"The one that did the talking said the Wyzhnyny were sent by God," Vernon went on, "to overthrow a corrupt and Godless Commonwealth government. And that God wants his people-all colonists and Terrans who follow his commandments and the leadership of Christ-to turn against the government. Refuse orders and stand against evil, even at the risk of their lives."
The Peace Front line all the way, Pak thought. "Why isn't Spieler telling me this himself?" he asked.
If there was a way of reading a warbot's reactions, comparable to reading an organic's face, Pak didn't know it. But the two or three-second lag suggested surprise. "Why, General, sir, Speaker Spieler was killed in the maneuvers. Someone shot him in the back with a hard pulse. From a slammer, I'm told."
The statement stunned Pak. He'd heard there'd been an accidental death, a shooting. This story made it seem deliberate. "Did they-the men who talked with Spieler-did they say who told them all that?"
"Jeremiah didn't say. They did tell him they were part of a group headed by speakers, but he was sure the man who did the talking wasn't one. Because when he tried to quote scripture, he got it all wrong."
"Hmm. This was-what then? A week ago?"
"Six nights ago he told me about it, sir."
"Why didn't Spieler, or you, inform your sergeants?"
"The speaker said he was afraid of them, sir. And he didn't know who they were. I asked. He couldn't see their names in the dark, nor their faces well enough. All he could say was, the one who did the talking sounded like us-like someone from New Jerusalem-but taller than just about any of us gets. As tall as Captain Mulvaney, he said."
Hmm. That would be more than six feet, Pak thought. "Afraid. Did they threaten him?"
"Not exactly. They told him to be careful not to say anything about it to anyone he didn't trust. They'd tell him when it was time. But Jeremy said it sounded like a warning."
"But Spieler told you."
"Yessir. I guess he needed to tell someone, and knew he could trust me."
"Why didn't you tell someone? Your sergeant."
"I should have. But we had breakfast at 0630 the next morning and left on maneuvers. And it seemed like just talk; I didn't suppose anything would come of it. Surely nothing like someone shooting Jeremiah. Or that anyone would quit the army. And we'll be leaving for home in another month; I told myself that when we got there, the facts would speak for themselves."
Pak nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Corporal. You've been very helpful. Say nothing to anyone about talking to us. And if you see anything, or remember anything that may help us identify the traitors, report it to your battalion commander promptly.
"You may go now."
A gentle giant, Pak thought as he watched the warbot leave. I wonder how he'll do in combat.
Well enough, he decided. Major Somphavanh Ruiz Singh, CO of the division's bot contingent, was an excellent officer who'd given special attention to selecting his noncoms. But he'd ask him about Vernon and see what he said.
After Pak closed the meeting, Captain Coyote went to his computer and checked on several things. Near the end of advanced training, the various company commanders, in conference with their platoon leaders and platoon sergeants, had evaluated their troops for promotion. And Spieler had not made lance corporal. His platoon sergeant had characterized him as very conscientious, and hard-working, but passive. He'd probably make lance corporal at the end of unit training, and go no further.
He already knew that all fifteen men who'd "resigned" were in E Company, as Private Crisp was. The tallest man in E Company was a Private Moses Wheeler, who at five feet eleven was one of the tallest Jerries in the division. He was one of only four in his squad who hadn't defected. He was also 4th Squad's slammer man, and a troublemaker from the start. He'd done nothing extreme, at least not till now, but he led 2nd Battalion in the number of times on company punishment.
Coyote then called up the information on Spieler's death. The pulse had struck him in the left side of the left buttock, below the flak jacket, destroying the left pelvis. Overall the damage indicated an impact vector diagonally upward, out through the ribs on the right side, shattering the right humerus. The overall damage could only have been done by a slammer. It must have been after the troops had hit the dirt in response to the air attack, but the angle practically guaranteed it had not been fired by a killer craft. So. Something else then.
Coyote asked his computer for the regimental formation during the advance across the fields of Muller's Settlement. Spieler had been in B Company, 1st Platoon, 4th Squad. E Company had been about 30 yards behind B Company, and one position to its left. Wheeler had been in 4th Squad, 4th Platoon, but with almost all his squad locked in the stockade, he'd probably… Yes. He'd been attached as an augmentation to-2nd Squad, and from his position there, could easily have fired the pulse that killed Spieler. Judging by the angle, the only one else who could have, given the high-powered weapon used, was 2nd Squad's slammer man. The provost marshal saw no clear way, yet, to prove that Wheeler was the murderer, but this established opportunity, and greatly reduced the apparent alternatives.
His next step, Coyote decided, would be to have Wheeler brought to him for questioning, and meanwhile have his belongings searched. If they were lucky enough to find an M-6 power slug… Then talk with E Company's 4th Platoon sergeant, and learn who were Wheeler's close associates. They were probably in the stockade, he thought. I'll have them wired before I question them. See how they read. Maybe that'll lead somewhere.
He was reaching for his comm switch when it occurred to him: What was the source of this Peace Front line? Could some Jerrie have come up with it independently? It seemed doubtful.
The good weather had broken near midday. Then Joseph Switzer had worked in the rain, piling slabs. The rain had turned to thick wet snow-a rarity at Sagenwerk-as wet as the rain but colder. Switzer's blanket-lined jacket had soaked up about five pounds of ice water, or so it seemed. At the end of the shift he headed home without stopping at the tavern. His nose had begun to run. His heavy work shoes were saturated. He'd have to dry them by the stove, and grease them in the morning. He'd stay home tomorrow, sleep, and nurse whatever he was coming down with.
He looked around him and grimaced. He had never, he'd decided, hated any place as much. Sagenwerk was a backwater without any backwater charms. In general, Mennonites liked flowers, liked to grow things, kept their buildings and yard fences painted. But Sagenwerk-ugly, weedy, and filled with truculent, narrow-minded people-Sagenwerk, he told himself, was where the mean and spiteful were reincarnated as punishment. Even sunny and warm he didn't like it. And in weather like this…
He shut out the surroundings he slopped through-rain, slush, weed-edged streets, slab fences… A chill shook him, and he wiped his runny nose on a sleeve. But as much as he'd like to, he didn't feel free to leave. Not yet. Private Moses Wheeler had arrived at their third meeting not only with his mind made up, he'd arrived with a plan! His own plan, and therefore the only plan he'd consider: work through the speakers. They had influence, and authority in religious matters.
Actually it made sense-except that Wheeler had telescoped it. He wanted to build Rome in a day.
Maybe he could. Joseph Switzer hoped devoutly that he could. If confidence-positive thinking-meant much, he might. For Moses Wheeler was a maverick, and a bomb waiting to go off. The problem was his fuse. Once lit, there was no way that he, Switzer, could do anything about it-control, guide, or even advise. If he'd realized, when they'd first met, what an arrogant asshole Wheeler was, he'd have made his pitch to someone else. But Wheeler made a good first impression. He was big, fearless, and had an aura of power. And he'd seen what Switzer was leading up to while Switzer was still feeling him out. Had taken over and made the mission his own.