Christopher Nuttall: Picking Up the Pieces

A series of sonic booms echoed through the air as the first shuttles came in to land. We’d obtained several heavy-lift vehicles from a former UN deport and each of them could carry over two hundred soldiers, or several armoured vehicles. B Company would add itself to Ed’s forces as they completed their deployment, then we’d bring down the trainers and their equipment, followed by the medical and support staff. We had one advantage over a UN unit of comparable size; every one of us was a fighter, as well as a specialist. A UN unit might have a thousand men with a hundred actual soldiers. It was something I’d grown to loathe while on UN service.

I found my office and examined it thoroughly, but found nothing apart from a set of dirty postcards some officer had picked up on deployment. It always struck me as odd that the UN censored news and routinely rewrote the truth to suit itself, but it never forbade pornographic material, even of the vilest kind. The pictures I found were tame compared to some of the stuff I’d seen before and I binned them without regret. Their owner had probably left them behind for his successor to keep.

My wristcom buzzed before I could do more than settle down into my chair. “Captain, Captain Price-Jones would like to have a word with you now,” Ed said. “Where do you want to see him?”

“I’ll come meet him on the landing ground,” I said. I’d have preferred my new office, but it wasn’t ready for visitors — besides, antagonising Captain Price-Jones might cause problems further down the line. Admiral Walker — John — might have interests here, but Price-Jones wouldn’t know that, would he? It would be better to meet him on neutral territory. “Just tell him I’m on my way.”

The landing ground looked almost like a functional base again when I emerged from the buildings. We’d landed almost all of our shuttles by now and two were even taking off again to return to the transport, after unloading their soldiers and their equipment. A small Fleet shuttle sat to one corner, painted a drab grey colour that looked faded compared to the colourful paintings on our shuttles, but it still drew my eye like a magnet. Captain Price-Jones was waiting for me by the shuttle’s ramp. He didn’t look pleased to be on the ground.

“Captain Nolte,” he said, shortly. “I am Captain Price-Jones, Fleet Senior Officer in system.”

The interview was brief, formal and edgy, confirming my suspicion that Captain Price-Jones hadn’t been told anything about Fleet’s clandestine interest in the system. He warned me that the entire mercenary unit would be inspected before it was allowed to land and any discrepancies — such as the presence of forbidden weapons — would result in the confiscation of my ship and probably criminal charges in front of a Fleet court-martial. I listened carefully and nodded in all the right places, wondering why Captain Price-Jones had been allowed to retain his command. He didn’t sound like one of the newer breed of Captains, but someone from the old regime. I was tempted to file a complaint, but in the short term, it wouldn’t matter. His tiny destroyer was the most powerful ship in the system.

“We’re hired merely to train and support a local army,” I said, when he had run out of dire warnings. Fleet generally doesn’t approve of mercenaries. “We’re not here to take over the planet.”

He didn’t see the humour. “See that you don’t,” he growled, and stomped away with a parting shot. “Make sure that you get an agreement on ROE before you begin operating with the locals. I’d hate to have to arrest you for that.”

I nodded as he retreated back inside his shuttle. It was something we would have to sort out with the President. Fleet was generally indifferent to what atrocities local governments perpetrated on their citizens, but when it came to interstellar units, such as a mercenary unit, it was a different story. We had our own codes of conduct — I’d hung men for rape and looting before — but we’d have to sort out ROE with the locals. It was something I wasn’t looking forward to doing. Civilians don’t have the slightest idea of what a military unit can and cannot do.

“Charming fellow,” Master Sergeant Russell Kelsey observed. In theory, he was nothing more than a simple soldier, but in practice I would have rated him as a Special, one of the UN’s Special Forces units. He came from Heinlein and swore blind that his training was typical of Heinlein infantry training, but no one believed him, not least because if they’d all been as good as him, the war on Heinlein’s surface would have cost hundreds of thousands more lives. It had cost just under two hundred thousand by the time the war ended. “I take it he’s going to be watching over our shoulder?”

“Probably,” I said, sourly. It wasn’t something I could bring myself to care about — for the very simple reason it wouldn’t matter. Fleet wouldn’t intervene on either side of a civil war, if one broke out. We’d just have to be careful not to do anything that Fleet would have to take official notice of. “Have you seen your facilities?”

“Typical UN crap,” Russell said. I’d hired him and several others from Heinlein, knowing that their experience against the UN would be useful. There were times when I doubted the wisdom of that choice, but they were few and far between. “The people here didn’t even bother to maintain it.”

I nodded. “I expected that,” I said. “They had this vast base and only ten people on the ground. No wonder the good Captain had a bug up his ass about it.”

“A destroyer only has… what? Forty men?” Russell asked. I nodded, tightly. Captain Price-Jones would have been terrifyingly short of men even before he was forced to assume responsibility for the spaceport as well. It was ironic — there were a few interstellar freighters that made the stop here — but if the factions had been able to agree on who should operate it, the planet would have been richer. “He’ll be glad to get them back into space.”

His lips tightened. “They won’t be,” he added. “Have you seen the cleaning staff yet?”

“No,” I said, feeling a trickle of alarm running down my spine. “Do I want to know?”

“There are fifty very good-looking young women here who have been gainfully employed doing the cooking, cleaning and probably certain other services as well for the people working here,” Russell said. I stared at him. On Heinlein, employing locals had been asking for trouble. On Botany, if anything, the problems had been worse. “They’ve been working here since before the pull-out and… well, they’re not sure what’s going to happen to them.”

“Shit,” I said. The only good thing about Svergie was that its war hadn’t been as bloody and merciless as several other wars. The girls would probably be safe enough if they returned to the city, or wherever they’d come from, but it would throw them out of work. We might well need them later. “Do they pose a security risk?”

“I doubt it, at least at the moment,” Russell said, confirming my inner thoughts. “That might change if the planet’s political situation shifts…”

“I know,” I said. I made a snap decision. “Very well; tell them we’ll keep them on provided they behave themselves. They’ll probably find themselves overworked cooking and cleaning for all two thousand of us. Sex… well, make sure they know that they have a veto over whatever one of us wants them to do. I won’t tolerate rape or molestation, understand?”

“Of course,” Russell agreed. “And the new recruits?”

“The girls are off-limits,” I said, firmly. Basic Training always kept the new recruits celibate for their early training. The UN had had mixed-sex groups for training, but it had been forbidden to sleep with a fellow trainee. It was something I actually approved of, although some Drill Sergeants had abused the trust placed in them and molested their charges. I would have shot any of my trainers who did that. “Once they’re in uniform and graduated… well, we’ll look at it then.”