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  Who’s hunting whom?

  Lon’s receiver crackled to life.

  “Major, this is Taw. The raiders have changed course, almost due east. I can’t see the lay of the land clearly. I don’t know if this is where they’re going or if they’re just crossing to the next valley.”

  Lon answered, “Hold up for a minute, Taw. Give them plenty of room before you follow.” Lon pulled his mapboard out and unfolded it. “I don’t see any clearing big enough for a ship to extract them.” He zoomed in on a section. “Maybe five miles southeast, along that creek. Taw, if you don’t see which way they turn, hold back. Let’s see what they’re up to.”

  Five minutes later, Lon got his answer when Taw called again. He could hear a heavy firefight in the background.

  “They suckered us, Major!” Taw yelled, “We’ve got raiders on three sides!”

  Lon cursed under his breath, turned to his company and barked, “Let’s move!”

  The DMC Series

  OFFICER-CADET

  LIEUTENANT

  CAPTAIN

  MAJOR

  LIEUTENANT COLONEL

  COLONEL

  Other Books by Rick Shelley

  The Spec Ops Squad

  HOLDING THE LINE

  DEEP STRIKE

  SUCKER PUNCH

  The Lucky 13th

  UNTIL RELIEVED

  SIDE SHOW

  JUMP PAY

  The Federation War

  THE BUCHANAN CAMPAIGN

  THE FIRES OF COVENTRY

  RETURN TO CAMEREIN

  The Varayan Memoir

  SON OF THE HERO

  THE HERO OF VARAY

  THE HERO KING

  The Seven Towers

  THE WIZARD AT MECQ

  THE WIZARD AT HOME

  MAJOR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Originally published by Ace in December 1999. Published as an ebook by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 1999 by Rick Shelley.

  Cover art by Dirk Berger.

  To

  Amanda Howell, RN

  for making a terrifying experience

  worthwhile

  Amazing

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  The year is A. D. 2814. The interstellar diaspora from Earth has been in progress for seven centuries. The numbers are uncertain, but at least five hundred worlds have been settled, and perhaps well over a thousand. The total human population of the galaxy could be in excess of a trillion. On Earth, the Confederation of Human Worlds still theoretically controls all of those colonies, but the reality is that it can count on its orders being obeyed only as far as the most distant permanent outpost within Earth’s system, on Titan. Beyond Saturn, there are two primary interstellar political groupings, the Confederation of Human Worlds (broken away from the organization on Earth with the same name, with its capital on the world known as Union), and the Second Commonwealth, centered on Buckingham. Neither of those political unions is as large or as powerful as they will be in another nineteen decades, when their diametrically opposed interests finally bring them to the point of war. In the meantime, humans who need military assistance, and do not want the domination of either Confederation or Commonwealth, have only a handful of options. Those who can afford it turn to mercenaries. And the largest source of those is on the world of Dirigent. …

  1

  Angie Nolan had blue eyes and blond, almost white, hair that was naturally curly. In two days, she would be ten months old. So far, Lon had been able to see no resemblance in Angie to either her mother or her father, though he tried, diligently.

  Captain Lon Nolan finished dressing his daughter after a diaper change, then picked her up and carried her back to the living room, talking softly to her the whole time. Though he kept the words simple, he never resorted to the gibberish of “baby talk.”

  “It’ll be a miracle if she ever learns to walk, the way you and Junior carry her around all the time,” Sara Nolan said when she saw them. There was a smile on her face, though; this was an old joke between her and her husband. Sara stood in the doorway between kitchen and living room. Outwardly, she looked little different to Lon than when he had first seen her, more than eight years before. Even now, there were times when Lon could not believe his memories of that evening. They had gone from being strangers to being engaged to be married in only a couple of hours. The precipitous nature of their courtship had led some to predictions of disaster, but that clichéd “love at first sight” had not only survived, it had also grown with each passing year. There were tiny lines at the corners of her eyes now, and she wore her red hair shorter, but that was the extent of the changes that Lon noticed.

  Lon, Junior, was sitting on the floor, too near the entertainment console, as usual. He was seven years old and looked very much like his father. Junior looked toward his mother as if he were ready to contradict some part of what she had said, but he saw the smile and turned back to his program instead.

  “She’ll have plenty of time for walking,” Lon said, carefully setting the girl on the floor next to her brother. She immediately climbed onto Junior’s lap and made herself comfortable, ready to stare at the show on the console with him.

  “Angie walks pretty good already,” Junior said then, shifting her so he was more comfortable. The boy had never exhibited any jealousy at the arrival of a sister. He doted on her nearly as much as their parents did.

  “Go wash your hands for supper,” his mother said. “It’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  It was a Saturday evening in early October, a mild autumn in Dirigent City. A third of the Dirigent Mercenary Corps was off-world on contract. Lon’s unit, Company A, 2nd Battalion, 7th Regiment, was near the top of the lists for both company-and battalion-size operations. The next contract, the next trip away from Dirigent, might be no more than days—weeks at the most—away. That made Lon’s time at home, evenings and weekends, all the more precious to him. After eleven years in the DMC, he no longer looked eagerly forward to the next chance for contract pay. Even if a mission did not involve combat, it still kept him away from his wife and children, and that was hard, beyond what the extra pay for off-world service was worth to him.

  The battalion had been back on Dirigent for seven months this time around. The men had gone through their regular stints of training and planetary defense duty, getting in furlough time as possible, and had just gone back to a training schedule. For Lon that generally meant a five-day workweek, eight to five, little different from any other working man on any developed world. Night exercises were rare. The only regular interruption to the routine was the one night out of twelve when he drew duty as battalion officer of the day. His last turn at that had come the previous Sunday.

  Angie sat in her high chair between her parents at the kitchen table. Lon, Junio
r, sat across from his sister. Living quarters for married captains and lieutenants did not include a separate dining room. Those were reserved for senior officers.

  When everyone was in place, Lon said grace. He had never been particularly religious, but he had rarely questioned the existence of a God, and Angie thought that it was important to show a good example for the children. When possible, they even attended services at the nearest chapel on base together. At times like this, Lon found that there was little pretense in his open prayers. He looked around at his family and thought how lucky—how blessed—he had been in life. It couldn’t be better, he thought.

  Junior carried most of the conversation during supper. He talked about his day—the shows he had watched, his “adventures” playing, and what Angie had done. Every day seemed to bring some new accomplishment for the infant, and that amazed the boy.

  Lon listened and watched in fascinated amusement. He could not recall ever being as exuberant as his son. He could not really recall being that young himself. There was only one passage in the boy’s talk this evening that bothered Lon. In the course of one tale, Junior said something that started with “When I grow up and join the Corps …” Lon felt the frown settle across his face before he could mask it, but Junior did not notice.

  “There are other things besides being a soldier,” Lon said when he got a chance.

  “But I want to be a soldier, just like you,” the boy said, and he went on with his story.

  I hope you change your mind, Lon thought, no longer really listening to the narrative. You’re smart, even smarter than I was at your age. There are lots of other things you could do with your life. Junior had started reading when he was just a little past his third birthday, and he tested in the top percentile of children his age. Lon had never seriously questioned his own career as a soldier, and the desire to follow that vocation had started when he was perhaps no older than his son was now. Lon did not like to admit it, even to himself, but the thought that his son might someday join the Corps made him anxious.

  “He’ll change his mind a thousand times over the next ten years about what he wants to be when he grows up,” Sara told Lon when they were alone for a moment after supper. Junior and Angie were in the living room again. Lon was helping his wife put dishes in the washer. “Children are like that.” She had seen the strained look on Lon’s face when Junior talked about wanting to be a soldier.

  “I hope so,” Lon whispered. “But I wasn’t. I set my mind on being a soldier when I was about Junior’s age and never wavered. All I ever wanted to be was a soldier.” That phrase nearly brought a shiver to him. It hadn’t been easy. He had lost his chance at becoming a soldier on Earth when the top students in his class at the North American Military Academy were earmarked for the federal police and the task of containing the millions of idle poor who lived in the city areas known as circuses. He had left Earth to escape that career of intentional brutality, heading for the mercenary world of Dirigent … a lifetime ago. “And here,” Lon continued, “one way or another, the entire planet revolves around the Corps. It’s impossible to escape the influence.”

  “It is what we do,” Sara said. “Without the Corps, Dirigent wouldn’t amount to much.” She kissed Lon on the cheek. “And it’s too soon to worry about what Junior’s going to be when he grows up, anyway. It’ll make you old before your time.” She started the washer, then led Lon toward the living room. When Lon was home, Saturday evenings were for the family.

  Junior chose the show they watched that evening, not the rarest of events. This one was an adventure about a handful of people stranded on some world dominated by gigantic dinosaurs and dragons, searching for some fabulous—and improbable—artifact. The plot had more holes in it than a target after a long day on the rifle range, but that never bothered Junior. And his father could tolerate it. The vid was full of unintentional humor. The adventure was nearing its incredible climax when a red light on the status line at the bottom of the screen started blinking to signal an incoming call.

  “I’ll get it in the kitchen,” Lon said.

  He closed the door between the two rooms to shut out the sounds of dragons and dinosaurs, then keyed the accept button on the complink. The screen came to life instantly. Major Matt Orlis, adjutant for 2nd Battalion, was calling from his office.

  “Lon, we need you at regimental headquarters as fast as you can make it,” Orlis, Lon’s predecessor as commander of A Company, said.

  “A contract?” Lon asked.

  Orlis shook his head no. “Are you alone there?”

  Lon nodded yes.

  “There’s been a problem, in 3rd Battalion. You will be sitting as one of the officers on a general court-martial.”

  Lon felt his breath catch. “What’s the offense?”

  “Murder.”

  2

  By the time Lon had changed into uniform, there was a car waiting outside to take him to regimental headquarters.

  “You’re not going out on contract, are you?” Sara had asked as soon as he got off link and headed through the living room toward their bedroom.

  “No, not a contract,” he said, not stopping to talk. Sara followed him into the bedroom. Once the door was closed behind them, Lon told her what little he knew.

  “Murder?” she asked.

  “That’s what Matt said. I’ll let you know as soon as I know anything I can share,” Lon promised. He was already out of his civilian clothes and reaching for a fresh uniform from the closet.

  Murder. No one in the DMC had been charged with that crime in all the years that Lon had been on Dirigent.

  “Will you be late?” Sara asked as Lon affixed the oval pips of a DMC captain, red enamel and gold, to the lapels of his uniform shirt.

  “I have no idea if I’ll even get home tonight,” he said. “I don’t know how complicated this is going to be.” In the DMC, a court-martial panel was assembled as early in the process as possible. They oversaw the investigation by the military police and judge advocate, charged with protecting the rights of victims, witnesses, and the accused—as well as with finding the truth. Lon had sat on two special courts-martial—one step below a general court-martial in numbers and in the maximum sentence they were allowed to impose—in his years as an officer in the DMC.

  Lon was slipping on his dress boots when the doorbell rang and Sara went to answer. It was the driver sent for Lon.

  “Sorry to have to roust you out on a Saturday night, Captain,” the driver, a corporal from regimental headquarters, said.

  “Not your fault, Corporal,” Lon said as the driver held open the door to the ground-effect vehicle for him.

  They did not discuss the case. Lon knew no more than what Matt Orlis had told him, and he knew better than to ask. Nor did the driver volunteer any information. The ride to 7th Regiment’s headquarters took less than ten minutes. Several other vehicles were parked in front of the building, and there were more lights than usual on inside.

  An MP standing watch just inside the main entrance directed Lon to the office of the OD, the officer of the day. The door to that office was standing open. Major Orlis, now the executive officer for 2nd Battalion, was the regimental OD.

  “Sorry to spoil your weekend, Lon,” Orlis said, getting up to return Lon’s salute and to shake hands. “But this is a bad one. I can’t tell you more now. We’re still waiting for two more members of the court-martial. I’ll brief you all at the same time. It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Where do I wait?” was the only question Lon asked, though there were several others he wanted to have answered.

  “Conference room just across the hall. There’s a fresh pot of coffee going in there, or there was ten minutes ago.”

  Lon nodded and went to the other room. There were two officers already in there, sitting at the oval conference table, across from each other. Major Tefford Ives was the executive officer of the regiment’s 1st Battalion. Near fifty and unlikely to advance any higher in the Corps, Ives nodded
a casual greeting to Lon and gestured at the empty chairs. Lon needed a few seconds to recall the name of the other officer, Captain Dave Gowers from 5th Regiment. Lon could not recall what battalion or company Gowers belonged to. Lon got coffee and sat at the table.

  “Orlis say how much longer we’ve got to wait before we find out what’s going on?” Ives asked after Lon was seated.

  “Just that it shouldn’t be long, Major,” Lon said.

  The next officer arrived almost on Lon’s last word. Captain Wallis Ames commanded 2nd Battalion’s? Company, and had ever since Lon had joined the battalion. He was past sixty years of age, steady but unremarkable as a combat leader. And less than two minutes later, the final member of the court-martial panel was escorted into the room by Major Orlis.

  “Gentlemen,” Orlis said, “Colonel Johan Ellis will be the president of this court-martial.” The officers sitting at the table had all stood to attention as soon as the commanding officer of 12th Regiment entered the room.

  “Please sit, gentlemen,” the colonel said as he went around the table to sit at the center of one of the long sides. “Let’s save the formalities for when there are others present.”

  “Coffee, Colonel?” Lon asked. He was closest to the chair that Ellis took.

  “Thank you, Captain, yes.”

  Matt Orlis waited until Lon had fetched coffee for the colonel, then moved to a position across from Ellis, but remained standing a couple of paces from the edge of the table, where everyone could see him without straining their necks.

  “Colonel, gentlemen, you have been convened to sit as a general court-martial,” Orlis said, part of the ritual required for the empanelment. “The convening authority is the General, Herman Rodrigues.”

  Lon closed his eyes for an instant. The General himself was the convening authority, and the president of the court-martial was a full colonel. Those two items were enough to tell him that the case was one in which the sentence might be death if the suspect—whoever he was—were convicted.