by Tom Kratman
And that was fine, because her people still had some night-vision capability and, based on their nearly complete ineffectuality at night, the rebels did not.
Campbell and Greene both watched silently as the little bit or remaining light set with the moon, Hecate, leaving the area behind the headquarters in utter pitch blackness.
“Time, I think, Major.”
“Time, Sergeant Greene,” she agreed.
“SAS,” Greene said, just loudly enough to be heard in the building, “come with me.”
Of the nine SAS Jan had started with, three were wounded. Only one of these was serious, however, leaving eight more or less capable of what was needed.
I’ll take one SAS trooper with his arm in a cast or sling over any two others healthy and hale.
The SAS moved as silently as ghosts; friendly, careful, and mute, all eight. This was a bit surprising insofar as they carried with them a good quarter of all the ammunition remaining and all of the grenades but for the two they’d left Sergeant Pangracs.
Aided by their light-enhancing monoculars, the troopers moved around overstuffed and rotten garbage cans, and all the rest. They avoided the bloated, stinking bodies, one footstep away from a noisy and explosive release of inner gas.
A cat snarled, defensively. This was enough to get Greene, Dawes, and the rest to stop and hunker down for ten full minutes. But when no light came from the buildings behind, and no window took on the shadow of an alert watchman, they resumed their movement.
Dawes, on point, held up a single hand to halt the party. Greene couldn’t see the reason, but inferred it when his corporal squatted and bent, then appeared to be fiddling with something.
Aha, a trip wire of some kind, thought Sergeant Greene, correctly.
Slow as their movement was, the buildings behind were not far. Soon enough the entire party was standing underneath a window they’d taken special pains over to ensure that no glass remained to it.
For this, Greene went first, boosted up by Proctor and Braiden. They held him up, as high as they could, while he picked a few remaining shards from the frame, placing them carefully in a breast pocket lest they make any noise. Then he was in, turned around, and helping the next man in. Soon enough, here, too, eight men were inside enemy territory, complete unsuspected.
Based on the windows of the back building, Greene and Campbell figured six rooms. One SAS trooper went to each, with the corporal and the sergeant forming themselves into a reserve. Greene consulted his watch.
“Time, Turenge,” Campbell said. Then more loudly, she said to the assembled almost two hundred, “Fix bayonets! Fix bayonets!”
The indoor assembly area rang with the metallic sound of knives turning firearms into spears.
“An’ nuw ye fockers! If ye ever want to see yer loved ones agin . . . CHARGE!”
They did. Screaming and cursing and promising all manner of vile retributions on their besiegers, the mix of Anglian and Gaul and Sachsen, of Hordalander and Tuscan and even Castillian, in English and French and German and Spanish . . . and in Lord alone knew what else, the mob surged into the space between the buildings, moving as fast as they could for the other side.
Greene barely refrained from laughter as the true mob of rebels surged from where they had been defending back to face the headquarters. Already fire was lancing out at the charging Taurans. Over that cacophony, he told Dawes, “I’ll reinforce the room on the right; you go center.”
And that’s what they did, joined the one trooper in each of those rooms who hung behind, unseen, firing into the backs of the Moslem rebels without so much as being suspected. One by one, fire in those rear rooms faded away as the rebels crumpled into death or agony.
“Through the windows,” called Jan, in French, the most common tongue her people shared. “Help each other through the windows! No one will be forgotten.”
My ass. We will lose and forget some, no help for it. But we’ll lose less if no one even suspects he might be left behind.
She recognized Dawes in the window overhead. “Give me a hand up,” she said to two nearby soldiers. They did, until Dawes was able to draw her up and into the window.
Greene met her there shortly, for he’d seen her going up to the window.
“They’re going wild in here, Major,” the sergeant said. “The wog corpses are being hacked to bits.”
“Do you blame them?” she asked.
“Not in the slightest, but thought you might want to know. Also, I’ve kicked a patrol out to the other side of the street, just two men. They tell me they’re sure the wogs were there, but that they all seem to have run off.”
“Wonder why?”
Banlieue Vincennes
In the darkness, Marciano’s airships came down close together about twenty miles outside of Lumiere, on the other side of a lower-class banlieue, replete with Moslem rebels. They came down out of small-arms range.
As the troops debarked, they immediately took up tactical formations and began a movement to contact to the banlieue. He didn’t have enough ammunition to screw around with his artillery. The two batteries of 85mm, auxiliary propelled guns Carrera had sent along with the Helada, he’d reorganized into three, smaller batteries, in a single battalion. These took up overwatch positions to smash any attempt at resistance from the inhabitants of the towering apartment buildings.
As a matter of fact, yes, the men of the former Task Force SJ, or Task Force Jesuit, had very different rules of engagement than the ones they’d operated under in Santa Josefina.
Taking one of the few light vehicles they had as a command car, Marciano took up a position to the left of one of his batteries, along a long ridge that faced the banlieue of Vincennes. He couldn’t hear it, let alone see it, but he could see the men of one of the Gallic battalions scrambling for cover even as the radios sprang to life with reports of incoming fire and requests for support. One of the 85mm guns fired a white phosphorus round as a marker into an obviously guilty building. Marciano assumed it was confirmed, because within seconds of the shell’s bursting into a white, flaming flower, all eight guns opened up with a mix of high explosive and white phosphorus. It wasn’t long before the entire building was engulfed in smoke and flame.
“Teach you ungrateful bastards a sharp fucking lesson,” muttered Claudio.
EPILOGUE
UEPF Juncker
The crew had never surrendered the ship, since they had neither family down below nor a Balboan boarding party close to hand. Instead, they’d just kept quiet, communicating with the high admiral, if, indeed, that’s what she remained, via tightbeam. Apparently everyone aboard the rest of the fleet and down at Atlantis Base had likewise kept their mouths shut.
“Bring her around to face the Rift Transition Point,” ordered Marguerite. “Take up slack on the sail to tack.”
That last wasn’t actually what the ships and their lightsails did, but it was as close a term as existed, and so it had become part of the naval lexicon.
There was one other element of the United Earth Peace Fleet that hadn’t surrendered. These were the light cannon in the asteroid belt. They had announced their surrender, to save their families. But until a force came to occupy their base—and they had no shuttle of their own to bring one—they would do no harm . . . or not directly.
“Ask the light cannon to give us a starting push now,” Wallenstein intoned.
Shortly thereafter the huge lightsail grew brighter, albeit not bright enough to see unaided from Terra Nova, not at this range. With excruciating slowness, the ship began to move. It was, after all, not one of the relatively sleek ships of the line of the former Peace Fleet, but a huge colonization ship that had been converted into a ferry for supplies. The supplies were mostly still there, which added to the mass.
“Transition in two weeks, seven hours, forty-three minutes, fifteen seconds, High Admiral,” Navigation announced.
“Very good,” Wallenstein said, though she said it with little trace of the warmth
her voice had once held. “Khan, husband,” she said, rising, “you have the con.”
BdL ALTA
They’d sent out a bomb disposal team from the mainland who had figured out how to disarm the unexploded warhead and then proceeded to do so. Now, unencumbered and unthreatened, the assault transport was heading home to Balboa. Ham had turned over Atlantis Base to the noncadet regiment that had relieved him and then command of the cadets and their adult adjuncts to the senior adult officer aboard, retired to a shipping container doing duty as quarters and the seven other cadets who occupied it.
Now he lay on the top bunk, staring—so it seemed—through the several shipping containers over his, through the expended missile deck, through atmosphere, and off into space, and possibly into another universe.
We’ll never be safe with them out there, thought Carrera’s boy. We have to get out there, get on their side of the transition point, and take out their filthy government. We have no choice in this.
Casa Linda, Balboa.
The house had been bombed but not, as it turned out, to destruction. Even now bricklayers were fixing some of the structural damage, even as glaziers repaired the smashed windows, and a small team of interior designers and furniture venders redecorated.
Moreover, Lourdes had shown considerable presence of mind and selflessness, both, in securing some of the art. At the moment, for example, Carrera’s prized portrait of his lost Linda was carried across the lawn by two men, both tall and strong, to its customary spot over the fireplace.
As the painting passed, Lourdes was there. Esma was there, too. And, moreover, they were each watching the other warily.
Silly of both of them, thought Carrera. I’m just too old for two women, even if Lourdes would go for it, and, frankly, I’m too old for the young replica of my Linda, who—I must never forget—is not my Linda.
But, equally, as sure as I am that I am too old, I am equally sure that I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to do with and about her. Can’t keep her here, even if I am not laying a finger on her. Cruel to send her away, maybe. And I am no kind of a matchmaker even if I wanted to be, which—in her case—I do not.
What to do, what to do? Well, the Tercio Amazona took some serious losses. Maybe I could ease her into there. Maybe.
Things have way of turning out strangely. I think it’s going to be a golden age here for them and for all the other kids. Now that the Sachsens have paid up, we’re probably the most gold-rich country in human history, per capita. ’Course, the key word there is think, not know.
One thing, though, I do know: the war is over and I can take a rest, enjoy my wife, my kids, maybe soon enough my grandkids. I can hardly wait to see the disobedient monsters that Pililak puts out.
APPENDIX A
GLOSSARY
AdC
Aide de Camp, an assistant to a senior officer.
Adourgnac
A Gallic brandy, alleged to have considerable medicinal value, produced from ten different kinds of grapes, of which the four principal ones are Maurice Baco, Cubzadais, Canut, and Trebbiano. There is an illegal digestif produced from the brandy that includes a highly dilute extract from the fruit of the tranzitree, qv.
Ala
Plural: alae. Latin: Wing, as in wing of cavalry. Air Wing in the legion. Similar to tercio, qv.
ALTA MV
A ship, owned by the Legions. The title is an acronym for “Armada Legionario, Transporte de Assalto.”
Amid
Arabic: Brigadier General.
Antania
Plural: antaniae, septic-mouthed winged reptilians, possibly genengineered by the Noahs, AKA Moonbats.
ARE-12P
A Gallic Infantry Fighting Vehicle
Artem-Mikhail-23-465 Aurochs
An obsolescent jet fighter, though much updated.
Artem-Mikhail 82
Aka “Mosaic D,” an obsolete jet fighter, product improved in Balboan hands to be merely obsolescent
ASW
Anti-Submarine Warfare
BdL
Barco de la Legion, Ship of the legion.
Bellona
Moon of Terra Nova.
Bolshiberry
A fruit-bearing vine, believed to have been genengineered by the Noahs. The fruit is intensely poisonous to intelligent life.
Caltrop
A four-pointed jack with sharp, barbed ends. Thirty-eight per meter of front give defensive capability roughly equivalent to triple standard concertina.
Caltrop Projector
A drum filled with caltrops, a linear shaped charge, and low explosive booster, to scatter caltrops over a wide area on command.
Cazador
Spanish: Hunter. Similar to Chasseur, Jaeger and Ranger. Light Infantry, especially selected and trained. Also a combat leader selection course within the Legion del Cid.
Chorley
grain of Terra Nova, apparently not native to Old Earth.
Classis
Latin: Fleet or Naval Squadron.
Cohort
Battalion, though in the legion these are large battalions.
Conex
Metal shipping container, generally 8' × 8' × 20' or 40'.
Consensus
When capitalized, the governing council of Old Earth, formerly the United Nations Security Council.
Corona Civilis
Latin: Civic Crown. One of approximately thirty-seven awards available in the legion for specific and noteworthy events. The Civic Crown is given for saving the life of a soldier on the battlefield at risk of one’s own.
Cricket
A very short takeoff and landing aircraft used by the legion, for some purposes, in place of more expensive helicopters.
Diana
A small magnet or flat metal plate intended to hide partially metal antipersonnel land mines by making everything give back the signature of a metal antipersonnel land mine.
Dustoff
Medical evacuation, typically by air.
Eris
Moon of Terra Nova.
Escopeta
Spanish: Shotgun.
Estado Mayor
Spanish: General Staff and, by extension, the building that houses it.
F-26
The Legion’s standard assault rifle, in 6.5mm.
FMB
Five-Minute Bomb.
FMB-I
Five-Minute Bomb-Incendiary.
FMTIB
Five-Minute Thermobaric and Incendiary Bomb.
FSD
Federated States Drachma. Unit of money equivalent in value to 4.2 grams of silver.
GPR
Ground Penetrating Radar.
Hecate
Moon of Terra Nova.
Hieros
Shrine or temple.
Huánuco
A plant of Terra Nova from which an alkaloid substance is refined.
I
Roman number one. Chief Operations Officer, his office, and his staff section.
Ia
Operations officer dealing mostly with fire and maneuver, his office and his section, S- or G-3.
Ib
Logistics Officer, his office and his section, S- or G-4.
Ic
Intelligence Officer, his office and his section, S- or G-2.
II
Adjutant, Personnel Officer, his office and his section, S- or G-1.
IM-71
A medium-lift cargo- and troop-carrying helicopter.
Ikhwan
Arabic: Brotherhood.
JaguarVolgan-built tank in legionary service.
Jaguar II
Improved Jaguar.
Jizyah
Special tax levied against non-Moslems living in Moslem lands.
Karez
Underground aqueduct system.
Keffiyah
Folded cloth Arab headdress.
Klick
Kilometer. Note: Democracy ends where the metric system begins.
Kosmo
Cosmopolitan Progressive. Similar to Tranzi on Old Earth.
Liwa
Arabic: Major General.
Lorica
Lightweight silk and liquid metal torso armor used by the legion.
LOTS
Logistics Over The Shore, which is to say without port facilities.
LZ
Landing Zone, a place where helicopters drop off troops and equipment.