Marching Through Georgia

by S. M. Stirling

  "Von Shrakenberg to all units: back to work, people. Move!" He handed the receiver back to Sofie and rolled over on his back; he would be needed to coordinate, to interpret when the Circassians and the Draka reached the limits of their mutually sketchy German. But not immediately; these were Citizen troops, after all, not Janissaries. They were expected to think, and to do their jobs without someone looking over their shoulders.

  The mid-morning sky was blue, with a thickening scatter of clouds; they looked closer here in high mountain country than down in the plains about Mosul, where they had spent the winter.

  "Hey, Centurion?" Sofie held out the lighted cigarette, and this time Eric accepted it. "More ideas?"

  He shook his head. "Just thinking about home," he said. "And about a Greek philosopher."

  "Come again?"

  "Heraklitos. He said: 'No man steps twice into the same river.' The home I was remembering doesn't exist anymore, because the boy who lived there is dead, even if I wear his name and remember being him."

  "Ah, well, my Dad always said: 'Home is where the heart is.' Of course, he was a section chief for the railways, so we moved around a lot."

  Eric laughed and turned to look over his shoulder at the noncom. "Sofie, you're… a natural antidote to my tendency to gloom."

  Sofie's eyes crinkled in an answering grin; she felt a soft lurch in the bottom of her stomach. Jauntily, she touched the barrel of her machine pistol to her helmet. "Hey, any time, Centurion."

  The Centurion's gaze had returned to the village and the burning Puma. "While this war does exactly the opposite," he whispered.

  The comtech frowned. "Hell, I'd rather be on the beach, surfin' and fooling around on a blanket, myself.

  "That wasn't exactly what I was thinking of," he said softly. Unwise to speak, perhaps, but… I'm damned if I'm going to start governing my actions by fear at this late date. "If we lose, we'll be destroyed. If we win… what's going to happen, when we get to Europe?"

  "The usual?"

  Eric shook his head. "Sofie, how many serfs can read?"

  She blinked. "Oh, a fair number—'bout one in five, I'd say. Why?"

  "Which ratio worries the hell out of a lot of highly placed people. Most of the places we've taken over have been like this—" he nodded at the village "—peasants, primitives. If they're really fierce, like the Afghans, we have to kill a lot of them before the others submit. Usually, it's only necessary to wipe out a thin crust of chiefs or intelligentsia; the rest obey because they're used to obeying, because they're afraid, and because the changes are mostly for the better. Enough to eat, at least, and no more plagues. No prospect of anything better, but then, they never did have any prospect of anything better. Sofie, what are we going to do with the Europeans? We've never conquered a country where everybody can read, is used to thinking. Security—" He shook his head. "Security operates preventively. They're going to go berserk; it's going to be monumentally ugly. And I'm not even sure it will work."

  The comtech puffed meditatively, trickled smoke from her nostrils. "Never did have much use for the Headhunters," she said. "Keep actin' as if they wished we all had neck numbers."

  He nodded. "And it's not just that." His hands tightened on the Holbars. "Killing… it's natural enough; part of being human, I suppose. But too much of it does things. To us, that will hurt us in the long run." He sighed. "Well, at least I won't be there to see it."

  "How so?" Sofie's voice was sharper.

  Eric snorted weary laughter. "Well, what are the odds on a paratrooper surviving the whole war?"

  "Hell," Sofie said, shocked. This has to stop, and quick, she thought. It was far too easy to die, even when you wanted to live. When you didn't…

  Surprised, Eric turned: she was standing with her hands on her hips, lips compressed.

  "Hell of a thing't'say, Centurion. I do my job, but I intends to die in bed."

  "Sorry—" he began.

  "Not finished. Now, that was interestin', what you had to say. Food for thought. You're not the only one who does that. Thinkin', I mean. So: you don't like what you see happenin'; what're you going to do about it?"

  "What can I do—"

  "How the fuck should I know? Sir. You're the one from the political family; I'm just a track-foreman's daughter. Not even sure I'd agree with anything you wanted to do, but it'd be a damn sight more comfortin' to have you callin' shots than some of the kill-kill-kill-rape-what's-left brigade. If it's your responsibility—an' who appointed you guardian of the human race?—then start thinkin' on what you can do, even if it isn't much. Can't do more than we can, hey? Waste an' shame to do less, though. Never figured you for a coward or a quitter or a member of the Church'a Self-Pity. Sir. And if the future of the State and the Race isn't your look-out, an' I can't no-how see how the fuck it should be, then acting as if 'tis is pretty goddam arrogant. Unless it's really something personal?

  "Meanwhile," she said, pausing for breath, "this-here Century is your responsibility; we're your people and your blood."

  Stunned, Eric stared at her, aware that his mouth was hanging slightly open. I shouldn't underestimate people. I really shouldn't… his mind began. Then, stung, he fell back on pride: "You could do better, Monitor Nixon?"

  Sofie glanced away. "Oh, hell no, sir. Ah…"

  He brushed past her, movements brisk. Their boots clattered on the stairs of the shattered mosque. Sofie stubbed out her butt and flicked it out a slit window, watching the arch of its falling with a vast content. There was a time to soothe, and a time for a medicinal boot in the butt. It was a beautiful day for a battle, and there was no better way of… getting close.

  Who knows, she thought, watching the energy in his stride. We might even both live through it, with him to supply the ideas, and me to keep his starry-eyed head from disappearin completely up his own asshole. Shrewdly, she guessed it had been too long since he'd had to listen to anyone. And it promised to be a nice long war, so none of them were going anywhere…

  Chapter Eleven

  Armored Fighting Vehicles: Hond III—Draka

  Weight: 58 tons, loaded.

  Dimensions: length 23ft.. height 8ft 2in.. width 12ft 6m.

  Armor: 30mm- 125mm hull. 35mm-150mm turret/ mantlet All surfaces sloped for ballistic protection; fabrication welded and cast.

  Armament: 1x120mm cannon. 1x15mm coaxial machine gun. 1x40mm coaxial grenade launcher. 1x15mm bow machine gun. 2x15mm antiaircraft twin-barrel machine gun on turret roof pintle mounting.

  Engine: 1200 hp. Kurenwor free-piston turbocompound.

  Suspension: Seven road wheels; torsion bar/hydraulic hybrid. Track width 650mm.

  Speed, range: 30 mph cross-country. 45 mph road. Range 300 miles on internal fuel; 600 with external drop tanks.

  Crew: 5: commander, loader, gunner, driver, and radio operator/bow gunner.

  Notes: Specifications drafted by Strategic Planning Board. 1932-3. calling for a vehicle with twice the protection and firepower of the 26-ton. 75mm gun Hond II and at least equal mobility. Design team from War Directorate (Technical Section) and Diskarapur Technological Institute; prototype testing 1936-1937. Armor School. Kolwezara. 1938. Operational deployment 1939 -1941. Basic chassis used for standard Hoplite personnel carrier, recovery vehicles. 155mm, 175mm. and 200mm self-propelled guns. Cobra antiaircraft tank. Aardvark combat-engineer vehicle, numerous special-purpose uses. Assembled by Ferrous Metals Combine and Trevithick Autosteam Combine, at Archona. Diskarapur. Kolwezara and Karaganda. In production 1939 -1953: total output 68.000. not Including variants.

  ―Weapons of the Eurasian War, by Colonel Carlos Fueterrez, U.S. Army (ret), Defense Institute Press, Mexico City, 1955

  Village One, Ossetian Military Highway April 14, 1942: 1400 Hours

  The village waited quietly; at least, its shell did, for a village is a human thing, even a village starving under the heel of a foreign conqueror. The heap of stone was no longer a place where peasants lived and grew food; it was a fortress, where
strangers intricately trained and armed would kill each other, thousands of kilometers from their homes. The last of the Circassians had left for the forest, bent under their sacks of food; all except for the aged hadji, who remained in the cellar beneath the mosque, praying in the darkness over a Koran long since committed to memory. Half the houses had been demolished, and the remainder were carefully prepared traps; the cellars below were a spiderweb network that the Draka could use to shift their personnel under cover, or to bring down death on anyone who followed them into the booby-trapped tunnels. Two hundred soldiers had labored six hours beside the natives, sledgehammer and pick, shovel and blasting charge. The troops were working for their lives and the hope of victory.

  The villagers had motivation at least as strong; their numbers had dropped by half since the Lieb-standarte moved in, and every shovelful was a measure of revenge. Two hours past noon, and the defenses were ready. The paratroopers rested at their weapons, taking the opportunity for food, water, sleep, or a crap—veterans knew you never had time later.

  Eric sat back against the thick rough timbers of the passageway, unbending his fingers with an effort. Beside him, Sofie swore softly and broke out a tube of astringent wound-ointment. The Centurion looked aside as she began smearing the viscous liquid on the tattered blisters that covered his hands, ignoring the sharp pain. It had a thin, acrid petroleum smell, cutting through the dry rock dust and the heavy scent of sweat from meat-fed bodies. They were at the northernmost edge of the village, where the military road entered the built-up area. Two long heaps of rubble flanked it now, where there had been rows of houses; rubble providing cover for two long timber-framed bunkers. The Draka commander was on the left, the western flank; grey eyes flicked south and east, to the forest where the people of the village had gone.

  "I hope you can see it, Tyansha," he murmured softly in her language. "And for once, there is mercy."

  Five meters away an improvised crew sprawled about their Soviet/German 76.2mm antitank gun, ready to manhandle it to any of the four firing positions in the long bunker. A pile of shells was stacked near it; a ladder poked out of the floor nearby, and more ammunition waited below with strong arms to pitch it up. The sleek, long-barreled solidity of the gun was reassuring; so was the knowledge that its twin was waiting in the other bunker, across the street. One of the gunners was singing, an old, old rune with the feel of Africa in it; Eric remembered it murmured over his cradle, as smooth brown arms rocked:

  "A shadow in the bright bizarre

  A glimpse of eyes where none should shine

  A glimpse of eyes translucent gold

  And slitted against the sun…"

  His palms were sticky; strips of skin pulled free as he opened and closed them, absently. There was very little to do, until the action started. A fixed defensive position with secure flanks was the simplest tactical problem a commander could have; the only real decision-making was when and where to commit reserves, and since he didn't have any, to speak of…

  ". . .faster than a thought she flees

  And seeks the jungle's sheltering trees

  But he is steady on the track

  And half a breath behind…"

  Sofie was speaking; he swiveled his attention back. "—eking soul of the White Christ, Centurion, you trying to punish yourself or something? And don't give me any of that leading-by-example crap!" The tone was a hissed whisper, but there was genuine anger in it.

  He smiled at her, flexing the hands under the bandage pads; she maintained the scowl for a moment, then grinned shyly back. You are really getting quite perceptive, Sofie, he thought. And you glow when you're angry.

  "She tastes his scent upon the breeze,

  And looking past her shoulder sees

  He treads upon her shadow—

  She fears the hunter's mind."

  "The Fritz will take care of any punishment needed for my sins," he said. "Good, I can fight with these."

  A pause. "Thank you." She blushed. "I was just thinking about the war again, and didn't notice, actually."

  "Oh," she replied, hunting for something to say in a mind gone blank. "You… think we're going to win?"

  "Probably. Depends what you mean by win."

  "In woman form, in leopard hide

  Fording, leaping, side to side

  She doubles back upon her track

  And sees her efforts fail."

  She frowned, reached up to free the package of cigarettes tucked into the camouflage cover of her helmet, tapped one free and snapped her Ronson lighter. "Ahh… well, the Archon said we were fighting for survival. I guess, we come out alive and we've won?"

  Eric laughed with soft bitterness. "Not bad. Did you hear what our esteemed leader said, after we attacked the Italians and they complained that we'd promised not to? 'You were expecting truth from a politician? Christ, you'll be looking for charity from a banker, next.' One thing I always liked about her, she doesn't mealymouth." He let his head fall back against the timbers. "Actually, she's right… it all goes back to the serfs."

  "… her gold flanks heaving in distress,

  Half woman and half leopardess

  To either side, nowhere to hide

  It's time to fight or die."

  She looked at him blankly, retaining one of the bandaged hands; he made no objection. 'The serfs?" she said.

  "Yes… look, our ancestors were soldiers mostly, right? They fought for the British, they lost, and the British very kindly gave them a big chunk of African wilderness… inhabited wilderness, which they then had to conquer. And they made serfs of the conquered —there were too many of them to exterminate the way the Yanks did to their aborigines, so—serfdom. Slavery, near as no matter, but prettied up a little to keep the abolitionists in England happy. Or less unhappy." He sighed. "Can you spare one of those cancer sticks?"

  She lit another from hers. "What's that got to do with the war?" The song tugged at her attention.

  "A sight none will forget

  Who once have seen them, near or far,

  In sunlight or where shadows are

  As, side by side they hunt and hide

  No one has caught them yet."

  "I'm coming to that. Look, what do you think would happen if we eased up on the serfs?"

  "Eased up?"

  "Let them move off their masters' estates or factory compounds, gave them education, that sort of thing."

  "Oh." Sofie's face cleared; that was simple. "They'd rise up and exterminate us." She thought. "Not all of them; some'd stick by us. Some house servants, straw bosses 'n foremen, Janissaries, technicians, that sort. They'd get their throats cut, too."

  "Damn straight, they would. And there would go civilization, until outsiders moved in and ate the pieces. So, once we'd settled in, we were committed to the serf-and-plantation system, took it with us wherever we went. We had the wolf by the ears: hard to hang on, deadly to let go. Did you know there were mass escapes, in the early years? Rebellions, too." His eyes grew distant. "My great-great-grandfather put one down, in 1828. Impaled four thousand rebels through the sugar country, from Virconium to Shanapur. He had a painting made of it, still hanging in the hallway at home." Tyansha had refused to look at it; he had wondered why, at the time. "Well, one of the main reasons for all that was the border country with the wild tribes: a place to escape to, hope for overthrowing us. So we had to expand. Also, you run through a lot of territory when every one of a landholder's sons expects an estate."

  The comtech leaned forward, interested despite herself. Not that it was much different from the history she had been taught, but the emphasis and shading was something else entirely.

  "Then, by the 1870's, we'd grown all the way up to Egypt, no borders but the sea and the deserts, and we'd started to industrialize, so we had modern communications and weapons."

  "Hmmmm," Sophie said. "Why didn't we stop there?"

  He grunted laughter and dragged smoke down his throat. "Because we'd gotten just strong enough
to terrify people. Not afraid enough to leave us alone, though. People with real power, in Europe. And we were different—so different that when they realized what was going on, they were hostile by reflex. Demanding reforms we couldn't make without committing suicide." Eric gestured with the cigarette, tracing red ember-glow through the gloom. "So, there were murmurs about boycotts; propaganda, too. And we couldn't keep the city serfs completely illiterate, not if they were going to operate a modern economy for us. That's when the Security Directorate was set up, and it's been getting more and more power every decade since. Which means power over Citizens, too."

  Caught up in his words, he failed to notice the comtech's worried glance from side to side. Unheeding, he continued. "Well, the Great War was a godsend; we took on the weakest of the Central Powers, and grabbed off Persia and Russian central Asia and western China too. And the War shattered Europe, which gave us time to consolidate; then we were a Great Power in our own right."

  He grinned like a wolf. "Stroke of genius, no? Only now, we had thousands of kilometers of land frontier, with a hostile great power! See, liberal democrat, Communist, even Fascist, any different social system is a deadly menace to us, if it's close. And they're all different. All close, too; with modern technology the world's getting to be a pretty small place. The boffins say that after the war, radios will be as small and cheap as teakettles were, before. Imagine every serf village out in West Bumfuck having a receiver; we can jam, but… So, on to the war. Another heaven-sent stroke of luck, although we were counting on something like that. Divide and rule, let others wear themselves out and the Domination steps in—our traditional strategy. If we win, we'll have the earth, the whole of North Asia, and most of Europe besides what we took last time."