by David Drake
There was what Mark had taken to be a toolshed at the near edge of tilled area. He heard soft snores coming from it. Amy raised her camera. She was using image intensification instead of the built-in light. The images would be grainy, but flooding the scene with a harsh glare would have been wrong. As wrong as Yerby Bannock in Quelhagen formal dress.
"Captain Easton?" Mark said. He tapped on the side of the shed, then opened the door. "I'm afraid you'll have to come with us, sir."
"What?" said Easton. He was sleeping on a cot with only a pillow and a rough blanket for comfort. The Sunrise Seeds catalog reader hung from the cot's frame so that it didn't risk damage on the damp ground.
"Is it . . ." Easton said. "Why it is! Have my bulbs come, young man?"
"Sir," said Mark, "I'm very sorry, but that's not what I'm here about at all. We've captured the fort and taken you prisoner with the rest of your troops."
"Oh, dear," Easton said. "Oh."
He got up, shuffling his feet to find his slippers. He was wearing a flannel nightshirt long enough to cover his ankles. His patched uniform and tool belt hung from pegs on the wall of the shed.
"We'll want you to come into the fort and surrender formally," Amy said. "You do have a dress uniform of some kind, don't you?"
"I suppose I still do," Easton said morosely. "I haven't been into that closet in . . ."
He paused and shook his head. "This isn't going to look very good on my record, is it?" he said. "Well, I don't suppose I was really cut out for the military anyway. That's why they sent me here."
"When we're at the Command Center," Amy continued, "my brother will ask you to surrender. You'll say, 'In whose name do you call me to surrender?' And he'll say, 'In the name of almighty God and the Assembly of Self-Governing Worlds.' And you'll surrender. Have you got that?"
"I'll do my best," Captain Easton said. He shook his head again.
"We can try it a few times until you've got it right," Mark said soothingly. "And Captain? You can take the seed catalog if you like. You're welcome to keep it forever."
Easton's face brightened as though a moon had appeared. "Really?" he said. "Why, you are a very generous young man."
He snatched up the reader. "Now," he said firmly, "I suppose we'd better get this business taken care of."
37. One Hand Hoses the Other
The raiders' portable lights made the corridor in front of the enlisted quarters brighter than it had been in a decade. A pair of recruits from Hestia had started to line the Union soldiers up against the wall, but the Greenwoods didn't see any point in that. Now some of the prisoners huddled for mutual support, watching glumly as raiders went through the room's contents, but others chatted with their captors. A few card games had started.
Mark came out of Hounslow's office. The fort's real Command Center was sixty feet down in the bedrock, but the office terminal worked—to Mark's surprise—and was linked to the main unit.
"Yerby," Mark said, "it looks like at least half the defensive guns are still operable. I'm the closest thing to an expert and I'm not very close, but I think we can get one turret turning. That'll keep off any Alliance ships that arrive before whoever the Assembly sends to take over from us. Or capture them if they do land."
"Good work, lad," Yerby said cheerfully. "It was a bright day for Greenwood when you showed up. Ain't that the truth, Amy girl?"
"Yes it is," Amy said. She grinned at her brother, then gave Mark a smile that was warm enough to make him blush with pleasure.
Lights were coming down the corridor from the direction of the garrison's married quarters. Crying children and the voices of angry adults, mostly women, echoed ahead of them. A man was singing, ". . . violate me in the violet time, in the vilest way you know!"
Mark thought he recognized the singer as Casey Tafell. Colonel Finch wasn't straitlaced, but he had a civilized sense of propriety. The bawdy song would bother him a great deal. Tafell's sense of humor was more subtle than Mark would have guessed.
The married prisoners with their spouses and offspring arrived as a wailing horde. Half a dozen of the women and a couple men weren't soldiers. Mark wondered whether they'd drifted over from Minor or if some of the garrison's members had managed to bring in companions on the supply vessels.
Finch marched at the head of the mob. He straightened when he noticed that Amy was recording them, but his momentary grimace showed that he knew just how absurd he looked.
Finch had probably tried to impose discipline on the others, but the raiders were even less likely to obey a silly order like that than the prisoners were. The rest of the entourage walked, shambled, or—in the case of some of the younger prisoners—skipped while calling shrilly to their friends.
"Colonel Bannock," Finch said. He saluted. "My troops and I have accomplished our mission without casualties."
"Glad to hear it, Finchie," Yerby said. His eyes narrowed slightly. "I hope that nothing happened to the other folks neither?"
"No," said Finch. He shook his head. "No, there were no incidents."
He scanned the mob of raiders and captives until he found Captain Easton sitting by himself, wearing a blue uniform with tarnished gold braid. "Colonel Bannock?" Finch said. "There'd be no difficulty, I trust, if Ms. Bannock here recorded me, ah, seeming to take the fort's surrender from the commandant?"
"We can do much better than that, Mr. Finch," Amy said crisply.
"We can?" Yerby and Mark blurted at the same time.
"We can show you blasting your way into the Alliance Command Center," Amy said. "Not the real Command Center, of course. You might damage the terminal that we need. But you can shoot your way through this door to the living quarters. No one on Zenith will be able to tell the difference."
She held the hand-lettered COMMAND CENTER sign up to the door by which she stood. "Yerby," she went on. "Please drive the nail in."
Yerby turned slightly and drove the tack home with a quick, perfectly aimed stroke with his flashgun. The laser's buttplate clunked, seating the head flush with the door panel. Yerby's face was expressionless.
"But—" an Alliance soldier said.
Mark, behind Finch's back, pointed one index finger at the soldier and drew the other across his own throat. Pops Hazlitt pulled a big skinning knife from his belt and raised an eyebrow to Mark for instructions.
The soldier gulped into silence. Mark nodded with a slight smile.
"This is very handsome of you," Finch said in amazement. "I assure you that from the position of responsibility I expect to reach on Zenith, I'll do everything I can to help you folk on Greenwood."
"I'm sure you will," said Amy. "After all, you're already committed to insuring that Zenith drops any claim to rule Greenwood, aren't you? As well as voiding your syndicate's private claims."
"Of course, of course," Finch agreed. "There can't be any doubt about that!"
Raiders looked at one another in puzzlement. They obviously couldn't believe that Amy would take the Zenith's word for even the time of day. Finch himself was probably just as surprised as the Greenwoods were, but he was a politician and therefore used to hiding the truth.
Finch looked around. "It would help, I think, if a few of your militia were in the frame appearing to follow me. Those six should be enough," he added, pointing to Dagmar Wately and the Greenwoods standing closest to her.
Maybe Finch chose that group because they looked particularly rugged and hard-bitten. So far as Mark could see, there wasn't a soul in the raiding party who wouldn't have sent citizens scurrying for cover on any street in Quelhagen.
Dagmar glared and said, "I think it'd help if you'd kiss my—"
"Now, now," boomed Yerby. "We're going to do just like Finchie here says. I wonder, Colonel . . . would you like me to trot along behind you myself? Following your example, I mean. I won't hog your spotlight on this one."
"Why yes, Bannock," Finch said. "And I won't forget your help, either."
"Don't reckon you will," Yerby agreed in a n
eutral tone.
"I don't see why we got to help this fellow do any blessed thing!" Zeb Randifer complained. "You know he's just going to cheat us once he don't need us no more!"
Yeah!/Too right!/Damn straight! were specific variations Mark heard of the agreement almost every raider expressed.
"No, Yerby's right," Mark said. "This thing we're about to do guarantees that Colonel Finch will make sure Zenith gives up its claim to Greenwood, whatever that costs him personally."
"And anyhow," Yerby added, turning his head so that his gaze swept every member of the raiding party, "I'm giving the orders. Right?"
"Now, Colonel," Mark said. "Aim your repeller directly at the lock plate. Blow it off, then hit the door with your shoulder at full speed so that you burst into the room. And remember, get it right the first time because you won't have another chance."
"I think I'm capable of handling this without your help, my man," Finch said with a sniff.
He pulled back his repeller's cocking handle, charging the weapon. The pellets were no bigger than unpopped popcorn grains, but when the repeller's electromagnetic coils accelerated them to many times the speed of sound their impact was as devastating as so many lightning bolts.
"Make sure you just shoot the door, Colonel," Yerby said. "The beads won't ricochet, they'll just blow up and do no harm. But if you hit the concrete—" He patted the corridor wall. "—a piece might fly out big enough to hurt somebody. Understood?"
"Yes, all right," Finch said. "May we get on with it?"
"I want everyone but the actors back twenty feet behind me," Amy said briskly. "Colonel Finch, run to within a few feet of the door, pause, and look over your shoulder so that I get a clear view of your face. You can shout something to your men. Then shoot the lock off and batter the door down to show exactly how much of a hero you are."
Finch scowled. He didn't like being lectured, especially by a young woman, but he didn't object aloud. He was smart enough to realize both that Amy was right and that he was dependent on her to record his actions.
"Are we ready?" he said in a less demanding tone.
"You bet we are, Colonel!" Yerby said, clapping Finch on the back. Mark unslung his gas gun and joined the group of bemused Greenwoods.
"Action!" said Amy.
"Come on, men!" Finch shouted. He ran down the corridor with the raiders stumping along behind him. Arm's length from the door, Finch turned to face the camera. Mark hunched so that he wouldn't block Amy's view, "Zenith and freedom!"
Finch pointed his repeller and held the trigger down for almost five seconds, emptying the thousand-round magazine. The crack of each multisonic pellet merged with the whack! of the shot when it hit the door. The racket was as echoingly loud as a saw cutting the whole fortress in halves.
The latch vanished in bright roaring sparks like a high-amperage electrical short. The stream of pellets ate a black hole in the plastic panel as if it was still hungry for a solid surface after the lock was gone.
"Follow me!" Finch cried as his shoulder hit the door and he lurched into the room beyond. His momentum carried him into the board that served as the latrine's seat. He broke it and plunged into the eight-foot hole in the floor.
"Holy sh—" Finch screamed.
There was a loud plop. A brown geyser spouted above the floor and sank back.
The Greenwoods crowding forward behind Finch stopped dead as though the horrible stench were a brick wall. Mark had known what to expect, so he'd held his breath, but his eyes started to water.
Yerby stepped into the converted pump room. "I don't guess I've ever been taken for a coward," he said, "but I'll tell the world I never done a braver thing in my life than this."
He bent over the hole. When he straightened again, he held Colonel Berkeley Finch dangling by the collar. Yerby walked into the hall, keeping the dripping, sputtering Zenith out at arm's length.
Almost everyone in the corridor, raiders and prisoners alike, dissolved in helpless laughter. Amy moved to the other side of the scene so that she could record Finch together with the spectators laughing at him.
"But you know," Captain Easton said sadly, "with proper preparation, it makes a really wonderful fertilizer."
"Don't worry, Colonel Finch," Amy called from behind her camera. "You'll get the only copy of this recording just as soon as the government of Zenith declares Greenwood to be a free and independent world."
Mark hugged the Alliance commandant. "Captain," he said, "believe me, your fertilizer has done more good for the whole planet of Greenwood than it could possibly have done for your plants!"
38. Next
Lucius Maxwell was the first man to disembark from the freighter Stellar Conveyor when it arrived at the military port on Dittersdorf Minor from Hestia. Four more starships waited in orbit for landing instructions.
Amy hadn't completely catalogued the heavy weapons warehouse in the bowels of the fort, but she'd guessed it would fill at least twenty vessels the size of the Stellar Conveyor, or over a hundred tramps like the ones trading to Greenwood. The Atlantic Alliance had saved money and effort by storing equipment on the frontier instead of shipping it home at the end of the Proxy Wars.
Now, twenty years later, the Alliance had to pay for that savings. The price would be their whole interstellar empire.
Mark waited at the bottom of the boarding ramp. There wasn't an official delegation to greet the reinforcements, but about half the raiders were standing around out of curiosity. Amy recorded events; Yerby's smile was one of real warmth.
Colonel Finch was present also, wearing his dress uniform. Nobody made a pointed comment, but he blushed whenever a Greenwood looked hard at him.
"I guess I should've expected you'd turn up, Dad," Mark said. He hugged his father. "I'm glad to see you."
"I'll be glad to see you, as soon as my eyes focus again," Lucius said. "On a matter of this significance the Assembly had to send an envoy, and I seemed the obvious one to go."
He chuckled and added, "For one thing, because I was willing. Dittersdorf isn't viewed as the garden spot of the universe, though I've always found Minor more attractive than the civilian port."
Lucius was in formal clothes. The four men and two women who followed him down the ramp wore battle dress of six individual styles. A squat, fifties-ish man noticed the turret from which a laser with a five-inch objective lens pointed toward the Stellar Conveyor. "Hey!" he said. "Does that thing work or is it just for show?"
"I guess it works," Mark said sharply. He was reacting to the challenge that he might not have recognized six months before. "I burned an acre of woods clear to test it, and last week we warmed an Alliance transport in orbit hot enough they decided to go back where they came from. Zeb's supposed to redirect it now that we're sure who you are, though."
As he spoke, the laser tube pivoted vertically again. Tags of vine, cut but not completely cleared from the turret, fluttered like deliberate camouflage.
The man who'd spoken raised an eyebrow. "Not bad, kid," he said. "I'm General Carswell. Come see me in a day or two and we'll talk about a job."
"I need to see an inventory soonest," said one of the women. "Can we . . ." She shrugged.
"I'll take them to the Command Center," Amy said, folding the lenses of her camera. She grinned wryly. "We can't be so busy recording history that we forget to make it, after all."
"I'll accompany you, if I may," Finch said. "General, I'm Colonel Berkeley Finch. I have an Assembly commission."
"Glad to meet you, Finch," Carswell said, but he didn't bother to shake the hand the Zenith offered.
Amy took off across the paved courtyard with the uniformed personnel in tow. The new arrivals walked like drunks, upright only because their determination overbore their disorientation.
A second starship glinted in the high sky at the start of its landing approach. The militia who'd come for the show walked away also, correctly deciding there was nothing more to see here.
"Yerby," Lucius sa
id, "we've scraped up three hundred troops to take over from you here. With your permission, of course."
Yerby nodded. "Wasn't a place I figured to spend any more time than I had to," he remarked, glancing at the drab concrete and drabber vegetation surrounding them.
"The Assembly has voted you a colonelcy and a lifetime pension," Lucius continued. He smiled slightly. "How much the pension is worth depends on whether the Assembled Planets gain their freedom from the Alliance, of course."
Yerby's laughter was briefer than Mark expected. "I never turned down money, Lucius," he said. "If it don't do nothing else, at least it looks pretty, most of it. But being colonel, that you can keep."
"The decision's yours, of course," Lucius said. He looked down as if he were examining his fingernails.
"It's not like I don't see the honor," Yerby said uncomfortably. "It's just—Lucius, I don't like the idea of killing other folks. I know, there's a lot of things a guy's got to do in life and I've done most of them, good and bad, one time or the other. But that's one I druther leave for other folks if I can."
"It's good to meet a man with principles," Lucius said. He bowed to Yerby, then turned to his own son. "Mark," he continued, "you've been elected in your absence to the Greenwood Committee of Governance. One of three members, your delegates to the assembly on Hestia tell me. Congratulations."
"Me?" said Mark. "But I can't serve. I'm with the Woodsrunners. The army, I suppose we are now."
Yerby snorted. "If you mean you think the boys is going off to Zenith to fight just because we put our oar in here, you couldn't be more wrong, lad. I don't guess there'll be ten fellows leave with Lucius, and half them's going to come back to Greenwood in a week."
"If they leave with General Carswell," Lucius said grimly, "they'll stay till the general releases them. His men called him Iron Sam when he was a captain, and I don't believe the past twenty years have changed his ideas of discipline."
He returned his attention to his son. "Mark," he said, "you've proved you can be a soldier. I hope by now you realize how easy that is anyway. Go back to Greenwood."