He drew a semi-circle on the datascreen. "I'm thinking a, how to say? A hemisphere." Adding radiating lines to the curve he said, "Or maybe a fan pattern. Either one should open up side of tank."
Randal looked at him in wonderment. "Sergei, what were you doing in the infantry with us dumb grunts?"
Lebedev laughed, the high-pitched sound of it walking up Randal's spine. "Is funny-sad story. I come here from Minsk, in Belarus Province of Terra. Very bad there. Whole city owned almost by one company, NovTechProm. I work first as chemical researcher, then in electronics. Ven I apply to leave, they try to stop me, but government says okay. So they pull dirty trick on Sergei. I come to New Geneva, but encoded in documents it says I am big-boy felon."
He hocked, spitting on the floor. "And so Immigration Ministry decides to deport me. I find lawyer who tells me if I join Defense Force I can get exemption. Now Sergei is a soldier. Crazy, nyet?"
"No crazier than anything else around here."
***
Randal stooped by Ariane's pallet, watching her sleep. Chestnut bangs lay across her eyes; he brushed them away with a fingertip. She was curled around Jean-Marie, one arm encircling him protectively. Randal placed a hand on her shoulder, acutely aware of Jeni's bemused presence a meter away on her own bed. Jeni's watchful eye, and his cumbersome cold-weather gear only increased his awkwardness. "Ariane, wake up. It's Randal."
She sat bolt upright, careful even in sleep not to disturb Jean-Marie. "What is it? One of the patients?"
"Oh, no. I was hoping you'd go topside with me for a bit. To talk... It's okay if you'd rather not."
"No, that sounds nice," she said, her voice thick with sleep. "What about Jean-Marie?"
"Aunt Jeni will watch him, if that's okay," Jeni piped up.
A ready nod. "Wait outside while I get dressed."
From the hall he could hear whispers, nervous giggles, and more than one "Hush, he'll hear you." Finally, she appeared. It was worth the wait. She was bundled in a midnight blue, fur-trimmed parka. With a nubby gray scarf around her neck all he could see were two amazing dark eyes, but they were enough. "Where are we going?"
"It's a surprise."
Shouldering his satchel and flechette rifle, he set off. Together they walked the tunnels for a solid hour before he led her out a well-camouflaged exit into open country. From the fence they encountered it was likely once a sheep pasture. Only a thin sliver of a moon was visible, the night sky clear and black, the stars shining as brightly as he had ever seen them.
Coming to a road, he listened for several ticks before sending her across, covering her with his rifle. Down the way were the charred remains of two infantry fighting vehicles. He followed her across and they came to a steep incline made treacherous with ice. Though he knew it wasn't necessary, he made it a point to offer a hand whenever he could. Near the top was a wide outcropping of rock which gave a clear view of Providence. Finding a spot in the lee of a boulder, he spread out the thermal blanket from his satchel. "Have a seat?"
Then came the dilemma of where to sit: behind her, right next to her, or should he leave some distance? Any of them could be misread. In the end he plopped down next to her, placing a palm behind, but not technically around her.
"Look at that view. C'est merveilleux!" Both were keeping their voices low. The spot was remote, but one never knew. "You can see the whole city. From up here you'd never know there was a war on."
"I know. We found this spot during an anti-vehicular ambush the other night and I thought of you."
Ariane smiled. "That would have sounded strange not long ago. Now it's strangely... romantic." Her smile faded as they looked out over the city lights. "I loved this city. Before they made it an abattoir."
"The war can't last forever. Providence will be restored. We're Calvinists after all - and too cussed to ever give up."
"People should hire you to write mottos."
"Oh, I almost forgot." Slipping a hand into the battered satchel, he fished out nonushka flat bread and some pickled cheese, both liberated from an Abkhenazi ration pack.
"You brought provisions! Now if we only had some wine."
"O ye of little faith," he said, pulling out a half bottle of Cabernet Franc and two plastic tumblers. "The Chaplain let me borrow this from the communion stores. RHIP and all that."
"RHIP?"
"Rank hath its privileges. Though this is the first one I've discovered." He eased out the cork while she worked on the cheese and bread. Then they sat quietly, drinking the dry red. Early morning fog was settling over the city, giving it a dreamy quality.
"What are you thinking?"
He laughed. "Wishing I had some light artillery. This spot would be perfect."
"Really?"
"No, not really. I was thinking how bad I am at courtship. I've never really done this before. It would be a lot simpler in peacetime, wouldn't it? You'd have like ten chatty girlfriends along so I could be quiet instead of rambling like this."
She nudged him lightly. "I think this was a sweet idea. Besides, in peacetime you'd probably have to ask my father for courtship rights before you could see me. He can be a little intimidating."
"So I noticed." Nibbling a bit of flatbread, he grimaced. "Not hard to tell their army bought these from the lowest bidder."
"They're not so bad," she allowed generously, though her nose wrinkled at the taste.
Fast-moving, fingerlike clouds were moving in, obscuring Alshabel, the only of the twin moons visible that early in the morning. Hopefully the clouds presaged warmer weather.
"You know," Ariane, said quietly, "when I was little, clear skies used to depress me. I hated them."
"Why was that? Gray days usually depress people."
"Well, my father's an atheist. You know that. From the time I was little he told me that we were alone in the universe. The cosmos isn't watching and it certainly isn't going to help me. He would always say a person has to carve their own niche in the world, and that the mark we make in this life is the only immortality a person can hope for. I'm sure he thought he was preparing me for the 'real' world or something."
She kept her eyes on the moon. "I can remember being eight or so and staring up into the night sky. It went on forever. The idea that I was all alone in that vastness terrified me. After that, I loved cloudy days because then I could see the end of the sky."
Randal poured them each a refill and corked the bottle. "How did you come to believe, anyway?"
Ariane took a handful of snow, molding it absently as she spoke. "The Holy Spirit opened my heart to believe," she said, tossing the snowball toward a nearby bush. "More personally though, I made a lot of Christian friends when we emigrated here. Providence is worldlier than the rest of New Geneva, but it's still very religious. My friends weren't afraid of open sky, tu comprends?
"In time I came to understand that there was an amazingly benevolent Person out there. I wasn't a Christian yet. My father controlled everything I did and at thirteen that didn't leave a lot of room for bad stuff. So I didn't feel the need for a Savior that other people do."
She paused, sipping the wine and collecting her thoughts. "Over time I came to see that I did the same sins as everyone else. Mine were only pettier. Next to the perfection of God, my goodness meant nothing. That was when I finally accepted Christ." She laughed, running a glove over her face. "You talk. How did you become a Christian?"
Releasing a long breath, he watched the steam billow away in the icy air. "Me? I can't really remember a time I wasn't. When I was a week old I was baptized and from then on it was just part of my world. I grew up in the Covenant. There isn't a time I can point to when God wasn't there to me.
"About three years ago, after vespers, I pulled aside my pastor and rededicated my life to God. Before then my beliefs were partly based on what I was told, but they were more mine afterward. Does that make sense?"
"Sure. I think you have to do that with everything when you grow up."
Randal re
ached down, taking her hand. It seemed terribly small through the thick gloves. He felt her give a squeeze. Dreading doing it, he finally screwed up the courage to broach the reason he'd brought her to the mountainside. "I kissed you."
"I was there." Was there a smile in her voice?
Good, she was keeping it light. Light was good. "Since then I've kind of been avoiding you, 'til I could figure out where things should go between us."
A soft laugh came from beneath her scarf. "I was avoiding you for the same reason. Have you figured it out yet?"
He hesitated before answering. "Not yet. Things are so crazy now. But I've never felt like this for anyone before. I care about you a lot."
"I care about you as well." She wasn't doing anything to make it easier for him, he thought.
He sipped the Cabernet. By now it was cold enough to make his teeth ache. He wanted very much to say he loved her, that he was ready for a commitment. Self-doubt gnawed at him: doubts about his motives, was it really love or just needing warmth in the midst of war; doubts about becoming an instant father, most days he felt like an overgrown boy himself; but most of all, doubts about creating a war widow. He didn't expect to outlive the war. Was it loving or fair to ask her to don widows' black just so he could be happy for a little while?
She misread his silence, he realized, as she spoke. "Listen, Randal. Please. I mean it when I say care for you. I've only loved two other men—my father, and Jean-Marie's. Both of them broke my heart. Don't act like one of those spoiled Academy sorts who play with us like we're toys. I'm a real person. And I don't think I can go through that again." Her back was to him now, knees hugged up protectively to her chest.
Randal sighed, rubbing a frost-encrusted glove at his forehead. "It's not like that, Ariane. I just have some things to sort out."
Some of the stiffness seemed to leave her spine. "I'll be waiting when you do."
Silently, he thanked God. For a moment he'd feared losing her. He would have made any pledge, no matter how ill-advised, to stop that. "You know," he said, still a bit unsteady. "It's always coldest just before first light. Would you like to sit closer?"
Feeling her nestle in close to him, his hand running absently down her side and along the contour of her hip, the drumbeat of doubts receded to a faint tempo in the back of his mind.
CHAPTER 13
You get more with a kind word and a gun
than you can with a kind word alone.
—Al Capone
Nabil looked himself over, checking his reflection in one of the few intact window panes of the Miner's Trust, the largest bank in Providence. He pulled the Abkhenazi-issue field jacket a little tighter, covering the twin bullet holes through the front of the fatigue blouse. It was still stained black with the blood of the previous occupant. Lastly he cocked his helmet at the proper angle, using two fingers to set the distance from the brim to the bridge of his nose. The helmet seemed ridiculous to him, designed with a wide brim that left the ears exposed to shrapnel and concussion.
Quit stalling, he chided himself. He knew the others believed nothing touched him, but that was far from the truth. Long experience only taught him to keep his worries quiet. Walking into an Abkhenazi camp with only his guldor pichok, a standard-issue sidearm and his wits for protection worried him plenty.
Taking a deep breath, he rounded the corner and crossed the street to the checkpoint. Beyond the checkpoint lay a wide, snow-covered yard bisected by a wending avenue. From his vantage, Nabil could see the first of Abraham Kuyper University's imposing gray edifices.
As he neared the trio of guards at the gate he did all he could not to make aggressive eye contact. Instead he worked at the settings on his timepiece, seeming only to notice the lowly guards when he needed to, as any officer of the rank he imitated would do.
"Dobriy dyen," he said in answer to their greetings, snapping a crisp salute back to them. Given his age, he was forced to imitate a very junior officer and junior officers were always thrilled to receive a salute.
That was the easy part, he thought, taking the sidewalk. Many of the dorms were being used as barracks now, which meant a good deal of coming and going through the gate. The real security would be at sensitive points like arms rooms, commo centers, and of course, the scientists the Irregulars intended to rescue.
Abkhenazi vehicles plied the lane as he walked: rail-gun tanks, korobachkas, and multi-barreled anti-aircraft crawlers. Being surrounded by his ex-countrymen made his skin writhe.
Like a canker sore he couldn't help worrying at, Knox's words came back to him. What did make him better than the Abkhenazi? Yes, the Khlisti killed his parents for their faith. But what if his hatred was betraying the very thing for which they died?
Worse were the comments that little chit Knox was dating had made about forgiveness. She had lost her mother also, yet while she mourned, he had seen no evidence of hate within her. He watched for it avidly, encouraged it to bloom, but no black flower appeared.
If Knox's words galled him, the thought that the girl might be his superior in some small way shamed him to the core. He held Scripture in reserve against the day they confronted him again. Long nights he'd searched the Book. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, repay tenfold and the like. In his heart, though, he knew it was smoke.
Shunting away depressing thoughts, he snapped a salute to the leader of the patrol he passed. They were heavily armed, looking for trouble. He hoped fervently that the Irregulars would give them plenty.
Passing in the shadow of the first university building, he could see it was dormant. No attempt had been made to cover shattered windows with transplastic. The front doors were sealed with chain and a large magnetic lock.
The next several buildings were the same. The cafeteria was operating, as was the university recreation center. Inside, several Abkhenazi watched the stale, censor-approved trideo programs he remembered with distaste from his life in Abkhenazia. Back when his parent's friends taught him English, he remembered how difficult it was for them to communicate the concept of "fun" to him. The Abkhenazi dialect had no such word. Enjoyment, sure, recreation, yes, but no understanding of purposeless pleasure.
Making a note that the recreation center would be a first-rate bombing target, he pressed on. To either side of him rose two sets of dorms, each at least eight stories high. They were full of Abkhenazi regulars. His hand strayed to the sidearm riding his hip. It held only sixteen rounds.
Though it was mid-afternoon, the near-constant overcast and the deep southern latitude meant darkening skies. A streetlamp blinked on above him. The Irregulars had decided against destroying the city's main fusion plant. It was virtually impregnable, for starters. Also, if they succeeded it would mean the civilians would have to survive winter without heat. Many would not.
Leaving the dorms, he faced down the slope. All the remaining buildings were dark except one. The scientists were imprisoned there, he hoped.
He became aware of other people nearby.
"Do junior lieutenants no longer show obeisance?"
Resisting the urge to bolt, he whipped out a sharp salute, turning to take in the Colonel he'd just inadvertently ignored. "Forgive me, Colonel!" He didn't need to fake the panic on his face.
"What company are you assigned to, you illegitimate goat?"
He knew he could drop the fat officer and his twitchy-looking aide before they could blink, but he had a mission. The Colonel wanted to know what unit he was with. Jeni had briefed him on his shoulder insignia, which one was it?
"Third Battalion, Astrakhan Regiment, my Colonel."
"Go immediately to your captain and request punishment. Can your unevolved mind comprehend this simple order?" The man looked prepped for a coronary he was so upset.
Inclining his head, Nabil murmured a "Yes, Colonel" as subserviently as possible. He backed away, carefully not to dishonor the officer by turning his back on him. That would likely get him shot.
As soon as he was out of sight, he sprinted
to put distance between them, laughing under his breath. For once the Abkhenazi's brutal discipline worked in his favor. The Colonel would never verify if Nabil reported to his commander for punishment. Terror would ensure any real Abkhenazi soldier's compliance.
Circling around slowly, he approached the building he suspected housed his quarry. Guards stood to either side of the entrance, each shouldering heavy flechette rifles and full combat webbing. Several lights were on inside and steam rose from vents atop the building. More significantly, he could see light emanating from the frosted windows of the building's basement. He'd bet his guldor pichok the scientists were down there.
Returning the guards' salutes, he walked casually around the corner of the building, melding into the shadows. After dropping his helmet to the ground, he freed the balaclava and gloves from his cargo pockets, donning them
Hugging close to the chimney, he started his ascent. The wall was constructed of rough, irregularly-hewn rocks; the mortar set deeply enough to allow his fingertips purchase. It wasn't his easiest climb, but certainly not his hardest. Not with the training he'd undergone. Nabil pulled himself up the last meter to the roof.
Holding fast with toes and one hand, he pulled off a glove with his teeth. Slowly, slowly, he moved it over the rim of the roof and then pulled it back down, narrowly keeping his hold on the wall.
He flapped it lightly. It seemed intact. That was good — no biteme wire waiting to slice him apart before he even knew it was there. After stuffing away the glove, he took out a small, black box from his cargo pocket. He flicked it on and held it between his teeth.
His feet were starting to cramp from keeping him in place. If he didn't move soon the enemy would find him broken at the base of the chimney. Grasping the edge of the roof, he pulled himself up far enough to scout.
No one was there. He'd hoped for live guards. No guards meant technological defenses and he hated that. Hauling himself up, he lay on the meter-tall border and then dropped flat to the roof itself.
Knox's Irregulars Page 18