Terra Nova- the Wars of Liberation

by Tom Kratman

  “Perplexity?” Alexander said. “I’m afraid I do not know this word.”

  “You look troubled, Your Highness,” Mai said. “And you are missing your own party.”

  “It is nothing,” Alexander lied. “The battle to liberate your home district was intense and our training scheduled since hasn’t allowed for much rest. I’m simply tired.”

  “Of course,” Mai said, her tone laden with polite disbelief.

  “And why are you foregoing the party?” Alexander said. “I’m sure there are many who would be overjoyed at your company.”

  “That was an exceedingly polite way to tell me to leave you alone,” Mai said, her smile broadening into a grin.

  He couldn’t stop a quiet laugh. Mai had become a friend of sorts. Alexander, who credited himself for his maturity in this matter, knew they could not be more than friends, and that even their friendship must have limits.

  “Besides,” Mai continued. “Perhaps I just prefer the company of my fellow captives.”

  Alexander’s smile vanished, replaced by a frown.

  Limits.

  “I am not a captive,” Alexander said.

  “Of course you aren’t.” Anger fell in beside the mockery in Mai’s tone. “Free men often fight for tyrannical occupiers against people who have done nothing to them.”

  “Done nothing to my people, yes,” Alexander said. “But I’ve seen the, ‘freedom fighters,’ deeds with my own eyes. They nearly murdered your father and they would violate and murder you and your entire family with no more hesitation.”

  Alexander cut himself off. He’d let her get to him again. To his surprise, Mai didn’t press her attack after striking an exposed nerve.

  “Of course, Prince Alexander,” she said, and she appeared genuinely contrite. “I apologize. We all do our duty as best we see fit.”

  “Your apology is unnecessary,” Alexander mustered another smile. “But if you would honor me with a dance, the matter would be forgotten even more easily.”

  Alexander held out a hand. Mai’s troubled expression cleared and blossomed into another smile, less mischievous than her initial expression.

  “Of course, Your Highness,” she said, then her eyes glinted with humor again. “Try not to step on my toes this time.”

  “I will do my humble best.”

  Arcand was on his sixth glass of cognac. The potent drink had a flora and citrus zest to it as he swirled it on his tongue. It was an extravagant expenditure of booze as he had only had a half-dozen bottles of genuine French cognac on this planet, but his war was going well for the first time in more than a year. That called for a special libation.

  Seeing Alexander with Mai furthered his good cheer. He’d noticed Alexander brooding out on the balcony at the beginning of the reception and worried that he would have to coax the prince back into the party to fulfill his social obligations. Mai’s intervention had not only saved Arcand from that unpleasant duty, her result was a less sullen compliance.

  Schwartzengrosse appeared at his elbow. The short, stocky German colonel was drinking a double measure of something golden and fragrant. Following Arcand’s gaze, Schwartzengrosse’s eyebrows quirked, betraying his skepticism.

  “Forgive me, Herr General,” he said, his breath reeking of fermented apples. “I wasn’t aware we were in the matchmaking business. I was under the impression we were occupying a rebellious colony.”

  Arcand snorted.

  “You are an unfeeling Hun without a milligram of poetry in your soul,” Arcand said.

  “Das ist richtig, mein General,” Schwartzengrosse said. “But I suppose as hobbies go, mating your Uruhuan mercenaries with your Cochin hostages is more interesting than breeding horses or dogs.”

  Arcand drained his glass and reached for the cognac again.

  “You really don’t see it, do you?”

  “See what, sir? Two attractive young people falling in love? Ja, wunderbahr. Let’s put aside our weapons and write a play about it. Perhaps we can make up our opium shortfalls in ticket sales.”

  “No, you dull Boche,” Arcand said as he emptied the ovoid shaped bottle into his glass. “Oh, yes, I have a few more shreds of my soul left than you have, so I can appreciate the romance of it, but put sentimentality aside. They are our future.”

  “General,” Schwartzengrosse’s eyes widened then narrowed. “The only future I’m interested in is one where we win this fucking war and go home, to Earth.”

  Arcand was already shaking his head before Schwartzengrosse finished his sentence.

  “No, non, nein,” Arcand paused to take another drink before continuing. “You think the spineless faggots on the Security Council will let us return home? We are two of perhaps a half-dozen senior officers worth a shit in combat in the entire UNPF. We command the hardest sonsofbitches our countries have left. We are dangerous.”

  “Exactly,” the German insisted. “That’s why they need us; to do the work their gelded lackeys can’t.”

  “And that work is here, my friend,” Arcand said. “They have exported everyone with a spine to this world. There’s no real fighting to be done back on Earth, so what are we but a liability to them if we return?

  “We are conquerors, and we have a kingdom to claim, right here, practically laid at our feet, but we’ll need to normalize our rule and create a nobility to help us rule it. Surely you remember the tale of the Sabine women?”

  “Jawohl, Herr General,” Schwartzengrosse said. “But you’ve been excruciatingly clear that our men aren’t to rape anyone, so I don’t see the relevance.”

  “I’m not talking about the rape,” Arcand said. “I’m talking about the same assimilation process that eventually made the Sabines into Romans, but a touch more civilized.

  “Our officers marry Cochina’s most prominent daughters en masse. They create a new de facto ruling class, a legitimate one to the Cochin. The new generation will be familiar with their ways, but schooled and indoctrinated to ours. Prince Alexander and Trung Mai are only the first.

  “We have sixty years of life, easy, before we need rejuvenation. That’s two to three generations we can personally oversee before we even need to arrange a trip back to Earth. And once we’ve solidified our rule here, I see no reason not to expand outward.”

  “Tabling your insanity for the moment,” Schwartzengrosse said. “Why a mercenary? Why not one of our own to inaugurate your strategic dating service?”

  “Ah, that’s just it,” Arcand said. “Alexander is a born and bred prince. He has been trained not only in how to fight, but how to rule. We’ll need that, and by the time we’ve pacified Cochina, he will be one of our own. His prominence will also solidify a permanent alliance with the Zulu, enabling us to field even more regiments of their fine warriors. In time, he will succeed his father, and then our alliance will be all the stronger with him in New Zululand on his throne. We’ll have a stable base and the finest fighting force on the planet.”

  “You really think the Cochinese will ever accept a Frog as their king?” Schwartzengrosse shook his head. “Much less the Angkokians and Lang Xanese, or, God forbid, the Zhong or the Yamatans?”

  Arcand lifted his chin.

  “The Swedes germinated their royal line with French seed,” he said with a sniff. “Why should good taste be confined to Scandinavia?”

  Schwartzengrosse stared at his commander for three long seconds, then reached out for Arcand’s glass. The move took Arcand by surprise; so much so that he did not stop the German as he drank Arcand’s Remy Martin cognac in an appalling, uncivilized gulp.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Arcand said.

  “I haven’t had nearly enough, and you’ve had entirely too much,” the German said, his voice deadpan. “I’m doing what I can to remedy that situation.”

  Arcand started laughing, a hearty laugh that came from his gut.

  The laughter came to an abrupt halt when Schwartzengrosse pointed out the Headquarters duty officer, still in green and bla
ck battle dress, coming through the back doors of the Officer’s Club. The young captain was trying to be subtle, but he was clearly in a hurry, a half-page of paper in his hand. Taking the floor in long strides, he came to attention just two feet from Arcand and Schwartzengrosse.

  “General Arcand, sir,” he said, in a low voice. “I apologize for disrupting the reception, but this came in Flash priority from the Security Council.”

  He proffered the paper to his commanding general, Arcand took it and, after taking a moment to focus, started reading. His expression lit into a smile, then immediately fell. Looking back up at the captain, he handed the paper to his German chief of staff to read.

  “Who has seen this?” Arcand demanded of the captain.

  “Myself, sir, one of our enlisted cryptologists and our chief of signals,” he answered, his voice betraying nerves.

  “Keep them all in the command center until I get there. You and they are to speak to no one until I’ve talked to all of you in one room,” Arcand said in a low, dangerous voice. “This is to be kept utmost secret. If this leaks, I will have all three of you shot, just to be sure I got the one responsible. Clear, Captain?”

  “Yes, sir,” the young officer said, blanching.

  “Dismissed,” Arcand said.

  Schwartzengrosse was just finishing the missive when Arcand turned to him.

  “Scheiss,” he murmured. “What are we going to do with this?”

  “To the first matter, the obvious, we attack as soon as possible,” Arcand said. “To the second, we ensure there is no chance of the news getting to Colonel nDlamini or his men until we’re ready to mitigate the consequences.”

  Alexander found his worries returning after the reception dispersed.

  At one in the morning, Alexander, accompanied by his personal guard, left the party and began to wander the streets of Khoi Dau Moi. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and he felt bad for the soldiers who were forced to follow him in his vague search for some kind of . . . he wasn’t even sure, serenity, perhaps? Though KDM was the most pacified of Cochina’s settlements, it would still be stupid for any UN soldier to wander off by themselves, thus the fire team trailing him.

  Perhaps subconsciously guided, perhaps because it was the largest structure outside the UN compound, Alexander unknowingly mirrored Mai’s path to St. Christopher’s church. Despite having frequently attended Father Piter’s services back home, Alexander hadn’t set foot inside a church since deploying to Cochina.

  He had two solid excuses for this lapse; the UN didn’t have chaplains or chapels, while local Cochinese services were held in the Vietnamese language. He’d picked up some of the language from his interpreters and more from Mai, but he was not nearly proficient enough to follow a Mass in the local tongue yet.

  A part of him recoiled as they approached the church’s ornamental façade. Arcand had convinced him of the necessity of putting on a brave face despite his personal misgivings, but bending to that imperative wasn’t the same as believing that his actions were just in the eyes of God.

  Don’t be a coward, he told himself. If you can’t face your Lord and account for your sins, of what worth is your faith?

  Taking a deep breath, he approached St. Christopher’s wooden double doors.

  “Wait here,” he told his guards, who did not look happy, but complied.

  The church appeared empty, much as he had expected at one in the morning. Walking up to the front of the church, Alexander crossed himself and genuflected in front of the altar before sitting in the front pew. Despite the turmoil in his soul, Alexander felt peace seep into his being as he sat in church, gazing upon the cross. He resented it, knowing how dreadfully undeserved that peace was. Acknowledging God’s presence and authority now was an anti-septic poured into his open wounds.

  “Can I help you, son?”

  Alexander started at an old man’s voice behind him. Rising out of the pew and turning rapidly, he just managed to stay his hand from reaching for his pistol.

  An old Cochinese man in priestly robes and collar stood in the middle aisle a few pews behind Alexander. Stooped, withered, and more than a foot shorter than Alexander, the priest regarded the Zulu mercenary prince with a mild expression completely devoid of trepidation.

  “Good evening, Father,” Alexander schooled his voice to calm courtesy. “I just came to sit and pray. I’m sorry if I’ve intruded.”

  “This is the House of the Lord.” The priest smiled gently. “No one who seeks God here is an intruder. I’d heard some of you Uruhuans were Catholic. I’m glad to see you here.”

  “You’re very kind, but I’m not so sure you’d say that if you knew what I’ve done,” said Alexander.

  “I’d say it if you’d murdered my own children,” the priest said, his voice ringing with conviction. “Because that is the duty I owe the Lord.”

  The power of the old man’s faith cowed and shamed Alexander. After a few seconds of silence, he picked up on something odd the old Cochinese had said.

  “Children?” Alexander asked, confused.

  “I wasn’t always a priest, son,” the priest said, smiling, his tone mild once again. “But now, I am Father Duc.”

  Father Duc held out his hand. Alexander took it firmly but not with undue force. The reciprocal grip was still strong, indicating a life spent doing more than studying scripture and preaching.

  “I am Alexander nDlamini,” Alexander said. “Thank you for allowing me to pray here, and for your warm welcome.”

  “Ah, sit, please,” Duc said. “You are the Zulu prince, if I hear correctly. No wonder the Lord brought you here.”

  “Why do you say that, Father?” Alexander asked as he settled back into the pew beside Duc, trying to keep suspicion out of his voice.

  “I’ve fought wars, my son,” Duc said. “I know what it can do to a soul. You are a young man entrusted with a terrible burden. It is only natural you seek spiritual guidance in the midst of it all, perhaps even absolution?”

  When Alexander didn’t respond and didn’t make eye contact, Father Duc persisted.

  “I assure you the seal of confession applies to anything you tell me, in or out of the booth,” Duc said, gently. “Neither your enemies nor your employers will have access to anything you say inside these walls.”

  Alexander shook his head again.

  “Thank you, Father, truly,” he said. “But even if I could talk about it, I can’t truly repent.”

  “You don’t feel guilt for whatever it is that troubles you?” Duc asked, his voice still mild.

  “Immense guilt,” Alexander said, the image of bound, lifeless bodies and grieving, red-eyed women and children fixed in his mind’s eye. “But I may have to do it again. If I cannot make an honest effort to refrain from my sins, then my repentance is false and you cannot intervene on my behalf for Christ’s absolution.”

  Father Duc nodded.

  “You’ve been rightly instructed in this matter,” he said. “But it still might help you to talk about it.”

  Alexander began to shake his head, but then he stopped. It wasn’t as if his actions were a secret. Arcand had ordered it all done as an abject lesson to the locals.

  “I saw terrible things during the battles in the Green Valley,” Alexander said. “In three of the villages the CLF managed to occupy, everyone who’d cooperated with us was murdered, usually alongside their families, their children. Many of the CLF irregulars raped the women and girls first, sometimes for hours, from what the survivors told us. The main force regulars were more disciplined, for whatever that’s worth.”

  Alexander paused, taking a deep breath.

  “I vowed that I would do whatever I needed to do to destroy the CLF after the first village we recaptured,” Alexander continued. “So when General Arcand ordered us to kill every living male relative of the resistance fighters, I did it. And I thought I could live with it, after all, it’s not so different from how my ancestors used to take care of enemies.”
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br />   “It’s not that different from how everyone’s ancestors took care of enemies,” Father Duc said. “No one tribe, state or nation bears unique shame for that, nor are many innocent of it.”

  “But it eats at me,” Alexander continued as if Duc hadn’t spoken. “Many of those men probably had nothing to do with the resistance. Many probably tried to dissuade their brothers, sons, cousins from fighting, but we killed them all the same and turned their women and children into little more than slaves. My men and I made more than a thousand widows and orphans . . . not in battle, but in executions.

  “But the worst part is that I am living with it. I continue to function as a prince and commander because I can do nothing else, and if I have to kill another thousand bound and helpless men to win this goddamned war, I will. To do anything else is to condemn my men to hideous deaths and deprive my homeland of almost two thousand of its finest warriors, all for nothing.”

  The Zulu prince’s head sank into his hands.

  “Essentially, I am damned no matter what,” Alexander said through his fingers. “If I survive this war, can I truly repent even then, knowing that I would blacken my soul again if I felt my duty to my people required it?”

  He felt a thin, strong hand on his shoulder.

  “Alexander, what does your duty as a prince require? Is it merely that your people survive, or do you need to lead them to something better?” Father Duc said. “I don’t have an easy answer to that, but I beg you to pray and meditate on the matter. You are right in that, if you won’t repent, I can’t grant you absolution. I offer you but one small comfort; you would not feel such pain if you did not have an intact soul to be wounded. God loves you and wants you to embrace your salvation.”

  Before Alexander could respond, the doors of the church opened and Mjanwe’s boots thumped on the wooden floor up the aisle toward them. The grizzled NCO nodded politely to the priest and came to attention in front of Alexander.

  “I beg your pardon for interrupting, iNkosi,” Mjanwe’s voice was clear and devoid of slur despite the copious amounts of whiskey Alexander had watched him consume earlier that evening. “But General Arcand requests your presence at Headquarters.”