Ashes of Freedom

by K. J. Coble

  A BLAST FROM THE STATION split the sky, lighting the hollow that contained the partisan aid station brighter than day. The air and ground shuddered and startled cries rippled through the medics and their assistants. But the misery of the wounded and dying didn’t go away.

  “Cynthia, over here!” called Allen Carney, senior medical officer of the aid station—and the only real doctor they had. “Schweppenberg, damn it, come here!”

  The stretcher-bearers had just brought in another one, another wailing kid. The doctor kneeled beside the boy and set his palm on his forehead while suppressing the urge to wrinkle his nose at the whiff of plasma scorched flesh. Physical contact was always a good place to start with the really irrational ones.

  Cynthia appeared at his side, the auburn-haired girl as steady as any of the aides.

  “All right, we’ve got two plasma hits. Don’t fool with the arm, just splint and bandage.” The arm was a loss, cracked flesh shrunken away from the brittle, charred wound. Virtually everything but the bone had vaporized at the elbow—salvageable, but only with facilities long-since under Korvan control.

  The doctor tried not to think about infection and probed at the mess along the right side of the boy’s ribcage, fatigues fused with flesh in a crusty black tangle. “Cut the fabric away and clean this up with first-aid bio-spray. Give him a 20 NPU jolt from the neural dampener for the pain.”

  “Doctor,” Cynthia said, leaning close to his ear, “the charges are out on almost all the neural dampeners.”

  “Shit. Morphine?”

  Cynthia shook her head, staring at him through tendrils of loose hair.

  “Right. Well, just work carefully, then.” He touched the boy and smiled at glassy eyes staring out from a visage turned black by soot and vaporized metal. “You’re going to be all right.”

  The guerrilla murmured something as Cynthia began to work. The girl’s face tightened into an expression the doctor had come to recognize over the last few days as concentration blocking out horror. Her hands went to the ruin of the boy’s arm, burnt to such a crisp it looked like it might fall off. Cynthia’s skin whitened, making a smear of blood across her cheek stand out like a bruise.

  Wobbling with sudden nausea, the doctor rose and stepped away for a moment, seeking a little space. But there was no escape.

  They had run out of room in the tents quickly. Now the wounded sprawled everywhere, filling much of the narrow hollow, staining it red and filling the air with an undulating chorus of moans. If he didn’t tread carefully, he might step on the soldier with both legs seared away at the knees, or bump into the blinded, flash-burned Shmali with half his head turbaned in bloody rags, or trip over the gut-shot young woman with the empty staring eyes, drugged beyond caring.

  He pinched his eyes shut.

  Allen Carney had had a promising career as a surgeon ahead of him, tainted only so slightly by addiction to several pain medications. When the Korvans arrived, he had tried to carry on a life in the midst of the occupation. They all had, god help them. It seemed to work, at first. But when colleagues and friends and family began disappearing and the Korvans no longer bothered to explain away the holes, a person finally had to do something. He had been left little choice.

  At least he’d kicked the damned pain meds.

  Shouts drew his attention. More wounded were coming in. At least, that was what they appeared to be until Carney rubbed stinging eyes and realized they were troops, a lot of them, emerging from the woods to the east in a long line. For a moment, he forgot his duties, his woes, and stepped over to the huge, ebony-skinned man who appeared to be in charge.

  “You boys look lost.”

  “What station is this?” the big officer asked tightly.

  “Aid Station 3, supporting Group South. What are—”

  “Group South!” The man barked. “Royson, I thought you said this was the place!”

  “Ah hell, Bull, Blosser’s company came up this way,” replied a pale, slim man behind him.

  “Well then, Blosser is a damned fool.”

  The slim man pointed at the ridges beyond the aid station. “I’m telling you, that hill to the north is Orange-Three-Seven. That’s where the runner said we’re supposed to be.”

  “The same fool runner Blosser sent?” The black officer swore and kneeled and touched the side of his helm. A holographic map spread itself across trampled razor-grass. His subordinate kneeled beside him and they began to speak in low tones, occasionally gesturing at the glowing symbols.

  “Maybe I can help direct you,” Carney offered.

  Behind the partisan officers, their company was beginning to mill about, some of them drifting into the aid area, asking questions, answering questions, stirring up the injured. Getting in the way.

  Carney glanced at Cynthia, who was watching the two officers until she noticed his glare and got back to her patient. He felt frustration building. He had to get these clods out of here. “I’m sorry, gentlemen—”

  “I’m gonna say it again,” the slim man said, ignoring Carney, “the last two runners told us Orange-Three-Seven.”

  “Sure, and yesterday they had us ten klicks east of here. Royson, we have marched this company back and forth for the last forty hours without contributing anything helpful. Now we’re wandering around in Group South’s rear areas and you want to go jogging up to some hill that’s not even in our deployment area?”

  “Bull, somebody is supposed to be up there.”

  “And I’m sure somebody is.” Bull deactivated the hologram and got up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Turning us around. Last checkpoint was only a couple klicks back. I need confirmation before we end up wasting another forty hours.”

  Carney watched the two officers move off, their argument growing. NCO’s began to bark and partisans that had taken the opportunity to lounge stirred with groans and protests. They moved out with surprising speed for all the weapons and equipment. Carney blew out a relieved breath as they melted into the woods.

  Shouts and pain drew his attention back to work. More stretchers coming in and one of those damned hoverskiffs, this time, overloaded with another nine or ten mangled forms. The horizon flickered in the dusk and the dull rumble of fighting could sometimes be heard over the moans. Lamps were coming on in the building shadows. Someone was calling his name.

  “Cynthia?” Carney glanced around. No sign of the girl. The trooper she had attended to was bandaged, seemed as comfortable as possible. Where the hell is she? “Schweppenberg?”

  The calls for his name grew more insistent and he turned to them. Part of him hoped the girl hurried up with whatever the hell had dragged her off. He got the feeling that the stream of misery trickling in would soon be a flood.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Tan-Ezatz gave a command to the holographic map on her office wall and it replayed the course of the campaign, the week or so of maneuver and the battle that was still unfolding in the east.

  Frustration burned in her stomach. The whole affair seemed even more dissatisfying when watched at accelerated speed. Movement had been disjointed and the attacks never quite coordinated. So many gaps in the intelligence. The worms had been more clever than before, hadn’t given away so much with their chatter and their clumsiness.

  Rovan had been a mistake—that much was clear now. The preparation and planning had been excellent, the logistics resolved with admirable speed, and Rovan’s vision seemed to have been sound. Somehow, though, when the hell started flying and things started to come apart, the part of Rovan that made him appear a laudable command candidate withdrew and his execution disintegrated into simple-mindedness and the kind of head-on attacks the Korvans could not afford now.

  So many things you just can’t tell—not even with someone’s harmonic, their soul laid before you...I should have looked deeper, should not have allowed weariness to rush me...I know better than to trust Dramen-Singlo’s judgement...damn, but there is no time for it all...dam
n the worms!

  Tan-Ezatz looked away from the map. The lights of her office dimmed a shade at her command. The gloom allowed her some distance. She had sent the staff away for a time but could feel Kavelton and the others behind her eyes, sensed that they knew things were not going quite as well as hoped. For a moment, she pondered contacting Bakta, just a brief, comforting contact. But, no...no time now...

  Holograms burned before her. Casualties were mounting, approaching that point where victory became hollow. Too much more and they would have difficulty maintaining control of the Coreal Valley, whether they won or not. Of course, there was no alternative to winning. That Station could not continue to exist. Dammit!

  Tan-Ezatz looked to the north to...Zarven. Zarven was their hope. She took a long, cool breath and pushed herself out into the Awareness. Dramen-Singlo would be furious at the breach of etiquette, but Tan-Ezatz no longer had time for his excuses, could no longer trust this to fools.

  Zarven...

  SCHEMATICS AND MAPS projected through Zarven’s head hurt like ice picks behind the eyes. Sensing its master’s growing fatigue, his AI sent jolts to his adrenal glands and to implants to ready more potent, synthetic mixtures. The holograms in Zarven’s mind sharpened and the pain of minor injuries receded.

  “Yes, I understand, HaustMarshal,” Zarven said. “I’m working on something now.”

  “They will be near breaking, Zarven.” Tan-Ezatz filled his mind, a pressing wall of impatience. “One more powerful blow and they will shatter.”

  “Of course,” Zarven replied. He felt the HaustMarshal leave his mind.

  Zarven pulled himself from his seat in the battle-car’s command compartment and stood. The turret hatch came open with a push and Zarven rose into the night, utter black, shot through with an occasional flurry of fire amongst the hills. The last spasms of real fight had passed sometime around midnight. A firefight now would be an accident.

  The Battalion had ground the worms back another kilometer or so after hitting their new line of defenses, but the movement of earlier in the day was gone. Zarven had hammered the worms for hours before finally giving into increasingly urgent pleas from his officers. The Commandos would fight on if asked, but they were running out of everything.

  Zarven ordered them to dig in, hold what they had, and wait for supplies to come up. The worms would have a respite.

  Zarven blinked the holograms in his skull away, was tired of their depressing tale. Now that secrecy was not such a concern, Collaborator-driven hovertrucks were rushing the re-supply effort along and that was making things better. But the Commandos were still hurting, 21% casualties—a disproportionate number of those in A Company. Zarven thought of Ozer.

  Attack, Tan-Ezatz had demanded. Rovan will support in the south. Zarven didn’t think Rovan would be supporting much of anything, the fair-haired boy likely quite out of favor by now. The faint stink of Dramen-Singlo’s hand in things was growing. That put the hurt on the Commandos to get it done.

  Zarven glanced south into the darkness. The hills in front of him were thick with worms and he was running out of ideas.

  “HaustColonel,” said Tedeschi who—along with the rest of headquarters company—had finally caught up with Zarven. “I’m receiving a transmission from inside the worm lines.”

  “From inside the—” Zarven remembered the Collaborator whore with a jolt. “By the Imperative, put her through!”

  A snarl of interference pierced Zarven’s mind, then cleared into a trembling, grainy image of the girl, tattered and blood-smeared, snakes of hair wild across white, drawn features. The transmitter Tedeschi had given her was a small sphere containing an AI like the ones implanted into each Korvan that could communicate across the Awareness, albeit imperfectly.

  “You have to promise me,” the worm was saying in a voice hoarse from crying. “They’ll find out! They’ll kill me for sure, this time! You have to swear you’ll come for me!”

  “Of course, dear,” Tedeschi said in the sickening tone he had used to assuage the girl before. “We wouldn’t leave someone so valuable.”

  “And my sister...you have to promise that if you find her, you’ll take her alive. Alive, god damn you!”

  “Absolutely,” Tedeschi replied, obviously enjoying the game. “I will send some of my best people for you. And if it is at all possible, we will find your sister.”

  “All right...all right, damn it...” Her face dropped out of sight. There was little light but the AI enhanced the image, picked out clods of dirt torn from the hole in the ground where the girl had buried the transmitter. Trees and undergrowth filled in the background. The girl had set the device down. Zarven heard a tight sound that took him a moment to recognize as sobbing.

  “My dear...” Tedeschi said. “I’m sorry, Cynthia, but we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I said, all right!” the girl replied in a tear-choked snarl.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tedeschi’s tone relented. “You’re right, of course. Please, take what time you need.”

  Zarven heard a sniffle, then a rattling breath. The image jumped about before settling on the worm’s face. A tear fell from her cheek to splat on the receiver. She swore and wiped the droplet away.

  “All right. Everything is a mess back here. Whatever you did in the north, it screwed things all up. We’ve got units wandering in and out that don’t know where they’re supposed to be. I...I think it’s something you could take advantage of.”

  “I’m certain we can. But, Cynthia, I’m afraid we’re going to need something more precise than that.”

  “Just listen!” The worm’s voice squeaked on the edge of hysteria. “There’s a hill about...uh, a kilometer north of my position. There’s nobody up there. I think there’s supposed to be. I think...I think there’s a gap in our...in the line.”

  Zarven sucked in his breath, adrenaline hot in his nerves. A tactical display lit across a quadrant of his vision, his AI triangulating the transmitter’s position, highlighting it then highlighting the geographic features most closely resembling what the worm was describing. A mass of three hills lay roughly north of her spot, the tallest to the southwest and the others decreasing in height as they ran northeast.

  “How can you be certain of this, Cynthia?” Tedeschi asked.

  “I told you! We’ve had troops all over the place, milling about like spooked rahillabuy. I’ve heard them talking.”

  Zarven looked over his units. B Company, to the northeast, was hopelessly out of position to help. A Company had been mauled and with Ozer dead Zarven could trust them to hold a defensive position but couldn’t commit them to another assault. That left C Company. Tricky business. They’d have to disengage from the worm line to their front. That would leave A and B—particularly A—high and dry if the worms launched a determined counterattack.

  The touch of Tan-Ezatz lingered in the back of Zarven’s mind. She would take the gamble. She would expect him to take it. This could be a trap, he thought, but then shook the theory away. The girl was a pawn, not a double agent. The worms were on their last reserves, had to be.

  “Very interesting news, my dear,” Tedeschi said. “If it can be confirmed, it will be much to our advantage. You will be rewarded.”

  “You will come for me, then? And my sister?”

  “We will come for you,” Tedeschi replied.

  Zarven sent orders to C Company to dispatch scouts to the south and to ready for an assault. A few hours remained before daylight. There would be enough time to make certain. He felt a grin tickle across his face. If she was telling the truth...

  “What shall we do with her?” Tedeschi was still in conference with the worm, his sick lust soiling his harmonic. “Shall I send for her?”

  “Do as you wish,” Zarven replied. “I don’t care. But send your own people. I don’t have the resources to detach Commandos to hunt for your plaything.”

  “And the sister?” Tedeschi’s lust gave a lava-like churn.

 
; “Tedeschi, don’t waste my time.”

  Zarven dropped the Intelligence officer and the worm from his mind. The tactical displays glowed with possibility. He smiled to himself and shifted his attention to his bodyguard section.

  “Churvak, mount up. We will be moving south.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Frost lay across the ground in the weak dawn light, slippery underfoot as Vorsh followed the rear of his squad along a narrow rahillabuy trail cutting through a tangle of spinebush. The air was crisp and still and hurt in Vorsh’s chest when he breathed. The humans didn’t seem to notice it so much, damn them.

  The Squad Leader whispered for a halt and the eight partisans knelt in place with a gentle rustle as they checked weapons. The hide-clad guerrilla in front of Vorsh glanced at him, her breaths puffing out in labored pulses. She offered him a nervous, crooked-toothed smile. He returned the gesture, though his bearing of teeth carried a malice he was certain hers did not.

  The Squad Leader scampered up to the hilltop, out of sight for a few seconds, then came sliding back down. He gestured for a pair of the partisans to take up the position he’d just examined. They went up and the squad moved on another dozen or so meters. They repeated the process twice more.

  Spinebush pressed in around Vorsh, the Squad Leader, and the crooked-toothed guerilla, growing thicker as they continued and the trail narrowed. Scratching at dozens of tiny thorn scrapes, Vorsh watched the Squad Leader through the brambles, eyed the human’s posture, his movements, the way he stooped as he pushed through the tangle.

  The same way the bastard had stooped as he pummeled Cole in that storage cavern while the Platoon Leader stretched a cord around Cole’s neck and promised to do the same to me.

  The Squad Leader halted, gestured for Vorsh and the woman to stop and kneel as he went down on his haunches with his NA-17 balanced across his thighs.