Hell Heart

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by Robert E. Vardeman


  “We wasted ammunition, we laid down our lives, and for what?” Gunther shouted. “A handful of dead Union soldiers? We traded three of our people for every one of theirs! I did not join the Zapatistas to sacrifice my life for nothing—I joined to kill Union pigs. At this rate, the villages will be empty before the Union is finally driven out. There will be no one left to savor our victory. You have failed.”

  José said nothing. What was there to say? Gunther was right. Perhaps he had been too myopic, too focused on one goal. Revancha had lived in his thoughts for months. Perhaps that obsession had blinded him to the larger picture. If he had kept some distance, some perspective, would he have seen the trap that Diego had laid? It was all his fault.

  Made bold by José’s lack of response, Gunther turned to face the assembled guerrillas. “Behold your leader. Is he not inspiring?” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “For too long we have pecked away at the Union,” he continued, his voice rising to be sure all those present could hear. “We have been too timid, too afraid to risk all to gain all. This is the result. We need to go beyond minor raids or the deaths of one or two Union soldiers. We must fight until the earth runs red with their blood. Only then will they realize that the cost of conquest is too high and leave us in peace.” He turned back to José. “And if our present leaders are unwilling to take the necessary risks, perhaps it is time we find leaders who are.”

  “And I suppose you have somebody in mind?” Consuela called mockingly from the back of the crowd. She pushed her way through to the front, the guerrillas parting quickly before her, until she stood just in front of Gunther, her fists planted on her hips, glaring up at him.

  “I?” Gunther asked in mock surprise. “I bow to the will of the people. Of course, should they have someone in mind . . .” His gaze swept over the assembled crowd, and one or two of his squad members started to cheer, but fell silent when Consuela’s oppressive eye fell on them.

  “You bow to no one, unless it is to spit on their feet,” Consuela said. Gunther’s hands tightened their grip on his rifle, but he did nothing. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her back on him and addressed the guerrillas. “So this is what you think commitment to our cause means?” she asked scathingly. “To fall to pieces at the first defeat? How many battles has José brought us safely through?” She pointed at a battered man a short distance away. “You—did not José save you from a Union patrol that had you surrounded?” The man dropped his gaze, unable to meet Consuela’s eyes.

  “And you,” she said, swinging around to face a female soldier. “Your village had been raided—did José not hunt down those responsible for killing your people and stealing your possessions?” The woman nodded reluctantly.

  “Now, suddenly, we suffer one defeat, one setback, and you want to pick up your toys and go home? This is not a child’s game we play. This is war. People die. Losses happen. Nothing worth fighting for has ever come easily. And I assure you, our freedom is still worth the fight. As long as I breathe”—she glared momentarily at Gunther—“I follow José. And so do you.”

  Gunther’s face had been growing darker throughout her speech, but he could tell the tide of opinion had turned against him. The guerrillas were shifting awkwardly, embarrassed by their momentary lapse. Consuela did not give them an opportunity to change their minds again.

  “We need time to rest,” she said loudly. “Let us prepare to camp for the night so we can rest and bandage our wounds. The morning is time enough to decide where we go from here.”

  The knot of guerrillas broke up into a swirl of activity. Consuela circulated through them, assigning tasks and creating order out of chaos. When she was satisfied with their progress, she left them to their own devices and stalked over to José.

  “Have you finished feeling sorry for yourself yet?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so that the others could not hear her.

  “I—” José started, but she did not let him finish.

  “What I just did, with Gunther—that was your job,” she said. “He has made his challenge now, and he will not back down from it. One day soon, I think, you will have to kill him or be killed. Which will it be?”

  “I just . . . I just don’t know what to do,” José said helplessly. He had never felt less competent.

  “You are a leader,” she snapped. “So lead. We have suffered a terrible defeat, yes, but that does not remove our responsibility to defend our people. We failed against the Union, but there is a greater threat out there that needs our attention: the crystal monster.”

  “Again with the monster!” José flared, a little energy returning to him. He gestured at the pitiful remnants of his army. “This is all we have. How do we fight a monster with that? We could not even defeat a pack of ill-trained Union soldiers. How can we hope to defeat an alien creature with the powers you describe?”

  “I don’t know,” Consuela admitted, “but we have to try.”

  José let out a sigh, then finally levered himself to his feet. “In the morning,” he said wearily. “We all need the rest. After we have slept, then we will begin to consider ways to kill this thing.”

  Consuela’s taut expression eased. She touched him lightly on the shoulder, then turned and hurried off to supervise the others. José watched her go with a faint smile. She was right, as usual. He had a responsibility to protect his people from whatever threatened their safety—whether that was a Union soldier or a hideous crystal beast. He was a leader.

  So he would lead.

  20

  * * *

  The front gates of the San Cristóbal compound rose out of the dusk before them, and Diego grinned as a faint cheer came from the others also riding in the Pegasus transport. They were as exhilarated as he was, and less reserved about showing it. As their commander, he had to maintain a semblance of dignity, but inwardly he was just as adrenaline-soaked.

  The battle at Revancha had gone even better than he had dared hope. The last-minute trap he’d laid, with the able help of Revancha’s commander, had worked perfectly, drawing the guerrillas deep into the base and trapping them against the reactor. The guerrillas had lost around three-quarters of their force. That was a devastating blow, one that might even cripple the rebel movement permanently.

  The one cloud hanging over his victory was that moment when he’d seen his brother. Diego had frozen when he realized who he had in his rifle’s sights. Through the scope, José had looked so old, so defeated. Perhaps it was pity that had stayed his finger from the trigger. But deep within him he wondered if it was fear that had kept him from following through on the final confrontation with his brother at the crucial moment. Maybe BJ and his superiors were right—he had had the cojones to battle Viejo’s men, but lacked the will to face his brother directly.

  Viejo had always been a larger-than-life figure to him, with Diego following along in his shadow. José Villalobos had been the brilliant one, the leader of men, and Diego had plodded behind him, the competent commander. Now their roles were reversed, and Diego was unsure how he should feel about that.

  But there would be time to worry about it later. Right now he had to concentrate on relieving the skeleton crew he had left to man the garrison, seeing to his few wounded, and composing a report to his superiors in Mexico City. His astounding victory notwithstanding, Diego knew he could give them no room to criticize his actions. If he could present them with a fait accompli, perhaps they would ease off on their pressure slightly.

  The Pegasus rumbled through the gates of the post and glided to a stop. Diego was the first one out of the troop carrier’s hatch, and he gave the gate guards a jaunty salute. They returned the courtesy, but seemed strangely reluctant to meet his eyes. Diego didn’t give it much thought. Perhaps they were annoyed that they’d been left behind. They would recover.

  His men spilled out of the Pegasus behind him, laughing and talking among themselves. He turned to them and held up his hands for silence.

  “Good work, everyone,
” he said, pride evident in his voice. “Those of you who were injured, get yourselves checked out in the infirmary. The rest, report to your barracks and get cleaned up. I’ll have duty assignments for you in a little while. Until then, relax and enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it.”

  His soldiers let out another heartfelt cheer and scattered, some to their barracks while others helped their injured comrades toward the infirmary. There were few injuries, thankfully, and those were minor. Only a handful of his people had been killed, most of them in the jungle during their abortive pursuit of José.

  Diego strode toward the command building. A subdued air hung over the post. The few soldiers he encountered hurried past him, also refusing to meet his eyes. No one spoke. Diego was at a loss to explain it; even the troops left behind should be sharing in the excitement of victory. Instead they seemed almost . . . embarrassed?

  He snagged a passing soldier by the arm. “Where is Lieutenant Suarez?” he asked.

  The soldier jerked a thumb toward the command building and hurried away. Diego was starting to get a bad feeling about this situation, but he headed toward his office anyway. After his people got squared away and his report to HQ was made, he needed to start planning the final strike against José. The guerrillas had been all but broken at Revancha. Diego knew he had to follow up on his advantage and finish them off quickly. But first, he needed to find out what was going on here at San Cristóbal.

  He walked into his outer office, where Private Murdo ordinarily reigned, and was shocked to see Suarez sitting behind his orderly’s desk, face downcast.

  “What’s going on here, Lieutenant?” Diego asked forcefully. Suarez looked up wretchedly and opened his mouth to answer, but was forestalled by the door to Diego’s office opening.

  “Ah,” said Captain Allen, beaming, his voice virtually dripping with insincere bonhomie. “I thought I heard you out here. Come in, come in. I need to debrief you on the battle at Revancha. How did that go?”

  Diego stared at him in disbelief, rage building swiftly inside him. This man had disappeared when his superior officer had needed him, and now here he was acting as if he owned the garrison.

  Diego’s voice, when he spoke, was dangerously quiet. “Debrief me?” he asked. “In case you’ve forgotten, this is my post. In fact, this is my office. I’m glad to see you’ve returned safely from wherever it was you disappeared to without permission, but right now, get the hell out of my sight before I have you thrown in the brig.”

  “Actually, Colonel, it’s you who should be worried about the brig,” Allen said smugly. “Assuming General Ramirez doesn’t just have you shot on the spot.”

  He held out a sheet of hardcopy to Diego, who ignored it, continuing to glare at him.

  “My orders,” Allen said, unfazed by Diego’s reaction. “I had HQ in Mexico City send them over, just to clear up any confusion. They were quite perturbed about your abandoning the post and leaving the garrison virtually unprotected. They were so upset, in fact, that they relieved you of command. I’m in charge now, so perhaps you should start getting ready for your court-martial. I rather imagine the general will want to schedule it as soon as possible.”

  Diego finally took the sheet of paper Allen was persistently holding out and gave it a cursory scan. It confirmed what Allen had said: for abandoning his post, he had been relieved of duty pending an inquiry and possible court-martial. He felt curiously unsurprised—numb, even. This had been coming for years, ever since José had turned against the Union. Ramirez hated him for that, convinced that where one brother could go rogue, the other might follow.

  Diego had known Allen was trouble the minute he’d shown up. Admittedly, he hadn’t expected the man to snake his command out from under him. But what else could he have done? Between Ramirez continually stealing away his best soldiers and José with his cursed Neo-Sov mutants, Diego had been backed into a corner. He knew that going to Revancha had been the right choice—and even now, if it came down to it, he would do the same thing all over again.

  Diego forced himself to look back up at Allen, who had clearly been enjoying his silence. “I trust everything is clear now?” Allen asked with false courtesy. Diego nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “Then if you’ll come into my office,” Allen said, “I’ll have that report on the action at Revancha now.”

  Diego glanced at Suarez, who was staring down at the top of the desk, clearly unwilling to witness Diego’s humiliation. He gritted his teeth and walked past Allen into his office.

  Allen closed the door behind him, walked behind Diego’s desk, and sat in Diego’s chair. While Diego remained standing, Allen stretched his legs out ostentatiously and got comfortable, rubbing in the reversal in ranks as much as he could.

  “So?” Allen asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Diego gave him an abbreviated version of the battle at Revancha, choosing his words carefully. He had seen Allen’s type before—clever and quick to take every advantage, but greedy. They always overextended themselves and tripped up. He would simply have to bide his time and wait for that to happen—and hope that it didn’t come too late for him to finish off the rebels before they could build their strength back up.

  Allen sat nodding and smiling condescendingly throughout Diego’s report, until the part about calling off the chase through the jungle. Then he sat up. “You mean you didn’t pursue?” he asked incredulously. “You had them on the run and you failed to finish them off?”

  “With all due respect,” Diego said insincerely, “they knew the terrain much better than we did. Pursuing them any farther would have carried unacceptable risks. Their back was broken at Revancha. We should be able to eliminate what’s left of them without much difficulty.”

  “It sounds like your gamble largely paid off,” Allen said magnanimously. “But I still think you could have finished the job properly. Why, while you were gone, with only the handful of men you left me, we managed to defeat a far worse threat.”

  Diego came to full attention. “An attack on the post?” he asked, shocked. “Here? Was it the Cyclops? Did they get past Travis at El Manguito?”

  “Negative,” Allen said, enjoying Diego’s discomfort. “Travis repelled the attack at El Manguito, but she’s still chasing the last Cyclops through the jungle—she doesn’t want to risk it attacking another village. No, what attacked us was something much worse than a mutant.”

  He swiveled in his chair and tapped a few keys on the comm console. A picture blossomed in midair above the desk, and Diego leaned forward to get a better look.

  What he saw defied description. The video had obviously been taken from one of the observation towers on the garrison’s perimeter, but the creature it had captured was like nothing he had ever seen. It looked like walking crystal, hung all over with globules and tentacles of glass. It staggered as it came toward the post, looking like it was injured. The video had no sound, so he couldn’t tell if it was making any noises as it came.

  Then the monster, and the surrounding terrain, vanished in a blaze of light. The video abruptly cut off. Diego stood disbelieving in his office, the blood pounding in his ears. As if from a distance, he heard himself ask, “What ordnance did you use?”

  “SPEAR missile,” Allen replied smugly.

  Diego stared at him in shock. “You used a SPEAR this close to the post?” he asked. “That thing was right outside the perimeter! What about the villages nearby? Did you even stop to think about collateral damage?”

  “Of course I thought about it,” Allen snapped. “I decided that the civilian losses would be acceptable.”

  All the rage Diego had been holding back finally boiled over. “Acceptable losses!” he raged. “No civilian casualty is acceptable! It’s our duty to protect these people, if you’ve forgotten. But I imagine your only duty is to yourself!”

  Allen was on his feet in an instant, fists on the desk. “You are out of line, Colonel!” he shouted back.

  Diego’s lip curled. “Ou
t of line for wanting to protect the citizens of Chiapas? Out of line for finally telling you the truth about yourself, you bloated, backstabbing windbag?”

  “Maybe some time in the brig would make you rethink your position,” Allen threatened.

  “You’re welcome to try,” Diego answered, “if you don’t mind having your arms ripped off.” Both men were now leaning across the desk, noses practically touching as they exchanged insults.

  Allen pulled back slightly. “This is still the Union military,” he said icily. “There is a chain of command. I am in charge here—I decide what’s necessary. I decide what are acceptable losses. And I decide what you do—unless you plan to turn traitor. Like your brother.”

  The words hit Diego like a dash of cold water in the face. He slowly straightened, tugged down the front of his uniform, and sank into the chair in front of the desk. And glowered at Allen.

  “I didn’t give you permission to sit, soldier,” Allen said deliberately. Diego simply looked at him, and Allen seemed to realize he had pushed Diego as far as he could. He sat down himself, cleared his throat, and began shuffling through the stacks of papers on the desk.

  “Well,” Allen said with strained casualness, both men tacitly agreeing to pretend the shouting match had never taken place, “I’m sure Ramirez will be getting back to you soon enough about your final disposition. But in the meantime, we need to find something for you to do.” He pulled out a sheet of paper from the stack he held.

  “Just the thing,” he said. “Since you’re so concerned about the local peasants”—he smiled meanly—“we’ve had some scattered reports coming in about attacks on several villages. Apparently a few people have disappeared or something—no one’s been quite clear on the matter. Some of them have been babbling about demons in golden armor—frankly it sounds like utter nonsense, but I’m sure it’s just up your alley.” He tossed the report across the desk to Diego. “Take a squad and find out what’s going on. But there’s no hurry—I imagine you’re rather tired. Get a good night’s sleep and set out in the morning.”

 

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