Theatre of War.

by Justin Richards.

Acknowledgements

I should like to thank Craig Hinton and Peter Anghelides for their comments and suggestions, and Andy Lane for comments, suggestions and the use of a couple of ideas we discussed many years ago and promptly discarded as ridiculous...

Also Martin Rawle for the internal ill.u.s.trations.

I should probably also thank Shakespeare but that's just forcing my soul so to my own conceit, To Alison and Julian with all my love.

Note.

Justin Richards a.s.serts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

THEATRE OF WAR.

The Rehearsal The history of Menaxus took forty*three solar days to invent and, like all good lies, was grounded in truth.The expansion of the Heletian Empire, by contrast, is not only well doc.u.mented, but largely accurate. Its shortlived control of the Rippearean Cl.u.s.ter was as brutal as it was spectacular. Even after the Great Retreat of 3985, it is doubtful if the Heletians would have remained contained if it weren't for the incident known as The Dream Scenario The Dream Scenario.The Dream Scenario, a Case Study in Vulual History Al Jardine, 4123 Al Jardine, 4123 Svenson looked down at the excavations, shielding his eyes from the burning suns. For as far as he could see, the carriers were sucking up the top*dust and spraying it out of the way, raising the sides of the valley like a giant trench and forcing the central pit still deeper to uncover the lower levels of the ancient building. He watched them crawl over the dusty ground, their movement giving away shapes which their camouflage tried to hide, their insignia catching the light as the vehicles turned and banked. In the middle of the activity, there was a flash as the light from one of the suns caught a facet of the thick transparent sheeting stretched high above the main auditorium of the theatre. The light subsided as unseen hands finished tying down the flapping material, securing both it and the excavation beneath.

Svenson ran his hand over his scalp, pushing his grey hair into place, feeling the scars where the shrapnel had caught him, Lannic was a genius, no question to predict so exactly the position of the theatre and its depth below the surface. If she wasn't so arrogant, then this posting away from the glorious battles being won at the front, to the back end of nowhere, chaperoning a team of whining archaeologists, might be half bearable. At least he was safe. But safety was hardly the issue, given the choice between the dust*hole Menaxus and being back with the Fifth as they continued their triumphant thrust into the Rippearean Cl.u.s.ter. He wiped a sodden handcloth across his forehead and the frustration from his eyes. Then he climbed into the jetter, slipped it into forward, and screamed down towards the activity.

Camarina Lannic and her team were at zone 26/G. Svenson was pleased to see that she too was perspiring in the claustrophobic heat, her face streaked and blotched with salty dust. A couple of the junior archaeologists were measuring the marbled floor of the admission gallery or what remained of it as he approached. Svenson could see why she had wanted the main theatre covered over, It was the only way to win against the swirling dust.

Lannic wiped her face with the back of her hand smearing a new layer of grime across her cheek, as she directed their efforts. Her shoulder*length dark hair was tied back to avoid it getting in her eyes as she worked but a few strands of it had worked loose and clung to her cheek cracks across the grime of her smooth complexion. She frowned as Svenson approached he knew that she saw him as just another interruption and turned to examine the floor area beneath a collapsed column.

Svenson's tall shadows advanced until Lannic was caught in them. She could hardly pretend not to have noticed him now. She glanced up for a moment irritated then returned her attention to the marbled slabs.

A genius, maybe, but she was arrogant. Too aware that whatever the theoretical rank of the military personnel, she was really in charge. 'Lannic.'

She turned again, the irritation in her eyes turning to annoyance. 'Yes, Sub*Direkter?'

'A status report, if it isn't too much trouble.'

Obviously it was. 'Another one? Already?'

But Svenson needed to exert what authority he could. 'The Exec is keen to hear from us. You know his interest in the work here.' Svenson swept his gloved hand theatrically across the horizon. Its path described an arc which finished with it pointing at Lannic, his finger just shy of her face. 'He wishes to know if everything is still on schedule. He wishes to know when he will be able to inspect the more interesting finds.'

'The Exec is coming here? To Menaxus?' She seemed suddenly interested almost excited.

Svenson's lip curled. A genius with no common sense: she would be lost on a battlefield. 'Of course not. The more interesting discoveries will be taken to him to Heletia.'

'But it is the whole site, the fact that it exists that is important.'

Svenson's eyebrows crept up slightly. She was being patronizing again, talking down to him like some overeducated strategy instructor.

'Don't you understand?' she went on. 'There is nothing here to take unless we uproot the whole theatre complex.'

'Nothing? So what is this amazing discovery that we've been boasting of for the last month?'

'The discovery is that the Menaxans had such a culture in the first place. I'd have thought any Heletian would marvel at the existence so long ago of another theatrologically based culture.'

Svenson just stared at her, holding back his anger.

'The papers and simularities I unearthed in the Braxiatel Collection doc.u.mented a ritual regard for play acting. They even mention, and in some cases record, technologically enhanced theatrical ceremonies. But here we have the actual remnants and ruins the real thing. An atomic*age theatre in which all the tracery and carving indicates a civilization with a high regard for theatricality. All the things that we believe make us civilized existed here centuries ago. We've even turned up an admission slip, complete with magnetic coding.' She held out a thin plastic card, about eight centimeters long and etched with a cl.u.s.ter of small leaves splaying out from a central branch. It fitted neatly into the palm of her hand, her fingers curling over the end of it, protecting it. Svenson made no move to take it, so she returned it to her breast pocket.

He was silent for almost a minute. Lannic watched biting her lip. Svenson could see that just for a moment Lannic thought he was going to hit her. But instead he spoke, slow and deliberate: 'You are saying that as things currently stand, we have validated a theory and perhaps raised questions about the similarity of this dead culture to our own origins. But we have nothing material to show for it; nothing to take back to our beloved leader, however much he may wish to share in our discoveries? Nothing except a piece of plastic smaller than my fist?'

'I'm saying exactly that, yes.'

Svenson teased the black glove from his right hand, finger by finger, slowly pulling it free. When his hand emerged, grimy despite its protection from the dust he flexed it, curling his fingers into the palm. 'Then you had better find something we can take back.' His voice was quiet, reasonable. He understood the situation and the only way to capitalize on it. He dusted his naked palm on the breast of his tunic, and watched the dust catch in the sunlight as it spiralled down. Then Then he hit her. he hit her.

The spray eased the pain below her right eye a little, but it still stung like h.e.l.l. Lannic washed the dust from the rest of her face, dabbing carefully round the swelling.

Larzicourt offered her a towel. 'He's dead.' If he had been less jittery, the threat might have been more convincing.

'Nice thought,' said Lannic through the towel. 'But a bit premature.'

'Can I get you anything else?' Larzicourt was more stung than Lannic. He rubbed his thin hands nervously together now he that no longer had the towel to worry. 'Drink?'

'No. No thank you. I think I'll lie down for a bit.' She smiled faintly as Larzicourt dithered in the doorway. 'I'll be all right. Thanks.'

'Well, if you're sure.' Larzicourt's stooping form was silhouetted for a moment on the threshold. Lannic thought she heard him sigh with relief as he left, but it was probably just the servos hissing as they closed the door.

She dropped the towel into the laundry bin and picked lip the spray again. The lettering on the plastic sleeve blurred as her eyes watered, and she hurled it across the room in the vague direction of the far corner, then sat down heavily on the bunk, cradling her head in her hands. And winced as she involuntarily touched her bruised eye.

The spray ricocheted off the wall into the mirror, cracking it across its length, then spun itself to a stop on the table below.

Svenson lay back on his bunk and closed his eyes, hoping that the nightmare would not be waiting for him. But it was. It always was.

Again he clawed his way over the top of the trench, using some of the sodden bodies as a ladder. He glanced across to see the rest of his unit also poised at the edge of the killing zone. Galaz smiled rea.s.suringly, gripped his disruptor and leapt up the last step. He landed easily on his feet, the blast catching him across the chest and blowing away most of his face. Svenson ducked as the blood splashed past him.

When he looked up, still shaking, the unit was moving forward running. He tried to pull himself out of the trench, to follow, to catch up. But the wide*beam blaster (which Intelligence had originally a.s.sured them the Rippeareans did not have) caught them while he was still bracing himself. The bodies glowed white*hot, then vanished, leaving just the ghosts of their images on his retina.

Once again he slumped back down into the trench, the scream of the approaching sat*strike targeters alerted by the blaster*flare was the scream of his unit as the lives blanked out.

And again he put his head in his hands and close his eyes tight to find Galaz waiting for him smiling rea.s.suringly as his face disintegrated in a splatter of blood and tissue, Svenson's eyes snapped open. He was back in his cabin on Menaxus. His uniform was still sodden, but with sweat rather than blood. Just the dream again. His jaw quivered as he choked back a sob. He would get no sleep again tonight.

Beneath the dust and sand, in a darkened room behind the main theatre excavations, a tiny red light blinked and pulsed into life.

Despite his doubts, Svenson had fallen into an uneasy, disturbed sleep. He drifted restlessly on the edge of waking, knotting the bedcovers between his clenching hands. Outside the noise of the desert night continued its soft murmur, wind sweeping dust against the prefabricated buildings, The sudden brilliant flash of light roused him instantly. He was sitting upright on the bunk before the sound of the explosion followed. Automatic calculations based on the delay between sight and sound told him the burst was about three kilometers away. The angle of the light told him it was an airburst. As the chatter of disruptor fire started, he dragged on his tunic and grabbed his sidearm. The door hummed open and Svenson stepped out into 'Here Svenson.' He turned just in time to see the Plautus Strike*One that Galaz threw him. He caught it almost by reflex, both hands at chin level, and swung it towards the front of the trench. Edessa and Mursa were already down, Tibava was nursing a bloodied thigh, squeezing the pressure points so hard that the exertion as well as the pain showed in her face.

For a moment he was still, his brain struggling to cope. Then it slipped into a well*worn mode which had been sleeping, not forgotten.

'How many of them?'

Galaz shook his head. 'Dunno. But they're about four clicks away.'

'Nearer three, I think.' They both ducked as the light burned across the killing zone and the thump of the explosion hurled mud and fragments of rock down into the trench. 'Make that two.'

Arion dropped down beside them, blinking away the residue of the last flash. 's.p.a.ce cover is due any minute. They caught the second flare. The satellite's being brought found to get a fix.'

Svenson thought for a moment. 'They must know that already, They'll see the signals to the bird.'

'They'll move position?'

Svenson nodded. 'They have to.' He looked to Galaz for confirmation.

'You're right. And while they're moving the blaster '

'They can't fire it.'

Arion had a chart of the area. It had changed considerably since the front had opened, but the basic geography was still intact. For the most part.

'There,' Galaz pointed, 'they're using that hill as the vantage point, moving forward along the ridge.'

Svenson nodded. 'And they have to move at least two clicks, at speed, to escape the sanitization.'

Arion pointed to an area to the west. 'Here?'

Galaz nodded. 'That's where I'd go.'

Svenson agreed. 'So would I. So we'll strike here.' His finger jabbed at a rocky area to the east.

Arion frowned. 'They know what we would script, so they'll go the other way,' Galaz told him. 'Get the rest of the unit. We're going out there.'

Svenson could see Galaz clawing his way over the top of the trench, using some of the sodden bodies as a ladder. Galaz reached the top and glanced across to see the rest of the unit also poised at the edge of the killing zone. Svenson smiled rea.s.suringly, then paused, puzzled. The scene was familiar, like deja*vu but different somehow. It was like watching himself in a cracked mirror. An incomplete image something askew. He gripped his disruptor a little tighter, and leapt up the last step.

Just as his feet left the ground and he swung himself up and over, he realized the role reversal. But it was too late by then his body was already swinging into the approaching bolt of disruptor fire. He landed easily on his feet, the blast catching him across the chest and the left side of his face.

Svenson fell back down into the trench the scream of the approaching sat*strike was the sound of his own voice as his face disintegrated in a splatter of blood and tissue.

Lannic was tying up her hair again, cursing as the clips refused to obey her sleepy fingers, when Larzicourt burst in. She fumbled for the clip she pad dropped in surprise. He caught his breath, pointing back at the door as if she could deduce the problem from the insistent stab of his finger.

'What the h.e.l.l's the matter?' She was annoyed. She was always annoyed before her second caffedeine.

'He's ' Larzicourt finally managed a wheezed phrase: 'He's dead.'

'Svenson?'

'You knew?'

'It seemed a fair bet. What's he done now?'

She could see Larzicourt in the cracked mirror as his mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. Then: 'He's died. I mean, really died.'

She turned back to him, hair falling over her shoulders. 'You mean he's died?' A silent nod. 'As in dead dead died?' Another nod. 'How where?' Her hand automatically strayed across the loose coverall over her right thigh, instinctively checking the small holster and the obsolete percussion pistol nestling inside. died?' Another nod. 'How where?' Her hand automatically strayed across the loose coverall over her right thigh, instinctively checking the small holster and the obsolete percussion pistol nestling inside.

'I think you'd better see.' Larzicourt swallowed, his forehead furrowing for a second as he thought about it. 'It's not pleasant.'

Svenson was identifiable from the insignia on his torn and muddy uniform. The team's medic had covered the corpse's face with a silver insulating sheet which caught in the breeze, flapping up from the head and reflecting the morning suns' light. Lannic had caught enough of the bloodied mess beneath the sheet not to want it removed.

'I'll have him put in the sick bay,' the medic offered. Lannic nodded, licking her dry lips. The medic gestured to a couple of the crew standing at the edge of the hollow. One of them was leaning on a stretcher, its end dug into the dust.

Lannic tried unsuccessfully not to watch as the body was lifted onto the stretcher and carried away. The medic shuffled his feet next to her.

'How did it happen?' The stretcher disappeared over the lip of the hollow which Svenson's cabin occupied.

The medic shook his head. 'I've no idea. It's ' he struggled for the word, and eventually settled on, 'bizarre.'

'How do you mean?'

'The mud on his uniform, the injuries...'

'Mud?' She had noticed the dried mud streaked down Svenson's body, but it had not struck her as odd. Until now. The medic gestured across the hollow. It was as dry a dust*bowl as the rest of the area. In the hot season there was no water anywhere but the tropical zone. In the wet season the constant rain turned the dust into sticky, clinging mud: impossible to wash off, all but impossible to excavate through.