"We'll get you one from Pieter."
The scuffing of boots on gravel announced their guide's return. "This way. I found where we took a wrong turn."
He led them through the city's underbelly for another twenty minutes, halting them by a group of handholds set into the wall. He climbed up and pushed aside the cover with a grunt. After popping his head out briefly, he hopped back down. "This is it. I'll wait here one hour."
Randal and Ariane scurried across the suburban street, stopping behind a row of hedges. Alternately crawling and walking, the two made their way in the direction of her house. "There it is," she said, taking a step toward her home, seeming oblivious to everything else.
"Wait," Randal hissed, yanking her back out of the orange pool of streetlight into which she'd strayed. Pulling her to the ground behind a privacy fence, he covered her mouth to stifle protest. The hum of a patrol drone carried on the night breeze as it made slow progress down the street. Randal prayed he'd spotted it in time.
The drone didn't slow as it passed, nor did it give any audible alarms. That didn't necessarily mean all was well, but it definitely beat klaxons and flashing red lights.
Once things seemed clear, the two dashed across the street and down the alleyway that ran between the backyards of the rows of houses. The two hit the ground behind her father's house, frost-covered grass crackling beneath them. "You guys don't have a huge French dog named Hugo or anything, do you?" Randal asked, raising his head to scout for one.
"Non, my father hates animals. He'd never allow one."
"Hates animals? I'll bet he's a real hit at parties. He just sounds fun loving and frolicsome."
She ignored him, eyes fixed on the rear door.
The two crept across the backyard. Randal smiled as he got a better view of the house. It was done in the Glasgow-School Revival style that was all the rage a few years back. From the rough siltstone walls to the 'romantic' asymmetrical massing of the architecture, down to the ornamentally trimmed shrubs, it all screamed nouveau-riche to him. "Nice house," he observed politely.
Ariane rapped knuckles on the back door. "He worships money."
Randal kept a hand on the flechette pistol in his waistband. If an enemy officer was living there now, the Abkhenazi chain of command was about to have a hole in its roster. The curtain pushed aside after a moment, and a rounded face appeared. The magnetic lock disengaged as the man cracked the door fractionally. "Daughter, why are you here? And in that uniform. You'll get me shot! Come inside!"
Opening the door, he ushered her in. He paused, not sure what to do with Randal. Apparently deciding that keeping him outside was more of a risk than in, he opened the door wider. "Don't touch anything."
Taking them into the parlor, he covered the divan with a cloth and then allowed them to sit. Ariane started to speak, but he shushed her. "Un moment, s'il te plait." Opening a cabinet he took out a bottle of Scotch, pouring himself a generous amount. Downing it, he repeated the process. "Very well, daughter, I am prepared to listen now."
Fidgeting impatiently, Ariane blurted, "Mother and Jean-Marie. Where are they, father?"
After filling a second glass, the stout man took a seat in the armchair and handed the drink to Randal.
"Father, tell me where they are."
Monsieur Mireault cupped his drink, watching the swirling amber liquid thoughtfully. "Your mother is dead, Ariane. I'm very sorry. She was shot in retaliation for the attacks of la Résistance."
The girl's lips moved silently, her eyes growing shiny. Working hands together in her lap, she asked in a broken voice, "And Jean-Marie?"
"Jean-Marie is safe. The Abkhenazi have placed him in a special school where he is being cared for."
"Es-tu ivre ou fou?" Ariane's voice rose sharply in pitch. She stood and paced the carpet. "What kind of school? How could you let them take my little boy?"
The remainder was incomprehensible to Randal as she began speaking furiously in French. She and Monsieur Mireault exchanged harsh words for several moments before she switched back to English. "So you will prostitute yourself to these men... to these, to these butchers who killed my mother, just so you can be comfortable?"
Her father came out of the chair. "Will getting myself killed bring back your mother? Would I have been able to stop them from taking that little bâtard of yours? Non! I am doing what I must to survive."
Ariane raised herself up, seeming poised to strike him. Slowly she lowered, stepping back. Through clenched teeth she said softly, "You're a coward. And you are not my father."
She turned and swept from the room. To her back the man called out, "You are my daughter. But you are a slattern and a disappointment!" Retaking his seat, he seemed to remember Randal was there. "The Scotch, is it to your liking?"
Randal blinked at the sudden shift. "Oh? Ah yes, island Scotch, isn't it?" He preferred the drier bite of highland malts, but it didn't seem like a good time to mention it.
"Indeed." The man's eyes narrowed a bit. "Your face is familiar to me. We have met?"
"Just one of those faces, I guess."
"You have the bearing of a soldier, despite your clothes. You are one of the religious jingoists who've brought this war down upon us, I think." He seemed to be looking for an outlet to take out his annoyance with his daughter.
"This is a war of self-defense — and you know it, Monsieur Mireault. Don't try to excuse your collaboration with sophistry."
"The larger picture, young man, the larger picture. Religion causes war. It is always the religious who kill one another. Both New Geneva and the Abkhenazi are quite religious, non?"
Randal steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips a moment. He felt as if he was sitting next to the hearth at Saint Athanasius all over again, sparring with Professor Lambrix. The old prof had loved playing devil's advocate. "Always the religious? Which century would you like me to pick to refute that? The Eighteenth, with the enlightened French revolutionaries and their Terror? Or the Twentieth, where the atheistic ideology of Communism killed over a hundred million people? Perhaps the Twenty-Third, when Eco-Liberationists spread hantavirus on Leewynn to cleanse the planet of its 'human infestation?'"
Monsieur Mireault waved it off angrily. "What kind of God would allow all of this? Would allow men such suffering? Read Hume someday, boy. Or Sartre. If even there were an all-powerful God out there, He would be evil."
"God uses the evil acts of men to work out His righteous purposes. The betrayal of Christ by Judas is a perfect example. And I have read Hume's Inquiry. What he fails to factor in is the afterlife, Monsieur Mireault. God will make things right when this world passes away. There will be justice."
"Bah!" The man took a long drink of the liquor, turning red eyes on Randal. "I have no need of such comforting myths. I am a man of science."
"You believe it was a coincidence that modern science just happened to spring up in Christian Europe? It was Christians who pioneered science. People would still think the wind and waters were moved by animal spirits if it wasn't for us." Randal shrugged, swirling his drink. "You're awfully angry at someone you claim doesn't exist, Monsieur Mireault.
"And you can keep bringing up philosophical objections to God's existence and I can keep rattling off philosophical proofs. But when it comes down to it, your problem isn't intellectual. It's a lack of faith and I can't argue you into having faith. So let's just enjoy our drinks." Randal felt badly for not showing Mireault more compassion, but the man's collaboration drove all other considerations from his mind.
Monsieur Mireault smirked, but raised his glass in agreement. "À votre santé."
"Cheers."
Ariane appeared in the open double-doorway once more. Randal thought she looked pure revolutionary chic in the clothes she'd picked out. A ribbed charcoal sweater and black pea coat were worn over black synthleather slacks. She had a civilian-style beret pulled down over her chestnut locks. It took Randal several moments to remember to breathe.
"We should be going," he said
, draining the last of his whiskey. "Thank you for your hospitality, Monsieur Mireault."
The stout man shook his head as they walked to the back door. "This one has a brain at least, Ariane. That's better than the other one." She didn't answer, merely giving her father a world-weary look before stepping outside.
"Take care of my little girl."
"I will, sir."
Neither of them spoke on the way back to the base.
***
"That's the way. Good. First man kneels and pulls near-side security. Meanwhile, the second man crosses the danger area, does a quick box patrol to check for bad guys and then watches over the far side. After that, everyone else crosses singly and as quickly as possible. You're second man, Drummond. You got all that?” Van Loon got a curt nod from Drummond in response.
Watching from the sidelines, Randal was impressed with how well Van Loon had brought the hard-headed miner around during the previous three weeks. How well he'd brought all their people around.
The NGDF regulars had divvied up the militia among them, forming them into fire teams and acting as cadre. They taught them the rudiments of urban warfare: how to cross danger areas; how to avoid detection from windows and basements; the least dangerous ways to clear a building; and other tricks of the trade. Randal drove them relentlessly. There was so much they needed to know and so little time to learn it.
During the training certain men came to the fore as natural leaders. Randal brevetted them to sergeant, instituting a chain of command among the previously anarchic militia soldiers. In turn they'd started calling him Captain. It was all they called him, at least to his face.
In addition to infantry tactics, the men were training in communications, first aid, explosives, and other needed skills. Across the chamber a group clustered around Ariane, half of them wrapping makeshift bandages around the upper arms of the other half, elevating and putting pressure on the simulated wounds. One man had been pulled from each squad to train as a combat medic.
Scuffling sounds pulled Randal's attention back to Van Loon's group. Drummond and one of the younger men were locked up on the floor. The miner had the boy's jacket up over his head and was working his ribs and kidneys with short, vicious hook punches.
Van Loon grabbed him by the collar, dragging him back several meters on the rock floor. "Now stay there. I'll be right back." Drummond seethed, but he stayed put. In Randal's experience, Van Loon rarely used his size to bring people around to his way of thinking. That just made it much more imposing when he did. He walked over to Randal, pulling him in close and whispering, "These are civilian volunteers, not regulars. You're pushing them too hard."
"There's too much to cover, Jack. They need to suck it up."
"Don't be your father. You're pushing them too hard and yourself as well."
"I'll be as hard as I have to, Jack, and so will they. I need to go check in on Jeni, just do what I ask of you." He could feel Van Loon's stare as he walked away.
He found Jeni in the small grotto she shared with Ariane. She was hunched over one of the drones, an electronic warfare model, arguing with Lebedev. Clearing his throat, Randal gave Jeni a skeptical look. "You uh, someone did something to your hair." It looked like she'd attempted to dye the tips blonde, but instead they had come out an orange hue not native to any human-inhabited world. It was pulled into bunches and tied off with red twine.
"You like?"
"It's not exactly stealthy. . ."
She beamed a Cheshire smile. "We're irregulars now, Randy. And I'm more irregular than most."
He was speechless in the face of such reasoning.
"The communications training I'm giving the militia is going well, by the way. I've got my little soldiers doing print message dead-drops, one-time pads, ciphers, the whole gamut. I'm also working on standardizing their commo procedures. To listen to them, you'd think they were nine-year-old girls chatting on vidphones, but they're making progress. It really is amazing what you can train them to do these days." She smacked Lebedev's hand as he adjusted a valve. "Not so much."
"But...But is not yet enough."
"You're not too old for me to turn you over my knee, Sergei. Behave." She glanced back up at Randal. "Once this is back online I can pull electronic warfare duty."
"Brilliant." Randal wrinkled his nose. "What's that smell, anyway? Is the drone leaking something?"
"I am sometimes working on explosives." Lebedev brushed at his hooded black pullover. "Is benzene and propylene fluid, for the making of jellied fire. That other idea I had, with the cleaning supplies and permafoam was a little, how to say? Wolatile."
"We remember," Randal said, covering a grin. "That incident was why you and your assistants were moved a hundred meters from everyone else, remember?"
"That and the smell," Jeni added helpfully.
"Oh, ahem. You are right, of course. Well, things are much improved. Soon they will know making of detonators and caps for blasting. Soon we can blow big things into many small things."
"Good man. You two meet me in the TOC in an hour. I've been thinking."
***
The senior staff filed into the secluded chamber that was set aside as the Tactical Ops Center. Three collapsible tables set end-to-end surrounded by an assortment of chairs and crates served in lieu of a conference table.
Once everyone was seated, Randal took his spot at the head of the gathering. "I've been thinking. We're going to reach a point where inaction dulls the effect of any further training we give these guys. Van Loon seems to think we've reached and breached that point already. I believe it's time to initiate guerrilla war on the Abkhenazi." Randal looked instinctively to Van Loon for his opinion.
His friend considered it. "I agree. But it won't do any good to just send men out and hope they find targets. We need information. Wandering around will just jack up our own body count."
"Van Loon's right, Randal; we can't send them out blind. I've been giving some thought to that," Jeni said, absently twisting one of her black-orange tufts. "Guys can't move freely 'cause the Abbie's consider all of them militia and arrest and execute them. But women are safe as long as they keep covered up like a ghost. How about we use the men's wives as our eyes and ears? We could teach them what to look for and how to do message drops. I've shown the goodmen that much already."
Randal nodded. "Good thinking, Jeni. And thanks for volunteering; you're a natural to head up our new intelligence network."
"Hey! Wait just a—"
"I'm glad that's settled." He thought a moment. "Pieter, some of the men have scoped hunting rifles. I want you and Pyatt to pair each of them with a spotter. Until we get more experience, most of our ops should be two-man sniper teams doing hit-and-run attacks. We'll keep things simple for now."
"What in the world do I know about snipers, Kipper?"
"Pyatt can help with that. My advice would be to fake it 'til you make it. It's gotten me this far." He grinned as Pieter gave one of his exaggerated huffs. Pieter would do fine, he just needed the right push.
Over the next week Jeni put together her "Kitchen Klatch," as she insisted on calling them. The wives proved to be excellent scouts with a good eye for detail. Each evening before curfew they dropped note-filled bottles into specified sewage drains for retrieval.
With these reports, the Irregulars put together a composite picture of Abkhenazi force dispositions. Every night thereafter, three or four sniper teams would go topside. They would shoot from long distance, at their target and only their target, and then flee back to the safety of the Catacombs. Over the course of a few nights they turned what the Abkhenazi must have considered a pacified city into a free-fire zone.
***
The enemy response came several days later. The Irregulars kept two men near the surface twenty-eight hours a day to monitor the dry, propagandistic radio and trideo broadcasts in hopes that something of intelligence value might slip out. It had paid off a few times already. One of the monitors ran into the main cha
mber, looking around wildly until he spotted Randal. "Captain! Captain, you need to see this. I recorded it off the trid." A group gathered to find out what was going on. Randal took the datapad, depressing the play button on the recorder. He held it up so everyone could see.
The pallid visage of an Abkhenazi officer came into view, his pale blue eyes frightening in their intensity even on the small screen. The camera panned back and they could see he stood outdoors, wearing a black uniform with death's head insignia on either collar. Randal's gut twisted. Having that man in town was nothing short of discovering that Death was your new next-door neighbor.
"I am Colonel Gregor Tsepashin. Remember my name and learn to fear it. Due to the cowardly and warmongering actions of terrorist groups in this city, I have been appointed as garrison commander. Mogdukh be praised. The craven attacks of these infidels cannot be ignored. Many of the Pure have died at the hands of the Unevolved and justice must be exacted," he said in uninflected English, his voice full of the calm reasonableness of the madman. "If you wish to prevent further reprisals against the civilian population, please report any knowledge of terrorist acts to your nearest security sub-station."
The jittery image from a hand-held trideo camera panned over to a line of fifty-odd civilian women. They stood holding hands, weeping and praying.
"Raz... dva... strelyai!"
Autofire sounded from off-screen and the women collapsed like marionettes. Tsepashin came back into the picture, speaking smoothly once more. No one listened.
A heavy silence hung over the group, the tension a palpable thing. The crash of a bottle shattering against rock made everyone jump. "Sod it, I didn't sign up for this."
"Too right!"
Randal knew he was in danger of losing them. "Listen," he said, keeping his voice low so everyone would have quiet down if they wanted to hear. "What just happened was sickening. I'm sure some of you are thinking about quitting right now. It's only natural. But quitting will only ensure those women died for nothing. If we let the Abkhenazi win then every civilian in Providence will eventually share their fate."
Knox's Irregulars Page 10