Free Come and Take Them-eARC by Tom Kratman Page A

the information of the leadership cadre and are nonbinding on them. Or didn’t you know that?”
    Shaking his head, Ham said, “No…I…all of us thought they were binding.”
    “Puhleeze!” said the centurion. “Like we’re going to let thirteen-year-olds decide the futures of honest to God, actual human beings? Your father and I may look stupid, boy, but only when we drink and even that takes a while.”
    “Oh.”
    “But we do use them, and not always in ways that are obvious.” He decided to leave that last as a mystery.
    “For example, without attribution, let me read you a few comments from your fellow cadets: ‘When I needed help, where was he?’ ‘Pushy; tries to do too much.’ ‘Too good to talk to the rest of us.’ ‘Talks down to us.’ Worst of all, this one: ‘I can’t believe this snob is the child of our Dux Bellorum .’”
    With each sentence, Ham sank a little deeper into the chair. “But…but…”
    Cruz sighed. “But they’re all bullshit, son. I’ve watched you for the last couple of weeks closely. The only one of those that has any relationship to reality was the ‘too good to talk to the rest of us’ one. And that wasn’t because you think you’re too good, was it?”
    The boy’s voice was breaking as he answered, “No. It’s because I don’t know what to say. I never had to talk to regular kids before…not as one of them. That’s why the old man sent me here.”
    “That’s one of the reasons, yes,” Cruz concurred. “There are others. Tell me, Ham, do you like the other kids in your section?”
    “Some yes, some no. Mostly I don’t really know them.”
    “They don’t know you, either.”
    “I suppose not. They only know about me.”
    “No,” Cruz countered. “They don’t know a damned thing about you past your name. They know what they imagine about you: rich boy, powerful family, never had to do anything for himself, spoiled, soft…”
    And that last was about all Ham could take. His eyes flashed. “Soft? Soft?! Jesus Christ, Centurion, I was in my first firefight when I was nine years old! And I won, too. I was living in a camp at the war, getting mortared about every third day, when I was three! And you think it’s easy growing up under a father who’s never happy, never content, who always expects more?”
    “Yes,” Cruz said, “I knew all that. I was in the same camp, son. Or camps. But they don’t, and you can’t just tell them.”
    Again, the boy deflated, anger spent. “What am I going to do, Centurion?”
    “Mostly,” Cruz replied, “you’re going to have to figure it out for yourself, with a different approach for everyone or, at least, everyone that matters. But for the group and in the main, I want you to try three things. Number one, don’t talk about yourself, ask them about themselves. Number two, help them when they need help. Once. Don’t worry about offending them. If they don’t object, you can keep helping. If they do, fuck ’em; don’t help anymore. And number three, if you need to, pick one and beat his ass.
    “You would be surprised how often getting along depends on the willingness to beat someone’s ass.”

    Prey Nokor, Cochin, Terra Nova

    Cochin was important to Balboan defense. It had a place in research and development. It was involved in a certain amount of arms funneling, manufacture of sundry odd items of military utility, and provision of training. That latter included both advisors to the legion and in training for the legion—pilots and sappers, especially—within Cochin. It was also creating a few important systems from plans drawn up by Obras Zorilleras . Since the legion had money while Cochin aspired to rise to poverty someday, they’d have been willing to do still more. The limit was in how much could be done there without attracting unwanted attention.
    On the surface, the ship looked like just another Ro-Ro. It was only when one went inside and looked that one became impressed with the power