The Forever Hero (4 page)

“Why start so high? So far inland?”

“Because it won't do any good to start any lower.”

“Run that by me again.”

“The chemical contamination is so high that you have to clean the land and the watersheds from the headwaters down. Otherwise—”

“—the rivers and the winds just recontaminate what you've cleaned.”

“The rivers. We can't control the winds. Not until we can restore ground cover, get some trees in the high watersheds.”

“You're talking centuries.”

“Probably longer. We don't have accurate maps of the topography, nor any detailed analyses of the compounds poisoning the land. And Istvenn knows what they did to the ground water.”

“What about the oceans?”

“A quick scan indicates they've got some buffering ability, but there's too much in the way of sulfur compounds. Balanced flora/fauna population, but too thin for my liking. But they'll recover long before we can reclaim the land. We'll have to set up a handful of
extraction plants for the worst toxic hot spots on the continental shelves. Projections indicate that would do it in the worst cases.”

“What about the future?”

“Hard to say, but I'd recommend against any disruption of the soil. Has to be an agricultural economy, if we even get that far, for dozens of centuries.”

“You make it sound so cut and dried.”

“Hardly. The theory's easy enough. So are the techniques—in theory. But in practice? No. That won't be easy. You can't manufacture anything in this system, and that means a massive resource drain for the Empire. This Emperor may allow it, but this project will need work for the lives of more than a few emperors. Just can't be done in less than centuries and billions of creds worth of equipment…Maybe it can't be done at all.”

“You need a name.”

“Have name. Devulkid.”

The lieutenant shook her head, short red hair fluffing out with the motion. “That would not be acceptable and could certainly cause problems.”

“Problems?”

“Difficulties, hard places.”

The blond-haired young man wearing the unmarked tan shipsuit wrinkled his nose, as if at the smell of landpoisons.

“Hard places with name?”

The lieutenant smiled faintly. “It does sound strange when you put it that way. But you need a name, at least two names.”

“Two names? One person?”

“Call it the Empire's way of doing things. Like the ships, like the uniforms.”

“Two names for one person?” repeated the devilkid.

“Some people have three names,” admitted the lieutenant.

“Three names?”

Lieutenant Marso nodded.

“How many names for you?”

“Three. Jillian…K'risti…Marso.”

“The big man has three names?”

“Major Corson? Two, I think. MacGregor Corson.”

“Why two names?” asked the blond youth again, as if the lieutenant had yet to answer the question.

“Look. If you want to go to the transitional school, if you want a chance at going to the Academy, you have to have two names. Any two names. You can have three if you want, but you have to have two.”

“School needs two names for devilkid?”

“That's right. Both the transitional school and the Academy, if you make it that far, require two names. Two names and a number.”

“Number?”

“Don't worry about that. Once you decide on the names, we'll use them to get you your imperial ID number. That won't be a problem at all.”

The devilkid frowned as he sat uneasily in the ship swivel across from the lieutenant.

“Devilkid choose names. Empire choose number?”

“Right.”

The curly-haired blond pursed his lips, but said nothing.

“Did your parents ever give you a name?”

“No name.” His tone was more abrupt than before.

“I could read you some names and see if you like them.”

“No.”

“All right. But you'll have to choose something.”

“Gerswin? Means what?”

“I called you that when you whistled that strange little melody. A gerswin is a music-maker, a wild singer, sort of like a dylanist, but the power is mostly in the music and not in the words.”

The devilkid looked back at the Imperial lieutenant blankly.

“Gerswin means music, like your whistling,” she repeated.

“MacGregor? That means?”

“Once it meant ‘son of Gregor.' Now it has no special meaning.”

“Corson means?”

“Son of Cor,” the lieutenant answered uneasily.

“The big man, the major? Two fathers?”

Lieutenant Marso laughed. “Some would say he had none. But, no. He has just one father. Sometimes, names are chosen because people like them. They like the way the names sound.” She frowned momentarily. “You have several days before you have to choose. Now that you've passed the initial screening tests, the transitional school will give you other tests, tests with more words.”

“
More
words?”

“More words,” affirmed the woman. “That is, if you want to learn more. If you don't want to go back to the shambletown.”

A shadow crossed the young face.

“Learn…means not to go back to shambles?”

“Learning means much more than that. The more you learn, the more you can do. If you can make it through the transitional school, they you could go to the Academy—”

“Academy means learn more?”

“If you can.”

“Devulkid learn. Learn everything.”

In “Warfare, Basic Theories of [4/C, BC W-101],” Gerswin's console was in the third row, second one from the far right aisle.

The instruction hall itself was similar to all the others, with identical consoles with the identical gaps into which unidentical cadets placed their identical bridge modules, incidentally recording their presence while allowing them direct access to their individual data banks.

The thirty fourth-classers stood beside their consoles, waiting at standing rest for Gere Yypres Gonnell, Major, Retired [Disability], I.S.S., who was listed as their professor.

“Ten'stet!” rang the tenor voice of the section adjutant.

Gerswin stiffened with all the others, exactly in key with their motions, although he could have easily beaten them into position.

“At ease,” squeaked an amplified voice.

Gerswin watched the instructor's podium and the figure who moved behind it with jerky steps.

“Please be seated, Cadets,” the squeaky and raspy voice added.

Gerswin sat, but wondered. He could see the shimmering metal bands around the professor, could see that while the professor's throat moved, his mouth barely opened.

“For those of you who have not met me, and that may well be all of you, I am indeed Major Gonnell, otherwise referred to as ‘old-gonna-hell,' ‘old metal bones,' or other endearments less flattering. This is the class technically referred to as ‘Warfare, Basic Theories of.'”

A raspy sound like tearing patch tape followed.

“Excuse me, but subvocalization is not perfect.”

A clanking sound followed.

“All of you are supposed to have read chapter one of the text. Knowing the Academy and the idealism with which you all approach your studies, you all have.”

An intake of breath that would have been laughter at any non-military institution punctuated the otherwise silent instruction hall.

“The title of the course is incorrect. A more accurate description might be ‘A Few Guesses as to Why Societies Fight.'”

Gerswin tabbed in the new title, noting that few others did.

“A standard hour a day for four months is totally inadequate for those of you who survive the institution to practice the profession, but I hope to make a small dent in your ignorance and to let you know how little you really know, in the hopes that you will at some future time be inspired to actually learn the subject.”

The metal figure swiveled as if to survey the hall.

“Cadet Culvra, what does Adtaker mean when…”

“Cadet Hytewer, describe the Empire in the terms outlined by Hyrn…”

Gerswin noted most of the questions, but few of the answers. From the pace of the inquiries from the professor, he began to understand why the major had gotten the reputation he had.

“Cadet Resia, you have just asserted that wars are caused by scarcities. If that were true, would not all warring between systems be non-existent?”

Cadet Resia did not answer, but kept his square face directly pointed toward the major.

“Come now. We have had wars between systems. I have some personal experience which I doubt is a fiction.” At that, he raised a metal-bound arm. “Yet the costs of building jumpships, the energy costs of jumping with stored power, the relative abundance of raw materials in all but the most crowded systems—all these would indicate that scarcity could not be a motive for war except in a limited number of systems, say perhaps a dozen. Those systems, however, lack the knowledge and resources to build a jumpship space force.”

“That doesn't prevent others from occupying them,” observed a red-haired young woman in the first row.

“While I was prodding Cadet Resia, I will accept that observation, Cadet Karsten. If your interjection is true, then scarcity and weakness prompt others to war over the least desirable systems. Is not that the logical outcome of your observation?”

Gerswin frowned. If what the discussion was leading to actually followed, then war could only be fought for noneconomic reasons.

“Would anyone else care to comment?” asked the major

Gerswin looked down, finally pressing the red stud.

“You have a comment, Cadet Gerswin?”

“A question, ser. If wars aren't fought for material gain, does that mean that there are other logical reasons for war? Or material ones?” he added.

“The original question assumed there was a distinction, if you please, between wars within systems, and wars between systems. Are you questioning that distinction?”

“Yes, ser…I mean…no, ser…I mean…” Gerswin closed his mouth.

“Would you like to clarify what you mean, Cadet Gerswin?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Please do so.”

“Ser, I wasn't going to question the distinction. Not sure now. Text indicates costs of war almost always outweigh the gains. Doesn't say that, but the numbers seem to—”

“What numbers, Cadet Gerswin?”

Gerswin repressed a sigh. “Looked up military budget differentials, reconstruction costs, death benefits…”

“I'll accept that for purposes of discussion. Are you saying that the costs to even the victor outweigh the quantifiable benefits?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Aha. Cadet Gerswin is suggesting that since the costs of war outweigh the benefits, no wars have a logical basis. A novel approach. Any takers?” Major Gonnell surveyed the hall again, his metal support skeleton swiveling him from side to side. “Any dissenters?”

Another sweep of the room followed.

“I see. Cadet Gerswin's suggestion is so novel none of you have considered it. Very well, your first submission, due in five days, is: ‘Wars Have No Logical Basis.'

“The submission must be a proof, although documented anecdotal material may be used, and you must take a definite position. Any submission which fails to support
or
refute the illogicality of war will be failed.”

The major surveyed the class once again before concluding in his rasping squeak, “Section dismissed.”

“Ten'stet!”

The cadets snapped out of their seats to attention as the major departed.

“All hands! All hands! Stand by for jump! Stand by for jump!”

Gerswin laid back in his couch, made sure the webbing across his chest was tight, although there was scarcely any chance that it would be needed. As a second class cadet, he had no permanent duty assignment. Consequently, he had no station from which to watch the jump.

Only Tammilan had managed that, and only because the
Fordin
's number three navigator billet was unfilled. The missing officer had stepped in front of a lift loading a cargo shuttle less than an hour before orbit break. While the emergency releases had stopped the lift in time, not all of the weapon spares had been securely fastened, and the junior navigator was now recovering from multiple fractures in the I.S.S. medical facilities at Standora Base.

Gerswin waited for the blackness that filled the ship during the jump itself, that and the accompanying distortion. Supposedly, the jumps were instantaneous, but the longer the jump, the longer the subjective feeling of blackness and disorientation.

While Gerswin had been on a jumpship before the
Fordin
, this tour was his first trip since learning enough to understand what a jump really was. The upcoming jump was only the third since the cadets had boarded the
Fordin
off Alphane, using the Academy's shuttles to reach the cruiser.

The battlecruiser was headed for quarantine duty in New Smyrna system, along with two other cruisers and two corvettes.

“Jump!”

BRrrinnngggg!!!

The jump alarm seemed to stretch out through the darkness like an organ reverberating in slowtime.

With his third jump, Gerswin could see that the blackness was not uniform, but a swirl of differing blacks, as if each had a different shape and depth.

Just as suddenly as the darkness had dropped over the colored plasteel corridors of the cruiser, it was gone.

Gerswin unstrapped, checked his uniform, and scurried out of the closetlike room he shared with Tammilan. Since he was now assigned to the Gunnery department that was where he headed, down the corridor to the spool and in two layers to the central spoke.

No sooner had he entered the Gunnery operations center, with its spark screens and representation plots, than a voice boomed out.

“Cadet Gerswin!”

“Yes, ser.”

“What is the maximum effective range of a Mark II?”

Gerswin braced himself. Lieutenant G'Maine, the junior of the three Gunnery officers, always tried the question on unwary cadets, or so Tammilan had told him.

“There is no effective range for a Mark II, ser, since there is no Mark II, ser.”

“A smart cadet. Tell me, Mister Gerswin, the difference between the calibration technology used in the tachead rangers and the EDI detectors.”

Gerswin wished the lieutenant would quit booming out questions, but he remained at attention beside the detector console.

“Tacheads have no rangers; calibration is independent and based on mass detection proximity indications. EDI tracks are actually a flow ratio compared against background energy flows.”

“A really smart cadet! Can you tell me, Mister Gerswin, the power flow managed by this center at full utilization?”

“No, ser.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't know, ser.”

“And why don't you know—”

“Lieutenant, would you spare the cadet for a moment? I have some rather menial and less intellectually demanding tasks for him.”

Gerswin was glad someone had rescued him, though he did not recognize the voice. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the uniform, which seemed to be that of a major. If so, it had to be Major Trillo, the chief Gunner of the
Fordin
.

“Certainly, Major.”

Gerswin waited.

“On your way, Mr. Cadet Gerswin.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And, Lieutenant,” added the Major, “I also need a word with you after Cadet Gerswin is dispatched.”

The lieutenant nodded, his blocky face bobbing up and down.

“Mr. Gerswin, don't stand there like a statue. We've all got things to do. Get on over here.”

“Here” meant to the main console, which was a quarter of a deck high and at one end of the narrow room overlooking the banks of screens.

Gerswin stepped up.

Major Trillo was short, only to Gerswin's shoulder level, square, with shoulders broader than his, deep violet eyes, and short, black curly hair. Her voice was velvet over frozen iron.

One tech stood near her control seat, and the major looked, merely looked, and the tech retreated to the main operating screen level.

Gerswin was impressed. He felt more secure with the Lieutenant G'Maine's of the I.S.S.

“Gerswin, I can't blame you, but it's not smart to make your senior officers look stupid, even when they behave like robomules. You must have known what G'Maine would do. You had the answers down pat. If you'd played a little dumber, G'Maine could have crowed and been delighted to teach you all he knows, which isn't that much.

“Now, I'll have to make him responsible for teaching you more than he knows or he'll make everyone's life miserable. So…if you don't learn everything he has to teach you and more, it will go in your record under lack of adaptability. But I don't expect that.”

Unexpectedly, the major sighed. “Maybe it's better this way. I have an excuse to force him to learn more. But it takes more of my time, and I have little enough of that anyway. So put it all down to experience, and don't do it again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser.” Gerswin nodded.

“Understand, Cadet Gerswin, I am not opposed to your knowing more than your superiors, nor to learning anything and everything you can. I am opposed to junior officers flaunting such knowledge when it is totally unnecessary. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Further, young man, if you breathe a word of this conversation to anyone, I will insure that you spend the rest of this cruise on maintenance detail and that there is a half-black on your cruise file.”

Gerswin swallowed, swallowed hard. A half-black amounted almost to a bust-out. A half-black with a year to go at the Academy—only two had ever graduated with a half-black, only two in the last century, according to the rumors.

“Yes, ser.”

Major Trillo smiled, and the smile was friendly.

“If you understand, you've learned more from this encounter than some officers learn in an entire career.”

Her voice hardened slightly. “For the past week, the ES section has been promising to reclaim the contents of the repair and recycle locker and take back the material. Would you please gather it all to
gether—all the junk in bin ER-7 over there—and take it down to the E-section senior tech, Erasmus.

“On the way back, stop by the mess and bring back two cafes, one liftea, and whatever you would like.”

“Yes, ser.”

“And don't mind Erasmus. He'll grouse.”

The major switched her attention from the cadet to the screen, effectively dismissing him.

Gerswin found a snapbag two bins away from the one labeled ER-7 and carefully placed in it all the mysterious pieces of the transequips and solicube segments.

He wondered if the major saw through his carefully cultivated facade, if she read the contempt he tried to avoid displaying when he ran across Service types who fancied themselves great warriors. Most wouldn't have lasted a night on the high plains.

His lips quirked as he thought about the major. He had no doubts that she would have survived anywhere.

At the Academy he had avoided cadet rank, had tried to blend into the middle of the class. He had been successful, except in the physical development classes. Even there, he'd minimized his strength by concentrating on skill-oriented combat forms, or on learning and mastering the range of energy weapons.

His reflexes made him number one in unarmed combat. He could usually beat the instructors, when he tried, but he made certain that he never won all the time. Instead he worked on learning new techniques until perfected, at which point he began to learn a new repertoire.

He shook his head and concentrated fully on placing each component within a separate insulated section of the carrying case.

Finding E section was harder than he had anticipated, since it wasn't listed except by spoke and frame number. He had to retrace his steps twice before he knocked and stepped inside.

Grouse wasn't exactly the word Gerswin would have used to express the tech's outburst.

“That malingering she-cat knows I have no use for this despicable pile of misbegotten droppings from the devil's offspring! And she sends an innocent to the slaughter, knowing full well how I feel!”

Gerswin's eyes nearly popped out of his head.

Never had he heard anyone discuss a major in the I.S.S. that way in public, let alone a technician who hadn't even a commission. Even if Erasmus was a senior tech—and Gerswin couldn't tell that because the man's white tech suit, contrary to regulations, had no insignia,
not even his name—Erasmus should not have discussed a senior officer so candidly.

Gerswin said nothing, certain he had failed to understand something.

Finally, he spoke. “Will that be all, Senior Technician Erasmus?”

“Will that be all, Senior Technician? Will that be all, Senior Cadet? Is it not enough to have been given sewer sweepings, the remnants of proud equipment, without as much as a by-your-leave? Do you think that good equipment springs full-blown from the heads of gods? Will that be all indeed?”

Gerswin tried to hide the beginnings of a smile.

“And you, would-be officer, smirk upon what you see as the rantings and ravings of a demented technician. Do you also smirk at the equipment upon which your very life rests? Do you?”

The cadet had to take a step backward to avoid the long probe the technician waved in his face.

“Do you?”

“No. Not at all.”

Erasmus looked at the carrying case in Gerswin's arms.

“Ah, well. Bring it in. We'll do what we must.” The technician shook his head sadly. “But the sheer effrontery, the sheer underhandedness! At least she did not send that bonehead, the one with the skull so thick and so empty that not even a laser would have any effect.”

Gerswin repressed another smile. To hear Lieutenant G'Maine so described by someone else was a pleasure.

“And you, Mister Cadet Gerswin by your name plate, what do you think?”

Theoretically, second class cadets outranked even senior technicians, but in practice, Gerswin had known from his devilkid days, things didn't always conform to theory.

So while Gerswin theoretically did not have to respond to Erasmus's questions, he swallowed his smile and did.

“I don't know enough to make an intelligent answer.”

“Wish more had the nerve to admit what they didn't know. But you did not answer my first question. Your life rests on technology, on equipment like that.” His probe jabbed down at the bag Gerswin had carried in. “Put it on the work bench next to the console.”

As Gerswin did, the technician's questions continued.

“That equipment carries your life, and yet you do not understand it, except how to use it? Is that not so?”

“Right now, you're right. I don't.”

“Will you ever? Don't answer that. You might answer honestly and disappoint me. Or you might answer honestly and fail to live up to what your answer promises. Or you might lie. Not much chance that you'll ever really understand technology. Not if you become the standard I.S.S. officer.”

Erasmus sighed. “That's why you have technicians. To keep you running. Don't forget it, Mr. Gerswin. Don't forget it.”

“You make a strong case, Senior Technician.”

“Damned right, Cadet. They put up with my ‘peculiarities' because I can repair anything in this Emperor's Navy. But I'm right anyway. And don't you forget it.”

Gerswin didn't know what else to say. If he used the formal “will that be all?” Erasmus would think he had been merely half listening.

“Would you like me to convey anything else to Major Trillo, generally?”

“Ha! HA! HAAA!” Erasmus laughed, then stopped. “You're cautious, Cadet. But you're learning. She wouldn't take official notice, and no sense putting you on the spot. Besides, we understand each other, she and I do.”

Even the chuckling stopped.

“That will be all, Cadet. Keep listening. It's worth all the cubes and lectures at the Academy.”

Despite the feeling that he had suffered a mental bombardment, Gerswin found his feet leading him back to the wardroom, where he picked up two cafes and two lifteas, not that he particularly liked liftea, but the tea was far better than the oily taste of the cafe, which reminded him all too strongly of landpoison.

Once back inside the weapons center, he saw Lieutenant G'Maine standing between him and the main console, which seemed vacant except for a single tech.

Gerswin walked straight to G'Maine.

“Lieutenant, did you want cafe or liftea? The major asked me to bring some on my way back, but I don't know which you prefer, ser.”

“Appreciate it, Cadet. I prefer cafe. So does Lieutenant Swabo, but the major likes liftea.”

G'Maine took a cafe and turned away without another word.

Gerswin searched for the major, located her in the far corner, the missile center, with Lieutenant Swabo.

Once he made his way there he stood, holding the tray, waiting to be noticed, as the two women conferred about something with gestures toward the small plot in the center of Swabo's console.

Without looking up, the major said, “Cafe for the Lieutenant, liftea for me.”

Gerswin placed the beverages in the holders on the consoles and retreated to a corner folddown where he sipped his own liftea.