Not For Glory by Joel Rosenberg Page B
Authors: Joel Rosenberg
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Fantasy, Fantasy Fiction; American, Science fiction; American
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scum soldiers, but they're scum soldiers under tight discipline, always commanded by Saint Cyr officers, although the Legion's home is now on Thellonee, rather than Corsica, for obvious reasons: it's a hell of a lot easier to recruit scum on Thellonee than anywhere else.
Neither Metzada nor the Legion would like to get into a private war, which would serve neither the interests of Greater France nor of Metzada—so we tend to tiptoe around each other. They do more tiptoeing, and that's the way we like it. Rule of thumb: Metzadan line troops can, all things being equal, beat Legion scum soldiers about eighty percent of the time, but the only general to do so without taking horrible casualties has been Shimon Bar-El.
Our casualties are the only ones that count. Casualties among legionnaires don't matter to the French; that's the advantage of using scum soldiers. They're usually people you'd have to jail or shoot anyway.
As we stepped through the door, two gray-suited loaders slammed it shut and then spun-locked it.
There were easily forty soldiers crowding the lock, waiting for Ari, rather than rushing off to their families. That's one of the perks of being a line officer: you get the chance to earn some loyalty. People do things for you that they don't have to.
A tired-faced private who looked, and probably was, about seventeen, spoke up. "What's happening about Haim, Ari?" He called my brother by his first name, but he made it sound like he was saying "sir."
Ari raised his voice. "Everybody, go home. I've put in the complaint." He looked over at me. "You'll get the official charge later. For now?"
"I'll get busy on it, as soon as I see the deputy premier. Which will be any time now. But I'll still need the paperwork."
"You'll have it. I'll do it tonight."
" Sure you will, Ari." Zev snorted. Sometimes Zev didn't have the brains God gave Frenchmen.
Two sergeants and three privates started to turn toward him, desisting when Ari gave a quick shake of his head.
"Families," he repeated. "Go."
The question would be how to deal with it, and that would be at least partly political. We had long had an explicit POW agreement with the Legion commandant; my quasi-deputy had negotiated it himself, back before I became IG. Basically, full Geneva rights adhere to prisoners properly belonging to the Legion and Metzada—and each command was responsible for punishing any lapses of its own people, and denying tactical advantage to any unit where infractions occur.
A medician pushed his way through the crowd, a phone in his hands. He jacked the base into the wall. "The deputy wants to see you now, she says."
Ari raised his eyebrows. "Something hot?"
"Family matter," I said, as I decided to take Rivka's "you" to mean all three of us. I held out my hand for the phone; the medician handed it to me.
I opened the phone, said, "On our way," listened for a second, heard nothing, snapped it shut, and handed it back.
CHAPTER THREE
"Make It Look Like an Accident"
Metzada, Bar-El Warrens
Effron family quarters
12/20/43, 1348 local time
I've always thought that we live too close to our archetypes.
It's rare that we get a general who doesn't think of himself as Ariel Sharon, Mickey Marcus or David Warcinsky, unless he thinks of himself as another King David. Too many privates think of themselves as Samson in the Temple. Colonels in assault battalions tend to think they're Yonatan Netanyahu. I never met a male politician who didn't think he was really Moses, going to lead us back to Earth, back home to Eretz Yisrael. I doubt there's a female politician who doesn't, in her heart of hearts, think of herself as Golda Meir.
Except for the age and the hair, Deputy Premier Rivka Effron didn't look the part. She was a short, slim woman, who looked about sixty, and had looked about sixty for the past ten years. Her gray hair was tied in a tight bun, only a few strands out of place. She tried to pat them back into place as she ushered us out
Neither Metzada nor the Legion would like to get into a private war, which would serve neither the interests of Greater France nor of Metzada—so we tend to tiptoe around each other. They do more tiptoeing, and that's the way we like it. Rule of thumb: Metzadan line troops can, all things being equal, beat Legion scum soldiers about eighty percent of the time, but the only general to do so without taking horrible casualties has been Shimon Bar-El.
Our casualties are the only ones that count. Casualties among legionnaires don't matter to the French; that's the advantage of using scum soldiers. They're usually people you'd have to jail or shoot anyway.
As we stepped through the door, two gray-suited loaders slammed it shut and then spun-locked it.
There were easily forty soldiers crowding the lock, waiting for Ari, rather than rushing off to their families. That's one of the perks of being a line officer: you get the chance to earn some loyalty. People do things for you that they don't have to.
A tired-faced private who looked, and probably was, about seventeen, spoke up. "What's happening about Haim, Ari?" He called my brother by his first name, but he made it sound like he was saying "sir."
Ari raised his voice. "Everybody, go home. I've put in the complaint." He looked over at me. "You'll get the official charge later. For now?"
"I'll get busy on it, as soon as I see the deputy premier. Which will be any time now. But I'll still need the paperwork."
"You'll have it. I'll do it tonight."
" Sure you will, Ari." Zev snorted. Sometimes Zev didn't have the brains God gave Frenchmen.
Two sergeants and three privates started to turn toward him, desisting when Ari gave a quick shake of his head.
"Families," he repeated. "Go."
The question would be how to deal with it, and that would be at least partly political. We had long had an explicit POW agreement with the Legion commandant; my quasi-deputy had negotiated it himself, back before I became IG. Basically, full Geneva rights adhere to prisoners properly belonging to the Legion and Metzada—and each command was responsible for punishing any lapses of its own people, and denying tactical advantage to any unit where infractions occur.
A medician pushed his way through the crowd, a phone in his hands. He jacked the base into the wall. "The deputy wants to see you now, she says."
Ari raised his eyebrows. "Something hot?"
"Family matter," I said, as I decided to take Rivka's "you" to mean all three of us. I held out my hand for the phone; the medician handed it to me.
I opened the phone, said, "On our way," listened for a second, heard nothing, snapped it shut, and handed it back.
CHAPTER THREE
"Make It Look Like an Accident"
Metzada, Bar-El Warrens
Effron family quarters
12/20/43, 1348 local time
I've always thought that we live too close to our archetypes.
It's rare that we get a general who doesn't think of himself as Ariel Sharon, Mickey Marcus or David Warcinsky, unless he thinks of himself as another King David. Too many privates think of themselves as Samson in the Temple. Colonels in assault battalions tend to think they're Yonatan Netanyahu. I never met a male politician who didn't think he was really Moses, going to lead us back to Earth, back home to Eretz Yisrael. I doubt there's a female politician who doesn't, in her heart of hearts, think of herself as Golda Meir.
Except for the age and the hair, Deputy Premier Rivka Effron didn't look the part. She was a short, slim woman, who looked about sixty, and had looked about sixty for the past ten years. Her gray hair was tied in a tight bun, only a few strands out of place. She tried to pat them back into place as she ushered us out
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