Chang Lung-Chi had watched the video in his living room, from the comfort of his recliner. When the cheering had died, he switched off the set. Such delicious self-righteousness, he thought ironically, then grunted. In their imaginations, they no doubt say the same of me. He hoped devoutly they did not create serious problems. Neither he nor Foster believed they would. History showed that Homo sapiens had come a long way: it was far less susceptible to having its emotions hijacked by agitators. Though there was still room for worry. So they'd agreed: let the Front march and rant as long as their resistance didn't seriously impair the war effort. Since the Troubles, martial law was anathema. It would do more damage than a hundred Ignatievs. He was willing to tolerate even a certain amount of activist destructiveness, if it came to that.

But if it became serious… Then the trick would be to take countermeasures that met with broad public acceptance.

Camp Mudhole

The Madam Jao-another converted bulk carrier-emerged from warpspace less than two hundred thousand miles off Pastor Luneburger's World. Brigadier Pyong Pak Singh had been waiting in his cabin to witness the event. Pak, his staff, his regimental commanders and their staffs, and their company commanders had made the trip from Terra "live," sixteen days in hyperspace, then a half-dozen hours in equally featureless warpspace. In between there'd been perhaps a minute in familiar F-space, but he'd been sleeping, and missed it.

They'd hardly noticed the lack of scenery. They'd spent six hours a day in class, reviewing the cube of New Ground Tactics, produced by War House staff. Each day ended with another six of discussion and simulation exercises.

They needed to know the stuff cold, and see that their troops did. Because if things came together as planned-ship-building, fleet training, weapons delivery, and their own preparation-in nine months they'd take this now utterly green division to its home world, New Jerusalem, to wrest it back from the invaders. Whether or not they succeeded, it would be the Commonwealth's first ground campaign; War House had decided to start ground warfare-not defending but attacking. And in the process, for better or worse, they'd learn a lot, both War House and his task force. Though War House wouldn't pay for it the way his people would.

Of course, Pak mused, that assumes the invaders have gotten that far by then. Given their progress to date, and the lack of resistance, they should, easily. But who could be sure about the behavior of an unfamiliar alien life-form? And how large a battle force they'd leave behind in the New Jerusalem System was anyone's guess. Guesses! He'd take Kulikov's and Sarrufs's guesses over anyone's, but still…

Pastor Luneburger's World now occupied all but a corner of his screen. Seen from this distance it showed no sign of humanity. It was almost a core world-an inhabited planet within ten parsecs of Terra. It had been Terra's third outsystem colony, and the first and nearest of the first dispersion. But like most worlds of the first dispersion, it had been settled by an agrarian sect, in this case United Mennonites. Even after the century of Troubles had ended, and Terra had finally begun reconnecting with the worlds of the dispersion, acceptance of technology had been slow and selective on Luneburger's world.

Not as slow as some, he reminded himself, thinking specifically of New Jerusalem. Before leaving Terra, he and his entire staff, down to platoon sergeants, had studied a cube on the planet their recruits were from. The ethnologist who'd done the narration had called New Jerusalem an unintentional reconstruction of the United States in the early 1800s.

Pak could feel the ship slowing under gravdrive. They must, he decided, be getting close to the F1 layer. The view before him was probably centered on the gravitic vector they were riding down. Much of the surface was dominated by forest, with the larger rivers visible, and to one side, ocean. He couldn't make out towns yet, but they were there. Pastor Luneburger's World held some 200 million humans, nearly twenty percent of them townsfolk. Leaving plenty of partially cleared and semiwild tracts on the fringes of settlement, areas well suited for training.

Somewhere down there was Camp Woldemars Stenders. They'd studied a cube on it, too, showing the Terran 4th Infantry Division in training there. The Terrans had dubbed it "Camp Mudhole." Within the hour, the brigadier thought, I'll see it live.

In the real world, Pak had never commanded anything larger than a battalion before-no one on Terra had-and under the circumstances it was natural to feel misgivings. But in sim training he'd commanded a corps, so his misgivings were mild.

The Madam Jao sat on an AG cushion five inches above the surface. Herded by officers and sergeants, the disembarking Jerries saw a world looking not greatly unlike New Jerusalem or Terra: the sky was blue, the vegetation green. It had rained not long before, and things even smelled more or less familiar.

Esau was disappointed. It seemed to him a different planet should look, smell and, in general, feel more different. He could as well have felt that way when he'd disembarked on Terra, but he'd been too uprooted and anxious then to pay much attention. Now, by contrast, he had a new and major stable element in his life-the army-and some idea of what the future held for him: training. Though what training would be like, he hadn't tried to imagine.

Once on the ground, the recruits formed ranks-they'd learned to do that much on Terra-and were led down a graveled road toward camp, lugging their duffel bags, and sweating.

Camp Stenders was unlike the temporary wartime camps on Terra. Basically it consisted of low-tech huts and sheds-concrete slabs, lumber, and linoleum-though with Plastosil panels from a newly built local factory. War House had earlier provided the camp's administrative staff-the bureaucrats who were an essential if not always appreciated part of the system. They'd kept the place running while the 4th Terran Infantry Division got its basic and advanced training there, then had sent them off to Camp Chu Teh, for unit training exercises with the Terran 3rd Armored.

Most of the key administrative elements were "retreads," retired military personnel from the marines or the small, pre-war, Terran planetary defense force. The company clerks, supply clerks, cooks and flunkies were conscripts not considered suitable for combat. They'd been rushed through three weeks of mini-basic, then enough specialist training to function, and learned the rest of their duties on the job.

The second-tier training cadre were holdovers from the 4th Terran, mature men who'd completed their basic and advanced training right there at Stenders, and earned a stripe or two. They would help the first-tier cadre train the recruits.

Esau and Jael Wesley knew nothing of all that. They did know the name of the world they were on, and the camp; reception center personnel had told them that much before loading them onto a snooze ship. The time of day they could only guess-somewhere in the middle, because the sun was high.

They didn't talk as they hiked-no one had told them they could-but there was lots of observing and more than a little wondering. It seemed to Esau that a pound wouldn't weigh a pound here, either, but closer to it than on Terra; apparently Luneburger's World had grabbity, too. Meanwhile he was hungry. They'd each been given an energy bar and a carton of apple juice when they'd been wakened, but it hadn't been enough, for him at least. The road brought them to camp, a broad featureless area of featureless shedlike buildings. Companies began to peel off from the column, moving into company hutments. Shortly, B Company, 2nd Regiment halted on what they would learn was their company drill field and mustering ground.