a lot by listening to the men, and I hadn't had much opportunity to listen to these. Three weeks earlier I'd been on the passenger ship, and now I was at the end of nowhere on an ancient troop carrier, with a detachment commander who'd kept us training so hard there'd been no time for talk or anything else.

There were only a few viewports in the compartment, and those were taken by officers and senior enlisted men. Behind me Sergeant Cernan was describing what he saw. A number of younger marines, recruits mostly, were crowded around him. The older troopers were catching naps in their seats.

"Not much outside the city walls," Cernan said. "Trees, look like scrub oak. And I think those others are olives. There's palms, too. Must be from Earth. Never saw palm trees that didn't come from Earth."

"Hey, Sarge, can you see the fort?" Corporal Roff asked.

"Yeah. Looks like any CD post. You'll be right at home."

"Sure we will," Roff said. "Sure. Christ, why us?"

"Your birthday present." Cernan said. "Just be damned glad you'll be leavin’ some day. Think of them poor bastards back aft in the can."

The ship circled the harbor, then glided in on its stubby wings to settle into the chop outside the breakwater. The waves were two meters high and more, and the ship roiled badly. One of the new recruits was sick. His scatmate handed him a plastic bag.

"Hey, Dietz." Roff called. "Want some fried bacon? Little salt pork?" He grinned. "Maybe some sow belly-"

"Sergeant Cernan."

"Sir!"

The captain didn't say anything else. He sat forward, a dozen rows in front of me, and I hadn't expected him to be listening, but I wasn't surprised. I'd learned in the past three weeks that not much went on without Captain John Christian Falkenberg finding out.

Behind me, Cernan said, very tight-lipped, "Roff, one more word out of you-"

Dietz's buddy found another bag. No one else kidded the sick recruits. Soon the shuttle moved into the inner harbor where there were no waves, and everyone felt better. A lone tugboat came alongside and eased the spacecraft toward a concrete pier. There was no other traffic in the harbor except a few small fishing boats.

A navy officer came into the compartment and looked around until he found Falkenberg. "Sir, the governor requests that you turn your men out under arms to assist in the prisoner formation."

Falkenberg turned toward the navy man and raised an eyebrow. Then he nodded. "Sergeant Major!"

"Sir!" Ogilvie shouted from the rear of the compartment.

"Personal weapons for all troops. Rifles and cartridge belts. And bayonets, Sergeant Major. Bayonets by all means."

"Sir." There was a bustle of activity as Sergeant Major Ogilvie and his weapons sergeants unlocked the arms chest and began passing out rifles.

"What about our other gear?" Falkenberg asked.

"You'll have to make arrangements with the garrison," the ship's officer said.

"Right. That's all, then?"

"Yes. That's all, Major."

I grinned as the navy man left the compartment. To the navy there's only one captain aboard ship, and that's the skipper. Marine captains in transit get a very temporary and utterly meaningless "promotion" to major for the duration of the voyage.

Falkenberg went to the forward hatchway. "Lieutenant Slater. A moment please."

"Sir." I went forward to join him. I hadn't really noticed the low gravity until I stood, but now it was obvious. It was only 85 percent Earth standard, and on the trip out Falkenberg had insisted the navy skipper keep the outer rim of the old troopship at 110 percent spin gravity for as much of the trip as possible. The navy hadn't liked it, but they'd done it and Falkenberg had trained us in the high-gravity areas. Now we felt as if we could float away with no trouble.

I didn't know much about Falkenberg. The service list showed he'd had navy experience, then transferred to Fleet marines. Now he was with a Line outfit. Moving around like that, two transfers, should have meant he was being run out, but then there was his rank. He also had a Military Cross, but the list hadn't said what it was for. It did tell me he'd entered the academy at 1 5 and left as a midshipman.

I first saw him at Betio Transfer Station, which is an airless rock the Fleet keeps as a repair base and supply depot. It's convenient to several important star systems, but there's nothing there. I'd been on my way from graduation to Crucis Sector Headquarters, with assignment to the Fleet marines. I was proud of that. Of the three marine branches, Fleet is supposed to be the technical elite. Garrison outfits are mostly for riot suppression. The Line marines get the dirty jobs left over. Line troops say theirs is the real elite, and they certainly do more than their share of the actual fighting when things are tough. I didn't know if we'd be fighting on Arrarat. I didn't even know why we were sent here. I just knew that Falkenberg had authority to change orders for all unassigned officers, and I'd been yanked off my comfortable berth-first class, dammit!-to report to him at Betio. If he knew what was up he wasn't telling the junior officers.

Falkenberg wasn't a lot older than I. I was a few weeks past my twenty-first birthday, and he was maybe five years older, a captain with the Military Cross. He must have had something going for him. Influence, possibly, but if that was it, why was he with the Line marines and not on staff at Headquarters? I couldn't ask him. He didn't talk very much. He wasn't unfriendly, but he seemed cold and distant and didn't encourage anyone to get close to him.

Falkenberg was tall, but he didn't reach my height, which is 193 centimeters according to my id card. We called it six-four where I grew up. Falkenberg was maybe five centimeters shorter. His eyes were indeterminate in color, sometimes gray and sometimes green depending on the light, and they seemed very bright when he looked at you. He had short hair the color of sand, and no mustache. Most officers grow them after they make captain, but he hadn't.

His uniforms always fit perfectly. I thought I cut a good military figure, but I found myself studying the way Falkenberg dressed. I also studied his mannerisms, wondering if I could copy any of them. I wasn't sure I liked him or that I really wanted to imitate him, but I told myself that anybody who could make captain before he was 30 was worth at least a bit of study. There are plenty of 40-year-old lieutenants in the service.

He didn't look big or particularly strong, but I knew better. I'm no 44-kilo weakling, but he threw me easily in unarmed combat practices, and that was in 100 percent gravity.

He was grinning when I joined him at the forward hatch. "Ever think. Lieutenant, that every military generation since World War I has thought theirs would be the last to carry bayonets?" He waved at Ogilvie, who was still passing out rifles.

"No sir, I never did."

"Few do," Falkenberg said. "My old man was a CoDominium University professor, and he thought I ought to learn military history. Think about it. A weapon originally designed to convert a musket into a pike, and it's still around when we're going to war in starships."

"Yes, sir-"

"Because it's useful. Lieutenant. As you'll find out some day." The grin faded, and Falkenberg lowered his voice. "I didn't call you up here to discuss military history, of course. I want the men to see us in conference. Give them something to worry about. They know they're going ashore armed."

"Yes, sir-"

"Tell me, Harlan Slater, what do they call you?"