Knox's Irregulars

by J. Wesley Bush

Looted pharmacy shelves lay helter-skelter in the truck's wake. He clambered over them on his way to the store entrance, scanning the street for enemy soldiers. Dozens of Abkhenazi were crossing the field in columns, taking the safe passages through the minefield.

  Unslinging his rifle, Randal downed one. The others dove for what cover they could find. He shouted over the headset, "Pyatt — Johnny is down. Can you handle a skimmer? We've got to get the brain trust out of here!"

  The reply sounded reluctant. "Yeah, yeah I can. Somewhat."

  "That's more than I can do. I'll hold these off. You go grab it riki tik, okay?"

  "I'm on it."

  Randal ducked below the sill as a welter of incoming rounds struck near the window. He keyed a different freq on the headset. "Lieutenant Shin, what's your sitch?"

  "We've finally broken contact. En route to rendezvous point."

  "Negative, negative. We're pinned down in a pharmacy on Leominster Street, just south of the campus. How soon can you be here?"

  "Perhaps ten minutes. The Headhunters will come for you. Shin out."

  Randal rose up, sighted quickly, fired and dropped back down. He thought he winged one, but didn't want to be exposed long enough to see. He would have to shoot sparingly — there was only a single clip for the autorifle, and the SMG was nearly spent as well. Keeping low, he crawled to a new firing point. They had him clocked at the first one.

  Plaster chips stung his cheeks as more near-misses impacted around him. Ten minutes might as well be ten years. He couldn't hold that long.

  A dark thought began to form in his mind.

  The brain trust was too important to be allowed to fall back into enemy hands. The knowledge they held would allow the Abkhenazi to field a nightmare array of new weapons. He couldn't let them be recaptured.

  What were twelve souls when weighed against the lives of an entire nation?

  Popping up to take another shot, he shoved the temptation angrily aside. Such moral calculus repulsed him. Still, the thought returned unbidden as he reflexively fired, shifted position and fired again. When the time came, he wasn't sure what he would do.

  ***

  The three crouched behind the broken-down transport, Mafouz clutching their sole weapon.

  Nabil risked a look around the nose of the truck. The Abkhenazi weren't advancing yet, but it was just a matter of time. "We'll have to make a run for it."

  "Please don't leave me behind," Mireault said, a pleading note entering his voice.

  "No one is getting left." He answered him scornfully, but the collaborator wasn't far off the mark. If he was not Ariane's father Nabil would cheerfully have cut him and chummed him to the sharks pursuing them.

  "No, I'm staying."

  They both looked at Mafouz in surprise. "What are you talking about? Prepare to move out."

  "I cannot run like this. And if no one covers you they will cut you down before you even make the sidewalk."

  Nabil swallowed hard, nodding. The logic was unassailable; Mafouz would stay.

  Clasping the man's hand in his own, he said softly in Russian, "Greater love has no man than he lay down his life for a friend. Your sacrifice will be remembered, brother." The two embraced, kissing each other's cheeks.

  Mafouz fired over the nose of the vehicle while Mireault and Nabil ran for the nearest cover.

  As they disappeared into the safety of snow-covered suburban lawns, Nabil spared a last glance backward at his friend. Mafouz stood recklessly, trading shots as bullets rocked and cratered the transport.

  Nabil and Mireault eventually reached the rally point. Inside the garage of the appropriated house waited two fast groundcars, blankets, and the stewed birch bark that substituted for tea those days. A relief team was stationed inside the house. Nabil gave them Mafouz's location, but knew sadly what they would find.

  One of the apprentice medics was bandaging his scalp wound when a battered-looking Lebedev stumbled in. Both shared a tired smile. The redhead with Lebedev flashed him a victory sign.

  It was then Nabil realized they had actually done it. Losing Mafouz had loomed so large he'd lost sight of that fact. His friend died accomplishing something glorious—Nabil refused to mourn that.

  And with dawning recognition, Nabil realized the fires of his vengeance were gone. Mafouz had shown him another way. While he didn't fully understand it yet, he knew he could move on at last and let the dead bury their dead.

  ***

  The rifle kicked against Randal's shoulder, but stopped abruptly. A short burst.

  In denial, he flipped the rifle to its side, howling in frustration. The readout blinked EMPTY. He tossed the useless weapon aside.

  The Abkhenazi were almost upon him and it was at least five minutes until the Headhunters would arrive. By then he'd be a corpse and the brain trust captive again. The only alternative was to kill the scientists before they could be captured. It was murder, plain and simple, but he saw no other way. People said that sin was a choice, that God always left a way of escape. Those people had never fought the Abkhenazi. With a queasy feeling, he unslung the submachine gun.

  He crawled back the few meters to where the unsuspecting scientists waited, unaware their defender was soon to turn on them. He couldn't let the Abkhenazi have them. They were huddled together, sheltering beside the truck. They looked like sheep. No, he thought, like lambs. A shudder twisted up his insides.

  "I'm so sorry," he said, standing over them. "The Abkhenazi are going to take us, and I can't allow you to fall into their hands again." His tone sounded so reasonable in his ears. Madman reasonable. Why tell them at all? What was he looking for... absolution?

  They turned their faces away, a low wail rising collectively from the group.

  Randal was only hazily aware of Ariane tugging at his arm as he raised the SMG.

  "Are you insane, Randal? What are you playing at?"

  "Leave off, Ariane. This has to happen."

  "You aren't God! These people are innocent – you can't do this!"

  "I've given God enough chances." Randal tore his arm from her grasp and tracked the SMG over the scientists before settling on the first victim. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  From outside the store came a flash of light, followed by the shock wave of an explosion.

  The blast pulled Randal back from the abyss and knocked him to his knees. The strange, red haze slowly cleared from his mind. He turned and ran back to the storefront, taking cover behind rubble. It was hard to see what was happening for all the debris in the air.

  Another explosion sent dirt fountaining up across the street. Then the throaty growl of a chain gun erupted; screams of the wounded filled the night.

  The Abkhenazi turned from the pharmacy, settling into a firefight with Randal's unseen rescuers. Small arms crackled on both sides, drowned out repeatedly by the booming of the cannon. In the face of the withering cannon and chain gun fire the Abkhenazi broke, retreating in disorder back to the campus.

  A tank clanked into view, one of the giant Behemot-class models. A dozen Headhunter guerrillas rode on the back. Standing peacock-proud in the officer's cupola was Lieutenant Shin, his sharp-tooth smile visible even from a distance. "Sorry we are early! After we killed the tank's owners, they no longer needed it!"

  Randal was too numb to do anything but raise a few fingers in greeting.

  "Knox," came Pyatt over the headset. "I'm inbound, ETA two mikes. What's the sitch there - is the LZ hot?"

  "Negative. Just put her down. I'll ready the passengers."

  He trudged back to the others. The look of horror he saw on each face mirrored his own feelings perfectly.

  CHAPTER 16

  Never despair, but if you do, work in despair.

  -Edmund Burke

  Euphoria was the only word to describe the mood. Rather than just nipping at the enemy's heel, the Irregulars had taken a chunk of his throat and it felt good. A victory party was in full swing with anyone not on duty crowded into the common room.
The quartermaster had even broken open the stores for snacks. It didn't seem to matter that this was little more than stale cookies and vitamin powder punch.

  The unit's portable sound system was pulsing so loudly it threatened to bring the rocky ceiling down on the partiers. Everyone had come in their brightest civilian clothes. Dancing was a group affair in New Geneva and the dance area was a whirl of colorful lines and circles.

  In a dark corner of the chamber, Randal rested back against the wall, his feet slowly drumming the omnifuel generator he sat upon. Faces of the nearly-murdered scientists kept rising in his mind like Banquo's ghost, reminding him of how very far gone he was. How could he ever trust his own judgment again; how could anyone?

  "Why the long face, Kipper? I'm the one that feels like I've got a knitting needle poked in my ear."

  Randal managed a smile. He owed Pieter that and a lot more. "What's the prognosis?"

  "Your girlfriend is a good little medic. I like her." Pieter took a swig of homebrew from his mug. "Unfortunately, that grenade took out the hearing on this side. After Everything I'll need a new eardrum. It'll only take a week for a clinic to vat-grow me another one."

  "After Everything" was the reigning euphemism those days for "If we survive."

  "Thanks for saving our tails back there, Pieter. Tossing away that grenade was quick thinking."

  Pieter shrugged modestly. "All in a day's work for us true-blue hero types, you know. Just be sure to tell my father when you see him. He'd never believe it from me."

  "Still like that, is he?"

  "Are you kidding? The man thinks you hung the moon. It'll be good for him to hear I'm not completely witless."

  "The least I can do."

  Pieter squinted, tut-tutting under his breath. "Will you look at that carousing swine? Who knew Lebedev was such a ladies' man?"

  Randal glanced in the direction of Lebedev's party. His acolytes were clustered around, all garbed in the same dark hooded pullovers, all watching him raptly. The man himself looked battered, with taped ribs and an arm sling. Apparently he was relating a story, his excited state making the gestures of his good arm almost paroxysmal. Two women orbited him — one a tall redhead, the other a pinched-looking brunette wearing spectacles of all things.

  Randal chuckled in spite of himself. "His people have their own hand sign now. If they start minting membership rings or collecting the Sacred Sayings of Sergei I'll have to step in."

  "When the mass suicide comes they'll probably do it with a bomb."

  A commotion drew their attention to the far corner. Jeni was keeping Johnny and a much smaller Asian man from each other. Randal could see other Headhunters rising to their feet.

  It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. The Headhunters liked their privacy; the whole celebration they'd stayed off by themselves. Jeni, being Korean, was able to mingle freely with them. Very freely. For ages Randal had suspected that Johnny was inarticulately in love with the girl. Likely, he'd had enough of watching Jeni flirt.

  "Pieter, would you please go rescue Johnny? This isn't the kind of thing a commander should get in the middle of." His friend rolled his eyes, strolling off unhurriedly.

  For the next hour or so, Randal just let the noise and music of the party wash over him. He had no energy to deal with people just then, but he dreaded solitude. The clamor precluded thought; alone he would brood.

  Ariane was still nowhere to be seen. Since the mission she had avoided him. He couldn't blame her. Crises revealed what was inside a person, and now she knew what he had hoped to hide for so long — exactly how far he had fallen. It was not just fear or awkwardness holding him back from committing to her; it was the cold lump at his core. He had always had a stoic streak that held his heart back from God and everyone else, but now it was aggravated by war. It was what let him look in the shaving mirror each morning after sending other men to die. Each day his heart became more scarred — twisted, hardened and unfeeling.

  The Sergeant-Major's gray, crew-cut dome moved through the crowd in his direction. He walked with his head and chest jutted forward, striding unswervingly toward Randal, knowing that everyone would step aside for him. Randal frowned, well aware that his miserable mood wouldn't deter the Sergeant-Major if there was something on his mind.

  He tossed a half-salute to Randal as he neared, stopping a couple paces back. "Good afternoon, Captain Knox." The man always managed to sound like he was standing on a parade ground.

  Randal sat up a bit straighter to show respect. "Sergeant-Major."

  "Is young Pyatt back from delivering the brain trust to Burnley Gap?"

  "Not yet. The villagers are friendly, they have plenty of food in their cavern, and their male-to-female ratio is a lot more favorable than ours. He won't hurry back."

  The Sergeant-Major chuckled, though his expression turned pained. "What is that noise those lads are blasting, anyway?"

  Although the sound system's memory held a reservoir of forty thousand songs, Randal had noticed nearly everything played came from either the Dream Reality or Psi-Beat music trends beloved by his generation. None of the boys commandeering the system looked old enough to legally vote. Suddenly, Randal felt old. "You're the top enlisted man, Sergeant-Major. Go tell them to program some Malloy Trio or something."

  "Ha! Not worth the effort. I actually just came to deliver some news. Sorry to talk shop at the party, Captain." He drew a mem chit from his pocket, tossing it to Randal. "I drew up rosters for our contact teams. Thought you'd want to review them and sign off before I inform the lucky frostbite candidates."

  "I'll slot it after the party. How many teams?"

  "Two score, four men to a team. There's at least one real woodsman with each."

  "That sounds solid. This plan could really pay off come the thaw."

  The Sergeant-Major merely nodded, his eyes narrowing. "Not to speak out of turn, but you look like death sucking on a stim-tab, sir. How are you holding up?"

  "Me? I'm right as rain."

  He didn't seem impressed with the answer. "Uh-huh. Just ensure the Captain doesn't fall into the delusion that he's responsible for everything around here. That's why God created NCOs."

  Though it was said jokingly, Randal knew to take it seriously. "Message received, Sergeant-Major. Thanks."

  "Don't thank me, son. Thank your recruiter!" Tossing another near-salute, the older man wheeled and made a beeline for the exit, pausing only to bark at a hapless scout to get his hands out of his pockets and stand up straight.

  Randal tucked away the memory chit, laying odds on whom the Sergeant-Major might have selected. Though Randal didn't envy the men who were about to be sent into the wilderness, he had seen the wisdom of the plan as soon as the Sergeant-Major had presented it. The Irregulars would soon begin expanding beyond Providence, establishing guerilla units in the surrounding mountains.

  It was a good decision on a number of levels.

  For one, things were getting cramped in Providence as the movement grew. Even with the cells dispersed throughout town, both above and belowground, too many men were being lost to Abkhenazi hunt-and-kill teams. Over time the enemy was honing his skills at ferreting out the Irregulars. Lowering the guerrilla population density could only help. Plus, there was ample forage and game in the mountains. Food was getting scarce and the quartermasters would not mind a few less mouths to feed.

  The primary motivation was strategic. Come spring, convoy after convoy would descend from the north on New Geneva, bringing supplies and reinforcements to the beleaguered Abkhenazi army. When that time came, Randal was intent upon owning the countryside. Hundreds of small hamlets dotted the isthmus. Undoubtedly most were pacified by the invaders, but it was hoped that many were holed up in the mountains to wait out the war. The plan he and the Sergeant-Major had put together entailed making contact with the villages, enlisting their militias and then welding them into a rural partisan force. From what he knew of history, rural guerrillas were often even deadlier than their
city-based cousins.

  It was a tall order, but they'd agreed to send some of the better lieutenants and noncoms to oversee things. Their absence would be felt, but if the plan worked it would pay big dividends.

  He faked a smile as two young troops congratulated him on the evening's successes. If he had to give that plastic smile one more time he was afraid his face would crack. Hopping from the crate, he went to find Ariane.

  The curtain to her chamber was open and he ducked his head inside. Monsieur Mireault sat on a pallet, holding Jean-Marie overhead, tickling his belly with moustache and goatee. The child squirmed in the man's grasp, kicking his chubby legs and calling "Non, non, non!" through his giggles. Ariane watched with a bright smile, though she hovered protectively.

  "Oh, I... excuse me."

  Mireault set the toddler aside, glancing between Randal and his daughter. He seemed to sense something in the air. "Please stay. I was about to take my grandson for a walk. Just let me bundle him up." He wrapped the boy in a jacket and scarf and carried him out, giving Randal a nod in passing.

  He seemed a very different man than the one Randal had spoken with not many hours before. Whether it was the reunion with his family or the shock of the previous night's operation, something had shaken Mireault out of his angry despair.

  Once they were alone, Randal cleared his throat softly, suddenly unsure why he was there. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

  Ariane didn't meet his eyes. "It's good to see you."

  "Is it?"

  Her chin rose a little at that. "What do you want from me, Randal? You didn't see your face last night. It was terrifying. I don't even know how to act around you right now."

  Randal leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. "Please don't pull away from me, Ariane. I need you. You and my faith are the only things holding me together right now."

  Ariane did not answer, sitting down cross-legged on the pallet. Her eyes were shiny when she looked up. Randal felt like a verdict was about to be read. She pointed a finger at him, her hand nearly swallowed by the sleeve of the oversized turtleneck. "Everything you just said is a total lie, Randal."