Chapter 4 — CHIRON

True to my deal with Sergeant Smith, who was now back up to E6, I put in for Officer's Training School and was accepted. I had thought Basic Training was bad; this was worse. But I struggled through for several months while my sister Spirit breezed through Basic. I emerged an ensign, Ol, the lowest form of officer, and she became a private. I continued my training, and so did she, and when I was twenty and she seventeen, she, too, went in for officer's training. In due course I was a lieutenant j.g., O2, and she was an ensign. One tends to think of the distaff as weaker, or at least gentler, but Spirit seemed to get through the rigors of training and qualifications, Tail and all, with less difficulty than I had.

Now Lieutenant Repro presented me with the next stage of his ambition. "You must achieve your own command," he told me. "You must gather within it the most capable officers available, so as to make it the best unit in the Navy. But you must not let the upper echelons realize how good it is, or they will destroy it."

I smiled. "I'm only a junior-grade lieutenant," I reminded him. "It will be decades, if ever, before I command anything—and at such time as I do, I'll be more interested in wiping out pirates than in forming the perfect concealed showcase unit."

"Not so, Hubris," he said. "You are a man of destiny. Your talent is the understanding of people. You will be a leader. You will indeed go after the pirates—once you have your position."

That interested me. "I have sworn to extirpate piracy from the System," I said. "If your ambition aligns with that, I'm with you."

"To abolish the illicit drug trade, it is necessary first to abolish piracy," he said. "That is part of my ambition."

I gazed at him. He was an addict, of what particular drug I felt it was not my business to know, but it continued to devastate him. He had grown more gaunt in the past three years. I had to believe him; he wanted the drug trade stopped. But if it stopped, his own supply would be cut off. His motive remained too complex for me to fathom.

"Your first target is Lieutenant Commander Phist," he said. "Draw him into your orbit. He is the best logistics officer in the Navy."

"How can an O2 lieutenant draw in an O4 commander?"

"You won't stay O2 forever," Repro said. "But he will remain O4 forever, just as I will remain O3 forever. You must find a way to snag him before he resigns from the Navy."

I was now in charge of a maintenance platoon, doing routine inspections of Navy equipment. It was a standby operation, and I had time on my hands. I got to work researching Lieutenant Commander Phist.

Gerald Phist was thirty-five years old. He had been a rising logistics officer, highly competent, with an impressive number of citations for excellence. It had been his job to oversee the Navy's acquisition of supplies and equipment, and he had done that well.

Then he had blown the whistle on a billion-dollar cost overrun that was bilking the Navy of hard-pressed resources and reducing combat efficiency. But in so doing he had stepped on the toes of certain profiteering commercial interests. Strings had been pulled, and instead of being rewarded for service to the Navy and, indeed, to Jupiter herself, Phist had been passed over for promotion, removed from his position, and assigned to irrelevant duties. His Navy career was essentially over, because he had done his job too well. He was described as a pleasant, handsome, conscientious, and extraordinarily capable man of conservative philosophy and absolutely honest; but these qualities, it seemed, counted for nothing in this situation.

Lieutenant Repro was right. There was the smell of something rotten in the Navy, and Commander Phist was the kind of officer I wanted at my side when the going got tough. But how could I, a lowly Hispanic lieutenant, keep Phist in the Navy, let alone bring him to me? What miracle did Repro require of me?

I discussed it with Spirit. As a surviving sibling of a devastated family, she was permitted to serve in my unit; the Navy did have some slight conscience about such things. At seventeen she was a lovely young woman, with luxuriant dark hair and a classic figure. Her face was not as striking as Faith's had been, partly because of the faint scar tissue from a mishap we had had as refugees with a rocket motor, and her left little finger was a stub; but Spirit remained a woman of considerable esthetic appeal. Her mind, too, was laser swift; she was more intelligent than I, and more incisive. She also had more nerve, though It seldom showed overtly.

"I will fetch him for you," she said.

Again I looked at her. My talent has this limitation: It loses effect when my own emotions are involved. I could not read my sister. But I knew she was capable of things I would hesitate to speculate about. "How?" I asked.

She merely smiled. "Just give me a little time, Hope."

Spirit had always been able to bluff me out, the only person who could do so. She was, in a subtle sense, my strength. She would reveal her design to me in her own fashion and time. "I don't know whether there's any real meaning in Lieutenant Repro's ambition," I said. "He has worked out a slate of ideal officers as an intellectual exercise, not necessarily during his lucid periods. It may be no more than a pipe dream."

"It's a good dream," she said.

Weeks passed in the normal routine, and the dream faded into the background. In the Navy one must live with delays; they are part of the bureaucratic fabric, without which it would doubtless fall apart. Every so often I dropped in on Sergeant Smith, who was still training recruits; he always grinned as he saluted me. I represented a victory for him; he had decided I was officer material, and he had been vindicated. He was doing the same with other selected recruits, steering them right. I was gratified to have come through for him. Yet so far my life as an officer was no more progressive than it had been as an enlisted man. Military life, if the truth must be told, is not nearly as dramatic as the recruiting posters pretend. Of course, it might be different during a war.

Then I got another vid call from Q. "What price?" the blank screen asked.

"I asked you to show me your power," I said angrily. "You showed me your treachery!" I had not followed up on the Box Q lead I had from Brinker, wary of another trap; better that QYV did not know what information I had. When he was satisfied that I could not locate him, then I would follow up. I had time, and my position on QYV was no longer neutral.

"Never trust a pirate," the Q voice said. "Sell it."

"I don't do business with your ilk!"

"Do not force my hand, Hubris. There is more than you know."

"It is an empty hand!" I snapped, and disconnected.

A week later new orders came down: I was to command a platoon in a company of a battalion that had been placed on alert status. This meant space duty, possibly extended. It would separate me from Spirit.

I had little doubt that QYV had shown me his power again. I was angry, but I had no choice; I had to go where assigned.

My platoon was infantry, somewhat surly about being commanded by a Navy officer instead of an Army sergeant. It was a conflict that had smoldered for centuries, ever since the various military services of Earthly nations had merged with the exodus to space. Because ships were essential in space, the Navy dominated; the Army had been reduced to enlisted status. The several other military branches—Air Force, Marines, National Guard, and such—had simply faded out. One might have supposed that time would have eased the internecine rivalries, but that had not been the case.

This would be no pleasant tour. All three platoons were holding GI parties—that is, pointless and savage scouring of their barracks—as I arrived, preparatory for an inspection. I had never liked inspections; most of them were merely makework, unpleasant exercises that irritated the men. My assumption of command at this moment was unfortunate; my men would forever associate me with it. I had to do something in a hurry to modify that association, or turn it to my advantage.

The sergeant in charge snapped to attention as I entered the barracks area. The men did not; they were on work detail. "Sir, Sergeant Fuller reporting."

"At ease," I said. "I am Lieutenant Hubris, your new commander." I looked about, noting that a good half of the men were dusky in the Hispanic manner. Deliberately, I removed my hat and jacket and handed them to the sergeant, symbolically stripping myself of my rank. "What chicken shit is this?" I inquired loudly in Spanish.

My judgment was correct; half the laboring men paused and looked up, startled. The sergeant evidently did not speak Spanish, but he knew something was up. "You wish to talk to the men, sir?" he inquired respectfully.

"I do not see any men," I continued in Spanish. "I see a bunch of scrubwomen. Did they enlist for this?" I was rolling up my sleeves.

Baffled, the sergeant did not reply. Some of the men were stifling grins. This was a good show!

"Well, might as well do my part in this foolishness," I said. I picked up a brush, found a spot, and got down on my knees to scrub.

"Sir!" the sergeant protested.

"Hi, soldier, what's your name?" I asked the man next to me.

"Rodriguez, sir," he said, bemused.

"Hope, here. From Halfcal, the hard way. You?"

"Dominant Republic," he said, smiling. "Same planet."

"We're neighbors!" I exclaimed. "We share sunshine."

"Yes, sir. But you—an officer?"

"First refugee, then migrant, then enlisted, then officer. Each in its turn. I don't know which is worst." I looked down at my brush. "This isn't so bad. Last time I was on this detail, I used a toothbrush. The sergeant seemed to think that was more effective." There was a general chuckle; they knew about toothbrushes, and about sergeants.

"Sir," the sergeant said worriedly. "Commander Hastings—"

"Ooops! Have to put on the monkey suit," I said. "Forgive me, neighbor; it's guard-duty time." I scrambled up and dived into my jacket and hat.

"Loco!" someone muttered admiringly.

When the martinet arrived, I was pretty much in order. The sergeant looked as if he had swallowed a scrub brush, and the men were scrubbing savagely. I had soap spots on my knees.

Lieutenant Commander Hastings glanced at the scene. "You seem to have a knack for discipline, Hubris," he remarked.

"They're good men, sir," I said, straight-faced, in English.

Someone coughed.

This platoon was mine.

 

Next day the Cannon Dust weighed anchor and cast off from her mooring at the pier. Since the pier was a rotating cylinder, this sent the ship moving away from Leda at approximately thirty-two feet per second. When she had suitable separation, she oriented and cut in her main drive. Naval vessels seldom bothered with gravity shields; those were too slow.

Perhaps I should mention one technical aspect: The Navy uses the most effective mode of propulsion, which is the CT drive. CT, of course, stands for contra-terrene matter, which might be described as the mirror image of normal matter. CT atoms have negatively charged nuclei surrounded by positrons, so their charges are opposite to those of normal matter. When CT encounters normal matter, the result is total conversion to energy, the most potent explosion known. I am not a physicist so can't go into detail, but in general the drive consists of a magnetic chamber in which a rod of CT encounters a rod of normal matter, at a controlled rate, with the resulting energy directed to the rear of the ship. In short, one savagely powerful propulsive jet. The CT is fashioned in isolated space laboratories in which gravity shielding is employed to generate controlled black-hole conditions that allow manipulation of fundamental matter in a manner not possible otherwise. Blocks of CT substance are handled and stored magnetically, so that they never touch normal matter until the proper time. Only small amounts of CT fuel are kept on any given ship, to militate against unfortunate accidents, but a small amount of CT goes far. The power of the acceleration of a given ship is determined not by limitation of the fuel but by the capacity of the ship to withstand the rigors of high gee. I trust this makes this aspect clear; the average man prefers not to think too much about CT.

This was the comfortable part of the voyage. We accelerated at gee for almost a full day, to almost two million miles per hour. Of course, this was a largely misleading figure in space. What it meant was that in just under two days at this velocity we could travel one Astronomical Unit; that is, the distance from the sun to the planet Earth. Our Earthly heritage remains with us in a number of incidental and archaic ways, but actually the AU is a fairly useful measurement for Solar System distances. Jupiter is just over five AU from the sun, and Saturn nine and a half, and Uranus nineteen. That did not mean that we could travel to Saturn in nine days, assuming we wanted to; Saturn was not aligned with Jupiter at the moment, so we would have to cross a fair secant to reach it. But it provides a notion of the scale.

As it turned out, it was no planet we traveled to. When Commander Hastings briefed the officers on our mission, it turned out to be the planetoid Chiron. Chiron is a tiny body about 150 miles in diameter, orbiting elliptically between Saturn and Uranus; in due course it intersects the orbits of each. It was colonized by both major planets and has had a savage history, as the representatives of each planet tried to assume full control. Violence was flaring again, and we were going there as part of a temporary United Planets peacekeeping force. This was supposed to be a routine operation, no actual combat, but in that volatile region, we had to be prepared for anything.

We traveled for a week in free-fall before spinning the ship for the remaining part of the month. Cmdr. Hastings believed that it was good discipline to endure the rigors of null gee. Cmdr. Hastings was a polished nugget of chicken manure; all agreed on that. We had frequent free-fall drills. We were, as I put it in Spanish (never in English!), the Chicken Express. By the time we went into deceleration, my men were ready for the kill, and Commander Hastings was the leading candidate for the chicken ax. I kept them in line largely because of my talent and my Hispanic identity; I spotted the potential troublemakers early and persuaded them to keep the lid on. It was effective; I was, I discovered, an excellent leader of men. I was an officer and they were enlisted men, but we came to understand each other well enough and we had mutual respect. I made things as easy for them as I could; I could not do much, but I knew they appreciated the effort.

We also had indoctrination on our destination. It was my duty to absorb the often tedious detail of the holo tapes and digest it so that I could make it palatable, or at least intelligible to my men. Chiron was named after a famous centaur, the wisest of the herd. Indeed, the planetoid was shaped vaguely like that mythical creature, with a torso 60 miles in diameter and 140 miles long to the tip of the extended tail. This is what the "about 150-mile diameter" translated to. Its present population was about 600,000 people, four-fifths of them Uranian and one-fifth of them Saturnian. It had been under Saturnian domination for three centuries despite its Uranian majority; then when it swung close to Uranus it had been taken over by the empire of Titania, the Uranian moon, and held for another century. There had been a number of petitions for "enosis" or political amalgamation with the Uranian system. When this was denied, there were riots. Ninety-five percent of the Uranian-derived population wanted that unification with the mother planet. At last Chiron had been granted independence, but still the problems erupted, with the Saturnian minority insisting on partition, since they believed they were suffering discrimination. A terrorist campaign had started, and at one point there had almost been war between the parent cultures on Uranus and Saturn. Now the interplanetary peace force was supposed to cool things off.

I rephrased all this for my men, delivering summaries in English and Spanish. "Those people probably feel about the way we do," I concluded, "after a month in space tasting chicken. All we want to do is get back to base and unify with our regular women: enosis." That brought on an approving laugh, for the men were sick of the all-male condition of this mission, and of the long lines for the inadequate Company Tail. They knew that the officers were little better off in this respect; there was only one O-girl. She was less busy than the E-girls but also offered less variety. Things were rough all over.

The nominal entertainment facilities received heavy use, too. There were no feelies here, because Commander Chicken (surely Satan reserved a red-hot pitchfork for his posterior!) believed them to be effete, or worse: fun. But there were boxing gloves, pugil sticks, and an in-ship obstacle-course racetrack. I shed my jacket when I could and played table tennis, chess, and pool with my men. I was not expert in any of these, but I made it a point to be an excellent loser. While I played, I talked with them, getting to know them better, and I encouraged positive interaction among them. This did not mean I tolerated indiscipline; I knew better than that. When I donned my silver bars, I meant business, and this was quickly apparent. No one, I knew, respected an easy officer. I had discovered this the hard way as an enlisted man, from Sergeant Smith. Tough but fair—when it counted.

And so we arrived, ready for trouble. Chiron looked like a narrow punching bag, with its extended tail. It was a planet, for it orbited the sun, no bigger than a moonlet, as perhaps it had once been or would in future be. It was well domed, the domes spinning in the manner of Hidalgo's or Leda's, generating the necessary internal gee. This was the only way for these tiny bodies; they lacked the mass to have enough natural gravity for gravity-shielding to concentrate effectively. Actually there is nothing wrong with spin-gee, for ship or for planetoid. It's just less even.

We docked near the ships from other regions. I recognized the emblems of several Uranian nations; they must have been summoned before us, since they had a longer voyage here. At present, as I understood it, Chiron was about the same distance from Saturn and Uranus, which was one reason for the current strife; neither side had a clear legal or geographical advantage.

We did not go on peacekeeping duty immediately; first we were treated to the standard background briefing, which repeated much of what we had already learned. Greek and Turkish were the official languages here; fortunately the long involvement of Titania had made English a language most Chironiotes comprehended. We would be able to get along.

For me and most of my men, the cultures of this planetoid were equally opaque; neither was remotely Hispanic. I instructed my men to avoid trouble whenever possible and to stay away from the local women until some were inspected and cleared for free-lance Tail subcontracting. I reminded them that though venereal disease did not exist in the Jupiter region, other planets had different standards, and infection was possible. "Herpes," I said firmly, "is line-of-duty-NO."

We were assigned a segment in one of the Greek-Chironiote domes. My three sections were to take three eight-hour shifts, covering our beat around the clock. I would be keeping an eye on all three shifts, of course.

This seemed routine, but I was wary; something about it didn't feel right. For one thing, QYV had evidently pulled another string to put me into this mission, replacing the lieutenant originally supposed to go. Maybe QYV was just trying to unsettle me, but maybe he had more in mind. I had foiled him when I recovered my sister; he might scheme more carefully this time. I worried peripherally about Juana and about Spirit, though I knew they could take care of themselves. It was the key I carried that QYV was after, not any of my associates.

Our first day on duty went without trouble. The Chironiotes were tolerant of our presence, and even friendly; they knew we were here on invitation, not as invaders, and they did not seem to want further bloodshed. In fact, they offered my men little gifts, which was a problem because we were not supposed to accept gratuities, but we realized that to decline might be to give offense. We solved that by giving back little gifts of our own, so that it became an exchange. We had little packets of Spanish candy, Toron, sealed in aluminum so there could be no question of contamination, and they liked these. It was the principle that was important: We were not taking without giving, and we were not being aloof.

Trouble came so suddenly and personally that it almost caught me off guard. I was walking through a shopping district, on the way from one station to another, admiring the olives, melons, grapes, and citrus fruits the local farm-domes produced, when I turned and saw a striking woman smiling up at me. "Will you come with me, officer?" she asked in accented English, giving a little shake to her low-slung décolletage.

"Thank you, no," I said politely. "I am a member of the United Planets peace force. We are not permitted to mingle." That was, of course, a euphemism. We were encouraged to mingle socially, but not sexually, and she was evidently of the latter type. Her garb and manner were like commercial advertisements.

"But, officer, I insist," she said, taking my left arm firmly.

This was a more forward approach than I had anticipated. I pulled away from her. "I regret—no."

She leaned into me. "Note the men on either side; they are armed," she murmured. "Do not embarrass us with a scene. We only wish to talk."

I glanced to right and left. Two men boxed me in, and each turned back a lapel to reveal the glint of steel. Firearms and other powered weapons were forbidden here, because of the social unrest and vulnerability of the domes to damage, but knives existed.

I had been trained to deal with knife attacks. I was sure I could handle these two men and get away. But I paused, for I did not want to make the scene the woman urged me to avoid; it would reflect adversely on my unit. An officer brawling? Some example! Also, I was curious what they wanted; this did not seem to be ordinary mischief. So I touched my alert button, signaling my platoon sergeant.

The woman saw my motion and snatched away my communicator and dropped it to the floor and stepped on it. That would prevent my sergeant from tuning in on me. Then the armed men took my arms and hustled me into a nearby building. I did not resist.

The woman preceded me up an ancient-fashioned flight of stairs and through a solid fiber doorway. I felt the gee easing with the elevation; that's a consequence of spin-gee. The door was simulated wood; there was no genuine wood here, as Chiron was too far out from the sun to farm trees effectively, though a few eucalyptus trees were grown for symbolic purpose. But woodlike fibers were manufactured and used freely, and so this was very like a wooden room.

I stepped into it, then reached back almost casually as if about to scratch myself and caught hold of the knife the man to my right had shown me. I whirled, assuming a knife fighter's stance, facing the second man. He had had to fall back, to follow his companion through the doorway, and was at a momentary disadvantage. "Stand aside," I told him.

Foolishly, he went for his own knife. I knew better than to bluff; I slashed at his moving arm, laying it open. Then, as the blood welled out, I caught the door with one foot and slammed it in his face.

This had taken but a moment. Now I faced the disarmed man, my knife poised. "Balk, and I attack," I said. He now knew how fast and sure I was with a blade. "What did you want with me?"

"You forgot to protect your rear, officer," the woman said.

I whirled again and found myself facing a rapier. I had indeed been foolish! My knife was no match for such a weapon, if competently wielded, and I saw quickly that this one was. The woman was more than a decoy; she was the main agent of my abduction. She stood before a green divan, poised.

My back was now to the disarmed man. He took this seeming opportunity to grab for me. That was his mistake. I had not neglected my rear a second time. I reached over my own right shoulder to catch his right lapel with my left hand, and hauled him around me in a judo wraparound throw. I never let go of the knife in my right hand. Few people untrained in martial art comprehend the devastating nature of a properly executed wraparound throw. He landed hard before me, half-stunned and under my control. Now I had a human shield. "What did you want with me?" I repeated, touching the point of my knife to his neck just behind the right ear.

"The key," the woman said, evidently not unduly alarmed by the threat to her henchman. I was using my talent now, studying her; I knew she was irritated but not afraid. I should have focused on her before; I had been careless in that respect, too. We learn the costs of our carelessness the hard way!

Suddenly it fell into place. "Kife," I said.

She nodded. "Turn over the key and go unharmed. The key is all we want."

"How do you know I have it with me?"

"Your belongings have been rayed," she said. "It is not there. It has to be on you."

I stalled. "Why do you want it?"

"It is Kife's property. Yield it and be free."

I sensed that she was bluffing, in part. I counterbluffed. "Tell me what is so important about that key, and I will spare his life." I nudged my blade against the henchman's neck so that he flinched.

"I could run you through," she said, her rapier point aiming at my face.

"Then you had better do it quickly." I dug in with the knife, drawing blood.

"Wait!" she cried.

I paused, knowing I had figured her correctly. She could kill me while I killed her henchman, but that was not an exchange she wanted to make. It was not that she cared for the henchman; she did not want to kill me.

"The key opens a particular lock," she said. "No other key fits."

She was lying. "I'll make a copy for you," I said. "The original key has a sentimental value for me." It did indeed; it was my only physical relic of the woman I had loved.

"We must have the original," she said. "It is not the physical key; that's only for appearance. There is a unique magnetic pattern that is the actual key."

Now she was telling the truth. "So it's a magnetic key," I said. "What does it unlock?"

"This is Chiron, the Key," she said. "The symbol for Chiron is a key."

"Very nice alignment," I agreed. "Kife seeks to fetch a key at the key. But you haven't answered my question."

She hesitated. "I don't have full information."

"But you have more than you have told me," I countered.

She smiled, deciding on another course. "Let the man go, and you and I will talk without weapons."

That was an improvement. I stepped back from the henchman, knowing he was no good as a hostage, anyway.

"Leave," the woman told him. The man scrambled to his feet and went out the door, closing it behind him.

The woman put her rapier on the floor and stepped away from it. I set my knife down similarly. I knew she did not intend violence. I didn't trust her; I trusted my reading of her motive.

She walked to the divan. "Sit, and we shall talk."

I had something she wanted, but she also had something I wanted. Obviously she wished to obtain the key without killing or hurting me, so that there would be no wider attention called to this matter, while I wanted to know the full nature of the key and of QYV. I was willing to play the game of seduction, to learn what she knew. Up to a point. I joined her. "What does the key unlock?" I repeated.

She adjusted her décolletage to show more cleavage. I almost smiled at so obvious a ploy. But when she leaned forward, I had to concede that she had a lot to show. "Do you understand cryptography?"

I was aware that this was relevant. I looked where I was supposed to look but did not let the view distract me in the manner intended. I always appreciate the female form, but at the moment I was far more interested in the key. "Very little."

"For centuries man has labored to develop an unbreakable code for private messages," she said. "The closest we have come is computer-assisted. The elements of the message are converted to numbers, and the numbers are scrambled according to a special pattern. We call it encryption. Only a person with that special scrambling pattern can decode the message."

It began to make sense. "And this key's magnetic pattern is the key for a particular message."

"A vitally important message," she agreed. "I don't know what that message is, but Kife must have it."

"But that message is years old now!" I protested.

"It remains vital." And I knew that she was telling the truth, as she knew it. She held out her hand. "Now the key."

"We agreed to talk, not to exchange the key," I said.

"True," she agreed. "But the key is of no use to you. Will you sell it to me?"

"What price?" I had no intention of selling it but was curious about the monetary value QYV placed on it.

She made a negligent gesture. "Money is of no account. Name a figure."

Something rang phony. Again I had a vision of a steel ball striking a line of balls with no ball rebounding. Why should money be of no account? Because they had unlimited funds, or because I would not be permitted to live to enjoy the money? As a military man I had no use for any large illicit windfall, anyway; it could only prejudice my career. "You can offer better than that."

She smiled. "You are cunning, officer. I, too, am available, if that is your desire." She touched the rounded hollow between her breasts. She had been doing her best to make it my desire, and certainly her anatomy put that of the ship's Tail to shame. QYV could afford the best in bodies.

"We do not mix with the local women," I said. "However much we might like to. I think you have something of greater value to me."

"Your life," she said.

"I don't think you mean to kill me. You had the chance before, and to take the key from my body."

"It is better to bargain than to kill."

She was to one side of the truth again. "Let me conjecture: Kife is not sure the key I carry is the original. I have had opportunity to hide the original or to give it to someone else, and I have had prior warning of Kife's methods. If you kill me, then discover the key I carry is a duplicate, you have lost your mission or at least walked into another extended search for the original. That key is worth more to you than my life or my death, and my death would bring suspicion on you. The Jupiter Navy is implacable in the investigation of the murder of one of its officers, and Chiron is a sensitive assignment; such an investigation would surely expose your activity here. So you want the key—and my silence—and my life is safe until you have verified the key's authenticity, which is not something you can do soon."

She smiled again, more warmly. "I grow to like you, officer. Your conjecture is correct. I must deliver the key to my superior and wait for confirmation. If I myself were to discover the nature of its message, my life would be forfeit. We thought to take the key from you and let you go, since you do not know its message either. Thereafter we have no further interest in you."

"So you never planned to kill me. In what sense, then, are you offering me my life in exchange for the key?"

"There is danger to you not of our making. We can get you removed from this situation before that threat materializes."

QYV had put me on this mission; he could probably take me from it. He could move me about like a pawn on a chessboard, but he could not conveniently get my key. I did not like the smell of this. "No deal. I'll take my chances."

She sighed. "Then we must take the key by force."

"Then I must escape by force," I said.

"We have overpowering force available."

She was bluffing. "So do I, when my sergeant zeroes in on the region of my disappearance. Shall we set some guidelines for our encounter, so as not to generate an interplanetary incident?"

She smiled again, genuinely appreciative. "You amaze me, officer. I wish you were on my team. What do you have in mind?"

"First, no bloodshed. Bare-handed, action ceasing when opponent yields or loses consciousness, and the defeated party retires from the fray. By bare-handed I mean no power weapons, pacifiers, blades, or chemicals. Second, no telling. If you win, you will take the key and return me to my unit with no word of what really happened; if I win, I will not turn you in or make any report. This is a private contest. Third, no future action on Chiron either way; now decides the issue."

She considered. "Let me consult." She rose and went to the door. There was a murmured exchange. Then she returned and settled herself again. "It is agreed. A mock conflict. Bare-handed, bloodless, silent, and no further issue. Escape this building with the key and you are free; otherwise, it is ours. If we prevail and the key is false, you will guide us to the real one."

"Say when," I said.

She gave me a direct look. "When."

I launched myself at her from a sitting position, but she was already moving. Her legs came up to fend me off. I caught her left ankle and shoved it aside, but her right leg slid past on my other side, and suddenly she had me in a scissor hold about the waist. I had thought she would try to flee the couch, to alert her associates; instead, she was trying to pin me there, and she had strong legs. Women may be weaker than men above the waist, but not below. I had miscalculated because I could not use my talent to interpret her training; her reflexes were largely automatic, not subject to conscious planning. She had countered my motion reflexively, and so had caught me. I tried to lean forward, to get a choke hold on her, but she squeezed me tightly and held me back so I had no leverage. I grasped a handful of her upper dress, to haul her in to me, but it ripped away. No purchase there!

Well, there were other ways. I could have dumped us both on the floor, but the thud would have alerted her henchmen that the engagement was on, and they would have rushed in to overpower me while she pinned me with the scissors. Our silence was literal; she did not scream for help. I realized that she was enjoying the challenge of this combat; she was a very physical woman and wanted to do this job herself. If our struggle should lead to seduction, she would not object.

I took another handful of dress and ripped it away, exposing her low-cut halter beneath. Then I ripped that away, leaving her bare above the waist. She had reason to be proud of her body! Still, she did not scream, but continued to squeeze me unmercifully in her scissor hold. That hurt physically, despite my conditioning. I had to break her grip, and I did not want to strike her. Even in this combat I retained a certain diffidence about violence toward a beautiful woman, as perhaps she knew.

I put my hands to the nether portion of her dress and ripped that away. Soon I had her entirely naked, but still she did not relinquish her grip on my waist. I considered ramming my hand into an intimate place, but knew that would not make her let go; she was too close to victory to give in because of pain or indignity.

I reached suddenly for her face, and when she batted my arm aside with her forearm I caught that and hauled it in to me. She fought me savagely, but my strength was superior, and I got hold of her long black hair and used it to draw her head close. Now I was able to move to a so-called "naked strangle," perhaps appropriate for this occasion. One forearm was behind her, my fist anchored in her hair, my other forearm levering into the side of her neck, squeezing the buried carotid artery. This would not render her unconscious quickly, as the artery on the other side of her neck still conveyed blood to her brain, but I could make the hold extremely uncomfortable.

She relaxed her scissors grip and spun out of my strangle. But I caught her in another, this time from behind, and this one was secure, and it put pressure on both carotids. She had played into my hands.

I did not try to put her out. "You are my shield," I murmured in her ear. "We shall march outside together."

"My men will grab you, anyway," she gasped. "I'll tell them to!"

"We'll see." I marched her to the door. "Stand back!" I called. "I have your leader hostage, and she'll be the first to suffer." Then, to her: "Stop trying to pull at my arms, and open that door. We're about to test your men."

Confident that I was now playing into her hands, she did so. The door opened, and there was a henchman ready to spring.

His eyes widened as he saw the naked, buxom form of his leader. Obviously she was no common man's sexual plaything, and he had never been presented with this particular view before. He stepped back.

"You see, no bluff," I said, following him. "I have her in pain; she will not tell you to free her."

The woman tried to do just that, but now I was attuned to her physical reactions, and I tightened up my strangle into a choke just as she started to speak, so that only a gasp emerged. It must have seemed to be a sufficient confirmation of my threat, for the man retreated farther. A choke hold can be impressive; the victim's veins swell in the head, and eyes protrude, because of the blockage of flow from the jugular vein, though this is neither as painful nor as incapacitating as the less-obvious pressure on the carotids. And, of course, the victim's breath is restricted; that's no fun at all.

"Lead the way downstairs," I told him. "With your companion."

The man hesitated, and his companion did not appear. I figured the missing man was lurking in ambush, waiting for me to pass. I also figured there were only two of them; the woman had been bluffing when she mentioned "overwhelming force." Had she really had it, she would not have bargained with me; she would have used that force immediately.

"Now!" I snapped with authority, and I eased up on my choke while kneeing the woman in the rear. She had a plush posterior; I half-regretted having to treat it this way. She made an involuntary screech, caught by surprise. That was exactly what I wanted.

The second man appeared from an alcove down the hall. "That's all of you?" I asked, making sure.

They exchanged a glance. "No," the nearer one confessed. He was lying.

I propelled the woman forward. She didn't even struggle. If there was one thing I had learned well in the course of my Basic and officer's training, it was how to apply a submission hold. I had mastered a number, ranging from finger-breakers to potentially lethal nerve grips, assuming such proficiency would be useful—an assumption now confirmed. My present neck hold was a compromise, maintaining the subject in a suitable state of consciousness without permitting her freedom of speech or resistance; I could put her out in seconds if I had to. Control is all important, not mere power. There is something very persuasive about pressure on the windpipe; the victim knows that struggle will only make it worse.

The two moved down the stairs, helpless before my certainty. Each time they paused, I nudged the woman's bare bottom with my knee, she obligingly squeaked, and the men moved with alacrity.

It was, after all, that simple. We made it down and out the door and into the crowded street. "Get back inside," I told the men, and they did.

Then I released the woman slowly, so I could tighten up if she tried to attack me, and so she could recover her wind and poise. There was a mark on her neck where my forearm had pressed so cruelly. "I believe I have won the round," I said.

She took a moment to rub her neck and get her bearings. "Conceded, officer," she agreed hoarsely. She touched her behind where I had kneed it. "I trust you enjoyed our contact."

"Indeed," I agreed. "I regret it could not have been more intimate."

"It could have been; why do you think I didn't scream?" She leaned close and kissed me on the mouth. Then she turned and reentered the house.

There was applause from the crowd that had instantly gathered. I made a little bow, adjusted my clothing, and went on my way.

I completed my inspection of my unit, then retired to my office in the ship to ponder. I believed the agent of QYV would keep her word; I did not know her name but had gotten to know her well enough to know she was dealing honestly in her fashion. My key was safe from molestation while I remained on Chiron. But there were two other matters.

First, this showed that QYV was going to keep trying to acquire the key. I would have to take better measures to protect it—and myself. In fact, I might have to deal directly with QYV. I had his Jupiter address; perhaps it had been a mistake not to follow that up.

Second, there had been that reference to trouble on Chiron, not of QYV's making. It sounded serious. This was a place where violence could break out at any time. Something must be in the offing—something bloody. I had better do something about it.

I followed the book. I went to my supervisor, the Company Commander, Lieutenant Commander Hastings, the martinet. He was not pleased to have me intrude on his time. I wasn't sure what he did all day, as little evidence of it filtered down to the units. But he had to see me when I put in the request, by military protocol. "What is it, Hubris?" he snapped.

I was aware that, among things, he didn't like Hispanics, and therefore held me in automatic contempt. Prejudice does exist in the Jupiter Navy, as elsewhere, but I had long since learned to live with it and often to turn it to my advantage. I was much closer to the men of my platoon than I would have been if I had been Saxon. I was also helped by the fact that I had come up through the enlisted ranks. Hastings had not; he was an Academy graduate and exemplified the liabilities of that. The best and the worst were Academy, because of that lack of leavening.

"Sir, I suspect that serious trouble is brewing," I said carefully. "Perhaps a deliberate program of mischief by terrorist revolutionaries. We should take special measures to—"

"You suspect, Lieutenant?" he demanded nastily. "On what evidence?"

I could not give my source; that was part of my deal with the QYV agent-woman, she of the delicious bottom. "It is just something I heard, sir. A passing reference to—"

"Are you an expert in Intelligence, Hubris?"

"No, sir. But it is wise to pay attention to—"

"It is wise to confine yourself to your area of expertise, Hubris. Perhaps you should return to scrubbing floors with the grunts."

I made one more attempt. "Sir, I feel a report should be made, and a warning issued—"

"Forget it, Hubris! Leave policy to those whose concern it is."

So much for that. I had received the anticipated response. "Yes, sir." I saluted and turned away. He didn't bother to return the salute.

I had played it by the book. There would be a recording of my suggestion, putting me on record to that extent. Now I had to put my own program into effect, for I had no intention of being a scapegoat. I also had no intention of getting myself killed, or of allowing disaster to strike my unit through any neglect of mine.

My options were limited since my superior had rejected my petition. I could not take any official action. But I did act unofficially. I informed my platoon sergeant that I had gone to Commander Hastings with my concern about a possible outbreak of violence and had been put in my place. "I do not necessarily regard this as a private matter," I concluded.

"Yes, sir," he said. I had just provided him with some hot gossip, and signaled that he could spread it freely. In fact, I had hinted that he should do so. He was one Saxon who had quickly learned how to get along with a Hispanic officer.

"Inform the men that I will be available for personal dialogue in the rec room," I said. That meant that my enlisted men could come and talk to me informally.

News travels at close to C (lightspeed) in a unit. I had hardly sat down at a table and set up the dominoes before several of my Hispanic troops appeared. "Sir," one said in Spanish. "What are you up to this time?"

"I am up to nothing," I replied innocently in the same language. "I have been instructed to leave significant matters to those equipped to comprehend them, and to concentrate on my floor-scrubbing. I would not presume to do otherwise."

They grinned knowingly. "Everyone knows how stupid Hispanics are," one said. "Scrubbing is all they understand."

"Only a very stupid man would believe that a program of riot and possibly assassination could be in the offing," I agreed. "Or that interplanetary peace-force troops and officers could be the target. Far better to scrub floors!"

The grins faded. "What do we do, sir—off the record?"

"I believe we should try to ingratiate ourselves further with the natives," I said. "To treat them well and try to get to know them as friends. Entertain their children. Study their cultures. Listen to their concerns with real interest and help to what extent we can, as fast as we can."

"But we are not supposed to get social with them!"

"No sex with their women," I said. "But other favors, other forms of social interaction are permitted. Off-duty personnel should be friendly, like brothers. We want them to like us." I paused. "And if any of them mention things in confidence, such as the secret movement of weapons, we must protect their secret. We must never betray them in any way. But I want to know, off the record, immediately."

Now they understood. "Spy work," one said.

"Social work," I clarified. "Commander Chicken has forbidden spy work to floor-scrubbers. But we want the local Chironiotes to be concerned if anything should threaten us."

"You really think something might, sir?"

I nodded grimly. "My evidence is thin, but I am very much afraid it might. We need to be careful."

"We shall spread the word, sir."

"I realize this is not very dramatic," I said. "But it's all I can think of. I'm not expert in intrigue. Let's hope my concern is groundless."

"Yes, sir." They departed, ready to spread the word.

Naturally, for a week thereafter, things were perfectly quiet on Chiron. But my men, showing more faith in me than I felt in myself, labored diligently to be Good Guys. They found a number of ways. They arranged little parties for the children, giving out token prizes and singing songs. They helped old ladies do their shopping. They even filled in for ill men, doing work in their off-duty hours. They chipped in to help a poor family make an overdue payment on a mortgage. They spread cheer.

News of this foolishness spread through the other units. Jokes abounded. We were the loco platoon. But my men merely shrugged and continued. They had never tried being Nice Guys this way before, and they found they liked it. And the natives, originally diffident or even covertly hostile, became friendly very quickly. They began inviting favored soldiers to meals and parties. All it took was our genuine effort to relate.

Ten days after my alert, one of my men brought me a slip of paper. "A little Greek boy," he said almost apologetically. "I helped him carve a sailboat. He gave me this. Sir, I don't know if it means anything—"

I unfolded the paper. One word was crudely printed on it in Spanish: hoy.

"Did the child speak Spanish?" I asked.

"No, sir."

The word was today. Innocent, by itself; it could mean anything. "We'll find out," I said. "We must continue as usual, so as not to betray our informant. But watch it, and be ready."

"Yes, sir," he said doubtfully, perhaps thinking I was being kind to take the note seriously. Perhaps I was.

We proceeded as usual, though the word spread throughout my unit and no one slept. Nothing happened.

But during the night shift, most of hell tore loose.

Firearms were forbidden in the domes because of the danger they posed to the environment. One small hole in the seal meant a pressure leak, and a large hole could mean explosive decompression. A city of a hundred thousand people could be suffocated in seconds. But now there was the sound of guns firing.

I knew when I heard the first shot that this was serious. "Full alert, all shifts!" I barked into the unit intercom. "Double the present duty shift. The rest form a section with me—Hispanic." Because neither the Greeks nor the Turks understood Spanish well; it was a code language.

My sergeant saw to the disposition of men. I took my Hispanic squad—ten men and a corporal—directly toward the sound of shooting.

Men were in the streets, tough-looking Greeks, but they were not rioting. "Lieutenant," one called as I approached. "Do not go abroad."

"It is my duty to keep order," I said, pausing.

"There is no disturbance," he said. "See, our streets are quiet."

"Yes? But there is gunfire in the next section."

"Lieutenant, you have been good to us. We forbade the terrorists to come here. But in the other sections you are not safe."

So my policy had paid off! These were our friends. But I couldn't stand idly by while a riot or insurrection proceeded. "I have a job to do."

"Please—you do not understand. Foreign officers are being executed!"

"Then I must get there immediately!" I broke into a run, my squad double-timing behind me.

The Greeks kept pace. "Lieutenant, you force our hand! We do not wish harm to come to you!"

"I'm sorry," I said. "I am here to keep the peace. I must do it. Please return to your homes."

"No. We must come with you. There is great danger!"

I sensed the mood of these people. They knew more than they were telling, but they were uncertain. They had assumed that I would stay at my post and not interfere with what occurred elsewhere. Ordinarily, I would have. "Come if you wish, but do not interfere with my men."

We jogged to the next section. I saw I was already too late; two uniformed men lay in blood. A wild-looking Greek stood over them, waving a pistol, haranguing the crowd in Greek. Here was a terrorist leader!

"Halt!" I cried. "You are under arrest!"

The terrorist whirled, bringing his gun to bear. I carried only my billy club, and my men were no better off. We had been keeping the peace without power weapons, not even stunners. I realized that I had indeed been foolish to charge here, knowing we would face firearms. My life might well be forfeit. Yet this policy had been necessary to assure the folk of our region that we were basically men of peace.

The terrorist aimed at me. I threw myself to the side. "Take cover!" I yelled.

Then something flew through the air and struck the terrorist in the chest. He cried out and staggered and fell. The handle of a knife protruded from his body. I knew one of the Greeks from my sector had thrown it, for my men did not carry knives on duty either, here.

I reached the bodies. One was a corporal, part of the office staff of our company. He was dead; he had been shot through the head. The other was Lieutenant Commander Hastings. He was dead, too.

I faced the Greeks. "The other officers?"

"I fear all are dead," the Greek leader said. "The terrorists, the leaders—"

"Well, I'm not dead!" I snapped. "Until I verify who survives, I'm assuming charge of this sector. I hereby declare martial law. All citizens will confine themselves to their homes until further notice. Only international troops will remain on the streets. Any Greek found abroad fifteen minutes from now will be subject to immediate arrest."

The Greeks exchanged glances. "Yes, sir." They dispersed.

It would have been awkward if they had balked! But they trusted me, and my decisiveness. I turned to my corporal. "Take five men," I said in Spanish. "Check the whereabouts and condition of all company officers and NCO's, and report to me at my office in the ship. Be on guard against gunfire."

"Yes, sir!" Quickly he chose five, and hurried away.

I picked up the fallen pistol, checked it, and tucked it into my belt. "Now we return to the ship," I said to the five remaining men. "Form a cordon around me; I believe I am now the prime terrorist target."

They did, and we proceeded to the ship without further event. We heard distant shots but none in this region.

At the ship I used the intercom to clarify that one officer survived: Commander Waterman. He had barricaded himself in his office instead of going out on the street. He was, in fact, a coward. He had done nothing to stop the violence.

I went to his office, and he let me in. "Commander, I believe all the other officers of the battalion have been assassinated," I said briskly. "I suggest you appoint me Battalion Executive Officer and let me carry on from there."

He stared at me, trying to fathom my motive, so I spelled it out for him. "Commander, when I was fifteen I saw my father and friends slaughtered by pirates, and my sister raped. I swore vengeance and have been taking it. I had more blood on my hands before I entered the Navy than most careerists ever see. These terrorists are in the same class as pirates. I can handle this; it's not new to me, it doesn't touch me the way it does others." Actually, I never liked killing, but I had learned to function amidst it. "But I need authority to act. I'm not trying to usurp your authority; I'm trying to salvage the situation. Support me, and I will support you."

Waterman considered. He remained severely shaken, but now he realized how his inaction would be interpreted. "Scuttlebutt has it you forced an officer to retire—when you were a sergeant."

"There was no blemish on his record, sir."

"I retire in ten months."

"Retire with honor, sir."

He nodded. We had an understanding. Even in an institution as wedded to spelled-out formality as the Jupiter Navy, much of the real business is done by unwritten understanding. He activated the intercom, and it was answered by the private filling in for a slain sergeant. "Cut the orders for Lieutenant Hubris to be Battalion Executive," he said. "Temporary field promotion to O3 and complete authority to act for me for the duration of the crisis."

"Yes, sir," the private said.

"Thank you, sir," I said, saluting.

I deputized my trusted men to fill the vacant offices, and we cleaned up the mess, extended our area of control, and got things restored to a facsimile of normal until reinforcements arrived. As it turned out, the violence had largely passed. Evidently the terrorists had intended to precipitate a riot and revolution by assassinating the officers of the peace force and haranguing the populace, but when the segment controlled by our battalion remained orderly, the effort lacked sufficient momentum to continue. I was able to track down and arrest the inciters, thanks to the cooperation of our Greek friends, and that looked very good on my record. Things settled down.

Commander Waterman was permitted to retire in due course, without prejudice, and my promotion was confirmed. I received a commendation, a ribbon, and a medal for heroism. It was more than I deserved, but I did not protest. For one thing, I had issued a number of emergency promotions, putting privates into NCO spots and granting a field promotion to an ensign to fill my own vacated position as Platoon Commander. I kept my mouth shut, sparing the Navy embarrassment, and every one of those promotions was confirmed. The Navy had tacitly paid me off.

When notice came that our battalion was relieved of peace duty, we flung a party like none the Greeks had seen before. The Greeks who had helped us were given special attention, and our stores were raided for presents for them all. This wasn't strictly Standard Operating Procedure, but no protest was heard.