Come and Take Them-eARC

by Tom Kratman

  Fort Williams, Balboa, Terra Nova

  Pililak stumbled into the quadrangle at Fort Williams. She still had a rifle clasped in one of her hands but, so swollen were her eyes and face from the hordes of ravenous mosquitoes that had assailed her, she had not a hope of seeing a target. Even to stagger this far had required that she use the fingers of one hand to pry an eye open.

  Semi-delirious, she asked the first legionary she met, “Has anyone seen my lord, Iskandr?”

  The fuzzy image of a man she spoke to was just a boy, aged sixteen. He had no clue who or what “Iskandr” was. “Sorry, chica,” he answered, waving at his nose against the incredible stink of the girl. “I have no idea what you’re looking for.”

  “Oh,” she replied, softly. “Sorry. I’ll look elsewhere.”

  She was staggering toward a large group when someone came to stop her. “Sorry, honey,” that boy said, “but you can’t bring a rifle to the prisoners.”

  Frustrated, half out of her mind, the girl simply sat down on the grass where she was. Tears began to flow. Finally, in her psychic agony, she screamed out at the top of her lungs, “ISKANDR!”

  * * *

  Ham was conferring with his commander, Ustinov, when he heard the name he hadn’t been called in years, “Iskandr.” Even the five Pashtians, two of whom were now dead, who had followed him to the academy had been forbidden to use it. And yet he heard it.

  “Sir,” he asked of Ustinov, “may I be excused?”

  * * *

  Hamilcar walked at first, heading in the direction from which he heard his other name. Then, when he saw the thin ragged bundle, rocking and weeping on the grass of the parade field, he began to run.

  He reached the girl and went to one knee. Poor little thing; what’s she been through to be so dirty? He looked carefully for a few moments…this…creature looked familiar but…No, the Pililak I knew was always fastidious. And not so well chested, either. Still…

  Ham bent his head closer and whispered, “Ant?”

  The filthy creature looked up and, after prying the swollen lids of one eye apart, shouted, “My lord! My lord! My Iskandr!” before launching herself at Ham and more or less wrapping herself around him. Her tears flew freely again, as she informed him, “I brought you your rifle, my lord.”

  Epilogue

  I

  The Curia was subdued. There were at least a dozen spots that were vacant now, senators the Taurans had tried to arrest in their homes and who decided not to go gently, or others who, ignoring their years, had grabbed a rifle or machine gun and gone to find the regiments that had elevated them. Carrera wasn’t back yet. He was somewhere in the Transitway Area, more specifically at Fort Muddville, watching a cohort burn out the last Tauran defenders of Building 59.

  That didn’t matter; he and Parilla were long agreed that the war could not be permitted to turn into one of those interminable Zion-Arab things that just went on and on. No, this would be fought to a finish, either the destruction of the Revolution in Balboa, and the legion that had brought it about, or the discrediting, humiliation, and casting off of the new hereditary aristocracy of the Tauran Union…and with it, United Earth.

  A screen on the wall of the Curia showed a long tongue of flame lick out to splash against the brick wall before finding its way through a blasted window. Smoke began to pour from all the other windows at that end of the building. The hundred and eleven senators so far assembled watched the scene with grim satisfaction.

  The senators stood in front of Parilla’s dais and curule chair, rather than in their wonted marble benches. They’d had to vacate the space; those benches were now full of people in formal dress, mostly, though a few wore the battle dress of the legion. Farther down, towards the great bronze doors, still others in similar clothing held musical instruments.

  Parilla stood at a podium that had been wheeled in for the occasion. He was flanked by the statues of Balboa and Victoria. The latter had been ready for some months, but Parilla had thought it better to wait for the victory that gave the statue her name.

  “So I’m superstitious,” he’d told the Senate. “So sue me. We wait until we have the victory before we proclaim it.”

  A cameraman at the far end, on the aisle by the doors, gave Parilla a high sign.

  He began to speak:

  “This morning the Republic of Balboa was suddenly and deliberately attacked by ground, air and naval forces of the Tauran Union. The excuse given for that attack were certain crimes allegedly perpetrated by members of Balboa’s armed forces upon Tauran citizens. The real reason for the attack was to force upon Balboa a traitorous clique of puppets who would do the will of the Tauran Union even against their own country and people.”

  Parilla stopped speaking to take a short drink of water.

  “In any event,” he continued, carefully placing his glass back on the podium, “the criminals who caused this war—those, at least, who are in our hands—have been punished. Some few remain at large in the Tauran Union. They, however—being elected officials or unelected but well-connected bureaucrats—appear to have a certain immunity to criminal action at law. Still, do not be fooled. The war the Tauran Union began is not yet over.

  “We currently hold some eighteen thousand Tauran prisoners of war. Many of them are wounded. We also have some thousands of Tauran civilians, former workers in the Transitway Zone. We are not nearly done with counting the dead and wounded, ours and theirs. So many were lost at sea that we may never have an accurate count.

  “In the interests of possible peace we will, in three days, begin transferring prisoners of war, at the rate of one hundred per day, back to the Tauran Union. First we shall return the wounded, in accord with the severity of their wounds. Then we’ll return the civilians. Then, if there are no further hostile acts, the Tauran Union will be given back her military personnel. This is contingent upon several factors.

  “First: the conditions of permanent peace. We insist upon absolute renunciation by the Tauran Union of any interest in and over the Balboa Transitway and the Republic of Balboa. After all, the Tauran Union can hardly claim any longer that Balboa is incapable of self-defense, can they? We also demand the repatriation of any and all Balboans held by the Tauran Union. Lastly, we demand reparations for the damages we have sustained, to recompense our wounded, to pay for property damage, and to care for the orphans and widows this artificially provoked invasion has left without a provider. We think a million drachma for each prisoner we hold should be sufficient for that.

  “Further, Balboa demands that all hostile actions on the part of the Tauran Union government, to include the unwarranted ‘drachma embargo’ and all other interferences with Balboa’s trade, cease.

  “Return of prisoners and detainees will be through the port of Cristobal, by ship. We will march and truck them there. It is up to the Tauran Union to have transport waiting.

  “And now, a final word from la Republica de Balboa to the people and bureaucrats of the Tauran Union.”

  Parilla smiled broadly and pointed at a formally dressed man holding a little stick, the conductor of the Balboa City Philharmonic. The stick tapped a few times, then pointed. A male singer, in battle dress, his head wrapped in a bandage, sang out. His voice was a deep base baritone:

  “O Tauran Union, den of iniquity.”

  A hundred voices raised themselves: “INIQUITY!”

  The lone baritone continued:

  “Odiferous fief of a corrupt and unelected bureaucracy.”

  “BUREAUCRACY!”

  Almost instantly, the hall was filled with music, more specifically the Old Earth composer Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The words had been changed a bit, though. Balboa’s granite Senate house rang with the lyrics:

  “Fuck the filthy Tauran Union!

  “Fuck their courts and MTPs!

  “Fuck their rules and regulations;

  “Their whole vile bureaucracy!

  “Asshats, Bastards, Cowards, Dimwits,

&
nbsp; “Excrement-Feeding Gallows-bait.

  “Hang the swine Higher than Haman,

  “Ignorant Jackasses, Knaves!

  “Watch them purge the bent banana.

  “See your taxes rise and rise.

  “See your nations fall to ruin.

  “Watch as every freedom dies.

  “Lick-ass Morons, Nincompoops, Oh,

  “Pity the Quagmire these Reds made.

  “Sycophants and Thieves, the whole crew,

  “Underworked and overpaid.

  “Friday mornings they will sign in

  “To ensure their holidays

  “Are paid for by lesser people.

  “Free men call those people, ‘Slaves.’

  “Green on the outside, red on the

  “Inside, Watermelons, black of soul,

  “Xerox copies of each other,

  “Yahoos, Zeroes, one and all.

  “To the lampposts, Tauran People.

  “Tie the knots and toss the ropes.

  “Fit the nooses. Haul the free ends.

  “Stand back; watch your masters choke.”

  With a complex wave of the stick, the singing and music ceased. Every man and woman in the Balboa Philharmonic was smiling, perhaps smugly. Smiling more smugly still, the maestro turned to the cameras and bowed.

  “And that pretty much sums up our feelings about you,” Parilla said, also smiling. The smile disappeared. He raised his arms above his head and shouted for the cameras, “Viva Balboa! Viva Anglia Libre! Viva Sachsen Libre! Viva Gaul Libre! Viva Castile Libre! Viva Jagelonia Libre! Viva Tuscany Libre! Viva Lusitania Libre!

  “Death to the Tauran Union!”

  II

  All the prisoners, and they were many, who could speak English were gathered in one camp. Likewise for those who spoke Spanish, or French, or Italian, or any other major Tauran language. Several hundred of the English-speaking prisoners were now under guard at Fort Williams’ old, octagonal theater, one of the few places to be spared damage in the fighting.

  Marqueli Mendoza spoke English. Thus, she inherited the task of being chief instructor for the many thousands of English-speaking prisoners. It was no small job.

  Still, thought Marqueli, vanishingly petite, perfectly formed, beautiful, and wonderfully fragrant, a journey of a thousand miles and all. She began to mount to the stage.

  One of the Anglians began to hoot. This lasted until his sergeant belted him, knocking him completely out of his theater chair. “Shut up, boy,” said the sergeant. “Can’t you tell a lady when you see one?”

  If Marqueli saw or overheard the exchange, she gave no sign. She went to the central rostrum and directed that the assistants begin passing out books.

  “I apologize,” she said, “for the books we’re giving you. They’re translations and…well…maybe not the best translations that were possible. That’s one reason I’m here, to guide you over the bad translations.

  “But first, a couple of rules and a little explanation. The books are to help you understand what’s gone wrong with your countries. You don’t have to read them. You don’t have to pay attention to anything I say or even to me.” A born actress, she gave a little stretch then, illustrating perfectly why every male there ought be paying attention at least to her.

  “If you’ll look at the covers of the books,” she said, “you’ll see the title, History and Moral Philosophy. The names of the authors are my husband’s and mine.”

  The assembled Anglians gave off a subdued groan. Damn, she’s married. Well, there goes that reason to defect.

  If Marqueli caught the reason for the groan she effected to ignore it. “This is the founding document, really, for why you ended up here as prisoners. It’s also the refutation of the philosophy, and the people, who sent you here to become prisoners. You know, the Kosmos? The cosmopolitan progressives to whom your lives mean nothing?

  “Let’s start by talking a little about cosmopolitan progressivism, shall we, boys?”

  III

  Estado Mayor, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  In four separate cells the four expatriates who had provoked war between Balboa and the Tauran Union waited. All been interrogated, though without torture. When people were as lost and hopeless as these were Fernandez usually found pain unnecessary.

  “So what happens to me…to my men?”

  “Public crucifixion,” Fernandez said simply. “Along with your families; though theirs will be semi-private.”

  The former policeman shuddered, his face growing pale in the bright cell light.

  “Isn’t there any other way?”

  “No.”

  “What if I confess? I mean make a really good confession.”

  “I have discretion to spare your wife and children. The rest of you go to the cross.”

  “But it’s not right,” said the killer. “It’s not right for Rocaberti to die easier than we do. It was all his fault.”

  “Well.…” said Fernandez. “Make your confession. If it’s good enough…maybe we’ll just hang you. That’s fifteen minutes of degradation against three days. My last offer…”

  IV

  Palacio de las Trixies, Ciudad Balboa, Balboa, Terra Nova

  “Last week,” said Parilla, into the cameras, “on a day of shame, the Republic of Balboa was suddenly, and deliberately, attacked by ground, air and naval forces of the Tauran Union. The ostensible reason for this attack were certain crimes allegedly perpetrated by members of Balboa’s armed forces upon Tauran citizens. The real reason for the attack was to force upon Balboa a traitorous clique of puppets who would do the will of the Tauran Union even against their own country and people. The man who ordered the crimes that were to be the Tauran Union’s excuse for this unwarranted invasion was also the Tauran Union’s chosen puppet…their intended ruler of Balboa.” Parilla stopped speaking to take a short drink of water.

  “Watch,” he said, as choice excerpts from Arias’s confession, and those of the others, were rolled for the cameras. This took all of ten minutes. It must be said that the confessions were not entirely truthful.

  “Complete copies of these confessions have been made available to the world’s major news services.

  “It was natural enough that the Tauran Union government should have, through the agency of its puppets, arranged for an incident that would galvanize their people for war.” Parilla paused for dramatic effect. “If those had been our women, we’d have gone to war too…even against the Tauran Union…or the whole world combined.” He gave a nod to an unseen underling. “Now watch this…”

  The camera changed scenes to the courtyard of the main jail. Four men stood upon a thick beam. The camera closed to show the faces of all four in detail. They were the same men who had just been shown on the videotaped confessions. Lengths of rough hemp graced their necks.

  The beam was pulled out and the four men dropped a few inches each. Four guards cut the ropes that bound the men’s hands behind them. Viewers all over the world had the chance to see them struggle with their hands with the constricting nooses. Cameras caught the ground under the four as they voided their bowels and bladders. Urine and feces stained the concrete.

  After an interminable time, struggles ceased. The criminals were dead.

  Parilla reappeared on screen. “I wonder,” he mused. “I wonder what the Tauran Union will claim they were going to do to them that was worse than that.

  “In any event, the criminals who caused this war, those—at least—who are in our hands, have been punished. Some few remain at large in the Tauran Union. They, however, being elected officials, appear to have a certain immunity to criminal action at law. Still, do not be fooled. The war the Tauran Union began is not over.”

  Acknowledgments, in no particular order:

  Yoli and Toni who, in their different ways put up with me, TBR (the Kriegsmarine contingent of the bar), John Biltz, Chris Nuttall, Brian Carbin, Joseph Capdepon II, Nigel the Kiwi, Mike Watson, Seamus Curran, Arun P
rabhu, Alex Shishkin, Jon LaForce, Michal Swierczek, Harry Russell, James Gemind, Mike May, Chris Bagnall, Guy Wheelock, Ori Pomerantz, Krenn, Paul Arnold, Steve Saintonge, Jasper Paulsen, Andrew Stocker, Nomad the Turk, Mark Bjertnes, Paul 11, Matt Pethybridge, Conrad Chu, Geoff Withnell, Joe Bond, Rod Graves, John Becker, Sam Swindell, Bill Crenshaw, Andy and LTC Fehrenbach at old Cambrai-Fritsch Kaserne, Mike Sayer, Jeff Wilkes, Bob Allaband, Henrik Kiertzner, John Jordan, Keith Wilds, Greg Dougherty, Andy and Fehrenbach from the 233rd BSB, Wade Harlow.

  If I’ve forgotten anyone, chalk it up to premature senility.

  APPENDIX A

  Glossary

  AdC

  Aide de Camp, an assistant to a senior officer.

  Ala

  Plural: Alae. Latin: Wing, as in wing of cavalry. Air Wing in the legion. Similar to Tercio, qv.

  Amid

  Arabic: Brigadier General.

  Antania

  Plural: Antaniae, septic mouthed winged reptilians, possibly genengineered by the Noahs, AKA Moonbats.

  ARE-12P

  a Gallic Infantry Fighting Vehicle

  Artem-Mikhail-23-465 Gaur

  an obsolescent jet fighter, though much updated.

  Artem-Mikhail 82

  aka “Mosaic D,” an obsolete jet fighter, product improved in Balboan hands to be merely obsolescent

  BdL

  Barco de la legion, Ship of the legion.