by Rick Shelley
“Oh, no!” Alfie Edwards said when he saw the soldiers coming in again, across the zone of incredible destruction that the Spacehawks had plowed around the Commonwealth perimeter. The enemy was facing away, mostly, and when they did turn toward Alfie, they were more interested in climbing over or through obstruction, trying to get away from the new force on the ground, than in continuing to fight the commandos. Even when they started taking fire from the commandos who still had a few rounds of ammunition left, the enemy soldiers were slow to react.
They came on in a daze, slowly, haltingly.
Alfie whistled over his squad channel as he got to his feet. He was moving forward, toward the enemy, as he fired the last two rounds from his rifle. All he had now was the nine-inch blade of the bayonet on the end of that rifle.
Only ten commandos on that side of the perimeter were able to follow Alfie forward. With one exception, the civilians stayed where they were. None of them had bayonets, and even if they had, they had never been trained on how to use them.
The nearest enemy soldiers seemed shocked—though nothing could be seen of their faces—at the way the commandos advanced on them with bayonets. A few of them had no choice but to try to block those attacks. None of them had bayonets fixed. Behind the leaders of the enemy movement, the rest stopped. Although there were only a few Marines in front of them and many behind, they hesitated. Most broke to one side or the other then, trying to escape both groups of the enemy. Those who could not disengage fought as long as they could, until they fell.
Alfie was the first to close with an enemy soldier, feinting with his blade and then swinging the rifle butt around and up, knocking his opponent’s rifle out of position. Alfie pressed forward, stock blocking stock, and kneed the man between the legs. When he bent over in automatic reflex, Alfie brought his bayonet down, slicing into the shoulder and neck. As the man fell, Alfie kicked at the helmet to help free his bayonet, then stepped over that man and started for the next.
The second enemy had time to bring his rifle up. He had started to squeeze off a burst before Alfie’s rifle knocked his off line. Edwards grunted in pain as a bullet tore into his thigh, but he still moved forward. In three quick motions, he planted the point of his bayonet in the man’s chest as he lunged forward, then tumbled over the top as the man fell backwards. The blade ripped free in a fountain of bright arterial blood.
• • •
When Alfie tried to get back to his feet, his injured leg refused to support him. He fell back to the ground.
Shadda Lorenqui started back toward the fighting. He had just thrown down his rifle. It was out of ammunition. Now, he had the automatic pistol in his hand. It was cocked, with a round in the chamber. Shadda moved back toward Prince George and the other civilians who had not moved into the line with weapons. Enemy soldiers were coming in.
There was no clear thought to Shadda’s movements. His mind had long since fallen to instinct—of some sort. All he felt was an impulse, a need to continue protecting his guests from the hotel. He intended to put himself between those guests, especially Prince George, and the enemy.
He was no longer conscious of the bullets flying around him. Nor was he aware that he had been slightly injured. A round had grazed his arm, cutting his sleeve and scoring the skin beneath. He felt no pain. More important, he no longer felt fear. He was no longer capable of that.
Shadda moved past the guests. He saw a couple of the Marines using their bayonets. He saw Alfie Edwards go down and not get back up. Although Shadda could not identify Edwards by sight in battledress, he went over toward him as two more enemy soldiers moved toward the fallen Marine.
He fired twice, once at each of the men. From no more than fifteen feet away, his aim was sufficient. Both men went down with wounds to the upper torso. Shadda moved toward them. He wanted to check, wanted to know whether or not he had killed them. The first man was either dead or close to it.
The second … was not.
Shadda leaned over the man, then reached to lift his faceplate. At that point, the man swung his rifle up. Shadda saw the movement but could not block the swing or get out of his way. He did pull the trigger on his pistol again, just before the rifle butt connected with the side of his head.
The world seemed to explode as Shadda collapsed on top of the man he had just killed, falling into a limitless darkness.
• • •
The fight was over for the men of the 2nd Marine Commando Detachment and their civilian companions before any of the men from their relief force came into sight. The last enemy soldiers who could had faded away to one side or the other.
Two squads of Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 2nd Marine Regiment moved across the area that had been hit by the Spacehawks. They came cautiously, weapons at the ready, in two skirmish lines, still looking for the enemy.
People stood, commandos and civilians, slowly. Most simply stared at the oncoming Marines, too numbed by what had happened to give any other reaction. Some could not even stand.
At the center, David Spencer was in radio contact with the battalion commander and two company commanders. Medical orderlies were being routed in to care for the wounded. David sank to the ground near the feet of Prince George. The prince was oblivious to what was happening. Someone had slapped a sleep-patch on the royal neck. George lay on his back, smiling at the universe, or at some mad dream. David closed his eyes, unaware that he was crying, sobbing out loud.
“Captain Spencer?”
David looked up slowly. Although the man standing over him had his visor up, David needed a moment to recognize him as Lieutenant Colonel Marc Olivier, 1st Battalion commanding officer.
Spencer nodded once, dully. “Yes, sir.” He did not try to stand, not immediately.
“We’ve got your wounded in hand. Some are already on the way over to the shuttles. We have a half dozen trauma tubes. If that’s not enough, I’ve had one shuttle alerted to take off as soon as we get the most seriously hurt men—and one woman—loaded.”
“Woman?”
“Madame Caffre,” Jeige McDonough said. He had justcome up behind the colonel. “She had a rifle and was fighting along with the rest of us. A most spirited woman.”
Finally, David struggled to his feet, needing to use his rifle as a crutch to make it. “Do you have a count yet, sir?” he asked, focusing in on Olivier. “How many survived?”
“No, I can’t give you numbers yet, Captain. As soon as possible, I promise.” He pointed to the sleeping figure on the ground. “His Highness?”
“Yes.” David glanced at the prince, then looked back at Olivier. “It was necessary to sedate him. I’ll explain later, to Colonel Zacharia.”
“Yes, of course. He’s anxious to hear about your lot.” The colonel lowered his visor to get the benefit of its night vision. “First impression, Captain. You did remarkably well, no matter how serious your losses. Under the circumstances…. And succeeded in your primary mission as well. An astounding performance, one might say.”
David nodded slowly, the compliment missing him entirely. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. I need to see to my men.” Those I’ve got left.
HAVEN
i
According to the official account published by the Combined Space Forces, the battle for Camerein lasted seven hours, marked from the time HMS Victoria and her escorts launched their attack. The week that David Spencer’s band of commandos spent on the world was mentioned only in a footnote.
The 2nd Marine Commando Detachment was infiltrated in advance of the primary landings. Their mission rescued a number of Commonwealth citizens who had been trapped on Camerein since the start of the war and paved the way for the quick liberation of that world.
The fact that Prince George was one of those citizens was never officially acknowledged. Everyone involved was cautioned that any mention of his presence on Camerein throughout the seven years of war would be a violation of the Official Secrets Act—even after the end of hostilities. The official si
lence about the prince had lasted throughout his years on Camerein. It would continue until he was released from a specialized treatment facility on the grounds of the Royal College of Medicine, Westminster University.
Only twenty-seven members of the commando detachment survived their footnoted engagement. Of those, twenty-three had been wounded, sixteen seriously enough to require hours in trauma tubes. Of the seventeen civilians, only one man died, and no one was quite certain how or when that had happened; even alive, Homer Keating had been something of a nonentity among the exiles. Of the surviving civilians, Marie Caffre was the only one to suffer serious wounds, though several had minor injuries. The psychological effects of the long isolation and of the stresses of their final week on the world took longer to treat.
Little more than an hour after 1st Battalion reached them, Spencer and his group were all aboard HMS Victoria being treated. They were still in the shipboard hospital when news arrived of the cease-fire signed on Dirigent. That news came just minutes before word came that the last Federation troops on Camerein had surrendered—before hearing of the cease-fire.
No one in the hospital cheered.
Eight hours after reaching Victoria, the commandos and the civilians they had rescued were transferred to HMS Sheffield. Quarters had been prepared for them. An hour later, Sheffield jumped to Q-space, on her way back to Buckingham.
The war was over, its last battle a victory for the Commonwealth.
ii
David Spencer fell asleep before the commuter shuttle took off from the civilian airport east of Westminster. He had been lethargic through the three months since his return to Buckingham from Camerein. He tired easily and had little energy even after a full night of sleep. Batteries of medical tests had determined that there was no physical reason for the lethargy.
The doctor who had approved the formal diagnosis seemed inordinately proud of his deductions. “After seven years of war, and a number of battle campaigns, you are a warrior without a war now. There is bound to be a reaction. It will most likely pass in due course, with or without counseling. Counseling will likely shorten the period of adjustment, though.”
Spencer had not bothered to offer his opinion of the doctor’s cleverness. It would have taken far too much effort, even for a string of monosyllabic words.
A warrior without a war. Debriefing, medical screening, writing letters to the families of the dead—or paying them personal visits—and the bureaucratic necessities of returning to garrison had taken most of three weeks after David’s return from Camerein. There had been two visits to the palace, two private audiences with His Majesty. Then David had taken a month of his accumulated furlough time and done as close to nothing as he could manage. For once, it wasn’t at all difficult to be completely idle. At the end of his leave, he had spent a week back on duty, then had taken another thirty days of holiday.
That had ended two days before this flight. David was on administrative leave now—which would not be deducted from his remaining leave time. There had been few opportunities to use that time during the past seven years. He still had seventy days left that he could take at any time, subject to military necessities and convenience. After considerable internal debate, David had decided that he would not bother to take those days. It wouldn’t be necessary.
“Captain?” The voice and the gentle shake of his shoulder woke David. He looked up and smiled at the flight attendant. This was a much nicer way to wake than he had ever known in the Marines. The first time she had called him by rank, David had been surprised. He was traveling in civilian clothes. He had needed a moment to remember that his ticket had been procured by regimental headquarters and had listed his full name and rank.
“We’re due to land in Haven in just a couple of minutes, Captain. Time to fasten your lap strap.”
“Yes, of course.” David straightened up and pulled the belt around into position. “Thank you.”
Haven was on the seacoast north of Westminster. The city of Haven was situated on a broad bay. The duchy of Haven extended over twelve thousand square miles. Except for the duchy’s capital, most of the population was scattered about in a score of small towns and large villages.
David glanced out the window at his left in time to see Havenheights, the home of Prince William, on top of the bluff on the west side of the bay. The city was below, centered on the seaport. The east side of the bay had extensive beaches—beautiful, but with water seldom warm enough for swimming.
The shuttle circled over the city and settled in gently at the airport just to the south. Like most such facilities, the
Haven airport had a fairly informal layout. The terminals were low and spacious buildings with automated transit systems so that passengers had little walking to do. The hangars and maintenance sheds were considerably distant, and looked decorative rather than purely functional.
As the shuttle taxied toward the terminal, David spotted a bright blue limousine with the crest of the Duke of Haven on the skirt. The figure standing next to the floater looked familiar, but the shuttle passed too quickly for Spencer to be certain.
The flight attendant returned just before the aircraft came to a halt. “If you’ll follow me, Captain. There’s a limousine here to collect you. You can exit through the cockpit door.”
David unstrapped and stood, a little unsteadily as the shuttle braked to a stop. “My luggage?”
“Will be sent along straightaway, Captain.”
She led him to the front of the passenger cabin, then past the service area where the in-flight drinks and snacks were prepared. The door to the cockpit beyond was open. On the right side of the fuselage, the exit door was already open as well, with a ramp in place.
“Thanks for everything,” David told to flight attendant before he started down the ramp. “I could get used to this sort of service.”
One step out on the ramp, David recognized the figure waiting beside the blue floater. He hurried away from the shuttle. The other man hurried to meet him.
“Alfie, I thought you had gotten yourself lost,” David said. “You’re looking fit.”
Alfie grinned and flipped a salute that many officers would have considered insubordinate. “I’ve been here for a week, Cap. The prince’s people have been fattening us all up.”
“All?”
“You’ll see. God, it’s good to see you, David. There have been some nasty rumors going around.”
“You know better than to believe everything you hear, Alfie-lad.” David gestured at the floater. “Do we have adriver, or have you signed on as a chauffeur for His Highness?”
“He asked me to collect you and apologize for not being here himself. I’m not the regular chauffeur, but I did sign on to work here, assistant to the head of security.”
“I knew you left the RM. They told me when I came back from leave. I was upset that you didn’t wait until I returned.”
“I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it.” Alfie shrugged, then turned away just for an instant. “It was time for me. If nothing else, the fact that it took a civilian to save my arse would have convinced me.”
“No shame in that.”
“Maybe. I’m glad he survived, anyhow. I don’t think I could have lived with myself if that hotel manager had died saving my life. Now, we’d best be going. His Highness is keen to see you. If you’re going to be hoity-toity, you can sit in back. Else you can ride up front with me.”
David rode up front.
There was no direct road from the airport to Havenheights. Alfie drove north on the main turnpike, into the city, then along the waterfront. Just opposite city hall, an immense gray ship lay moored to Commonwealth Pier. That ship, more than a thousand years old, was Haven’s primary claim to fame. It was not just that USS Missouri had been built on Earth and lifted to orbit for the transit to Buckingham. That feat, spectacular though it had been, had only been part of the story, lost in the intrigue that had led to the establishment of the Second Commonwealth.
“They tell me this road is really fun during the winter,” Alfie said after twisting the floater around one of three switchbacks. “It’s impossible for wheeled vehicles if there’s any snow or ice at all.”
“This is close enough to impossible for me. We survived a war, Alfie. Don’t kill us here.”
Alfie laughed. “I could do this with my eyes closed.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Havenheights was an amalgam of styles—medieval castle, colonial hacienda, and baroque palace in approximately equal shares. The twelve-foot-high curtain wall enclosed one hundred twenty acres. Disproportionately large towers stood at the corners and at intervals along the sides. A variety of outbuildings were backed against that wall as well. The parapets were, not manned, though there were automatic sentry systems. In the front, east, half of the enclosure stood the main building, the palace, on a knoll that had been prescribed by the architect. The palace was similar—except in scale—to the style of building common on most frontier colonies, built around its own interior courtyard. One side of the structure was all baroque palace, four stories high, exaggerated in decoration, with rooms and corridors two to three times the size that they needed to be. The flanking wings were more modest in scale, and the fourth side was primarily a covered walkway, with a wall only on the outer side.
The only security visible as David arrived amounted to two guards decked out in the antique finery of the Cold-stream Guards, red uniform blouses, black shakos, white gloves and trim. The weapons they carried were as modern as anything the Royal Marines carried into combat, though.
The limousine was passed straight through the outer gate.