by Chris Bunch
“A guerrilla war?”
“Exactly, sir,” Hedley said. “Hit ‘em high, low, and wherever they aren’t strong enough. Hit them hard enough, and pretty soon they’ll get tired of fighting, and start wanting to talk about some kind of truce.”
“Like the ‘Raum?” Rao said distastefully.
“They came close to beating us, sir,” Yoshitaro said.
“A nasty way to fight a war,” Rao said.
None of the three answered.
Rao considered. “Well, I don’t think they’d be willing to go nuclear, not as long as they want some part of the real estate.”
“Which we can flipping give them,” Hedley said. “After they’re hammered some, and then we can come up with some kind of truce that’ll let them save face. They’ll still have their victory, plus access to the mines on C-Cumbre.”
“Aspirant,” Rao said, “you said ‘we’ a bit ago. Who’re your fighters?”
“Initially,” Njangu said, “you discharge everybody in I&R who asks for one. Out of one hundred twenty-eight troops, about ninety want to keep fighting. Half a dozen wouldn’t mind getting out, and we let them go. Keep the others wherever you want them.
“Plus we keep the people on Mullion like we said. That’ll give us some kind of security, and we’ll just have to make sure that nobody, absolutely nobody, gets tracked back to them.” Njangu’s voice rang with enthusiasm.
“What about supplying those bases?” Rao asked. “An army doesn’t march on idealism.”
“I know where we can get credits and supplies, sir,” Hedley said. “I have enough contacts with the rich to get them to kick in.”
“You assume our Rentiers are all that patriotic?”
“Of course not, sir. But it seems the late and unlamented Policy and Analysis Section of the PlanPolice kept files on almost everyone. I, ahem, seem to have found them, some months ago, which I didn’t bother boring you with, since they’re certainly of the seamiest.”
“Blackmail?”
“Just so, sir.” There was no smile on Hedley’s face.
“That’s ugly,” Rao said. “The whole idea’s ugly. Jaansma, Yoshitaro, what makes you think you could get away with having your own war, at least at first?”
“First, because we had experience with the ‘Raum. No offense, and we don’t mean to sound arrogant, but if the two of us had really been fighting on their side, instead of being double agents, I think we could have given Caud Williams and the Force a lot rougher way to go. Also, because humans outnumber the Musth … that’s counting civilians, too,” Njangu said confidently. “Sooner or later the Musth’ll manage to piss everyone on the planet off, and make them into fighters, or at least people who’ll help us fight. That was the ‘Raum strategy, and I think if they’d had support from the people, they might’ve gotten away with it.”
“There’ll be civilian casualties,” Rao said.
Both Njangu and Garvin nodded grimly.
“Are you able to live with reprisals?”
“Sir,” Garvin said, “I don’t see any way the Musth are going to be able to maintain the present situation, whether we’re fighting them or not. Sooner or later, they’ll overreact, and start killing civvies anyway. When they do, every time they do, we’ll have another recruit.”
“That’s a price that’ll we have to accept,” Njangu added. “Otherwise, we just end up being slaves, working on their damned mines over on C-Cumbre. And I don’t think the Confederation … or Redruth … is going to jump in and play Save Our Asses.”
Rao shook his head, unbelieving. “When I was an alt, all I gave a damn about was my platoon, sport, and my mess bill. What’s happened to the new generation?”
“We grew up different,” Njangu said. “Maybe things were a little closer to the bone for us.”
“I would guess so,” Rao said. “A question for you, however. You seem to be willing to accept civilian dead with equanimity. Do you think you’ll feel the same way the first time you see a dead woman or child? Or see the Musth strafe a village?”
Garvin started to say something. Njangu held up his hand.
“I’ll answer that. Sir, do you think that’ll be anything different than what we saw … what we did … against the ‘Raum?”
Rao grimaced.
“That’s in the past.” He thought for a time, then slowly began shaking his head.
“No. That’s too much of a dream, and if it goes awry, this whole planet could be a shambles. Thank you, gentlemen, for trying to come up with something, but that’s not the answer.
“We’ll stay with the original strategy and fight them where we stand.
“That’s all, gentlemen. Good luck.”
Garvin started to say something, got a hard look from Njangu, shut his mouth. Hedley saluted, and the three walked out.
In the corridor Hedley stopped, sank back against the wall.
“Shit,” he said. “I thought for a minute we had the old man convinced.”
“So what now, sir?” Garvin asked.
“I guess we get ready to fight, try not to get killed, and hope we’re able to keep the battle going after the Force gets massacred.”
CHAPTER
11
Caud Rao, with a skeleton staff, left Camp Mahan within the hour. He jumped from regiment to regiment, city to city, and filed regular reports back to Mil Angara. They were encoded — but the code was one that’d been broken by the Musth.
Wlencing got intercepts almost as fast as Angara’s clerks were able to decode the transmissions.
All of them were much the same — Rao was successfully trying to keep the hotheads in the Force under control. Matters appeared in hand, and the Musth orders would be followed.
Some of Wlencing’s warriors grumbled, wanted action, vengeance for Aesc’s murder, but the Musth leader told them not to be foolish. War, fought just for its own sake, was stupidity.
If the Musth had achieved victory without casualties, this was the greatest triumph of all, and indicated clearly the human victory a generation ago was nothing but an anomaly.
If these humans were all too eager to become the puppets of the Musth, this was a clear indication of what the First Cause must have intended — for The People to utterly dominate the cosmos.
And as for revenge for Aesc … vengeance, he reminded them, was a dish to be savored at length and leisure.
• • •
“Do you wish extraction?” The transmission ebbed, rose, bouncing from satellite station to station before reaching the Cumbre system, then further retransmitted by robot stations within the system.
Ab Yohns considered. Part of him wanted out. It’d been a long, long assignment, and his nerves felt sandpapered. But again, what were the chances of a Larix/Kura ship being able to enter Cumbre, pick him up, and extract successfully without being detected and destroyed by the Musth?
“Negative,” he said. “I’ll stick around, see what develops. You’ll need a man on the ground.”
“We were hoping you would decide that,” his control said. “We do need you, now more than ever before.”
“I’ll expect the fee to be adjusted accordingly,” Yohns said.
“It shall be.” Without formality, the com ended.
• • •
Ben Dill strolled through the control room, set up in a hangar on Mullion Island, pausing to look at screens, control panels, sensors, cabinets. Every now and then, intent on some detail, he walked through a display terminal. Here and there the holograph was blurred, where Njangu hadn’t shot pictures.
Dill was trailed by Hedley, Kang, Heiser, and Froude. Finally he stopped, stopping them all in turn.
“Interestin’,” he said.
“Interesting enough for you, and some others, to start training on?”
“Hell no,” Dill said. “Just a start.”
“We’ve built a simulator in another hangar,” Hedley said.
“You’re expecting a lot from me, and whoever else is supposed
to be a flyboy,” Dill said. “No idea of instrument feel, what kind of readouts you get, what kind of support.
“Sorry, gents. Not nearly enough.”
“I wish,” Dr. Froude said grumpily, “you’d at least try the sim. We used more than the pictures, you know. We have projections of how the mother ships fly from our offworld detectors, combined with the fairly significant information you and others have provided on the aksai, and more data, theories really, from the stolen star charts.”
“Sounds like enough to get somebody killed,” Dill said.
“Only sim,” Heiser reminded.
Dill grunted, considered.
“What the hell. It can’t hurt that much to give it a run. But I don’t see what any of this is going to get us anytime soon.”
“All knowledge is power,” Froude said a bit pompously.
“And when we get our hands on one of the ships,” Ho Kang added, “you’ll be able to get it off the ground.”
“Ben doesn’t feel very super these days,” Dill grumbled. “I suppose, Ho, you’d be willing to ride the ECM seat, whichever one it might be, like in the old days? Or is it hey, Ben, whyn’t you go into the deep black just for drill?”
“That’s a shitty thing to say,” Ho Kang said indignantly. “Since when have I ever not been willing to piggyback your dinosaur ass?”
“Sorry,” Ben said. “You’re right. This waiting around for the balloon to go up’s gotten me a little testy. Let’s see what it’s like, but I can flat-ass guarantee this sim ain’t gonna be enough.”
• • •
There were almost a hundred Zhukovs on Camp Mahan’s huge parade ground, their crews at attention in front of each ACV. Their drives were humming, and their coms were on, all monitoring the ‘cast from Caud Rao, a sentiment-dripping speech about how nobly they’d served, and how their service, their frequent sacrifice, would never be forgotten.
The Gunship Battalion’s colors were cased, and the battalion was declared dissolved.
One vehicle commander and one driver doubled to each Zhukov, and, still in perfect formation, the attack ships lifted away, four aerial columns headed for the distant city of Seya, on the island of the same name.
The Zhukov crewmen and the battalion’s necessary support elements were marched back to barracks, where they were immediately granted discharges, and began cycling out into the civilian sector.
It was a gut-wrenching moment, watched over by circling aksai and two velv. Wlencing was aboard one of the destroyer-like ships. He turned away from the screen with satisfaction.
“Little by little, it grows,” he said to Rahfer.
The aide’s head bobbed quickly.
“It is a pity,” Rahfer said, “there are no medals for a successful victory gained without any bloodshed, nor revenge for System-Leader Aesc’s murder.”
“There will still be medals to be earned here,” Wlencing said. “Once the humans have dissolved their fighting strength, there will be dissidents, criminals against order, to handle. There will still be glory enough for everyone.”
The Zhukovs reached Seya, and were grounded in a hastily graded compound, where heavy wrecking machinery waited. Their pilots and commanders were brought back to Camp Mahan, where they joined their fellows, awaiting discharge.
The company given the task of destroying the gun-ships began putting out bids for various surplus items, from seats to com gear. As soon as the ships were stripped, they’d be scrapped and melted down.
Caud Rao was kept fully informed about this matter, again in a code easily read by the Musth.
No Musth reported the occasional Grierson or two flying between Mahan and Seya, if they were even observed, nor were their packed crew compartments noted.
• • •
“Reporting as ordered, sir,” Njangu said. “What’s going on?”
“Tell him,” Cent Hedley told the com tech.
“I was monitoring the standard Force emergency freq as part of my normal watch duties,” the young man said. “It was just 1900 hours tonight. Someone came on, a filtered voice, so I couldn’t tell if it was man, woman, or synthed, asking for a response from the Force.
“Like I’m supposed to do, I responded.
“The voice said, and I’m quoting precisely, Message for Njangu Yoshitaro. Respond on this frequency after message ends. Broadcast will be repeated nightly.’ It sent that twice, then shut down. I didn’t have time enough to get a locator on it, don’t have any idea what it could be.”
“Thanks, technician. You’re dismissed,” Hedley said, waited until the man had left the office.
“You got any irons in the fire?” Hedley said. “Running any agents that might’ve blown their normal contact?”
“Sir,” Njangu said honestly, “I’m just getting ready for the shitstorm to come. I haven’t and won’t develop anybody until the fog lifts a bit.”
“Hmm.”
“Maybe I better be around a com sometime tomorrow night?”
“Wouldn’t do any harm,” Hedley agreed.
• • •
“Message for Njangu Yoshitaro. Respond on this frequency after message ends,” the colorless voice said. “Broadcast will be repeated nightly. Message for Njangu Yoshitaro. Respond on this frequency after message ends. Broadcast will be repeated nightly. Clear.”
Njangu touched the sensor.
“Yoshitaro here. Over.”
A whisper of static, then:
“Meeting desired. Location: fifty meters SSW from old Planning Group Headquarters ruins familiar to you. Midday. Tomorrow. No more than one escort.”
“Understood,” Njangu said. “If I come … how do I recognize you?”
A noise came that might have been amusement.
“You will recognize. Clear.”
Njangu put the microphone down, looked at Hedley.
“You have any idea what’s going on?”
“Nary a one,” Yoshitaro said.
“Do you know where the voice is talking about?”
“Sure. He, she, or it wants my young ass right in the middle of what’s left of the Eckmuhl, the same place the ‘Raum got nasty with me last time around.”
“You going to make the meet?”
“Why not? Nobody’s tried to kill me in at least, oh, four days.”
“What’ll you want for backup?”
“Two Griersons hanging about offshore,” Njangu said. “Loaded for max grunt.”
“What about ground security?”
“They said one person, I’ll take one person.”
“As a matter of curiosity,” Hedley said, “who?”
“Nobody’s tried to kill my fun-loving CO lately, either.”
• • •
The Eckmuhl was — had been — the ‘Raum ghetto in Leggett for centuries. When their revolt moved back into the cities, after being nearly obliterated in the countryside, the Eckmuhl became the center of resistance. The planned general rising, unintentionally set off early by Yoshitaro and Jaansma, had gone awry. The Movement had been destroyed, along with most of the Eckmuhl. After the war, PlanGov had been bludgeoned into building low-cost housing for the ‘Raum, which now crept over the hills north and east behind the walled enclave. Many ‘Raum, particularly the younger ones, gladly fled the tenements and squalor.
But the Eckmuhl still held close to a hundred thousand people. Some lived in their undamaged if rickety apartments, some had cleared ruins and rebuilt, others lived in the wreckage itself. Life continued, vibrant, loud, vital.
Garvin Jaansma, uncomfortable in civilian clothes with body armor underneath, growled to his exec: “In case you haven’t noticed, I fit in here like a square widget. I’m neither brown, short nor do I express myself normally above 160db(A). You, on the other hand — ”
“Don’t be racist,” Njangu said, “sir. Or I’ll nark you off as … as what did they call us?”
“The Rentiers’ lapdogs,” Garvin said morosely. “Hah. We weren’t that well paid. Still aren�
��t. So who are we looking for?”
“I think I know,” Njangu said. “And I’ll even give you a clue. The person is the greatest survivor we know.”
“Impossible,” Garvin said. “I’m the greatest survivor I know. And I didn’t send any messages for some sort of goddamned meeting in the rubble.” He wiped sweat. “Those walls don’t let any sea breeze through at all, do they?”
Njangu’s eyes were darting here, there, across the square at the collapsed building. They’d found a drink cart and stayed under the shade of its umbrella, sucking down iced carbonated, limed water and waiting. Both men kept the glasses in their off hands, favored hands hovering near barely-hidden gun butts.
“It’s midday and half-gone,” Garvin said. “Shall we write off our friend?”
“Nope,” Njangu said. “Her security’s eyeballing us right now. Come on. Let’s stroll over into ground zero, so they’ve got no chance of missing.”
Garvin set his glass on the vendor’s counter, dropped a bill without looking at it, realized from the vendor’s grateful babble he should’ve, and followed Njangu out into the blazing sun. He, too, made the waiting gunmen. There were three of them, each watching a different byway, once streets, now curling through high-piled rubble.
“I’d call this fifty meters … and here she comes,” Njangu said.
From a narrow alley, a woman walked unhurriedly toward them.
“I should’ve guessed,” Garvin said.
“You should’ve,” Njangu said. “Good afternoon, Councilor Poynton.”
Jo Poynton nodded a greeting.
“Even though I owe you two my life, I’m still not sure whether I like you or not.”
Njangu shrugged.
“We don’t have time to worry about the past. What’s done is done.”
“You’re right. I apologize,” she said.
“Forget about it,” Njangu said amiably.
“Now that the love affair has picked up with all its old ardor,” Garvin said, “could we get out of this sun before my brain bakes, and then maybe you can tell us … sorry, tell Njangu … what you came looking for?”
“There’s a café up the next street,” Poynton said. “Some of my old … associates … own it, and can keep us … me, at any rate, safe.”