Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  “Or maybe one of the crew sabotaged the boarders,” Marguerite opined. “I doubt we’ll ever know. Take the con. Keep this course for the nonce, at least until we’re out of effective range of anyone’s cannon, then set course for the Juncker.”

  “Be about three weeks,” he said. “I’d recommend either getting out the games or setting my wife loose to entertain our passengers . . . or both.”

  “Both?”

  Khan nodded very affirmatively. “Three weeks is a long time. Both.”

  Bridge, Spirit of Peace (under new management)

  At this point, Aguilar’s feelings—and he’d never been among the least suspicious of people—where Esma was concerned, had gone from mild appreciation to deep suspicion. Therefore, when she asked permission to go and check on the people in sick bay, he’d said, “Sure, but first give me the gun and then . . . Corporal Morales?”

  “Yes, Tribune?”

  “Escort her. Take one other man.”

  “You know the ship better than I do, miss,” Morales said. “Lead the way.”

  Rather than trying to take the inexperienced Balboans through the gravity-free spine, Esma led them to one of the elevators. Three, even four, normally would have been no problem, but when two of the three were in bulky Volgan space suits it was a very tight fit indeed.

  Pressed enough, rather compressed enough, that she could barely breathe, Esma commanded, “Section thirty-one.”

  The elevator said nothing in return, but began to move sternward at rather more than a walking pace, stopped and opened up to another corridor in something under a minute.

  “It’s that way,” Esma said, pointing with her chin. Without another word she moved off, using a grip on a hand rail where there wasn’t yet enough gravity to give her feet purchase. The two Balboans followed, but rather less deftly.

  Gravity built up quickly as they moved away from the spine, though, with the Coriolis force, it was an awkward kind of gravity.

  Morales noticed the red crosses that dotted the passageway at about eye level, along with arrows pointing outward. Makes sense, he thought.

  It wasn’t very long before they reached sick bay. The hatch opened automatically, allowing Esma and the other two to enter.

  Morales could have cared less about the Earthpig wounded, but he was very pleased to see Estevez not merely alive but conscious, though with some of the Earther medicos clustered about him like a flock of hens.

  I suppose it didn’t hurt matters any that they’re pretty sure we’ll slaughter the lot if our man doesn’t make it.

  Esma asked one of them, “The earl of Care?”

  That medic pointed inward, toward the spine, and answered, “In there.”

  Informing Morales where she was going, Esma walked a bit unsteadily toward the ship’s morgue. A hatch whooshed open for her. She entered and saw the still clothed and still bloody corpse upon a gurney.

  She walked to it, her knees threatening to buckle under her. She steadied a bit once she could use the gurney for support. It suddenly became very real. She saw again Richard about to take out the Balboan’s shuttle. She heard herself warning him not to. She saw the sad smile. Did he know about me all along?

  She saw herself, as if through another’s eyes, firing. She saw the bullets strike and the blood burst forth. She saw too much.

  With deep regret and still deeper inner pain, Esma murmured, “Richard, I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry.” Then she lay her head down on his bloody chest and began to cry for the mortal sin she had committed against one whom she knew had truly loved her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Equō nē crēdite, Teucrī! Quidquid id est, timeō Danaōs

  et dōna ferentīs.

  (Put no faith in the horse, Trojans. Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks, even when bearing gifts.)

  —Laocoön, in Virgil’s Aeneid

  Task Force Jesuit, Cordoban-Santa Josefinan Border

  The command post was almost empty, this time of the morning, darker than three feet up a well-digger’s ass. Overhead, the Smilodon stalked the Leaping Maiden.

  Coming in from off in the distance, one could hear the whistle and shriek of mortars and artillery. Sometimes one might hear a blast of three, too, though as often as not the enemy were using white phosphorus, which was a better marking round in many circumstances. It wasn’t particularly impressive, really, just shells in ones and twos and threes, never hitting the same spot but playing around for a while then stopping.

  It’s the assholes preregistering on our positions, thought Claudio. Seen it before. Hell, done it before. Every gun registering between three and six targets—who knows, maybe more—so that we can’t really guess as to their main effort when they decide they’re ready to break us.

  Claudio looked over at the map, tacked to a tent wall and covered with acetate. It was annotated with recent reconnaissance reports of the Santa Josefinan buildup around Task Force Jesuit’s forward trace. Of late, those reports hadn’t been so much about the who, what, when, and where of things, as they had been about, “The sonsabitches are as thick as fleas out there and we couldn’t get through their counter-reconnaissance to find out anything.”

  More ominous, still, were the spots marked with, “Patrol X, disappeared and believed destroyed.”

  Time to turn ourselves over to the Cordobans for internment? Maybe. If not today or tomorrow, then soon. Why, oh, fucking why did I ever accept being recalled to duty? He sighed and then mentally answered his own question:Because you love this shit and would rather lose doing this than win at anything else. Idiot.

  Marciano shook his head with a sad smile. “Well, at least their carrier’s gone elsewhere. That’s something.”

  Someone knocked on the upright pole by the normal entrance to the tent. Claudio looked over to see Stefano Collea standing next to a tall, very slender, and rather pale-looking sort. He looked slightly familiar but . . . can’t quite place him. Certainly doesn’t look Cordoban.

  Collea said, “General Marciano? Sir . . . there’s . . . there’s someone here to see you.”

  Claudio suddenly attached a name to the face and a rank to the insignia. “Captain . . . Gold, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m surprised you remembered; we were only in the same room maybe twice, and were never introduced.”

  “You briefed your chief on one of those occasions. It was not a happy time. That’s what made your name stick in my mind.”

  Gold sighed, ruefully. “Yeah . . . something about DFC12 pallets and shipping containers. Oh, well.”

  “Yes,” Claudio chuckled, “that was it. How can I help you, Captain Gold? I’m afraid our hospitality is limited and you might get bombed . . .”

  “I’m . . . well . . . actually, sir, I was sent to help you.”

  “Sent?”

  “Yes, sir; by the Duque  .   .   .”

  “Et dona ferentes.”

  “I wonder how he does that?” Gold did actually wonder aloud.

  “Does what?” Marciano asked.

  “Predicts things like that. He said you would say exactly that. Oh, and that I was to . . .” Gold reached into an inside pocket of his blue jacket, a move which immediately made him the focus of two suddenly hostile rifle and pistol muzzles.

  “Easy, gentlemen,” Gold said, “it’s only a letter.”

  Carefully, Gold drew out the letter and passed it to Marciano.

  With a shrug, the Tuscan general took the letter, walked a few steps to a makeshift desk, leaned his rear on the desk, and thumb-sliced the letter open. He took out the thin sheaf, took one look, and said, “It’s hard to believe anyone descended from Adam and Eve could have such shitty handwriting.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Gold. “He didn’t say you would say that but he did say that there’s a typed copy inside.”

  “Of course he did.” Claudio thumbed through the thin sheaf, placed what had been the top half onto the desk, and began to read, silently.

  “Old Comrade
,” the letter began. “It’s been too many years. I hope, when all of this is settled, you’ll be my guest for a few weeks, or months. It would be a fine thing to get us all together, you, myself, Sada, Qabaash, the entire gang. That, however, has to await events.

  “Right now, from every report I’ve had, you’ve done a fine job of withdrawing to the Santa Josefina-Cordoba border. You’ve got secure flanks. You’ve probably mostly solved your supply problems by buying on the open market and the black market in Cordoba.

  “But there you will sit until the money runs out. And, if you’ve been paying attention to events in the Tauran Union, the money’s not only running out, but what you have left is probably close to worthless. There will not be any more coming; the Tauran Union is effectively dead. No, don’t pretend to mourn; you’re not going to miss those arrogant, corrupt bureaucratic bastards any more than I am.

  “It may or may not have occurred to you, but if you’ve been paying for supplies from the Cordobans with Tauran currency they are not going to be happy with you, right about now. Maybe marching over the border and getting interned wouldn’t be such a great idea after all.”

  “Hadn’t really thought about that,” Marciano muttered. “Stefano?”

  “Sir?”

  “What’s the exchange rate now, Tauran to Federated States Drachma?”

  “I was going to mention that at tonight’s command and staff. Short version? We’re nearly broke.”

  “Hummph. How does that bastard predict . . .”

  Marciano went back to the letter. He read until he came to the line, “Go ahead and check with your staff. See where you stand financially.”

  “God dammit!”

  “So your choices are almost all bad: stay and be destroyed, eventually cross the border and be interned, if you’re lucky, or, maybe, take the way out I’m offering you. Now stop reading for a bit and ask Captain Gold what he has to offer you.”

  Marciano looked directly at Gold. “Do you know what’s in this letter?”

  “Probably, sir, at least in broad terms.”

  “He says to ask you what you have to offer.”

  Gold smiled. “Oh, that’s one’s easy, sir. He wants me to park my ship off shore, load you all, and take you out to sea, where he’s arranged for one large and two midsized airships to take you home. To that end, I’ve got a fair number of small boats, enough to take everybody out in . . . mmmm . . . let’s say forty lifts. Maybe fifty. I have three-quarters of a million daily rations.”

  “Stefano?”

  “Two months, sir. Maybe two and a half. If we could take off the couple of weeks’ worth we have left, maybe three months.”

  Marciano considered that. He asked, “Our heavy weapons? We don’t have much left but . . .”

  “I’m carrying two batteries of light artillery, our batteries, not yours; so twenty-four guns and about twenty thousand shells. Mortars are similar. Enough machine guns and such to at least make up your materiel losses. Actually, way more than enough.”

  Nodding, Claudio went back to the letter.

  “You’re not going to be able to get everything out, not in the one night you will have to get it out. And you probably can take none of your really heavy equipment, so I’ve added what I could spare, along with enough rifles and machine guns for a full corps.”

  “God dammit!”

  He read on for a bit, then asked, “Vehicles?”

  “A few light ones for coordination, a dozen medium trucks, and perhaps a third enough prime movers for the artillery.”

  “Hell, if we have to, we can round up horses and confiscate civilian cars. We’ve certainly had enough practice at that lately. Okay.”

  “As to where your target should be, I am torn between whether you should go for a port, or should try to liberate a capital and then go for a port. You could land in Castille, since they stayed out of the war, but they might intern you, so I can’t recommend it. The Anglians are a paranoid and often resentful lot; I don’t recommend there. Gaul? Maybe you should save Gaul for one of our colleagues who, yes, lives. You’ll know who I mean.”

  “Janier is alive?” he asked Gold.

  “I have no idea, sir.”

  “Must be Janier.” Claudio chuckled, once again. “Frog bastard’s too mean to die.”

  “So if not Gaul, then where? I think you should at least think about going home and starting the liberation of Tuscany.

  “Note, this is a freebie. No charge for the ship, the airships, the food, the arms, the ammunition or the other supplies. Or you can pay in now-worthless Tauros, if you like. Up to you. All I really demand is that you just put the arms and other equipment to good use. The only caveat to this is that, between you, me, and Gold—oh, and I suppose some of your immediate staff—we know what’s going on, but the rest of the world needs to think you hired a random ship which you had given a laundry list to buy and load for you and the same for the airships. And, in fact, the ship is off my books, not part of the classis, not in the hidden reserve, not manned by Balboans, except for Gold, while the airships are genuine civilian hires with no connection to Balboa. Or not officially, anyway.

  “It’s important for a couple of reasons. One is that you and your men need to be the Taurans who never surrendered, who may have been worn out but were never actually beaten in the field. Since your force was Pan-Tauran, you are also the best force for this. You will be the exception that lets people keep their chins high, after so many disasters.

  “The other thing is that, well, frankly, the history books are not going to be kind to you. You know it. I know it. And we both have a pretty good idea of how unfair that will be.

  “Rather, the other history books are not going to be kind to you. I guarantee you, however, that Balboan and Santa Josefinan history books will be extremely kind to you, since we understand that the courage of one’s enemies does one honor.

  “Now figure out how to get on that goddamned ship and do it!

  “Good luck.”

  “Carrera.”

  “What a son of a bitch,” Marciano said. “Like it’s going to be that easy. Hmmm . . . speaking of easy, Captain Gold, how many rubber boats did you say you have?”

  “Two dozen, sir, with motors.”

  “It’s going to be harder than you think; we have wounded I will not leave behind. Rall!”

  “Sir?”

  “Start working on an escape plan. Now, Captain Gold, when can your ship be here?”

  “We could be here tomorrow night, sir. Actually, we could be here in four hours. But I recommend we wait until three nights from tonight. In the first place you will need time to plan and coordinate. In the second, it’s going to be only one moon, and that at a thin sliver of illumination, three nights hence. Finally, I’ve got to have my crew get the boats ready, which is harder than it sounds.”

  “Got that, Rall?”

  “Got it.”

  Claudio looked back at the letter.

  “PS: I’ll restrain the Santa Josefinans and the reinforcements I sent them for three days from when Gold tells me you agree.”

  “God dammit!”

  “PPS: While we didn’t put an instructor aboard for political education—too many languages to deal with already—we do have a container full of copies of Historia y Filosofia Moral, English translation. You may find it useful to distribute these.”

  Sergente Maggiore Chiarello, short, olive, and formerly pudgy, stared down at the tripod-mounted machine gun before him with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. As an engineer, yes, building things was his job, but this was something more in line with a mechanical engineer’s duties.

  “Which I am not.”

  “Sergeant Major?” asked Chiarello’s assistant for the project, a Caporale Borroni, taller, skinnier, and both more intelligent and more innocent looking.

  “I am not—we are not—mechanical engineers, Borroni. But the general, via the colonel, via Capitano Ederle wants us to fix this fucking machine gun so it will fire a burst o
f eight or ten rounds every twenty to sixty minutes. And, I confess, I have no idea how to do that.”

  “No, I’m not one, either,” Borroni admitted. “But how hard can it be?”

  Chiarello fixed Borroni with a baleful glare.

  “Oh, come on, Sergente Maggiore, we can do this. Let’s just take it a step at a time. Now first, what have we got to work with for power, because we’re going to need some kind of power?”

  “I can tell you more easily what we don’t have, Caporale, we don’t have a generator, solar, or windup. We don’t have a motor that can run off a battery, even though we could spare the batteries from the vehicles we’re about to burn. What’s left?”

  Borroni thought for a moment, then answered, brightly, “We have gravity and water.”

  “Well, yes,” Chiarello admitted, “I suppose we do. How far does that get us?”

  “It gets us to a way to pull on a rope or cable to depress a trigger,” Borroni answered.

  “But we need to have it fire intermittently.”

  “So we fix whatever we use to catch the water to spill,” said Borroni. “Let’s go scrounge some wood, nails, and cord . . .and a jerry can. Oh, and some weights; rocks will do. I think I have a way to do this.”

  The key thing had been to have the men fire at random spots, irregularly, every night. This they’d done. It even seemed to deter the Santa Josefinan patrols that had become increasingly bold as the numbers of guerillas around Task Force Jesuit had grown.

  Overlooking the main highway connecting the capitals of Santa Josefina and Cordoba, sat a machine gun on a tripod, the whole assembly seemingly bound in wood and wire. The aiming point for the machine gun wasn’t the highway, but a copse of trees to the west of it. The fire did, naturally, pass over the highway. This had been preset sometime over the last three days and nights.