Zenya

'You are soldiers. You don't go into action half-naked. Your enemy may be armored. To be of value, training must be realistic. Now, move!'

To Raougat he said, 'How are they as regards killing potential?'

'Weak.' The captain saw the bleak expression in Dumarest's eyes and added hastily, 'I have tried to correct it, sir, but it isn't easy. They are the product of a soft environment. They talk, but when it comes to the time to act, who knows?'

'You should know,' snapped Dumarest. 'That is what you are paid for.'

'True, but they are volunteers, the sons of rich families for the most part.' Raougat shrugged. 'I can take a man and turn him into a beast, given time. If the basic ingredients are there, it is simple. But if they are not, then it is hard. And I am not dealing with one man, but several.'

And there would be more. Dumarest turned as Thomile came into the warehouse ahead of a score of men, Fran Paran among them. Saluting, the lieutenant said, 'The men, as ordered, marshal. The best I could find.'

'Which means?'

'Exactly that, sir. A couple of troublemakers, they like to argue, some would-be heroes, the rest bored with routine and eager for action.' He paused, then added casually, 'With respect, sir, I would like to see how you handle them.'

A check, but that was to be expected. Wherever he went men would be watching, eager to learn and as eager to criticize. And Dumarest knew that should he make a single slip, his pretense would be questioned. As a supposed lord of Samalle there was nothing about war that he should not know.

To Captain Louk, who had accompanied Thomile and his men, he said, 'I shall need rafts for transportation. And weapons firing a low-velocity missile. Pneumatic guns would do, if you can get them. Something to sting, but not kill or incapacitate.'

Frowning, Louk said, 'Would low-caliber target rifles do? We could reduce the charge and so lower the velocity.'

'Yes. See to it immediately.' As the captain moved away, Dumarest added, 'And we shall need the services of a medical team. Make sure they are fully equipped.'

Thomile, curious, said, 'Your orders, sir?'

'Get the men outside. All of them. Have them move at the double. I want them hot, tired, thirsty, and worn before those rafts get here. Let them carry the heaviest packs you have. Move!'

At his side Raougat said, his voice a feral purr, 'My congratulations, marshal. A hard medicine, but an effective one.'

'You understand?'

'Of course. How often have I trained men for the arena in exactly that fashion? The best way, sir, and when time is short, the only way. Let us hope that certain outraged parents will not be screaming for your blood when they learn what you have done to their precious offspring. To have them hunt each other, to shoot at each other, to learn by actual pain to hide, to aim straight, to hate. A neat plan.' He squinted up at the sun. Already it was a furnace in the heavens, gilding the dust rising from the impact of running feet, beading faces with sweat, darkening uniforms with perspiration. 'A hot day, marshal.' His chuckle was a whisper of sadistic anticipation. 'A hot day, for them, in more ways than one.'

* * *

The medic rinsed his hands and said with a weary finality, 'That's the last one, marshal. If you've any bright ideas for tomorrow, perhaps you'll let me know. I'm not fond of surprises.'

'You object?'

'I'm a doctor. What else would you expect me to do, cheer?'

'You are an officer in the medical corps,' corrected Dumarest. 'If you don't like picking pellets out of barely hurt men, how are you going to handle real casualties?'

'I've done it before.'

'Accidents, yes. Stitching up a knife slash, maybe, but I'm talking about men with their intestines hanging out, limbs torn from their bodies, faces roasted in laser beams. You think that what happened today was bad? It was nothing, an essential part of military training. How else can you teach men to dodge and stay under cover? Those who got hit learned the price of being careless.'

'One man blinded in his left eye,' said the doctor savagely. 'One shot in the groin-and he hasn't been married a month. Two others practically riddled, and one of them with a slug almost touching his heart. A dozen more with minor wounds, twenty others in pain, most of the rest suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion. A hell of a way to train men!'

He was disrespectful, forgetting rank and the deference due to higher command, outraged and unable to retain his opinions to himself. A dangerous man to have in any military force.

Dumarest crossed the space between them in three long strides, reached out, and caught the front of the green smock the man wore, lifted his right hand, and deliberately slapped the rotund cheek.

'Listen,' he grated. 'I am a marshal of the army of Chard. You are under military law. You could be facing a court-martial for those remarks, and I mean a drumhead trial here and now with death as the penalty, should you be found guilty. You doubt my power to do it?'

'You can't-I have my rights!'

'You have no rights,' snapped Dumarest. 'You yielded them all when you put on that uniform. What's bothering you, doctor? You want the glamor without the responsibility? The right to command without the duty to obey? Those men you treated wanted to be soldiers. I've shown them what it means to face an enemy, and did it by taking away the real danger. That eye can be replaced, the groin will heal, not one of them will suffer more than a little inconvenience, and under slowtime they will be ready to march in a day. You know the alternative. That force which got itself massacred taught you that. And you know what we're up against-or have you remained blind to what was found in the villages?'

'You're hard,' whispered the doctor, rubbing at the welts on his face. 'By God, you're hard.'

'But truthful.'

'Yes, I guess you are. It's Just that…' The doctor broke off, kicking at the leg of his field table. 'Damnit, why do fools make war out to be wonderful?'

'Because they are fools,' said Dumarest bitterly. 'Because they never have to fight. They prate of glory and heroism and ignore the death and dirt and wounds. No sane man or culture wants a war.'

The doctor blinked. 'You say that? A lord of Samalle?'

Dumarest stepped to the door of the tent. Outside, it was dark, the night blazing with stars, relatively cool after the heat of the day. Without looking at the other man, he said, 'You think I should glorify war because it is my profession? You are a doctor, a surgeon, do you then love pain and operations?'

'The things aren't the same. I work to heal.'

'And so do I. What can be worse than a badly fought war? With skill I try to limit the destruction, but if you think that any soldier loves war, you are mistaken.' Without changing his tone, Dumarest added, 'You have the necessary equipment to conduct a deep bodily survey?'

'What?' The doctor looked baffled. 'I don't understand.'

'I have reason to suspect that I may have a foreign object buried somewhere in my person.' Dumarest turned and faced the man. 'With action imminent, I want to make certain that I am fit. Will you please examine me and report on what you find.'

A chance, but one which had to be taken now that he had the opportunity. Chan Parect had spoken of a device, a radio capsule perhaps, something implanted which could be triggered into activity. As yet he had found nothing remotely resembling a trigger, not among Zenya's clothing, nor any scar tissue where it could have been implanted in her body. He had searched carefully, running his fingers over every inch of her body as she lay quivering beneath what she thought was his sensuous embrace. Now it was time to examine himself.

He lay nude as the doctor busied himself with his instruments, talking as he worked.

'Has there been any pain? It would help to localize the potential site. Were you wounded? Your head? I see. Well, let's take a look.' A long silence; then, 'Nothing there that I can see, marshal. Elsewhere, perhaps? Would it be metallic? A fragment from a bomb, a bullet? There is such a diversity of weapons. Well, we shall sec.'

And then, finally, 'Nothing, my lord.'

'Are you certain?'