The Spectre General

I

“SERGEANT DIXON!”

Kurt stiffened. He knew that voice. Dropping the handles of the wooden plow, he gave a quick “rest” to the private and a polite “by your leave, sir” to the lieutenant who were yoked together in double harness. They both sank gratefully to the ground as Kurt advanced to meet the approaching officer.

Marcus Harris, the commander of the 427th Light Maintenance Battalion of the Imperial Space Marines, was an imposing figure. The three silver eagle feathers of a full colonel rose proudly from his war bonnet and the bright red of the flaming comet insignia of the Space Marines that was painted on his chest stood out sharply against his sun-blackened, leathery skin. As Kurt snapped to attention before him and saluted, the colonel surveyed the fresh-turned earth with an experienced eye.

“You plow a straight furrow, soldier!” His voice was hard and metallic, but it seemed to Kurt that there was a concealed glimmer of approval in his flinty eyes. Dixon flushed with pleasure and drew back his broad shoulders a little further.

The commander’s eyes flicked down to the battle-ax that rested snugly in its leather holster at Kurt’s side. “You keep a clean side-arm, too.”

Kurt uttered a silent prayer of thanksgiving that he had worked over his weapon before reveille that morning until there was a satin gloss to its redwood handle and the sheen of black glass to its obsidian head.

“In fact,” said Colonel Harris, “you’d be officer material if—” His voice trailed off.

“If what?” asked Kurt eagerly.

“If,” said the colonel with a note of paternal fondness in his voice that sent cold chills dancing down Kurt’s spine, “you weren’t the most completely unmanageable, undisciplined, overmuscled and under-brained knucklehead I’ve ever had the misfortune to have in my command. This last little unauthorized jaunt of yours indicates to me that you have as much right to sergeant’s stripes as I have to have kittens. Report to me at ten tomorrow! I personally guarantee that when I’m through with you—if you live that long—you’ll have a bare forehead!”

Colonel Harris spun on one heel and stalked back across the dusty plateau toward the walled garrison that stood at one end. Kurt stared after him for a moment and then turned and let his eyes slip across the wide belt of lush green jungle that surrounded the high plateau. To the north rose a great range of snow-capped mountains and his heart filled with longing as he thought of the strange and beautiful thing he had found behind them. Finally he plodded slowly back to the plow, his shoulders stooped and his head sagging. With an effort he recalled himself to the business at hand.

“Up on your aching feet, soldier!” he barked to the reclining private. “If you please, sir!” he said to the lieutenant. His calloused hands grasped the worn plow handles.

“Giddiup!” The two men strained against their collars and with a creak of harness the wooden plow started to move slowly across the arid plateau.