The Chosen

Chosen-more desirable only because Center and Raj could put their own man on the throne and use that as the fulcrum to move society off dead center. There seem to be more wrong paths than right, he thought.

correct. high-coercion societies locked in stasis alternating with barbarism are the maximum probability for postneolithic humanity, Center observed dispassionately. the original breakthrough to modernity on earth was the result of multiple low-probability historical accidents, observe-

Later we may have time for lectures, Raj observed. Meanwhile, John has a job of work to do.

Gerta looked up again, stacking the reports neatly on the hotel room's table, and took a long drink of water.

'This. . Whippet?'

'It's a type of racing dog,' John said helpfully.

'This Whippet looks like a very useful panzer, if you. . if the Santies can get it working,' she observed.

'True enough,' John said. 'There's a lot of controversy. The western provinces are pushing it, but the easterners want more effort to go into aircraft. And they have most of the internal-combustion manufacturing capacity.'

'Yes, I read the speech of this. . Senator Damian? The representative from Ensburg, in any case-you thoughtfully supplied it with the latest reports. 'I put my faith in our mountains'; a very colorful phrase.'

Her strong, calloused fingers turned the sheaf of papers over. 'Now, this, this Land- Cruiser, it's going to give the Army Council's engineers hives.'

The blueprints on the table showed a massive boxy machine, mounting a six-inch gun on its centerline, a two-inch quick-firer in a turret above, and six machine-guns in sponsons on either side.

'What a monstrosity,' she went on. 'If the Santies are having trouble making the Whippet go, how do they expect this. . this thing to move?'

John leaned forward. A lot of work, mostly Center's, had gone into the Land-Cruiser. It was no easy task to design something beyond Visager's current technological level, but just beyond, close enough that competent engineers would be kept busy on the tantalizing quest for this particular Holy Grail. Disinformation was much more than simple lying.

'Each bogie has its own engine,' he pointed out.

The huge machine rested on four bogies on either side, each riding on a pivot with bell-crank springs. 'See, there's a drive train run through this flexible shaft coupling, and then through meshed gears to the toothed sprocket here between the load-bearing wheels.'

'Porschmidt will love this. Unfortunately.'

At John's glance she went on: 'The new head of Technical Development. He's brilliant, but he keeps trying to make bad designs good instead of junking them-he'd rather design three force pumps and an auxiliary circulation system into an engine rather than just turn a part over to keep it from leaking. You should see what he did to the heavy field gun. It's enough to make a Test of Life examiner cry. He's the sort who gives engineering a bad name; convinced that just because its his, his shit doesn't stink.'

'Well, if the Republic's wasting its time, so much the better,' John said with a smile.

'Ya. Only, is the Republic wasting its time, or are you wasting ours?'

John kept the expression on his face genial, as his testicles tried to climb back into his abdomen. It was impossible to have a cold sweat in Oathtaking's climate, but you could feel clammy-nauseated.

'Gerta, min soester, do you think so little of me?'

'Johan, min brueder, I think very highly of you. I think somehow you're fucking Military Intelligence up the butt and making them like it.' She grinned, and this time the expression went all the way through. 'But you're giving us so much real information to sweeten the pot that I can't convince anyone of it. . yet.'

She sighed, relaxed, and put the documents away in her attache case, spinning the combination lock. Then she poured some banana gin from the carafe into her water, and a dollop into his lemonade. 'Now I'm officially off- duty.'

He sipped; the oily-sweet kick of the distillate seemed to match the surroundings, somehow. And one wouldn't affect his judgement noticeably.

'So, I hear you've adopted a child,' Gerta said.

'Yes. See, I am practicing Chosen custom, as far as I can.' They both laughed. 'How's your youngest?'

'A shapeless lump of protoplasm, the way they all are at that age,' Gerta said.

She pulled a picture from her uniform tunic. A baby looked out, with one chubby hand stuffed in its mouth; the fuzzy background was probably a Protege wetnurse, from the linen bodice.

'Young Sigvard. That's four, now; I think I've done my duty by the Chosen, don't you? It's an interesting experience, pregnancy, but I wouldn't want to overindulge.'

'And the adoptees?'

'Good children, every one,' Gerta said. 'The one good thing about desk duty is that I get to see more of them; they've been practically living in Father's house most of the time, the last two years, what with the war.'

John produced a snapshot of Pia and Maurice junior; Gerta looked at it critically. 'Sound enough stock,' she said. . which was a high compliment, by the standards of the Land.

'I hear Heinrich made brigadier?'

'Ya, same dispatch-and-notice list that bumped me to full colonel,' Gerta said, leaning back and stretching. 'They added another six divisions to the regular roster, lots of new hats to go around. Especially with all the demotions and such after the Campaign Study.'

John nodded. The General Staff had high standards; there had been a lot of shaking up after the campaign in the Empire. Mere success wasn't good enough. .

Mark of a good army, lad, Raj said. Anyone can learn from his mistakes. It takes sound doctrine to be able to learn from winning.

'Enough other compensations to go around, I suppose,' he said aloud.

Gerta chuckled. 'Well, the Council has been handing out estates fairly liberally. Mostly in the west, around Corona, to start with. Too much unrest for it to be safe for us to scatter ourselves around widely, just yet.' A shrug. 'We'll deal with that in due course.'

CHAPTER TWELVE

'Christ, how do I git myself inta these things?' one of the Marines behind him in the longboat muttered.

John smiled in the darkness. That was Barrjen. The stocky Marine had managed to volunteer-unofficially, the whole mission was highly off the record-despite his loud relief at making it home last time. In fact, the ones who'd been with him from Ciano to Salini had all volunteered, even Smith with his gimp foot. Some of them had been pretty shamefaced about it, as if they were mentally kicking themselves, but they'd all done it.

It was a moonless night and overcast, typical weather for winter in the Gut. The whaleboat glided silently over the dark water; they might as well have been rowing in a closet, for all that he could see. Water purled under the muffled oars, breath smoked. Only the radium dial of his compass guided them, that and. .

'Down!' he hissed quietly.

The dozen men in the boat shipped oars and turned their cork-blackened faces downward in the same motion. A few seconds later the quiet thumping of a marine steam engine came over the water. A searchlight stabbed out into the darkness, blinding bright, the arc light flicking over the waves. Behind it was a gaggle of other boats. Fishing boats; the Chosen couldn't shut down the Gut fishery, it was too important to the economy, and too many of the important pelagic species were best caught in darkness. They did send out a gunboat to make sure nobody tried to make a break for the Santander or Union shores, and probably kept the families of the fishermen hostage, too.