* * *
“‘Armies are controlled by the actions of two classes of men in authority that are distinct on the surface by levels of rank, but whose significant difference is in the sources of their authority. One class acts on the authority vested in it by the sovereign power. The other acts by authority derived of appointment by the first. This is not a chance relationship but one directed by a natural ruling principle. The ‘commissioned’ officer acts in the name of sovereign power and, or, by order of its commissioned superiors to himself. The ‘non-commissioned’ officer exercises equally valid and at times absolute authority, but he holds it from the commissioned officer who appointed him and who can at his discretion remove the office. Few controlling principles are as little understood in current times as these that define the relationships of commissioned and non-commissioned ranks to each other, the government, and to the ordinary soldier. Promotion given as reward, rank seen as caste and pay as incentive in the profession, occupation, or career in arms are the villains that cloud the issues. A private soldier can prove himself of equal value to a general officer, in fact has often done so; and always by being the soldier who knew his business, whatever his immediate motivation. A hierarchy of ranks invented to increase prestige and pay can rob a military body of much of its power while enjoying general approval of what are considered benefits. One of the sure signs of a military system in decay is the appearance of an excess ratio of persons in designated authority over the numbers of those who serve to follow. The optimum ratio may vary a little according to current armaments, but with little else.
“‘Because of its specific roles and purposes an army has an optimum design and structure of control mechanisms, instrumentation, and appendages. It is at best simple, devoted to the smooth and graceful application of power to motion and impact. In an almost totally industrial and technocratic time, however, the existence of a natural pattern tends to be forgotten as normal members and appendages are tortured and distorted to conform to the caprices of machines. Military monstrosities analogous to anencephalic and three legged children are born and nursed toward ultimate impotence. They are quite horribly obvious except to minds bemused by the magic of technology. . . .'”
Falkenberg closed his computer and smiled thinly. “Those words were written shortly before the United States acquired, in what was supposed to be peace time, approximately twice as many general officers as it had employed during the conflict known as the Second World War, despite having a much smaller military establishment. Nor was this all. The ratio of officers to men began to creep upward, inexorably; and since the optimum ratio is perhaps five percent, and some elite organizations have done with less, it should be no surprise that as the United States military establishment moved toward one officer for each dozen men—and one general officer for each fifteen hundred—the effectiveness of the system declined accordingly.
“Military managers are easy enough to come by. Real leaders are rare.”
* * *
“You were right about the density,” Moishe Ellison said.
Bonnie giggled. “He hasn’t changed much, that’s for sure.”
“And you only heard him at home? Wonder his kid didn’t go nuts. Whatever happened to him, anyway?”
“He got in some kind of trouble,” Bonnie said.
“And no wonder.” Richie chuckled.
“I don’t know what it was,” Bonnie said. “But the next thing I knew, Johnny was off to the CoDominium Academy. We used to write, but when he graduated and was sent off on a ship, well—”
“You sound like you miss him,” Moishe said.
“Yeah, hey, you never get that tone of voice when you talk about me,” Richie said.
“That’ll be the day,” Moishe said. “You ever hear from him?”
Bonnie shook her head.
II
Angela Niles fought for wakefulness. It seemed to take a long time. At one level she knew she was dreaming, but it was still real: the crowded alleys of High Shanghai, thousands of men and women in blue canvas clothing, not quite uniforms but so alike they looked like blue ants. They were shouting, screaming words she could not understand, but what they intended was clear enough. The blue ants were coming to kill her. She ran, and suddenly she wasn’t alone, there were blue and gold uniforms, a different blue, CoDominium blue, and the tiny squad of CoDominium troops clustered around her. They pulled her away from the mob, then turned, fired a volley, then another, and the blue ants screamed and halted for a moment.
“Fall back.” The Navy lieutenant spoke calmly. “First squad. Fall back toward the harbor. Kewney.”
“Sir.”
Cousin Harold. How did Cousin Harold get here? But he was here, in the uniform of a Navy middie.
“Can you fly that boat?”
“No, sir.”
“The cox’n was killed.”
“Yes, sir, I know.”
“Right. All right, Midshipman. Fall back with the first squad. Halt while we’re still in sight, and take defensive positions. Signal when you’re ready. We’ll hold here. Miss, you go with him—”
“But, yes, but, Harold, what are you doing here, who is this, what—”
“No time, Angie. Let’s go!”
They ran, and now it was certainly a dream, because she couldn’t move, her legs wouldn’t work, she tried to run and couldn’t—
“Try to remember,” a voice said. Whose? “What happened then?”
Running. A Marine was holding her arm. Suddenly he stopped. His eyes grew very wide, and he stood, stock still, in the middle of the street. A long thin steel rod grew out of his chest, and blood came out of his mouth, and he crumpled, slowly, slowly—
“Come on Angie, run, dammit!”
Run. Then they were at the end of the block, and turned the corner, and she could see the harbor, not far away, with the long slender shape of the landing craft, and three sailors at the landing with guns, and the turret on top swiveled.
Harold touched his sleeve and spoke rapidly into the communicator card. There was more gunfire, and more people screaming, then the CoDominium lieutenant and his party came running down the street.
“Almost there,” Harold said.
“Get her into the ship,” the Lieutenant said.
“Sir, you can fly the damn thing. You get her on the ship.”
He was very young, that lieutenant, no more than a boy, he looked so thin and so very young, no older than Harold. “Three minutes,” he said. “Three minutes, Kewney, then run like hell.”
Harold grinned. “You know it. Ready? Go for it!”
And the lieutenant took her hand and ran with her, pulling her along, and the turret guns fired over their heads, and there was more shooting, and noise everywhere. Something exploded close to them and one of the dockside sailors went down. The lieutenant shouted into his sleeve mike, “Mortars! Run for it, Kewney. NOW!” And dragged her on, to the boarding port, threw her into the cabin.
“Sound Board Ship!”
Recorded bugle notes blared into the bright afternoon. The lieutenant ran forward and moments later there were rumbles. Something exploded outside the hatchway, and a swarm of angry bees came through the open hatch, whipped past her and clattered against the bulkheads. There was another explosion.
“We’re hulled!” a sailor shouted.
The engine sounds were louder now. She ran to the hatchway to look out, and shouted for Harold. She couldn’t see anyone.
“Clear the hatch!” someone shouted. There were whirs and the hatchway began to close. She felt motion as the ship began to move.
“Harold! Harold!” And there was Harold, only he was an old man, and his face was melting, and then he was gone, and there was another man, and the ship began to fade and she was in a white room in bed, a hospital room, and the men beside the bed were a doctor in a white coat and a CoDominium Navy Commander, very thin. She knew them both. How? Who were they? Lermontov. That was his name. How did she know that?
“Did you ever see Midshipman Kewney again?” Commander Lermontov asked.
“No. I never saw him after we left him at the corner, on the street of—the Street of Three Moons.” Her throat was dry, and her left arm hurt. She couldn’t move it, and when she looked she saw that it was strapped to a board, and there was an IV inserted at the elbow. And she remembered. Pentothal, something like that. They wanted to question her. What had she told them?
* * *
“I’ve told you everything,” she said. “Three times, and whatever I said when I was drugged. Why do we have to go over this again?”
“Your Uncle has demanded thorough investigation,” Commander Lermontov said. “And that he will have.” He used his stylus on the screen of his pocket computer. “So. You last saw Midshipman Kewney at corner, where he was ordered by Lieutenant Falkenberg to hold for three minutes before retreating.”