Colonel (UC) Read online

  Lon got up from the sofa and stretched. "I think I'll take a walk. I need to get a little exercise. It's been three days since I went to the gym."

  "Just don't get carried away. It's cold out. And your parents might be here before noon."

  "Just a quick turn around the neighborhood," Lon promised.

  The houses for married personnel had been laid out with military precision. The sizes of houses and lawns varied in strict proportion with the rank of the soldier each was designed for. The most senior officers, colonels and lieutenant colonels, were along one street, nearer Corps headquarters than the rest. Majors and captains were quartered in the next blocks. Farthest off were the few lieutenants and senior enlisted personnel who were married. At all ranks below major, married men were the minority in the Corps. Marriage was—unofficially—discouraged until the soldier had at least ten years in uniform and had reached the rank of captain or lead sergeant… for officers and enlisted personnel respectively.

  Lon had set himself no route before leaving the house. He turned right and started walking. The sidewalks had not been cleared, so he left a clear trail in the snow, the ridged soles of his boots crunching snow underfoot, giving a muted sound track to his walk. The air was crisp, bringing a tingle to his face and ears before he had gone a single block. He kept his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, out of the cold. He had gloves with him but did not bother to put them on.

  He walked, at something less than a normal marching gait. Even five years earlier he might have felt compelled to jog. He still ran, perhaps three days a week in garrison, but not as far or as intently as he had when he was younger and considered himself a distance runner. He was not constantly trying to meet his best recent times for the mile… or any other distance. It was enough for him to maintain a significant edge over the time he would have to meet when he took his annual physical fitness test. No one in the Dirigent Mercenary Corps could let himself get flabby or out of condition. Even the General, commanding officer of the Corps and head of state for the world, had to meet the same physical conditioning standards as any private just completing recruit training to remain in the DMC.

  When Lon eventually increased his pace, it was strictly as a response to the cold. It wasn't enough to turn him back toward home immediately, but a little more speed did help offset the nip in the air. A brisk walk helped to keep stray thoughts from intruding as well. He was as off-duty as a regimental commander ever could be. Unless the communications link in his pocket beeped, he was free. He looked around, enjoying the snow-covered scenery, the antiseptic look of fresh white covering everything. The residential area was set far enough from the rest of the base that there was nothing overtly military about his surroundings. He saw children playing in a few yards, some attempting to build snowmen… without marked success. The snow wasn't wet enough for that. At least no one tried to use him as a target for snowballs.

  Lon walked three blocks, then turned to his left and walked a block over to the next street of houses, then turned left again and, unconsciously, increased his pace a little more. It was cold enough that he felt no desire to prolong the morning walk. He found himself whistling, some unidentifiable melange of partially remembered songs strung together in a way guaranteed to offend the ears of anyone who appreciated good music, but Lon had the sidewalks to himself. There was no one to scream in agony at his efforts.

  He went two blocks beyond the corner he would have turned at to go directly back home, then finally crossed back to his own street. His exertion had him feeling a little warm, except for the persistent chill against his exposed face. He intentionally turned the wrong way on his street, away from home, and went two more blocks before he crossed the lane and reversed his course.

  Sweating and freezing at the same time, he thought as he kicked snow from his boots on the front porch of the house the family had moved into when he won his promotion to colonel. This one had more room than they could possibly need. That's about standard for an infantryman. He took his hands from his pockets and rubbed vigorously at his cheeks. They were more than a little numb after a half hour in the below-freezing air. Before going inside, he turned and scanned the street in both directions. There was ho one else in sight.

  "You look like a lobster just pulled from the pot," Sara said when she saw Lon's face.

  "I'd almost trade places with one," Lon said, rubbing at his cheeks again. They had started to tingle. "Very nippy out. You catch the forecast, by any chance? Our 4th Battalion is due to go out on overnight maneuvers tomorrow. The colder it is, the more bitching there'll be." He stomped his boots on the rug in the entry way a couple of times to get rid of any vestiges of snow and to warm his feet.

  "No, I haven't checked the forecast yet, but I've heard some of the things you said when you had to go out in the cold, or in the rain," Sara said, turning away to hide her grin. "Serve you right to be on the other end of it."

  Lon took off his coat and hung it in the closet. "I never get to hear any of it since I made colonel. Everyone's too careful for that. But the looks." He laughed. "Especially since I won't be out with them. It's not the whole regiment."

  "Well, you could always go out with them just to show the men your heart's in the right place," Sara suggested, more in jest than earnest. "Suffer with them, be the stalwart campaigner you always claim to be."

  "And listen to you complain about me being away when I don't have to?" Lon asked, falling into the same bantering tone. "I don't have three layers of men keeping me from hearing the awful truth at home." Both of them were comfortable with it after the twenty-three years they had been married. It had helped carry them through some of the more difficult days in those years. "You'd remind me of it for months. Besides, I've been in the army long enough to know not to volunteer for anything I don't have to."

  "Me, complain?"

  "You know why Napoleon always had his hand inside his tunic, don't you?" Lon asked as they moved from the foyer into the living room. "It was because Josephine's nagging gave him ulcers."

  "Are you two at it again?"

  Angie's parents hadn't seen or heard her come into the room. Her unexpected question startled both of them.

  "We're just talking," Sara said. "We do that now and then. It helps pass the time between meals."

  Angie wrinkled her nose at her mother. At sixteen, Angie Nolan was a beautiful young woman with a trim figure. Even just a few minutes from sleep, her face looked fresh and clear. There were no dark circles around her eyes, no hint of sleepiness in her face. Her shoulder-length blond hair had not been combed yet, but there were few visible snarls to it.

  "You want breakfast?" Sara asked.

  Angie shook her head, which dislodged most of the tangles in her hair. "We'll be having dinner in a couple of hours. I'll just have some juice and maybe a piece of toast."

  "Too many cookies and chips at the dance last night?" Lon asked.

  "No," Angie said, drawing the word out like stretching a rubber band. "I'm just not hungry. I don't like to eat right after I get up. Makes me feel bloated. Is Junior going to be here for dinner?"

  "He said he would be," Lon said, nodding. "But I wouldn't count on it until you see him. He was going out to meet friends when he left here last night. They might not have found their way back from Camo Town yet."

  "Lon!" Sara said, a world of admonishment in the word.

  "What did I say?" Lon asked.

  "Mother, I'm not six years old. I do have some idea what goes on in the world. Nothing Daddy says is going to shock me senseless."

  Sara took a deep breath. "It had nothing to do with you, dear."

  Angie looked from her mother to her father, then back. That response was not what she had been expecting. "I've got to shower and get dressed," she said then. She didn't wait for a reply. Sara watched Angie until she turned into the hallway and the stairs leading up to her bedroom. Lon started chuckling as his daughter went out of sight.

  "I never know what's going to come out of y
our mouth," Sara said when she turned back to Lon. "Honestly! Barracks talk."

  Lon's chuckle threatened to get completely out of control. "If you think that was barracks talk, then you've never heard the real thing… and I know better. You grew up in a pub. You probably heard worse before you were half Angie's age."

  "That's beside the point. Anyway, my father never let the soldiers who came to the pub get too far out of line. He could tone them down in a hurry, and you know that."

  Lon moved to Sara, put his arm around her, and led her toward the kitchen. When she started to resist a little, he tickled her side.

  "Stop that," Sara said, but there was no protest in her tone. "I've got to get this place ready for dinner. Your parents could be here in an hour." They kissed quickly, and Sara pushed Lon away. "Go watch cartoons or something."

  Lawrence and Maddie Nolan both looked younger after living on Dirigent for six years than they had when they arrived. It was something Lon and Sara talked about occasionally, and even their children had noticed the change in their grandparents. The stress lines had disappeared from their faces, making them look softer, younger. The voices and movements were more relaxed. It was rare for either of them to even mention Earth any longer, though Lon's father admitted that they kept track of news from there. Filtered by distance and time—the "latest" news from Earth was always at least a month old before it reached Dirigent—the information was rarely more… emotional than lines from a history text.

  Despite the quarter-century difference in their ages, Lawrence and Lon now looked more like brothers than father and son. Lawrence was a little heavier, a little softer in appearance, but with the help of his implanted nanotech health maintenance system he was maintaining his apparent age at about fifty, close to Lon's real age. Lon's hair was beginning to show a little gray, since he did not have his HMS programmed for cosmetic effects. Few active members of the Corps did. A semblance of age lent authority. Most waited until they resigned or retired before having their systems reprogrammed in that fashion. Then they might shed apparent years in weeks. Molecular repair units could even carry melanin out into hair to remove gray.

  "You figure this will be the year you make General?" Lawrence asked his son as soon as they were alone in the living room. Maddie had gone to help Sara in the kitchen. Angie had come downstairs just long enough to greet her grandparents, then had disappeared upstairs again to resume a complink conversation with one of her friends from school.

  "We've been through this before, Dad," Lon said. "I don't ever expect to become General." There was only one General at a time in the DMC, elected for a one-year term by the fourteen regimental commanders from among their own number. "It would break too many traditions, and the Corps is almost as tradition bound as any army on Earth. No first-generation Dirigenter has ever held the post, no one whose father wasn't an officer in the Corps has ever held it. And on and on."

  Lawrence snorted. "I've done a little research. Only one man who wasn't born on Dirigent has ever commanded a regiment. You. Only one man who didn't have any ancestors in the Corps has ever commanded a regiment. You. And on and on. There's no reason to think you won't be elected General before you retire."

  "I'm not so sure. Maybe if I hang around another twenty or thirty years and everyone else on the Council of Regiments has had a turn or two already, they might decide the only way to get rid of me will be to let me play General for a year, but I don't expect to stay on that long. Staying fit enough to pass the annual physical fitness test gets harder every year. Even if I don't decide to pack it in and take over Sara's parents' pub sooner, I can't see me staying in the Corps more than another decade. If that. Once Augie graduates from high school, I might decide enough is enough just about anytime."

  "The kid who kept saying, 'All I ever want to be is a soldier'?" Lawrence asked.

  Lon frowned. "You don't know how many years I've spent having nightmares about that sentence. Ever since Junior started saying the same thing. Anyway, I've been a soldier more than half my life. I've seen more than enough of what that can mean."

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to raise ghosts. Let me ask you something else, then. Who do you figure will be the next General?"

  Lon smiled. "I don't have a clue, but Sara's back-fence gossip circle says it'll be Bob Hayley of 15th unless he's off-world when election time comes around in March.

  And 15th Regiment is at the top of the rota for regiment-size contracts, so that's possible. And if Bob is off on contract, there's no favorite for second choice among the wives."

  "Not electing someone who's off-world… is that another of your hidebound traditions?"

  "Pretty much. It's not a written rule, but it's never been done. I don't know. It might just be superstition, afraid to jinx a man who might be in a combat situation, or fear that he might be killed or captured. But, once elected, the General doesn't leave Dirigent during his term. Ever. Any diplomatic travel is generally done by civilians, usually career bureaucrats or retired senior officers."

  "So if Colonel Hayley is off on contract when election time comes around and there's no clear second choice, then your chances are as good as anyone else's, right?" Lawrence asked.

  Lon laughed. "You got a bet on with someone?" He didn't wait for his father to respond. "No, if Hayley isn't here, it'll probably end up with Murtaugh, Mills, or Dumbrovski. They've all been on the Council longer than me and haven't had a shot at the top job yet."

  "None of them has a record to match yours, and the word I've been hearing is that Murtaugh hasn't got a shot at ever becoming General. Something about a contract on Aurora."

  "That was a long time ago, his first time out as a company commander. He's completed a lot of good contracts since then." Lon knew about the Aurora contract. He had heard it mentioned several times by senior officers, and had eventually looked up the record. Murtaugh, then a captain, had commanded one company on a battalion-size contract. Exactly what had happened was still a matter of dispute despite the video and audio recordings from the battle helmets of the officers and noncommissioned officers involved, but Murtaugh's company had suffered 20 percent casualties and had failed to fulfill their part of the operation, which had led to serious casualties in the rest of the battalion. Another battalion had to be sent to Aurora to fulfill the contract.

  "Maybe you're right about Murtaugh," Lon said after thinking about it for a moment. "Memories can be long for something like that. The Corps lost money as well as too many men on that contract. It still leaves Mills and Dumbrovski. Mills's father and Dumbrovski's grandfather each served as General at least once."

  "Don't you want to be General?" Lawrence asked.

  "I've never let myself give it much thought," Lon said. "Getting my own regiment always seemed to be right at the very edge of possibility. I never had the time or the inclination to look much beyond that. Do I want to be General?" Lon paused, then shook his head. "Not especially, not now. Oh, I wouldn't turn it down if by some miracle the job was offered to me, but I don't need the title to validate my life. I don't have any driving urge to have it. Does that surprise you?"

  Lawrence was slow to reply. "In a way. I'd think that going as far as you could in your chosen career would be more important to you."

  Lon closed his eyes for an instant before he spoke again. "Dad, I've got too many ghosts haunting my dreams now. I've seen too much death, buried too many friends. The way conditions are in the galaxy, we do a lot of good. I can see the need for the Corps, despite the cost in lives. As long as I'm a field commander, I can make a difference. I have to believe that fewer of our people die with me in command than might under someone else. But the General isn't a field commander. He never goes on contract. He just has the final word on which contracts we accept and sends men out where he can't personally affect what happens."

  "I don't think it's quite that simple."

  Lon shrugged. "Maybe not, but the point remains. It's bad enough for me now sending a battalion off, or a company, and not go
ing along to oversee the contract personally."

  "You oversee training. You have some say in who gets promoted. You affect things, just at one remove. You're not God, Lon. You're human, just like the rest of us. All we can do is the best we can."

  "I'm a soldier. When the best I can isn't good enough, men die. There are rows and rows of men who have died on contract under my command, so many that sometimes I can't remember all of their names. That's part of the nightmare."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Although Dirigent used the same names for its months that Earth did, they had been synchronized with the seasons on Dirigent's primary continent, putting Christmas and New Year's Day in the two weeks past the winter solstice, and bore no intrinsic relationship to the calendars of Earth. When Dirigent was settled, directly from Earth, its calendar was "out of phase" with Earth's by ten weeks. Over the centuries, slight differences in the length of the year between the two worlds had taken it nearly one more week out of alignment. It was a common problem, and the lengths of day and year on Dirigent were closer to Earth's than many other colony worlds' were. Every complink had automatic functions for converting the local calendars of hundreds of worlds to the month and year of any of the three "standards"—those of Earth, Union (for the breakaway Confederation of Human Worlds), and Buckingham (for the worlds of the Second Commonwealth).

  On January 2, 2830, Lon's staff car pulled to the curb in front of the house at two minutes before seven o'clock in the morning—0658 hours in military time. Sunrise had occurred just six minutes earlier. Night was retreating west. Shadows were long. The temperature was slightly below freezing, and there were patches of ice where the snow of the day before had melted and frozen again. Sergeant Jeremy Howell got out of the gray floater and held the passenger's door open for Lon when he came out of the house.