Роберт Бюттнер - Orphan's Journey

Ord, Gustus, and Howard sat at the table’s end opposite me. I asked Howard, “What about the timetable?”

“Jeeb’s last look showed nothing new. The Pseudocephalopod still has warriors postured defensively in the isthmus, behind the wall. And a large force remains dug in around the Troll. Too many to deal with if we attacked now with what we had, too few for It to start offensive operations. As long as we jump off within four months, we have a chance to destroy the Troll before it puts out warriors in overwhelming numbers. I’d like to send Jeeb in for a close look at those outbuildings beside the Troll.”

“The Stone storage sheds?”

“That’s what they look like, but a worm’s eye view could be interesting.”

Howard always wanted to chase interesting. But if some Slug closed a door behind Jeeb, he couldn’t shoot his way out of an enclosed space.

I shook my head. “Jeeb’s the only pair of eyes we have. I can’t risk him.”

I asked Gustus and Ord, “How’s the Tassini cavalry project?”

Even the Casuni agreed that Tassini could outride the wind, but our budding divisions needed Troops with fifty riders each, trained and integrated into the overall battle plan. A Tassini Encampment’s largest unit was the Raiding Party, twelve riders organized like a bus wreck.

So we had established Cavalry Basic schools in every one of the hundred Tassini Encampments, and poured in supplies of guns, powder, feed, and body armor.

Ord said, “Plenty of volunteers. And they really do ride like the wind. Supply shortages are retarding training, Sir.”

“I thought we were drowning ’em with stuff.”

Gustus pushed his spectacles back on his pug nose. “We are. But after the caravans unload at the Encampments, we’re suffering 60 percent pilferage.”

At the table’s end, a Casuni muttered under his breath. “Scratch a Tassini, find a thief.”

I raised my eyebrows at Gustus and Ord. “Sixty percent isn’t pilferage. It’s hemorrhage. Solution?”

Inventory control was a command migraine even back home, with ’Puters. Gustus slid an object the length of the table’s onyxwood. It looked like a bone-carved harp the size of a ham sandwich. Ten pea-sized mollusk shells, drilled through their centers, slid along each harp string.

It was a little abacus like Bassin used.

Someone sniffed. “A zill?”

Gustus nodded, and said to me, “Experienced Shopwives run huge bakeries with nothing more than one of these zills and their wits, and never lose a groundfruit seed.”

“So?”

Ord turned another of the little harps in his hands. “Each School Commandant spends eighteen hours each day on training. As he should. Inventory control would bury him, even if he were used to it. We have thousands of female Marini volunteers we could train as crackerjack Supply Clerks.”

The Casuni Marshal’s eyes bugged. “Marini libertines among the Tassini?”

Ord turned to him. “Only after appropriate cultural instruction, Sir.”

I did a mental eye roll. The two Plains Clans were at war for their collective lives. If the Casuni and the Tassini had to swallow some trivial women’s lib to win, so be it.

“Make it happen, Sergeant Major. Be sure the Clerks keep their head scarves tied.” I moved the meeting on to more important things.

Weeks later, Ord slipped into my office, alone and frowning. “Sir, I’ve caused a problem. The Supply Clerk idea—”

I paused with a handful of Morning Reports. “I thought the Zill Jills were working out.”

He nodded. “Quick studies, fine soldiers. Last night a Supply Clerk newly deployed to a Tassini Cavalry Basic unit was killed—”

“But it’s a desk job.”

“By the Encampment Headman.”

“Get the Tassini liaison officer in here. Now.”

My Tassini liaison was a former Encampment Headman. He got his staff job because he was a better politician than a rider.

He sat across from me, crossed his legs, and slicked an indigo-dyed eyebrow with one finger. “Is this about the prostitute?”

I leaned forward. “What?” The Earth military history I’d read reported millions of female soldiers had served more than honorably. But there were rare tales of indiscretion, for example during the Cold-War dust-ups, like Vietnam. And, unlike the worldly Marini, Tassini considered prostitution a capital crime. I couldn’t just tell him he was full of crap.

He waved his hand. “Her manner of dress provoked the accusation. Then her offense was proved.”

“Proved?”

“By Boxing.”

“The Accused had to fight?”

He shook his head. “Every Encampment carries with it a wooden box, large enough for a woman to crouch in. There is a lid, with a breathing hole. At sunrise, the Headman places the Accused in The Box. Then he drops three Kris through the breathing hole.”

I cocked my head at Ord, who stood against my office’s back wall, hands clasped at his back, in the position of At Ease.

“Foot-long scorpions, Sir. Their neurotoxin paralyzes in one minute, kills in thirty.”

The Liaison Officer said, “Kris sting only unclean flesh. The Headman opens The Box at sunset. If she is innocent, she is alive.”

I took a deep breath, then let it out. “How long have the Tassini been using The Box?”

“Three hundred years.”

“Has a woman ever survived?”

“Of course not. If she isn’t a whore, the Headman doesn’t put her in The Box.”

On my desk I displayed, as a letter opener, a jeweled dagger gifted on me by a VIP visitor. I took its hilt in my fist, squeezed it, and debated whether to stab the fool across the desk, or myself. I had misassumed that I could dismantle centuries of divergent culture by giving an order. A soldier was dead, and it was my fault.

I asked the Liaison Officer, “What if, as Military Governor, I forbid use of The Box?”

His eyes widened. “The Headmen would lose honor. The Tassini would bolt the Alliance.”

“Those clerks are helping to win the war. How do you think the Marini will react if this Boxing continues?”

“Like the cowardly pimps and whores they are. They will bolt the Alliance.”

Either way, the Alliance would lose the war, and the Slugs would slaughter every human on Bren.

I asked him, “Well, what would you do?”

He shrugged. “Quietly pay each Headman a facilitation fee, so he will not use The Box.”

“How many Headmen do you think would do such a deal?”

“Oh, 90 percent or more. And don’t worry, each would swear for you to the public that no unclean coin had crossed his palm.”

I sighed.

As an Adviser on Earth, I had put up with baksheesh in all its permutations. One man’s bribe was another man’s tip. But this was different. I was ordering Allies who had cut one another’s throats for centuries to trust each other to do right. They had to trust me to do right, too. If I bribed Headmen, Staff would know. If Staff knew, everybody would know. The Alliance would be doomed to business as usual, with the Clans at daggerpoints.

I sighed, and rubbed my eyes. Then I said to the Tassini officer, “I see. Prepare a proclamation for my signature as Military Governor. It will confirm that each Headman has ongoing authority to use The Box.”

He smiled. “Very wise, Sir.”

Ord furrowed his brow.

I said, “But it must be used in the fashion that we use The Box where I come from. In my home place, each Headman begins each month by going in The Box. Since the Kris sting only unclean palms, we know from this that our Headmen have taken no bribes.”

The Officer squirmed in his chair. “A Headman has many civic duties. He might be unable to spare a whole day to go in The Box.”

“I understand completely. Where I come from, Headmen often delay their test until year end, without dishonor. They just don’t use The Box in the meantime.” I smiled.