Hope Renewed

by S. M. Stirling

  Damn, but that’s backward, John thought, holding the map across his knees with his hands to keep the wind from fluttering it. At home in Santander, all the bigger farms had horse-drawn reapers these days, and portable steam threshing machines had been around for a generation.

  Downright homelike for me, Raj said. Except that there weren’t many places on Bellevue as fertile as this. Fattest peasants I’ve ever seen.

  The road climbed slightly, through fields planted to alfalfa, and then into hilly vineyards around a white-painted village. He scrubbed at his driving goggles with the tail-end of his silk scarf and squinted. The guidebooks said the village had a “notable square bell tower” and a minor palazzo.

  “Castello Formaso,” John called ahead to the driver. “This ought to be it.”

  It was; most of an Imperial cavalry brigade were camped in and around the town. Cavalry wore tight scarlet pants and bottle-green jackets, with a high-combed brass helmet topped with plumes, and they were armed with sabers, revolvers, and short single-shot carbines. You could follow those polished brass helmets a long way; there were patrols out all across the plain to the west of town, riding down laneways and across fields and pastures, disappearing into the shade of orchards and coming out again on the other side. The troopers closer to hand were watering their horses or working on tack or doing the other thousand and one chores a mounted unit needed.

  The road was thick with mounted men, parting reluctantly to the insistent squeeee-beep! of the car’s horn. Animals shied or kicked at the unfamiliar sound; one connected with the bodywork in an expensive and tooth-grating crunch of varnished ashwood.

  Then the car swerved under a brutal wrench at the wheel. John looked up from his map in the back seat as it flung him against the sidewall; his broad-brimmed hat went over into the roadside dust. A dirigible was passing overhead, nosing out of a patch of cloud at about six thousand feet. A six-hundred-footer, Eagle-class, reconnaissance model. Some of the Imperial cavalry were popping away at the airship with their carbines, and in the village square ahead they had an improvised antiaircraft mounting for a gatling gun—a U-shaped iron framework on a set of gears and cams. The carbines were merely a nuisance, but letting off six hundred rounds a minute straight up was a menace.

  “You there!” John barked, tapping the shoulder of his driver. The car came to a halt with a tail-wagging emphasis as the man stood on the brakes. John vaulted out over the rear door and strode towards the gatling.

  “You there!” John continued, rapping at the frame with his cane for emphasis. The Imperial NCO in charge looked up. “That thing is out of range, and you’d be dropping spent rounds all over town. Do not open fire.”

  The soldier braced to attention at a gentleman’s voice. John nodded curtly and turned to where the cavalry brigade’s command group were sitting under a vine-grown pergola in the courtyard of the village taverna.

  Nothing wrong with their nerves, John thought. The portly brigadier had his uniform jacket unbuttoned, his half-cloak across the back of his chair, and a huge plate of pasta and breaded veal in front of him. Several straw-wrapped bottles of the local vintage kept the food company. He looked up as John rapped out his orders at the gatling crew, his face purpling with rage as the stranger strode over to his table.

  “And who the hell are you? Teniente, get this civilian out of here!”

  John bowed with a quick jerk of his head, suppressing an impulse to click heels. Showing Chosen habits was not the way to make yourself popular around here right now.

  “I am John Hosten, accredited chargé d’affaires with the Embassy of the Republic of Santander,” he said crisply. He pulled out a sheaf of documents. “Here are my credentials.”

  “I don’t care shit for—” The Imperial officer stopped, paling slightly under his five o’clock shadow. “The signore John Hosten who married Pia del’Cuomo?”

  Who is the favorite daughter of the Minister of War, yes, John thought. “The same, sir,” he continued aloud. “Here to observe the course of the war.”

  “Excellent!” the brigadier said, a little too heartily, mopping his mouth on a checkered linen napkin. “We drove these pig-grunting beasts into the sea once before centuries ago, and you can watch it done again!”

  A murmur of agreement came from the other officers around the table, in a wave of wineglasses and elegant cigarette holders. Polished boots struck the flagstones in emphasis. John inclined his head.

  Considering that we’re four hundred kilometers west of Corona and he doesn’t know fuck-all about where the enemy’s main force is, I’d say that was just a little over-optimistic, Raj commented dryly.

  “Brigadier Count Damiano del’Ostro,” the portly cavalryman said, extending a hand. “At your service, signore.”

  John shook the plump, beautifully manicured hand extended to him in a waft of cologne and garlic, and looked up. The Land dirigible was gliding away on a curving pathway that would take it miles to the east, down the road to the capital and then back towards the Pada River near Veron. According to the newspapers, a strong Imperial garrison was holding out in that river port, preventing the Land’s forces from using it to supply their forward elements.

  You could believe as much of that as you wanted to. John did know that at least ten Imperial infantry divisions and two of cavalry were concentrating—slowly—at a rail junction about fifty miles east; he’d driven through them that morning. The dirigible was doing about seventy-five miles an hour. It would be there in three-quarters of an hour, and reporting back in two. John looked back at the cavalry commander, who was supposed to be locating the Land’s armies and screening the Imperial forces from observation.

  “You’ve located the enemy force, Brigadier del’Ostro?” he said.

  The brigadier twirled at one of his waxed mustachios. “Soon, soon—our cavalry screen is bound to make contact soon. The cowards refuse to engage our cavalry under any circumstances. Why, their cavalry are mounted on mules, if you can believe it.”

  “The Land doesn’t have any cavalry, strictly speaking,” John pointed out gently. “They have some mounted infantry units on mules, yes. One mule to two men; they take turns riding. They march very quickly.”

  Del’Ostro laughed heartily and slapped a hand to his saber. “Without cavalry, they will be blind and helpless. Desperate they must already be; do you know, they let women into their army?”

  John smiled politely with the chorus of laughter. I hope you never meet my foster-sister, he thought. Then again, considering that you’re partly responsible for this, I hope you do meet Gerta.

  “Come, I’ll show you how my men scout!” del’Ostro said.

  He threw the napkin to the table and strode out, buckling his tunic and calling orders. He and his staff headed towards four Santander-made touring cars, evidently the mechanized element of this outfit. Guards crashed to attention, a drum rolled, a bugle sounded, and Brigadier Count del’Ostro mounted to the backseat, standing and holding the pole of a standard mounted in a bracket at the side of the car.

  “Hate to think what those spurs are doing to the upholstery,” John murmured to himself—in Santander English, which the driver did not speak. “Follow,” he added in Imperial. “But not too close.”

  “Si, signore,” the driver said.

  John opened a wicker container bolted to the rear of the front seat and brought out his field glasses; big bulky things, Sierra-made, the best on the market.

  “Halt,” he said after a moment.

  Steam chuffed, and the engine hissed to a stop. The car coasted and then braked to one side of the road, under the shade of a plane tree. John pushed up his driving goggles again and leaned his elbows on the padded leather of the chauffeur’s seat.

  Brigadier del’Ostro had forgotten his foreign audience in his enthusiasm. His party swept down the long straight road in a plume of dust and a chorus of loyal cries; the mounted units using the road scattered into the ditches, not a few troopers losing their seats. One
light field gun went over on its side, taking half its team with it, and lay with the upper wheel spinning in the cars’ wake. John ignored them, scanning to the west over the rolling patchwork of grainfields and pasture. There weren’t any peasants in that direction; he supposed they were too sensible to linger when the Imperial cavalry screen arrived.

  There were spots of smoke on the skyline: burning grain-ricks, perhaps, or buildings. He didn’t think that the Land’s forces would be burning as they came, too wasteful and conspicuous, but fires followed combat as surely as vultures did.

  Ah. A dull thudding noise, like a very large door being slammed some distance away. It repeated again and again, at slow intervals. Artillery.

  Over a rise a mile away came a bright spray of Imperial cavalry; some of them were turning to fire behind them with their carbines. Little white puffs of smoke rose from their position. Then came a long rattling crackle. A shape lurched over the rise, and two more behind it. John focused his glasses; it was a big touring car, with a carapace of bolted steel plate on its chassis, and a hatbox-shaped turret on top. Two fat barrels sprouted from the turret’s face: water-cooled machine guns. They fired again, a long ripping sound, faint with distance. Men and horses fell in a tangled, kicking mass, and the screaming of the wounded animals carried clearly. The Sierra binoculars were excellent; he could see carbine slugs ricochetting off the gray-painted metal in sparking impacts, leaving smears of soft lead and bright patches where bare metal was exposed.

  “Driver, reverse,” John said calmly. Because this is no longer near the front. I think it’s just become a salient about to be pinched off.

  Nothing happened. He looked down; the driver was staring westward, too, hands white-knuckled on the wheel of the car.

  “Driver!”

  He rapped a shoulder, and the chauffeur came out of his funk like a man broaching deep water, shaking his head.

  “Get us out of here, man. Now.”

  “Si, signore!”

  He wrenched at the wheel and reversing lever, got the long touring car around without putting it into either of the roadside ditches although one wheel hung on the edge for a heart-stopping moment. John reversed himself, kneeling and looking back along the road.

  More and more of the Imperial cavalry were pouring back towards the village of Castello Formaso; the ones there were streaming out of town heading east, or dismounting and deploying around the town. The party with Brigadier del’Ostro were trying to backtrack as well, but two of the cars had collided and blocked the road. As he watched, machine-gun fire raked the tangle, punching through the wood and thin sheet metal of the vehicles as easily as it did the brightly uniformed bodies that flopped and tumbled around them. Brigadier del’Ostro was still standing on the seat, waving his sword when his car exploded in a shower of parts and burning gasoline. The wreckage settled back, rocking on the bare rims of the wheels, and men ran flaming from the mass.

  And over the hill where the armored cars had appeared came a column. John focused on it: Land troops, half mounted on mules, the other half trotting alongside, each soldier holding on to a stirrup leather. As he watched they halted, the mounted half dismounted, handlers took the mules by the reins, and the whole column shook itself out into a line advancing in extended order. Behind them, teams were unloading machine guns with their tripods and boxes of ammunition belts from pack mules.

  He could imagine the clink-clank-snap sounds as the heavy weapons with their fat water-filled jackets were dropped onto the fastenings and clamped home; the operators raising the slides, feeding the tab at the end of the belt through, snapping the slide back down, jerking back the cocking lever and settling in with their hands on the spade grips and thumbs on the butterfly trigger while the officer looked through his split-view range finder . . .

  “Faster,” he said to the driver, licking salt off his upper lip.

  His hand went to check the revolver under his left armpit; there was a pump-action shotgun in a scabbard on the back of the driver’s seat. Nothing much, but it might come in handy if worst came to worst.

  “Uh-oh,” he mumbled involuntarily, looking ahead. Castello Formoso was a solid jammed mass of riders, horses, carriages and carts and field guns and ambulances.

  Shoomp. His head came up and looked eastward, beyond the village. Whonk! An explosion on the road; nothing dramatic, not nearly as large as a field-gun shell, but definitely something exploding. John tracked left and right with the binoculars. More armored cars.

  Those things couldn’t mount a cannon! he thought.

  examine them again, please. Center thought.

  The war machines were insectile dots, even with the powerful glasses. A square appeared before John’s eyes, and the image of the car leaped into it, magnified until it seemed only a few yards away. The picture was grainy, fuzzy, but grew clearer as if waves of precision were washing across it several times a second.

  maximum enhancement, Center said. The round cheesebox turrets of these held only one machine gun; beside it was a tube, canted up at a forty-five degree angle.

  mortar, Center said. probable design—

  A schematic replaced the picture of the armored car. A simple smoothbore tube, breaking open at the breech like a shotgun, with a brass cup to seal it, firing a finned bomb with rings of propellant clipped on around the base. Shoomp. Whonk! They were dropping mortar shells on the main road, stopping the outflow of men and carts from the village. The mounted troopers were spilling out into the vineyards on either side in a great disorderly bulge, but the trellised vines were a substantial obstacle even to horses. A few officers were trying to organize, and a field gun was being wheeled out to return fire at the war-cars.

  And as sure as death, there’s a flanking force ready to put in an attack to follow up those armored cars, Raj thought.

  It all happened so quickly! John thought.

  It always does, when somebody fucks the dog big-time, Raj thought grimly. I knew officers like del’Ostro well. Mostly because I broke so many of them out of the service; and whoever’s running the show on the enemy side is a professional. Those aren’t bad troops, but they’re dogmeat now. Get out while you can, son.

  Good advice, but it looked easier said than done. John took two deep breaths, then stood in the base of the car and held onto one of the hoops that held the canvas top when it was up.

  “Driver,” he said. “Take that laneway.” It was narrow and rutted, but it led east—and at at an angle, southeast, away from where the Land war-cars had appeared.

  “Signore—”

  “Do it.”

  It would not be a good thing to be captured, particularly given what was strapped up in the luggage in the rear boot of the car. He doubted, somehow, that diplomatic immunity would extend to not searching him, and Land Military Intelligence would be very interested to find out what he had planned.

  “Jeffrey, I hope you’re doing better than I am,” he muttered.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Watch this,” Heinrich said. “This is going to be funny, the first bit.”

  Jeffrey Farr took a swig from his canteen—four-fifths water and one-fifth wine, just enough to kill most of the bacteria. The machine gunner ahead of them made a final adjustment to her weapon by thumping it with the heel of her hand, then stroked the bright brass belt of ammunition running down to the tin box on the right of the weapon.

  The command staff of the Fifteenth Light Infantry (Protégé) was set up not far behind the firing line, on a small knoll covered in long grass and scrub evergreen oak. The infantry companies of the regiment were fanning out on either side, taking open-order-prone positions; many were unlimbering the folding entrenching tool from their harnesses, mounding earth in front of themselves, as protection and to give good firing rests.

  He looked behind. An aid station was setting up, a heavy weapons company was putting their 82mm mortars in place, a reserve company was waiting spread out and prone, ammunition was coming down off the packmules and be
ing carried forward. . . .

  “Very professional,” he said.

  Heinrich nodded, beaming, as pleased as a child with an intricate toy. “Ja. Although this hasn’t been much of a challenge so far. I do wish we still had those armored cars assigned to us, though.”

  Jeffrey took another swig at the canteen. He was parched, and his feet hurt like blazes, even worse than the muscles in his calves and thighs. The weather was hot and dry, and the spearhead of the Land forces had been moving fast. Everyone was supposed to be able to do thirty miles a day, day in and day out, with full load, and the Chosen officers were supposed to do better than their Protégé enlisted soldiers. After four weeks with them, he was starting to believe some of the things the Chosen said about themselves. Company-grade officers and up were entitled to a riding animal—mules, in this outfit—but he’d rarely seen one using a saddle except to get around more quickly during an engagement. Heinrich’s light-infantry regiment moved even faster than the rest, and they treated the dry, dusty heat of a mainland summer as a holiday from the steambath mugginess of the Land.

  Through his field glasses, the approaching Imperial force looked professional too, in its way. The cavalry were maintaining their alignment neatly, despite the losses they’d had in the last few engagements, in blocks a hundred wide and three ranks deep, with a pennant at the center of each, advancing at a trot. Light field guns and gatlings bounced and rattled forward between each regiment of horse; the whole Imperial line covered better than two kilometers, and infantry were deployed behind it, coming forward at the double in a loose swarm.

  “How many would you say?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Oh, four thousand mounted,” Heinrich said. “The foot—”

  He turned to another officer, one stooping to look through a tripod-mounted optical instrument.

  “Better part of two brigades, from the standards, sir,” she said. “Say seven to nine thousand, depending on whether they were part of the bunch that tried to force the line of the Volturno.”