"I understand."
"Instead, your unit was lost trying to save itself. It's very well and good to talk about living to fight another day. But that is not the spirit that ultimately wins wars. Failing to understand that is your failure as a company commander. Do you understand?"
Sten was silent.
"I did not say you had to agree. But do you understand?"
"Yes, sergeant."
"Very well. But I did not relieve you and confine you to barracks for that reason. Your test scores indicate a high level of intelligence. I broke you because you showed me you are completely unsuited for the Guard or to be a guardsman. Effective immediately, you are removed from the training rolls."
Sten's mouth hung open.
"I will explain this, too. You have a soldier. He takes a knife, blackens his face, leaves all his weapons behind. He slips through the enemy lines by himself, into the shelter of an enemy general. Kills him and returns. Is that man a hero? Of one kind. But he is not a guardsman." Lanzotta inhaled.
"The Guard exists as the ultimate arm of the Emperor. A way of putting massive force into a precise spot to accomplish a mission. The Guard will fight and die for the Emperor. As a fighting body, not as individuals." Sten puzzled.
"As a guardsman, you are expected to show bravery. In return, the Guard will provide you with backing. Moral and spiritual in training and garrison, physical in combat. For most of us, the bargain is more than fair. Are you tracking me?"
Most of Sten was wondering what would happen to him next—washed out to a duty battalion? Or would they dump him straight back to Vulcan? Sten tried to pay attention to Lanzotta.
"I will continue. A guardsman is always training to be more. He should be able to assume the duties of his platoon sergeant and accomplish the mission if his sergeant becomes a casualty. A sergeant must be able to assume the duties of his company commander.
"And that means no matter how tactically brilliant he is, if he does not instinctively understand the nature of the men he commands, he is worse than useless. He is a danger. And I have told you time and again. . .my job is to not just make guardsmen. But to help those men stay alive."
"Is that all, sergeant?" Sten said tonelessly.
"Four survivors. Of fifty-six men. Yes, Sten. That's all."
Sten lifted his hand toward the salute.
"No. I don't take salutes—or return them—from washouts. Dismissed."
Sten ate, turned in his training gear and went to bed in a thick blanket of isolation. Emotionally, he wanted one of his friends to say something. Just good-bye. But it was better like this. Sten had seen too many people wash, and knew it was easier on everyone if the failure simply became invisible.
He wondered why they were waiting so long to get him. Usually a washout was gone in an hour or two after being dumped. He guessed it was the seriousness of what he'd done. The cadre wanted him around for a while as an object lesson.
It gave Sten time to make some plans of his own. If they were sending him to a duty battalion. . .he shrugged. That was one thing. He didn't owe anything more to the Empire, so as soon as he could, he'd desert. Maybe. Or maybe it'd be easier to finish his hitch and take discharge into Pioneer Sector. Supposedly they never could get enough men on the frontiers, and anyone who'd been even partially through Guard training could be an asset.
But Vulcan. . .Sten's fingers automatically touched the knife haft in his arm. If he went back, the Company would kill him. He'd as soon go out quick before they got there. Besides, there was always a chance. . .
Not much of one, he decided, and stared blankly up at the dark ceiling.
Sten half felt a movement—his fingers curled for the sheath—and Carruthers' arm clamped on him.
"Follow me."
Sten, still dressed, stepped out of the bunk. Automatically, he S-rolled the mattress and picked up his small ditty.
Carruthers motioned him toward the door. Sten followed. Dazed. He had just realized Carruthers had stopped him as if she knew about the knife. He wondered why they'd never confiscated it.
Carruthers stopped beside an automated weapons carrier. Indicated the single seat, and Sten climbed in.
Carruthers tapped a destination code, and the car hummed. Carruthers stepped back. And saluted.
Sten stared. Washouts didn't rate, but Carruthers was holding the salute. Sten was lost. He automatically returned it.
Carruthers turned and was double-timing away as the car lifted.
Sten looked ahead. The car angled out of the training area a few feet clear of the ground, then lifted to about twenty meters. Its screen flashed: DESTINATION RESTRICTED AREA. REQUEST CODE CLEARANCE. The car's computer chuckled, and printed numbers across the screen. The screen blanked, then: M-SECTION CLEARANCE GRANTED.
NOTIFICATION. ON LANDING AWAIT ESCORT.
Sten was completely lost.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MAHONEY CEREMONIOUSLY POURED the pure-quill medalcohol into the shooter, and dumped the pewter container into the two-liter beermug. He handed the mug to Carruthers, and turned to the other three in the room. "Anyone else need refueling?"
Rykor lifted a fluke and propelled a minicascade from her tank at Mahoney. "I have a mind that needs no further altering, thank you," she rumbled. Lanzotta shook his head.
Mahoney picked up his own mug. "Here's to failure." They drank.
"How did he take it, corporal?"
"Dunno, colonel. Kid's a little shocky. Prob'ly thought we was gonna ship his butt back for recycling on that armpit he came from."
"He's that dumb?"
"I crucified him, colonel," Lanzotta said. "I would assume he isn't guilty of any thinking at this moment."
"Quite likely. You're pretty good at slow torture, Lan." Mahoney paused. "Rykor, sorry to bore you for a minute. But I got to tell these two. Obviously all this is sealed—saying that's a formality. But since it's closed, we can knock off the colonel drakh for a while."
Carruthers shifted uncomfortably and buried her nose in her mug.
"I need a very fast final assessment. Rykor?"
"I have no reason to change my initial evaluation. His training performance, as predicted, was near record. His profile did not alter significantly. In no way could Sten have become a successful Guard soldier. His independence, instinctual animosity to authority, and attraction toward independent action are especially jagged on the curve. For your purposes, he seems ideal.
"The peculiar individual traumas we discussed when he entered training are maintained at close to the same level in some ways. But in others, since he has proven himself successful in training and in dealing with other people, he is far more stable an entity."
"Carruthers?"
"I dunno how to put it, sir. But he ain't anybody I'd pick to team with. He ain't a coward. But he ain't for-sure either. At least not in, mebbe, a red-zone assault."
"Only one sir! Thank you. Buy yourself another drink. And me one, too."
Mahoney passed his mug across.
"I could probably elaborate on Carruthers' assessment," Lanzotta said carefully, "but there's no need. Gargle words don't explain things any better than she did."
"Come on, Lanzotta. Like pulling teeth. You know what I want."
"I'd rate Sten first rate for Mantis Section. He reminds me of some of the young thugs I tried to keep under control for you."
Carruthers spun, spilling beer.
"You was in Mantis Section, sergeant?"