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  "I saw questions on some of your faces when I mentioned the ruling oligarchy. It's an unusual form of government that few, if any of you, have ever seen before. I'm going to let the first sergeant cover that when he gives you his orientation. First Sergeant, the company is yours."

  Myer leaped onto the platform as Conorado stepped down from it and bellowed, "COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" The officers were gone before the Marines could get to their feet. Myer let them stand at attention for a moment while he glared at them. He glared not because he was angry, but to sharpen their attention on him and what he had to say.

  "At ease." He clumped his feet on the platform—it wasn't big enough for him to pace on—as though collecting his thoughts. Then he glowered out at the company. "I was watching you while the skipper was talking, and I got the distinct impression that most of you think this is some kind of candy-ass operation we're going on, that it'll be the easiest thing anyone ever did to earn a campaign star on his Marine Expeditionary Medal. Well, if that's what you're thinking, jettison it right now. We could be walking into a meat grinder. The rebels win every time the Feldpolizei fights them. And the Feldpolizei is armed with blasters and other modern weapons, and the rebels are mostly armed with projectile weapons. That's right, men armed with antiques are routinely whipping men with modern arms. Think about it, and think about why it's possible. Now, most of what I'm going to tell you to help you think about what we might be up against isn't stuff you'll find in any diplomatic area study or official intelligence report. It's what I've learned or figured out from my unofficial sources. Unfortunately I haven't been there myself to know absolutely what I'm going to tell you, but my sources are generally pretty reliable.

  "One reason the rebels keep beating the Feldpolizei is many of the oligarchs and their families see commissions in the Feldpolizei as a convenient job for male offspring who aren't smart enough for anything else." He paused and raised his eyebrows at the sounds of surprise from the men. "That's right. The Wanderjahr Feldpolizei commissions its officers directly from civilian life; they don't have to prove themselves by being enlisted men first like our officers do. The troopers, that's the junior enlisted men, all come from the middle and lower ranks of Wanderjahrian society. They've got a morale problem because of this sharp class distinction.

  "The guerrillas, on the other hand, have intelligent, highly educated leaders, most of whom studied offworld, several of whom studied military history, and a few have served in the Confederation forces.

  "Now, most of you have probably never heard of an oligarchy, so I'll take a moment or two to describe it for you. It's an odd form of government, one that's cropped up very few times in human history.

  "Most of you are from democracies or republics, places where the citizens have a voice in how their government functions and what it does; places where any citizen can enter government and rise to the highest ranks. Some of you are from monarchies, where you have a hereditary ruler and aristocrats—and the rulers have a sense of noblesse oblige, an obligation to take care of their people.

  "Well, an oligarchy isn't like either of them. I won't bother describing the classical oligarchy, just this one. On Wanderjahr a few people, the heads of just nine families, own the whole world and share power with no one. Each is a totally autonomous dictator in his or her own geographic area, and they only get together for matters that concern all of them. There is very little vertical social movement. There is no independent judicial system to which a citizen can apply for relief from an unjust oligarch. The citizens have no voice. Before you start thinking I'm contradicting what I said earlier about the guerrilla leaders being educated offworld, the oligarchs send the brightest of their subjects to school so they'll be better servants. This brought about some unanticipated consequences, and they don't know how to deal with them. They're calling us in to save them from the error of some of their ways. This is in some ways a very political operation. If they don't like what we're doing, they can send us away— not that we won't be doing a good job, mind you, but they might see some things we'll be doing as threatening." He shook his head. "Given the organization of the Feldpolizei, I don't see how we can do the job without relieving a good many of the officers of their commands, and you can be sure that will upset more than a few of the oligarchs.

  "I should say a few words about who these oligarchs are, from whom they're descended. First off, they're German. Those of you from Earth are probably aware that Prussia, Bavaria, and Hanover are collectively referred to as 'Germany,' even though they're separate geopolitical entities. For those of you who slept through your history classes, that's because until the middle of the twenty first-century they were one country.

  "The Germans have always been a tough bunch. Way back in the time of the Caesars, when they were just a few barbarian tribes, the Teutons and Alemanni stopped the Roman advance into northern Europe, stopped them dead in their tracks.

  "Once the Germans became more or less civilized, they were a bunch of independent little kingdoms, principalities, and dukedoms. They entertained themselves by doing a lot of warring against each other and their non-German neighbors. But none of them were powerful enough to be truly dangerous on a wide scale. It wasn't until they got unified as one nation in the second half of the nineteenth century that they made the rest of the world sit up and take notice. That's because they started trying to take over. At some point in their history— it probably began back when they stopped the Romans—they started convincing themselves that they were better than anybody else, some kind of 'Master Race.' They were certainly highly advanced technologically, they had some of the best scientists throughout history, and they knew warfare and were highly innovative at it.

  "Well, their first successes as a unified nation emboldened the Germans, and in the early twentieth century they tried to take over all of Europe and started what came to be called World War One. That was the most widespread, most devastating war the world had ever seen. They invented and used the most horrific weapons mankind had conceived to that time. Millions upon millions of men were killed throughout Europe. Fortunately for the rest of the world, the Germans were overconfident and ended up losing because they took on too many enemies. World War One was so terrible that the rest of the advanced nations swore off war. But not the Germans. They rebuilt, reconstructed, invented newer and deadlier weapons and tactics, and twenty years after losing World War One started another world war, one far vaster than the first one.

  "This time, Germany was partitioned after it was finally beaten. That stopped them. For a while. Forty-five years after the end of World War Two, Germany was reunited. They bided their time and it was a half century before they started another world war, even bigger than the first two combined." Top Myer shook his head. "They just didn't learn that they weren't big enough or tough enough to take on the whole world. Anyway, after that war, Germany was permanently partitioned.

  "The way this looks to me is, historically, every time a large enough portion of the world's Germanic population has been united under one government, they've tried to take over the world. Well, on Wanderjahr, the Germans own the damn whole thing. You can work out the implications for yourselves.

  "I've got to add something here so I'm not misunderstood. When I talk about the Germanic peoples, I don't mean any individuals. Individually, Germans are like any other people: there are saints and sinners, decent people and scoundrels. It's only when you get enough of them together that the Germans become dangerous to everybody else. Lance Corporal Schultz, for example, is of German descent. I like Hammer Schultz. He's one of the finest, most decent human beings it has ever been my privilege to meet. He's a good man, he's a good Marine. I've enjoyed drinking with him a few times. I wouldn't object to him marrying my daughter—don't you get any ideas there, Hammer! But make an army of him, and he'll make me fear for all of Human Space.

  "On Wanderjahr, we have a world the Germans own. They think they know it all, they think they're always right, they believe anyone w
ho doesn't agree with them is necessarily wrong. So bear that in mind while we're trying to turn their Feldpolizei into a proper fighting force.

  "There's one other thing you have to be aware of on Wanderjahr. The planet's home to many very big animals. Some of them have very large teeth and eat meat. Fortunately, there's not many of those. Most of these beasts are plant eaters, and some of them look pretty docile. Don't be fooled. If a docile, twenty-ton plant eater accidentally steps on you, it'll kill you just as quickly as a five ton meat eater that thinks you're just the right size for an after-dinner mint.

  "That is all. COMP-ny, A-ten-TION!" Top Myer glared out at the company for a moment, wondering how much of what he said got through to them. Enough, he hoped, to prevent some needless deaths. "Dis-MISSED!"

  Company L's officers listened to Top Myer's briefing over the intercom in Captain Conorado's quarters. Ensign vanden Hoyt looked at his company commander wide-eyed at what the first sergeant had to say.

  Conorado saw his newest officer's expression and chuckled. "You think that was something?" he said. "You should have heard the briefing he gave before our last operation. He began that one with, 'We're going up against a bunch of bloodthirsty savages.' The Top isn't interested in giving accurate historic lectures, and he might not always have everything right—and he certainly has a unique point of view at times. But that doesn't matter.

  "You see, the first sergeant hates having Marines wounded or killed. He feels every injury or death deeply, personally. What he does in his briefings is try to get the attention of the men, to focus them on the upcoming operation so they'll be as alert as possible. I don't care what he tells them, as long as it makes them sharp and keeps them alive."

  Chapter Four

  The force of the explosion hurled Dean from his console onto the floor, where he lay stunned for several seconds, his ears ringing while debris, dust, and papers swirled all around him. Realizing he was not seriously injured, he jumped to his feet, looking for Claypoole.

  "They missed!" Claypoole grinned lopsidedly from where he sat slumped against the communications equipment. Blood trickled from a small cut just above his right eyebrow, caused by flying glass. Claypoole scrambled to his feet and began brushing dust and plaster flakes from his utilities.

  "Stay away from those windows!" Commander Peters shouted. Fortunately, like the other two in the small office, he'd been facing away from the windows when the bomb went off, and so sustained only some minor cuts from the flying glass. "Come on, let's check to see if there are any other casualties!"

  Before he could exit the small cubicle that had been designated as FIST F-2 section, Brigadier Ted Sturgeon stuck his head in the door. "Okay in here?" the FIST commander asked. His thin red hair was white with plaster dust. "Don't anybody go outside the building until I give the all clear," he added, and then pounded off down the corridor to check on the other elements of his headquarters staff.

  Dean felt an overwhelming urge to stick his head outside the blasted window, to see what was going on in the street three stories below, where the bomb had just gone off. Shouts, screams, and the roar of burning fires filtered up to him through the smoke and dust. Commander Peters laid his hand on Dean's shoulder. "If these guys know what they're doing, Dean, there'll be another bomb out there somewhere, set to go off when the rescue squads arrive and survivors start to pour out of the buildings onto the street. There's nothing we can do about it now but lie low. Later Brigadier Sturgeon'll work with the alcalde and the police, work out the emergency procedures. But we're too new here to do anything."

  "Hell of a welcome," Claypoole said, grinning as he brushed debris off his workstation.

  Commander Peters couldn't help smiling. At first, when the two grunts had been assigned to him as replacement "intelligence analysts," he'd been dubious. But the FIST commander had given him no choice. Left to him, Peters would have taken men from the Psychological Operations section to replace the hospitalized analysts. But the brigadier, who emphasized that all Marines were qualified infantrymen before they were anything else, had put the psyops men, along with the men from the gun and transportation companies and the composite squadron, into the field as part of the mobile training teams supporting the line companies training and leading the Wanderjahrian Feldpolizei units. In fact, for this mission, to get as many men in the field as he could, the brigadier had ordered Commander Van Winkle, of the infantry, to assign as much of his battalion staff as possible to duty with the various Feldpolizei garrisons as commanders and shift leaders. He told his now drastically reduced staff, "It'll be good for you to be overworked here in Brosigville. Make the time go quicker. Keep you out of trouble."

  Reluctantly, Commander Peters had been forced to admit that with lots of hard work and constant supervision, he could probably get by with only two gifted amateurs to help him with his duties. Yet during the trip from Thorsfinni's World, he'd come to appreciate the pair's quick intelligence and their willingness to learn. He liked Dean's serious attitude toward the unfamiliar work and his curiosity about intelligence operations in general. Claypoole, who was also a fast learner, complemented Dean's seriousness with a bubbling sense of humor and an optimistic outlook.

  And Dean and Claypoole had been with Charlie Bass on Elneal. The story of how the platoon sergeant had led his men across the desert and fought it out hand to hand with the Siad chieftain was already a Marine legend, and Commander Peters was fascinated by the story as the two PFCs told it.

  For their part. Dean and Claypoole had come to respect the narrow-shouldered, hawk-nosed intelligence officer and to appreciate what he did for their commander and his staff. He was an easy man to work for, thorough in all he did, had infinite patience, and was always ready to explain. He was a highly educated, contemplative man who often failed to pay close attention to his uniform, leaving flaps unfastened and once coming to work without any insignia of rank on his collars. When Claypoole diplomatically pointed this out, the commander blushed and smiled with embarrassment but thanked Claypoole for noting the discrepancy, in time they came to think they were "taking care" of their new boss, a widely traveled officer who could expound learnedly about the political and military situation on any of a dozen worlds.

  Their bitter disappointment at being detailed to the staff and separated from their buddies in Company L's third platoon had faded somewhat by the time the contingent reached Wanderjahr. The two were soon caught up in the hectic life of the staff officers, where everything was done at the double quick. Brigadier Sturgeon, normally seen in the line companies only during inspections or on other formal occasions, was a familiar figure and a dominating presence on the staff. Often during the flight to Wanderjahr he would come into the F-2 section and lean casually against a bulkhead, chatting easily with the commander. At briefings. Dean and Claypoole sat proudly in the rear of the room, staring at the backs of the battalion and company commanders' heads. Once, on his way out, Captain Conorado nodded at the pair and flashed them a conspiratorial wink. For the two enlisted men, that acknowledgment was more satisfying than a medal. It meant he was satisfied they were proving an asset to the staff since their conduct there reflected well upon his company.

  "Well, I'm getting a little tired of people blowing up my office," Commander Peters said with a grin, referring to the mortar attack that had wiped out his staff when the FIST was fighting the tribesmen on Elneal. "How's that cut on your head, Claypoole?"

  "No worse than yours. Commander," Claypoole replied. For the first time, Peters noticed dried blood on his collar and put his hand to the side of his neck. It came away bloody from a gash just below his left ear. "How're you, Dean?" he asked.

  "Sir, if I were any better, they'd investigate—"

  The second bomb detonated. Since all the loose material inside the building had been blown away by the first explosion, the men were only stunned by the shock wave of the second one. Now all three rushed to the window and looked down into the chaos in the street below. Dean clearly saw a
n armless man stumbling and screaming in the street, the severed brachial arteries pumping his blood away in bright spurts. As Dean watched, the man collapsed amid the rubble and lay still.

  "Holy God," Claypoole muttered. Commander Peters's face was ashen.

  Dozens of people had been killed and mutilated in the blast. Just as Peters predicted, they had emerged from the buildings after the first bomb, only to be caught by the full force of the second device. The first rescue units on the scene had also been caught in the blast, and their burning vehicles added fuel to the inferno raging in the street. The commander felt no satisfaction over his prescience, unless it was that they were not among the casualties; he felt only a sickening sense of failure that he hadn't been able to warn those people down below. Suddenly Dean lurched back from the window with an involuntary shout. He'd just noticed a man's severed hand, badly burned, resting on the ledge inches from his nose.

  "We can't stay here anymore," Peters said as he headed for the doorway. Dean and Claypoole followed him out.

  Brigadier Sturgeon was assembling the staff by the stairs. "We've offered help from our own medical people, they're experienced in handling trauma injuries like these," he said, "and all the fire and rescue units in the city are on their way here. The hospitals are also standing by. We'll give what help we can to the civilian authorities. You all know combat first aid. First goddamned thing tomorrow, I'm moving our headquarters to the port, where we can establish our own security. I should have known better than to have moved us in here." He led his staff down the stairs and out into the street.

  Horror greeted the Marines when they stepped out of the building. Bodies and body parts lay everywhere. Many wounded were in agony. For a moment Dean just stood, gaping stupidly at the carnage all about him, and quickly lost sight of Claypoole and the others as they fanned out to assist the victims nearest them. He stumbled forward into the carnage until he spotted a policeman trying with badly shaking hands to apply his belt as a tourniquet to a woman's severed leg. Shaking off his stupor, he rushed forward to help. When they'd stanched the flow of blood there, they tried to assist a badly burned man nearby, but he was already in shock, and when they tried to move him to a more comfortable position. Dean could clearly see the man's spine and his lungs through a jagged gash in his back, just below his left shoulder. Despite his injuries, the man kept insisting he could get up and walk, and Dean had to help the policeman restrain him while the man fought them weakly and muttered in a language Dean couldn't understand.