Mission to Minerva

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The voice of Top Sergeant Nooth yelling at the newest squad of recruits, accompanied by the rhythmic thud of boots crashing in unison, came from outside the barrack hut window.

"Hup-two-three-four. Hup-two-three-four. What's the matter, Frenitzow? Frightened of pulling a muscle? Worry about it when you've got some. Pick those feet up. Hup-two-three-four…" The sounds faded in the direction of the parade square, giving way to the intermittent rat-tat-tat of small arms from the firing range.

Lieutenant Klesimur Bosoros stretched back on his bunk and set aside the magazine with the article on biological writings of the Giants that he had been reading. At least, he was still known as Kles. That much of his life hadn't changed. Just about everything else had, in ways that he would never have thought possible. He didn't get much time to think about his former interests these days, although when he was alone on night sentry duties he would still pick out the Giants' Star and remember his boyhood dreams. The situation between Lambia and Cerios had deteriorated to the point where actual conflict had broken out between them under different pretexts on a number of occasions. Only a matter of years ago, such things had been all but unthinkable. Now, so the sociologists said, they were recognized as an inevitable consequence of societies becoming more complex and developing ideas they were not prepared to compromise. So the world was busily learning and improving its new arts to defend them.

Kles's unit had been fortunate enough not to be involved in any of the fighting so far, and some of the barrack-room psychologists and political experts assured them all confidently that they wouldn't be, because the fit of insanity would soon be over. The Cerian president, Harzin, had issued an appeal to the Lambians, calling for Minerva to come to its senses before it was too late. The whole issue of which kind of system would most quickly produce the technologies needed to migrate to Earth-Lambian centralization and command, or Cerian multiplicity of choice and competition-which had triggered the original dispute, was itself the single biggest factor holding back all of them. After years of the two powers vying to outdo each other, the single most significant conclusion, if either of them would only care to admit it, was that it didn't seem to make much difference. Both sides were developing and deploying similar weapons, both were mounting comparable efforts to extend into near space and establish a foothold on the Moon, and now academics on both sides were talking about the efficacy of attacking civilian populations as a means of exerting political pressure and blackmail. The barrack experts could be right, Kles conceded. But he wouldn't be placing any bets. There had been this kind of thing from politicians before, and every time it had broken down into another squabble.

"Hey, Kles." Corporal Loyb turned his head from the group sitting around the table by the stove halfway along the room. He was shuffling a card deck. "The game's just starting. You want in?"

"What's the matter? You're asking for trouble. Didn't I clean you out enough the last time?" Kles threw back.

"Hey, man, that's what it's about. I want it back."

"Dream on."

"Full moon leads, quarter a bid," Oberen said, rubbing his hands. "I feel lucky."

"So did Loyb." Quose sniggered.

"Good for the house?" Loyb asked, looking back at the others. They assented with nods. "You'd better get over here if you're playing," he called to Kles as he showed off a few flourishes prior to dealing.

Kles swung his legs down from the bunk, picked up his magazine again, and stretched his arms back. "I'll pass. I think I'll take a walk, get some air."

"But hey, that's my money you're walking out with there, man."

Kles patted him on the shoulder as he passed on his way toward the door. "Wrong, Loyb. It's mine."

The sky outside was cool and cloudy. Wind from the north carried the feel of rain. Kles turned the collar of his fatigue jacket up around his neck and his ears and thrust his hands in the slit pockets while he walked along the path between I and J huts, and then across a corner of the parade square to Admin. The desk sergeant in the Day Room was Yosk, who was okay. Kles motioned pointedly with his eyes in the direction of the door to the Signals Office at the rear. Yosk turned his head the other way, and Kles moved on through. Lance Corporal Aab was on watch duty, as Kles had known he would be.

"What's new? Are we at war yet?" Kles inquired.

"If words were bullets, it would be a slaughter. Lots of talking."

"The usual, eh?"

"Suits me. They're easier to duck."

Kles nodded at the console by Aab's desk. "Anything for me today?"

"Yeah, there was something…" Aab tapped at keys, consulted a screen, and glanced toward the doorway. "University net mail. Looks like it's from your uncle."

"Run me a copy."

Aab shot a nervous look at the door again. "You'll get me a week on scrub detail. How long is this gonna go on?"

"It's okay. Yosk is straight. You still want to borrow that forty for your date tomorrow? How else am I supposed to read it?"

Aab nodded and moved back, while Kles leaned across and entered the decoding key, followed by a string that would delete the original. Aab touched a button, and the printer came to life with a whine and a judder that told of a long life of battering and heavy-handed use. Two sheets of copy chugged their way out into the tray. Kles picked them up, glanced at the top one, folded them, and tucked them into an inside pocket. "You're okay too, Aab. Here, why don't I take care of it now?" He dug in a back pocket for some notes, separated a twenty and two tens, and passed them across. "Here, have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That gives me a pretty free hand," Aab said after a moment's reflection.

It was a letter from Laisha. She was in Lambia as a technical translator with a delegation sent by the Cerian government in an attempt to convince the Lambians of President Harzin's claim that in technological capability the two sides were as close as made no difference. But conducting private communications between a military base and somebody involved in sensitive issues in what was effectively enemy territory would have been foolhardy at best and a guarantee of no end of trouble if discovered. So they had worked out a way whereby Laisha sent her letters to an electronics consultant she used, who ran a department at the same university that Kles's uncle Urgran worked with. The consultant routed them to Urgran, who forwarded them wrapped up as university traffic.

Kles left the building and went next door to the canteen, where he filled a mug from the urn at one end of the serving counter and then found himself a secluded spot in a corner. It was a quiet time of day, apart from the clatter of cooks in the kitchen getting ready for the evening rush. Kles took the letter from his jacket, propped open the magazine that he had brought with him in front of him on the table, and unfolded the pages inside it. It read:

Dearest Kles,

Sorry-I know it's been a few days. We've been so unbelievably busy here. And, I confess, I did take some time out to go with a party of us to see something of the city. Escorted everywhere by official Lambian guides, of course. And the sights were no doubt carefully selected. There was the big monument to King Perasmon and his lineage along by the river, a washing machine factory to show how efficiently a planning agency handles things, and lots of children doing gymnastics and some heavy cultural things in the evenings-but I do like their roast eth! And they have a kind of brandy afterwards that's warm and hits your throat, that reminds me of that stuff your uncle Urgran and the others used to drink up at Ezangen. I thought it was ghastly when I tried it, but I've quite taken to the Lambian stuff. In fact I got a bit tipsy. Does it mean I'm an adult now, do you think? Ezangen seems so long ago now. Those were such happy and innocent times, looking back. Or is that just how children see things?

But there's some really interesting news that I probably shouldn't be telling you but I will anyway, because you know me. We really might be making a breakthrough this time-with the technical talks, I mean. The Lambians actually seemed impressed, and just about ready to concede that this whole stupid rivalry is costing us all more than it could ever be worth. And guess what. Perasmon came here personally yesterday to hear it for himself. I even saw him for a few minutes! Kind of big and round, with a red face and little white beard. Quite cuddly. (Not really-just to make you jealous.) But I don't think he's really as bad underneath as all those things in the papers say. Like a lot of things, maybe it just takes someone to make the first move. And that could be what we've done. Isn't that an exciting thought! Then there was a rumor going around this morning that President Harzin might be invited from Cerios to meet with Perasmon formally. Wouldn't it be fantastic if they managed to straighten everything out, and all these horrible things that have been going on could be forgotten? Well, they wouldn't be forgotten by those poor families and friends who have lost people already, of course. But if something were learned for the future and not forgotten again, then perhaps knowing that it was not entirely for nothing might be of some consolation to them.

I'm so glad you haven't been dragged into any of it. The only thing that could spoil it all, from what I hear, is Prince Freskel-Gar, who has been jealous for his step-father's throne for years. He sounds nasty. I don't like him. It was his faction who made such a big thing of this centralization-command dogma and set Persamon on the road to a militarized confrontation in the first place. But here I go getting serious and political again, and I know you can only stand so much.

How is life at the base? It sounds as if you're making an interesting variety of friends, even if they could be in a nicer line of business. Congratulations on the promotion-although, to be honest, I still picture you more easily in furs and snow boots, laughing with Barkan and Quar, falling out of a rangat, or stealing cookies from Opril's kitchen than wearing a uniform, shouting at recruits, or carrying a gun.

When are you due for some leave back at home again? Say hello for me to your mother and father, and your brother when you do. Oh, and that Giant electrical gadget that your friend in Solnek sent did arrive just before I left to come here. Tell him thanks so much. It's in remarkably good condition. I didn't get a chance to look at it very closely, but will get around to it when we're back. It looks interesting.

And so, that's it for now, Kles. I'm rushing this off during a break and will have to go soon. Be careful. I do so much hope that these omens come true, and that everything will change for the better before you do end up in real danger. All my love as always (but you already knew that),

Forever, Laisha

Kles drained the last of the contents of his mug, returned the letter to his pocket, and sat thinking for a few minutes about the things he had read. Then he got up, dropped the mug on the tray provided for used dishes, and walked to the door. Outside, he stopped to take in the scene of squads doubling this way and that on the parade square, mechanics working on an engine inside the open doors of the truck depot, a sergeant counting boxes stacked in front of the quartermaster store. Cerian kids being trained to mindlessly kill and maim Lambian kids they had never met, and who had done them no harm. How had it all happened? The more he tried to read the histories and the political diatribes, the more he was able to follow the inescapable logic of the details, but lost sight of any underlying sense. How wonderful it would be if what Laisha was a part of turned out to be the beginnings of the whole idiocy unraveling and Minerva getting back onto the path that it should never have strayed from. But no… The thought was too momentous to get emotional about by hoping for too much if she were wrong.

And besides, he had less than half an hour to get his kit ready for supervisor shift at the main gate. He pulled his collar up around his chin and set off briskly back toward his hut.