Then we started combat training, and then we started losing our normal
23.5 per cent.
It wasn't too bad as long as they stuck to the primitive stuff. I mean,
you can see arrows and spears coming at you, and even if you have
had only the five hours of sleep you can either duck the projectiles
or catch them on your shield. And with the medics on the alert, the
wounds are painful but seldom fatal. You just end up with a week's
hospitalization and slip back to the next training group. But when they
go up to the explosively-propelled solids, when the Trontar smirks and
says: "Men, this is called a boomer, or a banger, or maybe sometimes a
firestick, depending on what planet you're fighting on," and when he
holds up a contraption of wood and metal with a hole at one end and a
handle on the other--then, Draftee, look out!
It takes time to learn. It isn't till you associate a bang in the
distance with a perforated man beside you that you do learn. And when
you finally come under fire from our regular production weapons like
rays--well!
You might wonder why they run us through the entire history of weapons
starting with the sling and ending with the slithers--the name
servicemen give to those Zeta Rays that diverge from line of sight to
drop in on a dug-in enemy. The usual explanation is that Haldorians
are still invading places where the natives still use such things as
bows and arrows. But I think, myself, that it's something the Mil Prop
guys figured out. The idea is, as I see it, to run you right through
the whole course of our fighting, invading Haldorian history, and in
that way to make a better fighter out of you. And you do get rid of
the death-prones before there's much time or work invested in them--or
before their inevitable early death means the failure of a mission.
Haldoria--most practical of Empires!
But they didn't make a fighter of me. All they did was to reinforce
my natural survival instinct considerably, acquaint me with the
tortuous ways of the service, and give me a great urge for a peaceful
existence. But to all appearances, as I stood in the orderly room after
graduation, I was the ideal poster-picture of a Haldorian, completely
uniformed with polished power boots and rayer, a crawler to the
higher-ups and a stomper on the lower-downs, a Fighter Basic with no
compassion but with a certified aptitude for advancement to at least
the rank of Trontar.
"Fighter Basic Ruxt," the Dispositions Hweetoral announced.
"Here, Sir!"
"Your application for transfer to Statistical Services has been
disapproved." The two-striper's expression showed what he, as a
fighting man, thought of the Statistical Services. "But we've got a
real assignment for you, Ruxt! The 27th Invasion Force is all set
to drop on a new system. You're lucky, Ruxt, that you put in that
application. We had to hold you till it bounced. Your buddies got
shipped to those rear-echelon guard outfits, but you're going to a
real fighting one. It should be a good invasion--this new system's got
atomic fission, I hear. And I'd like to tell you something, Ruxt...."
"I know what, Sir," I said. "You envy me."
* * * * *
The 27th was a real fighting unit all right: they had their own
neckerchief, their own war cry, and a general who was on his way up.
Now they had me.
And they were going to get another system for the Haldorian Empire.
You see, those intelligent worms, or maybe they are slugs--I'm a bit
vague on universe geography--over on the next Galaxy but one, give
us Haldorians all sorts of difficulties. They insist on freedom,
self-determination, and all that sort of thing. That's all very well,
but they insist on them for themselves. Our high-level planners
decided that another solar system would make a better offensive set-up
for Haldoria. The planners, I understand, have all sorts of esoteric
theories about the ideal shape and size of an offensive unit. They ring
in time and something related to time which makes Galaxy distances
differ according to which direction you are travelling. As I say,
esoteric.
The only thing that mattered to me was that some technicians had fed
some data into a computer and it had hiccupped and said: "You'll
need such-and-such a planet to control such-and-such a solar system,
and that will give you a better offensive set-up." Then the computer
hiccupped again and said: "You'll need to draft and train Ameet Ruxt
to help on this little job of taking over this planet called Terra, or
Earth."
That's what it amounted to, anyhow. Consequently I joined the 27th
Invasion Force.
"So you've got an application in for transfer to the Statistical
Services, huh?" Trontar Hytd, my new platoon three-striper, asked when
I reported in for duty with the 27th.
"Yes, Sir." I'd learned, along the line, that one should never give up
when applying for a transfer--just keep one in the mill.
"Huh, Borr, this new guy likes to work with figures," Trontar Hytd
growled at Hweetoral Borr, my new squad leader. "Thinks he doesn't
want to be a Fighter." Trontar Hytd looked at me questioningly.