Alarm of War

site. I kept my eyes on those damn trees all the way across that field, feeling naked and vulnerable. It’s a different way of seeing things, and not something you get in a classroom.

My fellow recruits are a mixed lot. Most are young, quite a bit younger than me. Mostly no college, with a few exceptions. In the men’s barracks there are fifteen men from my home planet, Christchurch. All miners, hard, quiet men who just take what the Drill Instructors hand out without complaint. They are old fashioned and proper in their own way. Once they learned I was from Christchurch they made it a point to look after me. On the long marches they offer to help carry my rucksack, even though the DIs would be all over them if I accepted. They tease me and call me “Little Sister” as if I were from their village. I am very proud of my Christchurch men, and a little sad that life on Christchurch offered so little that they had to join the Fleet. Course, that’s why I’m here with them.

Most of the others are here because they couldn’t figure out what else to do with themselves. Some flunked out of school; some had trouble with the law. Only a few seemed to be intent on a military career. Cookie wants to join the Marines. (When we are on a long run, she even chants the Marine creed: “All together! Never alone!” Drives me nuts after a few miles.) Can’t say that I have met anyone quite like her. She dropped out of high school in her senior year — “Had enough schoolin’” — and drifted around at odd jobs after that. Too bad, had she gone to college she could have made it on an athletic scholarship of some sort. She is a large, muscular woman — at 19, more of a girl, really — and fierce. Doesn’t take any crap, never backs down. Amazon warrior type; the Marines will love her, if she doesn’t get canned first. Several of the men have hit on her already (the Fleet seems to take a pretty laissez faire approach to fraternization among the recruits, as long as it does not interfere with discipline). One of them would not leave her alone, so Cookie punched him in the nose. No warning, no pleas, just bam! (DI Kaelin got a little excited about that.) There is actually a quaint little institution here: about a mile behind the barracks there is a lake. Maybe half a mile wide and two miles long. Lots of woods around. On Sunday afternoons, when we are allowed about four hours of time on our own, there is quite a little procession of men and women going up there for some privacy and intense fraternization. “Going up to the lake” has already taken on a distinct connotation. Sociology major would have a field day here. Early tribal customs of warrior groups. Or something.

I must confess here that men have not been hitting on me. No trips to the lake in the foreseeable future. I am too old for most of them. And something else. I try to hide the fact that I have a college degree, let alone a master’s, but my education keeps seeping through. It’s my vocabulary, I think. Cookie says I talk funny. “Girl, where you learn them words?” She started to call me “Professor,” but I threatened her that if she kept it up I would tell some of the other fledgling Marines that she keeps a teddy bear hidden in her bunk. A friendly truce prevails.

Two others merit note here. Hiram Brill is this gangly, shy, nervous kid who always walks around with a notebook, jotting notes on everything under the sun. When Blue Company was formed, he went around to every soldier and asked them about their background, their hobbies and their skills. Want to know who can fix a truck? Brill has it in his notebook. Who used to hunt? Go rock climbing? Who used to run on the cross-country team in high school? Brill can tell you. He also takes notes on the battles we’re in, and analyzes them endlessly. No college degree. Too bad, he’s a natural student. (He also promised to scrounge me a notebook so I don’t have to keep using this damn toilet paper!)

The other one is Grant Skiffington, son of Admiral Skiffington. The Admiral Skiffington, from the Battle of Windsor, where he defeated the Dominion fleet. Mauled them, from all accounts I have read. Admiral Skiffington has a reputation for being arrogant, prickly, and ruthless in battle. Some of it has rubbed off on his son. Young Skiffington knows there is nothing the drill instructors can really do to him. He doesn’t flaunt it, exactly, but you can tell he thinks this is all a big game. Did I mention that he is as handsome as sin? He is not lacking for girls to go to the lake for a little stroll in the woods.

Lights out in five minutes. Thus endeth this entry.

Chapter 7

P.D. 950

The Conspirators

In Darwin

“We are all aware of the Emperor’s beneficence,” Hudis said smoothly, careful to keep any sense of irony out of his voice.

“The problem facing the Emperor is ready access to ziridium,” Prince RaShahid explained. “The Arcadians have large amounts of ziridium in their asteroid belts, but they deny us our rightful share.”

“I think I understand,” Hudis said.

“The Arcadians, you realize, must send their ore freighters through Tilleke space to reach the markets in Victoria, yet the Darwin Trade Accord forbids us from charging a tariff on the Arcadian cargoes. This is a terrible affront to the Emperor’s sovereignty. Not only do the Arcadians mine ziridium that rightfully belongs to the Tilleke Empire, but they flaunt their theft each time one of their ships passes through Tilleke space. What is more, when the Emperor graciously offered to buy the ziridium from the Arcadians at a very fair price, the Arcadians refused to sell at that price, citing the Darwin Robinson-Patman Accord.” The Robinson-Patman Accord prohibited any of the signatory nations from selling the same types of goods at different prices to different buyers. All buyers were to get the same price. Hudis knew that the Emperor had offered to buy the ziridium at ten percent of the price Arcadia usually sold it for. The Arcadians had laughed.

Prince RaShahid pursed his lips together. “My father, the Emperor, protested to the Arcadians. Do you what they did? They sent a lawyer.” He shook his head in wonderment. “They sent one of their senior trade diplomats and a lawyer!” Hudis knew from his briefing that there were no lawyers in the Dominion. All law came from the Emperor, and he enforced it with a will.

“The lawyer actually had the temerity to lecture my father on the Darwin Robinson-Patman Accord, as if the Emperor of the Great Tilleke Empire was a schoolboy in need of a lesson.” The Prince’s face flushed at the memory of this insult. “The Emperor correctly pointed out to the Arcadians that the Empire was not a signatory to the Robinson-Patman Accord, but the Arcadians refused to reason. The lawyer even suggested that perhaps the Emperor did not understand the need for the laws against price discrimination. Did not understand?” the Prince sneered. “The Emperor of Tilleke did not understand? ”

The Prince sighed deeply. “My father is a patient man, but this was too much even for a man of his tolerance and benevolence. Oh, he respected all the forms. The diplomat was sent back to Arcadia unharmed. The lawyer, of course, had to be punished for his impudence. My father had him impaled in the center of the Throne Room.” The Prince smiled at the memory. “Do you know what his last words were as they put him on the stake? He said, ‘There must be some mistake.’” The Prince gave a short, barking laugh. “Really, where do they find these people? ‘There must be some mistake?’”

Hudis had heard the story, of course. The DID colonel had shown him the video. It was a major breach of diplomatic immunity and the Assembly of the League of Human Worlds had voted to sanction Tilleke. As for the Arcadian lawyer, he was still there in the Emperor’s Throne Room. Emperor Chalabi had ordered his body preserved and lacquered, still impaled on the stake. It had been left as a reminder to diplomats and other visitors to mind their manners.

The Prince laughed again, then abruptly sobered. “Meanwhile, the Empire has needs for energy that cannot be met. Our industrial development has fallen behind schedule. Food production is not sufficient to meet our needs. If we had the ziridium that the Arcadians stole from us, we could solve our energy shortage overnight. Instead we must go into the market to buy necessary stores. Those purchases, of course, go through Victorian brokers, who take a commission that is charged against the Empire.”

The Prince leaned forward, tapping the table in emphasis. “The Emperor is a great man. His patience is vast, but not limitless. The Arcadians have not mended their criminal ways, and have insulted the Emperor’s honor. They leave us no choice: the Tilleke Empire will invade Arcadia and take back the ziridium ore that is rightfully ours.”