Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  Jeffrey flicked another coin to the boy and slid behind the wheel. Lucretzia kissed him as she took the passenger’s seat.

  “Is it the war?” she said.

  “It is,” Jeffrey replied. “With a vengeance.”

  “Where are we going?” Her voice rose.

  Jeffrey did a sharp right and headed south down the alleyway. “The corniche. It’s likely to be the quickest way to the consulate, and short of getting out of town, that’s the safest place right now.”

  The growing crowd parted before the bow of the Sherrinford. The bumper rapped sharply against the wheel of a pushcart full of fruit; it spun away, showering oranges and melons into the crowd, and the owner screamed curses after the car. Jeffrey slid his revolver free and held it in his lap.

  “Why . . .” Lucretzia licked her lips. “Why don’t we do that, leave town?”

  “Because a big flotilla of those dirigibles went right over when this all started,” Jeffrey said grimly. “One gets you nine they dropped troops right on the main roads and the railway to Ciano.”

  probability 88%, ±2, Center said.

  “But that would mean . . . that would mean a real war,” she said.

  Her voice rose a little again; Lucretzia was nobody’s fool. She had her career path planned out, down to the dressmaking shop she intended to buy, and her previous “friend” had been a post-captain in the Imperial Navy. The Imperials had been expecting a few skirmishes in the Passage, perhaps a raid or two, followed by some diplomatic chair-polishing. That had happened before.

  The scenario had changed.

  A new series of thud sounds punctuated the thought.

  They came out of the narrow alleyway and onto the broad paved esplanade, and Lucretzia crossed herself. Battleship Row was plainly visible from here. Or would have been, if the warships between here and the naval docks hadn’t been spewing so much black coal smoke from their sharply raked funnels.

  “Damn,” he said mildly. “Must be two dozen of them.”

  twenty-six, Center said. including two which are damaged beyond minimal functionality.

  They were all the same type, slim little craft throwing plumes of water back from their sharply raked bows. Built for speed, with smooth turtlebacks over their forward decks to shed water; a light gun-turret behind that, and a multibarreled weapon of some sort aft. Alongside the funnels were pivot-mounted torpedo launchers, each with four U-shaped guide tubes fastened together.

  None of the battlewagons had managed to get their main or secondary batteries into action. The heavy guns wouldn’t have done much good, anyway, since they took so much time to train and reload. Several of them had gotten their quick-firers working; four-barreled cannon firing little two-pound shells at one per second per barrel, worked by lever-actions and fed from hoppers. The light weapons were a continuous crackle of noise and red tongues of flame along the sides of the big warships, with a pall of dirty gray smoke rising to the sky. Two of the Land vessels were dead in the water, burning and listing, with quick-firer shells sending up spurts of water all around them. The others bored in like wolves slashing at aurochos. Their speed was amazing, almost impossible.

  thirty-one knots, Center said.

  They must be turbine-powered, Jeffrey thought. He was vaguely conscious of driving, and of Lucretzia’s nails digging into his shoulder. The Chosen had been experimenting with steam turbines for more than a decade now. Santander was doing the same, as a possible way to generate electric power. It was obvious that the Land had had other applications in mind.

  Another Chosen destroyer was hit. This one staggered in the water, then vanished in a globe of fire that sent water and steel scrap and probably—undoubtedly—body parts up in a plume hundreds of meters high. The quick-firers must have hit the torpedo warheads. When the spray and smoke cleared the bow and stern of the light craft were already disappearing under the water.

  Now the first flotilla of destroyers was within a thousand meters of the battleships. They peeled off, turning, heeling far over with the momentum of their charge. As each came to a quarter off their original course the torpedoes lanced overside in a hiss of steam from the launching cylinders. The long shapes splashed home into the still waters of the harbor and streaked towards their targets. The muzzles of the quick-firers depressed, trying to detonate the torpedoes before they struck, but they were only a few hundred meters away, and the destroyers’ own weapons were raking the open firing positions. Jeffrey saw four tin fish strike the Empress Imelda from stern to three-quarters of the way to her bow.

  Each of the warheads held over a hundred kilos of guncotton. Confined by the water, the explosions would punch holes big enough for two or three men to walk in abreast . . . and Imperial warships had lousy internal compartmentalization. For that matter, safe at anchor the watertight doors would be dogged open for convenience sake while they made ready for sea. He let out the throttle lever and braked to a stop.

  “What are you doing?” Lucretzia asked.

  “Taking a better look. Shut up for a second.”

  He pulled back the fabric top of the car and stood with his binoculars, bracing his elbows against the metal rim of the frame holding the windscreen. The Empress rolled over as he watched, shedding ant-tiny men. A few managed to run up onto the bottom as the weed- and barnacle-encrusted plates came into view, but the ship was settling fast as well as capsizing. Most of the rest of the heavy warships were listing or sinking. As he watched the Emperor Umberto blew up with a violence that was stunning even at this distance. Jeffrey shook his head and ignored the ringing in his ears, letting the binoculars thump down on his chest and sliding behind the wheel.

  There were Land merchantmen heading in towards the docks, with uniformed figures crowding out from the holds onto the decks. He didn’t want to be here when they arrived. His watch read 10:00. Barely an hour after the first dirigibles arrived overhead.

  The Republic’s legation in Corona was not far from the liner docks; most of its business was linked to the maritime trade. The highway up from the corniche was mostly empty now, except for a couple of craters and gasfires. Unfortunately, one of the craters occupied the site of the legation. From the looks of it, at least two or three six-hundred-kilo bombs had landed around it in a tight group. Nothing was left but shattered pieces of the limestone blocks which had made up the walls.

  Christ.

  His mind felt numb. Everyone he’d worked with for the past year was probably in there—most of them at least. The consul lived there, with his family. Captain Suthers. Andy Milson . . .

  The instructors were right. Masonry doesn’t have much resistance to blast damage.

  “Christ,” he said aloud.

  He looked over at Lucretzia. She was looking at him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Telegraph center under control, Captain,” the runner said.

  Gerta nodded. The troops assigned to that task included several who could duplicate the “fist” of the Imperial Navy signalmen.

  She dabbed at the wound on her cheek with the back of her hand. Not serious, just a slice from a grenade fragment—you had to follow on quickly, to catch the opposition while they were still stunned from the blast. She’d been a little too quick, that was all. It just stung a little, no real damage, not worth taking time to bandage.

  A deep breath. The Imperial commandant’s office—he was an admiral, technically—was a segment of a wedge, one level down from the top of the tower. A window was dogged shut; the shutter was a half-meter of armorplate, but it was still a silly thing to do, weakening the structural integrity of the building that way. There was a fine Union rug, an ornate desk with several telephones—Imperial technology didn’t run to efficient exchanges yet—and a smaller desk for the admiral’s aide. He sprawled backward over it, most of his face missing and his brains leaking over the edge in a gelatinous puddle. The thin harsh smell of the new nitro powder was heavy in the room, under the stink of death.

  Two signalers were worki
ng at the locking wheel of the window. They got it open, sliding it back like a pie-wedge of steel, and set up a heliograph.

  “Send phases one and two completed on schedule,” Gerta said.

  A telephone rang, three sharp clatters. She picked it up.

  “Yes, Vice-Admiral del’Gaspari,” she said, holding a neckerchief over the pickup and pitching her voice low. With luck, her soprano would come across as a bad connection. “Admiral del’Fanfani will be here shortly. Speak louder, please, I cannot—” She pushed the receiver down. It began to ring again immediately.

  Her Imperial was good enough, at least, complete with Ciano upper-class accent. But she hoped—ah.

  The admiral came through the door, hands bound behind him; he was a tall thin man, balding, with white walrus mustaches. His eyes were fixed and blank, the stare of a man who is rejecting all the input his senses deliver. Behind him was a short fat woman, and a dark slim girl in her mid-teens. His wife and daughter; she recognized them from the files. Half a dozen troopers followed them.

  “Sir. Commandant’s quarters are secure.”

  Gerta nodded. The whole complex was in Chosen hands now. She looked at her watch. Twenty-seven minutes from start to finish. Amazing; it had actually gone better than planned. She’d expected it to take an hour at least.

  “Good work, Sergeant.” Then, more sharply: “Admiral del’Fanfani.”

  The old man straightened and blinked. “What is the meaning of this?” he said. “I demand—”

  Gerta gestured. A trooper slammed the butt of his rifle home over the Imperial officer’s kidneys; not too hard, but the man collapsed forward, his mouth working. The Chosen commandos hauled him upward. She stepped closer.

  “It is necessary that you cooperate with us,” she said. Or at least be useful. Nothing vital depended on it, but it would be handy. “You will speak as I direct.”

  The admiral drew himself up. “Never!” he said hoarsely.

  Gerta shrugged. One of the ones holding the Imperial drew her knife and raise her eyebrows.

  “No, I don’t think a shank will make him sufficiently cooperative,” she said. “We’ll stick with the plan.”

  Intelligence had very complete dossiers on the Imperial command staff, and a fair grasp of their psychology. Imperials were odd about certain bodily functions.

  One of her troopers swept a table clear of documents and oddments; they crashed to the floor with a tinkle of glass. Two more picked the daughter up and slammed her down on it, on her back.

  “Papa!” she screamed, flailing and kicking her legs.

  Then just screamed, as the troopers each grabbed a leg and bent them back until the knees nearly touched her shoulders. Another stepped up and grabbed the collar of her dress, running his dagger under it and slitting the heavy fabric down until it peeled off her. A few more strokes and the undergarments were cut. The soldier grinned, sliding the knife back into its sheath and unbuttoning his fly. He spat into one hand. Gerta spared them a glance—the girl was quite pretty, but female bodies did nothing for her erotically, and besides, this was business—and then turned back to the Imperial officer.

  The girl’s mother hit the ground with a heavy thud, her eyes rolling up in her head in a dead faint. The admiral was quivering like a racehorse in the starting gate, opening and closing his mouth.

  “I will—” he began.

  The girl gave a shrill cry. “Stop,” Gerta said. The soldier did, which said a good deal for Chosen discipline.

  “I will speak! Leave her alone!”

  Gerta made a gesture, and the commandos released his daughter. The girl jackknifed into a fetal shrimp-curl on her side, face to knees, whimpering quietly. Gerta put a hand on the telephone.

  “As long as you cooperate,” she said. “You will speak as follows . . .”

  “Damn!” Jeffrey said.

  There was a barricade ahead, wagons and furniture and ripped-up paving blocks. Behind it were fifty or so Imperial soldiers and some sailors in their striped jerseys and berets. They all had rifles, and there was a six-barrel gatling on a field-gun mount. He looked up at the buildings on either side. More men there. Somebody around here had some faint conception of what he was supposed to be doing, but it was probably a junior officer. He braked and began to turn the car around.

  “Alto!”

  Men ran out from either side, pointing rifles. Single-shot rifles, but it only took one, and there were half a dozen pointing at him-

  “Here’s one of the Chosen dog-suckers now!”

  The Imperial seaman who shouted that and poked his bayonet close had probably never seen a Land military uniform. On the other hand, he’d probably never seen one from the Republic of Santander, either.

  “Take me to your officer!” Jeffrey said, loudly and clearly. “Immediately.”

  Reflex warred with hysteria in the young man’s face. Jeffrey stepped down from the car, keeping his movements brisk but not threatening, and handed Lucretzia down to the pavement. She was a little pale, but she adjusted her hat and laid her hand on his arm in fine style. That probably pulled the soldiers out of their combination of funk and bloodlust; their mental picture of an invader didn’t include a young Imperial woman dressed like a lady—not quite like a lady, but they wouldn’t have the social skills to pick that up. They walked behind the pair up to the barricade, not quite hustling them.

  The Imperial in charge was a naval lieutenant, about nineteen, with INS Emperor Umberto on his cuff. He also had acne, a pathetic attempt at a mustache, and the fixed look of a man doing his damndest in a situation he knew was utterly beyond him.

  Lucky fellow, Jeffrey thought. For now.

  “Lieutenant,” he said. “Captain Jeffrey Farr, Republic of Santander Army.”

  “Captain,” the young man said, saluting. “You will excuse me, but—”

  “I understand,” Jeffrey said smoothly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m responsible for this young lady’s safety and the consulate has been destroyed.”

  “The consulate? The Chosen have declared war on the Republic?”

  The young Imperial lieutenant looked hopeful for a moment. Jeffrey felt slightly guilty.

  “No, I’m afraid not—accident of war, but the rest of the consular staff are dead enough for all that. My government will doubtless lodge a complaint, but in the meantime, I’m a neutral.”

  “Then I will not detain you, sir,” the lieutenant said.

  Jeffrey hesitated for an instant. “Lieutenant . . . as one fighting man to another, are you in contact with your superiors?”

  The lieutenant swallowed. “No, sir, I am not. The city telegraph and telephone lines appear to be inoperable or under enemy control.”

  “The Chosen are landing in force at the docks.” That was less than half a kilometer away. “Lieutenant, without support, you haven’t a prayer. I’d strongly advise you withdraw until you do get in contact with your chain of command.”

  It would be an even better idea to ditch the uniforms and weapons and hide in a cellar, then pretend to be harmless laborers, but he didn’t think the young Imperial would take that sort of advice.

  “If I have no orders, I have my duty; but thank you, Captain Farr. There are better than thirty thousand Imperial military personnel in Corona. If we all do something, the situation may yet be salvaged. You’d better go, this isn’t your fight.”

  The hell it isn’t. It wasn’t his battle, though. If every Imperial officer had this one’s aggression and instincts, Corona could have been saved. That was very unlikely.

  He looked over his shoulder. Two of the Imperial soldiers were driving the car up to the barricade, and others were pushing aside a cart to give it room to pass.

  “You understand, of course,” the lieutenant went on, “I must commandeer your vehicle.”

  Jeffrey hadn’t understood anything of the sort—although it would be invaluable, particularly with the communications network down. Cars weren’t common in Corona. And it didn’t mak
e much sense to object, not when the Imperial had fifty or sixty armed men at his back. Lucretzia seemed more inclined to argue; Jeffrey took her by the arm and hurried her past.

  “Where can we go without the car?” she hissed.

  “Where could we go with it? The main roads are blocked. I’m trying to get to a safe house. Now move.”

  They walked quickly up the street. The crowds were thicker here, but milling around as if they weren’t sure where to go. That included numbers in Imperial military uniforms. Columns of smoke were rising to the air from dozens of points in the city now. He looked at his watch. 11:00 hours.

  BAAAAMM. A volley from the barricade a hundred meters behind them. The gatling there cut loose with a slow braaaap . . . braaaap as the operators turned its crank. Jeffrey half-turned, then recognized the next sound.

  “Down!” he shouted, and pancaked, carrying the woman with him.

  The whistling screech ended in a sharp crack about twenty meters back. Someone fell thrashing across Jeffrey’s legs. He pushed at them with his feet, but the body resisted with the boneless slackness of a sack of rice; he had to roll onto his back and push with one boot to get the twitching weight free. That gave him an excellent view of what was coming up the roadway. Even at several hundred meters it looked huge, a rhomboid shape of riveted steel armor leaking steam along its flanks, with the Land’s sunburst on its bow. Endless belts of linked metal plates supported it on either side. Between the top and bottom track each flank held a sponson-mounted cannon; 50mm by the look, light naval quick-firers. On the top of the boxy hull was a round turret mounting two thick shapes that must be the new water-cooled automatic machine-guns Intelligence had been reporting.