Гордон Диксон - Soldier, Ask Not

“All right, Commandant,” he said, “you can get back to your duties, now.”

“Sir,” said Janol, without looking at me.

He saluted and left.

“All right, Tam,” Kensie said, pulling on a pair of uniform slacks. “What is it?”

“I know you’re ready to move out,” I said.

He looked at me a little humorously as he locked the waistband of his slacks. He had not yet put on his shirt, and in that relatively small room he loomed like a giant, like some irresistible natural force. His body was tanned like dark wood and the muscles lay in flat bands across his chest and shoulders. His belly was hollow and the cords in his arms came and went as he moved them. Once more I felt the particular, special element of the Dorsai in him. It was not even the fact that he was someone trained from birth to war, someone bred for battle. No, it was something living but untouchable—the same quality of difference to be found in the pure Exotic like Padma the OutBond, or in some Newtonian or Cassidan researchist. Something so much above and beyond the common form of man that it was like a serenity, a sense of conviction where his own type of thing was concerned that was so complete it made him beyond all weaknesses, untouchable, unconquerable.

I saw the slight, dark shadow of Jamethon in my mind’s eye, standing opposed to such a man as this; and the thought of any victory for Jamethon was unthinkable, an impossibility.

But there was always danger.

“All right, I’ll tell you what I came about,” I said to Kensie. “I’ve just found out Black’s been in touch with the Blue Front, a native terrorist political group with its headquarters in Blauvain. Three of them visited him last night. I saw them.”

Kensie picked up his shirt and slid a long arm into one sleeve.

“I know,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Don’t you understand?” I said. “They’re assassins. It’s their stock in trade. And the one man they and Jamethon both could use out of the way is you.”

He put his other arm in a sleeve.

“I know that,” he said. “They want the present government here on St. Marie out of the way and themselves in power—which isn’t possible with Exotic money hiring us to keep the peace here.”

“They haven’t had Jamethon’s help.”

“Have they got it now?” he asked, sealing the shirt closure between thumb and forefinger.

“The Friendlies are desperate,” I said. “Even if reinforcements arrived tomorrow, Jamethon knows what his chances are with you ready to move. Assassins may be outlawed by the Conventions of War and the Mercenaries’ Code, but you and I know the Friendlies.”

Kensie looked at me oddly and picked up his jacket.

“Do we?” he said.

I met his eyes. “Don’t we?”

“Tam.” He put on the jacket and closed it. “I know the men I have to fight. It’s my business to know. But what makes you think you know them?”

“They’re my business, too,” I said. “Maybe you’ve forgotten. I’m a Newsman. People are my business, first, last and always.”

“But you’ve got no use for the Friendlies.”

“Should I?” I said. “I’ve been on all the worlds. I’ve seen the Cetan entrepreneur—and he wants his margin, but he’s a human being. I’ve seen the Newtonian and the Venusian with their heads in the clouds, but if you yanked on their sleeves hard enough, you could pull them back to reality. I’ve seen Exotics like Padma at their mental parlor tricks, and the Freilander up to his ears in his own red tape. I’ve seen them from my own world of Old Earth, and Coby, and Venus and even from the Dorsai, like you. And I tell you they’ve all got one thing in common. Underneath it all they’re human. Every one of them’s human—they’ve just specialized in some one, valuable way.”

“And the Friendlies haven’t?”

“Fanaticism,” I said. “Is that valuable? It’s just the opposite. What’s good, what’s even permissible about blind, deaf, dumb, unthinking faith that doesn’t let a man reason for himself?”

“How do you know they don’t reason?” Kensie asked. He was standing facing me now.

“Maybe some of them do,” I said. “Maybe the young ones, before the poison’s had time to work in. What good does that do, as long as the culture exists?”

A sudden silence came into the room.

“What are you talking about?” said Kensie.

“I mean you want the assassins,” I said. “You don’t want the Friendly troops. Prove that Jamethon Black has broken the Conventions of War by arranging with them to kill you; and you can win St. Marie for the Exotics without firing a shot.”

“And how would I do that?”

“Use me,” I said. “I’ve got a pipeline to the political group the assassins represent. Let me go to them as your representative and outbid Jamethon. You can offer them recognition by the present government now. Padma and the present St. Marie government heads would have to back you up if you could clean the planet of Friendlies that easily.”

He looked at me with no expression at all.

“And what would I be supposed to buy with this?” he said.

“Sworn testimony they’d been hired to assassinate you. As many of them as needed could testify.”

“No Court of Interplanetary Inquiry would believe people like that,” Kensie said.

“Ah,” I said, and I could not help smiling. “But they’d believe me as a News Service Representative when I backed up every word that was said.”

There was a new silence. His face had no expression at all.

“I see,” he said.

He walked past me into the salon. I followed him. He went to his phone, put his finger on a stud and spoke into an imageless gray screen.

“Janol,” he said.

He turned away from the screen, crossed the room to an arms cabinet and began putting on his battle harness. He moved deliberately and neither looked nor spoke in my direction. After a few long minutes, the building entrance slid aside and Janol stepped in.

“Sir?” said the officer.

“Mr. Olyn stays here until further orders.”

“Yes, sir,” said Janol.

Graeme went out.

I stood numb, staring at the entrance through which he had left. I could not believe that he would violate the Conventions so far himself as not only to disregard me, but to put me essentially under arrest to keep me from doing anything further about the situation.

I turned to Janol. He was looking at me with a sort of wry sympathy on his long, brown face.

“Is the OutBond here in camp?” I asked him.

“No.” He came up to me. “He’s back in the Exotic Embassy in Blauvain. Be a good fella now and sit down, why don’t you? We might as well kill the next few hours pleasantly.”

We were standing face to face; I hit him in the stomach.

I had done a little boxing as an undergraduate on the college level. I mention this not to make myself out a sort of muscular hero, but to explain why I had sense enough not to try for his jaw. Graeme could probably have found the knockout point there without even thinking, but I was no Dorsai. The area below a man’s breastbone is relatively large, soft, handy and generally just fine for amateurs. And I did know something about how to punch.

For all that, Janol was not knocked out. He went over on the floor and lay there doubled up with his eyes still open. But he was not ready to get up right away. I turned and went quickly out of the building.

The camp was busy. Nobody stopped me. I got back into my car, and five minutes later I was free on the darkening road for Blauvain.

From New San Marcos to Blauvain and Padma’s Embassy was fourteen hundred kilometers. I should have made it in six hours, but a bridge was washed out and I took fourteen.