We improvised our way up the slopes of Ciba, the horsemen harassing us all the way. In one sense; it was a standoff: any time we stopped, pikemen in front, protecting the archers behind them, they couldn’t do more than taunt us, from beyond the four-hundred-meter range of our bows. And whenever we started to move in the direction of the walled village, they’d sweep down on us, forcing us to form a line, pikemen in front, and so on.
Casualties were low, on both sides—two weeks after leaving, we’d had three deaths and seventeen serious injuries—all stragglers who had let themselves range too far from the main body of our force.
And they had only lost a few dozen. Stragglers, too.
The trouble was, we were being pushed away from the village, higher up the shallow slopes of Ciba. I didn’t like it much: all the mountaineers had to do was detach a body of their force, swing around and cut us off at the flat top of the mountain—an extinct volcano, technically.
“Don’t bother me with technicalities, Colonel.” Bar-El turned to whisper to a runner, who nodded and loped off toward where Braunstein’s battalion was camped, at the far edge of the clearing. “I’m not in the mood to be quibbled with—and I don’t give a damn whether this mound of dirt is a mountain, a volcano, or a pile of elephant dung.”
We had climbed too far—at least in my opinion. Three klicks away and about one below us, the walls of the village stood mockingly. The air was clear; I could see people and animals moving in the narrow streets, and a mass of horses and men, milling around the main gates.
Well, I’d stalled just about long enough. “Looks like they’re sending out another detachment.” The sun hung low in the sky, a white ball that was painful to look at. “Do you think they’re preparing for an assault?”
He bit off a piece of jerky, washing it down with water from his canteen. “No, I think they’re getting ready to invite us in for tea.” He cocked his head to one side. “Seriously, they’re probably going to take off tonight— cover of darkness, and all that—and try and swing around, come at us from the top tomorrow. Or just settle in there, have their bowmen dismounted and ready.” The locals’ only projectile weapons were crossbows. Easier to fire from horseback than our compound bows, but the rate of fire was pitiful—reloading a crossbow on horseback was probably not a whole lot easier than firing one from the pitching, yawing back of the animal. But from prepared positions, they could sit behind improvised barricades on solid ground.
As a matter of fact, it was possible—at least in theory—that one or more of them had already done that and were lying in ambush, somewhere near where we were.
A handy possibility, that.
Bar-El stood. “Come—take a walk with me.”
The downslope edge of the clearing was just that: an edge. A hundred meters below, the sharp drop ended in a stand of the everpresent rula trees.
Bar-El gestured at the village below. “About how many would you say are in this next group?”
I shrugged. “A thousand, or so. Probably a touch more.” I glanced over my shoulder. Good: nobody else was in the immediate vicinity. It wasn’t impossible that even Shimon Bar-El would slip over the edge of a cliff, and drag his exec along with him. At least, that’s the way it would seem. There was a handy overhang, about fifty meters down. I could probably climb down and duck under before anyone could reach the edge, then hide until dark. Living off the land wouldn’t be a problem; that was part of my training.
And when Yonny Davis took command, not knowing what Bar-El had planned, he’d have no choice but to retreat. And quickly—before the villagers got their second force of horsemen around the mountain, and cut off the line of retreat. Over the mountain and down the other side—he’d make it to the port in the valley within a week, and they’d leave Indess behind.
The Primier had planned it well: we’d collect the credits due us under the contract, with minimal casualties. And not much damage to Metzada’s reputation—maybe other employers wouldn’t be willing to sign a payment-under-all-contingencies contract, but so what? All-contingencies deals come along once in a lifetime; the loss of revenue wouldn’t be much.
In a few weeks, when someone who looked only vaguely like Tetsuo Hanavi appeared at the lowland port and booked passage out, nobody would suspect a thing. The regiment would merely have retreated out of an impossible situation; Bar-El and his secret battleplans would have died together.
I turned. Bar-El was holding his Bowie. Casually, but if I lunged for him, he’d probably cut me by accident.
“What’s that for?”
He smiled. “You any good with one of these things?”
I could have sliced him from crotch to throat in less time than it would take him to blink. But Bar-El getting knifed by his exec was not the image I wanted to leave behind—the retreat was supposed to look like the result of an enemy assassination, or an accident. Even—particularly to the line troops; what they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell. “Reasonable.” I shrugged. “I may be just a—you should pardon the expression—staff officer, but I try to keep in shape.”
He chuckled, backing away from the edge before sheathing the knife. “What I meant was: how good are you at cutting wood—the damn blade is too long to make a really good hand-to-hand weapon and too damn short to be a decent substitute for a sword.”
The runner he’d dispatched to Braunstein ran over.
“‘Braunstein to Bar-El: What the hell are you doing, Shimon?’” The runner, a tall, skinny boy who looked to be about seventeen, shrugged an apology before continuing. “‘We’re cutting wood, as per your directions, and have relayed said directions to Orde—but I’m damned if I understand. Would you be kind enough to enlighten me?’”
Bar-El nodded. “Good. Tell him: I’m starting a bonfire tonight, and I’m particular about the length of the firewood. As soon as it’s dark—say, another ninety minutes—leave your first company on watch, and get the hell up the trail to this clearing. Same thing for Orde: I don’t want any skirmishers interrupting.”
A fire might not be a bad idea; it could cover a retreat. I smiled at him. “So that was your idea—do you want me to go into the woods, and cut my own contribution?”
He clapped a hand to my shoulder. “Not a bad idea—I think I’ll join you.” He flexed his hands. “I can use the exercise.” He looked up at the runner, who was still standing there. “That’s all. Run along.” Bar-El turned to me. “Coming?”
I followed Bar-El into the woods. Good: he was taking us out of sight of the encampment. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as neat as a solution for him simply to disappear along with his exec, but it wouldn’t take long for Davis to notice: and if a search didn’t find his body or mine, attribute it to the opposition.
I let my hand slide to the hilt of my Bowie. Just wait a moment, until he’s stepping over the trunk of the tree. He might be Bar-El the Traitor, but he was my uncle; I’d make it as painless as possible.
I drew my knife and—
—pain blossomed in the back of my head. I tried to lift the knife—never mind what it is, finish him first—but it grew heavier, and heavier, dragging me down. I let go of it—bare hands, then—but rough hands seized me from behind, dragging me back.
I gave up, and fell into the cool dark.
I woke to someone slapping me with a wet cloth. “Go away.”
“Easy, Tetsuo.” Yonny Davis’ voice was calm as always. “I hit you a bit harder than I should have; but,” gentle fingers probed my scalp, sending hot rivulets of pain through my head, “I don’t think you’ve got a concussion.” I opened my eyes slowly. It was dark—took me a moment to realize that the lights dancing in my eyes were stars overhead.
In the darkness, Bar-El chuckled. “It’s probably my fault—I gave him a hefty dose of morphine, to keep him under. You sure he’s going to live?”
Far away, there was a rustling, as though a ship’s sails were flapping in the winds. Sails?
“Let’s get him up.” Hands grasped my arms, pulli
ng me to my feet. It was hard to tell; but at the opposite end of the clearing, next to the ledge, it looked like the shelter halves were being—thrown off the edge?
“Better leave us now, Yonny—your battalion’s next.” Davis nodded. “See you down there,” he said, and jogged away. No, they weren’t being thrown off—there was a man under each.
“They’re called hang gliders, Tetsuki.” Bar-El’s voice came from behind me. “You take a specially designed piece of cloth—camouflaged as a shelter half, say—mount an alleged spear down the center of it as a sort of beam, add other sticks at the edge and as bracing, and mount a lashed-together triangle as a steering mechanism.” He chuckled. “Then you have each and every one of your men practice for a few hours, taking short flights across the clearing. And then you have it: instant airpower.”
I turned. He was rubbing at his chin. “I doubt that one in ten will actually be able to control the silly things well enough to put it down inside the walls. But as long as a few do, to open the gates—and as long as the rest get close enough, before the locals arrive here in the morning—”
“You did it.”
“You, nephew, have a keen eye for the obvious.” He clapped a hand to my shoulder. “Of course I did it. Come morning, the few effectives remaining in the city will be captured or dead. And we’ll have everyone else inside as hostages, for the good behavior of the twenty-five hundred who are up here, chasing shadows.” He shrugged. “I think we’ll be able to persuade them to move on; lots of other places to settle on this continent.” He looked up at me, quizzically. “Do you think they could mount a siege, with us standing on their walls? Not that we’d kill the hostages, just keep a bunch up there, tied and visible—to cut down on their eagerness to take potshots.”
“You intended this from the first.”
He pursed his mouth, and spat. “Of course I did. The only question was whether or not we were going to be able to sneak the sails past the Commerce Department— when you came up with the messkit dodge, I figured it’d be a good distraction.”
I rubbed at my temples, still woozy. “But the tech levels—”
“Don’t be silly. There’s not a damn thing they can do. Anybody here could have built one of these things, if they’d have had a mind to. We didn’t violate the regs— and local Inspector passed us; she’s not going to be eager to report that we snuck something by her. There’s only one problem remaining, and that’s where you come in.”
“Me?”
“I don’t know these folks any too well—somebody with a bit of clout might decide that the best thing to do is tough it out, try to starve us out.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t make any sense, but—in any case, it would be kind of convenient if whoever’s in charge were to get himself killed, if he’s going to be stubborn. Maybe a crossbow bolt in the night? It’s up to you.” Bar-El smiled. “I didn’t just bring you along for the exercise.” He stooped, and picked up a knife and pack. “Better get going.”
* * *
The last time I saw Shimon Bar-El was at the port. The regiment was being loaded on shuttles, preparatory to leaving. Officers are first down, last up—we had some time to chat.
“You did well, Tetsuki—they didn’t need more than a day to decide.”
It hadn’t been hard—prowling around an open encampment in the dark, stealing a crossbow, setting up a clamor in the opposite side of the camp. “No problem. General.” He started to turn away. “Uncle?”
He turned back, startled. “Yes?”
“You knew from the beginning, didn’t you?”
He smiled. “That this was a setup? Of course; and give my compliments to the Primier. A nice idea,” he nodded, “arranging an all-contingencies contract, where we— you— get paid whether we win or lose, and then working out how to lose cheaply, sacrificing only,” he tapped himself on the chest with a nail-bitten finger, “an old irritation. I could just see you explaining it to Regato— ‘Sorry, Senhor, but Bar-El was the only one who could possibly have generaled such a campaign—you knew that when you hired us.’” He spread his hands. “‘And since the old traitor is dead, we had no choice but to retreat. Our contracts calls for payment under all contingencies; do you pay us now, and do we have the Thousand Worlds Inspector garnish all your offworld credits until you do?’—that was how it was supposed to go, no?”
“Roughly.” I smiled. “But I think I’d have had a bit more tact. But why did you—
“Stick my head in the buzzsaw? I could tell you that I knew that the hang glider gambit would work, even before I studied the Tech reports, but…”
I shook my head. “That wouldn’t be true, would it?”
He shrugged slowly, his eyes becoming vague and unfocused. “Regato told you about Cincinnatus, Tetsuo. About how he chose to come out of retirement, to command the armies of Rome in an almost impossible campaign. I… don’t think he could have told you why. Or why, after winning, he denied the people’s demand he become Emperor, went back into retirement, back to his farm. Regato couldn’t have known. I do.
“Tetsuo, if you’ve spent your whole life preparing for one thing, learning how to do it well, then doing that is all that matters to you.” He chuckled thinly. “I was a bad uncle, a horribly incompetent husband—and not a good Metzadan citizen. But I am a general; commanding an army is the only thing I can do right. I’m not claiming that it’s the most noble occupation in the universe, but it’s my profession, the only one I’ve got, the only thing that I do well.” His faint smile broadened. “And I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.” He clapped a hand to my shoulder. “Which is why we say goodbye here.”
“What do you mean?” The officers’ shuttle would be loading in a few minutes; both of us were supposed to be on it.
Shimon Bar-El shook his head. “You haven’t been listening to me. Let’s say I go back to Metzada with you. Do you think that Rivka Effron would let Bar-El the Traitor command again?”
“No.” The Primier had been clear on that point; I wasn’t even to offer that to Bar-El. Not on the grounds that we hadn’t been willing to promise him anything— dead men collect little—but because he never would have believed it. Metzada’s reputation had been hurt badly for Bar-El’s selling out on Oroga; the damage would be irreparable if we let him come home and return to permanent duty.
He nodded. “Correct. This was a special case. I’ll be heading back to Thellonee—perhaps another special case will come up, someday.” Bar-El sighed, deeply. “And you’ll know where to find me.” He turned away again, and started walking from the landing field.
“Uncle?”
“What is it?” He turned, clearly irritated.
“Did you take that payoff on Oroga?”
Shimon Bar-El smiled. “That would be telling.”
Editor's Introduction to:
CODE-NAME FEIREFITZ
by David Drake
I have never met David Drake, although we have corresponded, and conversed on the telephone. When I was guest of honor at a convention in Chattanooga, Drake wrote the sketch about me in the convention program; but he was not able to attend the convention.
I have been a fan of Drake’s Hammer’s Slammers series since its first episode, and I’m pleased to be first to publish a new story in that saga.
Soldiers are often faced with unpleasant tasks. Sometimes it’s clear what you should do; but that is not always what must be done.
CODE-NAME FEIREFITZ
by David Drake
“Lord, we got one!” cried the trooper whose detector wand pointed toward the table that held the small altar. “That’s a powergun for sure, Captain, nothing else’d read so much iridium!”
The three other khaki-clad soldiers in the room with Captain Esa Mboya tensed and cleared guns they had not expected to need. The villagers of Ain Chelia knew that to be found with a weapon meant death. The ones who were willing to face that were in the Bordj, waiting with their households and their guns for the Slammers to rip them out. Waiting t
o die fighting.
The houses of Ain Chelia were decorated externally by screens and colored tiles; but the tiles were set in concrete walls and the screens themselves were cast concrete. Narrow cul-de-sacs lined by blank, gated courtyard walls tied the residential areas of the village into knots of strongpoints. The rebels had elected to make their stand in Ain Chelia proper only because the fortress they had cut into the walls of the open pit mine was an even tougher objective.
“Stand easy, troopers,” said Mboya. The householder gave him a tight smile; he and Mboya were the only blacks in the room—or the village. “I’ll handle this one,” Captain Mboya continued. “The rest of you get on with the search under Sergeant Scratchard. Sergeant—” calling toward the outside door—”come in here for a moment.”
Besides the householder and the troops, a narrow-faced civilian named Youssef ben Khedda stood in the room. On his face was dawning a sudden and terrible hope. He had been Assistant Superintendent of the ilmenite mine before Kabyles all over the planet rose against their Arabized central government in al-Madinah. The Superintendent was executed, but ben Khedda had joined the rebels to be spared. It was a common enough story to men who had sorted through the ruck of as many rebellions as the Slammers had. But now ben Khedda was a loyal citizen again. Openly he guided G Company from house to house, secretly he whispered to Capt Mboya the names of those who had carried their guns and families to the mine. “Father,” said ben Khedda to the householder, lowering his eyes in a mockery of contrition, “I never dreamed that there would be contraband here, I swear it.”
Juma al-Habashi smiled back at the small man who saw the chance to become undisputed leader of as much of Chelia as the Slammers left standing and alive. “I’m sure you didn’t dream it, Youssef,” he said more gently than he himself expected. “Why should you, when I’d forgotten the gun myself?”
Sergeant Scratchard stepped inside with a last glance back at the courtyard and the other three men of Headquarters Squad waiting there as security. Within, the first sergeant’s eyes touched the civilians and the tense enlisted men; but Captain Mboya was calm, so Scratchard kept his own voice calm as he said, “Sir?”
There Will Be War Volume II Page 31