"My orders came from General Songhidalarsa verbally," the captain said. "That's how I'm passing them on to you. I'm sure you don't want to reject them."

He realized, even as he was saying it, that the last sentence was a mistake. The subcolonel's brows drew down sharply; he'd taken it as an implied threat. "Captain, we operate according to regulations here. If it's not in writing, it's not an order. In writing and signed by someone authorized to give it to me: General Songhidalarsa or his deputy. Or General Mavaraloku, of course; the orders would need his initials at any rate."

The captain couldn't go to Major General Khobajaleera, the general's deputy in charge. Khobajaleera knew only the cover story; he wasn't considered politically safe either. He'd never acccept that the general wanted a whole damned gunship support wing dispatched just to help stare down a mob of strikers and demonstrators. He'd ask questions that the captain dare not answer.

And turning to General Mavaraloku was out of the question. Mavaraloku was the commanding general of the air services division. His initials were to have been forged on Songhidalarsa's orders. Mavaraloku too was politically unreliable, and under other than combat conditions, he was free to query orders he considered dubious, even from the corps commander. If he suspected that something covert was going on, he might well call the Imperial General Staff in Ananporu, to check. The fat would really be in the fire then. Thus the forged initials.

"Can I have the use of a commset?" asked the captain stiffly.

The subcolonel looked at him as if questioning his sobriety. Or his sanity. "There's a whole row of them in the common room."

"I need… never mind." If he said he needed one with scramble functions, the frigging subcolonel might call a query of his own. He hurried out, glancing at the large wall clock as he did so: 0107. He'd use a commset at Corps. And even that might not work; he wasn't sure that Abrikalaavi was still in range. If not… He imagined himself coming back with a gun. Shove it in the subcolonel's gut, and then see if he'd honor a verbal order.

The only practical thing he could think of was to draft the order himself and forge the general's signature. And Mavaraloku's initials. The thought of it made his hair bristle with fear. It would have to look just right-wording and forgeries. He'd have to look up the relevant regulations, use the proper form, drill Old Iron Jaw's signature… 0130 was out of the question.

It was a damned good thing the brigade had its own gunship squadron. But a mere squadron wouldn't discourage the Capital Division.

The subcolonel watched the captain leave. He remembered the written reprimand Old Iron Jaw had issued on him the spring before, during maneuvers, for releasing a mere flight of gunships on the verbal order of an unauthorized colonel. He'd been brand new here at Fashtar, and hadn't known the general's reputation for entrapment. Regulations, he'd learned then, were not to be slighted.

Fifty-five

The armored transport had lifted with both penal platoons on board. It was not an ideal situation; the two platoons were vicious rivals, had been conditioned that way, each led to consider itself the toughest platoon in the Imperial Army. Platoon Sergeant Skosh Viilenga couldn't vouch for it, but it seemed to him that one or the other might actually be the toughest. If not, they had to be close.

They'd made the flight to Ahantar without any trouble. The men had dozed in their bucket seats, been taken off a squad at a time to relieve themselves, then loaded back on without any trouble. To wait.

They were peasants, their noncoms gentry, their lieutenants nobles. But some of these peasants were smart. Ignorant maybe, did dumb shit maybe, but they were shrewd; they could figure things about as well as anyone. And as far as dumb shit was concerned… In the penal platoons, the three classes had two things in common: They all had compulsions to get into trouble; serious trouble. And they all tended to be violent. Those were the reasons they were there, all of them, himself included.

For an officer or noncom to survive in the penal platoons, he had to have an edge, and the edge came from training. Special training in close combat-hands, feet, baton, knife, saber-and in the psychological handling of men like these. When to praise, when to reason, when to bribe, when to shout and curse. When to strike out-and when to kill without warning. You never bluffed and you never showed the slightest trace of fear. If you didn't learn those lessons well, you didn't last long. Sergeant Skosh had been in this platoon for more than four years, and had six more to go on his sentence. He was there for slugging a captain, a nobleman-broke his frigging nose, actually-which was the final straw in a career of fights and brawls.

When his ten penal years were up, Skosh fully intended to stay in the platoon until retirement. It seemed to him it was the best place for someone like himself. Outside there was too little tolerance, too many chickenshit regulations, with the risk of ending up on Shatimvoktos. Here he felt at home. These were his kind of people, from Lieutenant Paasalarogu to Harelip and the Slasher.

A major, the division's provost marshal, stepped into the floater. The lieutenant barked "at ease!" which woke the men who were dozing and stilled those who weren't. Major Dholagilarmo was one of the few outside officers who could step into the middle of these men without looking nervous. He called them his boys. Still, Skosh wondered why the provost marshal would be along on this expedition.

"Listen up!" the major shouted. The language he used was a sort of pidgin-an off-the-cuff, simplified Imperial with usages borrowed from peasant jabber. "You gonna fight some real troops, not just a buncha demonstrators. We gonna find out if you really any good or not. You gonna get big party and some big money if you do good."

He waited a moment before saying more, tightening their attention.

"Pretty soon we gonna lift for Ananporu, gonna land you men inside the Sreegana. You gonna kill the Kalif. He been fuckin' up too damn much."

Again he waited. Now he really had their attention.

"The Kalif got a short regiment-three short battalions-of pretty tough guards to protect 'im. They ain't got you firepower, but they pretty damn tough. You ask 'em, they tell you they tougher than you. We gonna waste 'em pretty bad with bomb attack on they barracks, but them that live, they be pretty mad.

"We gonna land a battalion in the Sreegana and cool 'em. The rest of the 103rd be close by if need 'em. You mother haters gonna land in Kalif's garden. You job to get inside palace and kill Kalif.

"You gotta do it without no dry runs or mockup drills. I just give your officers a map and tell 'em what to do.

"If one of you kill Kalif, both platoons get big party. All the booze and all the broads you can handle! Each man get twenty dromas bonus. In platoon that kills 'im, each man get twenty more. Man that kills 'im gets 500 more!"

Skosh could hear their breath suck in. The major looked them over. "You mother haters like that?"

Three or four whooped. A few shouted "yes." Most just grinned or laughed.

"You do not," he went on-"I repeat not -shoot each other to get at Kalif. Your officers and sergeants will shoot any mother haters that fight each other. It's the Kalif we want dead, not you.

"How you know the Kalif when you see 'im? Look at me." The major stood tall in front of them. "He about my size. Your officers gonna show you pix of im to look at. Lotsa times Kalif wear a red cape, come down 'bout to here." The major gestured. "Lotsa times he wear a red robe." He gestured again. "But maybe he be dressed like anyone else there. So when you look at photos, look good. Make sure you know 'im.