A lieutenant and a minor Wolman stepped up from the battlefield, each holding out a sheaf of papers. The two chief officers took them and shuffled through, muttering to each other, comparing claims.
“That’s the lot.” The colonel tapped his sheaf into order, squaring it off. “Only this one discrepancy, on top here.”
The Wolman nodded. “Me got same.”
“Well, let’s check it, then … O’Schwarzkopf!”
“Sir!” A corporal stepped forward and came to attention with a click of his heels, managing not to spill his tankard in the process.
“This warrior, um, ‘Xlitplox,’ claims he chalked you. Valid?”
“Valid, sir.”
“Xlitplox!” the Wolman officer barked.
“Me here.” The Wolman stepped forward, sipping.
“O’Schwarzkopf claim-um him chalk you.”
“He do-um.” Xlitplox nodded.
“Could be collusion,” the colonel noted.
The Wolman shrugged. “What matter? Cancel-um out, anyhow. Null score.”
The colonel nodded. “They want to trade tenners, that’s their business. Well!” He tapped the sheaf and saluted the Wolman with them. “I’ll have these to the bank directly.”
“Me go-um, too.” The Wolman caught two tankards from a passing tray and dropped a chit on it. “Drink?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The colonel accepted a tankard and lifted it. “To the revolution!”
“Was hael!” The Wolman clinked mugs with him. “We rise-um up; we break-um and bury-um corrupt colonial government!”
“And we’ll destroy the Wolman tyranny! … Your health.”
“Yours,” the Wolman agreed, and they drank.
“What is this?” Sam rounded on Dar “Who’s rebelling against whom?”
“Depends on whom you ask. Makes sense, doesn’t it? I mean, each side claims to be the rightful government of the whole planet—so each side also thinks it’s staging a revolution.”
“That’s asinine! Anybody can see the Wolmen are the rightful owners of the planet.”
“Why? They didn’t evolve here, any more than we soldiers did.”
“How do you know?” Sam sneered.
“Because I read a history book. The Wolmen are the descendants of the ‘Tonies,’ the last big opposition culture, a hundred years ago. You should hear their music—twenty-four tones. They came out here to get away from technology.”
Sam shuddered, then shook her head. “That doesn’t really change anything. They were here first.”
“Sure, but they think we came in and took over. After all, we’ve got a government. Their idea of politics is everybody sitting around in a circle and arguing until they can all agree on something.”
“Sounds heavenly,” Sam murmured, eyes losing focus.
“Maybe, but that still leaves General Shacklar as the only government strong enough to rebel against—at least, the way the Wolmen see it. And we think they’re trying to tell us what to do—so we’re revolting, too.”
“No argument there.” Sam shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn’t gripe. As ‘continual wars’ go, this is pretty healthy.”
“Yeah, especially when you think of what it was like my first two years here.”
“What? Real war—with sticks and stones?”
Dar frowned. “When you tie the stone to the end of the stick, it can kill a man—and it did. I saw a lot of soldiers lying on the ground with their heads bashed in and their blood soaking into the weeds. I saw more with stone-tipped spears and arrows in them. Our casualties were very messy.”
“So what are dead Wolmen like—pretty?”
“I was beginning to think so, back then.” Dar grimaced at the memory. “But dead Wolmen were almost antiseptic—just a neat little hole drilled into ‘em. Not even any blood—laser wounds are cauterized.”
Sam caught at his arm, looking queasy. “All right! That’s … enough!”
Dar stared down at her. “Sorry. Didn’t think I’d been all that vivid.”
“I’ve got a good imagination.” Sam pushed against him, righting herself. “How old were you then?”
“Eighteen. Yeah, it made me sick too. Everybody was.”
“But they couldn’t figure out how to stop it?”
“Of course not. Then Shacklar was assigned the command.”
“What’d he do—talk it to death?”
Dar frowned. “How’d you guess?”
“I was kidding. You can’t stop a war by talking!”
Dar shrugged. “Maybe he waved a magic wand. All I knew was that he had the Wolmen talking instead of fighting. How, I don’t know—but he finally managed to get them to sign a treaty agreeing to this style of war.”
“Would it surprise you to learn the man’s just human?”
“It’s hard to remember sometimes,” Dar admitted. “As far as I’m concerned, Shacklar can do no wrong.”
“I take it all the rest of the soldiers feel the same way.”
Dar nodded. “Make snide comments about the Secretary of the Navy, if you want. Sneer at the General Secretary of the whole Interstellar Dominion Electorates. Maybe even joke about God. But don’t you dare say a word against General Shacklar!”
Sam put on a nasty smile and started to say something. Then she thought better of it, her mouth still open. After a second, she closed it. “I suppose a person could really get into trouble that way here.”
“What size trouble would you like? Standard measurements here are two feet wide, six feet long, and six feet down.”
“No man should have that kind of power!”
“Power? He doesn’t even give orders! He just asks …”
“Yeah, and you soldiers fall all over each other trying to see who can obey first! That’s obscene!”
Dar bridled. “Soldiers are supposed to be obscene.”
“Sexual stereotype,” Sam snapped. “It’s absurd.”
“Okay—so soldiers should be obscene and not absurd.” Dar gave her a wicked grin. “But wouldn’t you feel that way about a man who’d saved your life, not to mention your face?”
“My face doesn’t need saving, thank you!”
Dar decided to keep his opinions to himself. “Look—there’re only two ways to stop a war. Somebody can win—and that wasn’t happening here. Or you can find some way to save face on both sides. Shacklar did.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Sam looked more convinced than she sounded. “The main point is, he’s found a way to let off the steam that comes from the collision of two cultures.”
Dar nodded. “His way also sublimates all sorts of drives very nicely.”
Sam looked up, frowning. “Yes, it would. But you can’t claim he planned it that way.”
“Sure I can. Didn’t you know? Shacklar’s a psychiatrist.”
“Psychiatrist?”
“Sure. By accident, the Navy assigned a man with the right background to be warden for a prison planet. I mean, any soldier who’s sent here probably has a mental problem of some sort.”
“And if he doesn’t, half an hour here should do the trick. But Shacklar’s a masochist!”
“Who else could survive in a job like this?” Dar looked around, surveying the “battlefield.”
“Things have quieted down enough. Let’s go.”
He shouldered the rope and trudged off across the plain. Sam stayed a moment, then followed, brooding.
She caught up with him. “I hate to admit it—but you’ve really scrambled my brains.”
Dar looked up, surprised. “No offense taken.”
“None intended. In fact, it was more like a confession.”
“Oh—a compliment. You had us pegged wrong, huh?”
“Thanks for not rubbing it in,” she groused. “And don’t start crowing too soon. I’m not saying I was wrong, yet. But, well, let’s say it’s not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“The dregs of society,” she snapped.
“Well, we are now. I mean, that’s just a matter of definition, isn’t it? If you’re in prison, you’re the lowest form of social life.”