Days of Burning, Days of Wrath

by Tom Kratman

  “Best we have. You come, too.”

  The four trotted to the girl standing defensively in front of the cross. Rodrigues gently pushed her out of the way before he noticed she was speaking Spanish.

  Well, sort of Spanish. I can recognize about half of it but the other half seems a little strange. Short words and simple sentences time.

  “Miss, who are you?”

  That brought a flurry of words, again only about half comprehensible.

  Jorge sighed. Simpler still, I guess.

  “Who you?” Pointing at the thing of pain on the cross, “Who him?”

  “Me Miriamne. Him Arpan. Him MINE!”

  “Why there?”

  The girl’s eyes flashed purest hate, so pure that the next words hardly mattered. “Mistress angry. Punish. Order. Evil bitch . . .”

  A single shot in the distance caught Jorge’s attention. He held up a palm to tell the girl to be quiet for a moment. Vicente’s voice came over the Red Fang, “Some old, bald fool, carrying an ancient shotgun. He’s down. Continue the roundup.”

  Jorge pointed at the nails holding the boy up by wrists and feet, then used the bent index fingers on his right hand to mime pulling a nail from his left wrist.

  “You help?” the girl asked.

  He pointed at her, then said, “Get help. Get tools.”

  She nodded eagerly. “I get. Oh, please, oh, please; I get.” Then she took both of Jorge’s hands in her own, kissed each a half-dozen times, quickly, and ran off toward what appeared to be barracks.

  “Nice girl,” Jorge muttered.

  “She is . . . a very . . . nice girl,” said the young man on the cross, in what appeared to be only slightly accented but otherwise perfect Spanish. He’d raised his head to speak, then let his chin sink back onto his heaving chest with an audible groan.

  Jorge heard a rumbling. Turning in that direction, he saw two dozen or so badly dressed and poorly fed workers—slaves; I suppose they must be slaves—dragging a wagon that looked to be of about the right size to stand on to pull the nails. The skinny, but still maybe pretty, brown girl jumped and danced excitedly in front of them, beckoning them to greater speed.

  The crew wasn’t stupid, Jorge saw. Though it seemed unlikely they’d ever pulled a live victim from a cross, they knew to pull the wagon up and pull the spikes from the boy’s heels first. He screamed as the first spike was pulled and wriggled out, followed by a well of blood. For the second he’d fainted dead away.

  Just as well, Jorge thought.

  The crew rested his feet on the wagon bed, then climbed aboard to start worrying at the spikes through his wrists. The whole time Miriamne keened, pressing herself against him and stroking his face.

  First one wrist spike came out, which caused his body to twist and interfere with removing the other. The girl held him up as best she could until the other slaves joined the effort, straightening him up until the final spike could be removed. Then they gently lowered him to the wagon bed. This was made a little harder by the girl, Miriamne, refusing to be parted from him by so much as a millimeter.

  “Doc,” said Rodrigues, “I think you had best turn her into an assistant, because she’s going to be in the way unless you do. Oh, and small words, simple sentences.”

  As it turned out, while there were very close to even numbers of men and women, only one woman was well dressed and healthy-looking. The others all stood in a circle around the former oppressor and recent chief liberator.

  Claudia Nyere, also former ambassador to Santa Josefina, twisted and squirmed while being held by her arms by two of the largest liberated slaves on the ranch.

  “You can’t do this to me, ground-bound scum! I’m an ambassador, hence inviolable, and a Class One of the Castro-Nyere clan, rulers of TransIsthmia, on Earth!”

  Centurion Vicente nodded solemnly, then from a standing start, without windup, backhanded her across the face, loosening teeth, ripping lips on those teeth, and causing blood from the torn lips to fly through the air before splashing onto the gravel.

  “Shut up, bitch. My orders are to take you alive but I’m close to retirement already so I have come to consider orders not much more than a basis for discussion. And, ya know, no one back home would really mind if I turned you over to the men and women here for their justice. I understand the nails from the cross came out straight, too.

  “In fact, the only reason I’m keeping you alive at all is that, if I let them tear you apart, I might have trouble finding someone else as monstrously guilty as you are.”

  I don’t believe that, really, Vicente thought. The air of this whole place reeks with the odor of the monstrously guilty.

  Rodrigues was close enough not to need the Red Fang. “Platoon Sergeant?” shouted out the centurion.

  “Yes, Centurion?”

  “That kid who was crucified, he alert yet?”

  “He was in a good deal of pain, Centurion, and weak. Doc gave him an injector of morphine, but I think he can answer questions.”

  “Very good.”

  Turning his back on Nyere, Vicente took long steps to get to the wagon upon which Arpad’s tortured body still lay, his girl, Miriamne, in attendance on him. The centurion didn’t climb onto the wagon. Instead, he stood beside it and reached out one hand to twist the boy’s head to where it faced him.

  “I understand you speak real Spanish rather than the pidgin most of these poor folks manage.”

  “Yes, sir,” Arpad said, slowly. “Pretty good . . . anyway.”

  Vicente nodded. “Yes, ‘pretty good.’ Okay. We’ve got the cunt who calls herself ‘Claudia Nyere.’ She’ll face justice in God’s good time. Maybe sooner than that. Now is there anyone else here on this ranch who would matter to the people in space? Let your imagination run free: spouses, children, sex toys, official aides or secretaries from Old Earth; anybody like that?”

  Arpad said something to the girl in that almost-but-not-exactly Spanish. She answered, at some length and with a few unusual punctuations, like spitting on the ground, and forming her fingers and thumbs into a ring that she slowly closed, and grinding her foot on the gravel.

  “‘No,’ she says. She also says . . . that everybody here . . . would really like . . . to tear . . . the bitch limb . . . from limb. I don’t suppose . . . ?”

  “Sorry, no, orders. Or, at least, not yet.”

  Miriamne then said something else, pointing to the south.

  “She had a kid, sir, not here but in boarding school. My girl can show you where.”

  “Excellent.” Vincente consulted his map. “We didn’t know about the boarding school.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  De Oppresso Liber

  —Motto of the U.S. Army’s Special Forces

  UEPF Spirit of Peace

  At another station, Xingzhen angrily berated someone down below in her ministry of defense. A long cursing session ended with something that, even in Mandarin, sounded a lot like, “Make sure you do.”

  “Just what the fuck are they doing?” Wallenstein asked. “Some kind of hostage catch-and-release program?”

  “It’s a new wrinkle,” Khan, the husband, admitted. “We’ve seen them do something like this before, at Pumbadeta, in Sumer.” He began chewing his lip and pacing, as if seeking an answer to a problem that was somewhere in his mind, but coyly hiding.

  Marguerite thought back. Ah, yes, push the civilians in and keep them there; then let no food until they surrender. Cheap and easy, just takes a little time.

  “And the ship . . .” Khan continued.

  “.  .  .  is,” the high admiral finished, “to complete the ring and, based on what that lander reported before they blew it out of the sky, they have some laser capability to prevent aerial resupply or reinforcement.”

  The empress reported, “It took threatening to extinguish several gene pools down to the last generation, baobei, but two battalions of paratroopers, with a few medium vehicles, will take off in four hours. They’ll have to refue
l at Wellington, but those people can hardly restrain themselves from fawning, cringing, and begging to please us. The rest of their brigade will follow in another six hours and the division within twenty-four to forty-eight.”

  “And they’ll arrive, that first group?” Wallenstein asked.

  Xingzhen rocked her head from side to side, twice before answering, “Twenty-four to twenty-six hours. Sorry, love, but even I cannot move them faster than the planes will go.”

  “Computer,” the high admiral ordered, “get me Battaglia on Spirit of Brotherhood.”

  The answer came very quickly, “Ready to fire at your command, High Admiral.”

  “Wait!” Khan interjected. “Wait! I’ve got it! Wait!”

  “Why?” Marguerite asked.

  “When the enemy is seen to be making a mistake . . .”

  “. . . don’t interfere,” finished his wife.

  “I don’t . . .”

  “High Admiral, the enemy doesn’t know we have help coming and has every confidence that their ship can close the ring. If we destroy the ship their—what did you call it? Their ‘hostage catch-and-release program’?—will come to a screeching halt.

  “So let them continue. Leave their ship alone. Maybe even call Carrera to try to start negotiations. By the time Her Majesty’s paratroops arrive, we’ll probably have every potential hostage the Balboans could have taken, safe in our own hands. Then we destroy the ship, just before the Zhong come in, in ever-increasing numbers.

  “At that point, we can supply to our heart’s content. We can defend the base. Meanwhile the Balboans will have lost their main source of supply. They’ll be on the wrong side of the logistic stick.”

  Wallenstein, though not a ground-combat officer, was also no dummy. “So why are they leaving the latifundia slaves behind?”

  “I’m guessing,” Khan admitted, “but my guess is that they’ve somehow figured out some of our more, mmmm . . . cosmopolitan trends, which is to say that, for certain among us—the neo-Azteca spring instantly to mind—those slaves are not people who will suck up food; they are food.”

  I had hoped to save my planet and its system, Wallenstein thought. It could be so much better a system and so much better a planet than it is. But very nearly at the top of the to-do list for that was exterminating the slavers, the neo-Azteca, and the Orthodox Druids. No matter, I think Khan has the right of it.

  “Battaglia?”

  “Yes, High Admiral.”

  “Minor delay in plans. Do not fire. Stand down for now. I’ll let you know when.”

  “Wilco, High Admiral.”

  Breaking that connection, Marguerite told the computer, “Connect me to the communicator I gave to Carrera.”

  Beach Red, Atlantis Island

  Before the thing had beeped three times, Ham had it in his hands. “Hamilcar Carrera speaking. May I presume that High Admiral Wallenstein is on the other end?”

  There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, High Admiral Wallenstein identified herself and asked, simply, “How and why?”

  “Did this end up in my hands? My father sent it to me. Can your ship identify where I am? I imagine so. No matter. He sent it to me because he was quite certain you would be calling . . .”

  UEPF Spirit of Peace

  “. . . and wanted you to know, in no uncertain terms, that the person you were dealing with was even more ruthless than he is. And I am.”

  The voice seemed a little high, perhaps, but not unsteady. It didn’t break, at least.

  Where? Marguerite mouthed to Khan.

  Khan took over the workstation occupied by Xingzhen, gently nudging her away. After some frantic checking, he turned to the high admiral, wide-eyed, and mouthed back, Atlantis.

  Khan then turned back to the station and began pulling up what little was known about the boy. This he forwarded to the high admiral, who began reading as she was talking.

  “I see you are a god, Hamilcar.”

  “No, I am not. There are some devoted but deluded people who think I am. These are not the same things.”

  Crap, not vain  .  .  .  no vanity to play on.

  “And you are on our base, I see.” Let him get the feeling for my presumed omnipotence. Maybe it will help me bluff him, later.

  “I’ve already suggested, did I not, High Admiral, that you can track this? Of course, you can’t tell if I am speaking directly or if the communications are being remoted, can you?”

  Bloody damned smart little bastard, isn’t he?

  “And, no, High Admiral, my father wanted me to assure you that he and my mother beat me to the altar, if not, perhaps, by much. Now, pleasantries aside, what can I do for you?”

  “You can call off your attack.”

  “No, and if that’s all you wanted to ask, you’ll forgive me if I get back to my duties.”

  “The link has been broken,” announced the computer. “Shall I try to reestablish it?”

  Wallenstein shook her head, no, then remembered the computer couldn’t see that. “No,” she said, “just keep track of where that comm device is.”

  Turning her attention to Khan, the husband, she said, “Now tell me everything we know, everything we can suppose, and every educated guess we can make about that boy.”

  “Yes, High Admiral,” Khan said.

  Xingzhen then piped in, “The base is not our only problem, baobei. That fleet that hid under a false banner of internment and which is now at large? I need it tracked and the information sent to my commander below, Admiral Wanyan. As a matter of fact, I need a line to tell Wanyan to move our fleet out of danger.”

  “Khan?”

  “I’ll get someone on it, High Admiral, along with trying to shut the Balboans out of the satellite net.”

  “Don’t worry about shutting them out, Commander,” the empress said. “We can shut down all the satellites over that part of the world easily enough. That leaves this fleet alone able to scout below.”

  “You can, Empress,” said Khan. “If we tried it would be instant war with the Federated States. It might, even if it’s your people doing it. Please, please, just shut out the Balboans but not the FSC.”

  Beach Red, Atlantis Island

  “Can we get through to my dad, yet?” Ham asked one of the commo rats, a short and dark sergeant.

  “No promises; I can try.”

  “Do.”

  The old man had set Hamilcar to studying war since he’d been a very little boy. However, high-tech communications were not among the things he’d been taught in any detail. Instead, all he’d learned was what they could, with a little luck, do. Thus, the various whistles, beeps, crackles, and sound tones meant nothing to him. He hoped they signaled progress. He stared at the directional satellite antenna as if hoping to see a message coming out.

  The commo rat handed Ham a handset. “Your father’s on the line. It’s secure, so you can speak freely, but it’s iffy, so speak quickly.”

  The old man sounded very chipper, saying, “Hello, Son, how goes the battle?”

  “A little iffy, so far, Dad. We’re ashore and driving civilians toward the base or dropping them off nearby, if they’re too far out. The Peace Fleet seems to be reinforcing, but the rocket strike on their main barracks, well . . . I’ve seen what the drones saw and there’s not much there but the bodies of the dead and dying. No . . . likely all dead by now. The ship had a misfire on one of the rockets . . . and . . . well . . . I don’t know how to tell you this, but . . . well . . . Legate Johnson . . . I know he was one of your oldest friends . . .and . . .I’m sorry to say . . . he didn’t make it.”

  Carrera the elder whispered something into his own phone, at the far end. Ham wasn’t quite sure but it sounded a lot like, De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine  .  .  .

  That doesn’t sound chipper at all. But he had to know so he can decide if he should relieve me and put Cano in charge,

  Ham continued, “I’ve taken command, which was not in the plan. Seems to be worki
ng so far but I’ll credit that mostly to Alena’s husband, who’s been running interference and kicking ass for me. He deserves a nice promotion, Dad.

  “We haven’t had much in losses—hardly anyone—once ashore, Dad, but we lost over a hundred cadets on the ship from the explosion. Yeah, I don’t envy you telling their parents . . .

  “Right. Now what about the Valpo air force. Are they coming or . . .”

  Ham heard another series of clicks and tones, and then the connection dissolved in static.

  “We’ve lost it,” said commo. “Shall I try again? I can do better, I think, once we get out of this bowl of a beach and onto some high ground.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Ham. “I told the old man everything he needs to know for now. Pass on to all cohorts and maniples, ‘charlie mike’—continue the mission. And the rest of us, prepare to displace closer to the base.”

  Latifundia Amistad, Atlantis Island

  The platoon had spent the whole night rounding people up, pointing others in the direction of the base and sending them off under guard, liberating slaves. All of that, while tiring, hadn’t been especially dangerous, a matter of considerable relief to Centurion Vicente and of considerable disappointment to his cadets.

  Now, with orders received over the radio, the platoon would soon be going into action. Two helicopters were en route for the platoon and the few special prisoners it had taken. Ambassador-without-portfolio Claudia Nyere was one of these, though her daughter and those other upper-crust children seized at the boarding school near Finca Mixcoatl, were not.

  This last one, before the choppers showed up . . . Odd, damned odd, thought Vicente. Most of the shitheels in charge of this place deserve everything that’s coming to them and more. But there are a few  .  .  .  Well, five exactly, by reports  .  .  .  whose slaves vouched for their kindness, sympathy, and humanity. And this one  .  .  .