"You will take command of Seventh Section immediately and attend to fixing the perimeter of this camp so our peo ple don't end up slaughtered like maggot meat! Tafft, you will assume the rank of Corporal Third pending how much you can learn in the meantime."
The Seventh sat up, halfway out of their bedding, stunned, as Sinklar turned to address them. "I've told you people time after time. My first concern is to inflict the greatest amount of damage to'the Targan resistance. My second concern is that one of these days I want to see each one of you step onto a transport home to your worlds and families. Neither I, nor the Empire, profits from your dead bodies. I punish for misconduct. You know that, it's in the manual. What you don't know is that I consider stupidity a killing offense. Tafft, you're lucky. I should have shot you. Prove to me — and these people — that you're worth our respect. And if anyone can run this Section better than Mayz, I'll promote him."
Gretta walked with him until he cleared the perimeter. Behind him, Mayz could be heard bellowing orders.
"Should have cleaned that outfit up a week ago," Sinklar mumbled under his breath.
"Told you so," she jabbed.
"Tafft looked like he was learning during training. Now I wonder if you weren't right. Maybe he was just playing the game."
"It's in his nature. Mayz will be after you within a week to promote someone else to corporal."
"Then she's got it." He took a deep breath. Curse it, did everything have to happen at once? "Come on, let's get back to the shelter and get some sleep. I've got a feeling it's going to be a long time before we get another chance to rest."
"Sink?" The call came urgently through the walls of the shelter. Sinklar blinked and sat up, seeing Gretta's eyes already open as she rolled off the sleeping pad, reaching for her assault rifle.
"Yeah, Kap?" He grabbed his helmet and clamped it on his head, enjoying Greta's body as displayed in her battle armor. So terrible that they had to sleep in armor these days. It made a mockery of love-making.
Sinklar raised the flap and slipped out to see Kap pointing northward where a long plume of yellow-gray dust rose toward the sky. He couldn't see the source because the treecovered ridges blocked it.
"From the mine," Sinklar guessed. "Any trouble around here last night?"
"Ayms' A Group caught a bunch of locals arming themselves in a barn. The corporal took your orders to heart and scared them pissless. Put a couple up against a wall and threatened to execute them. After he and the boys played debate about whether they were more use to the Empire alive or dead, he sent them home looking spit-slobbering scared and thankful for the clemency of Sinklar Fist."
Sink noted two Groups leaving at a trot to cover the road approaches. "They know who's supposed to be in that convoy?"
"Yeah. And you've got them nervous enough that they're unwilling to take any chances on it either."
Sinklar nodded to his red-faced sergeant and grinned. "By God, might be hope for this outfit after all."
Twenty minutes later, huge ten-meter-high machines moved into sight Bright yellow, marked with the Decker Mining Company logo, each sported a rifle team on its big roof.
As the First Division came to look, MacRuder climbed
nimbly down from the cab. A second man in civilian dress followed him.
"Mission accomplished, Sink!" MacRuder grinned, slapping the huge graphite-fiber wheel. "Got twelve of these babies!"
Smaller trucks and aircars moved in from the perimeter to settle in the co-op's dusty lot.
"Who's he?" Sinklar asked, turning to the miner, a man who swallowed rapidly and looked scared.
"Driver," Mac told him. "These things take a little knowhow. I'm not sure we're capable of just hopping in and going."
Sinklar looked at the man and offered his hand. "My pleasure. I'm Sinklar Fist, First Targan Assault Division."
"Nymes, sir. My pleasure, too," the man said in a blur. He swallowed again, running a tongue over dry lips. "You gonna kill us now?"
Sinklar tightened his facial muscles. "Mac? What did you tell this man?"
"Uh, that he was commandeered." MacRuder crossed his arms, his face going bland.
"Nymes." Sink lifted an eyebrow. "What was Decker paying you to drive this thing?"
The man looked puzzled. "Why, uh, ten ICs a day."
"The Emperor offers you twenty — with additional overtime and bonus for hazardous duty."
"Uh, double you say? And a bonus? And overtime?"
"Mac?" Sink lifted an eyebrow. "We being fair?"
"Sure thing. Sounds reasonable to me."
"But I thought you guys…" The miner pursed his lips and frowned. "The stories we heard were that people were being killed all over."
"Rebel propaganda. Look, talk it over with the rest. If you don't like it, just stay long enough to teach us how to use the machines and we'll fly you home and pay you for your time."
Most of the drivers stayed. In fact, they were still driving when the First Targan Assault Division rolled into the streets of Vespa three days later.
The fighting started that night and the First Targan Assault Division won its first pitched battle of the war three days later.
Ily Takka took the diplomatic pouch from the courier and smiled her thanks. Kapstan, the Internal Security Director on Etaria had a nice office that filled half of the upper floor of the security building. A private bath — an Etarian luxury — was accessed through an ornate door on the left. The woodwork trim around the plaster walls had been intricately carved and stained in a deep red. Kapstan's desk was a huge thing with comm terminals, communications equipment, and various devices.
Ily watched the special courier walk across the plush rugs of the office and close the hardwood door behind him. She opened the seal on the pouch and inspected the chem-coded message recorder. She nodded approval and lifted the small cartridge out. Had any other person touched the fragile recording, his or her body chemistry would have set off a reaction that would have destroyed the message.
Ily leaned forward over the Internal Security Director's desk. The office around her looked glassy through the privacy screen she initiated. She inserted the cartridge and pressed the button. Tybalt the Imperial Seventh appeared on the monitor. His black skin gleamed in the light.
"Dearest Ily," Tybalt began. "I must say, your prolonged absence is about to drive me insane. How right you were. There is no one to talk to." He sighed. "And how I miss you in my bed." He waved it away. "Anyway. On to business. We have taken action on all of your suggestions regarding the Targan affair. I think we have a perfect man to make a debacle of it.
"In the first place, the Targans played right into our hands by assassinating Atkin. and Kapitol!" His eyes gleamed. "Mykroft and the Minister of Defense both roared when I told them to appoint a man from the ranks. The military is raising five kinds of Rotted stink, as you can well guess.
"The fellow selected — raised from a Sergeant Third, of all things — is one Sinklar Fist. He had some sort of dazzling victory in the mountains and he's become very popular with the First Targan Assault Division. He's been spending most of his time going through the paperwork, of course, but he's
received his orders from the Minister of Defense to take the field against the Rebels."
Tybalt propped his chin on his knee and frowned. "Now here is the funny part about Fist. He's taking to the field with his troops. Defense threw a fit. As you know, it is totally against the regulations that a First enter the
field." Tybalt shook his head. "Anyway, since the man is sacrificial, his actions don't matter. I explained the matter to Defense and he quieted immediately, seeing the final result will be a reinforcing of military protocol and tradition.
"Needless to say, that aspect of the war will proceed quite nicely. We've offered young Fist — imagine if you will, his troops call him 'the First Fist. ' Where was I? Oh, yes. We've offered him our full support, even to indulging him in the time to 'train' his troops! What does the young man think they teach in academy and basic? But I diverge from the point of the message. He will fail within the next five weeks as we have given him the impossible mission of capturing the Rebel stronghold of Vespa — and doing it overland to boot. They'll chop him to pieces, his supply lines will be cut, and he'll lead the First Division to destruction. Perfect!"