The Chosen

'You're related to John Hosten, I believe, sir?' the civilian asked in a neutral voice.

his name is beemer, Center said. he is deputy director of the ministry's research desk, though his cover is consular affairs.

'John's my brother,' Jeffrey said thankfully. 'Stepbrother, really, but we're very close.'

Beemer nodded. 'I'll see about replacing your clothes, sir,' he said. To the purser he added, 'Ferrington? I only need one of the rooms in my suite. I suggest we put Captain Farr in the other one. I know his brother.'

The purser still looked puzzled, but he shrugged and said, 'Certainly, Mr. Beemer. Captain Farr? That'll be Suite F on the Boat Deck. Would you like a steward to take your luggage there?'

The City of Dubuk blew a deep blast. The pair of tugboats on the vessel's harbor side shrilled an answer. Their propellers churned water, taking up the slack in the hawsers binding them to the liner.

Jeffrey hefted his saddlebags with a wan smile. 'Thank you, I think I'll be able to manage on my own,' he said. 'If you gentlemen don't mind, I'll watch the undocking from the bow.'

'Of course,' said Beemer equably. 'I hope you'll have time during the trip to chat with me about your recent experiences.'

'Whatever you'd care to do, captain,' the purser said. 'So far as the crew of the City of Dubuk is concerned, this is an ordinary commercial voyage. We're here to assist you.'

Jeffrey paused. 'For a while there,' he said, 'I didn't think I'd ever see home alive.'

And that was the truth if he'd ever told it. He bowed to the two men and walked forward. The deck shivered with the vibration of the tugs' engines.

Center? he asked. Did Dad think Eberdorf would attack the harbor while he was there?

There was no chance of that, lad, Raj said. Commander Eberdorf spent the past three years at a desk in the navy's central offices in Oathtaking. She's too politically savvy to start a second major war while the first one's going on.

The City of Dubuk swayed as she came away from the dock. The lead tug signaled with three quick chirps.

But did Dad know that? Jeffrey demanded.

your father does not have access to the database that informs your decisions-and those of raj, Center replied after a pause that could only be deliberate. nor does he have my capacity for analysis available to him. he viewed the chance of combat as not greater than one in ten, and the risk of all-out war resulting from such combat as in the same order of probability.

Jeffrey put his hand on the wooden railing. It had the sticky roughness of salt deposited since a deckhand had wiped it down this morning.

Dad thought the risk was better than living with the alternative.

At the time Jeffrey's link through Center had showed him the scene on the bridge of the McCormick City, his own eyes had been watching Heinrich and two aides torturing a twelve-year-old boy to learn where his father, the town's mayor, had concealed the arms from the police station.

The ship swayed again, this time from the torque of her central propeller as she started ahead dead slow.

I was so frightened. . but I'd never have spoken to Dad again if he'd permitted a massacre like the ones I watched.

I had men like your father serving under me, Raj said. They could only guess at the things Center would have known, but they still managed to act the way I'd have done.

The City of Dubuk whistled again, long and raucously, as all three propellers began to churn water in the direction of home.

I've always thought those people were the greatest good fortune of my career, Raj added.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gerta Hosten spat in the dry dust of the village street.

'Leutnant, just what the fik do you think you're doing?' she asked.

'Setting the animals an example!' the young officer said.

'An example of what-how to show courage and resistance?' she asked.

The subject of their dispute hung head-down from a rope tied around his ankles and looped over a stout limb of the live oak that shaded the village well. He spat, too, in her direction, then returned to a cracked, tuneless rendition of 'Imperial Glory,' the former Empire's national anthem. Two hundred or so peasants and artisans stood and watched behind a screen of Protege infantry; the town's gentry, priests, and other potential troublemakers had already been swept up. The packed villagers smelled of sweat and hatred, their eyes furtive except for a few with the courage to glare. The sun beat down, hot even by Land standards on this late-summer day, but dry enough to make her throat feel gritty.

Gerta sighed, drew her Lauter automatic, jacked the slide, and fired one round into the hanging man's head from less than a meter distance. The flat elastic crack echoed back from the whitewashed stone houses surrounding the village square and from the church that dominated it. The civilians jerked back with a rippling murmur; the Protege troopers watched her with incurious ox-eyed calm. Blood and bone fragments and glistening bits of brain spattered across the feet of the Protege who had been waiting with a barbed whip. He gaped in surprise, lifting one foot and then another in slow bewilderment.

'Hauptman-'

'Shut up.' Gerta ejected the magazine, returned it to the pouch on her belt beside the holster, and snapped a fresh one into the well of the pistol. 'Come.'

She put her hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and guided him aside a few steps, leaning toward him confidentially. Young as he was, she didn't think he mistook the smile on her face for an expression of friendliness; on the other hand, she was a full captain and attached to General Staff Intelligence, so he'd probably listen at least a little.

'What exactly did you have planned?' she said.

'Why. . ammunition was found in the animal's dwelling. I was to execute him, shoot five others taken at random, and then burn the village.'

Gerta sighed again. 'Leutnant, the logic of our communication with the animals is simple.' She clenched one hand and held it before his nose. 'It goes like this: 'Dog, here is my fist. Do what I want, or I will hit you with it.''

'Ya, Hauptman-'

'Shut up. Now, there is an inherent limitation to this form of communication. You can only burn their houses down once-thereby reducing agricultural production in this vicinity by one hundred percent. You can only kill them once. Whereupon they cease to be potentially useful units of labor and become so much dead meat. . and pork is much cheaper. Do you grasp my meaning, boy?'

'Nein, Hauptman.'

This time Gerta repressed the sigh. 'Terror is an effective tool of control, but only if it is applied selectively. There is nothing in the universe more dangerous than someone with nothing to lose. If you flog a man to death for having two shotgun shells-loaded with birdshot, he probably simply forgot them-then what incentive is left to prevent them from active resistance?'

'Oh.'

The junior officer looked as if he was thinking, which was profoundly reassuring. No Chosen was actually stupid; the Test of Life screened out low IQs quite thoroughly, and had for many generations. That didn't mean that Chosen couldn't be willfully stupid, though-over-rigid, ossified.

'So. You must apply a graduated scale of punishment. Remember, we are not here to exterminate these animals, tempting though the prospect is.'